The Power of Fear (originally published November 2016)

2 years ago I was in the midst of this, the most stressful episode in my life. I wish I could say that there had been some type of reconciliation. Sadly, there was never a response to our letter (below), which I read to representatives of the Ad hoc committee (one of which was a SKSM Board member) and their legal representatives at a meeting they demanded, which was recorded by a court reporter they hired. By agreement, we were supposed to receive a copy of the transcript, which was never supplied.

Even after a student came forward and confessed, and completely cleared me by name, representatives of the school never acknowledged that they had made a mistake or apologized.

SKSM broke my heart as did the many colleagues (including senior ministers) who, without any accurate or personal knowledge, voiced their opinions on social media, questioned my fitness to ministry, and for all intents and purposes, shunned me both personally and professionally (and still are).

Why am I talking about this now? Because it still hurts (deeply) and also because I am still struggling with forgiveness. I'm also struggling with coming to grips with the disparity between our stated UU Principles and unwillingness to walk our talk when we are the ones who are acting unjustly.

In the midst of all this, I also recognize that this entire episode taught me invaluable lessons--lessons about withholding judgement until I have all the facts. Lessons about how immensely powerful fear can be and how it can be used to silence large groups of people. And the biggest lesson of all, (and something I had hoped to discover about myself but didn't know for sure until my feet were held to the proverbial fire): that I am willing to stand for what is right and ethical, even at great personal cost.

And there it is. Why I'm talking about this now. Fear is a powerful silencer, and I don't believe I am alone in my grave concerns about the incoming president and his cabinet. If we continue our descent and embrace the fascism that seems to be waiting around the corner, will those of us with more privilege allow fear to silence us as those with less are brutalized? Will we be able to resist the pull of ensuring our own safety at the expense of others? And on a personal note: will I have the strength to survive another ethical and moral battle? I hope so.

However, I also know that I could not have survived the "mess at Starr King" if it hadn't been for the love, strength, and commitment of the friends and colleagues who supported me--sometimes in very material ways, and sometimes with perfectly timed funny cat videos.

We are going to need each other's love and support in order to sustain our commitment for the long haul. I am going to need you and you are going to need me. There will be easier days and there will be hard days...and then there will be excruciating days. And those, especially, are the days when we will need to dig deep and be there to prop each other up. I promise to do all I can to support you and those in need of support--I ask that you do the same.

May we resist giving into fear, and on the days we feel shaky, may we find many hands and hearts reaching out and giving us the strength and love we need to succeed.

(Note: my apologies for the ableist language--I could use some help for an equally strong word to replace "stand".)

Letter Read to Ad hoc Committee November 6, 2014

Dear Ad Hoc Committee,

We come today seeking reconciliation with Starr King School for the Ministry. May we first state that we bear great love for the school and cherish the many lessons taken from our time as students there. Chief among those lessons we have learned is to strive for compassionate communication that upholds anti-oppressive values.

We are deeply disappointed that the school has chosen to respond in a manner that does not reflect these values.

No evidence has been provided that we have had a part in the strapped student email, and no justification has been given for withholding of our degrees, which has had a severe financial and spiritual impact on our lives.

We have been very forthcoming and participated fully in the restorative justice process. At no time did a representative of the school or the board utilize direct address to express any concerns they may have had. Instead we were informed the night before graduation that we would not be receiving our degrees. At that time we were also informed that a committee was being formed to investigate us. In light of the school’s threats of legal action against students, the serious hardship created by the board’s decision to withhold our degrees and the demand that we relinquish our right to privacy and violate pastoral confidentiality, we were forced to seek legal counsel.

Our attorney contacted the school’s attorneys in May, 2014, to try to open communication regarding our degrees, but the only response we have received has been a demand that we turn over our personal computers and emails. We still desire open, healing communication. At this time, the only communication we are being offered is to answer questions by a lawyer and one member of the committee who will make recommendations to the Starr King Board of Trustees. We feel a conversation, rather than a one sided interrogation, is befitting of religious professionals and justice seeking people. We further believe that it is imperative that we are allowed to speak directly with all members of the committee, to ensure good communication, and that a transcription is not a substitute for personal interaction.

