 from right after the Civil War to right before the Civil War. Let's see what will happen. Thank you. Thank you very much. Mr. Gacken, is that a call? All right. Hmm. Please join me in a moment of centering silence to enter fully into worship together. In our in-gathering hymn, the words for which we're printed in your order of service. Welcome to the First Mutary in Society of Madison. This is a community where curious seekers gather together to explore spiritual, ethereal, and social issues in an accepting and nurturing environment. Unitarian Universalism supports the freedom of conscience of each individual as together we try and seek to be a force for good in the world. My name is Sam Bates, and on behalf of the congregation, I would like to extend a special welcome to visitors today. We are welcoming congregations, so whoever you are and wherever you happen to be on your life's journey, we celebrate your presence among us here. Newcomers are encouraged to say 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 drinks and your questions. Members of our staff and lay ministry will be on hand to welcome you. You may also look for persons in holding teal, stoneware, coffee mugs. These are FUS members knowledgeable about our faith community and who would love to visit with you. Experience guides are generally available to give a building tour after each service, and I know we have one today. So if you'd like to learn more about our sustainably designed edition or our national landmark meeting house, please meet near the large glass windows on the left side of the auditorium. We welcome children to stay for the duration of the service. However, because it's difficult for some to hear in this lively acoustical environment, our child haven over in the back corner there and commons are excellent places to retire if a child needs to talk or move around. The service can still be seen and heard well from those places. And speaking of noise, this would be a good time to turn off any electronic devices that might cause a disturbance. Now I'd like to acknowledge those individuals who help our service run smoothly. Today on Sound, we have Mark Schultz. Sorry, can't read this. Our lay minister is Ann Smiley. Goss Woodward is our creator. We have three ushers, Ron Cook, Patricia Becker, and Edwards Apollo. And in hospitality, Rick DeVito and Jean Hills are providing our coffee. Please note the announcements on the red floors insert in your order of service, which describe upcoming events in the society and provide more information about today's activities. Again, welcome. We hope that today's service will stimulate your mind, touch your heart, and stir your spirit. We're glad you're here. Let us gather together as a community of seekers to honor the interdependence of life, to respect the dignity of all, and to honor the land we walk humbly upon. Friends, as we gather together this weekend before Columbus Day, reimagined here in Dane County as Indigenous Peoples' Day, let us acknowledge that we walk upon the traditional territories of the Ho-Chunk, Mamacheta, Ojibwe, and Bodewadmi, the original nations of Wisconsin, who continue to cry out for justice and self-determination. We are blessed with a space and an opportunity to strive to live out our common principles, to bring justice, equity, and compassion into our daily lives, to resist all that threatens the earth and her people, and to live out our dream of a world community of peace, liberty, and justice for all. Let these thoughts carry us forward as we journey and worship together. Blessed be. And now I invite you to rise in body or in spirit and join me in today's chalice lighting, the words for which are printed in your order of service. Divine spark from sacred dark, symbol of our holy intent. Illuminate this hour. And now let us turn to our neighbors and exchange a few words of friendly greetings. Ladies and gentlemen, please come forward for the message for all ages. Come on up, come on up. Find a comfy place to sit. Good morning. So the adults and I are going to be talking a little bit today about heaven, and I'm wondering if any of you have ever heard about heaven. Have you heard about heaven before? No, I'm wondering if the things that you've heard about heaven might be similar to some of the things that I heard about heaven when I was growing up, things that might be a little bit different than what we talk about here in our church. So one of the things that I used to hear about heaven was that heaven was a far away place that maybe isn't in this world, but in another world, and maybe even a place that's perfect and a place that we can't get to in this life but have to maybe wait for another life. Have any of you ever heard something kind of like that about heaven? Yeah. So in our church, though, we sometimes talk about heaven in a different way, don't we, about something that we can build here in this world together if we really want to. So the story that I'm going to be telling you now is about that. So I want you to listen really carefully, all right? So this story is called I Wish Tonight, and was written by Lois Rock and illustrated by Anne Wilson. The evening sky darkens, the stars will shine bright, but which is the first star that I'll see tonight? I wish that I may, oh, I wish that I might have everything that I wish for tonight. I wish for a silver moon sailing on high through the shape-shifting oceans of clouds in the sky, a warm, gentle breeze that will sing and will sigh in the tall, swaying tree tops as it passes by. I wish for a bed with a sail and an ore that will float on shadows so dark on the floor as the wind