by Patrick Heery

​Sometime, on Sunday night, our church's Black Lives Matter sign was vandalized. The same sign that had spoken such hope into our lives when it was stolen in hate and returned in love, in solidarity with both Black Lives and our Police. Someone saw that beauty, and decided to stomp on it.
They cut out the Black from All Lives Matter. Which has been the problem all along. All lives do matter; the problem is we're not acting like it; the problem is that the lives of some people---whether Black, or immigrant, or LGBTQ, or woman, or poor, or disabled, or abused---are not allowed to matter equally.
A banner is just fabric, but behind that fabric stand the lives of Black and Brown people and their allies who are hurting. Behind that fabric are all the parents who are afraid every morning to send their child out into a world that hates, and might kill, their child.
On Monday, that child had to ride their bike past a sign, where their identity, the very value of their life, had been erased. Consider that. A gaping hole that says: You don't belong; you don't matter; you are invisible. I wish I could say it was just one bad person. But the truth is that racism is very alive in Harriet Tubman's hometown. We like to think we are better than this; we are not. While a uniformed police officer and I stood outside the church talking on Monday, people drove by and smirked. One woman slowed down and shouted, "They fixed that sign!" brazenly applauding an act of vandalism and hate.
While we may not be better than this, as Abraham Lincoln once said, our angels are. "The better angels of our nature" have been singing loud and clear. The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming. People have donated enough money to put up 10 signs or more! Artists have volunteered to make signs. People, formerly on the sidelines of this movement, are speaking out and getting to work. Phone calls poured in from community members and the press. Auburn's Police have once again been amazing. This time it was Officer Guzalak who answered the call; you might remember her from the national photo of a Black Lives Matter demonstration, where she and her fellow officers took a knee in solidarity with George Floyd. Once again, this officer and I had a powerful, loving, joyful conversation about working together to end racial injustice and to become a people who honor the humanity in one another, including hers as a police officer.
That morning, I crafted a somewhat crude poster that says in big bold letters "BLACK". I duct taped it to the sign, restoring the message. The scars are still there, a visible reminder of violence and division. But Black is Back, a message that we will not be silenced, Black lives will not be erased, Black children do belong. As I made the sign, I felt an odd import come over me---like it wasn't just a sign I was repairing, like I held in my hands precious life, that child riding his bike.
Now there is talk of placing signs all over our community. To all the haters out there, hear us: For every sign you destroy, ten more will rise in its place.
We will not be deterred. Your hate only feeds our love. Your hate only makes us stronger, louder. You have shown who you truly are; we see you. We see that when you said "All Lives Matter," you lied, because you just literally cut out Black Lives. And without Black Lives there are no All Lives.
Why will we not be deterred? Because we serve a God who takes what you mean for evil and uses it for good. We follow a brown-skinned Savior who took your cross, your hate, your violence, and turned it into Easter resurrection. Like Jesus, we rise! We rise! We rise! Just try to hold us down.
#BlackLivesMatter
#BlackLivesinCayugaCountyMatter
#AndStillWeRise
#AuburnStrong

by Patrick Heery

​On Thursday, July 2, our church’s Black Lives Matter sign was stolen in an act of hate. Let me tell you the story of the traveling sign, and how it made its way back home, in a divine message of hope on the eve of July Fourth.
​
For weeks, Westminster Presbyterian Church, Auburn, NY—a proudly open and affirming community of justice founded in the cause of abolition, where Harriet Tubman herself was married—has displayed a Black Lives Matter sign and LGBTQ+ Pride feather flags.

