Archive for category: Minister Message

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

The Quality of Mercy

Friends, welcome to the new decade. The turning of the year in the Gregorian calendar is certainly a time when many of us take stock of the year and make plans for the new year we enter together. For me, it is my custom to take study leave from Christmas Day through the first week of January. For those of us unfamiliar with study leave, it’s differentiated from vacation because over study leave I work. But the work I do over study leave tends to have the qualities of long-range planning, reflection, and…well…study.

In other years, I’ve shared some of what I had a chance to read or otherwise consume over my leave time. And though I saw my fair share of movies as well, I wanted to highlight a few works from study leave and give you the sense of why I liked (didn’t like) them.

Doing Justice by Preet Bharara. This is a somewhat recent book by the former U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, which covers Manhattan and parts of Westchester County. As the “top cop” for a seat of power like no other, Bharara developed a reputation for not giving a hoot how powerful someone was. As interesting as his discussions of power and perception are, I think his emphasis on mercy and good, dedicated listening were most moving.

Dark (Netflix, 2 seasons in German, English subtitles). Some of you know I had a touch of a cold over study leave. And others of you know I am a bit of a sucker for murder mysteries (and the moodier the better). This series has all the trappings of mystery, who-done-it, and suspense. But the second season tackles the biting tension between beliefs in fate and free will. Also, the clear message that “we are not defined by the worst thing we’ve done” rings true in the telling of this story.

Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari. I think three separate community members recommended this book to me…and now I see why. A few of my sermons last year touched on themes that Harari takes a paragraph to explain, while I subjected you all to an entire sermon to explain! His style is so beautiful, compact, and confident. Reading this feels like sitting in kindergarten while tackling subjects at a graduate level. Thank you so much to those of you who recommended this to me.

I share these three works for a reason. The thread that runs through them is one I think right now that many of us can use. As we watch the news of escalating tensions, as we learn the pain that some in our community endure, as we live each of our own lives with the joys and sorrows they hold, it was deeply helpful to read and learn of mercy. Mercy is a the species of compassion that knows terrible things happen in the world–crimes are committed, people are taken from us, people wage wars we can do nothing about–and yet assures us that we are loved, we have dignity, and good people will ease the suffering they see in the world when they can.

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

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

All Through the Night

On Sunday, at the urging of friends, I was delighted to attend the annual holiday concert presented by the Gay Men’s Chorus of Honolulu. It was extraordinary—not necessarily for the musicianship (though lovely), but more for the depth of the concert’s heart. The songs ranged from campy or downright crass to truly joyful and touching. I was not surprised in the least to see a few of the beloved members of our congregation there, lending their support. And I was delighted to watch my friend in the chorus do so well on his solo number, “Blue Christmas,” even if I didn’t get a candy cane when he was passing them out to the audience.

And as raucous a rendition as my friend offered of this favorite tune, there is no denying the truth from which the idea of being blue at this time of year springs. One of my favorite movies is “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” And in that movie Charlie is a little blue. Though Snoopy tries to cheer him up, Lucy tries to fix his mind, and others get him involved in a pageant as the director, he does not escape easily the pressures and the loaded messages of commercialism and marketing so pervasive even in Charlie Brown’s youth (if, indeed, he was ever young).

Pastorally, there are times when I wonder whether this time of year, on balance, might cause more trouble than it solves. There seems hardly a way to win at this time of year. So many expectations build up around us. Holidays and remembrances that honor so many different heritages, so many different times, so many different truths, seem to tug and pull our attention, with the chance that we might be missing something, or worse, someone, in our remembering and our traditions.

And sometimes harder than missing someone who is in our midst this time of year, is missing someone who’s gone from us—whether having departed their earthly existence or simply not returning our calls. And it is in this spirit, in the missing of those less often in our lives now, that I will gather with a number of colleagues in faith from our community to host a “Longest Night” or Blue Christmas service in Atherton Chapel at Central Union Church at 6:30 pm this Saturday. Through ritual, song, meditation, and community, many find that touching their pain a bit in this way is safe, nurturing, and healing.

The blue in each of us is as natural as the azure bending across the arc of the skies and as powerful as the sapphire currents that shape our shores. And whether this blue comes forth for us as it may in show-stopping, candy cane blitzing chorus numbers, wry 1960s cartoons, or in a name we write on an ornament to hang on a tree to remember, to miss, to honor someone, this blue unites and touches us all. And so we will sing our songs and bid Joy to come. But not before we remember what is true, what is blue, and what is shared between the two.

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

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

No Coincidences

“Oh, I love this time of year.”

I’ve been hearing this a lot lately. I’m guessing you have, too. But what is becoming more common is what follows this statement. For decades, what followed this statement was, “All the decorations in the windows, the heavy coats, and the children playing in the snow make it so magical.” And now what is most common is something like, “It’s a little crisper in the evenings and through the night now.” And this brings me such joy. The sense many have on this island for only a few degrees and how welcome that change is to so many is yet another way so many experience the delicacy and elegance of our surroundings.

But as some things differ in the climate around us here, I feel less differs for many of us in the climate within us. Personal connections in stark relief, the pain of distance, the inconveniences and indignities of spanning distance—all of these coalesce for many this time of year. And so my heart has been on the ways we care for one another. My thoughts have been with those who are experiencing the stress of this time of year. And as is common when my heart and mind agree, I wonder about action.