fills the sails to the sky it will soar and take me up high to a faraway shore. In the land of beyond, all my dreams will come true. I'll do all the things that I so want to do. I'll have great adventures the whole day through, so I'll wish for my friends to be there too. All the things that we need will be ours just for free, with enough for my friends, oh, and their friends and me. We'll pick what we want just like fruit from a tree. Everyone in the world will come nearer to see. We'll tell them that nothing can be bought or sold in the land that I wish for, no one will need gold. We'll pick lovely presents for young and for old so no one goes hungry and no one is cold. Then one to another we'll say, let's be friends and let's make a great plan that together we'll mend anything that is broken and carefully tend everything in the world. Keep it safe to the end. Soon no one will know where the wastelands have been. The trees will grow tall and the deserts turn green. The air will blow clear and the rain will fall clean. And in shimmering streams silver fish will be seen. I'll go down to the shore in the gold evening light and climb back in my boat, sail off in the night while the skies turn to dark and the stars shine so bright and I'll wish for a world where what's wrong is put right. And then in the morning I'll wake with the sun. My dream won't be over, my dream's just begun. A dream full of goodness and laughter and fun for me, for the world, and for everyone. So does that sound like a place that maybe you'd like to live? A place where everyone is taken care of? Yeah, it does sound? So this is a story about being able to dream about a better world and then being able to come together and try to make it true. It sounds like a poem, it is a poem, and a story at the same time. So the adults are going to sing you out to your classes now. So I thank you for listening to my story. Have a good class. I'm Dan Fermansky, who is the former campaign director of the Unitarian Universalist Association Standing on the Side of Love Campaign. This is titled, Why Honoring Indigenous People's Day Matters. For many reasons I love Dane County, Wisconsin, home of my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin, Madison. Some people reduce Dane County to just a bastion of liberals. Well, those liberals in Dane County replaced Columbus Day with Indigenous People's Day a while back. But so has South Dakota, which honors Native American Day. Several California cities, and my employer, the Unitarian Universalist Association, honor Indigenous People's Day as well. Many people think this is political correctness gone too far or oversensitivity. I'm not even curious what Fox News has a symptom of our country's fundamental denial. It means lifting up a man who sent the first slaves across the Atlantic. More slaves, about 5,000 than any other individual, according to historian after historian. It means honoring a man who kidnapped Indigenous Americans to take back with him to Spain with several dying along the way. It means holding up as an example a man who demanded food, gold, and spun cotton from Indigenous Americans and used punishments, like cutting off their ears and noses and hands, to make sure the goods were received. It means celebrating someone who instituted policies of rewarding his lieutenants with Indigenous women to rape. As educator and historian, James W. Lohan writes in his book, Lies, My Teacher Told Me. All these gruesome facts are available in primary source materials, letters by Columbus and other members of his expeditions, and in the work of Las Casas, the first great historian of the Americas, who relied on primary materials and helped preserve them. I'm not saying we can't be glad that we live in the United States of America. I often am, especially after time in a state or national park, or while reading about the curbed freedoms of speech or assembly in other countries, or while realizing that I have access to clean hot water every day. But honoring Christopher Columbus, though he was skilled as an explorer, as some sort of national hero, just makes me sad. Each time we hollow Christopher Columbus over Indigenous people, or Rick Santorum over a gay soldier in Afghanistan, or Sheriff Joe Arpaio over a migrant, I believe our moral amnesia is flaring up. For many of us, commemorating Indigenous People's Day over Columbus Day is one way to show that we understand the symptoms of the lies that have been embedded in our country's collective consciousness. Let's face it, we live in a country where children grew up playing cowboys and Indians. Saying our country is in denial about our story, our roots, our history, doesn't make us unpatriotic, ungrateful, unaware of the staggering beauty of our land, our freedoms, and of so many people in our nation, including people who may not agree with us most of the time. But we can't authentically move forward if we don't truly know the ground we are on and where we have been. Honoring Indigenous People's Day is one important way to do that. The United States is full of countless children who go to bed hungry every night, overwhelming environmental degradation costing us our health, and a colossal disparity between the very few uber-wealthy and millions of everyone else. Our deeply ailing nation is full of people who think that constitutional rights should be abrogated in favor of their God beliefs over others' God beliefs or non-God beliefs. It is full of individuals who have convinced themselves that undocumented people, the poorest, most hard-working people in our country, are somehow taking something away from them, and that if