Thursday night, a white man in his 50s meticulously cut the zip ties holding the banner and stuffed the banner in his bag, before running off. It just happened that exactly at this time friends of the church were driving by and witnessed the act. In a beautiful twist of divine irony, these friends weren’t just anyone; they were two women, one Black and one White, who are married to each other, two people of deep Christian faith, whose beauty, dignity, rights, and lives our very banners were proclaiming: Nairobi O. Smith and Liz Jorolemon. They are our first heroes of the night, Liz having just come off a 12.5 hour shift of nursing at Upstate’s COVID Quarantine unit, and Nairobi having just finished preparing a church to resume worship as its worship leader.
They called the police, and then called me, the pastor. I too called the police, while church members posted on social media.
Within 30 minutes of my phone call, no more than an hour and a half since the crime, a police officer pulled up to the church and got out of his car carrying the banner in his arms, like a precious child. He is the next hero of our evening: Officer Caruso.
He explained that he had found a man fitting the description provided by the witnesses. The man was inebriated. Having received the banner back, without much damage, and having been reassured that the police have his information should something happen in the future, I decided not to press charges. We are a church of love, after all. I do not know what addictions or struggles this man may face. I do know that inebriation is no excuse; he could have done anything, anywhere, but he targeted our sign, came prepared with scissors, and carefully cut each tie. There is undoubtedly hate in this man’s heart—to steal a sign proclaiming the value of life from a church. But I also know that someone had to put that hate there. I hope that, in our small act of forgiveness, a little love will slip in. For he too is a child of God.
But the night did not end there. No. The police officer and I proceeded to have a meaningful, loving conversation about Black Lives Matter. We talked about how we wanted to work together to improve our community. We quickly became friends. Unlike in many cities, the Auburn Police Department has stood in solidarity with our (completely peaceful) demonstrations for racial justice; our police chief took a knee with us. They are actively working with our advocacy organizations to create structural change. I thanked him profusely for his service to us tonight and for his solidarity. I told him that, contrary to popular conception, our proud and defiant statement of Black Lives Matter does not mean that we do not also value the lives of our police officers; we do value them, greatly; rather, it means that we want justice, healing, and freedom for Black and Brown Americans, who are not safe, whose lives are not allowed to matter as much as White lives due to entrenched racism. But we know that there are good, committed police officers, and this Officer Caruso was clearly one tonight. I thanked him for his service, for I know the risks he takes, the good he does, the difference he makes, and how little appreciation he often receives.
We parted, saying we wished we could shake each other’s hands (oh COVID!). We parted with love.
And so that’s the story of how a church’s Black Lives Matter sign was stolen by a drunk white man, witnessed and reported by a lesbian, interracial couple, retrieved by a white police officer who immediately jumped into action, and returned to the church, which forgave its violator, prayed for his welfare, and proceeded to have a beautiful, empowering conversation, police officer and pastor, about working together for Black Lives Matter so that in the end all lives can matter. That’s the story of how God had to put all these people together, just at the right moment. That’s the story of how a simple sign became a message of hope in a world that feels like it’s burning. It is just a small moment. There is so much work to do, so much systemic injustice to confront, so many people who cannot breathe. But on that one precious night, for a moment, all was LOVE.
May love win! Always!

by Kimberly Patch
 
We have entered a time when we can no longer ignore the cries of “I can’t breathe,” “Stop killing us,” and “Black lives matter” ringing from the voices of the Black community. How we have ignored these cries for so long is beyond my comprehension. I have begun the process of educating myself by listening, and I have promised to simply do better. But this promise is only as good as the verifiable actions I take in my life.
 
I have made many changes in the ways I protest. Aside from attending every protest possible, I wear a protest t-shirt almost every single day. I have several shirts that are bold with the message of Black Lives Matter. Wearing these shirts is an easy way to protest passively while making an impact. I have had great conversations about the subject of protest on my shirts. I have also infuriated those who are steeped in racism and white fragility. I am able to create a mini protest within a larger movement, a protest of one, anywhere I go.
 
My family has taken action by hanging a Black Lives Matter flag from our home. At first our children, who have been brought up to love people, were afraid that someone would vandalize our house, coming from a place of hate. This was also at the forefront of my mind. As you may have read last week, we at Westminster Presbyterian Church recently experienced acts of hate stealing and defacing the Black Lives Matter sign on our front lawn. Our family’s decision to hang up the flag was the right thing to do and it has flown from our house ever since. Only once did someone say something negative about it but my husband ensured the conversation was brief.
 
