 Please join me for a few moments of silence as we prepare ourselves to join together this morning. And now please remain seated as we sing our in-gathering hymn, number 123, Spirit of Life and the Words, appear right here in your order of service. Welcome to the First Unitarian Society of Madison. This is a community where curious seekers gather to explore spiritual, ethical and social issues in an accepting and nurturing environment. Unitarian Universalism supports the freedom of conscience of each individual, as together we seek to be a force for good in the world. My name is Karen Rose Gredler, and on behalf of the congregation, I would like to extend a special welcome to our many visitors. We are welcoming congregations, so wherever you are and whomever you are, on your life's journey, we celebrate your presence among us. Newcomers and visitors are encouraged to stay for our fellowship hour after the service and to visit the library, which is directly across from the center doors of this auditorium. Bring your beverages and your questions. Members of our staff and lay ministry will be on hand to welcome you. You may also look for persons holding teal stoneware coffee mugs. These are FUS members knowledgeable about our faith community who would welcome visiting with you. An experienced guide is usually available after every service to give a tour of the building. And my notes show that John Powell is on deck today. John, are you here? He'll be ambling in by the end of the service, I promise. Meet him up here on your left by the big windows and he'll be glad to show you around the campus. We welcome children, especially today, to stay for the duration of the service. However, because it is difficult for some in attendance to hear in this lively acoustical environment, our child haven back in that corner and the commons along the back of the auditorium are excellent places to go if a child needs to talk or move around or jump up and down or scream or whatever. The service can still be seen and heard from those areas. This would also be an excellent time to please turn off any devices that might cause a disturbance during the hour, especially those pesky cell phone ringers. I'd now like to acknowledge those individuals who help our services run smoothly. We have David Briles hiding behind the board over there, coordinating our sound. Actually, we have Gene Sears pinch hitting for a greeter upstairs because we didn't have anybody. Sign up to greet for this 9 o'clock service. Hint, hint. Our ushers are Tom Dolmage and Barb Avery. Hospitality that is making coffee and lemonade is Sandy Plish. And as I said, John Powell will be here to guide everyone around. And Anne Smiley is in charge of taking care of some of the plants for us today. And we also have flowers provided by... Hmm, okay. I've got it here. March and Nick Schweitzer. And they're beautiful. Look at those things. Okay, please note the announcements in your red floors insert to the order of service. There's lots of information in here describing upcoming events and things that are going on today and additional information about some future events. Again, welcome. We hope today's service will stimulate your mind, touch your heart, and stir your spirit. Thank you. Rest and quiet your weak-worn spirit, for you are here to touch again eternal springs of hope and renewal. Calm your hurried pace. For this hour, let the cares, the fretfulness, and worry be set aside. Give yourself. You are so very worthy of moving on, of making new efforts, of trying again. Know that you are not alone. There is strength and caring support for you here. You will find comfort if you but ask. Look around. You are part of beloved community. You can make it what you will. Enter into this house of peace. And if you will rise now in body or spirit to join together in the affirmation for our chalice lighting, it is printed in your order of service. May this flame, symbol of transformation since time began, fire our curiosity, strengthen our wills, and sustain our courage as we seek what is good within and around us. And before we join our voices in song, if you'll take a moment to turn and greet your neighbor and in any congregation's life, the rite of dedication. This is a time when we, who are gathered here in this meeting house, have the privilege to welcome four young children into our family and religious community. Today it is our cherished assignment to welcome and pledge our care to Miles Austin Kegabine, Edie Rose Musselman, Sebastian Ring Kathman, and Cleo Esme's Apollo Voss. Today all of us gathered here are more than casual witnesses to life's gifts and nature's marvelous creations. We all are being invited to share the joy with which these parents take in their child and enter more fully into their lives. I believe in my heart that I speak for all of us when I say we are grateful for this privilege. We continue with this time-honored ritual because these children are our present delight. By them we are reminded of life's small joys and wisdoms. They are the heirs of the work that we have done and are doing. They will build upon the foundations that we lay. They are the yet unwritten chapter in our story. We promise them and their parents our love and support, a listening ear and a helping hand. We pledge to them a community of openness, a place where their beliefs, their doubts, and their questions are received with gentleness and respect. A place of challenge where we