Civilian life begins.

DOWN MEMORY LANE AND INTO THE FUTURE—SORT OF
Rev. Kit Ketcham, June 24, 2012

    I had originally intended to go through a stack of datebooks which chronicle the years I’ve spent with you, from September of 2003 when I first began to discover the wonders of Whidbey Island until the present, June of 2012, when I am coming to the end of my service with you, leaving behind some wonderful times and taking with me many delicious memories.

    But it didn’t take me very long to realize that simply telling you the highlights and lowlights of our time together wasn’t going to be much of a revelation and just wading through the datebooks was going to be an exercise in boredom, sort of like writing an endless report to the board.

    Mark and I and the Committee on Ministry—Sandy and Sarah—have thought about how this service might go for many long months.  None of us have had a lot of time to spend on it until after that super-bondongical party you threw for us all a week ago.  What an incredible experience---fun and heartwarming and enriching, in many ways.  Thank you so much for your kindness and generosity.

    I remember one of the first sermons I ever preached for you.  I recalled, in that sermon, a Sunday School hymn that popped into my head on the morning after I’d felt that second serious call to ministry, back in 1995 at the UU General Assembly meeting in Spokane.  It became my theme song for my ministry, no matter where I was---in the best or the worst of situations---and it is my theme song still as I leave this ministry.  I hope I have lived up to its words and that I continue to live up to the challenges it poses.

    Sing with me if you know this song too.  The words are in the order of service.
   
    “I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
    I would be pure, for there are those who care;
    I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
    I would be brave, for there is much to dare (repeat).

    I would be friend of all, the foe, the friendless;
    I would be giving, and forget the gift;
    I would be humble, for I know my weakness,
    I would look up, and laugh and love and lift; (repeat)”

    I didn’t know at the time what those words might imply, how much of a challenge they might offer me.  I couldn’t anticipate the dark nights when I didn’t know if I was strong enough or brave enough or trustworthy enough.  I confess I never had much of a chance to test my purity!  Maybe that’s good!

    It’s hard to know how to be true, when my responsibilities have led me down paths where it would be so easy to turn around and go back; sometimes that happens in a pastoral situation, when someone is hurting badly and all I can think of is how little I can do to change the situation or remove the pain. 

    Just being there often feels like too little and I wish I could back out, but sometimes that’s what being true means---not giving up just because I can’t fix it.  Your trust in me to be true, to not let you down by my actions or choices---that’s been important to me.

    What does purity even mean in this day and age, the aftermath of the so-called Sexual Revolution?  There was a time when single women were assumed to be lesbian or ugly crones incapable of landing a boyfriend or a husband.  There was a time when Ms. Kitty lived it up pretty intensely.  I did have me some good times.  But I had me some scares too, as HIV/AIDs put the kibosh on being too free with one’s romances.

    When I went into the ministry, I left all that behind, at least partly because I found myself way too busy studying or writing or counseling or visiting hospital patients or preparing for Sundays and the myriad of other ministry-related tasks and responsibilities.  Need I say that many women ministers find that their former allure is swamped by the demands of the work, in addition to the scare we seem to throw into our gentlemen friends, simply because we are women in a previously male-dominated, highly values-laden profession.

    And where are we going to meet eligible, strong-minded, religiously-oriented men, anyway?  In our congregations, mostly, where it is definitely not okay to get romantically involved!  Many a congregation has been badly damaged by the sexual impropriety of its minister, who couldn’t keep his or her hands off the flock.  I’d rather be celibate than take that chance.

    There are many strong and brave challenges---memorial services take the starch right out of me.  They are an honor and a privilege and yet there were times when I just didn’t know if I had it in me to say goodbye to one more beloved member.  Luckily, I had your help and support to draw on and we saw it through, every time.  But I needed every ounce of strength and courage.

    Speaking of strong and brave---challenging someone’s inappropriate behavior in the congregation has required courage and the very few times I’ve had to do that, I have turned to our leadership teams for assistance.  I’ve been so grateful to this Committee on Ministry, Mark, Sandy, and Sarah, and others in former years for their guidance over the past few years when we faced some hard decisions.  (Who else here today has been a member of the COM?)   

    We have had to consider the health of the congregation in making those decisions and it’s hard, because we always want to be kind and fair.
But sometimes you can be too kind, and in doing so be unfair to the congregation, allowing hurtful behavior which damages the health of the congregation.  In those rare instances, we struggled to be brave and strong and do the right thing.  Our Covenant of Right Relations is an outgrowth of those struggles.

    I would be friend of all, the foe, the friendless.  It’s been interesting to walk the tightrope of friendship here at UUCWI; conventional wisdom among ministers has it that we must be careful about getting too close to our parishioners.  But how is it possible to serve you adequately without knowing you deeply?  I have simply tried not to play favorites, to love you all as equally as I can, and not worry about whether we are getting too close.  I love you, there’s no getting around it, and I will always love you. 

    The foe and the friendless take a little more work, but I have an abiding interest in people who are different from me, who think differently, who worship differently.  I recommend getting friendly with people who seem way different; invite the Mormons and the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the fundamentalists into your life and befriend them.  You don’t have to argue or try to convert them; you’ll find that they are mostly decent people and very much like us in all our human ways.

    I would be giving and forget the gift.  You have been so generous with me over the years, always apologizing for not paying me more, never being stingy about money; it has inspired me to be generous too.  And when I opened that envelope last Saturday night, it was the last thing I expected----and yet, knowing your generous natures, it was just one more loving and generous expression of your love and appreciation.

    I would be humble, for I know my weakness.  Oh boy, it took me a long time, as a younger person, to learn that humility wasn’t the same thing as humiliation, that it was okay to have strong self-worth but that it was important not to assume I was smarter or better or more talented than others.  And boy, do I know my weakness!  What I learned---and you may have learned this about yourselves too---is that my weaknesses tend to be my strengths carried to extreme. 

     Self-confidence can become arrogance, unwilling to listen to another point of view.  Believe me, I have had that painful experience!  High energy can become bulldozing, overriding less assertive folks.  Smart can turn into smart-ass.  Being funny can turn into being flippant and disrespectful.  I have made and still make all those mistakes!  Fortunately, you have mostly forgiven me.

    I would look up and laugh, and love, and lift.  What a great closing line this is to our song!  I look to the Spirit of Life and Love to support me in this human life,  I laugh at my own foibles and laugh with delight at the great joy of living; I love because I can do no other---Love is everywhere I look and within me; and I lift wherever a helping hand is needed.

    You know, this isn’t really a religious song, exactly.  It’s a song of human integrity and conscience.  It applies to all of us, not just ministers or others in helping professions.  You too have a desire and a responsibility to be true and pure and strong and brave; you too have the ability to be friend to all, even the foe and friendless, to be generous without expecting something in return, to be humble even though we’re practically perfect, and to find connection to that Spirit of Life and Love, laughing and loving and lifting in every day of this life.

    As I end these lovely nine years with you and go off to live a new and different life somewhere else, I would hope for you the fulfillment of the dreams of this congregation: a growing spiritual presence among you, a hearty and robust membership that supports one another and reaches out in love to the larger community.  In my humble opinion, that’s the purpose of a faith community----to look to the Spirit of Life and Love for strength, to enjoy the love and companionship of the beloved community, and to do the best we can to change the world for the better.  That’s all.  And you can do it.

    Let’s pause for a time of silent reflection and prayer.

HYMN #311, Let it Be a Dance 

BENEDICTION:    Mark

POSTLUDE:choir

Last week of my ministry at UUCWI

The days I secretly thought might never come are actually here.  Tomorrow is my last service with the congregation I've served for nine years, nine wonderful years with only a few bad moments and always the support of my congregation.

Only a couple of folks have been obstreperous in any way that needed attention, which I deem incredible luck, as my previous congregation in Portland was a little harder to deal with---and I was a rookie at the time as well.

If pain and trouble taught me anything then, it resulted in my having a better idea of which hills were worthy of defending; which battles are worth fighting?  which precious value must be preserved at all cost?

Knowing that so and so had scared a couple of people badly enough that they were uneasy about coming to church---that needed to be dealt with.  And because of the integrity of the people involved and the people I consulted for help, we did a pretty good job of sorting out the truths and letting go of the rumors which were at the base of the trouble. 

Knowing that another so and so had damaged the congregation so badly many years ago yet failed to understand or accept responsibility for the damage---that also needed to be dealt with when the person wanted to return to the congregation.  And it was dealt with fairly and kindly, thanks again to the help of others in leadership.

So tomorrow I say goodbye and recount some of what I've learned.  My theme song for ministry, all the years of it from call to retirement, has been the Sunday School hymn "I Would Be True".  That will be the theme of tomorrow's sermon.  Watch for it.

SANCTUARY FOR THE SPIRIT
Rev. Kit Ketcham, June 10, 2012, with Mary Goolsby

    In February, Eileen and Mavis and I brought you a worship experience that focused on the importance of music in our spiritual lives.  We wanted to give you a musical encounter that might move you into your right brain far enough that you could feel music taking you to a different place---not necessarily a place of sweet contentment, but a place of creative reflection and interchange.

    The responses to the experience made me wonder if we could do the same thing with the visual arts and their importance in our spiritual lives.  This morning, Gladys, Mary and I, with the help and support of others on the visual arts committee, hope to accomplish something similar as we explore the spiritual stimulation we receive through viewing the art another has created.

