Archive for category: Minister Message

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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The First Day

The proudest I might ever have felt on the first day of school was all because of monsters. My shirt had monsters all over it and it buttoned up, like a big boy’s shirt. I also had orange shorts, which matched some of the orange in the shirt. It was quite a set of clothes that I’d get to wear on the first day as the new kid in a new school. To be honest, I don’t really even remember wearing the outfit to school. I remember much more clearly picking it out with my mom and my sister and trying it on for my family.

There is something to getting ready for a big day, right? So many of the weddings I’ve helped people prepare for take months and months of work, discussions, tears (always tears), rethinking, reevaluating, and threatening to elope if an in-law invites one more distant, distant cousin…OK, perhaps that’s not the case in all weddings. But what is the case in all those events is the amount of preparation for a day that one hopes to remember forever.

In a few days, some folks are going to show up for the first day of in-person church in a few years. The amount of preparation and commitment to coming together again after two years is inspiring to me. The hundreds of hours of work that have gone into this effort–from cleaning floors, to painting ceilings; from crafting sign-up forms, to perfecting new technology; from loving conversations, to assisting our beloved friend–is humbling and deeply and powerfully felt. And what is so wonderful is that this work, this effort, will pay dividends week after week as we get better and better at welcoming people to be together.

I am all for one-time-only events like a first day of school or a wedding. But you know what happens so often at those events? That’s a good question, because many don’t remember all of the many things that happen on those special days. Some wedding couples are so insistent on having a photographer and videographer because they know they will not be able to remember everything about the event–there’s just so much going on. Some fourth graders remember more easily their time with their families saying how cool their monster button-up big boy shirts are paired with their orange shorts that hang below their knees (it was the 80s, sorry).

Sunday worship is a practice. The many threads that weave that fabric of worship are threads spun from the hearts of those who help prepare for its coming every week, those who show up, those who share their gifts, and so many more. Like all the days of my life, I am confident that there are going to be ways to do, to practice Sunday worship even more fully, even more skillfully. Unlike a wedding or our first day of school, we get to do this every week and so we get more chances to do it well. And with you grace and a dose of good humor, I know we can do this as we do all things: together.

May it ever be so,
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Trigger warning: this is about having dental work done. For some people, even the thought of that is unsettling, so I wanted to be clear about what you’ll be reading if you continue.

Piece of Work

Isn’t the needle always longer than you ever expect? Also, its very presence was never mentioned. When I was being scheduled to have a cavity filled, the hygienist was so up, so bubbly. Something in my mind actually thought, “Hey, maybe the technology for having cavities filled has advanced since my last one. Maybe there’re no needles, numbing, weird smells, foul tastes, and drilling anymore.” If only wishing made it so.

I’m going to skip the needle part out of respect to those who “just can’t” with needles. I get it. As the numbing agent spread first to my chin, then my throat, on and on, until spreading as far as my ear, I was struck by the interconnectedness of the pathways in my head—both neural and circulatory. I giggled a little and exclaimed through gauze, a rubber stopper between my teeth, and a number of implements in my mouth a delighted, “Wow!” The dentist said, “We’re going to wait a minute for the numbing,” I hummed (gurgled, really) the Jeopardy! theme song. They were unimpressed.

It has been quite some time since I’ve had any anesthetic for anything, and my wonder at its effectiveness made me think of a scene in Family Guy, a raunchy grown-up cartoon television series. One of the characters has something mildly fortuitous happen to them and they say, “Thank God.” Then the scene pans up to heaven and some clouds where a robed figure meant to be God says, “Thank me for that? Geez. What about the human endocrine system? Or the digestive system? No one appreciates my best work.”

And indeed, what a piece of work is the human body. Many of us don’t really know how it functions until we actually need to know. Many of us only learn how systems of the body work when those systems turn against us. For me, a very slight feeling of a moral failing led the procession of other feelings as I walked to get my filling. “I should brush better.” “I should eat less gelato.” These marched in before, “How does enamel break down?” It’s a challenge not to feel we’ve let ourselves down when something goes wrong with our bodies.

But I think of the bubbly invitation to have my cavity filled. I think of the lack of foreboding by the hygienist. The doctor’s matter-of-fact pronouncement, “I’ll be putting composite on now,” carried no judgment. And even my gurgled Jeopardy! theme’s flat reception calmed me in a way. No one was judging me or the cavity. No one needed me to lighten the mood. The arrangement of dust dictated by eons of genetic selection was out of whack. And this time around, it was nothing a drill and some plaster couldn’t fix. They’re as good for a church roof as the roof of my mouth. Sure, it’s a reminder that there will come a day when a rough implement and new, sticky dust won’t do the trick. But until then, I’ll just keep humming (gurgling) the tune of this Final Jeopardy! we are all in together…whether my audience likes it or not.

And may it ever be so.
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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I Got In

Me: “I just locked myself out Lol”

Friend: “Dude!”

Me: “I’ll get in”

Friend: “I think it’s time you hide a key outside or something”

[3 minutes later]

Me: “I got in”

This, you may be able to surmise, is not the first such conversation I’ve had with a friend. I’ve locked myself out of my house about a half dozen times. Usually, I’m texting, like this morning. Sometimes I’m rushing. But the same feeling washes over me whenever I do this. I can feel it ripple down my spine. It pulses and contracts my back so I’m looking up at the sun and gritting my teeth. You might think I’m grinning dopily into the center of our solar system if you happened to drive by.

