Taking Stock - The Blog of the Rev. Sylvia A. Stocker

Youth Group Member Received Prestigious Award; Invited to White House Reception

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:29:00 GMT

http://www.uuworld.org/news/articles/168670.shtml

This link brings you to an article about Danielle Smith, a member of our youth group, who received the Student Advocate of the Year award from GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network). Read the article -- it's inspirational!

Dani has actively participated in our youth group throughout her high school years. She has worked tirelessly and devotedly as advocate, trainer, and spokeswoman for LGBT issues. I am delighted to see her given the recognition she deserves.

Subsequent to receiving the award, the Rev. Peter Morales, President of the Unitarian Universalist Association, recognized her with a personal letter of congratulations. We recognized Dani and read Rev. Morales's letter aloud in our June 13 service.

Rev. Morales is not the only President to notice Dani. In June she was invited to a reception with President Obama at the White House.

Read the article -- you'll be glad you did!

Love,
Sylvia

Portland Gay Pride Parade 2010

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 14:07:00 GMT

Portland Gay Pride Parade 2010

On June 19, nine of us abandoned our gardens, cookouts, and lawns to take part in the annual Gay Pride Parade in Portland. The day was glorious -- sunny, warm, and clear. The festival mood and happy spirits of all gathered made the sunny day even more spectacular.

Below you see most of us hugging a spot in the shade as we waited for the parade to begin:

Nearby, our brothers and sisters from the Augusta Unitarian Universalist congregation were gathering, too. We all joined together for a picture:

En route, finally!

Cooling off at the end of the march:

We are a congregation that believes in advocates, and supports equal rights for all:

One of the most impressive aspects of the parade was the rainbow banner that must have been at least a quarter of a mile long. Scores of people were required to march it down the street. Watching it flutter as the breeze caught its folds, and following its progress down the street to the finish, filled me with a hope that someday equal rights will be enjoyed by all. My photographs did not do justice to the beauty of that banner, but here are three picture that give you something of an idea of what it was like:

The day was spectacular, fun, and meaningful. Next year, you come, too!

Love,
Sylvia

My Letter that the Times Record Didn't Publish

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 20:59:00 GMT

(Note: A week or so after posting this blog, the Times Record did publish this letter. They used one issue of the paper to publish many of the letters they had received post-election.)

November 5
To the Editor:

"Bear in mind this sacred principle, that though the will of the majority is in all cases to prevail, that will, to be rightful, must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal laws must protect, and to violate would be oppression."
- Thomas Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, 1801.

No one should have to go to bed at night fearing that when they wake up in the morning their country will have become more discriminatory. Yet, that is exactly what happened in Tuesday's election. On Wednesday morning, a minority within our larger culture woke to a new world, where newly gained equal rights had been stripped away from them.

Democracy, for all its wonders, does have a few warts. The biggest is the danger that democracy can be used to allow the tyranny of the majority to oppress the minority.

Ever since Question 1 appeared on our ballot, I have been concerned about its presence there and infinitely puzzled as to how our august state allowed that to come to pass. Matters of civil rights should not be put up for a vote. If we allowed such votes routinely, women would have no rights in our country, nor would people of color or people with disabilities.

Civil rights are Constitutional matters. As Thomas Jefferson states, for democracy to work, equal laws must protect the civil rights of minorities. Otherwise, we open ourselves up for the travesty we experienced on November 3, when the majority of voters -- roughly 90% of whom are straight -- took civil rights away from gay and lesbian people, who constitute approximately only 10% of the population.

That is an abomination.

Shame on us.

Sincerely,
The Reverend Sylvia A. Stocker
Brunswick

Queen Anne's Lace

Fri, 28 Aug 2009 18:44:00 GMT

Black-eyed Susans are one of my favorite flowers. To me, they look like bright, happy faces. Seeing them never fails to lift my spirits.

I also love them because, technically speaking, they are weeds, albeit weeds that have found favor with dedicated gardeners. You see them growing with wild abandon in late-summer fields. And you see them planted in the finest gardens, too. My heart fills with a mischievous glee, knowing a common "weed" has shed the bonds of that derogatory title. A Cinderella of the plant kingdom, I suppose.

So, last year when we were choosing plants for our new garden, naturally black-eyed Susans were at the top of the list. I loved watching them gain altitude and strength and then set out buds. When they blossomed my heart soared.

Except something was missing. Queen Anne's lace.

When you see black-eyed Susans growing wild in the fields, they are always dancing with Queen Anne's lace. They look beautiful together. In contrast, the black-eyed Susans in my garden did not look quite right without their native friends. I would venture to say they even seemed a bit forlorn.