    In thinking about my own experience with the visual arts, my own efforts to create something beautiful with paper or clay or wood or textiles, and the impact certain artworks have had on me, one particular work stands out in my mind.

    As I’ve thought about this work, I’ve realized that part of its importance to me is that I know the artist, I know something about the experience out of which the art was created, and the colors and design cause me to contemplate its meaning at a deep level.  I am always seeing something new in it.

    I have brought it to show you.  Many of you have seen it on the wall of my home; it is one of my most valued pieces of art.  It is a batik created by a former student whose name is Valerie. 

    Valerie was very angry with me at one point in our relationship because I had learned that one of her teachers was sexually involved with her and I had to report that situation to the police.  This batik was created during her tumultuous 8th grade year, when she was just 13 years old and trying to understand why all this had happened.

    Later, when we had successfully navigated that difficult time, I asked Valerie if I could buy this piece of art from her, as a remembrance of our painful but ultimately growthful experience together.  It has been on the wall of my home ever since.

    Other works of art in my life include wonderful photographs of nature scenes, paintings by beloved friends including our dear Nola Allen and Judi Nyerges, needlework made as gifts and returned to me upon my mother’s death, gifts from others, and the many paintings, sculptures, photographs, and designs I’ve contemplated in galleries and museums, including the walls of this building and other sacred spaces.

    This very building, this sanctuary, is a work of art that inspires me and gives me peace of heart.  I sit in our chairs and from any angle, I can look out these windows and experience the movement of the wind in the trees, enhanced by the fine grain of the wood framing.  I’ve often thought it’s like being in a life-size Ansel Adams photograph.

    When I look up, I see the symmetry and texture of the crossbeams that support our roof.  Not only are they eco-friendly, they are also lovely in their coloring and striation, with ironwork placed just so to set off the attractive wood structure.

    Through our round windows I can see the sky, the clouds scudding by, the rain patterns against the glass.  At various times of the day, the sunlight streams through our windows and strikes the floor, making the lustrous bamboo glow. 

    And our beautiful wall hanging of the madrona trees which line our landscape reflects the colors and shapes of our outdoor setting as it reminds us of the creative spirit that produced the design, the color selection, the intricate stitchery, and made our sanctuary extraordinary.

    Other useful and beautiful elements in this room add to the visual effectiveness and stimulation for our spiritual experience:  our beautiful pulpit, our chalice, the sanctuary doors, the ways the colors and textures of wood, fabric, and metal harmonize to create a visual feast of beauty for our worship.

    Sometimes the beauty that surrounds us, whether natural or humanly created, becomes so familiar that its effectiveness is dimmed.  We hope that today you will be refreshed and reminded that the beauty that surrounds us every day is a source of spiritual renewal and inspiration.

    Mary is going to lead us all now in a meditative time, that we might experience or re-experience what visual art has meant to us spiritually.

(Mary leads visualization meditation.)

    In their recent book “A House for Hope”, the Rev. John Buehrens, former president of the UUA, and the Rev. Rebecca Parker, current president of Starr King School for the Ministry, are clear about the importance of the visual arts to our experience of the divine, to our ability to find hope and comfort in human living, and to the creative spirit within each of us.

    Here’s one passage from their book:

    “Progressive religion in the 21st century will be stronger if it can engage not only music but also the visual arts in developing a house for the Spirit, a house for hope.  Many Americans today gather in megachurch sanctuaries that exude the aesthetics of shopping malls or sports arenas.  The spaces are purged of anything too “churchy”---which surely has marketing advantages, given how alienated from “religion” many people today are.
    “But this accommodation of American religion to the world of consumerism, aided and abetted by Protestant iconoclasm  lacks full power to reshape the imagination as a true home for the Spirit.  Early Christians knew better.  Their worship spaces were filled with beauty, giving a sense of paradise now to those whose eyes brought them there for the rituals…of shared worship…
    “To give faith greater form, progressive religion must learn to become practiced and disciplined in the creation, use, and interpretation of images, not just words and music.”

    Parker and Buehrens go on to say that in order to practice the love that is innate within us, in order to freely offer it to both friends and enemies, we must remember and re-imagine that love.  Images, symbols, and songs are the medium for such memory and imagination.   Without their presence, we cannot be fully human and fully creative.

    Words cannot do it all, much as we love them!  We also require physical beauty in our spiritual diet.  Our restless spirits are soothed by the beauty of nature and take flight as we create beauty of our own making.

    In the years ahead, the ministry of this congregation will expand and strengthen, in collaboration with your new minister, Dennis Reynolds.  As you grow together, it is my fond hope that you will remember that a religious community flourishes best when the facets of its ministry are equally attentive to outreach and inreach.

    Remember that in order to give your best to the larger community, you as the Beloved Community here within these walls must attend to your own needs as well.  As the cabin staff on our airlines point out every time we prepare to go aloft, you must put on your own oxygen mask before you take care of others’ need for oxygen.  If you can’t breathe, you can’t help others breathe.

    Ministry is a demanding cause, whether you are an ordained clergyperson or a lay person.  To be the most effective minister possible, you must take care of your own spiritual needs before attempting to take care of others’ needs.

    I once naively asked one of my Iliff professors what his theology was, and he answered, “Beauty.  Beauty is my theology.”  I may have been naïve in my question, but I understood his answer immediately.  Beauty is the wellspring from which spiritual wholeness emerges.  That can be beauty of action, beauty of thought, beauty of words, beauty of relationship, but it flows out of an appreciation and a connection with the beauty around us.

    We are lucky here to live in a beautiful natural environment and we have created a sanctuary for the spirit here in these rooms.  As we are strengthened by the beauty of our home here, we become better able to serve the needs of the larger community. May your ministries of outreach always include beautiful music, beautiful artwork, beautiful relationships, beautiful words of hope. 

   Let's pause for a time of silent reflection and prayer.   

Before our benediction, let me offer this poem by Mary Oliver:

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees

are turning
their own bodies

into pillars of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers
 of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

Benediction:  Our worship service, our time of shaping worth together, is ended, but our service to the world begins again as we leave this place.  Let us go in peace, remembering the beauty of this time and place and carrying it with us into our lives beyond these walls.  May we seek beauty in nature, beauty in human living, beauty in creative thought and act, and may we strive to bring beauty into others’ lives, that they too might find spiritual wholeness in art, music, and loving relationships.  Amen, Shalom, Salaam, and Blessed Be.

Moving and shaking!

It's been a month since I last posted; the sermons in May were brief and kinda standard-issue:  Flower Communion, which I rarely write something new for but just tell the story, and Memorial Sunday, which is more of a sharing service for everyone rather than a time for a sermon.  I did speak the names of all those for whom I had performed memorial services during the nine years I have served this congregation, plus the names of my own dear ones who had died during the past year.

But primarily I've been involved in the whole moving-away and letting-go-of-ministry process.  I've found a house to rent on the Oregon Coast and am looking forward to getting the key, commandeering my nephews into moving me down there, and starting to get settled in a new home.  It's a sweet little house, on a creek, about ten minutes' walk from the shoreline, and, in another direction, ten minutes from the local coffee shop.  It's 1200 square feet, all on one level, with lots of storage, and I feel very lucky to have found just what I was hoping for.

I will be staying on the island most of the summer, so that I can sing with the band, and will be house-sitting for a couple in the church who live on top of a hill outside Coupeville.  I'll take care of their animals and property for a couple of months while Lily and Loosy stay with another couple in the congregation till I'm ready to take them to the coast.  I should be moved into my new home around the first of September.

My going-away activities are in the works; yesterday, the lectionary group took me out to lunch after our last session together and we said goodbye.  I will miss them very much on Friday mornings; they have been one of the most important groups in my island life, giving me encouragement and collegial support, even though our theologies are different.

My last two services with the congregation are June 10 and 24.  I'll be posting those sermons as they are given and I'll try to be better about posting on this blog until the end of June.  Then I have decided to chronicle my life in retirement, as an exercise in reflecting on who I am when I don't have a career ongoing.  I want to continue to write and to express my experiences in words.

I'll probably start a whole new blog, but I like the Ms Kitty's title so well I'll figure out a way to keep the flavor of it while changing the topic from active ministry to active retirement.

The big retirement party will be June 16 and they're planning quite the bash.  My band will play a short set, they will honor me with the title of Minister Emerita during the party, give me a Memory Book that has been in production for the past several weeks, and I don't know what all else.

On the 24th, I'm planning the final service with my Committee on Ministry; it will end with a ritual that will be something of a surprise to the congregation, though I've been telling a few people what to expect.

So, though many of my congregants are assuming that I am all torn up about leaving them, the truth is that I am thrilled to be laying down the mantle of ministry and letting someone else take it up.  I am not grieving this change a bit, at least right now; I am so glad they've found a good candidate to take my place and I hope that works out really well.  I am looking forward with glee to letting go of so much responsibility for other people and for leading the charge in progressive religious causes.

I've pretty much decided that when I do get ready to volunteer next winter (if then), I want to work with animals, with animal rescue if possible.  I want to learn things I've never had time to learn in the interstices between work responsibilities.  I want to rest!  at least for awhile.

A Trail of Beauty and of Tears

A TRAIL OF BEAUTY AND OF TEARS

Rev. Kit Ketcham, with Jarina Moss, April 29, 2012

    In February, I spoke to you on the topic of current civil rights issues in America, mentioning several different groups needing expanded civil rights, particularly our gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender/intersex friends and neighbors.  I felt pretty good about what we are doing to support these groups and what Unitarian Universalists have historically done to support civil rights for oppressed groups.

