DADT Repeal and Hidden Hope

Last week, when I lit a candle during Joys and Sorrows recognizing the repeal of DADT, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, the sudden welling up of tears in my eyes surprised me. Of course, the revocation of such a hideous law was long overdue. Many people had worked long and hard to make the repeal a reality. Over the 17 years of its existence, at least 14,055 gays and lesbians who dedicated their lives to defend our country, paid a huge personal and professional price.

Surely, the ending of such discrimination should bring tears of joy and celebration to all of us. But for me, it was more personal. I have always known that I could lose my job, housing, family, friends, and church over my sexual orientation. Over the years, I have experienced too many of these losses. I have always lived in a borderland state of truth and concealment. The advent of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, made lying – overtly and through omission – acceptable. The risk of telling, of living with integrity, was high. The cost of sanctioned deceit was even higher.

Yes, there were tears in my eyes on the Sunday when I lit the candle. Not only did the DADT walls come tumbling down, but somewhere, from deep, deep inside, a well of acceptance opened. Living for so long with legally enshrined double standards, I had not realized how much sorrow I harbored. My tears flowed from a hidden spring of hope.

While there are many battles still being waged, the repeal of DADT is a harbinger of things to come. Maybe some day, my marriage will be recognized too.

It is surely a blessing to be a Unitarian Universalist. We profess AND work for the inherent worth and dignity of every person. When I lit the DADT candle, the congregation may or may not have noticed my tears. The applause was immediate and heartfelt. It was a moment of celebration for reclaiming sanity and fairness. It is so good to live and serve in a religious community where the upmost values are integrity and love – a magnificent blessing indeed. For that and so much more, I am deeply grateful.

Coming Out: It's worth it!

Suicide sucks.

I know it too well. As a gay person I’ve watched friends try drugs, alcohol, and finally suicide to escape their displacement from the human family. I have cried alongside them as we explored the depths of estrangement from mom, dad, brother and sister. Loss of family, friends, jobs, housing, church, especially church, meant severance from all the connections that make life worth living. It is a desperate predicament. It is hell. In the absence of love and acceptance, especially when support is brutally withdrawn, suicide offers permanent solace. It allows silence to replace the torment of rejection. Suicide is extreme. It is only counter-balanced by our human need for love. And that includes gay people.

In case you missed it, at least five teens and young adults have committed suicide over the past few weeks because they were outed and bullied for being gay. I cannot tell you how much that hurts me. Perhaps it is because I’ve been there.

Today is Coming Out Day. It is a day to celebrate those who are brave enough to be themselves, and also for those who are brave enough to support them. As for me, I came out already. Twice.

The first time, Mom’s initial response was, “How can I hold my head up in public?” A little later in tears, “We’re so ashamed.”

In response, I crawled back into the closet. Of course this didn’t change me. It only made me even more cautious and wary. It also reinforced my emotional dissociation between my public persona and my private emotional life. I learned how to act, how to pass.

Years later, I came out again. From three thousand miles away, what began as a casual e-mail conversation, ended with my being kicked out of the family. My few remaining items left behind from childhood would be shipped or discarded. I could arrange solo visits with my dying father. All other family communication was banned.

As sad as I was over the family ties being terminated, I was more shocked by my growing sense of freedom. In being exiled from my family of origin, I felt this emerging sense of newborn joy arising out of the ashes of self-hatred, denial, and abandonment. Coming out was not just for family; it was for me.

I have learned that when you get to the point of saying you can’t do it any more, come out. You might get shamed, rejected or worse, but you will find freedom. And from that freedom, living is the obvious choice.

Prevent a suicide. Love others as yourself. Love yourself. Come out.