continue to point to the ever-open road of possibility. We pledge to give them roots, a tradition to pass on to their own children, and a place to always come home to. If our parents will now come forward with their child, and if the congregation will please rise and join in the pledge of dedication that is found in the insert in your order of service For the gift of childhood, whose innocence, laughter, and curiosity bring hope, joy, and new understanding into our lives, we lift thankful hearts. We welcome Miles, Edie, Sebastian, and Cleo into this spiritual community and extend to their parents our love and support in the joys and challenges of caregiving. As these children grow, we will share with them our insights, our values, and our dreams that they may enjoy the rich benefits of our religious heritage. Please be seated. And now to those who stand with their child before us. Carrie and Dan Kegabine, Abigail and Paul Musselman, Serenity Voss and Edwards Apollo, Cory Ring, and Ryan Kauffman. As caregivers, it is your privilege and obligation to provide an environment both of security and challenge in which these young souls will grow. Do you commit yourself to promote their physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being? Will you respect as well as protect this child and bestow your love as a free and unmerited gift? And do you also reaffirm your commitment to support and care for each other as partners in life and in parenting? If so, please say we do. Several are among us today who bear a special relationship to one of these children. If you will please stand as your names are read. With Miles are his godparents Candace and Julian Bain, big sisters Eve and Elise Kegabine, grandparents Christine and Claire Obert, Don and Marilyn Kegabine, and with us in spirit are also godparents Karen and Jay Ahuja. Now with Edie are godparents Brian and Nancy Chapman, great-grandmothers Virginia Johnson and Beth Chapman. And with Cleo, godparent Brian Keller with us in spirit today, Kate Keller, Richard and Jeanne Zappala, Lottie Cruzall. And with Sebastian, big brother Braden, great-grandparents Don and Barbara Lindstrom, grandparents Sherry and Randy Ring, Tom and Kim Kauffman, Anne's Christina Kauffman and Cassie Sager and Uncle Brandon Ring. To all of you, I now ask, do you take upon yourselves the privilege and responsibility to nurture, defend and support the inherent worth and dignity of this child to whom you bear a special relationship? Will you encourage them to grow in freedom and spirit and to always seek the truth? Finally, will you help them to grow in love for the larger human family, to love and respect the larger community of life to which we all belong? If so, please make this sacred promise by responding we will. Please be seated. In the act of dedication, we use the symbolism of water as a sign of our common heritage. There is no suggestion here of a washing away of inherited sin. These children came into the world with the limitations natural to our species, but they arrived innocent. Water here stands for vitality. It is the essence of life, the foundation of being. Its use here reminds us of our common bond with all embracing, ever-sustaining nature. This is also the water of our community, the waters of the world, gathered at our annual water communion service. Its use here reminds us of the ever-sustaining and embracing love of community. Abigail and Paul name this child. Rose Musselman, we dedicate you in the name of truth, the promise of love, and the fellowship of this society. May you be granted clarity of thought, integrity of speech, and a compassionate heart. Serenity and Ed name this child. Leo Esmes, Apollo Voss, we dedicate you in the name of truth, the promise of love, and the fellowship of this society. May you be granted clarity of thought, integrity of speech, and a compassionate heart. Corey and Ryan name this child. Sebastian Ring Kathman, we dedicate you in the name of truth, the promise of love, and the fellowship of this society. May you be granted clarity of thought, integrity of speech, and a compassionate heart. You are. Carrie and Dan name this child. Miles Austin Kegabine, we dedicate you in the name of truth, the promise of love, and the fellowship of this society. May you be granted clarity of thought, integrity of speech, and a compassionate heart. He's not so sure about that one. As a token of their dedication, we give to Miles, Edie, Cleo, and Sebastian a rosebud, fragrant symbol of beauty, promise, and love. This rose has no thorns, symbolizing the better world we would give our children if it were entirely in our power. And while we know that the world is not all together as lovely as this rosebud, we hope that these children will learn to recognize the beauty and goodness which does exist, that they will grow in wisdom and compassion, and that they will add their own beauty to the world. Miles, Edie, Cleo, and Sebastian, as this flower unfolds in all its natural beauty, so may your life unfold. Also as a remembrance of their dedication, we give to each child a blanket, a gift from the members of our shawl ministry program. When you see this blanket, may you be reminded of the warmth, the support, and the love of this community for your child and your family. Today we have dedicated these children. May we also dedicate ourselves this day. As we contemplate the miracle of new life, as we renew in our hearts a sense of wonder and joy, may we be stirred to