I sat in on one of the Community Conversations yesterday and left feeling inspired about the church. If you haven’t signed up for one, I hope you will do so. There are still several times—in person and virtually—when you can attend. And if you haven’t heard about them, Rev. Alison is hosting a series of gatherings with congregants to make a space to hear not only about what brought people to the church and what keeps them here but also to hear people’s longings for our community.

Every day these days I’m aware of how we are a church in transition. Rev. Alison being called as the senior minister and how wrapping up her first year. Noting how the church continues to emerge out of Covid. Noting how the church continues to figure out what it means to be part of downtown Portland and the opportunities and hurdles it presents right now. The church that is emerging will be different than the church that has been.

The Conversations make space for congregants to imagine how that church might look going forward. Some folks come with very specific thoughts. But others are more general—maybe even still being articulated. Seeds getting planted. 

A wish for more volunteers to be engaged in all areas of church life. A reflection on our worship services, that sometimes it takes a long time to get to the sermon. How so many wishes are grounded in the wish for more connections. How it is we want to be together.

I have gardening on my mind since last Sunday’s lovely service. The image I have coming out of the Community Conversations is that of tilling soil—digging it up and stirring things up so that plants get what it is they need to grow and flourish. And so it seems like that may be happening at the church right now.

So, if you haven’t I hope you’ll sign up for one of those conversations. You can sign up with this link http://tinyurl.com/FUPConversations

And as we approach this Memorial Day weekend and the unofficial beginning of summer, a poem called Planting Onions by Jane Flanders:

It is right

that I fall to my knees

on this damp, stony cake,

that I bend my back

and bow my head.

Sun warms my shoulders

the nape of my neck,

and the air is tangy with rot.

Bulbs rustle like spirits

in their sack.

I bury each one

a trowel’s width under.

May they take hold,

rising green in time

to help us weep and live.

Blessings,

Tom