I slid out a few of the glass panes in my living room windows and reached to the inside of the door. I could feel the inside lock with my finger tips, and I was able to move the stub in the center of the knob the quarter turn it needed to let me in. I realize I’ve just provided step-by-step instructions to anyone who cares to visit my apartment unannounced. But as a friend who showed me this technique said, “Everybody here knows you can do this.”

As I walked back into my home to fetch the less illicit way to enter the space—namely, my keys—I was stuck by the long-running agreement with my neighbors, that, to my knowledge, has only been broken one time, when I surprised one of my neighbors in my home and chased them down the street until they returned my belongings. But other than that, such a simple place to enter (no breaking, only entering required) has never been entered.

There is something sacred in that, even if only mediated by a fear of being caught and punished. Anyone can get in, but only one person in more than two years has ever done so without a key or an invitation. And the one person who did enter without permission likely needed something pretty badly if he was willing to risk crossing the sacred threshold of another’s home.

It makes me think of other places in my life that need a key or an invitation. It makes me think of what opening doors, even just in a limited way for our own spiritual home will look like. It makes me think about all the people who might want to enter: the key holders and others who easily make themselves at home.

I wonder most about the person who’s been waiting for a chance to come inside, perhaps longing, searching, yearning for something of value, something that will help them to make it through this world just a little easier, with just a little less pain or discomfort—the person who says “I’ll get in. I’ll get in. I’ll get in.” Then at last they tell their friend with a little bit of pride and a lot of relief, “I got in.” They’re easy to spot. If you drive by, you can see them looking up and grinning ear to ear, as if in praise of sensing for the first time what they’ve been searching for all their life.

And may it ever be so.
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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A Note of Understanding

My weekly message this week is less of a reflection and more of a report. I’ve been hearing concerns lately about an incident that took place nearby the church building late Sunday, January 23 and early Monday, January 24. Someone left the dryer you see here at the entrance of the church. Within about an hour and a half of hearing about the appearance of the dryer, I arrived at the church with Jim Cooper, your Board President, to move the dryer out of the way of the driveway.

I can’t speak to the feelings of any witness to the dryer, but I do want to speak to the feelings shared with me that I should have reported this incident more widely to the church community. I apologize for not doing that sooner. I understand it’s caused some confusion, annoyance, or disruption. From a practical point of view, Sunday worship was already very full, and I wanted to take the short Moment for Ministry to announce the welcoming of people back into worship on March 6. I felt that news like this would have distracted from the service your Worship Team had prepared so lovingly.

But there are also considerations of the heart here. As the person who has personally replaced the Black Lives Matter banner 17 times, scrubbed spray paint from more than a few of those signs, captured and reviewed the video images of people cutting into the sign, and worked with the police on three occasions regarding the sign, I think I grew a little numb to actions like these. I will do better in the future, my friends.

On Tuesday, February 8, Board President, Jim Cooper and I will be co-hosting Pau Hana to answer questions about re-opening the church. If you have concerns about this or really about anything, I encourage you to attend and let us know what’s on your heart. We are looking forward to it.

With aloha,
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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A Certain Tee

Sometimes my friend wishes I’d wear a different shirt. “Great. Let’s talk to a bunch of people today.” It’s just that almost every time we go out with me wearing it, some conversation has to happen. “Oh, I saw them in concert. It was one of the craziest experiences of my life.” That’s usually about how it goes. Servers in restaurants, customers in line, tourists—lots of people have something to say about it. Just a few days ago, I swear the person working at the taco place made me an off-the-menu vegan special just because she liked my B-52s shirt.

The B-52s are an Atlanta party band. Their biggest hit is the party-starter “Love Shack,” but “Roam” and “Rock Lobster” are some of the crowd favorites. And they toured…a lot. It seems like just about anyone going to see music in the late 80s and early 90s got a chance to see them if they wanted, as has been told to me over and over when I wear their shirt.

For those of you who don’t know, one unmistakable attribute of the band is that one of the lead singers, Fred Schneider, is openly and unapologetically gay. In fact, his vocal performances embody some attributes that are routinely parodied by wider culture as stereotypically gay. But they are also stereotypically joyful. The iconic music video of “Love Shack” features an unmistakable and previously undiscovered young talent many know today as the most honored person of color in Emmy “her”story: RuPaul Charles. The music video has a whole lot of other things going on, too. You might have to watch it a few times to catch all the strangeness of the video. It’s like a David Lynch movie on anti-depressants.

This kind of weirdo joy embodied by the B-52s makes it fun to compare people’s responses to my t-shirt to the kinds of responses I get when I wear my collar in public. My friend who is a priest in Portland, Oregon says that people sort of look at him in his collar the way they might look at a velociraptor ambling down the street. It’s not quite so dramatic here, but I feel what he means. The warm smile and sort of squinting glee in a person’s eyes when they focus in on the t-shirt is, frankly, adorable. The easy way people feel they can approach me is delightful, even if it makes us late sometimes.

This response makes me wonder if my silly concert tee actually sends a clearer message to the world around me—better than my collar and better, perhaps, than even my First Unitarian t-shirt I love so well—about what I stand for and what I value. I have been searching for Joan Jett, Tina Turner, and Fred Rogers t-shirts of late. I wonder what kind of response those might get around town. Which of your own t-shirts gets you the most interesting responses? And is there a t-shirt you think might show the world a little more about what you value? After all the times I’ve been stopped to talk about my t-shirt, it’s only fair I ask about yours!