One of the first things I’d like to do in the New Year is to meet with any person who wants to take part in building a community within our wider community that will companion and care for those who may be struggling or in need of a kind and understanding ear for a period of time. My vision is to create something that enriches the lives of the person being cared for as much as the person providing care.

As I have been giving possibilities of this work some thought, I’ve consulted over the past few months with local chaplains and chaplain trainers, including Anke from Pacific Health Ministries. And the positive thoughts she shared with me about the training she offered at our church a few years ago were on my mind. And so it must have been meant to be that when I took my seat on my flight this morning, Anke was seated in the seat in front of me. It was wonderful to catch up with her and she said she’d love to help us in any way she can.

My great uncle was a Detective in the NYPD and he told me once that the only two professions that can’t afford to believe in coincidence are detectives and ministers. And as in many things, I think he was right. And so over the coming weeks, I would welcome any and all messages (minister@unitariansofhi.org) or calls (367-0710) to talk more about your individual interest in taking part in this kind of caring community and the ways we can support it. And together, perhaps more and more of our ohana can say, “I love this time of year” all year.

And may it ever be so,

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Checking In

“We’re checking in right now!”

I received this message a short while ago from a good friend who will soon be holding his first-born child. Well, let’s all hope it will be soon, for his wife’s sake. The waiting and expectation seem appropriate about now.

This time of year, many all over the world are in the advent season, which is a season of expectancy and of a new hope being welcomed into the world. And it’s not only the Christian tradition that has incorporated this season into its liturgical calendar. It’s not too difficult to notice how many other faiths have stories in this time of year when they remember a turning of the tide, a change in fortunes, or other shift in the story of their faith.

And also unmistakable for many is the proximity of this time to the longest night of the year and the lengthening of the days thereafter. Many point to the solstice, that global tipping point, as the “real” story behind so many ways that faiths remember the shifting or changing in their faith stories this time of year. And that makes a lot of sense, in some places.

But like much on this island has been revealed to me, the celebrations of this time of year are more sophisticated than the celebrations I knew before. Many say that the most important time of year for the Hawaiian faith is the time of the Makahiki, when the deities of the faith require that peace reign in these lands once more. But the coming of the Makahiki is not heralded by the interaction with a single star that holds this Earth in orbit. The Makahiki begins when the Na Huihui o Makali’i, a constellation of stars called the Pleaides or the Seven Sisters to English speakers, appears first in the night sky. And it is from these stars the Hawaiian faith teaches that the first inhabitants of this island came to Earth.[1]

I remember peering through a telescope at the Gemini constellation with my friend, my friend about to welcome a new life into the world. My friend has a twin brother. And as we looked together at the constellation called “the twins,” I said, “I would have liked to be a twin.” And he said, “You would have been a good twin.” As someone who is not a twin, I could only accept what this authority on the subject told me. And similarly, as I gaze the next few months heavenward, I can rest in the comfort of knowing the first faith of this land, though not my own, calls this land into a time of peace.

The parents are watching, waiting. They enter this time of peace, this time of arrival and welcome with the wonder their parents knew, and theirs before them, ever on backward through light years of waiting. “We’re checking in right now!” Indeed, they are.

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

[1]For more, I encourage you to read Wayne Smith’s article about the Makahiki and other wintertime celebrations in the Hawaiian faith (https://www.moolelo.com/ancient-celebration.html)

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

The Very Beginning

“One note at a time, T. J.”

My tiny thumb rests on middle C. My pointer and middle fingers take over in turn, and then give ground again to my thumb, back and forth between the notes, hopping over the silent D.

“Doe: a deer, a female deer,” someone maybe sung along.

It was my fourth or fifth Thanksgiving. And I sat with my great grandfather John on the piano bench, my feet dangling far from the pedals I didn’t know how to use anyway. The tables set in the living room were cobbled together like a rickety game of dominoes where people would gather shortly to eat. My relatives were probably absorbed by other activities throughout my great grandfather’s house, but not me.

“One note at a time.”

I knew the song. I’d heard it a lot. But now I was coaxing the song from the keys of this massive instrument next to the fireplace in the living room. I don’t really remember whether I learned the whole song. I don’t really remember whether anyone encouraged me or made a big show of a tiny child’s accomplishment. I do remember what clicked in my head when I understood that mashing my miniature palms on the keyboard, mimicking what I thought I saw grownups doing with a piano, wasn’t working anymore.

And so I played a song, one note at a time.

Not too many years after that Thanksgiving, Great Granddad John died. And our family was gifted the same piano that helped me learn this important first lesson of music making. But soon, I learned that when I played two notes at the same time, things got a little more interesting. And over some years, more and more music mingled among my growing hands, the keys where they rested, and the hammers at work deep in the forge of the instrument.

At first, I learned the songs I heard on the radio and on tapes. “Lost in Your Eyes” by the hugely talented Debbie Gibson was one of the first. “Piano Man” by Billy Joel came not too long after. And through the turbulence of high school years, the growing pains of college, the times burgeoning on independence for a young life, I sat on the bench, keys in hand, unlocking the stories, melodies, harmonies, and songs that would help me make sense of what I was feeling.