Setting about to rectify the problem, I studied some gardening catalogs. Sure enough, seeds are to be had at a modest price. Some catalogs even boast seeds that -- horrors! -- have been treated so that they will not spread like common weeds. Why, I wonder, wouldn't you want flowers you love to spread?

Then my spouse suggested we harvest some wild seeds on one of our walks. I stored the seeds all winter long, waiting for springtime planting. Spring finally came, along with discouraging and unrelenting rain. By the time I planted my seeds, the time was really past.

Meanwhile, a mysterious new plant emerged from the soil. Noting its soft, feathery, intriguing leaves, I decided to let it stay when I was pulling weeds. Imagine my surprise when it bloomed -- a beautiful, healthy Queen Anne's lace! And right beside the black-eyed Susans, too. How it knew to take up residence in that precise spot, I will never know. But I am grateful and, yes, I am enjoying a certain mischievous glee, too.

Same-Sex Marriage Hearing in Augusta on April 22, 2009

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 19:49:00 GMT

Today I counted at least nine people from our congregation at the Augusta Civic Center, where the public hearing on LD 1020, the Marriage Bill, was being conducted.

Proponents of same-sex marriage were asked to wear red to show their support of the bill. While representation seemed robust on both sides of the issue, there was a lot or red in the room. See for yourself:

We were not allowed to bring signs into the building. I left my "Clergy for Same-Sex Marriage" sign leaning against the building outside and retrieved it when I left. As I stood there holding the sign, people flocked from nowhere to take a picture of me holding it. Here is one taken by a member of the congregation:

I was impressed with the hearing. At least for the time I was there, I felt it was smoothly and fairly run, with courtesy and decorum expected of all.

Although I was not able to testify from the floor of the hearing, I did make a video testimony with Equality Maine. I said that I spoke as a minister who had parishioners who could not marry, even though they had in some cases been in committed relationships for decades and were raising children together.

I spoke as a straight woman who want the same privileges and rights afforded my family to be extended to all families.

And I spoke as a minister who had been serving a Massachusetts congregation when the law changed. Those first weddings were some of the most moving weddings I have ever witnessed. The feeling of having the burden of inequality lifted from our shoulders was almost indescribable.

Time will tell how today's testimony will influence the legislators. I have high hopes, though.

Busy Church! Two Services Starting on April 5

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 00:12:00 GMT

The First Bluebirds

Wed, 01 Apr 2009 23:41:00 GMT

When I was little I heard about bluebirds. My elders spoke of the birds’ beauty with the same reverence they reserved for their descriptions of the elm-lined streets of yore.

But bluebirds were rare, with widespread use of DDT damaging their eggs and threatening their survival. Learning of both their rare beauty and their vulnerability set off within me a fierce desire for a sighting. Many long years passed before that dream came true.

One day when my son was small, he and I were both feeling crabby. No matter what one or the other of us did or said, we just irritated each other, the way family members do sometimes. We were in the kitchen grousing at each other. For some reason, I turned to the sink. I glanced out the window. A male bluebird sat calmly in the branch of the maple tree just outside. And in that instant the whole world changed for me.

“Look!” I exclaimed. “A bluebird!”

My son was too little to understand the yearning I had harbored for so long. But my excitement communicated how special the moment was. He ran to the sink. I pulled a chair up to the counter, then picked up my son and stood him in it so that he could get a good view.

Mr. Bluebird perched, chest puffed out, birdsong issuing forth. Moments later Mrs. Bluebird joined him on a nearby branch. My son and I watched, transfixed. Such amazingly beautiful colors. Such a privilege to witness splendor of that order.

Throughout the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird flitted from one maple tree to another in our yard. Whenever we saw one of the birds, my son and I stopped whatever we were doing simply to watch. When my spouse came home from work that day, my son and I eagerly pointed out our new feathered friends. Our joy was palpable.

Every year spring since then – until last spring, when I found myself living in a quite different habitat – I have looked forward to the bluebirds returning from their winter migrations. Each time I have seen one has felt like a special gift.

I have long since forgotten whatever petty irritation was setting my son and me off that day. Such things come and go in the life of a family.

But I have never forgotten those first two bluebirds.