With aloha,
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Freedom, Too
On the 129th Anniversary

The booties I had to wear were so cute. I felt like I was pretending to be a doctor or like I was putting on slippers over my shoes. Then walking around the magnificent structure and on the finely milled and polished floors, it was a little more slippery than I was thinking it would be. The mask and the face shield made it hard to see as well as I might otherwise, but there was no mistaking where we were. Iolani Palace is a place like no other.

There are many rooms on the many floors, and everyone should go and see them all as often as they can. One room was different, though. High in the corner overlooking the cemetery is the room where the Queen was imprisoned in her home. Even if the amazing guide had not shared the history of that room; even if the lights didn’t seem lower because of the dark stained wood; and even if it was mostly unadorned except for the exquisite artistry of the quilt that lay in the center, I still could feel the vast difference in that room from all of the other rooms. Something primal in free creatures recognizes a prison.

On Monday the world witnessed again the anniversary of the overthrow of the monarchy and the rule of law in these lands. The complicity and active participation of one nation’s military in the events of the overthrow resonate today virtually everywhere anyone goes here. We reach the top of a hike, climbing over the igneous rock formations, only to see the concrete carved boxes for looking out, for sounding alarm. War-making vessels circle the air and wade in the depths of the ports. Bathing anywhere from Kaneohe Bay down to Lanikai forces the view of the buzz and whir of force on the outcropping of land there.

I cannot for an instant imagine what imprisonment is like. Many of our psyches ponder what would happen to our sanity, to our minds, when we hear the roll of the key in the lock behind us. What would the first breath of captivity feel like? And what would the first taste of freedom be like? I would never presume to know the mind of the Queen in those first few moments, but I sometimes wonder what would be on the mind of the Queen today when surveying these lands.

It was impossible not to imagine the palace filled with people in the finest fashions of the time dancing all night to music and laughter. I could almost see people climbing the grand stairs (quite a hike). I could imagine birds circling the grounds. I could just barely fathom the buzz and the whir of the gowns draped on the dancing guests. Unlike such finery, the luxury many of us know instead is a mantle, stitched together over centuries, that guards and protects the very freedoms that allow us to question the mantle we wear. And yet, I will never forget my shaky, bootie-clad feet, treading with care over the dark wood of a prison, to wonder at the perfect quilt that still may warm us all. Something primal in free creatures recognizes freedom, too.

And may it ever be so.
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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A Christmas Miracle?

I don’t want to brag, but I am a bit of a Christmas miracle, right in your midst!

Every year I hope it won’t happen. I eat right (mostly). I exercise (usually). I try to keep the stress of the season and the calendar at bay every year. And this year, I really thought I’d done it. With the latest variant making its path through the systems of the island, we decided to do a fully online Christmas Pageant. I was relaxed, packed, and ready to go on leave. I would do one of the most joyous services of the year—the No-Rehearsal Christmas Pageant—and then for the first time in three years, not be sick.

See, for the past two years, I was either sick at the pageant or became very sick right after the pageant, but I felt great and ready to go this year. My friend came over to take me to the airport, and then in about an hour or so, I went from mostly fine (a little upset stomach likely from a hastily blended blueberry and banana smoothie) to being violently and distressingly ill. Was it the months-old Korean chili paste I added to my fried rice? Was it a blueberry past its time? Was it a flu? Whatever it was, it won.

I called the reservations desk for the airline and said that I was ill and I didn’t think I should get on a plane. The agent responded with the kind of exasperation only two years of near constant disarray and confusion can forge: “PLEASE DON’T!” I heeded her advice and lay low. Ritz crackers and green tea saw me through the next few days until I could be tested for COVID, and I was negative. My symptoms actually were much worse than many of my friends who’d had COVID, so I had a strange envy.

A friend told me once that in her faith and culture, if you do something three years in a row, it becomes a tradition. Being ill on the same calendar day three years in a row has made me wonder whether my body is observing its own set of rituals. Is my body going out on the town and wearing down its immune system without me? Is it up to something I don’t know about? I don’t say this to brag, but I have not taken a single sick day while serving here at First Unitarian. Every illness I’ve had has come during a vacation or study leave.

Perhaps my psyche has absorbed the Puritan work ethic to such a degree that I can’t bring myself to take a sick day. Perhaps my body has a calendar it keeps that I’m going to have to get used to. Perhaps there really is more going on in our bodies than our minds can ever fully know. But whatever traditions your body is carrying out without you, I hope they bring you good health and good cheer in this new year. And if they don’t, from one miracle to another, I feel your pain.

In good health to you all,

Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Reason in this Season

Friends, there is a lot I like about this time of year, but it might not surprise you that one of my favorite parts of the year is the music. I’ve shared previously about “Pretty Paper” by Willie Nelson, and covered beautifully by Dolly Parton. But I thought I would give you five of my favorite songs about this time of year as a way of sharing the ups and the downs many feel, both theologically and emotionally. With all good humor, I share that there is plenty here to delight and to offend all of us together, much as this season seems to do. I’ve included songs with heresy, indignation, brilliance, virtuosity, and sheer power. I hope you will enjoy them.

“The Rebel Jesus” by Jackson Browne

It’s hard not to love a song offered by a self-confessed “heathen and a pagan” on the side of the spirit of this time of year. My friend Ian who is a music producer of some renown shared this song with me when we were roommates. So much of this song speaks to what so many faiths struggle with. And it holds a lot of what I think our faith gets right.

