from Sophie Johnson

I am seventeen years old and I am a member of this church.  My parents aren’t members, even my boyfriend (who brought me here in the first place) isn’t a declared member, but I come, alone, at 9:00 on Sundays and close my eyes and listen to the sermon.  I give financially what a seventeen-year-old can afford to give.  I attend youth group at 11:00 every week as well.  So why did I, a senior in high school, break away from my Catholic roots at the beginning of my adult life and wander into the city to join the First Unitarian Universalist Church?  Because here, perched on the calm of any Sunday morning, I can honestly believe in love.

Some of you might not know how brutal high school can be.  The basic human rights that we were all taught at an incredibly young age are null and void in the halls of your commonplace high school.  For instance, in my English class, we were debating certain current political issues, but mostly we were focusing on gay marriage.  While most of the people who supported the idea sat quietly in the classroom in fear of being teased, those who were opposed to it proceeded to say some of the most offensive things I’ve ever heard in my life.  One boy began by pointing out that gay people are not normal, that they don’t belong in society; another went so far as to demote the homosexual lifestyle down to a stupid ploy to get attention and nothing more.  Later that day, I heard both of my aforementioned classmates not only disagreeing with the homosexual lifestyle, but degrading it by using “gay” as a derogatory term meaning “bad.”

Another example: there is a really smart girl who sits in the corner of my Calculus class.  She is extremely shy, and also bright beyond her years, which combine to make a treacherous combination for any teenager in a public high school.  So one day, when I was washing my hands in the girl’s bathroom, a few girls came in and started talking about how she must be “retarded or something because she never talks, and she never does anything but math homework.”  Then one of them did a pretty mean impression which the other one found hysterical.  The thing is, this girl would never do anything to hurt anyone—she is as humane as can be—so how could these girls find it so funny to be making a private mockery of her like that?

I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked; I mean, that kind of thing happens every day.  My peers are generally so self-conscious of their own lives that they find some kind of comfort in poking fun at people who are different than they are.  I can’t say that I haven’t been the focus of a joke targeting “freaks” or “hippies” now and again, and usually, I can just brush it aside.  But sometimes I wish that my voice was loud enough to overshadow all the hatred that imbues the hallways at my high school and prevail in a message of justice and love.

So last year, when I first came to this church, naturally, I cried through the entire sermon.  I cry pretty much every time I come to church, actually, and not always because the sermons or music are so moving, either.  It is sitting in the balcony, looking out at all the congregants who hold true love and compassion in their hearts that does it for me.  It’s realizing that so many people in the city of Portland alone share in the dream of equality and righteousness and peace for all people.  It’s going to youth group at eleven o’clock and realizing that there are people my age who look past the stereotypes and are not afraid to stand up for what they believe in, and I am so proud to be a part of that.

This is a place where I can go once a week and be confident that the world is changing; where I can physically feel the hope echoing through the walls of this tremendous sanctuary.  I am only seventeen, but I know that all people are good; that it is inside of all of us to be a part of an incredible change in society.  Being here makes me realize that one day, walking through the halls of my high school, the compliments are going to overpower the insults; the acceptance will fall trump over the relegation, and that love will ultimately sign out in the hearts of every person, young and old, to drown out the tune of hate.  If it’s in a million years, or if it is tomorrow—the inherent worth and dignity of every human being will be known and that is why this is my home.

from Alex Rush

Around 600 B.C.E. the Athenian people rose up against their ruthless dictator.  The rebellion was led by the sympathetic elite and manned by the oppressed.  The rebellion was nothing special; it has happened this way thousands of times throughout history.  The amazing thing that would change the history of the world was what took the place of the dictatorship.

A council of statesmen and influential leaders in the city was implemented to rule.  Under their rule the city-state grew economically and culturally for almost 150 years.  Then in 458 B.C.E. the council was dissolved and in its place a council of citizens took power.  A bronze pot with every male citizen’s name inside was brought forth and from that the council was chosen.

This was the first democracy.  It led to another 200 years of growth with a pinnacle in what is known to be the Golden Age of Greece.

Almost 2200 years later the United States of America, among the most elite nations in the world, invaded the oppressed nation of Iraq.  We invaded Iraq to overthrow a dictator whom we “knew” had Weapons of Mass Destruction.  After we overthrew Saddam Hussein we installed a governing council of leading Iraqi statesmen and influential leaders.

By July 2004 our President Bush wants to start to withdraw troops from Iraq after the governing council has implemented a constitution that will be the basis of government in Iraq.  This will not give the government of the new Iraq the power it needs to be able to protect its citizens and to create a stable country within its own borders.  It can only be a start.