    After the service, Jarina came to me and said something like, “you listed a lot of groups that need expanded civil rights, but you left out Native Americans.  What about Native peoples?”

    I confess I was dumbfounded, because it simply hadn’t occurred to me to include Native Americans, First Nations peoples, in the litany of those whose human rights have been neglected by our country and other countries.  As we talked, she shared some of her story and I apologized, probably feebly, for my oversight.  And I promised that I would speak about the issues of indigenous peoples today.

    It’s not as though I didn’t believe that native peoples have any problems.  It’s more likely that the needs of native peoples have become invisible to me.  I have not been as conscious of the oppression they’ve endured, even though I’ve had native friends who lived on reservations, whose family members have died of alcohol related disease, who’ve been accused of being “dirty Indians” because of reservation conditions and genetic disposition to addiction.

    My own white privilege has kept me from acknowledging my complicity in the conditions which affect native peoples, not only here in America but across the globe. 

    For indigenous peoples have gotten a raw deal in virtually every country discovered by European explorers centuries ago and policies enacted in those times continue to oppress native peoples to this day. 

    So when I promised Jarina that I would speak about this today, I was taking on a big topic, one which affects many areas of our comfortable lives and is related to many historical policies and acts of our U.S. government, whether the party in power was Republican or Democrat.

    Steve Newcomb is an American Indian of Shawnee & Lenape ancestry. For over a decade, he has studied the origins of United States federal Indian law and international law dating back to the early days of Christendom. He is currently completing a book on his findings entitled, Pagans In the Promised Land: Religion, Law, and the American Indian.

    In an essay entitled “Five Hundred Years of Injustice”, he writes this:
    When Christopher Columbus first set foot on the white sands of Guanahani island, he performed a ceremony to "take possession" of the land for the king and queen of Spain, acting under the international laws of Western Christendom. Although the story of Columbus' "discovery" has taken on mythological proportions in most of the Western world, few people are aware that his act of "possession" was based on a religious doctrine now known in history as the Doctrine of Discovery. Even fewer people realize that today - five centuries later - the United States government still uses this archaic Judeo-Christian doctrine to deny the rights of Native American Indians.

    Newcomb goes on to explain the origins of the Doctrine of Discovery.  In the year 1452, 40 years before Columbus made his journey to the Americas, a statement, or papal bull, was issued by the reigning Catholic pope, Pope Nicholas, declaring war against all non Christians, sanctioning and promoting conquest, colonization, and exploitation of non-Christian nations and territories.

    “Under various theological and legal doctrines formulated during and after the Crusades, non-Christians were considered enemies of the Catholic faith and, as such, less than human. Accordingly, in the bull of 1452, Pope Nicholas directed King Alfonso to ‘capture, vanquish, and subdue the saracens, pagans, and other enemies of Christ,’ to ‘put them into perpetual slavery," and "to take all their possessions and property.’”

     This action was taken to expand and strengthen the so-called Christian Empire.  And it affects, even today, the actions of the United States government toward Native Americans, including Mexican immigrants, and the resources of the lands native peoples occupied at the time of conquest and which they occupy today.

    I’ve been concerned about the immigration battles along the US/Mexico border and the crackdowns on so-called illegal border crossings that have displaced dual-citizenship families, punished US born children for the efforts of their non-US-born parents to give their children a better life, and painted an ugly picture of the governments of those states.

    But it has seemed like a problem that didn’t affect our area much so far, even though the problem of Mexican citizens crossing the border without permission has surfaced here, most recently in Skagit County, when a well-known organic herb farm was discovered to have a workforce made up largely of non-compliant unpermitted Mexican citizens.  The owner of that farm has been indicted for this unlawful activity.

    But consider this:  Centuries ago, the United States was the homeland of native peoples who roamed freely throughout the southwestern states.  Borders were fluid and even nonexistent---until European conquerors moved in, using the Doctrine of Discovery to claim the native lands of those indigenous peoples and to subjugate them, to Christianize those who were willing to convert, and to kill or enslave those who were not willing to leave their indigenous religion and embrace Christianity.

    Guess what happened because of this religious enactment in the 15th century?  Mr. Newcomb will explain:

    In 1823, the Christian Doctrine of Discovery was quietly adopted into U.S. law by the Supreme Court in the celebrated case, Johnson v. McIntosh (8 Wheat., 543). Writing for a unanimous court, Chief Justice John Marshall observed that Christian European nations had assumed "ultimate dominion" over the lands of America during the Age of Discovery, and that - upon "discovery" - the Indians had lost "their rights to complete sovereignty, as independent nations," and only retained a right of "occupancy" in their lands. In other words, Indians nation were subject to the ultimate authority of the first nation of Christendom to claim possession of a given region of Indian lands.

    Yes, that’s right.  U.S. law concerning native American rights to peaceful existence in this, their native land, is based on a 500 year old religious dictum which authorized capture, conversion, killing, enslavement, and displacement of peoples whose misfortune it was to have been here first.

    Since that enactment of U.S. law by the Supreme Court nearly 200 years ago, native peoples have been herded onto reservations, forced to sign treaties to maintain some semblance of existence, massacred if they dared to oppose this treatment, caricatured by popular culture, and robbed of sacred rituals and practices which have been misappropriated by the dominant culture and used for commercial gain.

    The concept which came to be known as Manifest Destiny has been a hallmark of U.S. policy toward the expansion of European-born peoples across the Americas, upheld by politicians of every stripe, ostensibly to promote democracy across the continent and to declare it a moral law that superseded all other law.

    In other words, it was considered the destiny of American democracy to eradicate and subdue, in this country, non-democratic forms of government.  Historian William E. Weeks has noted that three key themes were usually touched upon by advocates of Manifest Destiny:

1.    the virtue of the American people and their institutions;
2.    the mission to spread these institutions, thereby redeeming and remaking the world in the image of the U.S.; and
3.    the destiny under God to do this work.

    Since that time, many of us have come to understand what terrible wrongs have been committed against indigenous peoples, both here and abroad, and slowly the tide has turned, our thinking has evolved, and there is a growing undercurrent of support to repeal laws which are based on the Doctrine of Discovery, to be in full compliance with the United Nations’ Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People.

    The Doctrine of Discovery was used to justify the conquest of Africa, Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and the Americas.  It was the justification for the appropriation of lands and resources and the domination of native nations and usurpation of their sovereignty.  It formed the basis for the slave trade, the partition and colonization of the Near East, the colonization of the Americas, and the genocides of the indigenous peoples of Africa and the Americas.

    The Doctrine of Discovery codified, put into law, made legal the oppression of others and it may be what gives tacit permission to all the bullying behavior we see in society, from the playground to the boardroom and marketplace, and ultimately to the battlefield.

    Let’s take a moment of silence to consider this historic moment in the history of our nation and to think about the questions it raises in our minds.  (chime)

    I’m wondering what questions might be in our minds right now?  Let’s hear from a few of you and then I’ll say a bit about my own thoughts.  (Questions)   

    Thank you for your thoughtful questions.  Here’s what I’ve been thinking, as I’ve researched and considered the implications of this challenging world-impacting situation:  First of all, DUH!  How could I miss this?  How can native peoples have been subjected to this without my recognizing it?  How could they become invisible to me? 

    When I think of my high school friends, Joyce and Belva, who lived on the nearby Umatilla reservation and went to my high school, I remember that they were both beautiful, both of them were honored as Indian princesses in the Happy Canyon show that was part of the Pendleton RoundUp every year; their pictures were in our high school yearbook---on horseback, dressed in white deerskin, feathers in their hair, looking regal.

    There were two boys, Peter and Paul, who were basketball stars at St. Joseph’s Academy in Pendleton.  We all had crushes on these two guys.  I even wrote them an anonymous note one time, at the height of my starry-eyed phase.  What became of these beautiful young men and women?

    Sadly, as I researched the names of these friends and admired ones, I found death notice after death notice----all of these four had died too young, between ages 50 and 60.  Why?  I couldn’t find out why, but knowing the bleak history of health vulnerabilities among indigenous peoples, I could hazard a guess.

    Was it alcoholism taking advantage of the genetic make-up of Native Americans?  Or their high susceptibility to heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and obesity?  Did poverty and depression contribute to their deaths? 

    These are questions I have never before thought to ask.  Has the treatment of Native peoples by their conquerors over the centuries resulted in such poor living conditions that their emotional and physical health has been damaged?  That their history from the day Europeans set foot on their lands has been one of death and displacement?  My answer to these questions is Yes.

    And my next question is, logically, what---500 years later---can we do about any of this?

    As Terra, Jarina, and I talked about this service, we had to face the questions that Jarina has asked, in her reflection:  why do we not think of the rights of native people?  Why do we still treat them as the invisible inconvenience of white colonialism?  What is it about human nature that allows us to dehumanize others of our species to the extent that we have?

    We acknowledge that we have within each of us the capacity for both good and evil.  Why do we so often choose hurtful behavior over compassion?  How do we begin to examine our own tendencies to dominate and to oppress?  How do we change our sense of entitlement so that it no longer impinges on the rights of others? 

    Native peoples in this country and others have contributed hugely to our arts and cultural heritage.  We in return have often misappropriated their art, spiritual practices, music, and other contributions, using them for our own material gain.  We do so without understanding their history, the heritage that they represent, and we may even callously adapt those rituals and items to better meet our needs, not caring that their originators might feel resentful and hurt.  The beauty they have offered----in art, in music, in ritual, in culture---has often been stolen and misused.

