THIS WAS STEWARDSHIP SUNDAY, AND WE ASKED 5 PEOPLE, INCLUDING STEVE, TO OFFER TESTIMONIALS DESCRIBING WHAT THE 1ST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH HAS MEANT TO THEM.
THE PRESENTERS WERE JOHN KIKER, RACHEL GABRIEL, DOUG KIEM, FAYE RICHARDSON, AND STEVE.
JOHN KIKER
In the spirit of sharing, which is the theme of this year’s Stewardship Campaign, I’d like to share a personal story, and then make a personal request.
Just over 30 years ago, I met my husband Dan. I’d like to say it was a match made in heaven. However, at the time, we were not aware of a faith, let alone a church, that would recognize or condone our relationship. As background, I was raised Texas Southern Baptist and Dan was raised Catholic originally, until his parents became born-again Christians, when he was a teenager. Enough said.
Fortunately, Dan and I each had a deep love and personal relationship with God.
Through the years, Dan and I explored various churches and developed a belief that mirrors that of a congregational church – where theological expressions of everyone are welcomed, and respected, and understood, and valued. Unfortunately, not all congregational churches are the same.
A few years ago, when we lived in Connecticut’s bucolic Litchfield County, we joined a congregational church that was “open and “welcoming” not “open and affirming.” We were drawn to the church by the outspokenness and sincerity of Pastor Don – an African American with a style like Martin Luther King. Like Steve, Laura and Carleen, he spoke from the heart about the things that truly mattered in this world – even if those things were sometimes hard to hear.
When we joined that church, Dan and I were told that because we were gay, we would not be allowed to assume any type of leadership positions in the church. Which was obviously disappointing, but we were not strangers to discrimination and were not dissuaded from joining the church.
When New York state ruled that same sex couples could legally get married, we asked Pastor Don to officiate our wedding to celebrate our 25th anniversary — and he enthusiastically agreed.
A week before the wedding, Pastor Don told us that the deacons were “disappointed” that HE had agreed to marry us. Pastor Don noted the tensions and difficulties that would result from our wedding and asked if we had considered a civil union or a service by a justice of the peace.
Dan and I were frustrated but marched on. After much reflection, Dan wrote a note to Pastor Don and the Deacons, that laid out the case of why we thought it was important to be married by Pastor Don (Dan IS a lawyer, after all). Here’s a brief portion of that note:
“We were brought together by God and our relationship is a blessing. We do not need others to accept that blessing, and no one can take that away. But what a disservice to keep that blessing a secret.”
“It would be hollow, and indeed a lie, to suggest that this marriage is based simply on manmade legal rights. We are a loving Christian couple, and our commitment to each other is much deeper. How inappropriate it would be not to invite God to this special event — especially if He introduced us.
It’s only right that an agent of God, rather than a Justice of the Peace, preside over this ceremony.”
With that, Pastor Don jumped in with both feet, married us in our backyard and even stayed for the party afterwards.
Two weeks later, Pastor Don was voted out of the church by the Deacons. And the bylaws of the church were revised to prohibit ANY same sex ceremonies by the church.
We then realized we needed a church that truly reflected the philosophy and beliefs we had nurtured all our lives. Like this church right here. Where all are welcome.
Where differences of belief are not a reason for expelling people. They are a reason for welcoming people. An opportunity to see the world through different eyes. A chance to work alongside people who may believe very differently than you and still stand beside you and help bring about good in this world.
I’m happy to say that this past June, Steve blessed our marriage at our 30th anniversary reception. In front of 150 friends AND family.
Even in today’s environment, I believe it’s possible to disagree, and love each other and worship together. To work together to help our fellow man and be better for it. Isn’t that what Jesus taught us?
So, here’s a personal request: I know there is something uniquely personal about this church that each of you value.
There’s something we do as a congregation that’s meaningful to you – that, in your eyes and in your heart, helps to make the world a better place.
Support that. Whatever it is.
Maybe it’s the sermon and nutrition for the soul we receive each week, or our choirs or our Sunday School classes.
Maybe it’s the work we do feeding the hungry or the work we do helping immigrants. OR the care we provide to the sick and the homebound and the grief stricken.
Maybe it’s the fellowship we have with our friends at Green Grass. Or wherever we share in God’s work.
As you think about the Stewardship Campaign and what you should pledge, in your mind support that thing that means so much to you. With everything you’ve got.
Give it your heart, and your time, and if possible, increase your pledge this year, so our church can continue changing people’s lives in Connecticut, Old Lyme and around the world.
Thank you.
RACHEL GABRIEL
When I think about this church I always think of two words smushed together like they’re inseparable. Impossible beautiful.
I spent over a decade just visiting churches. I would purposefully ignore the contact cards, avoid the over-eager handshakes, sit in the back, and leave just before services ended to avoid being seen. Even though I knew in my bones that faith like singing or dancing isn’t something you can always just do alone in your head, I was certain that there was no other option than the margins of a church community for someone like me. One impossible beautiful day after another, I learned I was wrong.