This withdrawal would cause a power vacuum that will be filled by those very people that we are trying to stop from taking power, extreme Islamic terrorists, thus negating the inherent worth and dignity that we bestowed upon the Iraqis when we decided to give them a better life.

To create a better life for the Iraqis is to create an education program that will educate the Iraqi populous.  Because when you educate a person, then they can understand what is going on in the world and their own country.  They can also look at it with an amount of analytical ability.

Because an educated person can get a better job, a person with a better job then gets better pay, with better pay he will pay higher taxes, and with the higher amount of taxes they will watch the government and see what it is doing with their money.  People have values, some of those will become at odds with what the government is doing.  This will cause more and more involvement in the government so that those people will see that their money will go to things that they think are important.

To create this type of stability we need to raise the number of people who can read and write from under 10 million in a land of over 20 million.  To create this stability we need to involved the military, because the military has the greatest influence in Iraq today.  However, this does not require more troops, bases or bombs.  We need schools, teachers and books.  For every base we build, we also build a school.  For every bomb we need to send a book.  For every soldier we have a teacher.  We can have schools by building them near or even as part of a new base.  What better protection from attacks can there be?  Teachers can be hired by having the soldiers in their off time act as teachers for the people that they are risking their lives for, keeping the soldiers human, rather than letting them become a thing whose sole purpose is to kill another human.  Books can be gotten by taking the old books from our own schools and sending them to Iraq to someone who will use them for the betterment of society rather than have it filling a landfill.

In the end the decision to invade Iraq was made for the wrong reasons, yes, but as a world we cannot afford to stand by and let a nation fall back into the hole that they just got out of while we debate whether it was the right decision.  we must focus on the now.

In the now we are all bonded together, because beyond all the oceans, deserts, forests, and distance we are all part of the same group, humankind.

A stable Iraq is what everyone wants, but what we must ask ourselves is whether we want that through exploiting them or helping them.  This is a decision that we all must face and decide for ourselves.

Thank you.

from Ben Stevens

A very wise man from a movie of a summer past once told us, “With great power comes great responsibility.”  This was told to a spider, of sorts, and now I would like to address it to another spider.  There are many facets to this interdependent web of which we are all a part.  The animals, plants, the water, the ozone layer, and the human race, too, are all part of this web.  Or are we, really?  The human race is just somehow . . . different from the rest of the web.  If wolves, for example, tried to destroy the earth and everything that lives on it, could they do it?  If dolphins realized that they were doing irreparable damage to their only home, would they, out of necessity to survive, stop whatever it was they were doing?  As much as we are certainly a part of this web, we undeniably have more power over it than almost any of its other parts.  The way I’d like to say it, we have been given the position of “spider” on this great web of ours.

Now, in reality, if a spider messes up his web to the point where he cannot fix it, he can simply build a new one.  But it is absolutely crucial that we recognize that this is not the case for us.  We only get one web, and we’re endlessly lucky that we have it at all.  And yet, we seem not to realize this.  Every day we’re cutting holes in it, annihilating entire species, decimating miles and miles of forest, pumping gases into the air that are destroying one of our only barriers from the harshness of the outside.  And what is it all for?  Everything we gain from these attacks on our home we don’t even need.  And yet somehow we can still turn a blind eye to these things and allow them to continue.

What is it really going to take?  I’d like to believe that we can change before we face the immediate possibility of extinction, but maybe it will take that.  We can all do what we can to change it and hope that our self-destructive behavior is recognized before it’s too late to fix it.  Because even if we’re not exactly on the same level as the rest of the web, we’re just as dependant on its existence as the web itself is.

from Carl Gerhardt

“My name is Carl and I’m a Schizophrenic.”  All:  “Hi, Carl.”

I’ve been through this scene at least a hundred times mentally, each more dreadful than the last.  It’s hard to become vulnerable to people I barely know.  I get embarrassed —as if I’m telling a dark secret instead of the minute fact that it is.

I try to learn from these thoughts, but event when I do, I forget.  My forgetfulness causes me to wake from dreams and forget if they were dreams or realities.  Bad memory is a common side effect of Schizophrenia.

I am an 18-year-old living inside the United States.  I live in a house with my mom and my younger brother.  I attend church about once a month—whenever my mom decides to “force” us.  I used to hate church, but now it seems to have gotten better.

I wear black clothes all the time and my favorite color is a rare hazel-brown—I saw it once in a girl’s eyes and liked it ever since.  It’s amazing that some people ask why would you always wear black—the answer is simple—if you wear only one color then all your clothes match.  So why black?  I don’t know—maybe my fashion sensor has just gone haywire, maybe not—can’t please everyone.