The Reverend Marian E. Stewart

October 11, 2010

Oil and Immigrants

Two huge events are weighing heavy on my heart. First, the fatal oil rig explosion and subsequent unabated leak that is polluting water, beaches and wetlands in the Gulf of Mexico. It will be decades if not longer before the full extent of damage is known. As I pumped gas into my car yesterday, an image flashed in my mind: the pump in my hand was connected to the broken pipe on the sea floor. There are many steps between the raw crude being spewed and the golden liquid that keeps me logging miles, but the connection is valid. I feel small and caught in the middle. Yet, I have to ask, what is my culpability in this crisis? What didn’t I learn in the first gas crisis (of my lifetime) in 1974 when my Mom and I had to wait in a two-block queue to put enough gas in the car to go to the DMV to get my first license.

The other event on my mind is also human made: the Arizona immigration law. Many states have immigration laws but this one became a tipping point. Not only do immigrants – or anyone who looks like one (aka Hispanic) – have to produce their identification papers on demand, but if a law enforcement officer fails to ask, and an immigrant slips by, that officer could be held personally liable and sued. Imagine what a world it would be if every time you stepped out of your house, you were carded. Then again at the grocery store, picking the kids up from school, the clinic, and so on. Your paperwork might as well be worn on your body, not so different than Nazi stars and triangles.

A huge protest is planned for Memorial Day weekend in Phoenix. Many Unitarian Universalists are planning to march, including at least 50 ministers. If I were able to go, I would wear a kilt and carry a sign announcing my family’s immigrant status. Protesting the law doesn’t go deep enough though. Arizona is struggling in a battle that should be waged at the federal level. Until that is done, the human cost is high.

In an ongoing act of compassion, a few UU’s in Arizona have been leaving water jugs in the desert, refilling them and picking up trash in the process. They’ve been arrested and found guilty of trespassing. How does that speak to our plight as human beings?

With the environmental disaster and the immigration struggle, I wonder where the line between “me” and “we” is drawn. Theologian Martin Buber wrote about the “I/Thou” relationship. What would it look like if the “I” were deflated to a point of equilibruim? Reframing the environment from a thing to be exploited for our conveniences, to a “thou” worthy of reverence, and relocating the immigrant from the position of other deserving to be arrested, to seeing him/her in relationship to our selves as brother or sister.

There is much beauty in the world. There is much destruction. As a religious person, I stand in awe of creation in all its forms. I do not have to stand idle – or helpless – in what we as humans have chosen to destroy, demean or cast aside. As I consider my place in the “I/Thou” relationship, I connect the gas pump in my hand to oil-coated birds and marshlands. I will walk more. Instead of expecting a suspected immigrant to produce papers, I will offer a glass of water. Let that be my prayer. Blessed be.

Children and Church (5/9/10)

A friend of mine was driving down the street one day with her young daughter in the car. The little girl was quiet for a while and then asked, “what are all the buildings with the t’s on top?”

This was the south and there was a church on almost every corner. My friend had grown up in a ultra-conservative religious family and was determined to raise her daughter differently. She hadn’t been to church in years: her daughter never.

But when the question about the t’s came, my friend decided she needed to do something. Not going to church was one thing; ignorance was something else.

One Sunday she brought her daughter to the local Unitarian Universalist church, the only church in town where, if there was a cross, it was displayed in the midst of religious symbols from many faiths.

In his book, Between Church and a Hard Place, Andrew Park writes about his experience as a new parent. His children came home from pre-school with statements about God that surprised him. Neither he nor his wife were church-goers and they had been careful not to bring religion into the home. But their children kept bringing God and Jesus to the dinner table. Soon, these young parents realized that if they didn’t teach their children about religion, someone else would.

Afraid of having a born-again toddler, Park and his wife set out on a search. After scouring their family trees and interviewing family members, they were able to identify family religious affiliations through the years. In both families, their parents had joined the ranks of the non-religious. Park and his wife grew up in the “none” category.

As parents, they were continuing the non-church going tradition they were accustomed to, but began to realize that some things seemed harder outside the church environment. Park described a certain package as a perk of faith: community, identity, fellowship, introspection, ethics.”[i]

For Park, going to church, meant embracing the struggle of belief. It was not a struggle with God, instead, it was a struggle with whether or not to do the struggle at all.