“Christmas Song” by Dave Matthews

As a teenager I received the album Remember Two Things as a gift from Rev. Chris, who spoke at my ordination. Rev. Chris retired from the ministry this year, like so many ministers in these times of COVID. I don’t know what he will do now for certain–neither does he. But this was the last track on the CD he gave me. I love the story and the implications about the person at the center of so many of the stories and the heretical additions Dave makes to the stories.

“Joy to the World” by Whitney Houston

In the romantic comedy Single all the Way, an adorable romp on Netflix if you’re bored, my favorite character actress Jennifer Coolidge proclaims confidently that “Joy to the World” by Whitney Houston is the best Christmas carol of all time. Who am I to argue with Jennifer Coolidge (watch her likely award winning performance in White Lotus if you have the time). Whitney might have been the best combination of recording artist and live performer to grace my life with her talent. This is quite a different version than you might be used to.

“What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” by Ella Fitzgerald

If you ever heard anyone else sing this song…well…sorry for you. Ella is the phrasing Queen. Her choices of how a melody line goes and the way she seems to find notes between notes still makes her the most profoundly transformative interpreter of lyrics ever to live, in my not so humble opinion. Also, she’s from Yonkers, NY, like my father. And we have the same last name…so I love her all the more.

“O Holy Night” by Mahalia Jackson

Growing up, it was not Christmas until we heard a local married couple sing a duet of “O Holy Night.” They were both in the company of The Metropolitan Opera, so they could bring it. So this carol had a special place for me. But it has roots in our tradition, too. John Sullivan Dwight, a Unitarian minister and editor of a music magazine, wrote the English lyrics for this favorite carol. There are many who have tried to master this towering piece of music, from Pavarotti to Celine Dion to Jennifer Hudson. But the only voice that had the strength to sing at Dr. King’s funeral, the immortal Mahalia Jackson, is the only voice for me.

I hope you enjoyed this totally one-sided take on some of my personal favorite songs of this time of year. Many blessings to you all in these times.

Much love,
Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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We Can Be Heroes

One of the things I’ve always wanted to do is to run a marathon. Well, I think what might be more accurate to say is that I’ve always liked the idea of running a marathon. Friends of mine have run them, and I’ve gone to see folks finish them before. I don’t put a lot of stock in statistics, but a very quick Google search tells me that less than 1% of the U.S. population has run a marathon. So it might be the drive a society places on being in the 99th percentile, but it’s an idea I’ve always had.

This weekend, a friend ran the Honolulu Marathon. He ran it in a time that I don’t think I could reasonably achieve in my life (and still have a life). He placed in the top 6% for his category and it was his first marathon. My only experience of his running the race, though, was the statistical readout of his progress along the route. I got readouts every 10 kilometers or so about his pace, and at the end I saw how he compared to all of the other competitors like him. It was great information about the race.

Since then, I heard from him about the race. I heard what the last few miles felt like and the increasingly longer stays at the water stations. I heard his take on the people he ran with. I heard about what he would do differently next time and what he’d do the same. I even heard about what running like that can do to your body and its functions. I heard about…a lot. This elite runner—a top finisher in an event less than a percent of a population has ever finished—seemed pretty darn human all of a sudden.

That is the problem with so much of what we think about life. We have descriptions or even facts about the past or about something we believe, and that is our experience of it. The numbers I saw through his whole race were pretty stellar, and they still are, but hearing about how a body breaks down, how bodily functions become less than voluntary in some situations, and how through all of this, a person still finishes the race—this gives me real hope.

Documents, readouts, statistics, even texts—these are all helpful in their own ways, but when we put too much faith in any one of these things, we can never get the full picture. We might even romanticize something terribly difficult simply because some information we have makes it sound like a big achievement or accomplishment. When we learn from just one person what their experience was like of this event, it changes what we think about it forever. And so it is with so many ideas, isn’t it? Maybe it’s the difference between religion and faith. Maybe it’s the difference between a plan and its execution. Maybe it’s just a lesson in being careful what we wish for. But no matter what it is for you, I see the faith, the execution, and making a wish come true at last for what it is: the act of a hero, and nothing less.

And may we all be heroes in our own ways this week, my friends.

Rev. T. J.

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Broom with a View

“Can you help me?” I got out of the car and arrived at the front door of my friend’s home and saw the waves—they were little, but they were waves—lapping up and over the threshold of his door. When we walked around, our feet were submerged under the water. We moved things from the floor to the bed and to other parts of the home that were drier. But even after we cleared the water, when we stepped on the rug, it still squished.

I know that we’ve seen rain, but I think the past week had more rainfall in a short amount of time than I had seen here before. Maybe that’s true for a lot of us. And the feeling of powerlessness over something outside of our control can be upsetting, terrifying, and even expensive. We are not alone in history. The fear of nature and its wrath is as old as humans themselves.

One of the oldest stories ever recorded comes to us from Sumerian mythology — The Epic of Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh has many of the elements we see in heroic stories today, like understanding mortality, close camaraderie, trials of strength and cunning, and the quest for immortality. It also has a description of the great flood in which a human leader is chosen by a god to learn that a flood is coming and that the human should build a boat so that the human and the human’s family will be safe. I’m guessing this is starting to sound familiar.

Stories about nature repeat and repeat through time. Our myths and faiths hold tales of ways that humans survived through these trials. And these stories help some of us when we face seemingly insurmountable odds. These stories also tell us something about the power of ideas to survive generations, millennia even. Even today, contemporary stories still feature tales about a select few surviving annihilation of the human race who then have to rebuild it. I can just scroll through any online viewing platform to see television shows and movies all about the select few who make it through something that seems to get everyone else.