We also do not wish to give up our right to privacy or break UUMA guidelines regarding collegial confidentiality by turning over our emails or laptops. Doing this would set a dangerous precedent and send the message that we agree that an institution with power should be able to wield that power over those with less power in order to compel them to give up privacy and confidentiality. It would also put our careers into further jeopardy by compromising relationships with colleagues and demonstrating an inability to hold confidential communications. Several colleagues have contacted us and stated explicitly that they do not want us turning over communications from or to them to Starr King. Starr King has yet to give us a reason they seek to view our communications. We would like to know on what basis or by what source Starr King is targeting us.

Let us be clear, neither of us sent the email by “strapped student.” Neither of us knows who did. There is nothing in our email or on our laptops that would lead the school to find the identity of that person. We do not agree with the anonymous manner in which “strapped student” sent the email, as shown by each of our long histories of speaking openly and honestly owning and airing our views and the views we were elected to air as student leaders.

Additionally, and more to the point, we are very concerned that the school has diverted considerable attention and resources in its quest to find and punish the email sender, instead of choosing to address the serious issues raised by that email, which the president of the board of trustees has acknowledged are longstanding.

We ask in earnest to be able to engage in the kind of communication that we learned at Starr King: open, compassionate, anti-oppressive communication that seeks healing and justice. However, while the school insists on using the significant power they have over us to continue an unfounded investigation into our involvement, with little regard for the direct damage this investigation is having on our lives and careers, we have only this statement to submit.

With hope for future reconciliation,

Julie and Suzi

http://beachledermanlaw.com/suzi-and-julies-nov-6-2014-statement/

Bittersweet Memory (originally published April 2016)

It was bittersweet seeing this photo pop up from two years ago. Two years ago, I preached a pretty darn good sermon focused on social justice. After talking with folks after the service, I headed to my car to make the 2-1/2 hour drive home to Berkeley. I was tired- I'd driven down the day before. Kind congregants had generously offered me home hospitality, and as often happens when I meet interesting people, I stayed up far too late conversing, especially considering I had to get up early to preach in the morning.

As I got into my car and turned my phone on, I discovered I'd missed many calls, emails, and texts. It turned out that while I had been preaching my sermon, someone had publicly sent out an anonymous email critical of my school's recent presidential search and which including Survey Monkey results which the school claimed were confidential.

I had nothing to do with the email, however my school either felt I sent it, or that I knew who had. At least, that's what I guess. No one from the administration of Starr King School for the Ministry ever spoke with me. Ever. They never once directly addressed me. I did speak to a restorative justice person the school hired and honestly answered their questions, but in spite of that, the school notified me the night before my graduation that they were withholding my degree. They demanded I meet with their legal representative and provide all my electronic communications as one of the conditions of giving me the degree I had worked so hard to earn. Later, they went on to demand my personal computer.

I could have easily provided them with what they wanted to clear my name. However, turning over all my electronic communications/emails would have meant breaking the UUMA Guidelines I had agreed to uphold as a candidate for ministry; it would have meant breaking the confidentiality of my colleagues and of people I had been pastoring - people that were in no way associated with the school, but who expected my confidentiality. It would also have meant breaking the confidentiality of activists all over the country that I had worked with--people I had built solid relationships with over many years, including DREAMERS and others whose very safety could have been compromised.

I felt quite strongly about the school demanding I give up one of my essential rights to privacy -especially considering that the school proudly holds up its reputation as one of supporting social justice and striving to build a just and sustainable world.

Lastly, and in no way of less importance, I realised that if I allowed the school to successfully use the withholding of my earned degree to coerce me into giving up a civil right, the precedent would be set and they could do it again. As a former student representative to the school's Board of Trustees, I simply could not set that precedent. I needed to protect future students from the same terrible experience.

The irony of my school demanding I break confidentiality in order for them to find out who leaked documents they claimed were confidential was not lost on me. I got a lawyer and asked for her help in getting my degree released-a degree I needed in order to be hired as a chaplain.

Over the next few months, there were several articles covering the story in the UU World, and the New York Times also picked up the story. While the coverage was honest and quite sympathetic to me, the actions of many of my colleagues were not.

What I went through during that year was beyond dreadful. Uninvolved colleagues who hadn't spoken to me about what happened began posting their opinions on social media. Many posted extremely disparaging things about me, including some who speculated that I was unfit for ministry. People whom I had thought were friends stopped speaking to me. Seminarians who had stayed in my home, who I had danced with, who had called on me in times of trouble (sometimes in the middle of the night) not only stopped talking to me, they were even too afraid to "like" my posts on Facebook out of fear of what the school might do. Colleagues that I truly trusted and loved turned their backs and haven't spoken to me since.