immigrants end up being abused by border detention, it's their own fault. Wherever we are on this long Indigenous People's Weekend, let us think, let us pray, however we may choose, let us speak, commit, act, and above all, let us love. Years ago, at Star King School for the Ministry, my partner Smoky and I took a class together on Clarence Jurden's Book of Sermons, Cotton Patch Parables of Liberation. A Greek scholar, farmer, and anti-racist activist, Clarence Jurden was known for two things. He translated Scripture into the language of his time and place, and he founded Koinonia Farm, an interracial community serving in Jurden's words as a demonstration plot for the Kingdom of God. The year was 1942, and the place was America's Georgia, deep in the segregated South. To get a sense of how Jurden interpreted Scripture, please listen closely to his translation of Matthew 1344. The Kingdom of God is like a man plowing in a field. He discovers a treasure, a box. He's plowing with his old ox there. All of a sudden, he hits something and thinks it's a rock or a stump, yet he sees it glitter like metal. He quickly throws his plow aside, scratches around, and finds it's a treasure box. What does he do? Well, he might say, you know, this is a wonderful discovery I've got. I think I'll go to school and write a PhD dissertation on treasure hunting. But that isn't what he does. In his great excitement, this guy has the ability to decide on a clear-cut, decisive course of action. He says, I'm going to sell all I got and buy that field. I first read Jurden's words in January of 2013, and I've seen them lived for real back in 2011. If you're willing, I'd like to take you back to that time with me just briefly. It's late October at the Occupy Encampment in Phoenix, Arizona. I'm sure you've heard about the Occupy Wall Street movement. Maybe you were even an occupier yourself once and spent some time camping in the shadows of big city skyscrapers. What happened to me that day could easily have happened to any of you in any Occupy Encampment in the United States or even the world. Imagine that you're sitting next to a bunch of other protesters outside your tents one day making signs. Off to your right, the food tent is serving people bowls of vegan chili made by the local Food Not Bombs group. Off to your left, the medic tent is filled with people trying to sneak in a nap while the police aren't looking. All around you and your fellow protesters are boxes and tote bags and backpacks filled with spare clothing and shoes for the camp's homeless, flyers for the upcoming march, sign-making materials and first aid supplies. The camp is messy, yes, but it's alive. Yes, you've been living rough since you and the other protesters first pitched your tents and took up the call to occupy everywhere. But gradually the camp has come to be a sort of home for you and these other protesters, even the ones you disagree with, are your family. Life in the camp has come to be almost normal, quiet, comfortable, unchallenging. Then a lone voice starts chanting from across the camp, we are unstoppable, another world is possible. It's a familiar chant in an unfamiliar voice. You and your friends stand up to see who's making all the noise. There between a green tent and a yellow tent, you spot a man making his way toward you. He has a wild look to him, eyes, bloodshot, his hair sticking up every which way. You can tell that he has come from a long way away to be there with you. He walks right up to you and your friends and starts telling you a story you can barely believe. He tells you he sold his house, just up and sold it and donated most of his wealth to the movement. He tells you he's going to live in camp with you now, going to help bring that possible world he was talking about to life. Now, you may have been roughing it in camp for months and facing police batons every couple of days, but this man, you decide, has clearly lost his marbles. You may not be doing as well in life as you would like, but there's a good chance you have a home or a car, a job or a bank account, a cell phone or a laptop, or any other kind of security. You need these things to get by in life and you're not about to give them up for the movement or anything else. And then there's the man standing right before you. This man gave up everything over the mere possibility of a better world. And that's just nuts, you think. But what if another world is possible? When you truly know that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, maybe you'll do anything, risk anything to take it in hand. Take the Kingdom of Heaven in hand. I always get a little bit nervous when talking to Unitarian Universalists about the Kingdom of Heaven. We have, I think, many legitimate concerns with that term. The Kingdom part can make us think of something very hierarchical, very authoritarian, very patriarchal. There is not much room in that kind of Kingdom for democracy, self-determination and egalitarianism. That's why I sometimes like it better when people talk about the Kingdom instead of the Kingdom. The Kingdom of Heaven is a loving family of equals. But then there's the Heaven part of the Kingdom of Heaven. The word Heaven can make us think of something very exclusive, something far too perfect to ever be obtainable, something very otherworldly. That's why I like Clarence Jordan's take on Matthew 1344 so much. The Kingdom of God is like a man plowing in a field. He discovers a treasure, a box. Heaven is not distant treasure buried far away on some pirate's island. Heaven is not mystical treasure locked up in some dragon's cave. Heaven is not otherworldly treasure