I wonder sometimes if Great Granddad John listens when I play. I dare say he didn’t know what he started with his simple lesson. He probably just wanted me to stop making noise. But when I pick up something new to play today, and I plunk out the melody to get a sense of what I’m dealing with, I hear it: not the melody and not his ethereal voice reminding me to play one note at a time, no. I hear the fullness of how everything worth doing in this world has a beginning, how that beginning rests, waiting for the work of human hands, and how five words of kindness can change a life forever.

Happy Thanksgiving my beloveds.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Unlocking Possibilities

As we descended the stairs from the sports complex, I explained that my house was only a little farther away. And when we arrived at my house, I asked my new friend, who was clearly a few months away from bringing a little one into the world, whether she’d like a glass of water or to use the facilities. Her look of gratitude was real. I’ve known many friends and family around her stage, and frequent trips to the bathroom are a must. So we went inside.

I don’t know about you, but I have some habits, some ways of doing things in my life. And when I come home, I put my keys on the counter, like I did yesterday. My new friend would be staying over for the night at Harris United Methodist Church before a hearing in the morning in Immigration Court. And it was my role to bring her from the Refugee and Immigration Law Clinic at UH Law School to Harris—a simple enough task. So we made our way to the car, my new friend before me, me dutifully locking the door behind us on our way out, closing it behind me, and reaching for my…keys…which were on the counter where I placed them moments ago.

Have you ever found, that it is often in moments when we are trying to do something good or helpful, something we might even be stretching ourselves to accomplish, when we make mistakes we almost never make otherwise? For some, it’s saying something we wouldn’t normally say to try to reach out, and then falling painfully short. For others, it might be forgetting to invite someone to something completely by accident. And for yet others, it’s locking our car keys inside when our only job in that moment is to use them.

If this is not an affliction of yours, my hat’s off to you. But for many this is the reality of patterns or routines butting up against new ways of acting or being in the world. It’s natural to find old patterns gumming up the works of new ways we want to act. In my case, I unlocked my phone, requested a rideshare to Harris, walked myself to my housemate’s office to get a key, and took a rideshare home. That’s one way to look at it.

But here’s another way: As I crossed Vineyard from Harris, sitting right there in the first car waiting at the red light, was a friend of mine, and I got to say “Hi” to him. Then a block later, another friend was getting off the bus on Bishop Street right as I was passing by, and I got to say “Hi” to him. Then I met up with my housemate to get a key and got to chat a little with him, too.

“There are no mistakes,” some tell us. I don’t know if that’s true. But I will say that when I close a door, and no one can open a window either, the Universe opens a rideshare app. And for the adventure that followed, I will always be grateful.

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

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Get in the Water

I asked a friend visiting the island what he wanted to do. And he replied that he wanted to “go to the beach.” And when I heard this turn of phrase, like I do sometimes, I weighed any potential benefit of telling him that its more customary to say “get in the water” or “get in the ocean” than to say “go to the beach” against the potential downside of sounding a little snooty or just correcting something that doesn’t need correcting. And in the end, partly because I knew it would make my friend happy, I let him know the more common turn of phrase.

And I was right, it did make him happy…happy to make fun of me. In good-natured ways throughout his visit he corrected himself, apologizing to me comically for using such a continental expression, and we laughed. Perhaps a bigger joke for me was that a kid from Connecticut (me), who attended a prominent university in that state, was correcting his friend, a kid from Massachusetts, who attended a slightly less prominent university in that state (sorry, Harvard), about what is culturally appropriate in a culture so far, both literally and figuratively, from both of their cultures of birth.

But the feeling I have when I mention things like “get in the water” is less like teaching someone the school rules and more like an older student letting a younger student know where things are at the school. We are both students. It’s just that one of us has been here a little longer.

When I arrived here myself, a friend took it upon himself to show me some of the most important parts of the island, explaining some of its history. Even on this tour, though, he explained that he didn’t want me making the mistakes he did when he arrived. And he also said something to the effect of, “If you’re going to go around telling people we’re friends, there are some mistakes I can’t have you making.” I know his comment held concern about his own reputation, but it also held concern about my own wellbeing. Sometimes those things go together.

That friend who took me around the island, so concerned for me, had to move away for work a while ago. We were talking this week and I explained that I’m feeling really good, despite the worries so much of the world holds. And he said, “That’s the island. She takes care of us even when we can’t ourselves. I miss it.” And only the next day, getting in the water, splashing and playing with my visiting friend, it only took him a few hours to say, “I get it. I get why this place is special.”

There are no words, there are no customs that can teach us what is at the heart of a feeling shared by someone who spends more than half their life here and someone who has been here for two hours. But laughing a little with (at) one another, going with the flow of a spirit in a place that so many of us have only just glimpsed in our lives, just getting in the water…that’s a good start.

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

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

This Is Thriller…

It wasn’t unexpected. Weather in Boulder, Colorado in late October can be a little tricky. But that moment when the snow and ice send you skidding on the less-than-optimal tires of the rental car, when the traction control switches on, when you’ve already eaten the last of the vegan Rice Krispies treats, that’s the moment you wonder what you were ever thinking leaving Hawai’i. And then there are the looks: checking into the hotel, when they look at your license then back at you or while explaining to someone where you live. All of the raised eyebrows and slower-than-usual handshakes betray the thought going through their minds: “Why would this person leave Hawai’i?”