This is a community that constantly puts unlikely people at the center. We say their names, we listen to their prayers and languages, we make them part of services and we link up to create long grace-filled arms that reach out far beyond boundaries of tradition or geography or identity to change people, circumstances and faith in what is real and possible. It’s impossible beautiful every time.
Here, even those of us who are used to hanging out in the back, on the margins, get called in to the center where we can stand in the light and see that we are not alone and we belong.
The first time I visited the church building on a weekday, outside of a service, I turned a corner and saw Carleen wearing a huge rainbow flag around her shoulders like a cape billowing behind her as she strode down the corridor wondering aloud how high we could hang this rainbow outside across those big white columns. I’d never known a minister who would touch that flag except to tear it down, but Carleen just wore it. And I thought: Impossible beautiful.
When Hannah and I asked Steve if he would make our marriage official on short notice, I wasn’t sure he would say yes. When he did, I was thinking he’d just do it quickly in his office, or maybe out back in the parking lot. So, my heart stopped when he led us into the sanctuary, right into the center where the light pours in. Impossible beautiful.
It’s a not very well kept secret that I cry during every single baptism in this church. I’m not sad, I’m just permanently overwhelmed by the tenderness and truth of what is said and done in that sacrament in this place. It’s impossible beautiful every time.
When I looked out at all you from my daughter’s Francesca’s baptism last spring, I saw that I’m not the only one who cries during baptisms here. This is a place full of people who would cry tears of joy, and smile huge smiles, and answer in unison for other people’s children. You are impossible beautiful.
Even when I don’t understand or don’t feel comfortable or have lost the rhythm of regular attendance I’m so grateful that this place exists, and that I can help send pieces of it out into the world to wrap its arms around things I have long been committed to, like education in Haiti, and some that I have just fallen in love with like this breathtaking choir. (They are impossible beautiful too).
This community receives my effort to show up, my hopes, my love, and my faith and it magnifies them so that they bigger and more powerful and more Christ-like. Alone on the margins, I would never be able to count two of the most talented members of the choir from halfway around the world, Pearl and Mapule, as members of my family. But in this community, that’s what we do. I can’t offer asylum, socks, blankets or breakfast to families from across the globe from a spot alone on the margins. But in this community, that’s we do. It’s impossible beautiful. Thank you for being a part of it and letting me be part of it too.
DOUG KIEM
Good Morning
Steve asked me to talk to you this morning about why I’m here, or specifically, why I come back here.
As some of you know, I grew up coming to this meetinghouse with my mother and father, who are still coming here to this day. I have fond memories of attending Sunday school, sitting up in the balcony with my friends and singing off key for fun. As a teenager, I joined the Pilgrim Fellowship and helped to pioneer some of the same events the PFer’s are still doing today.
Then, I went away. I moveD away for school, for work, for life really. I tried attending other churches with friends and other religions (Catholic, Buddhist, Episcopal, etc) to see if it “fit” me. No matter where I went, something didn’t feel quite right. Maybe it was the different rituals and traditions, but even the familiar ones didn’t seem to register as what I was looking for. Even when I got married and started a family, Leslie and I would try to attend local churches. As before, we found that everyone was nice enough and perfectly welcoming. We just couldn’t find any place with the right “feel”.
But what was it? What was the elusive thing that I remembered that I couldn’t get anywhere else? All that came to me was a sense of community. This place and you people are like a family. Even though we don’t all know each other, like some extended family members we only see every few years, we all know the family is here and will be if we need them.
And this place… this place is like the family table we sit around for a good meal or a great discussion. That couch we sit on together to silently watch a movie. The living room where we can go to be alone and quietly read a book. It’s a place of comfort that you know you can go to anytime you need.
That’s what all the other places were missing for me, that immediate feeling of not just “welcome”, but “welcome home”. A community that accepts your differences, even if they themselves “don’t care for that sort of thing”. A place you still want to get married in and baptize your children, even if you haven’t said “hello” to anyone there in years. A family that lets the prodigal son back in and the family he brings with him.
There are plenty of beautiful churches and cathedrals, righteous peoples, and welcoming religions. But here, I like to think, we have something above all that. We have a family.
FAYE RICHARDSON
Steve asked me to say a few words about why I love this church. To be truthful, a thousand words wouldn’t be enough, but for now here is one reason that makes my heart sing.
A few weeks ago, waiting for church to start, I looked down from the alto section and saw a wondrous thing. Sitting among you all were four very special families.
There were Venant and Chlotilde and Betina, sitting in their usual spot with Chuck and Louise. They came to us seventeen years ago, in 2001, when their older daughters, Odile and Gisele, were little, refugees from the genocide in Rwanda. Odile and Gisele are away at University now, and Chlotilde is studying to be a registered nurse.
