In the Catholic tradition of my childhood, we are in the weeks marked as Ordinary Time. And although in that tradition, “Ordinary Time” refers to the denotation of weeks by ordinal numbers, to my childhood ears hearing the priest announce each week, “this is the seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time,” felt like acknowledging these were ho-hum-nothing-special weeks.

I write these words in the middle of January 2026, and these, my friends, are not ho-hum ordinary times.

This is obvious to all of us. It is not normal that we live in a country where masked, minimally trained agents are given extraordinary authority to terrorize our neighbors. It is not normal that our government is threatening to invade sovereign nations as though we were planning to set up a tent in our neighbor’s backyard and just refuse to leave. It’s not normal that elected officials in New England are taking life-saving healthcare away from trans kids and wistfully dreaming of the days of racially segregated schools.

None of this is normal. To say these are extraordinary times is not even strong enough a way to describe what we are living through. We have done the work in our congregations to create truly welcoming spiritual homes for our neighbors and families of every race and background; for our trans children to become known as their true selves; for immigrants to find asylum within our walls; and for community members with unmet needs to find a hand up through our many ministerial discretionary funds. You, who are doing this work already, know that these are not ordinary days.

Still, we affirm — we insist — on keeping our congregations places of welcome and love and safety. And we worry that this insistence may put some of our congregations in harm’s way.

None of this is normal.

What is normal, is not being okay in times like this. It’s okay to not be okay. We can be not-okay together in every Sunday Sanctuary, and remember that we are a people who center in Love — in all ways. It is so important that we have these spaces — whether we attend in person or log in to watch Sunday worship from home — to grieve together. To offer each other shoulders to lean on. To say, “I’m just so tired…” and hear our neighbor say, “Me too.” To be in communities of care and watch our chalice flame flickering, remembering that generations of Unitarians and Universalists before us also lived in times that felt untenable. I promise you, those ancestors also did not feel okay.

On a winter day in 1965, Rev James Reeb watched freedom fighters beaten on the Edmund Pettis Bridge, and he said to his wife, this is not okay.

And at that same time in Detroit, UU congregant Viola Liuzzo also looked around and said to her family, this is not okay. And like generations of our ancestors, they found comfort and courage in their communities of faith. And they made decisions about what was in their power to do. We honor their blessed memory.

Today we also honor the work of so many of our clergy and laity, offering hope and support in myriad ways. Our UUA’s vice-president for programs and ministries, Rev Ashley Horan has been highly visible lately, spending uncounted hours in the snow and ice of her beloved Minneapolis, supporting protesters, pastoring to the weary and the worried, and linking arms with other people of faith to insist on our resistance to the normalization of state violence.

This is one of the profound practices of Spiritual Leadership available to us all: navigating between our power and our powerlessness. It is not for all of us to put our bodies on front lines, in harm’s way. But if we tell ourselves it is either the front lines or nothing, we lay waste our power, and open ourselves to hopelessness.

Spiritual Leadership asks each of us to recognize the limitations of our power — if we live in New England, we cannot show up on the streets of Minneapolis. That does not mean we are powerless. We have the power to call our elected representatives to braver service. We have the power to hold signs on highway overpasses reminding commuters that none of this is normal. We have the power to create networks of mutual aid and care in our congregations, and in our neighborhoods. We have the power to connect with the helpers in our communities and ask them what they need. We have the power to amplify crowdfunding for families directly harmed by the loss of insurance, of medication, of stable sources of food.

I write these words in the middle of January 2026.

Next Sunday will be the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time, and the responsive reading for that week will ask parishioners to respond: Here am I, Lord; I come to do your will.

Beloveds, in these cold and blustery and still-dark days, when we affirm that it is okay to not be okay in all that unfolds around and beyond us, may this be a call we can return to:

Here we are, Love; we come to make your promises real.

We were waiting for relief, and instead witnessed greater violence and the expansion of fear;

Love appeared in the faces of people providing protection to neighbors, pouring water over tear-gassed eyes.

Here we are, Love; we come to make your promises real.

Love does not ask for our sacrificial obedience, but for our collaboration in the work of the liberation of all.

Love weeps at the violence and fear, and we say,

Here we are, Love; we come to make your promises real.

We raise our words, our hands, our hope, and affirm that our faith calls us to greater love, to justice and equity, to generosity, community, and transformation.

We reject the divisions thrust towards as and insist on centering the power of Love. We who are not okay, even now, we say with courage,

Here we are, Love; we come to make your promises real.

And if all we can do right now is just say these words, or even just read them silently, it’s okay.

We are not alone, beloveds.

Courage.

Love abides.