We have all been exposed to converts who espouse the extremes of having been saved, as well as the sharp-tongued denials of rejecters. Both can be off-putting. Our culture doesn’t value the middle-ground either. But by removing ourselves and staying on the sidelines of religion and attempting to ignore its presence, is akin to evoking the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. That works until children come home with questions.

Studies show that our brains are hard-wired for religious thought. We have evolved from ancestors who ascribed the cause of events to unseen people or animals. Every sound outside the cave was a threat to safety. If they ignored it, they risked death. Oxford researcher Justin Barrett writes, “the tendency to detect what psychologists refer to as “agency,” even erroneously, was necessary for survival.” Barrett’s experiments demonstrate that children up to the age of three, “assume that all agents, whether a parent or God, have godlike powers, such as knowing without looking that a box with a picture of crackers on the front actually contains rocks. By age five, children know that humans don’t have such powers but still ascribe them to gods. Another tool, known as theory of mind, causes us to assume that the mind of another human works the same way as our does, but that tendency also allows us to ascribe mental properties to nonhumans, which we continue to do through adulthood.” “Put these two tools together and it’s easy for someone to ascribe agency to supernatural beings. In fact, our minds are tuned to believe in them, and they endure long after childhood is over.”[ii]

The question that comes to my mind is, “can’t we just grow out of it?” Yes and no. What we learn as children is embedded deep into our memory structure. I was in a worship service not long ago that turned out to be an old-fashioned hymn sing. I was surprised that the not only the tunes, but the words came back so easily. Even though I had long since left the religion of my childhood, it was stored in my brain.

This morning, we dedicated children to the life of this community. Parents brought their children to this church for a variety of reasons, but statistics show that the most common time to come to church for the first time, or return after a lapse is children coming into the family. We have affirmed their decision and have covenanted with these families to help raise their children in an atmosphere of trust, respect and honesty.

This is also a spiritual community where we do discuss religion. We know that to ignore religion and deem it off-limits is to allow others to fill in these gaps for us. Out of fear of indoctrination, we forget to tell our children what we do believe.

Dale McGowen, author of Parenting Beyond Belief: On Raising Ethical, Caring Kids Without Religion writes,

“All parents can and should influence their children, and that influence is bound to be huge. Influence becomes indoctrination only when you forbid them to question what they receive from you. For extra insurance, you should explicitly invite them to do so.”[iii]

A solid liberal religious education helps parents teach their children values, as well as expose them to a variety of religious ideas. Providing a safe and trusting environment to explore is a high priority in this church. This works for all ages. All are welcome to ask questions and share their journey. If indoctrination is done here, it is grounded in our principals bracketed by the inherent worth and dignity of all people and the knowing that we are a part of the interdependent web of all existence.

Of course, the northwest is the largest unchurched region in the nation (although New England is closing ranks). Truth be told, if all the unchurched people in the U.S. were grouped as a nation, it would be the twelfth most populous nation on earth.[iv] It should also be noted that 70% of those who profess no religion, do believe in a supreme being or a cosmic spirit. They often describe themselves as spiritual but not religious.

When we throw out religion, we often “throw out the baby with the bathwater”. The package of perks – community, identity, fellowship, introspection, ethics – that Park mentioned earlier, are fruits of a community that comes together on a regular basis. Church outlives jobs, abilities to participate in specialized groups or clubs, and sometimes marriages. Church is a place of stability – and exploration.

Let us not stunt the growth of our children, nor of ourselves. This is a religious congregation that values truth and reason. The best way to ensure sound decisions in life is to provide an open approach to learning. And that includes religion.

Televangelist Joyce Meyer once counseled followers to be “on the lookout for questions planted by Satan: I once asked the Lord why so many people are confused and He said to me, ”Tell them to stop trying to figure everything out, and they will stop being confused.”[v]

I say, let the questions come. Let us engage. Put the religious questions out front, so that we can answer our children – and ourselves – with integrity and reason. This is our belief. Truth is everywhere, including church.