a fresh awareness of the sacredness of life and the divine promise of childhood. May we pledge to build a community in which all of our children will grow surrounded by beauty, embraced by love, and cradled in the arms of peace. May we pass on the light of compassion and courage, and may that light burn brightly within us all. If you will join me now in welcoming our children. We'll rise now in body or spirit to join in singing our next hymn, number 338, as any of our children may leave for summer fun. Please be seated. Reading today from Terri Hershey. In the latter years of her life in the backyard of her home in northern Florida, my grandmother had a porch swing. She liked to sit and swing and hum old church hymns such as rock of ages cleft for me. I can still see her there wearing a white scarf over her head, a concession to chemotherapy's unrelenting march. When as a young adult I visited her, she would always ask with me to sit with her on the swing for a spell. She would pat my leg and call me darling. As long as my grandmother lived and in spite of her pain, there was always a place for me on the swing. If I were asked to explain grace, I would paint the picture of my grandmother's swing. There I never had to deliberate or explain or worry, regardless of any weight I carried. The porch swing, my grandmother's presence bestowed grace without conditions. And I am here today because of that porch swing. I am here because of a sanctuary. Everyone has a sanctuary if only in the mind, even if we can't say what it is we know of its power. It is a place where we feel grounded, unhurried, and renewed. We go there whenever we can, which never seems often enough, or that's what we tell ourselves. A sanctuary is a place that restores us, replenishes us, nourishes us. In this renewal we are reminded once again of what really is important. We are wired to need this kind of grounding. I believe it's in our emotional DNA. So you would think creating sanctuary would be at the top of our priorities, but that's the sticky wicket. We end up making choices with our time and with our days that are detrimental to our emotional and spiritual well-being. If I had my druthers I would put my pen down. Yes, I still write with a pen. And invite you to take a walk with me. We're not going far. Off to the side of my garden and tucked under a maple tree is a swing. It's for thinking and sitting for a spell. I can tell the weeks when I do not get my recommended dose of sanctuary, or in my case garden time. And I can tell when I do take that time because it restores me. It is a dose of grace mainlined straight into my heart. And these words from Wendell Berry. If we will have the wisdom to survive, to stand like slow growing trees on a ruined place, renewing, enriching it. If we will make our seasons welcome here, asking not too much of heaven or earth. Then a long time after we are gone, the lives our lives prepare will live here. Their houses strongly placed upon the valley sides, fields and gardens rich in the windows, the rivers will run clear as we will never know, and over it birdsong like a canopy. On the levels of the hills will be green meadows, stock bells and noon shade. On the steeps where greed and ignorance cut down the old forest, an old forest will stand. Its reach, lift, fall, drifting on its roots, the veins of forgotten springs opening. Families will be singing in the fields. In their voices they will hear a music rising out of the ground. They will take nothing they will not return. Whatever the grief at parting, memory will spread over it like a grove, and memory will grow into legend, legend into song and song into sacrament. The abundance of this place, the songs of its people and its birds will be health and wisdom and indwelling light. This is no heavenly dream. In its hardship lies our possibility. I despair, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be. I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water, and I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. Come into the presence of stillness. Rest for a time in the grace of the world. Come into the peace of wild things things which are stronger than fear, mightier than despair. Now I don't know about you, but recently despair has been mighty within me. I have called on these words from Wendell Berry many times, especially in those dark hours of the night when the despair lying deep within rears its ugly head, showing up in my mind and my body, and I am overcome with fear for this world. Fear for our lives, the lives of our children, the lives of children, strangers in strange lands, far from here who live with a terror that is unknown to me. And I wrestle with how we live in a world so bruised and so hurting and not give in, give over, give up in the face of pain, the reality of despair. And it is summer. It is time for careless evenings counting fireflies, sipping lemonade and swinging in hammocks. It is time for sparklers and soccer games, lazy afternoons and long weekend hikes, barbecues and family vacations. Summer time when the living is easy. Summer time when we step out of the daily routine, travel to places near and far, take a break from the worries of the world and the worries of our lives and awaken once again to the beauty of life. Lila Crawford writing from Barrington, New Jersey in The Sun magazine gives us this memory of summer. My mother's second job as a family therapist kept her away from home at dinnertime. My siblings