Archive for category: Minister Message

The Story of a Hurricane

Since I’ve arrived back home I’ve been hearing some chatter about the hurricane churning off the southerly part of the big island. My friend assures me that the reports of hurricanes here are frequent but rarely come to much. “You’ll see,” he said. This may be true, but the winds around the coasts here are definitely strong. And the surf seems a little more wild than usual at the beaches. Even if the story of the hurricane is more than what comes to be, the reality of what I see so far is just fine with me.

I am just back from Portland, Oregon. I was there to serve as the chaplain for the attendees of the annual meeting of the Unitarian Universalist Musician’s Network. This is like General Assembly for musicians. My days were spent mostly making sure the hearts and souls of those attending were cared for, but knowing Portland well, I also spent some time simply giving directions.

What I didn’t fully appreciate in my planning was at which of the many worship services of the weekend I would be speaking. I was given a theme to think about, but it wasn’t until I arrived at the conference that I realized I would be speaking during the service of remembrance for those who passed on the past few years. And that the service would be held in a place where I had performed some difficult and painful memorials. And just in case this wasn’t enough…there was the moment I didn’t see coming.

In the order of service I saw that the moment before I spoke would be used to list the names of those being remembered at the service. What I didn’t consider was that…these are musicians. So as those who planned to speak the names came to the microphones, as my friend sat at the piano, and as the background music started, I was taken by surprise when instead of reading the names, those speaking the names sang the names. Round and round, repeating the tender tonalities of a sacred remembering, the names swirled up and out of these gifted gentle singers, and seemed somehow to enter the chapel more free and unburdened than anyone could be in life. It was stunning.

Friends, we can hold something in our own two hands like an order of service and think we know what’s coming, but we don’t. We can hold our phones in our hands, and think we know when the storm is coming, but we don’t. We can take another’s hand in ours and think we know that person’s story, but we don’t. “You’ll see.” My friend’s promise about hurricane stories is really a promise about so much more, about so much we want to know. In the end, no matter how much guessing and hoping and wondering we may do, about hurricanes, about one another, about what dreams may come in the end, the only part of the story we know will be true is this: “we’ll see.”

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

This Guy’s Crazy

As I sat in the airport waiting area, we heard the first sign of trouble. “Ladies and gentlemen in the waiting area, we are getting information now from Canada air traffic control that due to weather and traffic over Toronto, we are looking at about a four hour delay taking off this afternoon. We’ll keep you advised of any changes.” My intuition and my travel experiences said that I might be in for a long evening in Detroit. And not much later, it came: “Ladies and gentlemen in the waiting area, the flight to Toronto has been cancelled by Canada air traffic control. You will all be automatically rebooked. Please be patient.”

Since I was near the desk at the gate I was able to speak with an agent who booked me on a direct flight the next morning, and I was considering where I might stay in Detroit that evening. Then the gate agent, in response less to my outwardly calm demeanor, and more in response to the meltdown of a passenger on my left, said these words seemingly to no one in particular, “You know, most people don’t realize that renting a car and driving to Toronto from Detroit can be faster than flying.” Challenge accepted.

I had nothing at all to lose by trying to convince someone to let me drive a car across an international border and leave it there. If I were unsuccessful, I would be in a hotel in Detroit for the night and fly out in the morning. The only difference would be I would have spent a little less time talking to rental car companies. But before I departed, I decided to make my own gate announcement to the forlorn gathered dejectedly there: “I’m gonna try to rent a car and drive to Toronto. Anyone wanna come with me?”

Now, if life were a movie, this would have been the moment when a plucky group of lost souls gathers to overcome their dilemma and make lifelong friends in the process. But life isn’t a movie. People just stared. One young man, if I wasn’t mistaken, shook his head at me in an almost embarrassed gesture of, “This guy’s crazy.”