Springing Forward

Tue, 24 Mar 2009 15:45:00 GMT

Perhaps you didn’t realize it, but March 12 was Crane Watch Day – the day Nebraska celebrates the arrival of the Sandhill cranes along the Platte River. According to the Nebraska Games and Parks Commission:

Cranes are among the oldest living birds on the planet. Fossil records place Sandhill Cranes in Nebraska more than nine million years ago, long before there was a Platte River, which, by comparison, is only a youthful 10,000 years of age. The landscape then was savanna-like and its inhabitants were more like that of modern East Africa; varieties of rhinos, camels, and elephants long since extinct. Yet cranes survived and watched as American bison, pronghorn, and wapiti evolved on the prairies. Humans now dominate the landscape having replaced the bison with cattle and the prairie with corn and concrete. (http://www.ngpc.state.ne.us/wildlife/guides/migration/sandhill.asp)

Not all change is good, I suppose. Concrete must certainly be a blight on the landscape, compared to all that has gone before. Still, the business of flying north every spring for 9 million years – 9 million years and counting! – is nothing short of stunning.

Some of the cold March days here in Maine can feel a bit discouraging. The more promising, milder days with their drippy warmth can feel tantalizing. Now that we have “sprung forward,” and the days are longer than the nights, I want spring to emerge. I want crocuses, daffodils, warm sun, and snow completely melted!

When I get to feeling like that, I gain some perspective by remembering a 9-million- year sojourn, a 9-million year courtship with the seasons. For 9 million years, something has made the birds take to flight. For 9 million years, something has allowed the birds to find their way home despite changing landscapes, despite radically new neighbors over the course of time…from rhinos to bison to humans.

Year after year for 9 million years flying north, covering 170-450 miles per day, surging through the skies, then landing like clouds on the Platte River, a half a million birds gather annually for rebirth, renewal, regeneration.

Imagine: yielding to the restless itching to move onward, plying up the roots of winter’s home, taking to the skies, flying, flying, flying… then landing once again. The whole journey involves faith: faith that they will know the way, faith that their springtime home will be there to greet them, faith that the spinning patterns of sun and seasons will always set them right eventually.

Marveling at the birds, we might ask ourselves what propels us forward? What restlessness might cause us to stir towards a springtime of our souls? What are we leaving? And where might our journey take us?What gets in our way? What helps us to lift our wings and fly?

Ice Fishing

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 20:54:00 GMT

Just over the bridge to Topsham, you can look to the far side of the Androscoggin River and see quite a collection of ice fishing shacks.

I have never gone ice fishing but I suspect there must be something magical about it to inspire such a community to gather. And while I can easily imagine my feet turning to blocks of ice while I waited for the fish to bite, there is something about the metaphor of ice fishing that I find quite appealing.

Maybe it's the spring time spirit in me longing for an easing of the cold and damp. Maybe it's the hopeful idealist in me that believes any frozen heart can melt in the right circumstances. Whatever it is, the ice fishing shacks remind me of the indomitable human spirit. People may endure their wounds and erect their icy barriers. But on the other side of their frozen defenses, the heart survives -- may even thrive -- and swims in the waters of life.

The question is: How do we cut holes in the ice? What bait would entice our hearts to come to the surface?

A Prayer for Difficult Times

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 14:32:00 GMT

A Prayer for Difficult Times, Sylvia A. Stocker

In the quiet, let us gather our hearts, many hearts beating, many people dreaming, many souls yearning for peace, for freedom from worry, for assurance of a brighter tomorrow.

We gather in difficult times.

Swelling numbers of people unemployed, hungry, afraid.

Swelling numbers of people living under the shadow of war and violence.

We gather in difficult times.

Here, in the quiet of our assembly, here in shared warmth and compassion, just for this moment, may we feel free of our burdens. May we breathe in together, gathering in peace. And may we breathe out together, letting go of worry and fear. (Breathe…)

Just for this moment, may we feel quietness of heart. May we breathe in together, gathering in gentleness. May we breathe out together, letting go of frustration and anger. (Breathe...)

Just for this moment, may we feel held in a community of loving souls. May we breathe in together, gathering in support and caring. May we breathe out together, letting go of loneliness and isolation.

Just for this moment, may we sit together, one community of peaceful, quiet, loving souls, buoyed by our shared strength and spirits. Just for this moment, may we know in our hearts that we are not alone.

Amen.

Bright Colors in the Gray

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 10:26:00 GMT

A couple of days ago, I was out and about, enjoying the fall foliage.

In the rain.

With a hurricane threatening the surge up the Maine coast, the first hurricane warning Maine has had in something like 17 years. (The much touted Hurricane Kyle headed out to sea before it reached us -- the hurricane that never was, for us.)

