“The Prophet,” by Kahlil Gibran, is my favorite collection of poetry, and the poem we just read, “On Joy and Sorrow,” is my favorite poem. You may have heard his words before; elsewhere in these pages we get the words so often used in child dedications - “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.”

Last Sunday we remembered those who have died, both recently and long ago. We created an Altar of Remembrance, with our photos and other symbols of our loved ones. And now this week we begin a month with the worship theme of “grief and mourning.” Which we were doing last week, right? And I wonder if some of you are thinking, “That’s a lot of grief!” Maybe too much grief?

We have come again to that time of year when the leaves are falling, birds are flying south, summer is gone. And if you take time to notice, you can sense a shift, something stirring.

From the ancient Celts comes the idea of a “thin place,” a time or space where the threshold between the physical world and the spirit world is thin and permeable. We are at one of those times—can you feel it?

We just sang about being free, which is the promise of liberal religion; that’s what that word “liberal” means—free. Free to think for yourself, and to go where the Spirit leads; open to new ideas and new ways of being. I’m talking about liberal religion, not about politics. They’re not the same. Though there could be some overlap between your spiritual leanings and how you engage with the world, right?

It’s been a horrific week for ordinary people in Israel and Palestine, where atrocities and suffering beyond words have happened on both sides. It’s been a heartbreaking week for anyone who cares about peace and justice, and we rightfully fear for where this violence will lead. I don’t have anything particularly wise to say about this; nor do I have the heart to say more than a few words about it.

We just sang, “our spirits long to be made whole.” Isn’t there, deep within each of us, that longing? To feel at home in ourselves and in the world; to be at one—heart and mind, body and soul? The question is, what keeps us from this? What keeps us from  being more whole?

Travel with me, now, to a winter’s night sometime in 2021. It is pitch black outside, and I am at my dining room table, zooming with our youth group. Our middle schoolers take turns checking in, and answering the question of the day, “How do you describe our church to your friends?” One young person is having internet difficulties at home, so we can’t see his face or hear his voice, but he types into the chat box his response to my question. We all see it pop up at the same time, and read along:

“I say to my friends that it is a church the likes of which they have never seen.”

And, we laughed the way you all just laughed, and man did we need it that night. 

You hear a lot of talk these days about how our world is falling apart. You know there are lots of problems we’re facing, from ongoing threats to our democracy, to the climate crisis, to violence against women, and people of color, and immigrants, and religious minorities. To say nothing of ongoing global problems like hunger, poverty, disease, and violence. 

Our worship theme this month is faith, and I wonder, when you hear that word, what it evokes in you. Does it make you smile, or does it cause you to tense up? If you hear, “Let’s talk about faith,” does that feel like an invitation, or a test? Maybe both?

We move through our days, and our lives, doing what we need to do—our work, caring for those we love, showing up as we can and have to, trying to make a positive difference in the world, trying to leave the world a little better than we found it. And it is good, isn’t it, to have these vocations, these callings, this work?