This broke my heart. It broke my heart and made me question my faith. I lost my faith community at a time when I desperately needed it the most.

To be very clear-there was a small group of amazingly beautiful, steadfast friends and colleagues who spoke up and out for me. Who stood by me even when it was hard-incredibly hard. Who publicly supported me, often taking a lot of criticism for doing so. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have made it through.

At the same time, I was essentially judged, condemned, and shunned, by a large segment of the UU world for something I didn't do. I can't express how much this hurt. I gained weight. My blood pressure went up. I stopped dancing. I experienced incredible grief. I was left not knowing who I could trust.

The joy I experienced as I traveled my path to UU ministry dimmed and sputtered. I once had sped through multiple GA's and national actions, camera gear in hand, smiling widely as I photographed everyone and everything. I was left no longer feeling welcome.

What really hurt-what hurts still, and what this photograph reminds me, is that the minister of the church I preached at that Sunday was involved in the decisions made at my school. They knew I was in their pulpit when that email was sent and therefore knew I couldn't have sent it. Yet they never spoke out.

Later, when the person responsible come forward and absolved me of any involvement, there was not a whisper from the school. No olive branch was extended, no apology issued. My degree was sent to my attorney's office, stuffed in a postal service envelope, without even a simple note attached.

Now, two years later, I still haven't had a direct conversation with any administrator from Starr King. What I have had have been questions from prospective employers concerned about "things they've heard."

I'm doing all I can to try to get to a place of forgiveness. It's hard. Incredibly hard. I hope one day to get there. I also hope time will mend my broken heart...and I'm grateful beyond measure that I continue to have hope. I most especially look forward to the day when I can view this photograph and only be reminded of the day I preached a pretty darn good sermon.

My Car (originally published 16 March 2016)

Tonight I had a conversation with someone who labelled moral outrage as emotionally immature. As someone who is often outraged by injustice, I felt judged-a definite trigger for me. As I examined my feelings, and my 35+ years of activism and social justice work, I was able to identify that outrage is only one piece of what motivates me. It's the spark plug that creates the ignition needed to drive the engine. I would say compassion, empathy, and a desire for justice combine to create the engine. Love is the fuel. Without all of these elements, the car won't drive. Creativity and hope make the car fun to drive. It will drive without them, but the drive is so much more enjoyable with them on board.

I don't want to eliminate any of these elements. I need them all. Sometimes outrage is uncomfortable. It contains anger and anger can feel overwhelming. However, as long as there is injustice, I would never want to trade my outrage for a more pleasant emotion. I need that engine to start so that I can continue on the journey. I also need compassion, empathy, love, creativity, and hope--in fact, in greater measure.

I dream of a just world. I dream of no longer needing the spark of outrage -of living in a world where my car could be forever parked in a beautiful meadow while we all danced around it. Until that day, I will continue to drive, grateful that the fuel is unlimited, and also good for the earth.

The Cost of Moral Injury (originally published in 2012)

I've been thinking about my dad a lot today.  He was a member of the 10th Mountain Division ski troops during WWII.  He was one of the very few in his regiment to come home alive.  He returned with a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, and a broken soul.  He became a life long advocate for peace.  He also never spoke about his experiences during the war.

He'd tell funny stories about training at Camp Hale, located in the heart of the Rocky Mountains - elevation 9,300 feet.  How the men, already elite skiers, were taught mountain climbing and snow survival skills.  How they burned so many calories during training that they were each given half a pie for dessert.  They were also given free cigarettes and since my father didn't smoke, he'd trade his for more pie.  He said one night he ate 3 whole pies and he was still hungry.  I believe it.

One of the few photographs I have of him from that time shows a very handsome, lean man standing on the side of a snow covered mountain with his wooden skis slung over one shoulder.  He was smiling widely and looked relaxed and carefree.  The photograph was made at Camp Hale before he shipped out.