and I would make boxed macaroni and cheese and watch TV while her work lines answering machine picked up again and again, recording for her all those voices. Once every summer though, we would pack up and leave the house for a vacation spot within driving distance somewhere not too expensive. To start, mom would take us to the Denny's in town for breakfast. We would drink two small glasses of chocolate milk and eat short stacks of pancakes and sides of extra crispy bacon and cram our pockets with jelly packets which made great snacks in the hotel room. Then we would get back in the car with our Walkmans and Beverly Cleary novels and we would go north to Mystic, Connecticut or Block Island, Rhode Island or Boston or south to Gettysburg or Baltimore, Washington, D.C. using paper maps to find our route. Once we'd arrived, we would stay to Howard Johnson's and swim in the pool and play war and uno atop the double beds. We would request more towels and soap from the front desk and we would make endless trips to buy chips and candy from the vending machines. We would sweat our way through walking tours and pretend that we were reading the historical markers. We would smile for the 35 millimeter camera and my sisters and I would fight over who got to carry it like a bracelet on their wrist. At night, there would be salad bars with croutons. On the ride home, we would fall asleep, the batteries in our Walkmans dead or dying. Our books finished or splayed out on a towel to dry from a spill. Our wrists and ankles covered in friendship bracelets. I would know we were home by the dip at the base of our driveway and then that long moment of stillness before Mom pulled the key from the ignition and we all stretched and gathered our dirty laundry and duffel bags and carried them into the house and went our separate ways to the bathroom, the couch, the fridge, the answering machine. There in the driveway, a sibling's arm would be smashed into mine. I was warm but not too warm. My little brother was always asleep with his mouth hanging open. My sisters weren't talking or arguing and the blisters from my sandals had turned to calluses and didn't hurt anymore and I wasn't even that hungry. For that moment, that still quiet moment before life returned and we went our separate ways, life was good, life was perfect, and we were all renewed, renewal. It is the key to the process of life and is deeply embedded within us. Goethe once wrote, we must always change, renew, rejuvenate ourselves, otherwise we harden. We see it in the cycle of the plants, the cycles of the seasons, in procreation as one generation gives birth to the next. We see it in each night's sleep as we are renewed physically and psychologically to prepare ourselves to meet a new day. We must always change, renew, rejuvenate ourselves, otherwise we will harden. This is a worry I carry this summer. Orlando, Istanbul, here at home, the sadness, the violence, the cruelty, how do we live within this? How do we live aware of deep suffering and not lose ourselves to it, not harden under its weight? What is it that you would like renewed within you this summer? For me, I know I need a renewal of love, courage, kindness, understanding, curiosity, patience, and all else that has been depleted in the face of pain. The possibility of renewal is real, but it must be experienced to be truly believed. The French-Algerian philosopher and writer Albert Camus experienced this. He wrote, in the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer. This sentence comes from his essay, Return to Tabassa. At the age of 40, Camus returned to the rain-drenched city of Algiers in December. He was trying again to find the beauty of his homeland, but there was more. In a real sense, the Holocaust, World War II, the challenges of rebuilding Europe, these were a devastating experience. He was trapped in profound despair, an existential condition from which he felt there was no escape. During a brief reprieve from the rain, he went to Tabassa, which is located on the Mediterranean coast 50 miles from Algiers. Camus was last there when he was 20 years old. He explored the ruins there and discovered a kind of safe harbor, a sanctuary, an utterly unexpected, inner-invincible summer. In the middle of ruin, in the midst of despair, surrounded by a world of pain and turmoil, he experienced a renewal of possibility and hope. It was life-affirming, heart-awakening, and life-changing. Camus reminds us of the possibility of an inward reality, the dawn that arose in him with its power to awaken, as if from a deep sleep. Unitarian Universalist Association president Peter Morales once said that we Unitarian Universalists claim to have a lot of theological diversity, yet every one of us that I have ever known, whether that person is a humanist, a theist, a pagan, a Christian, or Buddhist, or those who refuse all labels altogether, all of us share a core conviction. We all believe that things do not have to be the way they are. We refuse to accept that inequality, hatred, environmental destruction, racism, war, we refuse to believe that these are inevitable parts of the human condition. We believe that we can make things better, especially when we act together. We believe this because we have experienced life's possibilities. We have experienced love, beauty, joy, friendship, and a peace that transcends our understanding. We have all had some variety of spiritual experience. We need to remember when we witness