tucked away in some afterlife. Instead, Heaven is people like the plowman, is work like farming, is discovery like digging, is life like life in this world. Heaven is precious treasure, but treasure buried in the fresh turned soil of a familiar field. Heaven is right here with us in this good earth within reach. Yet if Heaven is so close that we can touch it, why don't we live in it? Why have Heaven is close enough for us to take it in hand? Have we not just plucked it up like a flower without any effort at all? Clarence Jordan had some wisdom to share on that matter as well. We have not taken Heaven in hand, he suggested, because our hands are already too full of other things. He said, we want to hold on to our little trinkets. We want to hold on to our status. Oh yeah, we can't give up our status. We can't be fools for Christ. We can't give up our house. But the person in Jesus' parable, the plowman in Jordan's paraphrasing of that parable, and the occupier I met back in Phoenix all gave up that house. They had a vision of a world that offered a better life than they were living, and they gave up the things they believed prevented them from entering into that life. They saw perhaps the bonds of beloved community. They saw perhaps the ultimate reality of our oneness, our interdependence with one another in our planet. They saw perhaps one world community that we can choose on this planet in this life. They knew what stood between them and that life. They knew what they needed to give up in their own lives in order to help bring that better world into being. And then they made great personal sacrifices to enter into that life. Only I wonder how personal those sacrifices really were. I wonder how individualistic and enormous our own sacrifices really need to be to make a better future for everyone. Do we really need to become renunciates? Literally giving up our homes and taking to the streets? Or is there an alternative to great personal sacrifice? I think we here in this congregation have also seen a glimpse of heaven. And I do not think that we see that vision alone as isolated individuals. We are a community that births, cradles, and nurtures a shared vision. We are a community that tries to realize that vision in the wider world. Every time we show up for justice-making, whether at Pride, at Moses events, or any other social justice activity, we strive together to live the truth that we have seen. That we are all one community, people, and planet on a common journey. Justice Clarence Jordan's interracial coinonia farm was a demonstration plot for the kingdom of heaven. So too is this congregation, every time we strive to live our values in community. And that is more powerful and effective than trying to do it all alone, for every community is more than the sum of its individual parts. But, but, but, but, but, we have as a community, have we really taken fully the kingdom of heaven in hand? Have we fully beheld the treasure? Have we even dug up the field yet? Or are our hands still too full to even take up the shovel? We've got to move some dirt and some rocks out of the way together and as individual people. And let me tell you, there are a lot of rocks and a lot of hard-packed soil between us and that treasure. Rocks and dirt that get in the way when we try to get a peek at the promised land. Some rocks look like fear, the thousand fears that keep us complacent and in our place, so that we never glimpse uncomfortable truths. Fear of the kind of changes we will have to make in our lives and in our congregation if we really want to live the truth of our oneness with one another and our interdependence with our blue and green planet. Fear of losing our friends, our livelihoods and maybe our very lives if we begin to question our way of life and the systems of oppression, exploitation and unsustainable growth that uphold it. There's the fear of pain, of embarrassment, of the unknown we encounter when we even begin to experiment with alternatives to the status quo. And there's the fear that we won't survive if we put the roofs over our heads and the food on our tables on the line to pursue our highest values. Until we can trust in one another and in life to be kind to us and provide us with the basic things we need to survive, our fear of abandoning safety and security will prevent us from ever fully seeing heaven. Digging deeper, there are the heavy stones we use to erect walls between ourselves and each other, not walls of stacked limestone like the stone haulers used to build our meeting house as a welcoming haven for all people. But walls we human beings build to keep one another out of the kingdom of heaven because we have different educational levels, different skin colors, different politics or music preferences, different theologies because we do not all fit neatly in a gender binary because we are not rich enough, not able bodied enough, not American enough, not born with the right papers. Walls we build to keep others out of heaven, walls we build that instead keep us out of heaven because heaven is a beloved community, not a gated community. Until we break through the soil, break through the fear, shatter the walls between us, we will never see more than tiny glimmers of the life-giving world that awaits us within reach but just out of sight. There's a whole lot to muck through as we dig down deep to find the kingdom, but as we dig we start to see little glimpses of heaven, glimmers and sparkles of some precious gem. Perhaps we see a hint of shining emerald in the mud now and then during times of healing or forgiveness, peace or justice. In those moments, even if