I understand him, really. I know there have been hundreds of times that someone has an idea, an invitation, a way of welcoming me, and I either didn’t understand it or I couldn’t be bothered. Who knows what kind of adventures, what kinds of stories, what kinds of movies my life could have had so far by saying “yes” a few more times to something that seemed surprising or different, especially when I didn’t have much more than an hour of my time to lose. Well, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about chances I never took, but I know I’ll consider more seriously and with more humor the suggestions for adventure, difference, and creativity in the face of disappointment I find the in the future. Because when the credits rolled on this movie, there I was, flying solo in a Kia Soul, making a mad dash for the border, on an adventure I never saw coming.

And may it always be so.

Blessings,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Message Received

When I read the news I was trying to eat a bowl of rice and beans. My friend was trying to tell me about the things going on life. I was trying to do anything else but think about it. But I was failing. There it was: “Justice Anthony Kennedy announces his retirement.” For something printed in black and white, the message was far from clear. The implications of the swing vote on the U.S. Supreme Court retiring on the current administration’s watch are terrifying to me personally.

In a moment of tearful distraction I text messaged a lawyer friend who I know follows the Supreme Court with as much concern and interest as I do. I asked how handling the news was going. The response came back: “I’ve been sitting in my office holding back tears.” And the image of this fine attorney who devotes a career to careful planning of the estates of clients, a choice of practice areas that is well-known to attract some of the kindest, most thoughtful people, bravely fighting tears alone in an office, weighed as heavy on my heart as the news of the Justice’s departure. Then came this message: “This is what America wanted. This is what we are getting.”

Then while I was contemplating the implications of this event, the dire consequences that could be coming for those who rely on any sense of common decency, let alone common sense, with regard to reproductive rights, gun control, and the sanctioned killing of prisoners, I got another message. This time from a friend from divinity school: “T. J., there’s a SCOTUS seat with your name on it.” A part of me wasn’t ready to be joking about this yet. But my friend and the message thought better than the doom I was predicting in this moment. And I chuckled out loud.

In truth, I confess, I will have a hard time forgiving Justice Kennedy for yesterday casting the swing vote in the ruling that will permit this administration’s travel ban to remain in place and then retiring the next day. I believe it was a move that lacked dignity, especially coming the day after he sided with a bald-faced attack upon the worth and dignity of every human being enshrined in the travel ban. That is the message I received from these actions.

But I received two other messages today: one from a person who admires (though tearfully) the law enough to reconcile its current state with the will of those it governs, and another from someone with enough perspective in life to remind me that joking about painful situations over which we have zero control might actually be the wiser course than wallowing in a doomed future yet to come. And as the messages came in, they both combined somehow and reminded me of the message that might make the most sense in the world right now: “Remember to take very seriously the joy we want to share with others.” Thank you for this message, friends.

And may it ever be so.

Blessings,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Short Days Ago

2018 marks a century since the end of the first World War, the Great War, The War to End All Wars. This last moniker, The War to End All Wars, is today often used as an indictment of the state of militarism around the globe. What stood once as the hopeful message to those suffering the trauma of ongoing bloodshed has now fallen into line as yet another example of what should rightly be called a tragedy. And though we will rightly hold dear to us the sacred trust and actions of those who so selflessly gave entirely of themselves in the passing days, we should also remember the separate tragedy of this unmet hope, this yet unanswered prayer.

For this year marks the centennial of another, more humble passing. It was on January 28, 1918 when a little-known Canadian physician succumbed to pneumonia amid the battlefields where so many of those he cared for had passed. Our doctor saw a lot in his day. Once on the battlefield, as the highest-ranking officer in a camp, he was obliged to preside over a funeral rite for fallen soldiers, including his close friend and confidant Alexis Helmer. And it was for that funeral rite that our doctor, Dr. John McCrae, wrote this:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead, short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Our island holds so many reminders of how a nation might come to be involved in global warfare: the buzzing of aircraft unlike any a civilian will ever occupy, signs and gates marking the guarded entry to military fortresses, the presence of once mighty ships sunken in shallow waters holding still the bodies of too many souls. But more powerful than any of these reminders are the faces set below the brim of a uniform hat. Short days ago, these were children. To me many of them still are. They are all, indeed, someone’s child.