    Native lands are always under the gun.  Just this past week, I received notices about proposed mining in Alaska that threatens native fishing rights and  an impending auction in North Dakota that will sell the Fort Berthold Indian reservation’s oil and gas rights.  Large corporations were behind both these proposed acquisitions.

    Clearly, we must act.  What can we do?  The Unitarian Universalist Peace Ministry Network repudiates the Doctrine of Discovery and is bringing a resolution to the floor of our upcoming General Assembly in Phoenix, the end of June, when the related issue, of immigration laws, will also be a focus of attention.

    Other religious traditions are also speaking out in favor of repeal of laws which are based on the Doctrine of Discovery and we would do well to study the issue deeply and align with other concerned congregations and humanitarian groups, including the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee.

    In addition, we can strongly oppose legislation and corporate actions which impinge upon native lands.  We can educate ourselves and others.  We can reach out in friendship to those affected by these ancient policies and, instead of just feeling helpless and looking away, let’s seek truth, let’s question what we’ve always done, and let’s practice compassion and seek reconciliation.

    Let’s pause for a time of silent reflection and prayer.

BENEDICTION:  Our worship service, our time of shaping worth together, is ended, but our service to the world begins again as we leave this place.  Let us go in peace,  thinking hard about how our lives have been shaped by the oppressive policies of the past.  May we dedicate ourselves to doing our part to change the laws which hurt others and may we never forget that our privileged lives are, to some degree, bought by the pain of others.  We pray for strength to understand and the courage to change.  Amen, Shalom, Salaam, and Blessed Be.

An Easter Reflection on Rebirth and Resurrection

EASTER REFLECTION
Rev. Kit Ketcham, with Dave Sweetwood, April 8, 2012

When Dave and I sat down to think about this service a couple of weeks ago, I asked him to tell me what Easter meant to him. He had had a fairly typical Protestant upbringing and had pretty much set aside the traditional teachings of Jesus’ physical resurrection and ascension into heaven, as well as the stories of virgin birth and other miraculous acts.

But there was one Easter theme that really spoke to him, and you have now heard him tell his story of rebirth, of redemption, of renewal and new life.

It’s always a little risky to ask someone to tell such a personal story, but Dave reminded me, when I asked if he’d be willing to share it with you today, that his story of rebirth into recovery from alcoholism is a story we all need to hear, time and again, for we all struggle with our various captivities, be they eating patterns, drug and alcohol usage, spending, relationship problems, gambling, anger, workaholism, to name a few.

We all need to hear the life-giving words that all is not lost, that we can reclaim health and sanity, that we can find a new way of living, of being with others, of being with ourselves and with the great mystery that some call God.

Dave tells his story of rebirth to others freely. It’s part of his recovery, part of the way he maintains his sobriety, part of the way he offers hope to others who may be struggling themselves.

The word rebirth may call up in us a number of different feelings. We may associate it with the traditional Christian concept of being “born again”. We may, as Nicodemus the tax guy in the Bible said to Jesus at one point in those ancient stories, we may wonder how the heck a person can re-enter his/her mother’s womb and come out again. That’s a kind of creepy concept that is physically impossible, anyhow.

If we’re stuck on the literality of the term, it is hard to recognize its deeper meaning. But consider the many words I found in my thesaurus when I checked out “rebirth” for synonyms. There are the requisite religious terms: conversion, baptism, cleansing, purification, purgation---there’s one that sounds a little gross. They’re pretty loaded for many of us.

I remember in seminary innocently asking my theology professor one day what the term was for a person who gradually saw things in a different way and came to behave differently as a result.

I was thinking of my own process of becoming a Unitarian Universalist, not overnight but after long hard thought in which I compared the religious values of justice, mercy, and humility with the values of the conservative Christianity I’d observed, which seemed to be more along the lines of proselytize, deny science, and exclude anyone different.

Dr. Davaney looked at me strangely and said, “Conversion”, as though she were wondering if I should even be in seminary, if I didn’t understand the concept of conversion. I did understand the concept of conversion; it was the step right after proselytization and it was something I had been expected to do to or for others.

That wasn’t what had happened to me. It wasn’t what I had done to or for others. I had watched other people live their lives in ways I admired and I wanted to learn how to live that way too.

Long ago, in a universe 1300 miles away, Denver, before I ever met Professor Davaney, I had a lovely boyfriend named Gil who was a recovering alcoholic. He lived his life in ways I admired. I cared for him very much and listened to him talk about examining his life and making amends to those people he had hurt with his drinking behavior----his ex-wife, his sons, his co-workers, and most of all, himself.

All this time, while I was listening, all I could think of was my ex-husband’s faults, his drinking behavior, and how it had hurt me and our son. I wanted that man to make amends to me! And so one day, I asked Gil, “how can I get him to make amends to me?”

Gil looked at me a little bit the same way my theology professor would look at me, years later, and suddenly, it clicked. I “grokked” it, as we learned to say in the 60’s. I realized that I couldn’t make my ex do anything. I needed to examine my own life and consider making amends to those I’d hurt, not fixate on how they had hurt me.

And my mother’s words came back to me, to when she’d say to me after some complaint I’d registered about how a sibling had treated me badly. My mom just said, “honey, you can’t change other people’s behavior, you can only change your own.”

Gil’s look and my mother’s words combined to give me a moment of clarity and recognition of a new pathway for my life. Instead of resentment against a man who had hurt me, I would be better served by self-examination and consideration of how my behavior might change.

Here are a few other words I found in my thesaurus: renaissance, renascence, revival, new awakening, regeneration, renewal, rejuvenation, restoration. And resurrection, a returning to healthy life from a place of death.

Resurrection----one of the key words at Eastertide. Now, we can be pretty sure that truly dead people almost never become alive again, though we often hold out hope for a miracle.

And I suppose it’s possible that Jesus, after his crucifixion, seemed to be genuinely dead but that he recovered and was able to walk and talk again with his friends a few days later. Possible, but not very likely---crucifixion was a pretty final event in a person’s life.

What it makes me think of, however, is that there seem to be different kinds of things we consider to be death-like: there’s physical death, when the brain and organs quit working, but there’s also a sort of mental death, when the mind is gone but the body continues to function. There’s bodily death, when almost nothing but the mind works.

Even these informal categories are open to question, now that it is possible to resuscitate many a person whose brain and heart have suddenly stopped working and there are ways for severe quadriplegics to continue to function, like Stephen Hawking who depends on technology to keep his bodily systems working and whose mind is steadily churning out ideas.

The death that threatens us all, I think, is spiritual death. And how I would define that term is as a state of being in which we no longer feel connected to the universe, when we focus solely on the routines that get us through a day with little or no awareness of the larger meanings of our lives, when we are so beaten down by habits or circumstances or sorrow or anger that we cannot see a way out of our blind alleys and the quagmires that trap us.

Spiritual death threatens when we lose sight of our relationships and our connections to other people and to the universe. Some would say that spiritual death means disconnection from God; though I prefer to use other language, I believe that’s so, that there is often a hole in our lives that would be best filled by spiritual experience.

There have been a few times in my life when I’ve teetered on the brink of becoming so disconnected that I didn’t feel quite real. My life at those times seemed to be centered on doing what others wanted or needed me to do, hiding loneliness and resentment under a façade of vivacity and cheer, controlling as much as I could to keep from having to deal with the surprises and crises that would otherwise land in my lap.

I reveled, at those times, in the ego-boosts of praise from admirers and tried to keep them coming in, sometimes by abandoning my own ethical standards and doing things I would not normally have done, in order to keep feeling like I was a real person, that I belonged.

I resisted getting too close to people. I pretended to be what people thought I was. It took a spiritual awakening to get me on the right track.

I think this period of disconnected time in my life began when I first started to realize how different I felt from other people. Some of it was being a preacher’s kid who couldn’t do the same kinds of social things that my friends could do. Some of it was being smart and wanting to do something with my life besides marry the first boy who asked and become a wife in a small town without much intellectual stimulation.

There were lots of ways I felt different from everyone around me and I began to cope with that sense of separation by faking it a lot. By pretending to be like everyone else, by pretending to believe what everyone around me believed. By letting go of some ethical standards and acquiescing to things I knew were wrong, just in order to make my husband happy. Or at least keeping him from complaining about my bad attitudes.

This was a tough way to live, but I got good at it. It carried over well into my work and social life, and I had no idea that not everyone around me was fooled. I was fooled, sort of, but people who took the time to know me well were not.

Now, I don’t want this to turn into true confessions, though I do confess I am telling you more now than I might have nine years ago!

The point is that I think a lot of us grow up in ways that encourage us to pretend, to be what others think we should be, to fulfill societal expectations that stuff us into boxes and molds that are uncomfortable and even dishonest.

I tell stories about myself because I believe that they are universal stories, that others share these human dilemmas, that hearing another person’s stories can give us insights into our own lives, ideas for approaching our personal dilemmas, and the courage to do something about them.

So what does Easter mean to me? Like Dave, I resonate to the idea of rebirth. I see the resurrection story of the Bible as a metaphor for human living. I see myself being reborn any number of times over my lifetime so far. Perhaps you do too.

For me the most recent rebirth came about a year ago, when my doctor told me my cholesterol, blood pressure, and other numbers were high and we needed to consider drug therapy to lower them. I had guessed she might suggest that and I knew I needed to do something.