There are many positive outcomes from flying this flag on our home. People whom we have never spoken to before smile and wave or stop to talk. We have shown our home and our family to be a safe space. Our biracial foster son has taken pride in being the one to place the flag pole in its holder on the house each morning. He is reminded that his life matters before most of the occupants in our home awaken. One day I was standing on the porch and two children, approximately eight to ten years old, were racing down the sidewalk on their bikes. The young white girl yelled with excitement in her voice to her friend to look at the flag. He immediately looked up with pride glowing on his face. He proclaimed in a loud and sure voice, “ BLACK LIVES MATTER. I’m black and my life matters!” It was in that moment I realized, if no one ever sees that flag flowing in the breeze from our home again, it is okay. The flag has done its job by affirming this little boy. It was a beautiful affirmation that I am sure his parents have reinforced since his birth, but this time, he saw it hanging on a white neighbor’s home.
 
A friend of mine who lives on a well travelled road in a rural area, recently told me she was driving home from work and she witnessed a single white teenager standing at the end of his driveway holding a sign that simply said, Black Lives Matter. It was a small but meaningful act against hatred.
 
It is times like this when we hear of the murders of people such as Elijah McCain, Breonna Taylor, Eric Garner, Philando Castile, Tamir Rice, George Floyd, Botham Jean, the list goes on, it is times like these, our voices must lift up the message of the Black community. Black lives matter. Black lives are holy lives. The Black community is a holy community. Until we can look deep into the eyes of Black men, women and children, proclaiming their holiness as the image of God coming from the farthest reaches of every sinew of our bodies, until then, we have work to do. Until all people see the value, humanity, and beauty in every person of color, we must continue to educate ourselves and others. We can make a difference, one small act at a time whether it be holding a sign at the end of your driveway, wearing a t-shirt or hanging a flag. It can have an enormous impact in this great movement against the injustice of hatred and bigotry. Do something, regardless of how small.
 
Kimberly Patch is a graduate (M.A., Master of Divinity) of Northeastern Seminary. She is an inquirer for ordination to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament, under the care of Westminster Presbyterian Church. She lives in Auburn with her husband and children. She is also a foster mother, a social justice advocate and president of the board of directors of the new Auburn Hunger Task Force, which is working to provide free daily meals to the Auburn community. 


 

Rev. Patrick D. Heery
These are strange times. Businesses are shuttered. Schools are closed. Hospitals and nursing homes are denying visitors. Masks cover the faces of strangers. A new phrase, "social distancing," has entered our vocabulary, as people adjust to a stay-at-home order. A virus none of us had even heard of seven months ago has become the leading cause of death in the United States. For the first time in US history, every state is under a disaster declaration. Protestors are demanding a return to normalcy, while experts warn of a possible resurgence if we end social distancing too soon. Worries abound for the millions who are especially vulnerable to this fast-acting, easily spreading virus, as well as for the many who are out of work, the businesses that may never reopen, the children and youth who are being irrevocably changed by this experience, and those who are especially unsafe right now: abuse victims, people struggling with addiction or depression, people with disabilities, farmworkers and other immigrants, and low- or no-income families.

At a time when people need the church more than ever, church buildings are closed. Doors are locked. Programs are canceled.

It may feel like these are unprecedented times. I've certainly never experienced anything like this before; there's a good chance neither have you. And yet, we are not the first to tread these waters.

Our story, as Jews and Christians, was born in these waters. The Torah tells us that when the people of the earth sought to gather in one place, and eliminate all differences among them, and thus posed a danger to the world, God struck down the Tower of Babel and "scattered" the people (Gen. 11). In the Book of Exodus, God commands the Israelites to shelter in their homes, while disease traveled through the land. From this day comes the Feast of Passover, celebrated by Jesus himself: "And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this observance?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to the Lord, for he passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt, when he struck down the Egyptians but spared our houses.’ And the people bowed down and worshiped" (Ex. 12:26-27).

The laws instituted by God in the Books of Exodus and Deuteronomy make special provision for the protection of the most vulnerable: widows, orphans, the poor, the immigrant, escaped slaves. These laws demand that the rest of society make sacrifices to ensure their wellbeing. These laws even make special note of how to guard against the spread of disease, implementing an ancient version of social distancing.

According to the Gospels, after Jesus died, the disciples were scattered, isolated. Though a few came to his tomb, the resurrected Jesus did not wait for the disciples to gather together in one place. No. He came to them and found them where they were. He met disciples on a highway to Emmaus; he met others in a locked house, who sheltered in fear; yet others, he met on a lakeshore, essential workers whose fishing could not wait.

