Braver/Wiser Archive

The drag show was heaven broken open, given to us for the evening. Everything for a little while was perfect—and I saw the face of my God.

I miss the way things were, and I know they’ll never really be the same.

Our conversations about the history of our country—the actions of our ancestors—can be made new and relevant and understandable. We can and must have these conversations.

May we all remember how inextricably we are linked in this fight for justice and freedom.

My mother and father armed us with this truth: The world is awful, magnificent, and belongs to you as much as it belongs to anyone else.

I hope that this Great Silence, which has come alongside the suffering, holds the beginnings of our healing.

We can’t turn back the clock to save lives, but maybe we can change our addiction to productivity that enables our leaders to fail us so tragically.

Sometimes, I know I'm hanging onto a part of my life that I'll eventually need to let go of...but not just yet.

A new disease, without any cure, is pushing us apart. And, yet, we cannot escape one another. We need one another. Whether I acknowledge it or not, the guarantee of safety does not exist.

Jesus had no political power. He lived his whole life in the shadow of the Roman empire, and that empire killed him. Yet Jesus healed the sick, he listened, he moved among the ordinary people, in the lowly places.

I’m confident in our human ability to together muscle our way into renewing our world.

“Game” is no longer the proper metaphor to guide my thoughts and actions. We are—all of us—in liminal space, at a threshold confronting immediacy, shrouded in fog.

Years ago, I did one of those mud run obstacle races. There were eight physical obstacles on the course, but my biggest learning was that we all had a ninth obstacle.

If two is the smallest number in ethics, it's also the smallest seed of certainty; the way not to get lost. Because the ultimate test, when the fear and grief finally give way to clarity, is knowing ourselves by how well we cared for one another.

We all have our foibles; pieces of ourselves that we both admire and occasionally revile. These gifts and struggles exist in tandem.

Before I birthed my baby, he was a possibility, a kick against my insides. With that first cry, first breath, he became a person in the world.

If we aren’t willing to ask the important, uncomfortable, and even scary questions, we won’t get to larger and deeper truths.

A lot of us feel like our lives should have come with instructions. Or maybe they did, but we lost the only copy a long time ago.

We have so many opportunities to bless each other in this world, but they don’t always announce themselves as moments of profound transformation.

If we don’t know where the spark of life comes from, can we know for sure where it goes?

Surround yourself with skillful teachers. Let them teach you, but don't let them do it for you. That learning is yours to do.

When you’re the only black man in a sea of whiteness, purses still get clutched, and people still cross the street, and hellos still get lost in the void.

We are never numbers to be tallied for turnout. We are more than a sum. Together, we are the hope and courage.

One of my most treasured New Year’s traditions is coming up with a word for the year: a single word that I want to be the theme for my entire year. When I’m questioning what’s the right thing to do, I will look to my word of the year for guidance.

Every year, I tell the congregation not to worry about mistakes because there aren’t any; there is only us, telling an old story about love getting born into this aching world.

It was disruptive and strange to know that someone had died to bring this hope, and to wonder how the donor’s family mourned at the same time we rejoiced.

With a single generous gesture from my older child, her sister's belief in Santa stayed intact that year.

The crisis was an opportunity to learn to be fully me and love it, inner turmoil and all. I learned that strength comes from authenticity, never from perfection.

I was made this way, in this body and this skin. Like all beings, I have an inherent good that cannot be eclipsed.

Can we strive to have the grace to back away when our presence doesn’t feel like safety?

We can be cheerleaders for simple joys (even when we don't share them) and compassionate about the fact that we’re all just trying to survive.

Sometimes grief sends notice ahead of time; sometimes, it shows up as an unwelcome, uninvited guest.

There is relief and remorse equally in my heart as the growing season comes to a close.

This is the beauty and sparkle of spiritual communities: needs arise and beloveds appear to ask, “How can I help?” There’s no fixed timeline, just the spiritual practices of generosity and stewardship.

Coming out to my family was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. I realized that my choice was one of life and death, and I needed to let my secret out in order to continue living, and to do so authentically.

What I do know for sure is that hope matters. One of the best things we can do is to hold hope for someone when that person cannot hold it for themselves.

If there’s anything sitting in silence has taught me, it’s that silence doesn’t actually exist. Every moment is full to the point of bursting with Reality, whether or not we notice it.

May I always remember that Tango, like life, is a dance of the people. It’s meant to be shared, not practiced in isolation.

There are so many spiritual lessons from the natural world and—in a season filled with Ingatherings and Water Communions—this is one for me: oxbow lakes as a beautiful combination of resiliency, strength, and flexibility.

It was my inadvertent letting go that made this wild, interdependent beauty possible. And at that very moment, I knew I didn’t need that sort of control anymore.

When it comes to living our expansive, inclusive, anti-oppression faith, we fall short.

As a hospital chaplain, I often listen to painful stories. We call it compassionate presence, but I may be crying inside. When words fail, I pray and sing.

If justice is to be realized, our voices must speak loudly—even boisterously—of love.

People of color—and other marginalized people—can’t just want things to be different. It has to be everyone wanting things to be different for everyone.

The stone soup story isn’t about selfish people. It’s about people who thought they were powerless.

When we can gently hold things steady, change comes from within; that’s where the real growth happens.

Who are you going to be, today? And tomorrow? Who are we all becoming, together?

It's hard to feel gratitude for something when you're focusing on what’s wrong with it.

I call the tall bush on my back patio “Burning Bush” because in autumn its leaves are a fiery red. All winter long I overlooked three uninhabited nests inside of it. For months and months I could have perceived—but didn’t—what was in plain sight. ...

We can’t always predict which choices will wind up having a huge impact on us, whether it's bringing home a stuffed animal or taking a particular train to Oxford Circus.