So all the way up to Oak Harbor for my appointment one day, I considered various ways of telling her I refused drug therapy for these conditions and why I felt I couldn’t lose weight, which I knew would be her next suggestion.

But once in her office, going over the numbers and knowing I needed to do something, I said to her, “well, I guess I could go back to Weight Watchers”, thinking even as I said it that it probably wouldn’t work, but that at least I could fob her off by giving that answer, which would sound good. Which she wanted to hear. Yep, I was doing it again!

She was, of course, pleased to hear me say that but I felt dishonest as I went out the door, because I kinda knew it was just a way to get her off my back.

All the way home, I thought about what I’d said and what I actually would probably do. And I thought about other times I’d tried Weight Watchers: after Mike was born, when I needed to lose baby fat and make my husband happy; after my divorce, when I wanted to look good and get a boyfriend; during the hard times at a former congregation when I was feeling bad about myself and was looking for a new congregation.

None of these unsuccessful efforts was actually about me---they were all an effort to be what I thought others wanted me to be. This time, it was about me and my health and my happiness and my ability to live into my old age as a strong healthy woman. I wasn’t going to be able to be my real self if I was sick or if I lacked stamina for life’s challenges.

I thought about times when I’d succeeded in doing something really hard and I remembered those years I spent in a 12 step program. One of the old slogans came back to me, somewhere around Coupeville: “It works if you work it.” It works if you work it. It works if you do it the way it’s supposed to be done. It works if you do it for yourself, not for someone else.

When I got home, I went to the WW website to locate a meeting, I put it on my calendar, and the next Thursday at noon, I showed up at Deer Lagoon Grange. I’ve been going ever since, and you have all watched me succeed in peeling off almost 40 pounds during the past year.

But this story is not about weight loss and better physical health. It’s about the recognition I’ve had over this past year that physical poundage was not the only weight on my heart.

There was also the weight of unresolved conflict with people from my past, people I still felt angry with, people I thought had done me wrong, who thought I had done them wrong.

They included longtime friends and colleagues I’d written off, still peeved that they got mad at me over hurt feelings, still feeling hurt myself and resentful about it. I was uncomfortable when I had to be around them, I let the resentment crop up repeatedly, and I avoided seeing them if possible.

One day last fall, I got to thinking about a lost friendship with a woman in my former congregation in Colorado. We had been very close, but when I went into the ministry and moved to the PNW, our friendship weakened and when I asked her once to tell me more about a problem in that congregation, she flared up at me, told me that she felt I’d dumped her when I moved, and she didn’t want to be friends any more. Ouch.

All my emails of indignant protest went unanswered. I sent more messages. Nothing. So I just fumed quietly about it----until it was approaching this past Christmas and I again wondered about sending her a holiday message. It struck me suddenly that maybe I was in the wrong, to some extent. If I couldn’t change her behavior, perhaps I could change my own.

I wrote her a letter, a real letter, not an email, of apology, took the blame for having asked her inappropriately to gossip about the situation, and sent it off, around Thanksgiving. I had no idea how she would respond, whether she’d even open the letter.

Two weeks later, I got a card from her, accepting my apology, offering her renewed friendship, and hoping I was well. A huge weight was lifted from my heart. Even if she hadn’t responded at all, I had at least done the right thing by admitting I’d hurt her and asking her forgiveness, even these long years after the fact. She’d had a right to feel hurt; I had hurt her.

A few months later, another opportunity arose, this one with a colleague I’d felt resentful about for years. We had mutually hurt each other and the weight of my resentment was bothering me. I wrote my colleague a letter of regret about my having administered that hurt. I didn’t ask my colleague to make amends to me; I just wanted to get rid of that weight on my heart. My colleague forgave me.

There are a few more pounds weighing down my heart—five more physical pounds and a couple more spiritual pounds, weight I need to jettison in order to be more whole. But I’ve learned some important spiritual lessons during this past year---that pounds of lard affect my physical health and that pounds of resentment affect my spiritual health. I need to be careful that they don’t creep back, once I’ve lost them.

They say maintenance of healthy physical weight depends on vigilance and I think that holds true for healthy spiritual weight as well. I hope that all of us who struggle with issues of resentment, addiction, and other spiritual ills will find the rebirth, the resurrection, out of spiritual death and grow into a new life of joy and greater health.

Let’s pause for a time of silent reflection and prayer.

BENEDICTION: Our worship service, our time of shaping worth together, is ended, but our service to the world begins again as we leave this place. Let us go in peace, remembering that we can only change our own behavior, not others, and that it is our asking forgiveness that we can find new life. May we offer forgiveness to others freely and may we find the peace of mind that comes when we let go of resentment. May we all find a sense of spiritual renewal and renaissance in the days ahead. Amen, Shalom, Salaam, and Blessed Be.

Spirit, Love, and Light

Today at UUCWI, we'll have a worship service using the personal poetry of 12 of our members and friends, including me. My contribution is to lead a hymn I wrote when I was a student in a Hymnody class at Iliff School of Theology. The words are below. It can be sung to the tune "Restoration", as individual verses, or to "Hymn to Joy" (aka Ode to Joy by Beethoven) by making the verses eight lines long instead of four. Or, if you prefer, find a different tune in the metrical index of any hymnal, under the section 8.7.8.7. or 8.7.8.7.D (for the 8-line arrangement of verses).

You are welcome to use it, if you like it, just giving attribution.

SPIRIT, LOVE, AND LIGHT
by Rev. Elizabeth “Kit” Ketcham, 1999
TUNE: Restoration or Hymn to Joy
8.7.8.7.

Wandering in earth’s lonely places,
We see clear, though sick with fright,
In our comrades’ lovely faces,
God is Spirit, Love, and Light.

Jesus was our prophet, mentor.
Heart and soul he does invite
us to find God at our center,
God is Spirit, Love, and Light.

Yet we need to be reminded,
In the deepness of the night,
Whom we seek when we are blinded,
God is Spirit, Love, and Light.

When we question our disgraces,
Where can God be in our plight?
Answers come from hidden places,
God is Spirit, Love, and Light.

Max may be gone for good...

because it's now been a week since he left his new family's house and decamped for parts unknown. It may be that he couldn't get used to the two friendly dogs, it could be that he decided to come back home and got lost, it could be that some predator got him, it could be that he has beguiled some new family without dogs to take him in. Whatever it is, it's got both the new family and me feeling pretty sad.

Amazing how all those old bluesy folk and pop songs seem to resonate at a time like this: "are you goin' away with no word of farewell, will there be not a trace left behind?", "just a walkin' in the rain, getting soakin' wet, sorrow in my heart from tryin' to forget", "I'm always walkin' after midnight just hopin' you will be out somewhere walkin' after midnight, searchin' for me." I'm singing the blues.

It's not like we didn't think it could happen. It's not like we had any choice. It's not like we could have protected him from the risk of getting lost, eaten, chased off. If the adoption hadn't happened now, it would have happened eventually because there was no way I could see taking him with me. He's just too hard to manage---too hard to catch, too hard to keep indoors, too hard to protect, too independent and too determined to be on the loose. It seemed like the perfect placement with good friends from the congregation; we figured he'd work things out with the friendly dogs and be fine. And it seemed to be working. Then this.

I keep listening at the window, sure I've heard the telltale mew as he trots across the deck; I think I catch a glimpse of white in the blackberry thickets at the edge of the lawn; my ears prick up at every faint thump from outdoors, thinking maybe he's jumped onto the deck. I keep hoping he'll find his way back here, but I'm not very hopeful. There are "lost cat" ads out there but no responses at this point, as far as I know.

Lily is getting resigned to his not being here; Loosy is thrilled---she's not stressed out by his aggressive behavior toward her. Both of the girlcats are acting normal. It's me who is having the blues.

It was a bad 24 hours...

between Wednesday and Thursday mornings.

Max's new mama sent me a note yesterday morning telling me that Maxie had gone walkabout, had been missing for over 24 hours, and they were scared. He'd apparently figured out how to get out the doggie door in the middle of the night and disappeared into the woods. She and her husband had been agonizing over telling me this and were feeling horrible.

I tried to be philosophical---he might just come back on his own, he might show up here, he had made an "adult choice" (he is an adult cat, after all, and must have decided he could handle whatever was beyond the doggie door) to go outside, and he was a barn cat at heart, who would always be at risk because of his need to be outside. But I cried anyhow, feeling sad for them, scared for Max, and wondering what the outcome would be.

I worried, wondering if he'd become too attached to me to be a successful adoptee, wishing I could take him with me to Astoria, and knowing that would just continue the tension around his needs for another spell of time.

I prayed and I cried. And I found some peace, slept all right despite waking in the night to think about him again. I remembered the dream I'd had two nights earlier, that he was scratching at the window and asking to come in. I wondered if it had any significance.

And Thursday morning, I got another note from his new mama saying that Max had sashayed in at 4 a.m., meowing and asking to be petted (and fed, no doubt). What a relief! On walkabout for 48 hours, home again safe at his new digs, and no doubt self-satisfied at having checked out the lovely woods around their home, negotiated with any predators who might have been interested in him, evaded the friendly dogs who are now his roommates, and having set a few of his expectations in place for his new family.

Whew!

Maxie the Magnificent Update

After several months of wondering what I should do about Max, the situation has resolved and Max is now safely ensconced at the home of friends. J and C had had to have their ancient, ill old Gonzocat put down a few weeks ago and C was pining for him.