Once these men arrived in Northern Italy, they did things I have difficulty imagining.  Scaling the 2,000 foot vertical sides of Riva Ridge in the Apennines mountains in the dark of night... while carrying all their gear, skis, and guns with only strap on metal crampons attached to their boots.  I learned that from an old 10th Mountain Division newsletter.  I didn't learn it from my dad because my dad couldn't talk about the war.  Once, when I told him I was going to an anti-war protest in 2003 prior to the beginning of the Iraq War, he quietly said - "that's a really good thing you all are doing.  If only everyone understood that war is the hardest on women and children..."  his voice trailed off and when I asked what he meant - he changed the subject.

The men of WWII were in a tough place when they came home.  They were heroes of "the Good War" and culturally conditioned not to talk about feelings.  So they kept them inside.  They didn't talk about PTSD then.  There wasn't a lot of information available about coping with the horrors of war when they returned home.  So they stayed silent and in my father's case, busy.  He threw himself into his work and his hobbies.   He didn't allow himself time to reflect or remember.

By the time he met my mom, he had gotten pretty good at doing the things that society said a man must do.  He had a good job.  He drove a nice car.  He even got his pilot's license.  He also came home from the war with a temper and you never knew when he would yell.  He was obsessive about security when we were home alone without him.  He installed many locks and would get very upset if he came home and discovered we had missed one.  I remember one time I overheard him yell at my mom "You don't have any god damn idea what they could do to you and Suzi do you?!?"  I didn't really know what he meant, but it scared me - I could tell whatever it was, it was very bad.

I knew something was wrong with my dad, I just never really knew what it was.  Now I do.  My dad was suffering from moral injury.  What is moral injury?  Dr. Gabriella Lettini and Dr. Rita Nakashima Brock, authors of the recently released book "Soul Repair: Recovering from Moral Injury after War" define moral injury as "a negative self-judgment based on having transgressed core moral beliefs and values or on feeling betrayed by authorities. It is reflected in the destruction of a moral identity and loss of meaning. Its symptoms include shame, survivor guilt, depression, despair, addiction, distrust, anger, a need to make amends and the loss of a desire to live."

Dr. Brett Litz, a clinical psychologist with the Department of Veterans Affairs defines a moral injury experience as "perpetrating, failing to prevent, bearing witness to or learning about acts that transgress deeply held moral beliefs and expectations."
Litz and his colleagues are advocating for an increase of research into the issue of moral injury.  They argue that "service members who don't talk to loved ones, clergy or some other confidant will become convinced what they did is unforgivable, leading to recognized symptoms of withdrawal, self-condemnation and avoidance."

My father, like many men who came home from WWII, didn't talk to anyone.  His unrecognized injury destroyed my parent's marriage.  They divorced when I was 4.

When I was 6, my father married my beloved step-mom Cynthia.  For the first time in my life, I saw glimpses of the man my dad must have been before the war.  They were never apart from the time they got married until her death decades later.   Even so, with the exception of Cynthia, he was still emotionally distant and even though we would do things together, I always felt like there was a barrier between my dad and the rest of the world.

Decades later, I took care of Cynthia when she was in hospice and we had many deep conversations.  One day I finally got up the courage to ask her about my dad- why he was distant.  She grew quiet and then said "First, you need to know your dad loves you very much.  When we met, we were both carrying very heavy burdens.  We were able to share them with each other.  He knows I love and see ALL of him.  I know he loves and sees ALL of me."  She then told me that the war had come close to completely breaking him and before they met, only his incredible will and strength kept him together.

After Cynthia died, my dad and I spent a lot of time together.  He still didn't talk about the war.  When he was 90 I went to visit him and he suddenly started to cry.  I had only seen my dad cry once before-- when Cynthia died.  I just held him while he cried and he finally cried out "I'm so glad you do what you do.  I wish I'd had the courage to go throw my medals in Bush's face!"  That was all he said.  But it was in that moment that I realized just how much the war had cost him.

We all count the deaths.  We all count the injured.  We all can calculate the dollars spent.  I wonder if we have ever calculated all that has been lost among the living?  How many men (and now women) return with parts of them missing - invisible parts that they cannot file a claim for?  How many men like my father lose their connection with those they love and the rest of society?  How many families never get to welcome home the person that left?  Never get to see their parent care free and smiling?  These are some of the costs of moral injury.  A deeper and more final cost is that many of those suffering from moral injury ultimately commit suicide.