One of the reasons I ever leave this place is so that I can perform weddings for close friends when I am called upon to do so. And this weekend I had the honor of performing the wedding of a friend I’ve known for the better part of my life. And present at the wedding were a number of teammates from my friend’s college soccer team, many of whom I’ve also known for more than two decades.

The ceremony went well, and as the reception went on, so did the conversation. We relived a lot of our twenties and thirties, which was embarrassing and fun. But I had a chance to catch up one-on-one with some of my friends, too. And it was very hard to hear from my friend who is a veteran and now is a manager of a large department at a VA hospital on the East Coast how tough it is for him there. In particular, he shared about the spiritual toll of losing so many friends (really family, as far as he is concerned) who served in combat to opioid addiction and who then succumbed to the impulse eventually to take their own lives.

Because this was a wedding reception, as we were discussing this very real and painful reality, mere feet away from us, a DJ was flashing lights in coordination with thumping music meant to pull us to the dance floor. And I don’t know if someone tipped off the DJ, but soon Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” came on. And as every one of our other friends knew, this same friend, who just shared the pain of his soul with me…also knows all the moves to the dance break of “Thriller.” And shortly after our conversation he took the dance floor to the delight of everyone at the wedding.

A few days later I got a text from this friend asking how I keep the faith in a world where so much hypocrisy seems to reign. I responded by text, but so much more than words were the real answer. Leaving a place of comfort and familiarity I love to show up and honor the love of others, saying YES to inconvenience and possibly danger when NO is so much simpler and safer, and holding the same heart that breaks in one moment and then cheering as that same heart glides and churns across a dance floor the next—these are all part of how I do it, how we all do it…that and vegan Rice Krispies treats.

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

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

“All My Bags Are Packed…”

Aloha First Unitarian Ohana,

This is one of my occasional messages from the E Terminal at the airport. I will depart in a few moments for a week on the continent to see my family, some friends, and to perform a wedding. In my absence, I will be regularly checking e-mail though I may not respond until I return on October 30. Please contact the church office or reach me on my mobile 917 886 6429 should an emergency or an urgent pastoral matter arise.

Mahalo – Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Weight of a World

So, I know a lot of people are reading the news these past few weeks and days as the investigation into wrongdoing heats up in the U.S. capitol. A friend asked me yesterday if I read the news. I said, “No.” He was a little surprised. So he asked if I keep up with the news. I said, “If you mean the national news, I skim the headlines and might click here or there for context but I don’t read much of it.” I really don’t know if this surprised him. I’ve found that people meeting a minister tend to just chalk our weird ideas up to…well…weirdness.

But this is really what happened. I asked myself a while ago, “Does my comprehensive knowledge of current events make me happier or sadder?” And then I asked, “What good will come from maintaining this level of up-to-dated-ness?” I can participate in more nuanced discussions, but about what? About how people with unqualified power wield that power for their own self-interest, unmoved by the harm it does others? I’ve heard that story a few times already—so have you. And I find that when a policy or decision is in line with my beliefs, it’s more of a, “You don’t get credit for doing what you are supposed to do anyway” feeling.

I think another reason people stay up to date on news is to keep score or stay clear on whether our brand of believing or participating (politics, religion, etc.) is the correct one. But what I’ve seen is that no matter how correct my opinions seem to be, there is always a sufficient number who see things another way to block the way I see forward. Sociologists analyze this, philosophers cogitate on this, actuaries crunch the numbers, but somehow there remains a kind of push-me, pull-me battle pitched between sides convinced they are at odds with one another.

Now, to be clear, this sense of push-me, pull-me is more of a decades-long view. On a more day-to-day scale, there are times when people we despise violate norms and laws and we say, “See! I told you so.” And then we wait for the justice that’s coming. But there is not a disposition of justice or a length of a jail term that will actually satisfy us. And there is a good reason for that.

I think that there lives in each of us an intelligence, a way of knowing and feeling, that can sense just, loving actions, both around us and taken by us. The “current” news stories we see are only the crash of waves we’ve felt in the water our whole lives. Who would blame a wave for the way it crashes on the sand? The tides turn slowly, but they do turn over time under the push-me, pull-me tug of the nearest heavenly body to our planet. So when people ask you whether you read the news, maybe you should answer, “I’m a little too busy building a moon to judge the crash of a single wave.” They might think you’re weird, too. But you’ll get used to it. I have.

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

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Rendering the Sacred

I’m sure we’re all familiar with the phrase, “Something’s gotta give.” I am. I mean, I kind of enjoy the movie by that name. But also, as I type this message between a meeting with an attorney representing a refugee from Central America and a planning meeting with the Director of the LGBTQ+ Center at UH for a training he will offer all of us next month, I realize that what has to give this morning is the way I usually work on a weekly message.

Many of you are used to reading a few hundred words that come from this life we share and our understanding of faith in this world we share. But to give you some transparency in our ministry together, there is an order of priorities I have in serving you and serving our world. I fervently believe that taking time for reflection like I often do in these messages is valuable, but what are also valuable are things like 1) answering your calls, 2) saying “yes” to meetings dedicated to alleviating the suffering of siblings in our human family, and 3) planning valuable learning opportunities for the community inside and outside the walls of our church building.

And so I have found that there are times when I can’t get everything done that I’d like to get done–that something’s got to give. But when I can keep priorities in order during these times, I know that what is  getting done is important. And what I leave undone, while important and worthy, like taking time to reflect, edit, and post a weekly message, takes on a different meaning. Because another word for letting something go is to sacrifice something. And sacrifice is something we don’t talk a lot about, but we should.