She had met Max when she and other librarians from the congregation came over to my place to pick up the load of books I was donating to the church library. He was lounging on my bed as they worked and when she petted him, he purred and was obviously happy to make her acquaintance. She said she'd like to adopt him when they were ready to have another cat, and I had to turn her down, because another woman from the congregation (S) had volunteered to take him.

I thought little more about it, secure in the knowledge that S would be a good adoptive mama and that Max would have a lot of room to roam at S's farm. One day I got an email from S---it would be okay with her if C and J adopted Max. C had called her and asked about her feelings. S had been a little concerned that she might be allergic to Max's particular dander and then there were the chickens who ran loose at the farm: who would win, Max or the chickens, if it came to a showdown?

So C and J came over to visit Max a couple of weeks ago. They lolled on my bed with him, petted him, got him to purr, and went home saying, "well, let us know when you're ready to give him up". We had already arranged that they would take care of him for me when I had to be off-island for a few days in April and in May. I mentioned at some point that they could adopt him any time.

Four days ago, I got a call from C---she was just up the road in Greenbank and she could stop by and pick Max up to take him home with her, if I was willing. Eager as I was to have C and J adopt him, I wasn't quite ready for it to happen so soon! I had the good fortune to be on my way out the door at the time she called, so we put it off until the next afternoon, and by the time she had arrived, I'd gotten him corralled, in the carrier, and ready to roll as soon as she drove up. Only a few shreds of regret remained at that point, for he had bopped Loosy in the head and made her holler once again and I was READY!

C drove up, we loaded him, and she sped off (she didn't need to worry that I would chase her down the driveway----I was ready to let go of the tension that Max has brought into my life as the Little Prince of Catdom, his domineering attitude toward Loosy, and his desperate need to be outdoors). I got an email the next day reassuring me that he was settling in nicely and that I didn't need to worry.

I see C and J regularly and, in fact, I'm going to their house for a church activity in a few days, so I'll get to visit Maxie, but it is such a relief to have him safely located with good people, well before I need to be physically gone from this house. Thanks to C and J and S, who were so willing to help me find the right home for him.

A very flattering interview...

by Eileen Brown, a Whidbey Island journalist. (Reprinted from the March 15 Whidbey Marketplace & News)

Still Talking

By Eileen Brown

When someone moves away from Whidbey Island, you'd think it'd make room for one more. But when that person is Kit Ketcham, you'd need three or four to take up the slack. And for many of us who are just getting to know her, it's a shame we didn't meet before now at church or catch her entertaining, singing with every emotion in her body.

Before we say goodbye to Rev. Elizabeth "Kit" Ketcham of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Whidbey Island in Freeland, we must acknowledge her unique gifts. They include hours of singing as part of the Bayview Sound, pickers and singers creating harmonies audiences love from American roots music: old country, folk, old rock and roll, bluegrass, blues, that sort of thing.

“There are four of us and we specialize in three- and four-part harmonies which are pretty darned nice,” Ketcham offered. “The instruments we use are guitar, banjo, bass, mandolin, viola, fiddle, keyboard and, of course, voice. I don't know how to play anything, so they let me just sing.”

Members found each other at a popular acoustic jam session in Langley four years ago. “At first, we just sang together for the fun of creating harmonies that felt and sounded good to us and our listeners,” she said. “Then we were invited to perform for such groups as Good Cheer, WAIF, WISH, Farm Bureau picnics, on KWPA, at Postcards from Whidbey and private parties.”

As time went on, they became close friends as they learned to sing together and to create arrangements that showcase their voices and instruments. Her fellow musicians are Lynn and Debbie Cantwell of Coupeville and Richard Hughes of Langley.

“The band has been important to me because it has given me a private life separate from my beloved congregation, the Unitarian Universalists of Whidbey Island,” she said. She has always been an independent thinker and in the 1960s gravitated to Unitarian Universalism whose open-minded, social-justice-oriented approach to religion felt more comfortable to her.

”Ministry is my fifth career,” she said, “the final professional phase of a life spent variously as a welfare worker, an inner-city community center worker (AKA Baptist home missionary), a teacher and a school counselor.” After spending 50 years helping humans, she is considering volunteering with non-humans (animals) for a change.

Back to the band, it has fulfilled a dream. She always wanted to sing, wearing a red satin dress, leaning into the curve of a grand piano. In reality, she is thrilled to wear jeans and boots as they sing bluegrass, blues, rock and roll, and country tunes.

The group has been singing at Click Music Hall in Oak Harbor for a couple of months now. Click Music, located on 7th Ave. between Highway 20 and Midway Blvd., provides many musical services from sales of instruments and musical paraphernalia, sheet music, music books, lessons with terrific instructors, jams/singalongs, and now regular performances in their expansive new hall. Proprietor is Avi Rostov, who makes a practice of hiring young musicians as staff, and has as her goal to expand the musical offerings in Oak Harbor.

Their next Click gig will be on Friday, April 6, at 7PM.

“I will miss singing with the band when I retire and move off-island, to Astoria, Ore.,” Ketcham said. “When I was a kid, my family spent a week every summer at the Cannon Beach Bible Conference, a freebie because my Dad was a Baptist minister and this was a privilege extended to clergy. As I grew up, my love for the north Oregon coast grew too and I decided that someday I would come back and live there. Astoria is a small city that has always fascinated me, for its history and its proximity to the Columbia River and the Pacific, so I hope to find my home there.”

The move means she will be close to family members but she will treasure the past six years. “What a wonderful place to live and serve and sing!”

Is it possible for someone....

to deliberately sign somebody up for spam? I have had more spam in my email account in the past couple of months than I've ever had. My provider is pretty good about screening spam and putting it in a folder where I can check it, but the spam that is coming through right now is constant, two or three messages per hour, and occasionally it seems directed, as though somebody who wants to harass me in a few specific ways has signed me up for all these messages.

It could be that I'm just being paranoid, but the spam has increased since the last unwanted email I got from the weirdo who had been cyberstalking me. It would be in keeping with his bizarre behavior and accusations toward me, so I'm suspicious. Of course, I can't prove any of it, but some of the spam seems to reflect some of the things he accused me of.

So I just delete the spam and hope that eventually my provider gets the picture, that I wasn't the one who asked for these things. Annoying.

Lest anyone wonder, this cyberweirdo is NOT a UU blogger or anyone who has been published as a commenter on my blog.

Saying Goodbye to a Beloved Congregation

I thought about including this in my "Life of Work" series, but truthfully, Whidbey Island has been more than a place to work. It has been a place where I found myself fulfilled professionally as well as personally; the congregation has been not just a job but a joy, and I am so glad I stayed here for so long. I tried in vain to find fulltime work during my first three years of serving parttime, but none of those pre-candidacies ever became a candidacy, even though I was runner-up a time or two.

When the final "we've invited so and so to be our candidate" was delivered, several years ago, I felt a huge relief, because I almost dreaded being so busy again. I had developed a personal life while serving parttime at Whidbey and Vashon and it was hard to consider giving it up.

Soon after I re-framed disappointment into relief, I moved to Whidbey Island, fell deeply in love with the congregation and the island, and threw myself into this lively, hard-working, almost-utopian South Whidbey community. I have never regretted it and, in fact, I can honestly say that these past several years have been the happiest years of my life. So far, anyhow.

There has always been something about the Whidbey congregation and community that has inspired me to be my best, to serve its needs, to encourage its aspirations, to collaborate in its success. Together we've grown spiritually, in numbers, in wisdom, in outreach. We built a home together; we survived losses that shook us all; we negotiated disagreements, dealt with problematic people, and took hard stances when necessary. We have been a religious leader in our already-liberal community; where other congregations were accepting of many liberal social positions, we have tended to be out front, offering space for same sex weddings and advocating for civil rights for beleaguered groups and individuals.

I feel I've done good work here, but it's largely because we have learned to work together, to collaborate on worship, administration, governance, education, and building issues. Sometimes my part in the collaboration has been to be a cheerleader, rather than take a more involved part; sometimes, as in worship, we have worked together carefully to co-create worship that is representative of congregational needs and presents a reverential experience for worshipers. I am wholly responsible for two services per month; lay and special speakers fill the other two Sundays, but it has been a very long time since a lay-led service was amateurishly done. Our worship leaders are skilled and proficient in worship design and worship leading. I have helped with training, but much of their success has come from their own efforts to learn the worship arts. I am so pleased with their abilities and commitment to offering high quality worship. I think they do it well, as well as any other congregation I have served OR attended.

I hope that our search committee finds just the right minister for this lovely bunch of folks, whose skills and commitment are incredibly high. They will be polite to a person who comes in and wants to change everything, but they will resist such an effort. We have talked about what challenges they may face with a new minister whose style is much different from mine; I believe that they will be able to work with just about anyone, but woe unto the person who doesn't recognize their highly developed abilities!

The best new person, I think, will come in with a desire to love these dear people, learn their ways, understand what it means to live on a sort-of-utopian island, let them lead him/her at times and gently offer new ideas as appropriate.

It will be hard to say goodbye in June.

A new blog is in the works

I'm starting to think about winding down Ms. Kitty's and beginning a new venture blogwise. I'm phasing out ministry in my life (though trying not to limp too much as I make my way through my duck days) and thinking about the future, how I'll spend the summer once my contract with UUCWI is completed, how I'll accomplish the move to my new locale, and what I'll do once I'm there.