brutality, injustice, the insanity of our politics, heartless human exploitation by the economically powerful and the wanton devastation of our natural world. When we find ourselves becoming bitter, we need to remind ourselves of those most treasured experiences, and actually we need to do more than, remember, we need to experience life's gifts and possibilities once more. Renewing contact with what is most precious in life is really a spiritual practice. It is an essential practice. If we do not feed our spirits, they will wither. Even the good deeds that we strive to do will become acts of anger and joyless obligation rather than efforts to share and to heal. We all need to ask ourselves, what does my spirit need right now? Perhaps it is quiet time in nature. Maybe it's a visit to a museum, some time in the garden, a concert by a favorite artist, a walk with an old friend. The possibilities are endless. Even better, how about creating something, play some music, sing in a chorus, paint, sculpt, knit, quilt, sew, cook up something new and special, play with a child, because every now and then we will need to visit the world we are trying to create. Perhaps for you it is standing upon a shore with the waves beating out their rhythmic crash, the water rushing over your feet. Maybe it is the stars at night, somewhere beyond the bounds of the city lights, or the stunning colors of a southwestern desert, or the unfolding green and yellow and pink in your garden. My colleague Kendall Gibbons tells us that we humans have immense capacity for good, and we have an immense capacity for cruelty and misery. Perhaps the most essential tenet of liberal religion is that each one of us must decide for ourselves how we will respond to the breathtaking beauty that surrounds us. How do you become the person who rises intuitively to the demands of the good, who lives in the heaven of the present, who is fed by the beauty of creation? It is through discovering our own invincible summer. By building our own inner reserves of strength within we can then go forth to face the world without. At those times when the world is too much with you and its busyness and noise and strife overwhelm you, seek renewal. Take a moment and simply stop. Stop striving, stop thinking, stop doing. Attend instead to the beating of your heart and the rise and fall of your breath. Find your center. Become still and allow yourself the gift of rest. In that moment there's nothing you need to fix, no problem you need to solve. Direct the energy toward healing yourself, finding renewal, resting in peace, allowing the quiet to permeate your being and radiate through you into a world that desperately needs it. I'll admit there's a part of me that feels guilty and self-indulgent when I do things that I enjoy and feed my spirit. There are always reflections to write, people to call, meetings to attend to emails to answer, projects to move forward, causes to champion and connections to make. Yet deep down, I know better. Just as practices such as prayer and meditation give us clarity and strength to re-engage with the world, so too do other practices that get us in touch with what is most precious. And so I urge you on this summer's day to make some space to reflect on what your spirit needs right now. Deep down you know. We all do. Our deepest longings will guide us. Make space for beauty and love and silence and play. Let your spirit heal and soar. When our spirits are strong and reconnected, our work for compassion and justice has enduring power. When our spirits are renewed, we can face the pain without turning to despair, and we truly can be blessings to one another and the world. And I now invite you into the giving and receiving of the morning's offering. Our summer offerings are dedicated to the ongoing work of this community, and we thank you for your generosity. This week we gather here a community with joys and sorrows written on our hearts. We gather to share our stories, lessen our burdens, and hold up our gladness. This week we hold in our hearts the memory of Elie Wiesel, who passed away yesterday. We hold the memory of all for whom he gave a voice. We also hold Ray Banks, brother of Lorna Aronson, who died on Father's Day of complications from Agent Orange-related Parkinson's. May he rest in peace. And we hold all those in our community and around the world who experience violence in their lives. May they find support and nurturing presence in their healing. Spirit of life who draws us together in a web of holy relationship. Make your presence known with us and in us and among us. Remind us that we are not alone in our times of grief. Comfort us with your spirit. Manifest in human hands and voices. Remind us that we are not alone in joy and wonder. Inspire us to honor and extend the beauty we find in this world. Source of stars and planets and water and land open our hearts to all of our neighbors. Open our souls to a renewal of faith. Open our hands to join together in the work ahead. Blessed be. And if you will rise now in body or spirit for our closing hymn, number six, leave this community of the spirit. May we remember the difficult lesson that each day offers more things than we can do. May we do what needs to be done, postpone what does not, and be at peace with what we can be and do. Therefore, may we learn to separate that which matters least from that which matters most of all. Blessed be. Go in peace and please be seated for the postlude.