The very word “sacrifice” means to render something sacred. Exploitive movies and tropes call up all kinds sacrificial rites around fires or before slabs of stone surrounded by hooded figures. But real sacrifice happens to us all the time. The meetings and the deadlines most of us make, we make by sacrificing other meetings and other deadlines. The time we take for our loved ones, is time we make by sacrificing time with others. And the list of daily sacrifices goes on for many of us. And at the end of the day, we say to ourselves, “something had to give.”

But here’s the thing. Every single sacrifice requires something that will be sacrificed. Every sacrifice requires something be given. And of course it’s a balance. I can’t set ten appointments in a day, make one of them, and turn in for the night delighting in the nine appointments I flaked on. But when due care is paid and things pop up in our lives that mean we miss something, we will know we are doing well when we actually miss  that thing. Because more than anything else, even though something had to give, it means we have something to offer, to lend to the world–something to give.

And may it always be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Luxurious Wonder

There are few scenes as perfect. The cooling night breeze breaks the heat of the day. Your good friend drives you to the selected destination in a busy city. And right in front of the restaurant is the waiting valet to whisk the car away, saving you both the long, impossible hunt for parking. The person at the front table welcomes you, checks your reservation, escorts you to the table you reserved. And you open the menu knowing you can literally order any single thing you want to eat on the menu. It’s luxurious. It’s spiritual.

Years ago a friend who ran a food blog asked me what my definition of luxury was. Without missing a beat, I said luxury is going into a restaurant and knowing I can eat anything on the menu. I explained that my life is much richer for the practice of choosing not to eat animal-based products or byproducts, but sometimes I go months and months in social settings playing the “Can you hold the _____ on this?” or “Can you ask the chef not to butter the bun on that?” game. It’s a second nature I’m happy to have, but it’s also tiring.

The relief of finding places where we can be more fully ourselves is not new. In our culture, many of our families of origin or faiths of those families did not allow us the freedom or the space to be ourselves in full. And the work of maturing and caring for ourself is finding social groups, friends, faith communities, work, and other places where we can let some of our guards down and let more of our full selves out. Self-expression creates vulnerability, the chance of being hurt. And when that vulnerability is met with understanding or even non-judgment, then intimacy takes form in our lives.

And intimacy, the kindness of recognizing, of seeing more fully the human sitting across from us, is the nourishing soil for so many of life’s gifts. From it grows the sturdy and resilient tree of trust that cools and shades our lives. From it flows the fruits that make life sweeter, like joy and laughter. And from it flowers the most delicate, mysterious structures like confidence and care. This is the garden we tend together in a community that welcomes, that seeks, and that strives to love one another exactly as we are.

The meal goes as I imagine. Over food I have no fear of eating, my dear friend and I share what old friends do…and then we are silent. Because passing behind my friend to a table, holding on to two friends, walks one of the wonders of the modern world…Stevie Wonder to be exact. And verse after chorus after verse of speaking truth, intimately and lovingly to the world, seems somehow to go before him while he holds his two friends softly, gently. And wordlessly you and your friend know you made this trip, paid this call, just to say, “I love you.” (Also, the banana pie was AMAZING!)

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Awful Grace

In high school my best friend and I were often referred to together. As in, “Are Pete and T. J. coming to the party?” or “Someone ate all the vegan brownies. Go find Pete and T. J.” Some of our friends got so used to saying our names together they would accidentally call us by the Spoonerism, “Teet and P. J.” Pete is still my closest friend, so I know very well what it means to have that lifelong connection to someone. Which is why I look to this coming weekend with such sadness and understanding.

I am departing shortly to travel to the continent to perform a friend’s wedding. Performing a wedding for a friend is one of the great sacred honors I know. I do not undertake it lightly. In fact, I regularly “lose business”[1]when couples choose other people to perform their wedding who do not require the amount of preparation and pre-marriage work I require. But this couple was game for the months of work and sharing, so I agreed. But there will be someone missing this weekend.

I have known the groom of this wedding for more than a decade. We met on a ski trip with some friends and became close. A group of us used to spend holidays, vacations, and other times together. And through all those times, maybe more than my high school friends referred to my best friend and me, our whole group referred to the groom and his best childhood friend as a pair. They seemed inseparable. They navigated together the storms of so many of life’s challenges. But some of those challenges our friend suffered overcame him, and his life ended as a result.

The rupture that has come with losing our friend comes up here and there for us. And the experience of preparing for this momentous and sacred time, knowing our friend will not be physically present at the groom’s side feels awful. But in preparing for the weekend, contemplating the bare space alongside the groom’s shoulder where our friend should be, I am reminded of what a little brother knew of loss and of grief:

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until, in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.[2]

These are the words Bobby Kennedy shared after announcing that Dr. King had been killed. And his own experience with loss shines through in his choice to speak these words. And in them I see the wisdom of a world that knew crushing pain. Yet in these words I see a world that watched this groom find the soul he will now join to his own. And I will watch with awe as hands that hold wisdom enfold one another, as arms that carried an awful weight rise again to hold one another, and as cheeks streaked drop by drop are kissed at last by the very face of the Divine.