A few pews back sat the Colon family. Their house washed into the sea during Hurricane Maria, so they were refugees of a different kind, environmental refugees from Puerto Rico. They lived in our Rogers Lake house for six months while waiting for permanent housing in New Haven. Adrian says his new apartment is in New Haven, but his home is here, in this church.
Up in the balcony, to my left, sat Malik, Zhaida and Ronya, the beautiful family who found sanctuary in our church seven months ago. They’re still waiting for a court decision on whether they’ll be allowed to stay in the United States, where they’ve been hardworking citizens for years, or be forced to return to Pakistan.
Right below sat a new family of five, refugees from the decades long, brutal conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Within a week or two, they’ll be moving into our refugee house on Rogers Lake. And with the help of our three-church refugee committee, they’ll start a new life, safe and in the midst of a whole new community of friends.
And I’ll add a fifth family, not in the Meeting House that Sunday but at their home, right up the Boston Post Road. The Hamous, refugees from Syria, came to us on a dark night two years and four months ago. We were their sponsors in Lyme/Old Lyme, and they’ve worked very hard to stay here even after our official role was over because, as Hani says, we are their family now.
Five families, whose lives are safer and happier and now hold endless promise because our church was gusty enough to say yes!!!
We may not be able to change the whole world, but we can do something!
And with everyone’s help, in ways large and small, we have done wonderful things.
Five families. And that’s just one reason why I love this wonderful church.
STEVE JUNGKEIT
Texts: Acts 2: 43-47; 1 Timothy 6: 17-19
The Shared World, Again
An icon is an exemplary image that, when reflected upon at length, opens up the mysteries of the world, the mysteries of the divine, of God. They’re not meant to be consumed as images. Instead, they offer themselves up to repeated viewings, slowly shaping our inner lives, and the way we conduct ourselves. Congregationalists don’t have many visual icons, unfortunately. I wish we did. But we do have verbal icons, found in the stories and wisdom of our faith.
One of my favorites is contemporary, a poem from Naomi Nye about the shared world. I’ve shared it with you before, but like all icons, it bears repeated consideration. She writes about a scene that unfolded at the boarding gate of an airport, after a plane had been delayed. A woman who spoke only Arabic collapsed and began wailing. Everyone was on edge, and no one knew quite what to do. And so Nye used her broken Arabic to speak to the woman, and little by little she relaxed. In time, they began talking to other passengers, and the woman began distributing cookies to the other stranded passengers. And then something unclenched in everyone, and a scene of impromptu belonging took place among all those disparate people. Naomi Nye concludes the story with these words: “This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. This can still happen.”
That’s the icon that we need right now. And that’s the virtue we most need to practice at the moment – generosity, sharing, demonstrating an expansive opening toward those around us. Sadly, it seems to be in short supply just now. Ours is a moment of isolation, of protecting what’s mine: my way of life, my culture, my assets, my home, my family, my, my, my. The symbol of it all is the wall, the fence, the gate at the border of the neighborhood, protecting what’s mine, guarding against cultural difference, or economic difference, or racial difference, or sexual difference. How utterly contrary to the spirit of Christianity. How utterly contrary to the spirit of any religion worth its salt.
The other night I had the privilege to accompany one of my heroes, a scholar of African art and culture, to the South African choir performance. As we drove to and from the concert, he told me that the highest virtue of most all the African traditions he knows is generosity, sharing. And he offered story after story about how generosity had been the key to his entire life, unlocking experiences and insights that otherwise would have remained hidden. “But Steve, it’s all over the Gospels too,” he told me. “It’s at the very center of Jesus’s life and teaching. It’s at the center of early Christianity. It’s the core of what the disciples practiced.” And he’s right about that. All of it. Is it not generosity of spirit and culture that makes the Ovuwa Choir so wonderful? Is it not generosity of spirit that animates the sacrament of communion? Is it not generosity of heart and soul which animates all that we do in this place? Is that not who we strive to be? Which leads me to ask: what if generosity, sharing, was the key to it all, that which unlocked the mystery of the world, and of God?
This is the time of year when we ask you to be generous – with your money and with your lives. We do so because we depend upon your support to sustain this place. We do so because generosity is the core of who we’re called to be as people of spirit. And we do so because of the importance of upholding what we believe to be most true, and most valuable right now: the shared world. It can be hard to find it right now. But I like to believe that you can find it right here.
This is the world I want to live in. It can still happen. Look around this place. It is happening. But we need every single one of you to help us sustain it. So when it comes time to think about stewardship, please be generous. Give what you can, and then give a little more. Find the exuberant generosity that exists within you – and it does exist – and let it flow.
Icons are given as objects of contemplation. But in the end they’re given as something to enact, as something to become. Here’s what I hope they say about us: that they were an image of the shared world. Because this, this, is the world I want to live in.