I realize that sweeping a few inches of water across a concrete floor with a straw broom and wringing out old beach towels until your hands are sore might not evoke the struggle of humanity to survive (as difficult as it was). But as we were sweeping and wringing I was wondering what else was going on for my friend. In the morning he’d gotten news that a person close to him had tried to end their life. The flood of emotions must have been powerful, maybe overwhelming in some ways.

See, for me, flood stories aren’t about water—they are about the floods in us and the voices that tell us how to survive. These voices make the epics of our own lives. They ask us how we are using our voice. They ask us what we will do with a second chance. And they ask us how we will answer the question, “Can you help me?” I hope you bring a broom.

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Pretty Paper

It’s here, isn’t it? I knew it was here maybe for the first time yesterday, when I walked into the grocery store and there were wreathes and garlands for sale by the entrance. Like so many experiences of recollection and of knowing, it wasn’t the sight of the garlands—it was the smell. The sharp tang of the pine in the air rushed my memory back to tromping through so many of these seasons. I remembered my boots and how grinding fallen branches underfoot sent chilled pine air unfiltered into my snowy memory forever. Walking in a winter wonderland. The season is here.

I was in this dream of seasons when I was jolted by yelling out, “No pork, no pork, no pork.” The kind person beginning to make my burrito at the counter realized their mistake right away, replaced the pork spoon, and picked up the vegan taco seasoned crumbles spoon instead, so all was well with the world once more. With my warm burrito in hand, I went out to the outdoor seating area to enjoy my meal. I gazed through the doors into the mall courtyard at a tree of poinsettias two stories high. What a sight.

“Vaccine card and ID please.” A little surprised since I was sitting outdoors yards and yards from anybody, I looked at the badge on the young man’s uniform as he leaned over to inspect my credentials. It read “Security Trainee.” He copied down my address from my ID, compared the names on the ID and my vaccination record, and took my phone number, too. When he finished, I began to watch folks go in and out of the mall. One of my favorite songs about this time of year is “Pretty Paper” by Willie Nelson. The song considers the getting and spending mentality in a world where so many want for so much.

Crash. My thoughts about malls and Willie Nelson vanished when a woman fell against a trash can and then to the ground. People gathered around her to see if she was OK. Some people began to help her to her feet. Security Trainee was grooving to tunes, like he was in a nightclub nowhere to be found. “Excuse me sir, that woman just fell and might need help.” Pulled from his imagined dance, he went to check on her. Her partner arrived soon after and took over her care.

Yes, the season is here. Memory and metaphor come together in a time when families, friends, and a range of enterprises seek our attention, our notice. It is fun to feel some of the memories. It is good to turn our thoughts toward others, but jolts and surprises still happen. The upsetting and the surreal crash our dance parties of nostalgia and sentimentality. The pretty paper wrapping falls away at times. Maybe it is there, when we are awakened from old dreams and memories, that we get to the meaning of this season. Maybe its in the hands of strangers helping us up again. Maybe it’s in a vegan burrito (probably not). Or maybe it’s in a world we seek where so many won’t want for so much for so long.

Seasons greetings, friends.
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Love Somebody Else

It’s time for me to share an important confession. Throughout the pandemic, I have tried a range of ways to stay occupied. I’ve shared my love of The Great British Baking Show and I’ve shared how jogging and walking have also helped. Of late, I’ve stumbled into something entirely new. Around the time of the Emmy awards I saw something special. I saw a recipient who collected the most Emmys of any person of color in history. The project connected to this collection was one I had heard of, but since it was “reality television,” I passed on it…somewhat judgmentally.

RuPaul’s Drag Race was never meant to fill the hours and hours (and hours) it has filled in the past few months. I swear. I am by no means new to drag culture. Some of my favorite bars in New York City featured performers who sang live in drag. And during law school, I spent a lot of time at the drag bars in Buffalo and Rochester, New York. In some ways, I had such love for the culture, I feared that a reality show about it would be trite. Much to my delight, I discovered it was!

The way contestants pick and pick on each other is trite and trying—it really is. And yes, it’s glorious! Mother Ru watches over all of this, rising—floating is more like it—above it all. Part mentor, part task master, part show person, part parent, RuPaul guides the contestants through as many tasks and games as emotional challenges. The skills RuPaul uses in delighting the audience are only rivaled by the skills used to comfort and care for contestants facing some of life’s hardest challenges on and off the runway—and there are many.

What RuPaul did was take a subculture on the fringe of the dominant culture and move it stacked-heeled step by stacked-heeled step into a shining example of excellence for all to see. I wonder what other small, slightly off-beat, often misunderstood subculture could learn a thing or two from this success? At the end of every show RuPaul intones, “If you don’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?” The benediction closes every hour-long service, with the congregation often yelling it along with RuPaul. It’s an echo of that saying about loving others as ourselves but with a different emphasis that’s hard to miss.

Season after season, contestants with new-found fame go out to new places or return home with messages of confidence, understanding, and pride (and shade, too). A world some fear for lack of understanding dominates national award shows. The revolution has begun, and it is televised. And yes it’s a revolution of culture. Yes it’s a revolution of media. It’s even a revolution of fashion (trust me). But at its core, like so many revolutions we hope will come to pass, that we pray and hope weekly may come to be, it is a revolution of love. And without that revolution, “How the hell you gonna love somebody else?”