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

 

[1]I don’t actually charge for weddings because I perform them exclusively for church members and for a few close friends.

[2]A poetic translation from Agamemnon by Aeschylus.

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Sweet Smell…of Failure

I can literally smell failure from a few feet away. This isn’t a skill I developed in seminary or one I honed in other walks of life. Nope. The humble and soulful art of baking is one of the best teachers in the art of failing well in life. And just a few feet from me now, the great failure of yesterday’s attempt at baking wafts from the rubbish bin, reminding me what was tried and how I failed.

Because of the diets of the persons who live and visit regularly in my household, I attempted something daring—something not altogether impossible—but daring. I attempted to make vegan, gluten-free cinnamon rolls. I can hear someone reading this already: “Good heavens, why bother?” But stay with us. I started my research on recipes. One recipe I read called these the holy grail of vegan, gluten-free baking. Another recipe, from a source I trust perhaps the most, explained that their recipe for this delight has been updated eleven times to try to improve the results of the bake. I got my ingredients and was ready to go.

I was encouraged when I was able to activate my yeast with non-dairy milk. But little by little, scoop by less-than-confident scoop, the mixture I was making seemed not to be coming together right. So I began to improvise. In truth, this is one of my favorite parts of baking. I added some more flour to thicken the dough, and yet I was confident the gooey mixture was not what was intended. But even so, I spread the mixture out and topped it with the filling (the yummy, yummy filling). Then I began to do what every cinnamon roll needs to fulfill its destiny: to roll.

The dough topped with the filling lay before me less like a neat rectangle and more like a scrumptious amoeba. So when I tried to use a spatula to separate the amoeba’s backside from the parchment paper while pulling up one side of the paper, it worked…for a bit. But soon the weight of the dough that could not hold its shape compounded upon itself. The liquid dough began to go wherever it could under its own weight and lengthened longwise past the borders of the parchment paper so that I beheld not so much a cinnamon roll—it was a cinnamon spill.

When I woke this morning, I could smell it: failure. But then I smelled something else: the audacity of the only success in the bake. The tiny yeast that sprung back to life had been at work all night. And the tang of these budding wonders, proving their fortitude from the rubbish bin, mingled with the cinnamon, to greet the morning and me with a confectionary, perfection-ary, air. I know it’s hard to make something that everyone in the house can enjoy. For some it’s the holy grail. But at least for this morning the blessing comes in the trying, and the proving, that we will try again.

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Grinning and Baring

The smiles are what I noticed first. Under tents, over cooking flames, the smiles that come from sharing a story I couldn’t hear spoke to me. And the quiet bustling, getting ready for what the day had in store, reminded me of a little village coming to life in the way they do in storybooks. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” my friend visiting from Ohio said. I said, “Neither have I. It’s beautiful.”

The Saddle Road took us to the village at the turn leading to the summit of Mauna Kea. My thought was to spend some time speaking to folks there and to check things out. But almost as soon as I came upon the village it was clear that it didn’t need anything from me. A friend told me that if I wanted to visit for long, I’d be handed water and sunscreen—that the village would provide for me, not the other way around. And when we saw two protectors, donning gray suits with long coats, holding the flag of a nation yet known, gazing motionless and resolute across The Saddle Road and up the summit, my friend said, “I think those two have this under control.”

We moved on from the village to other parts of the island. Until this trip, I’d never been to Big Island. A number of friends cautioned me about going. They told me to be careful because if I spend too much time there I might want to move there. And only after a few hours I understood why. The tempo and pitch of life there seem more like a warm summer ballad than the up-tempo life many of us know on Oahu.

My friend and I didn’t have any real objectives or places we needed to see. We were happy driving around, stopping occasionally to see something, but mostly talking and catching each other up on our lives. I did want to see a black sand beach, which I had never seen before. So we took the ride to Puna and then to one of the beaches on that side. Down low lava cliffs we trekked to where some of the sunbathers and ocean-goers were gathered. And about halfway down the cliff I noticed what was either a new fashion of flesh-toned bathing suits or folks in the suit their mamma made ‘em. Turned out, it was the latter. Adorable.

There are trips where we don’t stay any one place for very long. Sometimes a place you thought could use a hand is doing fine without you. Sometimes a friend asks us gently if we can move on from a beach baring more than its onyx sand. And sometimes the journey we make across a strip of ocean, over mountains, and through jungles isn’t a trip to see an island at all. Sometimes it’s a trip to know once more the resolute, the childlike, the delicate and wondrous spirit that swirls at the heart of all things. And sometimes it’s just to hug and old friend.

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

The Heart of the Matter

There is a tiny church by the water. There between cruise ships on one side and the medical school on the other, in the shadow of a smokestack that seems so charmingly out of place, the church gathers. It’s a church that follows the Anglican tradition, which is the tradition noted most often for first breaking free from the fold of the Roman Catholic Church. But this church has no building of its own, no sanctuary, no school. Instead, every Sunday for worship, the church springs to life at the water’s edge inside the pumping station at Ala Moana and Keawe.

The priest of this parish is a friend of mine. And I went to visit the church when I could and brought a friend along. What struck me first was that the church is really composed of just a few families—a size that might allow folks to arrange a potluck by text message, not a church-wide email. And it seemed every family also had at least two children under ten in tow. There was roughly the same number of young children as there were “young at heart” children (adults) gathered together.