The new blog will not be about ministry or religion or politics or anything like that. My son has asked me to write some posts about our early family life together and I would like to grant that request. I also have some life issues I want to sort out in writing, I want to feel free to gripe about characters who bug me, and I want to take off the mantle of ministry before I do that.

I remember my ordination day---a hot May Sunday afternoon in an un-airconditioned church there in Colorado. One of the rituals in a UU ordination is the laying on of hands; we do it in a very big way. First the minister leading the ritual asks the ordinand to kneel, then invites family members to come forward and place their hands on the shoulders of the ordinand. Next invited are colleagues, then every person in the congregation is invited to reach out to touch someone who is touching someone who is touching someone who is touching the ordinand.

That's a lot of hands in contact with the newly ordained minister---for a reason. Ministry means you are serving a whole lot of people all at once----your congregation, for sure, their family and friends indirectly, people you meet on the street or grocery store or bus, your friends and family, and just about everyone you come in contact with. As long as someone knows you are a minister, you are in service to that person and must remember that, even when it seems unfair or impossible.

As I knelt that day with all those hands weighing me down in the 90 degree heat, I was acutely aware of the responsibility those hands were placing on my shoulders. I couldn't possibly know at that time just what kinds of responsibility I was taking on, but I had a lot of energy at the time and was prepared to accept it.

After these 12 years of active ministry, mostly without much private life, always on call to a congregation, always curbing my tongue, being careful about what I said, tiptoeing around extra-sensitive people, thinking always of the institution I represent, I am ready for a break. I am going to shed the mantle of ministry for awhile and focus on a private life in which I have my weekends, in which I have no deadlines for newsletters or sermons or meetings to attend.

I'll use the new blog to write about my new life, look back at old parts of my life, and do some self-assessment about the paths I might explore. I won't be publicizing the name and URL of the new blog; it will be available only to close friends and family members.

In the meantime, this blog will be active until at least the end of June. I still have more to say from a ministry point of view!

A Life of Work, Part 6

One of my great pleasures during my years of ministry has been receiving invitations to preach at various congregations in the district in which I was living. Even during the years when I was a student, I was invited to preach in several congregations in the Mountain Desert District, which stretches from western Montana, eastern Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico. Western Nebraska is now part of that district, I think, but it wasn't at the time I was living in Denver.

Here in the Pacific Northwest, I've had the same lovely experience, of being invited to offer a service in 22 different congregations across the district, which stretches from Alaska, British Columbia, Washington, Idaho, and Oregon. This is another huge district!

While living in Portland and serving Wy'east, I preached regularly at West Hills Fellowship, Eastrose in Gresham, South Park, Washington County, and Astoria, plus doing weddings in the Portland area and on the coast. I hope, upon retirement, to do more coast weddings; performing a marriage ceremony on a grassy coastal head is a huge thrill!

Here in Washington, I have preached at Bellingham, Blaine, Evergreen (Marysville), Kennewick, Cedars (Bainbridge/Kitsap), Skagit (Mt. Vernon), Shoreline, Westside (West Seattle), Saltwater (Des Moines), Tahoma (Tacoma), Olympia, and Wenatchee. Most of the weddings I've done have been on either Whidbey or Vashon Islands.

I moved to the Seattle area and lived in Ballard for a couple of years while serving both Vashon Island and Whidbey Island congregations, one weekend a month, as a quarter-time consulting minister. I served Vashon Island Unitarians for 4 years, finally ending that ministry when my appetite for commuting via ferry was sated.

By that time, I was living on Whidbey and it took two hours to get to Vashon. I waited in a lot of ferry lines over the year and a half that I did this commute. I'd go down on Friday morning through Seattle to the Fauntleroy ferry dock, wait in a long line to make the short hop to the island, and then return to Whidbey by taking the Southworth ferry to Port Orchard and north again to the Port Townsend ferry. Two hours each way for a trip of about 20 miles as the crow flies!

Vashon was a wonderful experience for me; they had never had a minister and were a bit torn about whether they needed one or not, but we hit it off immediately and there were few naysayers about ministry when I left. They have had some excellent ministry since that time and it's a good feeling to hear regularly how well they are doing.

Moving to Whidbey meant that I got far more involved in the congregation than I had been able to accomplish when I was living on the mainland. I could attend meetings that were scheduled for other times than the weekend, I could attend church every Sunday if I chose, and I was able to have a public presence in the community. I also found a very satisfying private life, by getting involved with the acoustic music community.

Once I landed on Whidbey Island, my hours increased, from quarter time to one-third time and finally now to half-time. That is, they pay me for half-time. I know I spend more time than that, but it's hard to say no to people in pain.

More on the Whidbey Island years later.

With Liberty and Justice for All: a sermon

Sing with me:
 “My country tis of thee,
 sweet land of liberty,
of thee I sing. 
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim’s pride,
 from every mountainside,
let freedom ring!” 

    In 1907, the black poet W.E.B. duBois wrote new words to this famous song for black people to sing, in a scathing rebuke of the privileged understanding of liberty held by theological student Samuel F. Smith in 1832, when he wrote the lines we just sang.  Du Bois substituted these words: 

My country tis of thee, 

Late land of slavery, 
  
Of thee I sing.
Land where my father’s pride   

Slept where my mother died,   

From every mountainside 

Let freedom ring!

    Though Samuel Smith’s love for his country was deep, he had little understanding of how others might perceive this same country, particularly those whose presence in this country was invisible, resented, involuntary, beleaguered by oppression and poverty, enslaved by prejudice though ostensibly free.

    I wonder what words might have replaced the familiar ones, had one of the survivors of violence against sexual minorities rewritten them?  What might Matthew Shepherd have written, if he’d survived the beating that killed him outside of Laramie those years ago?    I wonder how Angie Zapata, murdered in 2008 by a boyfriend who discovered she was transgender, might have rewritten them.

    I wonder today how our gay, lesbian, bisexual, intersex and transgender friends might rewrite these ancient rhymes if they are once more denied the civil rights they’ve gained so far.

    What about victims of brutal immigration practices?  What about workers summarily robbed of the opportunity to band together in unions?  What about women denied the right to control their own reproductive life or to feel safe in a work environment or on a dark street?  What about Muslims pilloried on the stage of religious and racial intolerance?  What about those young persons who are brought to this country and exploited as child prostitutes or unpaid workers in the personal service industries?

    How might they rewrite the words to this favorite American anthem?  How do they perceive the promise of freedom and justice, freedom and justice which has been held just out of reach or given and then snatched quickly back?

    We who form the privileged sector of American citizenry have only a vague idea of how much we benefit from the American promise of freedom and how little some of our neighbors receive from that same promise.

    As Unitarian Universalists, it is our responsibility to inform ourselves and to act in the interests of those who are denied access to American freedom and justice.  We have a history of doing so, in this nation and across the globe. 

    You know me well enough to know that civil rights for sexual minorities has been a passion of mine for many years.  It started when I began to understand the difficulties my gay, lesbian, bisexual, intersex, and transgender friends and students encountered as they tried to live with the strictures imposed by a society that just plain didn’t get it.

    Didn’t get what it might feel like to be a woman in a man’s body.  Didn’t get what it might feel like to love deeply and yet be denied the right to unite in marriage with that beloved partner.  Didn’t get why anyone would be attracted to a member of the same sex.  Didn’t get it that hostility toward someone with a same sex attraction or born into the wrong body could and often did result in violence and even murder and rape.  Didn’t get it that same sex partnerships were as sweet and fulfilling as opposite sex partnerships.  Just didn’t get it.

    Folks in our state have gradually begun to “get it”, as our legislature, at the urging of gay people and straight allies, has enacted laws that forbid hate crimes, that offer domestic partnerships which provide many protections, including the benefits of marriage, and now we have legislation which gives full marriage benefits including the title of marriage to same sex couples.

    Of course, the legislation (as has been all similar civil rights legislation which provides for sexual minorities) is under attack already and will likely be the subject of two referenda in November.  We will do all we can to prevent these rights from being snatched away by voters who refuse to acknowledge their fairness and logic.  There are still many people out there who don’t get it---and don’t want to get it.

    As Glo and I were preparing this service, we talked about the experiences we’d had with these civil rights issues and we agreed that the politics of civil rights concern us less than the compassion we feel for those who are denied these human rights.  And we realized that we wanted to present our thoughts as they reflected our belief that all of us humans share the same spirit of life, regardless of our differences in culture, in religion, in race and gender.  We all need freedom; if one person or group is not free, we are not free either.

    Recently I had the opportunity to get better acquainted with Nydia Stephens, a member of this congregation, who has educated me about one of her human rights concerns.  After hearing her stories of the victims of human trafficking, I asked her to share some of her passion for this issue with you.  Nydia?  (Nydia speaks)

    Both Nydia’s passion for the victims of human trafficking and my passion for our friends and family members who are unfairly treated by laws which do not recognize the value of the lives of sexual minority folks, both of our passion issues are bound up right now in political wrangling, but they have a different kind of  importance to us as people of faith.

    Our faith asks us to be compassionate, to consider the pain of those who struggle, who are treated unfairly, who suffer from the cruelty that lack of compassion imposes.  Yes, these are political issues, but they are first and foremost issues of compassion.  And whereas we may do whatever we can to influence the political process which establishes or denies the rights of our fellow humans, we must first address the lack of compassion which undergirds inhumane treatment for others.