It is this week perhaps when I notice all the more the bloom of youth around this island dressed in the trappings of war. It is this week perhaps when I listen all the more to those I love who were lost to raging battles. And it is this week perhaps when I am dedicated all the more to the unfinished work of peacemakers. I pray all the more, I plead all the more, in the sight of a century’s lost children, that we take up the torch from failing hands, that we fulfill the faith of those who died, that we together, one day and forever, might lay down every sword and every shield, and study war no more.

And may it ever be so,

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

 

Crashing Tide

Anyone ever see real passion? I’m not talking about romantic, amorous passion. I’m talking about the kind of passion that sweeps into someone’s life and tugs, pushes, cajoles, and otherwise propels the afflicted toward something they hope to accomplish or attain. It can seem like passion possess the person it chooses. Anyone who has seen real passion knows that the products of passion are exhilarating. But that brings us back to the question, “Anyone ever see real passion?”

My hunch is that if you have, when you read that question, something snapped into your mind from somewhere in your memory. You saw a face or an action of someone you know or met. That’s what passion does. Even another person’s passion leaves us with rich, lasting memories. Preachers, athletes, performers—these are people we sometimes think of as examples of passion. Who doesn’t recall the passion of Dr. Martin Luther King’s gripping oratory and calls to revolution? Who can forget the incredible selfless performances of athletes like Kerri Strug during the Olympics, vaulting onto a broken leg to win her team gold. And the list of performances fueled by passion could go on and on.

Over the past few weeks I’ve had a front row seat, a passenger seat, really, for what comes of passion. The shape of this passion is that of a friend undertaking an artistic endeavor never before attempted on these islands. I will not risk the artist’s privacy or the appearance of promotion here of this endeavor, except to say this:

I wish we all could know this kind of passion.

And I would not wish this kind of passion on anyone.

Now quick, take hold of the seeming conflict in these statements. Grasp tight what looks like their disagreement. Wring every last drop out of the incongruities, the misalignments you think you sense in them. And now…let them go. Release all of the tension you feel. OK, now you are feeling a touch of what passion really is like: waves of impossible crash against the shores of assurance.

Passion calls us into a new reality. Those who answer this call face first an old reality that tells them “No,” that tells them, “Don’t pass this way,” that tells them, “Go back.” For some, these directions come from fear. For others these directions come from simple logic. And for still others, these directions come from a reality as mundane as an overdrawn bank account. No. Don’t pass this way. Go back.

And that is when it happens. That is when the surf slides into an assurance of ages unknown, unrecorded. That is when we know every single ancestor we have never even known did the best they could to create this moment, this very instant. And this I do wish for every precious person: know that this is when the conundrum of our existence is resolved in the deep knowledge that we are each a separate passion of this world, born against the odds of ages, and flaring forth a miracle.

Anyone ever see real passion? Take a look in the mirror, friends.

And may it ever be so,

Blessings,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

More Than What Divides Us

Aloha from Portland, Oregon!

This is the week of the Regional Assembly for the Western Region of the Unitarian Universalist Association. Unitarian Universalists from across the western states will gather for education, worship, and to work together to strengthen the bonds that hold our movement together. It is a blessing to be able to carry the Aloha from our church to this wonderful event.

Sometimes people are surprised to discover how organized the Unitarian Universalist Association is. They are surprised to find out about the number of meetings and gatherings held every year. It might make sense to imagine that a group who embraces so many different ways of believing would have a hard time organizing itself and would find challenges in deciding on a way forward together. But that’s not the case.

See, in a sense, we have it easier than some of the faiths of our relatives and friends. It is because of our diversity in thought and expression that we must find a way to hear as many voices as possible while choosing ways to serve our world and speak truth to power with a unified voice. One tool for this is our Fifth Principle, which holds to the hope of the use of the democratic process in our affairs. And make no mistake about it, we’ll see that in action at times this week.