Every year during the fall foliage season, I hope for at least one rainy day. Not a gusty day, with winds that pull the leaves from their branches, but a gray day to highlight the colors. To my mind, there is nothing quite as brilliant and stunning as those nearly iridescent reds, oranges, pinks, and golds against a gray backdrop. It seems as though those tiny leaves marshal their collective strength to pierce through the gloom and cast the shadows away. My spirit soars at the sight.

As I traveled around I spotted a little barn whose beauty struck me immediately. At the same time, it made me chuckle, for there was architecture imitating nature. Some of the barn's aged, blackened shingles had been replaced by newer bleached ones in a higglety-pigglety pattern reminiscent of the random splash of colors on the fall leaves. The bold, red trim mirrored some of the colors of the leaves in the field behind the barn. Red flowers in window boxes punctuated the shingles with further sparks of autumnal color.

I didn't have a camera with me, but I returned the next day to take a picture. The weather was improving by then, and the colors were no longer quite so piercingly brilliant. Nonetheless, I snapped the shutter... for what? To remind me of splashes of brilliant color against the gray, warmth in the cold, hope in times of despair.

Human beings can choose to cast the gloom away, too -- just as those beautiful leaves do on rainy days.

Poet Hannah Senesh once wrote, "There are stars whose radiance is visible on earth though they have long been extinct. there are people whose brilliance continues to light the world though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for [humankind]." (From Conscience and Courage, by Eva Fogelman.)

We live in troubled times. So be brilliant. Shine and shine and shine. Cast the shadows away.

Co-Creating Our Church Community

Tue, 23 Sep 2008 10:48:00 GMT

Recently I stood on the shore of a small New England harbor watching two men repair the mast of their sailboat. High above the boat deck, one man sat in a boatswain's chair. Far below, the other pulled on a sturdy rope to hoist the boatswain's chair higher still. I marveled at how much trust was necessary to make such an operation possible. The safety of the man in the boatswain's chair depended on the competence and attention of the man hoisting the rope. The sailing pleasure of the man below depended on the skill of the one repairing the mast above. Each depended utterly on the skill of the other.

Like the men repairing that mast, here at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Brunswick we also depend on each other to launch the programs and events of the church, to nourish and build our church community, and to offer one voice of liberal religion to the wider community. Sometimes we may feel a though we are high in the air, putting our faith in those who support us while we attend to some important task. Other times we may feel as though we are the bedrock of support, lending our strength and confidence to those who work to move our community forward. Either way, the work we do is important, and our church community depends on us.

The Unitarian Universalist Church of Brunswick offers myriad opportunities for everyone to plumb their interests and to contribute their talents to build a solid, supportive, and loving community. By sharing our thoughts, creativity, and enthusiasm with one another, we initiate new programs and carry beloved traditions forward for future generations to enjoy. By sharing our gifts, appreciating the work of other community members, and working together, we craft a vessel to sail through the choppy waters of a bruised and unsettled world.

As we launch our 2008-2009 church year, greeting old friends, welcoming wonderful new friends, and beginning exciting new programs, let us take a moment to remember this: Together, all of us -- old and new, and young and old -- are co-creators of our church community. May our work together promote justice, spread love, increase peace.

One of the Last Vestiges of Civilization

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 09:28:00 GMT

One of my esteemed colleagues claims libraries are one of the last vestiges of civilization.

“They’re quiet,” she says, “and people are courteous.”

She adds, “And the whole premise of a library is based on sharing.”

After a week of marked contrasts, I am inclined to agree with my colleague.

Last Tuesday I stopped into the library for a book from which I planned to select a reading for Homecoming Sunday. Yes, trying on a Tuesday to locate a copy of a book I would need for a sermon on the following Sunday was cutting things just a bit close. But the book – Small Wonder, a collection of essays by Barbara Kingsolver – was published several years ago. I was reasonably confident newer books had captured the affections of most readers, and I assumed at least one of the library’s two printed copies of the book would be available.

Alas, both were out. A recorded copy – on cassette tapes, a medium I cannot easily play – was available. Desperate, I pulled the cassette version from the shelf, and headed to the desk to check it out, wondering where I would acquire a tape player and when I would carve out time to listen to the cassettes, find the appropriate passage, and transcribe it, word for word.

At the desk, I told the librarian my sad tale. She did her own check, discovered that indeed both printed copies of the book were out, and entered an inter-library loan request for me. Then she asked, “When do you need it?”

“I need it for a sermon I am preaching this coming Sunday,” I answered.

“I own that book. You can borrow my copy. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.” she replied.