May it every be so,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Wake-Up Call

Once upon a time, a young man had been doing a bit of drinking in Waikiki. He was having a great time with his friends, but one by one, his friends departed until he was drinking by himself. Then the bars closed, and this young man wasn’t sure how he would get home. So he decided to sleep it off and figure out where he needed to go in the morning. He walked up Lewers where he had been drinking until he came to the Ala Wai. It was lit well there and there didn’t seem to be anyone around, so he started to sleep there by the edge of the canal.

A car drove up to him. It was a large, luxurious car with a driver who wore a fancy cap. The driver opened the back door and out stepped one of the most beautiful women our young man had ever seen. She said to him, “Oh no, do you not have anywhere to go? You should come home with me.” It didn’t take a lot of thinking for our young man. The ground was hard by the Ala Wai and this was such a kind invitation, it would be rude to turn it down.

He got into the beautiful car, and his host asked about his life. She was so interested and kind. It was a delight to speak with her. The car made the winding journey up Diamond Head and then up a winding driveway to a mansion overlooking the lookout. His host said, “You must be hungry. Let’s get you some food.” Her chefs prepared the finest meal the man had ever had, and they talked and talked all about life as they looked at the stars strewn over the ocean out her windows.

When they were tired, the man’s host led him to his enormous room with the most comfortable bed he could remember sleeping in. He changed into luxurious pajamas that felt like nothing he’d ever known before on his skin. He got into bed and thought about his amazing luck. Then there was a knock on his door. It was his host. She said, “I wondered if you might be lonely and could use some company for the night.” Our young man said, “Of course.” She said, “OK, just scoot over a bit so I can get into bed.” So the young man scooted over and fell right into the Ala Wai.

One of my favorite authors, Anthony DeMello, uses a version of this story in one of his books to illustrate how easily we can be lulled into a fantasy about our lives—we can lose sight of reality at times. Many of us have moments when we awaken to the truth of our surroundings or our lives—wake-up calls. I hope for all of us that we might awaken to deeper truths together in the week ahead…and perhaps we will be spared a nighttime dip in the Ala Wai canal.

May it ever be so.
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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At the Seams

“Get it. Get it!” This is what I was saying to the crabs ticking along the sand sideways. Their spindle feet made tracks like seams wherever they went, and there were a lot more seams because my friend and I were lobbing whatever we could find in the sand at them to see if they’d make use of it. I watched one crab take a rock about the size of a thumb nail down a hole, perhaps to build a wall or to complete construction of a crab-sized couch or sofa.

“Did you see that?” My friend saw another crab take a whole stick down one of the holes. He asked what I thought was down there. I said I didn’t know, but it must be pretty spacious. There were about a half dozen crabs of different sizes watching for what would be lobbed next. Some seemed on to our little game and watched the scrambling of their friends with what I imagined was a wry, world-weary skepticism known only to crabs like these. One of the crabs with more vigor seemed to chase down anything in a 3-foot radius. Looking at it now, yes, I confess, we were playing fetch with crabs.

I thought about the caverns these crabs were building underneath. I thought about the water washing in from the surf and what people walking across the water’s edge do to the subterranean crab abodes. The thoughtlessness of a footfall, the danger of “long walks on the beach” to the unseen scavengers unnerved me a little bit. How many apartments had I crushed? How many tunnels had crumbled from my tromping up and down the shore? Then I wondered how else my actions, taken without any malicious intent, had crushed things. Sure, there were the breakups and the bad news, but what else?

So much of what we know of others is what we see on the surface. We can guess at what is going on underneath. We can do our best to imagine, to empathize, to understand, but just as often, our experiences of what goes on under the surface for others is limited to our own experience and the experiences of a few who let us know how our actions affect their lives. The human mind is a marvel of prediction and summation—these gifts have kept us humming along as a species pretty well. They can’t tell the whole story, though. Sometimes we don’t get it.

The laughter at our fetching friends quieted after a time. The ocean churned out a chorus of enormous waves far away booming low in harmony with the crackling of the closer crashing waves. Lifetimes of plans crushed and hopes altered were scattered across the sand there. Connections unseen, hidden places, and caverns carved in secret underlay all of those lives waiting for what might roll by, what will be lobbed into range to make something more, something better below the seams on the surface where the caverns echo to us all, “Get it. Get it!” And I pray that we will.

Go get it.
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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The Ball

“ball…ball……ball, ball, ball, ballballballballball………ball”

As I watched my friend’s border collie, this is all that could possibly be going through her brain. Her focus was beyond intense. It was singular, concentrated, and unbreakable. Around her at the dog park, other dogs would try to play with her, try to sniff her, try all kinds of wagging, slobbering and pawing, but to no effect. “Ball” and only “ball” was on her mind. Her stare bore a hole into the center of the deflated, slobbered soccer ball like it was the only thing on earth.

Such are the results of careful training. My friend trains dogs to detect important scents like explosives and illicit drugs for law enforcement. His own border collie has been tested on wrangling herd animals and agility to great success. And the singular focus she now possesses is more than just a cute trick. A working dog does not stop working until its companion says to stop. She would keep going and working and going and working into exhaustion and beyond. As a matter of fact, border collies are one of the only breeds who will physically work themselves to death if they are not cared for properly.