But my personal belief at events like this is that there is something even more practical than voting and democratic representation at work here. In fact, what is at work in gatherings like this is so practical it almost starts to look like a divinely or otherwise inspired occurrence. When people truly believe differently and in wide and vibrant diversity, what occurs when we gather together to find unity is something very beautiful. After talking over issues for a while, what I have come to count on Unitarian Universalists to discover in real and tangible ways, is that what unites us is vastly more important than what divides us. But in a group where beliefs are so diverse, finding what unites us is vastly more clarifying, more exciting, and more unifying than may be so in other groups.

As a movement, these events are essential to stay connected. They are essential to do the work of our Region. But they are essential to lift the spirits of anyone anywhere who doubts for a second whether people who believe differently can come together to agree on some of the things that matter most in our world. I am looking forward to giving our congregation its voice in some of these discussions, and I will be sure to let everybody know how things went here.

Until then, we will all keep seeing the world and the universe in as many different ways as we can. After all, it’s what actually helps us agree on what matters most and what unites us.

Blessings,

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Paths to Wonderland

There was a period of time a while back when Disney was making some really out there movies. I remember watching parts of Dumbo, especially when the elephants were on parade in Dumbo’s dream sequence, and thinking, “This is just weird.” I remember trying to get through Fantasia, and wondering what the heck was going on, like many others, I’m sure. But I think one of the Disney movies that made me the most uneasy was Alice in Wonderland. Yes, the Red Queen was scary. Yes, the Cheshire Cat was infuriating. But it was the White Rabbit, chasing constantly after an important date, fearing the passing too swiftly of time, that puzzled me so much…that is, until I got older.

It was not until my schedule began to fill up later in life, when the things I needed to get done by certain dates started to pile up, that this character began to make sense to me. The White Rabbit represented that feeling so many of us have that something must be done at all times. For many, what starts as vigilance of keeping our responsibilities, over time can shift into a perpetual sense that our lives may have become spaces between meetings and deadlines…that we are late, we are late, for a very important date.

As a minister who serves a congregation, there may not be anything I want more for my congregation than the chance for each person to enjoy the time they spend in our community. When I see the dates, the meetings, the obligations piling up on people’s calendars, concern sets in that a place that is literally a sanctuary might begin to feel more like one of those things that catapults the White Rabbit through Wonderland, missing all the wonder that there is to see.

This Sunday we will hold a Path to Engagement class. Attending this class is one of the steps those in our community take in order to become members of the congregation. And as it turns out, this is the last class that will be offered in time for those considering engaging this community by partaking in the spirit of our Fifth Principle, the upholding of the democratic process in our affairs, at the annual meeting of the congregation on May 20.

See, part of my dream for us is that more and more of the vital work of the congregation will be shared by enough people so that more and more of our cherished members can be fully, deeply, and spiritually engaged, rather than feeling they might just be late to the next of the several dates they feel they must keep. I imagine that rather than feeling we are late, we are late, for that very important date, we might (forgive me) feel sedate, and relate, in the peace that engagement can create. And in this I know we can create together the wonderland that is possible in this cherished community. And we would love for anybody feeling anything from curiosity to confidence to join us on Sunday in the Fred Harper Room at 11:30 to learn more about these paths we might take together to wonderland.

And may it ever be so.

Blessings,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitarainsofhi.org

On a Jetplane

“All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go…”

I remember when those words were sung to me for the first time. My mother’s cousin David was playing his guitar and singing along in my great grandfather’s living room. I remember not wanting the music to stop. I remember a feeling flooding in that told me what was happening in that moment was magical. Yet I remember not doing much of anything except sitting there on the piano bench, listening.

I think we all know, and I think we’ve all heard a lot about what approaches this coming Saturday. Children from across this nation will rally to give voice to their hopes and their demands for their own safety. Our own church will support the gathering in Ala Moana Park this Saturday. This is a gathering organized by young people and being led by young people. And it could not be coming soon enough.