I like to write poems that rhyme in a silly fashion.  Like I wrote the one called the Dream which flows with odd logic and metaphors that make it seem as if you are really in a dream.  Here it is:

Into “Lolly-Land” you creep,

Never letting out a peep,

To nooks and crannies far beneath,

Setting up a Christmas wreath,

I do not know what you think,

Nor what it means when you blink,

As we gather ‘round the Christmas tree,

I wonder if you’re free,

Choosing not what’s in sight,

But maybe how to end a fight,

Giving the idea a try,

It doesn’t work and so you die,

Falling asleep while they mourn,

Waking up to be reborn,

Lying there like a trout,

Wondering what this dream’s about,

You’ll lose that knowledge soon enough,

Now give your pillow a good puff,

Wanting more you start to seep,

Going now back to sleep….

I hope in writing this essay I can tell the world that real people with schizophrenia have lives that have some meaning.  One thing that gives me meaning is knowing that I am alive and that in this life I have the chance to help other people enjoy life too.

This is not to say I do not have my troubles.  Sometimes I get depressed about what Bush is doing in the White House.  This is not to say I dislike everything Bush does, it is just that he is my scapegoat and as such if something goes wrong with this country it’s Bush’s fault.

September 11 really also got me down.  As well as the school shootings a few years before.

I do not call them terrorists because that is a label just like schizophrenia, bipolar or even just plain crazy.  Adding labels to people just sets them aside to be belittled and otherwise grouped with other people barely alike to themselves, bonded only by their common label and the fact that they are people like all of us.  Because, after all, this is not Disney where the terrorists think themselves terrorists and even sign a song about their terror activities and expose all of their plans to the hero.

I really do exist.

from Scott Thompson

It was the summer of 2001.  The warm, humid air of a Caribbean night clung to my skin and felt thick in my mouth.  The disparate feelings of fatigue and excitement clashed through my body, though my vitality and gradually fading as the minutes passed midnight. 

It took two years for my teacher to obtain a pass to visit schools in Cuba.  After many months of learning about Cuban culture and two days of travel, twenty-two jet lagged Oregonians finally arrived in Jose Martí National Airport.  Leaning against the cool glass window of the bus, I gazed on palm trees, old-fashioned cars, and a collage of people.  Between my occasional naps, I noticed huge propaganda billboards extolling the virtues of the Cuban communist government in bright patriotic letters and large portraits of Cuban revolutionary hero and martyr, Ché Guevara.  At this point it sunk in that I was no longer in the United States, where road signs try to sell products, but in a country where the government needed to advertise patriotism.  Decrepit colonial buildings spoke of previous wealth no longer available.  This was my first glimpse of Cuban poverty.

As we explored more of the country I became increasingly sorrowful.  Communism had brought universal healthcare and a 100% literacy rate.  However, an oppressive dictatorship, the loss of Soviet economic support and the suffocating U.S. embargo had caused widespread hardship.  Over time I was truck by the resilience of the Cubans in the face of adversity.  One man I saw in the market place had fashioned model trucks out of old Coca-Cola cans.  Musicians constantly serenaded us with rhythmic energetic music, their warm smiles erasing the stress lines beneath.

I was touched by the friendliness of every single Cuban I met.  People of all ages and races would randomly approach me on the street and start a conversation.  Even though my pale skin and accent clearly identified me as hailing from the United States, they saw past the conflicts between our governments to see my inherent worth and dignity.  We conversed with the Cuban students and explored topics including politics, music, school, sports and our families.  We played volleyball and basketball with our new friends from one school and shifted to rugby once a torrential tropical rainstorm got underway.  A girl from that school generously hosted a farewell party at her home.  We awkwardly tried to match the fast-paced steps of the Cubans as they danced their legendary art.

Amid tears and sorrow our groups said farewell on the porch that night.  I remember clasping the arm of a Cuban student as he said, “Goodbye, friend,” and I said, “Adios amigo.”  We were two teenagers, reaching across the many divisions of race, culture, politics, language and economic status to experience our common humanity.  The feeling was unlike anything I have ever felt before, a mixed emotion of hope, joy, sorrow, and compassion.  The parting embrace formed a strand in a web, a web of existence reaching from the streets of Portland to the streets of Havana, weaving among the lush tropical forests of the Cuban countryside and stretching back to the snowcapped peaks of the cascades.  In my young ambition I become overwhelmed at the thought of tackling the world’s problems at once, but in Cuba I learned that one small handshake can do what powerful leaders cannot.  I do not have to start a presidential campaign for 2024 to make a difference, I just have to reach out.  As you continue your life, all I ask is that you help to create the web, reach out to your family, your friends, your neighbors, and even your enemies.