This reminds me of the sign at the entrance of our sanctuary I think about a lot. It says something like “ONLY SERVICE ANIMALS ARE PERMITTED.” My first chuckle at this has to do with the common differentiation humans like to make between humans and the beings humans refer to as animals. One implication to draw from this sign is that humans do not think of themselves as animals. The other chuckle I get is about the dedication many of the human animals in our congregation have to service, to working for a change in this world that hurts too many too often.

Personally, I think there is a great deal to learn and let go of by remembering that I am an animal with relatives all along the tree of life. I see (vegan) dessert, and a hungry ancestor knows that quick calories might make the difference between life and death that day. And that ancestor would not even comprehend the shame reflex that exists around sweets for so many. Sometimes letting go of being human as some kind of accomplishment or a source of pride helps. After all, many define pride as taking credit for something the Universe did.

It’s hard not to laugh at the show of the other dogs. Some of the younger dogs have no sense of their bodies yet. At only a few months old, they bang into one another, human knees, and the ground. The tongues lolling out of smiling canine mouths just soaking in the dog-ness of it all is pure joy, but “ball…ball…ball…” is all that my friend’s dog can see. The scene is a harmony of unbridled instincts and instincts finely honed to help—animals in service they would render until death. And all of them, every last one, having a ball.

And may it ever be so.
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Now Is The Time

“Tenors, please don’t scream here.” We giggled a little, as a tenor section in a choir has a tendency to do. The conductor who was rehearsing us for the big performance was trying to be sure the tone coming from the tenors wasn’t too strident or yell-y. It was her task to make sure we knew the entrances and the notes so that when the principal conductor arrived from Japan to conduct the entire piece, we would be ready to go with the basics of the music, allowing the principal conductor to focus on shaping the music and its contours.

We were rehearsing Mahler’s Second Symphony (Resurrection), which is a pretty bombastic piece. Coming in at an hour and a half, when most symphonies come in around fifty minutes, it already has a lot of heft to it. The piece requires a much larger orchestra than most other pieces and it also calls for a choir of about as many singers as you can wrangle in a town. Then the choir sits on the stage, unmoving for four and a half movements of music, only to rise in the last seven minutes or so to (as artfully as possible) blow the roof off the place.

We were nervous about how the first rehearsal would go with the conductor from Japan. His fame preceded him, and his knowledge of the piece was clear when he started. His approach to dynamics and the lines of the music brought out some ideas in the music that we hadn’t noticed before. It was awesome. Then came the time for the choir to rise and join the orchestra. We stood and began to sing in all the ways we’d practiced. He listened and when we got to the climax of the piece, our restrained, practiced musicality shone through, we thought.

He stopped us around then, we guessed, to compliment us on our musicianship. Specifically he addressed the giggle-prone tenors who had an important role in sort of raising the harmonic ante of this poker match of a piece. The conductor’s English wasn’t very nuanced. He looked at us and pointed with his baton to the place we stopped in the score in front of him. Then he pointed the baton at us and spoke. “This is the place…you scream!”

We watched the rehearsal conductor behind him put her face in her hands and shake a little. Was she crying? Nah, I think she was laughing. Because when that part came around again, scream we did. The delight or surprise in the eyes of the conductor matched the nod of approval he also offered us. And a part of me feels still the joy of that moment. I remember it much more fondly than the performance, which was fine. Life is really, after all, a series of rehearsals, right? And there are times when screaming together about what matters makes sense. In fact, there are times when it’s all we can do, and all we should do. For that might be the difference between mere satisfaction and abject joy. After all, how the heck else will be blow the roof of anything that needs it?

And may it ever be so,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Something About Love

“It’s not about the notes. It’s about the groove.” That is the thought that came to me as I listened to a recording of Knocks Me Off My Feet by Stevie Wonder in one ear, listened to my own voice and piano playing in the other ear, read the music in front of me, and tried to decipher the notes on the page. It is a practice of mine lately to try to improve my playing by playing along with original recordings of songs I love, and playing along with Stevie Wonder is also a deep lesson in humility. Damn, he’s good.

I realized quickly that having my hands in the right spot, fingers flying across the keyboard, was not only deeply challenging—it was missing the point. The pattern, the rhythm, the shape of the music I loved is what made it jump off the page, not making sure every little note is where it’s supposed to be. And this wasn’t news…especially to the composer. For Stevie Wonder, a written note on a page is merely conceptual—he’s never actually seen one since he lost his sight at six weeks old. I wonder what he’d think of a masterpiece of his strewn out like so many pieces of laundry hanging on lines for all to see.

So many of Stevie Wonder’s songs are like prayers. Some actually are prayers. They ask questions of the universe, of the divine, and also help us to answer some of the world’s hardest questions to face. Some teachers tell us that any truly sacred texts, texts meant to change the world or the heart, are more divinely inspired in how they are lived than how they were written. In a way, this is saying that as helpful as the written word is at times, making of it an idol, the sole or primary way of knowing, can hold a student back.

“There’s somethin’ ‘bout your love that makes me weak and knocks me off my feet.” To read this might make you wonder critically at the childlike (maybe childish) way that one person is speaking to another, but listening to the way Stevie expresses it, with little fills here and there, followed by a barrage of aria-esque soaring lyrical lines, might make you wonder achingly at the power of what the singer feels. At once what seemed a childish notion (notation) becomes a surge of awe-struck love.

In the holding of a hand of someone in pain, in the tender touch of a parent for a child, in the shelter we give to those in want—in all of these ways and in so many more, there is much more divinely inspired about these actions than any words can truly tell. The rules, the notes we learn, guide our lives. The patterns, the rhythms, the shapes of kindness, compassion, justice, and love are our lives. And there’s just something about that kind of love, in whose presence I feel perhaps wanting or weak at times, that if I’m not careful, might knock me right off my feet.

