First Unitarian Universalist Church of Nashville
June 28, 2009

This is my section of a sermon consisting of three spiritual autobiographies (complete version archived at FUUN's sermon blog): the first speaker was Shirley Ryberg, who's in her 90s; the second speaker was Jan Robinson, who's in her 60s. And then there was me:


My name is Peg Duthie, and I've been a member of this church since 2000.

In the spring of 1987, I was about done with high school. As is customary with many schools in Kentucky, public as well as parochial, our commencement ceremonies consisted of two parts, the first being "baccalaureate," which is essentially a Christian religious service with a graduation theme. It was taken very much for granted that everyone would attend, and when I said that I would not, I received quite a bit of flak from assorted classmates and teachers, ranging from "It's really just a social occasion" (translation: you are being such a party pooper) to "I don't see how anyone can not believe in God."

There was one other student who skipped baccalaureate. His name was Rusty, and you could say he had fundamentalist leanings. He was the guy who, during sophomore English class, drew a coat hanger on the chalkboard and started talking about the evils of abortion. The thing is, Rusty and I actually got along quite well, and never more so than when we ended up talking about why the whole tradition of baccalaureate offended us both. In his case, he was disgusted at what he saw as lip service to God from people who ignored His commandments the rest of the year. In my case, I was severely allergic to group prayer in secular settings, and I still am, even though I now identify as a theist rather than an agnostic. Whether it's before a banquet or a road race or a charity event, one-size-fits-most public invocations generally make me feel more isolated from the other participants rather than more connected; it tends to remind me that I didn't grow up as a Christian, and that I don't do things in the name of Jesus, other than when I'm really upset and cussing up a storm.

My extended family is a mélange of Taoists, Buddhists, Methodists, Catholics, and nonbelievers. My upbringing was predominantly secular, although there were a couple of years Mom took us to Baptist church for social reasons, and I did a fair amount of reading on my own. My college adventures included singing in a gospel group called "Choral Thunder," showing up to Episcopalian roundtables because of the free meals, and an ongoing lover's quarrel with Judaism too complex to squash into this homily. During my twenties, I lived primarily in Michigan, and when I stepped inside a house of worship, it was almost always for a rehearsal, a concert, or a wedding.

In January of 2000, I moved to Nashville because of my husband's job. It was great to get away from Detroit's ice storms and gnarled-up infrastructure, and I wasn't worried about my ability to meet new people. About nine months in, however, several incidents took place that made me realize that everyone I'd met outside of work knew me mainly as Mrs. Duthie - that is, as Andrew's wife. That didn't sit well with me, so I started to think about who I might want to meet on my own and where to find them. I'd known for years that my beliefs were compatible with Unitarian Universalism, but I wasn't sure I wanted to risk getting involved with a church. I was afraid that I would hate the music of any church contemporary and inclusive enough to welcome a mouthy heretic like me. I didn't want to be pressured into fundraising, or to end trapped into attending countless committee meetings.

[At this point, a number of people burst out laughing, and one guy during first service called out, "Sorry!"]

Around this time, I ended up with a Sunday free during a business trip to Denver, and on a whim I decided to visit First Unitarian there. Two things stand out for me from that morning. The first was suddenly feeling homesick for the Midwest: there were several older women in Guatemalan sweaters and hippie sandals at that service, and they reminded me so much of the outspoken liberal activist tree-hugging women who had been among my friends up north. The other was singing "Dear Weaver of Our Lives Design" for the first time. I thought, I can go to a church that sings hymns like this.

I am intensely uncomfortable whenever I hear the phrase "So-and-so is a UU and just doesn't know it." The term "convert" likewise makes me grit my teeth. For me, being a Unitarian Universalist isn't only about what one happens to believe, but about intentionally choosing to become affiliated with a faith community. When people find out that I'm a lay preacher, they sometimes feel compelled to explain why they themselves don't go to church, and I end up having to reassure them that I do understand. That I've been there myself: Congregational life isn't for everyone. Unitarian Universalism isn't for everyone.

And as it turns out, I was right to be apprehensive: since Christmas Eve 2000, when I signed the membership book here, I have attended more meetings than I can count, I've been involved with multiple fundraising projects, and there are certain frequently-programmed hymns I viscerally loathe. But this church has also connected me with incredible role models and supportive friends, and being a member here has ultimately propelled me into becoming a better person. Being among you has helped deepen my faith, and expanded my awareness of the many ways we can help and encourage each other to become and stay true to our better selves. In the course of delivering nearly forty sermons over the past eight years, I've learned that there's no telling what people actually hear of what I say - never mind what they remember, if anything - whether it's here in the pulpit or next to the coffee pot or out in the wider community. But I have also witnessed and experienced how sometimes simply showing up and being present can be exactly what is needed to help someone stay the course or work up the nerve to try something new. I have seen how small, local acts of hospitality, friendship, and faith can turn the world around.

[The closing hymn: "Turn the World Around" (Singing the Journey #1074)]