    This is our job as fellow human beings, no matter what our religious beliefs, our political preferences, our cultural background.  Compassion is our job.

    The value of compassion is inextricably woven into the fabric of all moral, ethical, and religious principles.  The prophet Jesus said it well, when he was asked what God’s greatest commandment might be.  He answered “to love God and to love our neighbor as ourselves”.  To love the Source of All, no matter what we might call it, and then to give the same love to our neighbor---that’s a big commandment. 

    I think this t-shirt that I found on Facebook and ordered for myself says it well:  (show shirt)

    LOVE THY NEIGHBOR:
    Thy Homeless Neighbor
    Thy Muslim Neighbor
    Thy Black Neighbor
    Thy Gay Neighbor
    Thy White Neighbor
    Thy Jewish Neighbor
    Thy Christian Neighbor
    Thy Atheist Neighbor
    Thy Racist Neighbor
    Thy Addicted Neighbor

    There are a few more neighbors we need to love, and I’m sure you can add your own thoughts to this list.  Listening to Nydia, I realize we must also love the neighbor we don’t know---because she is invisible to us, invisible and suffering. 

    As we end our service today, I invite you to consider the two issues we have brought to you today:  the potential slap in the face---and worse---to those same sex couples and gay kids growing up in our state who have received a gift of dignity and acceptance from our state legislature but who face the very real possibility that it can be snatched away in November by those who refuse to “get it”, that same sex couples are as lovable and as capable of love and commitment as anyone else.

    I invite you, too, to consider what you have just heard from Nydia about human trafficking in our state.  Here is an opportunity for educating ourselves and others about a deeply troubling travesty of justice---that newcomers to our nation are frequently caught in fake industries that promise the American dream and yet deliver a kind of endless slavery to masters who use and abuse them for their own financial gain.

    Compassion is our first step.  Our second step is to use the political process to bring justice to bear on unjust practices.  Our third is to help those who have been hurt by those unjust practices to find healing.  Our fourth step is to keep a watchful eye out for new mistreatments that stem from insatiable human greed, taking steps to understand and find ways to prevent and shortcircuit those schemes that would use our most vulnerable fellow humans in shameful ways. 

    Let’s pause for a time of silent reflection and prayer.

Benediction:  Our worship service, our time of shaping worth together, is ended, but our service to the world begins again as we leave this place.  Let us go in peace, remembering that compassion for others is the hallmark of Unitarian Universalism.  May we bring our compassion to bear on the injustices we see around us and may we seek justice through the democratic process, which is one of our cherished principles.  Amen, Shalom, Salaam, and Blessed Be.

A Life of Work: Part 5C

It seems to me, in retrospect, that much of my work life, maybe much of my life, period, has been marked by times when hubris got the better of me and I assumed I knew things I did not know.  I was a child who did not like to ask questions but rather tried to figure things out for myself.  It got me into awkward situations time and again as I'd leap to a conclusion based on inadequate information and forethought. 

That was how I decided, at about age 11, that babies came because the mother took pills;  I had never asked my mother to tell me how it happened, but, in reading the book "Not as a Stranger", I noted an anecdote in which a weeping woman took pills and then cut up baby clothes into the toilet.  How I came to think that this was an instance of baby-making is a mystery to me, but I believed it firmly until a friend set me straight.  Even then, I was aghast!  How could my parents have done such a strange thing?

I think I have always been uncomfortable asking questions because I felt embarrassed if I didn't know something.  "Beginner's Mind" was an unknown concept in my growing-up and because I was touted as a brainiac in elementary and high school, I didn't want to reveal my own ignorance.  So I didn't ask questions much.  I've gotten much better at that, but I still am uneasy when I'm out of my depth knowledge-wise and I tend to listen hard, paraphrase what I hear and try to synthesize it for myself, but I still goof it up periodically.

Anyhow, lessons learned at Wy'east were of the hubristic variety.  I went in thinking I was going to be their savioress, their ticket to the big time, their crusader leading the way to huge growth and significant outreach in the community.  Wrong again!  They liked me fine initially, were charmed by my interesting sermons and ideas, but chafed at my insistence on being involved in every committee, every activity, every idea circulating.  Some of this chafed-ness was due to their own misunderstandings of ministry; they didn't think I ought to attend board meetings or have opinions about where we held services or help sponsor social justice programs.

I thought I was doing what I was supposed to do (and I was, to a great extent---I mean, isn't it obvious that ministers should attend board meetings?) but I had not considered the impact of my sense of surety about what the congregation should do.  I moved too fast, assumed everyone would love my ideas, and didn't consider the consequences of irritating long-standing congregational leaders who came to see me as an intruder and a threat to the way they had been running the congregation.  They felt that I wanted to control everything and that I saw myself as the centerpoint of the life of the congregation.

A congregation that has been on its own for several years, managing worship and governance and social action fairly successfully all that time, is not going to want some upstart minister fresh out of seminary to come and tell them how they should be doing it.  And that's what happened to me.

In the aftermath, I did some soulsearching and realized that I had learned a great deal, had recognized an old pattern in myself that needed attention, and came to some new conclusions:  a minister needs to work collaboratively with congregational leadership, especially if the congregation is new to ministry; it's important not to rush in with new programs and new ideas, better to take plenty of time and call everything an experiment;  if things go wrong and you get sideways with congregants, be transparent, don't be afraid to apologize (out of misplaced pride), and always keep reconciliation as a goal.

In a sermon I preached as we were dealing with the mess we'd made, I acknowledged to the congregation that I have some besetting faults:  my energy and enthusiasm can feel disempowering and controlling to those I work with or serve; I am often defensive when people want to give me feedback; and I am always "on" when with congregants , and yet I forget this frequently.

I made some promises to the congregation in that sermon:  I will remember the possible effect of my energy and enthusiasm on those I serve; I will listen with acceptance and won't offer explanations of my behavior unless asked; I will curb my tendency to be "flip" and will remember that a minister's opinions and even casual comments can have extra weight to a congregant because of the role.

As that final year lurched on, one deep pain that was never resolved continues to this day:  because of the conflict, which occurred early in the church year (September through November), many people who were advocates and supporters of my ministry disappeared because they didn't want to see the people in church with whom they disagreed.  I understood this at one level, but I felt abandoned by these former members who left not only the congregation but left me, despite my need for their support and advocacy. 

It was one of the strokes of luck during that last year or two that the FS was living with me in Portland, going to school and working.  He and I had many long conversations about conditions in the congregation and he was one advocate and supporter to whom I turned regularly.  How nice to have an adult child who has such understanding and perspective!  He helped me sort through my own feelings, made me laugh, and kept me sane.  Thanks, Mike.

A Life of Work: Part 5B

The summer of 1999, I put my little house on the market, it was snapped up in a matter of hours, the buyer paid cash in full, and I was ready to move to Portland, ready to start my new life in ministry at Wy'east UU Congregation in Portland.  I was excited!

And then the news that I had an atrial septal defect, a cardiac birth defect that could shorten my life by 10-15 years, rocked my world.  When the Portland cardiologist told me I would need open heart surgery to repair the hole in my heart, I balked.  How could this be necessary when I had lived symptom-free at altitude (5280 feet plus in the Denver suburb where I lived) for 34 years?  Couldn't I postpone the surgery until after my first year in this wonderful new work?

The doc balked too but consented to let me wait until the following summer, provided I upped my intake of aspirin and paid close attention to my health habits, because a stroke was a definite possibility if a clot broke loose and went to my brain.  I could hardly believe this was happening, but I wasn't willing to die before I'd had a chance to be a minister, so I took him seriously and did what he suggested.

The Wy'east board of trustees was supportive, folks in the congregation rallied round, and on July 5, 2000, a surgeon lifted my heart out of my chest, stitched up the significant hole, patched it with a slice of heart muscle he'd pared off on the spot, and closed me back up.  I had a rapid recovery and re-entered ministry the next month with a new understanding of what it meant to have a broken and healed heart. 

The first couple of years at Wy'east were idyllic; we rented space from a large United Methodist congregation which, coincidentally, was a block away from the home my family had lived in during our Portland years, at 37th and Steele St on the southeast side of town.  My dad's little church had been at 39th and Holgate, not far away, and I drove by it every time I went to our Wy'east office.

(Note:  Wy'east is the Klickitat Indian name for Mount Hood, Portland's signature mountain.)

But the honeymoon didn't last.  I was a rookie and made mistakes; they were still peeved about what they perceived to be unfair treatment by the larger church they'd spun off from; and eventually sparks began to fly.  I'd made a five-year commitment to Wy'east, as an Extension minister, but by the middle of the summer of 2002, it was clear that it wasn't going to work.

There were many good folks at Wy'east, many who supported my ministry and loved me.  But there was a small group of people who were miffed about my mistakes, my leadership in areas they considered their own purview, and they banded together to try to get me removed, even contacting the UUA to complain.  I got some good advice from national and district leaders and tendered my resignation at the beginning of my fourth year there, effective the end of that fiscal year, June 2003.  We took the whole year to examine the mistakes we'd made, we achieved a certain peace by the time I left, and I felt we'd done some good work together.

And I learned a lot of lessons I wouldn't have learned had it been all beer and skittles for five years.  In fact, I hope that all new ministers could have a similar learning experience; it's not fun, but the lessons I learned have stuck with me and have enriched my ministry in subsequent congregations.

Those lessons will be enumerated in a later post.  Stay tuned.