I was raised Methodist or Presbyterian depending on what town or state we lived in, and they seemed pretty indistinguishable to me. One memory stands out though. I was 14 years old, sitting in church with my family in southern Indiana in the late 1960s, hearing that week’s passionate attempt to raise money from the congregation. Everyone’s attention was on a special fund to buy an air conditioning system so we could be more comfortable during that one hour out of the week when we all came together. Having lived without air-conditioning all my life, but having experienced it, I was aware of the difference. Yet I thought. “Is this is the best we can do? People less than a mile away don’t have enough to eat or wear. What am I doing here? Why do I feel so alone? Why do I feel like a hypocrite?”
Fast forward 7 years to 1975. I was on the verge of graduating from college. That summer, at my brother’s wedding in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I was approached by an older man who introduced himself as my grandmother’s cousin. “I have been talking with your grandfather about you,” he began. “He says you’re a vegetarian women’s libber, who is pro-busing, believes in reincarnation, and predicted three years ago that Nixon would be knee-deep in Watergate. He says you’re kinda the black sheep in the family, is that right?” “You could get some agreement on that,” I said defensively, wondering where he was headed.
“Well,” he continued, ”you’re a NATURAL-born Unitarian! Do you know what I mean by that?”
I had to admit that I didn’t. In fact, I had never even heard of Unitarianism and secretly hoped it wasn’t some cult. He went on to tell me enough about his religion to pique my interest in it, such that six months later when I drove by a beautiful, old stone Unitarian church in downtown Louisville, Kentucky, just across the river from my hometown, I decided to try it on for size.
The first service I attended there was during the week of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday in January 1976. Everything was tailored to Dr. King’s message of non-violent protest--the readings, the music, the prayers, the sermon. The church was fully integrated too, which I welcomed since I had several close black friends and yet religion was something we didn’t hold in common. (I later found out that the first minister of this church was a leading abolitionist back in the mid-1800s and that civil rights had always been a priority.) The mental snapshot I still carry from that service is a black man performing a beautiful solo, not from behind a pulpit, but out in a cleared space, accompanied by a white man on a grand piano, then the congregation bursting into applause. Wow. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Was this CHURCH? Was this the Louisville I knew, that had been ripped apart by desegregation and forced bussing? If so, I wanted to be a part of it. “Count me in,” I thought.
Unfortunately, within days, my company transferred me to Indianapolis. Unlike the big, old stone church in Louisville, the Indianapolis church was architecturally modern. But there was no need to worry. What I loved about the Louisville service was alive in Indianapolis too. In fact, I felt more at home in these two Unitarian churches than I ever had within my own family. The following year I moved to the suburbs of Washington DC and became active at the River Road Unitarian church in Bethesda, Maryland. I felt confident that no matter where I lived, I could always find a spiritual community among my fellow Unitarians.
But something changed when I moved to downtown DC in 1980. My career heated up and for the next several years I worshipped at the altars of work, status, and money. Sunday mornings became needed respites from my workaholism, and I settled into a routine that revolved around drinking cappuccino and reading The Washington Post, alone and in peace.
Nine years later when I got married (or actually a few years after that when our son was born), religious grounding became a priority again. Happily, I talked my husband into going the Unitarian route. It didn’t take much convincing, really.
Six years ago, the three of us moved from Capitol Hill, DC to Hollin Hills, here in Alexandria, Virginia. Soon after that, our daughter was born, completing our family of four. In fact, our two children are the 5th generation of my family to live in our neighborhood. I guess that is my way of saying I feel we belong in this part of the world.
It took us no time to establish ourselves with MVUC. We officially joined after a particularly moving Thanksgiving service. It was clear there was something powerful going on here and we wanted to be a part of it. Joining the church meant putting our money where our mouth was, or maybe better said--where our heart was. Unfortunately for us, that decision came during a year when I lost a large, steady account and money was extremely tight. As we cut back on every other expense, we found ourselves adding another line item and--I’m not going to kid you--it was a stretch for us, but one that we felt was more meaningful than paying our electric bill which we paid without question month after month. A few years later we cut back drastically on our cable bill and diverted that extra money to MVUC, a decision that turned out to be beneficial for both sides.
About four years ago, my husband and I hit a wall in our marriage. I remember calling the church and saying, “I have never been a member of a church before during a crisis in my life, but it seems appropriate to call and tell you what we’re going through.” I knew Kenn and Linda wouldn’t be able to solve our problems, but connecting with them helped us not feel so alone. I knew that no matter how our crisis ended, Kenn and Linda would either help us mourn our loss, or be with us to rejoice in our success. Happily it has been the latter. Today we are here together celebrating our 12th wedding anniversary.
I never know what to expect when I come to a service at MVUC. But I can be pretty sure that I will be touched by it. I often cry at some point during a service. It might be a lyric in a song sung by the choir, something Linda says to the children, the inflection in Forrest’s touch at the piano, a phrase in a reading, or a crack in Kenn’s voice during a sermon; it might even be holding hands with a total stranger at the end of the service, but that raw nerve in me gets touched some way every time. When it happens, I make the emotion mean that I am where I am supposed to be, with the people I am supposed to be with. There is something sacred about this space, about this Holy Hill, something I don’t fully understand, something I can’t define. Sometimes I am so open, that just coming into this sanctuary breaks up my composure. But while it is occasionally uncomfortable, I know it’s the connection I’m feeling, that I am in safe hands, in a safe community and that it’s OK to be me.
What I mean by that is that while I bask in that feeling of commonality, I feel my uniqueness is honored here too. I don’t have to fit into a tight mold and worry that I am going to suddenly be an outcast if I make a mistake. (That happened to my parents at their church, actually, but that is a story for another day). For me here now, there is safety. It is my safe place to affirm some profound things as they naturally unfold, and to openly question everything else.
When people ask me why I’m a Unitarian, I have one answer I keep going back to. It stems from my first experience with the Unitarians back in Louisville and it’s true here today at MVUC--what happens to me during this one hour every Sunday is completely RELEVANT to the rest of my life. There is always something I can take out of this church and into the weeks and months ahead. Because of that, I no longer feel like a hypocrite. I feel whole.
I sometimes wonder where I would be today if my grandmother’s cousin had not reached out to me. I can’t imagine not having this church in my life now. It would be like losing a hand. And while I am saddened by the future loss of both Kenn and Linda, I know that there are exciting times ahead for this congregation as we pull together and search for new spiritual leadership. And I want to be a part of that. Count me in.