only briefly, beloved community manifests among us, we've probably all seen and felt those moments, but it never seems to last, does it? Soon the stones of hurting, anger and injustice tumble down once again, burying us, bruising us, burying heaven anew. We get swept away by the chaos of our daily lives, by the havoc of attending to the complex tasks of simple survival. Yet as we take up our shovels and dig through the dirt to uncover heaven, we come to realize that our very way of life and our determination to cling to that way of life are actually what are coming between us and the treasure that is heaven on earth. To a limited degree, we all get this. That's why we recycle and compost, even when it's not always convenient. That's why we educate ourselves about justice and sustainability, even when we're busy with other things, other concerns. That's why we rewrite old hymns and address the divine by a variety of names. We know that even the language we use as we move through life matters. Like many religious communities, we're pursuing, even building heaven on earth. We really are. But like many religious communities, and certainly like our wider community, we're not completely there yet. We've done a lot, both within and without our walls, and our congregation in the world are better for it. But despite all that we have accomplished, there is still suffering in our bruised and brutal world. There's more that's required of us, all of us, not just those here in this room, but all over the world to manifest heaven on earth. First, we've got to dig up the field. We've got to take inventory of our lives and culture, not only the parts that are life-denying, but also the parts that are life-giving. Second, we've got to behold the treasure. We've got to open our hearts and minds to a vision of a better world and then let that vision drive the way we live our lives. And finally, we've got to sell everything we own and buy the field. We've got to make concrete changes in our lives. We've got to reinvest our personal and material resources in this good earth and our human family. Now, many of us are probably thinking, but Sasha, I like my life. Sure, my life's not perfect, but it's mine, and it's working for me. I don't want to give up my job, my home, my relationships, my wealth, my safety for a vision of beloved community. And yikes, you know what? I don't want to either. I don't want to either, especially not all alone. And we don't have to. It's a lot to ask, and we don't have to. We can continue to live the lives we always have, and we'll still find joy and meaning in our personal lives and can still help make the world a better place in small and large ways. But if we do find ourselves being seized, truly seized in body, mind, and heart by a vision of heaven on earth, then I think we are capable of more, far more than we ever imagined possible. In many ways, I think Jesus had more faith in his fellow human beings than we have ever had in his vision and teachings. He believed that he and other human beings coming together in community could really manifest heaven on earth right here on this planet. He told us, frankly, what joining in that work would mean, believing we would be willing and able to do what we must. Jesus didn't sugarcoat anything. He said that joining him in the work of making heaven on earth meant doing hard things like losing our lives in order to find new life. He said that joining him in that work meant selling all we own and reinvesting in our highest aspirations. Sure, we don't have to live in the kingdom if we don't want to, but if we do want the whole world to live as one beloved community where we are not alienated from one another, the earth, or the divine resources that sustain and transform life, then we can't go on living our lives the way we've always lived them and inherit the kingdom too. In places like Ferguson, people are beaten, tasered, or shot to death so that others can enjoy the safety that comes with police departments. People whose ancestors were slaughtered so that some of our ancestors could steal their lands are still being oppressed and disrespected today as sports teams and Halloween costumes are named after them and their water is stolen and their lands destroyed. Coastal cities are seeing unprecedented rates of flooding and species are going extinct at accelerating rates because our addiction to fossil fuels is heating our planet. The earth is plundered of its rare minerals and people overseas are horribly exploited and abused by their employers so that we can have cell phones and cars. And I do not speak today as someone who is somehow uninvolved in all of this. I may have volunteered as a legal observer and marched against police brutality but I have also called the police on people. I may speak out for the rights of indigenous people but I have lived most of my life in a city that survived primarily by depriving indigenous people of their water and polluting their land. I may not drive a Hummer but I also don't drive a Prius or take public transportation. I drive a fuel guzzling car. I may have cell phone coverage through Crato Wireless a company that supports many of my values but I still have a cell phone. Like many of us here though I make small changes in my life to try to minimize the harm I've helped cause my lifestyle is still subsidized by oppression and I know I'm not alone because we are all caught in this web together. This is not the kingdom. This is not the kingdom. We cannot live our lives the way we always have and live in the kingdom too. We have to give up lives that depend upon oppression, exploitation and environmental