I am grateful that my dad did not choose this path.  I am grateful he had moments free from anguish thanks to Cynthia's wisdom and love.  I recognize that many do not have those anguish free moments and my heart aches for them...and my heart aches for all the families who will never again know their loved ones without injured souls.  I  continue to do what I can to actively oppose war but now I do it with the image of my care-free and smiling dad firmly attached inside my heart.

Honoring a Last Wish

It is with a heavy heart that I write this post. In doing so, I am honoring the last wishes of a patient as best as I can, while upholding HIPAA regulations regarding privacy. 

A patient died yesterday. They were regularly houseless, although recently were able to stay in an SRO hotel, which was better than the street. This patient and I spent a lot of time together in the weeks leading up to their death. Initially they were pretty shut down, but soon they opened up and shared from their very big and beautiful heart. 

Their dying wish was for me to tell everyone to "love one another and to not be mean to each other". They specifically asked me to share that the houseless "are human beings, just like you, and they deserve human contact, whether a "hello" or even just to look them in the eye". They said that the hardest thing - the thing that made them withdraw into a shell of themselves for years was that days and sometimes weeks would go by without people even looking at them. 

They asked that "even if we don't look so good, please look at us. Even a look or a hello could make all the difference in the world". They shared that I was the first person to hold their hand or provide any non-medical contact in over 12 years. 12 YEARS! This shattered my heart. 

They also wanted me to say their name to you so they wouldn't be forgotten. Unfortunately, HIPPA laws will not allow me to do that, but I can promise that they won't be forgotten--I will never forget this patient, or their story which included sharing their first memory of being put into foster care at age 2 and after a series of foster homes and group homes, being put to the street at age 18 where they lived ever since. Their story is repeated daily and in a country of such abundance, it is unconscionable that anyone should have to live a life as they did.

I knew I wouldn't be able to say their name here so instead, I shouted their name into the wind at a deserted part of the beach today at sunset. May they find peace and may we all take this person's dying wish to heart. 
 
Addendum: I have been asked if it's ok so share this. It would be lovely if you did--sharing their final wish and inviting people to see the humanity of the houseless would be a lovely way to help honor this patient's final wish. Thank you so much for caring and helping me to honor them as well. <3

Grief and Gratitude for David and Jerry

When I was in 6th grade, the music that was the soundtrack to my life was music I couldn't relate to-Bread, Olivia Newton-John, The Osmonds, John Denver...it's sweetness and treacle did not resonate with me.

As an outsider kid, it was one more example of just how out of step I was. I watched as kids and their parents sang along to these songs in the very white, affluent suburban town I called home in Orange County, CA. I felt like there was something very wrong with me because I didn't "just love" Donny Osmond or Bread. 

One day, while coming home from school on the bus, the bus driver had the radio on. I remember clearly the pain of the loneliness I was experiencing. As I sat there, with my head gently bouncing against the rattling bus window, a song came on- Space Oddity, by David Bowie. It captured my loneliness and isolation in a way no other song ever had.  I remember that moment on the bus with absolute clarity. At that moment I realized that maybe, just maybe, there was someone out there who actually understood. 

I was pretty isolated where I lived. It was months before I found myself near a record store. I didn't know who sang the song. I didn't know the name of it. All I knew was that I needed to have it. I gathered up my courage and went in and asked if they had that song "Major Tom." After some questioning, I was told it was called Space Oddity by David Bowie. They played it for me and I nearly burst into tears. I remember clearly it's cost--88 cents. I had .75  and hadn't thought of tax. I walked away without the single but that didn't really matter. I knew I wasn't alone. 

I made it through middle school and in high school, gravitated toward the theater. I was still an outsider, and lonelier than ever. I had no one I could talk to about my feelings of attraction toward both boys and girls. I knew it must be wrong, so said nothing to anyone, isolating myself even further and became a target for bullying. I was miserable. Frequently,  I thought of dying.  

At a cast party, someone put on a new album--The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I sat straight up and listened intently. That voice! I remembered that voice! And that voice was singing about the very things I didn't even have the vocabulary to name. By then I had babysitting money and managed to get myself to the record store where I bought my own copy. I listened to it over and over, finding comfort in the lyrics and the creative freakishness that resonated so deeply within me. 

I had one good friend at the time named Jim and he and I went over the lyrics endlessly. Jim's parents loathed me, certain I was a terrible influence on their son. They decided to send Jim back east to spend the summer with relatives. We didn't like the idea, which is why we ran away to San Francisco. We had no idea about the hippie scene there. We just knew that spending the summer together was a much better idea than spending the summer apart.  We ended up in Berkeley. 

