poem

Blessing in a Time of Violence

Today, my bones ached when waking. Perhaps yours did too, seeing the date September 11 on your calendar; thinking about the violence and terror of that day; thinking about the violence and terror in the days, in the years after. For me that feeling only worsened reading more about the assassination of Charlie Kirk yesterday, learning more about yet another school shooting on the same afternoon. In our society that is saturated with violent speech, violent action, and where retaliation seems such a tightly held value, the air feels thick with worry, sorrow, and fear. 

As a community of faith, we are people who uphold the values of inclusion, community, spiritual transformation, and justice. We believe that all people should be able to flourish, and not at the expense of others. This week we are reminded of the urgency of these values. This week when the Supreme Court gave legal authority to use racial profiling during immigration sweeps and raids. This week that is marked by political, social, and school violence. So, let us stand firm in our values that are centered on love, not hate. As Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., he himself also a victim of political assassination, said, “Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” Even though Charlie Kirk’s words have been used against the LGBTQ community, even though his words incited violence, it is only compassion, it is only love that will ultimately win; the killing of Kirk is wrong. Children having access to weapons is wrong. Racial profiling is wrong.

This week, we are starting a new series: Our Core Calling: A Series on Our Core Values. This series seems timely as we will be invited to consider what it means to live into the heart of who we are and what we believe at MCCGSL. This series will allow us to dive deeper into what it means to be a community rooted in radical inclusion, nourished in queer community, transformed by God’s liberating love, and to be a people embodied in justice. In this season of worship (and always) we will celebrate a faith and a God where everyone belongs at the table, where love resists exclusion, where lives are renewed by Love’s deep and warming presence, and where worship overflows into action both within and beyond our church walls. 

Friends, wherever you are in your sorrow, your rage, your questions, know you are held in community and you are not alone. In these violent times, let us not turn toward violence ourselves, but increase our capacity for compassion, kindness, and love. Perhaps the sign at a neighboring church sums our charge up best: “Do small things with great love.” 

Blessing in a Time of Violence
by Jan Richardson

Which is to say
this blessing
is always.
Which is to say
there is no place
this blessing
does not long
to cry out
in lament,
to weep its words
in sorrow,
to scream its lines
in sacred rage.

Which is to say
there is no day
this blessing ceases
to whisper
into the ear
of the dying,
the despairing,
the terrified.
Which is to say
there is no moment
this blessing refuses
to sing itself
into the heart
of the hated
and the hateful,
the victim
and the victimizer,
with every last
ounce of hope
it has.

Which is to say
there is none
that can stop it,
none that can
halt its course,
none that will
still its cadence,
none that will
delay its rising,
none that can keep it
from springing forth
from the mouths of us
who hope,
from the hands of us
who act,
from the hearts of us
who love,
from the feet of us
who will not cease
our stubborn, aching
marching, marching

until this blessing
has spoken
its final word,
until this blessing
has breathed
its benediction
In every place,
in every tongue:

Peace.
Peace.
Peace.

May our hearts burn with love, 
Pastors Lauren & Eli 

Angel of the Get Through - Andrea Gibson

Angel of the Get Through - Andrea Gibson

August 13, 1975 – July 14, 2025

Best friend, this is what we do.
We gather each other up.
We say “The cup is half
yours and half mine.”
We say, “Alone is the last place you will ever be.”

On Monday, the world lost one of its fiercest hearts. Andrea Gibson (they/them)—beloved poet, activist, truth-teller—passed away, and the grief that followed was not quiet. It bloomed loudly, openly, in shared poems and stories, in whispered thanks and loud declarations. Queer and trans communities across the globe have gathered to mourn, to honor, and to celebrate the life and legacy of someone who gave voice to what so many of us were never sure we were allowed to say out loud.

For so many of us, Andrea’s words were the first ones that told us we weren’t broken. That being queer, trans, tender-hearted, or feeling deeply wasn’t something to hide, but something holy and something to be cherished. Their poems didn’t flinch from pain. They reached into the pain and pulled out something honest, beautiful, and deeply human.

Andrea taught me, how to live largely and love loudly. Their poetry gave permission to take up space, to feel too much, to cry in public, to dance alone in the kitchen, to love your friends and community so fiercely you can’t help but say it out loud. They showed us that vulnerability is a true kind of strength, and that community is also built through many soft moments. The soft moments that show up through shared meals, laughter, and on quiet nights when someone stays on the phone with you when you need it the most.

We build Beloved Community as daily practice. We text our friends to remind them we love them, or even pick up the phone to call them and let them know. We show up with soup when someone is sick. We forgive each other’s small (and sometimes large) failings. We create art that helps someone feel less alone, that helps our own bodies feel less alone. We organize, we listen, and we build safe havens where people can show up authentically.

We remind ourselves that Beloved Community isn’t a utopia. It’s messy and real and human. It’s built through daily care and collective responsibility. It’s the chosen family that shows up. It’s the refusal to let anyone disappear into loneliness.

So, in honor of our Beloved Andrea, we keep going, not alone, but gathered up saying the cup is half yours, and half mine. Alone is the last place you will ever be.

I say, let us hold each other a little closer. Let us keep building a world where no one has to hide, no one has to go it alone, and love is always loud.

Rest in power, Andrea. Thank you for showing us a way.

With Love,
Pastor Eli