The early church of Acts was not one of grand steeples and packed stadiums. Mostly, it consisted of house churches, underground movements, small cadres of people proclaiming the love of God. The gospel spread one household at a time. It was in that context that the Apostle Paul penned these words: "Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Rom. 8:35, 37-39).

When Paul wrote those words in Romans, stating that nothing, not coronavirus, not social distancing, can separate us from the love of God, or the love of one another, he did so remotely. All those epistles from Paul, they were all written from afar, sometimes from prison, sometimes from illness, sometimes across whole continents. He knew that the Word of God could travel any distance; the Church does not close. We may not be together physically, but we are always the body of Christ, and that body cannot be broken. Paul's letters became the visible link between those separated households of worshipers, and eventually became the bedrock of a new movement, first called the Way, and then Christianity. Far from a hindrance, those letters spread the gospel; they left us something permanent we can read to this day.

Paul used letters; we're using letters too: mailings, newsletters, phone calls, social media, online worship. He used trusted disciples to deliver his messages; we're using the Internet, perhaps not as trustworthy(!), but certainly quicker! And just as Paul, from afar, connected with his siblings in Christ through prayer, so do we. Churches did this during the pandemic of 1918, commonly and mistakenly known as the Spanish Flu, and we're doing it now.

I think we've never been closer to our roots than right now: facing hardship and fear, we make the difficult choices necessary to love and protect one another, while refusing to cease in our worship and praise of God, in our proclamation of the Love that vanquishes even death.

Our worship has seen more participation than ever, with hundreds and hundreds of people worshiping with us every week, including many folks who haven't previously been able to. Palm Sunday alone had 1200 views. Holy Week services of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunrise saw far more participants than I've ever experienced in my time with you. Every Sunday, people joyously interact, posting hundreds of comments, including prayer requests and worship responses. We're seeing faith become more personal, as people move from Sunday-only worship to daily spiritual practices. Many of you are engaging in acts of compassion and service, as you seek to care for others.

This is the day we remember: the church isn't a building; it's not coffee hour, or a pretty bulletin, or committee meetings, or thriving programs, or generous endowments, or even that wondrous organ. The church is people... people loving God, loving one another, when it's night and there's no apparent reason to do so. We are the Love that will not be stopped.

I can imagine no greater tradition for us to uphold in this time of social distancing.

by Jill Fandrich​
This isn’t the Easter column I thought I would write.

Our original Easter plans included a Palm Sunday processional and pancake breakfast, a potluck meal on Maundy Thursday, a sunrise gathering on Easter morning and a big traditional Easter worship service in the sanctuary with festive music, communion, and an egg hunt for the children.

In mid-March, in the blink of an eye, we found ourselves with the church building closed and all gatherings canceled, including worship. At first we thought it might only be a couple weeks. Then we realized we’d be closed through Easter. Now it looks like social distancing could last a long time, perhaps into the summer.

With lightning speed, the church adapted to being a church without walls. Our first attempt at on-line worship was a shaky hand-held video of the last sparsely-attended worship service we held in the building on March 15. It was broadcast on the church’s Facebook page, and we immediately found that we were joined not only by folks staying at home out of fear of infection, but also members and friends who have not been able to attend worship in person for a long time. A beloved member battling cancer was thrilled to be in worship for the first time in months.  Snowbirds joined us from Florida. Former members living out of state signed on. Shut-ins and their caregivers participated in worship.
In subsequent weeks, our pastor Patrick Heery led worship via Facebook Live from his study. We are finding that “attendance” is much higher than it is for in-person worship. In addition to our regulars, we’ve welcomed community members, college students, friends whose own churches aren’t offering on-line worship, relatives of our members, and many others. Folks without internet listen in on phones held up to computer speakers. Not only are the gatherings large, they are interactive and lively, especially for us usually reticent Presbyterians. The comments section is full of prayer requests, greetings, responses, amens, and words of encouragement.

On Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Easter, we celebrated communion “together.” The sacrament of communion, as the very word suggests, is supposed to be shared in community, with the gathered congregation breaking bread and drinking juice together. During this time of crisis, our denominational leadership has approved new ways to share communion, faithful to the sacrament.  As we gather on-line, Pastor Patrick breaks bread and pours juice, says the words of institution and blesses the elements, and invites us to eat whatever food and drink we have in our kitchens. Our “breads” are pancakes, goldfish crackers, cookies, toast, pop tarts, and granola bars. Our “wine” is orange juice, milk, water, coffee, tea, and wine (even champagne!). Communion this way is beautiful, sacred, and special. We recognize Jesus in our midst as we share common foods that sustain us, nourish us, and comfort us. For me, this has made the sacrament come alive in new ways.  

On Easter Sunday, we worshiped in our own homes, not unlike the early followers of Christ who heard the good news of Jesus’ resurrection while huddled in their homes afraid, confused, and scattered.

We are learning a lot about how to be the church during this crisis. For many of us, our identity is strongly connected to the building in which we worship.  I miss worshiping in the Westminster sanctuary with its inspiring Tiffany window and its magnificent Skinner pipe organ. I miss seeing the faces of my church family, singing hymns together, seeing the children run up the aisles, and gathering for studies and discussions (and even meetings). I look forward to worshiping together again.

But church buildings tend to compartmentalize our faith, making us think that God is only present to us for one hour on Sunday morning. But God’s grace reaches everywhere. While quarantined, we’re seeing faith lived out in our homes, on social media, and in the community throughout the week. Families are incorporating faith formation in everyday activities-- baking bread, making cards, sharing stories, and praying together. Individuals are reaching out to one another with phone calls and cards, making face masks, supporting local businesses, feeding the hungry, and showing Christ’s love through action.

Quarantine is changing how we are the church, and as strange as it sounds, a lot of it is for the better. When this is over, I think we’ll find ourselves appreciating what we’ve missed and returning to church with joy, but also continuing the new ways we are being the church beyond its walls.

Why is a church offering culinary classes?
by Chris Patch
 
One of my fondest childhood memories is Sunday dinner at my grandparents’ house. The smell of fresh bread in the oven and the sight of homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove was the highlight of my week. I couldn’t wait for my family to gather around the table for dinnertime, and once there, I never wanted our time together to end.
 
As a former chef, I tried for years to recreate the recipe for my grandmother’s sauce. I bought the exact same ingredients, simmered the sauce all day and still the taste was never quite the same. As I grew older I realized it wasn’t the recipe I was unable to duplicate, it was the experience. The food is what brought us together, it is what we enjoyed and shared, but my memories were really about family, tradition and love. Over the years I have prepared many meals for family and friends, and as a chef for people whose faces I would never see, but with each plate I gave a part of myself, my family, my culture, my heritage and my heart. Preparing food for someone is a loving, humbling and meaningful gesture. As Cesar Chavez said, “If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him… the people who give you their food give you their heart.”
 
Unarguably, food is an important part of life and culture, and the Bible weighs in on the topic as well. In the New Testament, multiple verses teach us that food is more than a substance for life. Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine. (John 2:1-11) He fed a crowd of 5000 with fishes and loaves and broke bread with his disciples at the Last Supper (Matthew 14:20-21, 26:26). In each occasion, Jesus used food to teach a greater spiritual lesson while encouraging a more intimate relationship with his followers. Jesus used food to cross the divisions of language, politics, religion and socio-economical status by sharing a meal.
 
But, food is more than a social experience. For many, it is a daily struggle to eat, and in many instances knowing how, or having time, to prepare food that is not precooked or microwavable is a challenge and frustration. The Bible, however, teaches that there is a responsibility to feed the poor and hungry. In particular, Matthew 25 is a powerful command to welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, and clothe the naked.
 
So, why is a church offering culinary classes for children? Because at Westminster Presbyterian, we embrace the command of Matthew 25. Westminster Culinary Kids will teach children basic cooking techniques, recipes and safety in the kitchen. But, the goal is beyond culinary arts. The hope is to encourage our next generation of children to build relationships outside of their social norms and learn that preparing food that touches the heart and soul and creates memories is not found in a microwavable container.
 
Culinary Kids classes begin in March. Classes will take place on Saturday morning in Westminster’s kitchen, for church and community youth. Kitchen space is limited, so classes will be small and by reservation only. We hope that if there is enough interest that these classes will grow.
 