Some of the older children took part in the service in small ways, like helping with the candles. And the younger children did what younger children do when they’re asked to sit in place for an hour and a half. They squirmed, they made faces, they got on the floor (in fairness, so did the adults when we were kneeling and rising, and kneeling and rising). One child called out for “daddy” so loudly that the father had to ask another member to take over what he was doing so he could take his child in his arms.

Close to the end of the liturgy, there came the time to receive communion. This is when the congregation approaches the altar to receive what those in this tradition believe is the body of the one who forms the foundation of their faith. My friend the priest explained before beginning this element of the liturgy who could receive communion and who could approach and receive a blessing from him instead. I approached him when it came time, but the friend I brought with me didn’t want to.

In the car on the way home my friend shared that when I went up during communion and he didn’t, the child who helped with the candles looked at him sitting alone and said, “You can go up too. It’s okay.” The tiny tributaries of the aisles emptied into the center and flowed forward to the altar but somehow also backward to a different time, in a different place, when a different child called out for “Daddy,” and Daddy was silent. Instead the hand of a friend speaks blessings with a touch. The permission of a child holds hope of a future of welcome. A parent’s embrace answers the call of the child’s longing at long last. And an ancient, broken pumping station in the heart of a community comes to life once again.

May it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Tyranny of Time

“Hey, Jack.” I gesture for my friend to come over to the table where I’m reading outside Kahala Mall. He squints and takes a few steps toward a voice he isn’t sure is really calling his name. But he doesn’t recognize anyone so he returns to munching his pizza. I get up and go over to him rather than call him again. “Oh, T. J. It’s you!” But immediately he looks at his watch between bites of his slice of pizza. It’s 5:56 pm and he says he has to be at work at 6.

We start to catch up a little. It’s been three months since we saw each other. Since we know each other from a sport that requires a uniform, he says he didn’t recognize me. And he apologizes. We talk about how some of the other folks on the team are doing. 5:58. He says, “I’m sorry, but I really have to be at work by 6.” And he runs toward the restaurant in the mall.

When I worked in the corporate world, I used to call a friend who lived between my office and my apartment on my way home to see if she wanted to meet up. She never could. She was always working. And sometimes she was crying…because of the sheer amount of work she had. She wasn’t alone. Many companies and firms in New York and other places have in-house gyms, dry cleaning services, dining rooms, and laundry. The employees don’t have to leave. Some never do. Some feel they can’t.

I think of the lawyers, bankers, accountants, and other service providers in many corners of the globe as types of handmaidens to a global financial elite whose personal wealth seems ever to grow, facilitated, managed, and strategized by this class of professionals. And I think of the laborers, the hourly workers, the waiters whose pay seems never to grow enough to meet daily expenses, not to mention to save for the years ahead. And sometimes I wonder what would happen for us all if just about three percent of those handmaidens, who possess all the tools for building a structure atop a foundation of exploitation, simply stopped…and changed sides.

As I watched my friend run to work, I wondered a little if he simply didn’t want to talk to me anymore. That’s possible. But the look in his eyes said that he would get in trouble if he clocked in late. And as I remember the tears that seemed almost to stream across the telephone line to my own cheek from my friend, mourning the time she could not spare, my heart breaks still for her. In both friends I sensed something had been taken, even in some small measure, of their humanity and self-determination. And faintly I hear a call to remake a world where poverty of the purse, poverty of our time, and poverty of the spirit are no more. I hear the call. I turn. And I can almost recognize us all sitting at the same table together once more.

May it one day be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

Two Questions

It can stop me in my tracks, still. Walking from my car to my front door yesterday, it happened. I live close enough to the practice fields of the UH Mānoa athletic teams that I can hear what’s going on over there. And this week, the banging blare of the marching band practicing for Saturday’s football game punctuates my activities around the house. I spread peanut butter to the trill of the piccolo. I blend smoothies to the loud churn of the snare drum roll. And at times I’m compelled to pause, if only for a moment.

Yesterday afternoon I stopped home briefly after being at church to get ready to get in the water with a friend. And as I hit the sidewalk in front of my house, I paused briefly out of habit and let the tune come to an end. The marching band was practicing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And though there was no one watching me, though I was far from a stadium or a classroom, my body responded by stopping what I was doing for the remaining moments of the song. I laughed a little at myself and continued inside.

When I heard my friend’s car pull up, I met him in the driveway. The band on the field nearby was into another practice run of the tune, and I laughed and scolded my friend for having his hat on his head. He laughed, too. And he told me about being stationed in the army where they played the anthem everyday at a set time. He said that soldiers would stop what they were doing two minutes before to get indoors before it played so that they wouldn’t have to stop and salute. We joked a little about what would happen if a band were practicing nearby over and over. They wouldn’t get anything done—they’d be too busy saluting.

And I get the pausing, the stopping in place, because that’s exactly what I did, too. However the programming happened—literally to give me pause—it’s there. And however I feel about what is done, however I feel about what is perpetrated in the practice of a national religion called “America,” I still stop. And when I do, what I think of are people whose lives were, are, and will be sacrificed in the name of this faith, whether in fighting nobly for the freedom of others, or for their own. I pause for them all.