devastation in order to take the kingdom in hand. That's hard but it's worth it. We've seen glimmers of the kingdom of heaven gratitude, community, reciprocity, hospitality, care of the earth. We've seen them. We've seen them even through the dirt and rocks that stand between us and the fullness of the kingdom. Those glimmers of beloved community that is the kingdom of heaven are our seeds hidden all around us, between us, in the earth, in our minds and hearts. Now imagine what can spring forth from those shining seeds. When we clear the rocks of fear and alienation out of the way heaven will spread forth from those seeds like wildfire or like weeds. After all, Jesus did give us another metaphor to describe heaven. If we imagine the kingdom as a mustard seed, as a weedy plant instead of treasure then we'll see the raw potential for a better world is already among us. But it needs to be cultivated, which as Michael reminded us last week is what going to church is all about, self-culture in community. We don't have to do it alone and we shouldn't have to do it alone. We've got to come together to water that seed, put a little sunshine on it and let it grow. Then it'll expand to fill the world. Love will rush into every corner and justice will roll down like waters. Racism and classism and heterosexism and every hatred and fear will fall away. We'll care for the earth for its own sake because we recognize its worth and beauty. We'll know what a sunset in a pollution-free world looks like and warfare will be unimaginable. Everyone will know what it feels like to be cared for and safe. We'll be whole because we'll be together. We'll be together with one another, the earth and the divine. That world of ever-expanding love and justice can be our home. The shining seeds of radical love and justice are already scattered all around us, blessing us every day. When we're not too busy juggling our other lives, we notice those little treasures. When we're not too busy clinging to our other lives, we can use our hands to care for those seeds. When we're not too busy with our other lives, when we let go of everything that stands between us and heaven, those seeds will take root. Our real lives will begin. Those seeds will explode into a garden, a garden big enough to shelter and feed everyone. But if we are to enter into that garden, we have to enter into it together. We have to give up lives that tell us that we are separate. We have to take up lives that affirm that we are one community with fates that are intertwined, sharing the burdens that no one need give up everything in order to have new life. And that means we have some work to do, some digging, soul work, community work, justice work. The work will not be easy, but when the walls we have built come tumbling down, making room for the kingdom to come pouring in, the reward will be worth it. Jesus died thousands of years ago, his mission unfulfilled. But his invitation to create heaven on earth lives on. That invitation to let go of our old lives and accept new life in a new world remains open. Let us accept that invitation with commitment, courage, and joy. Let us occupy heaven together. And now I invite you to share in this morning's offering. Today's collection goes to support Move and Out, Inc., which develops community integrated housing and owns and manages scattered site homes for people with disabilities. Please give generously. Thank you for your generosity. We come together not as strangers, but as a congregation of friends and family to share our joys and concerns with those who love and care for us. Some of us are hurting, pained by sorrows and burdens of our own or the trials faced by loved ones. Some of us are filled with joy for the blessings that come into our lives through our own hard work or random, delightful chance. These concerns and these joys should not be borne alone. Today we have one joy to share. Henry Hart and Jan Thompson and all of us congratulate Bill Cronin on receipt of the Robert Marshall Award for his good work of preservation of the American wilderness. I don't know if he's still here, but let's give him a round of applause for that. Thank you, Bill, for your service and your hard work. We will now have a moment of silence for prayer, meditation, rest, or reflection as we lift up the joys and concerns of our community, spoken and unspoken. May all these joys and concerns be enfolded in the warmth of this community and may that warmth extend in sympathy and compassion to all who are hurting in our wider world. Blessed be. Before we move into our closing hymn, I'd like to make a brief announcement. That moment you have all been waiting for has arrived. Your ministers have finally chosen our Select to Connect event. We will be hosting a family campfire storytelling and sing-along, hopefully outside if it's still nice enough, but inside if the weather is too cold. Either way, there will be a fire, campfire cooked food, some of our favorite stories, and Michael will lead a sing-along on his guitar. Remember that sign-up weekend for all Select to Connect events is next weekend, so be sure to bring your calendars along then. If you'd like to host an event, you still have time until noon tomorrow to get your event into Sally and Becky. And now for our closing hymn, please rise and turn to number 226 in your hymn. Freedom. Take it with you into the world. If you have found comfort, go and share it with others. If you have dreamed dreams, help one another that they may come true. If you have no one love, give some back to a bruised and hurting world. Go in peace and please be seated for the choral postlude.