Blessed be and amen.


[i] Park, Andrew. Between a Church and a Hard Place: One Faith-Free Dad's Struggle to Understand What It Means to Be Religious (or Not). Avery (2010) pg. 11.
[ii] Park. 88-89.
[iii] Park. 192.
[iv] Park. 36.
[v] Park. 203.

Life, Death and Easter (4/4/10)

What do Unitarian Universalists do about Easter, the life, death and resurrection of Jesus? Many of us are far removed from Christianity, which holds this day to be the holiest of all days, this week to be the holiest of all weeks. A few of us might honor the Jewish celebration of Passover with a Seder and prayers. And some of us might participate in rituals marking the turn of the seasons and the welcome return of spring. But I’d be surprised if any of us got up early this morning and went to an Easter sunrise service.

A few years ago, before I came to Northlake, I was helping to plan upcoming services and asked the worship committee, “What do you do about Easter?” They hemmed and hawed and then confessed. “We don’t know what to do about Easter, so we just ignore it.”

As a humanist, I’d like to ignore it too. But I can’t. Easter is an annual reminder that life and death are intimately connected. Death is the result of life. In our culture we do everything possible to ignore, stave off, or deny death. We seem surprised and are unprepared when death knocks at our door or at the door of someone we love.

A few weeks ago, I visited Leslie Norton. Leslie was a charter member of Northlake, although she had long since stopped attending. A few days before her death, Ellen Hanly and I stood by her bedside and carried on conversation, with Leslie responding in fragments. Ellen reminisced about old times and told her how much she cared for her. Since this was the first time I had met Leslie, I could only appreciate the stories, adding to my growing understanding of our history. I also got a glimpse into the vibrant and dynamic life of a woman who was engaged in all life had to offer right down to the last.

Before we left, Leslie had a question for me. I had introduced myself as the minister at Northlake, which gave her pause. I couldn’t tell if it pleased her or not that Northlake had a minister. In our final exchange and with a gasping voice, she asked me – this minister who had come to meet her on her deathbed – “What did you do for me today?”

I mumbled a response about getting to know her and hearing the stories. I shared that I wish I could have known her long before this moment. I talked about how important she was to Ellen and how much I appreciated her efforts to start our church. After we said our good-byes, Ellen and I walked through the garden, admiring the signs of spring sprouting through fallen leaves. Long after our visit and even after the memorial service, the question still lingered, “What did you do for me today?”

Death is like that. It asks hard questions and demands facing realities that are sometimes brutal. When the number of tomorrows is limited, each moment of life intensifies. Whether swift or drawn out, death always balances the equation of life.

“What did you do for me today?’ is a perfect Easter question. Not just the domain of the living and the dying, it is the larger question of life demanding to know, “Did you live today like it matters?”

Jesus died on a cross. So did two thieves, one on each side of him. These two men are remembered only in their positions as side flanks to the crucified rabbi from Nazareth. If Jesus had had been lackluster in life, he would not have been remembered in death. Death would have ended his story.

The answer to Jesus’ life lies in his resurrection. Three days after being buried, he came back to life. If he were to be forgotten, this would not have happened. I don’t believe Jesus literally came back to life after being stone cold dead in the tomb for three days, but I do believe he came back to life – in the memories of those who loved him. 

In life, Jesus lived fully. He taught us how to live with love. He faced death as fully, accepting it but also pleading from the depths of his heart and forgiving at the same time. It is out of this fullness of life that on the other side of dying, he is remembered.

In our religious culture, the Catholic church displays Jesus hanging from the cross. Death is always present. Protestants hang an empty cross. The focus is on the life that comes after death.

Both of these are valuable images. Death finishes the equation of life. But it is also true that life is resurrected after death, in memories of equal proportion to the life lived. If we go through life numb, never risking our hearts, we will be numb in death. Fear will conquer life and the grave will hold our death.

The message of Easter is not about the finality of death. It is about resurrection. But you can’t have either if you don’t live. And if you don’t live fully, death and resurrection have little consequence.