But a pause is only natural when faced with a question…or two. See, the original lyrics of “The Star-Spangled Banner” we sing are just that: two questions.[1] The first question asks whether you can see the banner still. The second question asks whether it waves over the land of the free and the home of the brave. And the ubiquity, the sheer pause-inspiring presence of it in our lives, requires, maybe commands us, to ask not whether it yet waves, but whether we are yet brave enough to make all who pause in its shadow free. Or whether we are standing still, saluting.

May we each find our own answer to these two questions.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

[1]Francis Scott Key’s original lyrics are here: https://amhistory.si.edu/starspangledbanner/pdf/ssb_lyrics.pdf

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

End-O-War

With a friend visiting the island for the first time, I did what I love to do: venture to one of my favorite places in the world, Waimanalo beach. As usual, it was idyllic. But as we approached the shoreline, we saw it: “MAN-O-WAR STINGS ARE PAINFUL. STAY OUT OF WATER.” I am someone who has developed a high regard for the people who patrol these waters for our safety, the lifeguards. And I know they took the time to put up those signs, so there was probably something to it. My friend and I found some shade, set up our chairs, and soaked in the sights, safe on the shore.

One of my favorite things is spending time with childhood friends. We were just talking and talking. See my friend and I have known each other since freshman year of high school. We’ve seen one another through a lot of phases of our lives. And he reminded me of a time when he was wrestling with something new that came to be in his life, and I said, “Well, the war is over, and you lost.” He explained how profound he thought that was…until he realized later that it’s a pretty common phrase in spiritual and philosophical circles. And we had a good laugh at how profound he thought I was for a little while.

But that is the thing about common wisdom. We can hear principles, beliefs, ideas, and all kinds of other ways of thinking and feeling for years. But until we are ready, until we are faced with a new or altered reality, we may not be ready to understand. I kind of liked the idea of my friend being helped by a common idea and not some special one I made up. It gave me more confidence in what I’d said. And we sat there watching the waves lap up and talked more about how we’ve been and what it feels like to be here by the ocean.

After a while sitting there, it struck me that I didn’t see a single man-o-war. I had lived in places with man-o-war and there were no blue balloons bobbing along the surface. I started to wonder if the lifeguards were just phoning it in. And then I saw people start to frolic in the surf, and that was it. I got in and rode the waves for a while and it was marvelous. Then between waves I looked to my left and saw something I’d never seen.

Floating along the surface was a tiny bubble, tinged slightly blue, that did not burst like the others made by the churning surf. And then it hit me: man-o-war might look different here than in the Gulf of Mexico. And as it turns out, they do. These bubbles, barely visible, were much harder to detect. Their plan of attack in the war they’re waging is much more subtle. And as I now nurse the stings pulsing and itching on my skin this morning (I’m 100% fine, don’t worry), I am reminded of ways I’ve lost wars I never knew I was fighting, of ignoring signs of warning. And I can smile remembering that “This war is over; I lost.” And I can be at peace with that. Now I understand.

And may it ever be so.

Rev. T. J.
minister@unitariansofhi.org

Weekly Message from T. J.

/by

In Memoriam – Dr. Toni Morrison

To imagine a world no longer subject to the critical, penetrating gaze of Toni Morrison, is to imagine a world more dimly lit, more hidden, perhaps, to those who were guided by her unspeakable genius. Many grieve the loss of the gift her life was to the world this week. But some solace should come in the seemingly boundless gifts she so generously shared with all who will miss her so. Below are Morrison’s closing words from a speech delivered fifty-four years ago. The entire speech is available here. The words startle me inasmuch as progress toward her prophesy is slow. But I rest easier in some small measure alongside the hope she offers so many who have journeyed so far for so long.

From “A Humanist View,” May 30, 1975 at Portland State University

Racial ignorance is a prison from which there is no escape because there’re no doors. And there are old, old men, and old, old women running institutions, governments, homes all over the world who need to believe in their racism and need to have the victims of racism concentrate all their creative abilities on them. And they are very easily identified.

They are the petulant ones who call themselves proud, and they are the disdainful ones who call themselves fastidious, and they are the mean-spirited ones who call themselves just. They thrive on the failures of those unlike them; they are the ones who measure their wealth by the desperation of the poor. They are the ones who know personal success only when they can identify deficiencies in other racial and ethnic groups. They are in prisons of their own construction: and their ignorance and their stunted emotional growth consistently boggle the mind.

But the artist knows that we are human, and the artist knows, if he is free, exactly what every three-year-old child knows: that the whole business of reproducing and dying by the billions is unsatisfactory and clumsy. He also knows that we have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as one Black man who flicks a beetle over on the street. There’s not a race in the world that behaves as badly as praying mantises.

We are the moral inhabitants of the globe. And to deny it is to lie in prison. Oh yes, there’s cruelty, and cruelty, because it destroys the perpetuator as well as the victim, is a very mysterious thing. But if you look at the world as one long brutal game between “us” and “them,” then you bump into another mystery. And that’s the mystery of the tree-shaped scar, and the canary that might sing on the crown of a scar.

And unless all races and all ages of man have been totally deluded, there seems to be such a thing as grace, such a thing as beauty, such a thing as harmony—all of which are wholly free, and available to us.

Thank you very much.

First Unitarian Church of Honolulu

2500 Pali Highway
Honolulu, HI 96817

Email:  office@unitariansofhi.org
Tel:  808.595.4047

Subscribe to our newsletter
Donate