Culinary Kids is one of several new offerings through Westminster’s REACH (Relate, Explore, Act, Care, Help) program. Others include Game Nights (at Westminster and off-site at Genesee Elementary School), small group discussions, Movie Nights, a drop-in center and support group for youth, Scouting events, a children's worship center, and a Matthew 25 Lenten series inviting our older children and youth to choose a mission focus for the church.
 
REACH is a new way of looking at children and youth ministries. REACH’s vision for children and youth at Westminster is one of transformative love:

• A place that welcomes all children and youth and empowers diversity
• A life journey in which all generations collaborate to nourish faith, raise up leaders, and meet the needs of the community
• A chance to wonder by asking big questions and exploring faith through multi-sensory experiences of nature and the arts
• A modern spiritual practice involving the whole community.

 
We all look forward to see “what’s cooking” for youth and families at Westminster!
 
Chris Patch is the Children's and Youth Coordinator for REACH ministries at Westminster Presbyterian Church. He holds a Masters in Theology from Northeastern Seminary. In a former life, he worked as a chef. He lives in Auburn with his wife Kim and their children.  

by Patrick Heery

In our culture, success means more: more people, more money, more fame, more comfort. The bigger the better. It’s made a lot of us—from churches to non-rofits, from print media to the arts, from justice advocates to working people — feel like failures. But I wonder if we’ve gotten it wrong.
I think back to my first year in college and to how I would have been alone for Easter but for a small kindness. Many of the students had left for the weekend, and to be honest, it was hard not feel a little lonely, a little homesick. The thought, however, that I could skip the measly offerings of the dining hall made me smile. An older couple at my church had invited me, along with several other college students, to Easter dinner.
It was like going home. The hug I received at the door. The smell of roasting turkey and buttery stuffing. The table full of green beans, carrots, toasted rolls, mashed potatoes and pies. A family of sorts around the table, though several of us had just met.
I don’t know exactly why this moment out of so many has stuck with me. I suspect it’s because I felt loved in a very simple and familiar way.
Here in this smallish congregation, people wanted to know me, talk with me, sit with me. That year, I started going to a small Bible study before worship. I connected with the pastor who took me out for coffee. I was invited to preach and read Scripture. I met friends as we gathered in the church basement to watch and discuss "The Matrix." I threw on borrowed gloves to plant flowers outside the church. Every Wednesday, I stopped by for a free, home-cooked lunch for students.
There was nothing particularly fancy about the church — traditional worship, no projector screens, no sweeping catalog of programs, no big-budget website. But I felt loved. And really, that’s all I wanted.
I talk with so many congregations that feel like they’re failures because they’re small. They think they can’t accomplish great things because they don’t have the money or the membership numbers. They are battered almost daily with doomsday messages of decline and the need to “grow.” And through it all, one terrifying thought persists: that all their devotion, all their love, is not enough.
Maybe you can relate. Churches aren’t the only ones struggling these days.
As I listen, all I can think of is Jesus on some slapped-together cross, perched on a hill beside thieves, most of his disciples nowhere to be seen, a paltry dozen to begin with. And I wonder: Was there ever a moment that Jesus thought to himself, “I’ve failed”?
To be clear, we are not Jesus. We are, more often than not, the disciples who were not there at the cross that day. But the image does raise an interesting question: Would the Joel Osteens and Dave Ramseys of the world have considered Jesus a success if they had lived in the first century, or would they have chastised him for driving away his flock by demanding too much from his disciples, associating with the unwanted, failing to maximize his financial potential, and “settling” for the small moments of footwashing and breaking bread?
The fact is that being faithful to God can mean that we’re going to be small. In our churches, in our professional endeavors, and in our personal lives.
That doesn’t mean that there aren’t large, faithful congregations or small, unfaithful congregations. There are plenty of congregations that are small because they are change resistant or just don’t want new people.
Being small, though, should be the least of our worries. These are the questions that matter: Are we present in our community? Do we welcome strangers? Do we have the courage to speak up even when it’s unpopular? Are we growing in our faith and putting it to practice in our daily lives? Is our worship passionate? Do we risk thinking and creating in new ways? Are we obedient to Truth and Justice?
And most importantly: Do we love?
In this, we pray we will not fail. In all else, let us, whether large or small in number, gladly, ambitiously, triumphantly, be failures. I’ll settle for a home-cooked meal with the lonely any day.