One day, while walking along Telegraph Ave., I met Jerry-an artist selling his airbrushed t-shirts featuring Alpha Centauri and other space scenes. He was also a musician and we talked about Bowie and his music for hours on end. There were more of us! 

Jim and I always intended to go back home in time for the start of school and so we did. Unfortunately, Jim's Mother's response to our return was to insist that in order to save Jim from my terrible influence, they must move out of town. Which they did--before their house even sold. We were forbidden to speak to one another. She kept their phone on lockdown and as time went by, we drifted apart. 

As I mourned the absence of my only friend, I immersed myself into Bowie's music even more. It was my only solace to the despair and deep loneliness I was experiencing. I threw myself into school with the singleminded focus of someone whose boat had gone down and was swimming for a distant shore. I finished high school and headed for college, moving back to Berkeley. 

I reconnected with Jerry and he introduced me to other musicians and artists--all who liked Bowie. I got a job in a record store and then interned at a radio station. Through it all, Bowie was my touchstone. I got to meet him through working at the radio station and it was definitely a peak moment. 

Bowie's music never stopped reflecting the changes I myself was experiencing. Jerry and I never stopped talking about Bowie. His band always covered a song or two of Bowie's over the decades. He was nearly as excited hearing about my visit to the Bowie retrospective in London as I was to have attended it. 

Jerry understood the lifeline Bowie's music had been for me. He grew up in an affluent part of Long Island and understood the pressures to conform and the pain experienced when you truly didn't fit in. Jerry understood me in a way no one else did. People often made assumptions about our friendship. We didn't care. He played at my wedding, I was in his. He was uncle to my kids. I'm fairy godmother to his daughter. We remained friends for 40 years. He was the one person who would have fully understood what David Bowie's death yesterday meant to me. We would be talking about it now. Except he died from cancer a year ago on January 13--a death I am still grieving.

As I absorb the news of Bowie's death, I find myself reflecting on all the times his music has saved me. I think about how important music has been my whole life, and wonder if that would have been the case if I hadn't connected with Bowie's so deeply. I reflect on the influence he had on the vast majority of my favorite musicians and bands. I am grateful to have fallen asleep to Blackstar (his latest album released just days ago).  Now, although I grieve, instead of the loneliness and solitude I experienced as a youth, I join thousands and thousands of other outsiders like myself who grabbed the lifeline David Bowie provided, and feel grateful he brought me to shore. 

A Very Important (and Joyful) Announcement!

Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

–The Rev. Dr. Howard Thurman

22 June 2015

 

Beloved friends,

Two years ago, I felt a slice of awe and an even larger slice of gratitude as I stepped into the pulpit once filled by The Rev. Dr. Howard Thurman. I was overwhelmed with emotion and also affirmed of my call to serve justice with every ounce of my being. Dr. Thurman has been a profound influence on my path to ordained ministry. His leadership in the civil rights movement, his mentorship of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and his prolific writings on ethical and cultural criticism informed and transformed me into the religious leader I am now called to be. Most inspiring was his creation of The Church for the Fellowship of All Peoples in San Francisco. It was there, in 1944, so much of what he believed came to fruition. The church was the first in the country to proclaim and realize the goal “to create a religious fellowship that transcended artificial barriers of race, nation, culture, gender, and social distinctions.”

And so it is with deep humility and gratitude beyond measure I share with you that on August 30, 2015, I will be ordained by The Church for the Fellowship of All Peoples. They have invited me to take my ministry into the world on their behalf and with their blessing. Having been so deeply influenced by Dr. Thurman and then had the enormous good fortune to study under the tutelage of Rev. Dr. Dorsey Blake and serve the Church for the Fellowship of All Peoples during my field study, I offered an enthusiastic ‘YES!’ My experience of this historic church community is that it consistently embodies the values I hold dear. Love and social justice are beacons on their path toward creating a more just and sustainable world.

Friends, this is such an honor and I am hopeful the many others who have been formative and supportive on my path to ordination will be able to join me in this celebration. (More details to follow).

With an abundance of love, gratitude, and joy,

Suzi

Suzi Spangenberg, MASC, M.Div

Berkeley, CA