We can all read the quote from an eighth grader involved in the Maryland shooting earlier this week: “What’s happening with Parkland and all that, I just expect it to happen.”[1] In a world where children expect lethal violence in schools, where drills are conducted now to address the threat of an active shooter, where fear stalks the hallways that should be filled with laughter, it is indeed time for change.

The world this week tilts back again to draw forth the lengthening days and the shortening nights in, perhaps, the hope of shedding yet more light on the lengthening lines of children stretching round the streets of an aching nation and demanding change. But many of us might be asking, what do we do?

Responses to that question are as varied and as vital as is our shared human family. Some might feel compelled simply to show up here locally, and others might feel compelled to pack some bags. From the outside, responses might look different. But one thing should be absolutely clear. Whether this Saturday, or whether in the future stretching out before us together, we might do well to accept at times like this the spiritual gift of being called on less to do anything, and more to make sure others have the chance to do what they need to do.

There are times in our lives, I promise you, when all we need to do to be sure that the feelings of hope do not stop, when all we need to do to feel the flood of the magical in and around us, when all we need to do to feel these things…is to listen closely to the song of someone we love. My deepest, surest hope rests in the voices and the minds of a generation coming of age, being accompanied, held, and heard by a generation that gave them the very lives they are marching to save.

Many blessings on this challenging weekend.

Love,

T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

[1] Elamin Abdelmahmoud, “Morning Update: ‘What’s Happening With Parkland…I Just Expect It To Happen,’” BuzzFeedNEWS, March 21.

Something Is Happening

There is a plant in my room here at the church. It was there when I arrived. Not knowing much about plants, I took a look at how it seemed to be surviving (with water) and I kept it up. I added water to it, kept it in the spot in my room where it was thriving, and just kind of liked looking at it.

Two weeks ago, I was reading the book Who Owns the Crown Lands of Hawaii by Jon M. Van Dyke as part of an ongoing process of learning more about the lands upon which this building where I live rests. As I read, a friend who has lived here on this island for more than fifteen years stopped by to visit. I told him what I was reading and why…and he laughed. He explained that what I wanted to know was not in a book. He said that what I really wanted to know was in the stories of those whose roots are deep in this land, those who know this land in ways I can’t comprehend. And he added, “I mean someone who has a kalo plant in his room would know that.”

My friend took me to visit sacred religious sites in the Nu’uanu Valley and told me to give the books a rest for now. We visited some of the historic sites nearby that hold so much of the story of this land’s rulers. And all of this was in search of more stories about the physical land. And in conversations with our neighbors, my friend and I were directed to a loí, a place that cultivates kalo, hidden back in a neighborhood just on the other side of Nu’uanu from the sacred royal burial grounds.

It was over the course of the next two hours, receiving the unspeakably generous gift of a tour of the loí, that something began to happen. Something new to me, but older than any time I have known, began to take root while listening to the ways that this loí shapes the minds, the hearts, and the bodies of those who visit it. We heard of hula danced by daughters of this ‘aina next to where the water flows over the roots of the kalo. We heard of sons of this ‘aina helping parents to move the earth in ways that makes growing the kalo possible. We heard stories of family, of generation, of connection, all rooted in the ancient ‘aina yet flourishing anew.

When Wakea and Papa conceived a child, they waited and longed for the arrival of their beloved Haloa. But tragically, Haloa was stillborn. After he was laid to rest in the land, his mother wept with tears so great that they watered his place of slumber until a plant came forth from the earth. With its leaves shaped like a heart grown around a mother’s teardrop, the kalo plant links the ‘aina to those it shelters and feeds—its actual family.

There is so much—so, so much—I don’t know. I didn’t even know what that plant was in my room, I must confess. But what I know now is that earlier this week, when the kalo plant in my room, for the first time, grew a tiny, new precious shoot and leaf, I shed a tiny, new precious tear in gratitude.

Mahalo for all of you, my family.

T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org