My jaw must have dropped halfway to my knees. I knew the librarian by sight, that’s all. She seemed to know I was the minister of the church across the street, but beyond that she had no reason to trust me with her book. Moreover, surely she was aware, as I was, that I could walk to the bookstore a couple of blocks away and purchase the book if I were that desperate for it.

Her spontaneous generosity touched me deeply. As we made arrangements for me to pick up the book the next day and I gushed my thanks to her, I mentioned the excerpt I was planning to use. She smiled and nodded both appreciatively and knowingly. Evidently it was a passage she loved, too.

Sure enough, the librarian phoned the next day to let me know I could pick up the book. I fairly skipped across the street to retrieve it. The remainder of my day was taken up with several hours of meetings. So it wasn’t until much later, when I finally had a chance to sit down with the book, that I discovered that the librarian had not only loaned me her book, but she had also placed a bookmark in the chapter I sought.

A book, a book mark, an unexpected spontaneous generosity – sure signs of civilization.

By contrast, also last Tuesday the Navy’s Blue Angels arrived in town preparatory for the weekend air show. For several days the citizens of Brunswick and surrounding towns endured screaming, thunderous practice and performance sessions. In the church office, we instinctively covered our ears and ducked when the planes flew over. No matter how much we reassured ourselves (“They’re only practicing. They always fly just above the church. Everything is fine.”), the planes made a terrifying noise. And they raised a terrifying specter. They are warplanes, after all, no matter how they dress themselves up.

At home, things weren’t much better. My house is right behind the air station. When the Blue Angels flew overhead, the china rattled in the cabinet, my bones shook in my body, and my nerves became quickly jangled. My little cat Molly darted around the house, trying to hide from the frightful noise and vibrations. But, of course, there was nowhere to hide.

Lots of people love the Blue Angels, and I don’t blame them. For a while I watched them practice on Friday. Their flying is amazing, artful, stunning. To master such precision flying, the pilots must commit themselves to more hours of training and practice than I can possibly imagine. And the teamwork required to produce their performance is truly inspirational.

Still, as I tried to carry on with the business of my daily life last week, I experienced the Blue Angels as an intrusion more than anything. They reminded me of all the people I’ve met in life who are too loud and domineering, take up more than their appropriate share of space, and are oblivious of the needs or existence of others. They reminded me, too, of humanity’s brokenness – of the countless times through the centuries when communication has broken down and human beings have resorted to violence to solve problems.

In one week, I experienced the contrast of the quiet helpfulness and generosity of a librarian in the public library and the overpowering presence of military aerobatics. If I had to choose one to represent a last vestige of civilization, the library would win, hands down.

Clam Pie

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 21:31:00 GMT

When I was little, my father and grandfather used to take us to the ocean to dig clams. Now, clamming is something you do only at low tide, and – if you were my father – only on weekends and in good weather. So our clamming expeditions were rare and exciting. I remember navigating the squishy, wet sand and aiming my shovel at the puckery places where my father told me to dig. I remember the smell of the ocean, the feel of the salty breeze on my skin – and the plunking sound the clams made as we tossed them into our metal pails.

When we got home, my grandmother – with my mother’s help – baked clam pie. I remember the family circled around the dinner table, the pie being ushered into the room, and the awed hush that enveloped the family when the first fork-full of clam pie hit our taste buds. My grandmother’s clam pie was out of this world!

Now, so many years later, the memory remains. Back then, working side by side with my family members, I was doing a great deal more than excavating clams. There at the ocean’s edge, while the generations of my family worked side by side, I was experiencing an act of creation in which everyone’s contribution counted – even mine, the littlest member of the group. I was beginning to form the building blocks of relationship and community. I was learning how to open my heart.

Some years ago, my grandmother died. And, when we were cleaning out her house, everybody said, “I want the clock,” and “I want the dresser,” and “I want the sewing machine.” And I said, “I want the recipes.” I searched four boxes packed to overflowing for my grandmother’s clam pie recipe until eventually I found it. And this is what it said, more or less: ‘Double crust, enough for large pie dish. Clams. Sauce for clams. Salt and pepper. Bake in moderate oven until done.’

Ultimately, I don’t suppose there is a recipe for our small planet. Not a specific one, anyway. It all depends on the people, the life forms, the circumstances, and the tools we have available to us. It’s a kind of improvisational cookery. We have no control over most of the elements. We have to work with what we have. That’s the challenge and that’s the beauty of it.

Dough, shaped roughly into a ball, enough to create a whole planet. Dot with families, communities (including UU churches), nations, all humanity, all living things, enough to make a world. Infuse with creativity, curiosity, and all yearnings of the heart and soul.