Jesus was a great teacher. He taught us how to live fully. He taught us the importance of love. Love God, and love your neighbor as yourself. The first commandment is to love God. If God is seen as the father, then this love can be construed as love of family. It also connotes love of self since we are created in the image of our parents. But love is not to be held all to oneself or one’s family. It is to be shared with our neighbors.

Loving is not easy. Love of self and family can sometimes be challenging. Jesus put forward a model of love – with boundaries. He was clear about his priorities and when life was intense, he would practice self-care and steel away to the wilderness for solitude. In quietness, he would pray and refresh his energies so that he could re-engage the world.

Loving our neighbors is tricky. They come in all shapes and sizes, and beliefs. Jesus knew this. He challenged our fear of others by telling us it was a person of another country, a Samaritan, who offered help when needed. Jesus showed us how to share of what we have, even if we only have two fish and five loaves. He also warned us about casting stones and finding the mote in our brother’s eye and missing the one in our own. He taught us about being honest with ourselves and our condition. Healing would take place if we did our part and helped ourselves. He taught about forgiveness. He talked about fresh starts and doing things differently. He showed us how to love.

You don’t have to have a metaphysical or cosmological understanding of religion to understand these lessons. Jesus took extreme risks to show us how to live fully. In so doing, he was crucified. His life of consequence, not in monetary terms or fame, but that of challenge to face our fears of diversity and our tendency toward greed, self-absorption, and violence, equaled the attention given to him at death. And the resurrection of his life, on the other side of death, comes in memories – and challenge – of how to live and love fully.

For me, this is the Easter message. Live life fully. Love even when it is risky. Death will come, but if I have loved fully, then I have been useful. And I will live on in the hearts of those who felt my love.

The deathbed question, “What have you done for me today?” can now be answered. For a moment, I was a mirror. In the stories of Leslie’s full life, I could see how fully she engaged everything and everyone around her. Even at the end of her life, her hired care providers felt her love so deeply that they took time off to come to her memorial service. Real tears were shed. At the end, I was someone new in her life, but this woman’s ability to prune the chaff and ask a question that mattered, will remain with me long after her death.

Our question is, “Are you living today as if it mattered?”

We are all given the capacity to love. We can play it safe and hold it close. Or we can risk giving our love away. Love is a deep well. We’ll never give it all away. But at the end of the day, did we need to ask ourselves if we spent all the love we could. Did we love ourselves, our family and our neighbor? Did we share our loaves and fishes, did we forgive others (and ourselves), did we help the stranger, did we risk being kind?

I don’t always succeed. And I am thankful that I’ve had tomorrows and I hope that I have many more. Each night before I go to sleep, I have a routine of reviewing the day. What did I do well? What did I not do well? What do I need to do about it? What did I learn? What did I leave undone? Did I live fully?

When I empty my pockets at night, I don’t want to have leftover love. A handful of “what ifs” and “if onlys” doesn’t do anyone any good. The purpose of life is to live fully. Meaning comes from living and loving, not from withholding.

Rev. Forrest Church in his book, Love and Death, reminds us, “Death is love’s measure. Not only is our grief when someone dies testimony to our love, but when we ourselves die, the love we have given to others is the one thing death can’t kill. Only our unspent love dies when we die, love unspent because of fear. It is fear that locks love in the prison of our hearts, there to be buried with us.” (pg 136)

It is love that is resurrected at death. We are remembered in the hearts and memory of our loved ones – and our neighbors – in proportion to the love, or fear, that we lived our lives.

Life is present. Death will come. Our options lie in this Easter question, “Am I living my life as though it matters?” It is really a question of depth. The no answer is to cower in fear of life, to play it safe, to hide. The yes answer is to live fully, take risks in sharing and receiving love.

Jesus showed us that love conquers death. In lives lived with consequence, love transforms the power of death. After we die, it is only love that remains. Not our unspent love, but only the love that we give away.


Blessed be and amen.