Homecoming Sunday was, in so many ways, a good beginning to this church year: The welcoming smiles of folks as they entered the building. The energy was so positive in the sanctuary and the congregation in such good voice as we sang together. The beautiful sound of one of the newly re-organized choirs and our talented music staff filled the space.

I love the blessing of the teachers and the children in our Learning Community as the church year begins.

It was a good beginning, but not perfect.

We had hoped to create a truly multi-generational worship experience, with all the young people in the sanctuary from start to finish. We fell short. The service was just too long for some of the young people, with too many words and not enough opportunity for their engagement. I especially want the parents of our younger members to know that I and we heard your disappointment. We have more to learn about how to make multi-generational services work in our sanctuary. We are listening and learning.

The world is presenting so many challenges this year. I believe we are all going to need the sanctuary to be a place where our spirits can be renewed. Adults, children and youth…all of us will have to find ways to sustain hope in a divided and wounded world.

Yesterday was the 18th anniversary of the September 11th attacks. We have been “at war” ever since. The wounded warriors among us are the most obvious casualties, but I believe we have all been harmed.

As religious people we are called both to love the world as it is and the world as it should and could be. Loving the world as it is can be a difficult task.

After 9/11, the UUA quickly pulled together a selection of meditations and poems to help make sense of the attacks and our confused reactions. This familiar poem from that collection (Poems to Live By in Uncertain Times) spoke to me yesterday as we marked an anniversary that changed so much for so many.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski, trans. by Clare Cavannagh

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners singing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
you gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

Blessings,

Bill