And may it ever be so,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Modeling Self Care

Aloha Friends. My message this week is no message. I’m taking a floating holiday from Labor Day today because I have worked in some capacity on each of the past fourteen days. I feel great. I share that not in any way to make anyone feel bad. I am simply modeling what I’ve learned in these times: it’s best to take a day of rest when we can get one, and ideally before we need one. I hope you will consider doing the same in these times that are trying for us all when you can. Have a wonderful week!

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

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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Our Own Advice

Sometimes I wonder what our lives would be like if we took all of the great advice we give to others. Would we let more things go, get more sleep, drink less caffeine, and go for more walks in nature? Probably. Those are just a few of the ways I’ve wondered recently if some of the lives around me might improve. They’re sound suggestions, but they also are what I’d call suggestions to people who have a relatively OK, suffering-free existence.

There is a famous sketch from a comedy show in the 90s featuring the hugely talented Bob Newhart. In it he plays a famous psychologist who only charges five dollars for his services. Clients sit down, he explains that the therapy is a one-time, non-refundable kind of therapy. And when they pay him and say that they understand, he asks them to tell him their problems, compulsions, or worries. Then, in only the way Bob Newhart can deliver a line, he says, “Stop it.” The clients seem confused and look around wondering what’s going on. And Bob just sticks to his advice for any worry, care, or concern: “Stop it.”

The very fact that this is a comedy sketch underscores that he is not being entirely serious. I wouldn’t stretch his advice very far into all of the real ways that people suffer in this life and have legitimate fears about a life to live. There are countless things in our lives we can’t stop from happening. With all good comedy, though, there is an element (if not a core) of truth. The advice from Bob reduces some of the activities I know many humans worry about (checking the news on our phones, worrying about things that haven’t happened yet, thinking of past wrongs) to a binary choice: stop it or don’t.

This weekend’s Jubilee Anti-Racism training brought a lot up for its attendees. Some of the people who attended were hopeful of a set of activities or things to do after learning so much about how so much of a society is built on structures and institutions that perpetuate a dangerous status quo. These are the exact kinds of systemic problems that may be impervious to Bob’s advice. Looking at an entire society hurtling down tracks laid long ago and wondering how to stop it can be a hugely defeating, helpless feeling. None of us needs any more of those in our lives.

Binary situations are also helpful at times, though. They are a quick way to check in on what we are doing, even in small ways. When I’m making choices throughout a day, I can ask, “Does this choice perpetuate a systematic problem or does it stop it?” I’m guessing there are plenty of choices we make in a day that will not really have an answer to this question, but that’s OK. It is only in the examination of our choices, it is only by our willingness to take a deeper look, it is only by taking what may seem like comically simple advice, that we might address the elements of these systems and structures, if not their core. It might be the only way to stop it.

May it ever be so,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

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A Good Time

“We’re having a good time…having a good time…”

When these lyrics came from the speakers, they came with an announcement: “The groom wants everyone to get up and dance before dinner.” It was nice to have the message from the DJ, but the groom’s message was already clear because he was punching the air while circling the dance floor and untucking his neatly belted dress shirt with every pump of his fist into the space above him. Then more and more, people left their assigned tables to join the wedded couple on the dance floor. I had never danced before dinner at a wedding, but rules are rules.

“Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen rang out its incessant climb to its musical finale, and we all hopped, glided, and pounced to the rhythm. Some were screaming the words of Freddie Mercury. Others were simply mouthing them or focusing more on moving together on the floor. “We’re having a good time…” sounded in the mouths of the guests maybe even more defiant than Freddie’s own singular performance. It had been maybe years since I had danced and sang aloud with others. Unsurprisingly to my friends, I was moved after a few verses to tears.

In all honesty, the wrongness of gathering together to sing and dance was on my mind. I knew consciously that the married couple insisted that only vaccinated guests attend the wedding, and this (among other obstacles) meant a guest list winnowed to under 70. Still it seemed wrong to be together, but everyone was doing it and it felt amazing. I turned to the woman next to me dressed in a shade of pink that made the blues of her tattoos pop in the waning daylight and I said, “I wasn’t prepared for this.” We met eyes. I saw she was tearful, too. She said, “None of us were.”

I don’t know what it is about the fear, the self-preservation, the other-preservation that this time has incubated in us for a year and a half that ran smack into three minutes on a dance floor, but it gave birth to something new. Maybe it was being together. Maybe it was seeing friends alive and trilling to pulsing rock. Or maybe it was being near two people who faced down fear, gave up the myth of solitary self-preservation, and celebrated the invitation of an other, a second self, into their own life.

I have wondered in the past months if we ever will have a good time again in the way that we used to. I’m relieved to discover that we won’t.

Forever for us all, some part of our futures will always be shaped by this past. Some pink will pop with a blue somewhere else and we’ll remember how precious and rare having a good time was. We’ll dance when we aren’t supposed to, and we’ll remember then, too. Or we’ll be asked one day if we remember where we were when life turned again to a sense of normal we had never quite known yet somehow always remembered, and we’ll each be able to answer, “I do.”

And may it ever be so,
Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

First Unitarian Church of Honolulu

2500 Pali Highway
Honolulu, HI 96817

Email:  office@unitariansofhi.org
Tel:  808.595.4047

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