Find Your Path, Go Deep

In July of 2020, following the killing of George Floyd, a seven-year-old in Essex, Massachusetts told his mother that he wanted to hold a presence for Black lives downtown. The center of Essex is a half-mile causeway stretching across the marsh, dotted with antique shops, restaurants, and clam shacks. This causeway is one of the main gateway roads connecting Cape Ann to other North Shore communities and is very busy in the summer with commuters, tourists, and residents—much like here in Kennebunk.

Because of social distancing and the large turnout of protesters, our presence that day stretched the entire length of the causeway. For a while, people zoomed past. Some honked in solidarity. Some made pointed gestures of disapproval. Mostly, people just drove by—faces forward, unmoved.

Then something extraordinary happened. One of the local farmers drove down the causeway in his huge tractor—one of those really big ones—with a small Black Lives Matter sign on the front bucket. Anyone who lives near farmland knows that driving behind these mammoth vehicles means going very, very slow.

Down the causeway he went, slowing all the cars behind him—through the restaurants, antique shops, and clam shacks—before turning around and coming back the way he came. With that same slow, steady, lumbering speed, he took about thirty minutes for the round trip, forcing every car behind him to pump its brakes and slow down too. That included drivers who agreed with us, those who didn’t, and everyone in between.

They couldn’t just face forward and speed by. Now they had to witness this display of protest and read our messages of dissent, written in Sharpie on makeshift signs. It can be overwhelming to take in the vastness of issues before us in this time—hard to focus amid the storm of need swirling around, tossing us back and forth, fueling exhaustion and despair.

We often say that working for justice is a practice of our Unitarian Universalist faith. Yet at times, it feels like spinning wheels against hard ground, uncertain whether our efforts make a difference, worn thin by the seeming impossibility of it all. What should be an expression of love, hope, and purpose can feel like pressure to fix everything, to keep up with the endless needs of a hurting world.

What do we do with it all? In this space, I’ve been thinking about that farmer and his tractor. I like to imagine him waking up that day—aware of the injustice and brutality—and asking himself: “As a farmer in my everyday life, what gifts do I have in my toolbox to give this moment? I have a tractor, and tractors drive really slow.”

Yes, it’s a story about the importance of protest and dissent, about a community coming together to speak out for Black lives. But it’s also a story of creativity: looking at ourselves and our roles, recognizing the tools and influence each of us might uniquely offer. Finding those gifts, as Rebecca Parker urged, that bless the world—and then deepening into them.

What are our gifts, and how do we use them? How might we slow down and draw on what is within reach—our own toolbox—to meet this moment and bless our world? We might not all have tractors, but we do have something.

In an article he wrote after the election, activist and global democracy facilitator Daniel Hunter spoke about what we can do now that this administration is in power. Of the many pieces of guidance he offers (and I urge you to read his essay—we’ll post a link in this week’s newsletter), one reminder stands out: each of us trying to act on everything is bad strategy. Instead, he encourages us to find our path—he outlines possibilities like protecting people, defending civic institutions, disrupting and disobeying, and building alternatives.

I’m not going into each one, but Hunter invites us to find our unique path, and I encourage you to explore his article to deepen into that message. We are all equipped to do different things, because of our social and political spheres of influence, our seasons of life, and the distinct gifts we each have. Some of us bring pens, others bring our bodies. Some work quietly behind the scenes, others loudly. Some imagine a new future, while others tell the truths about our past and present. And yes, some of us bring tractors.

But discerning our path is only the beginning. How do we move along it? How do we ensure our efforts aren’t just scattered actions but deep, sustained commitments that lead to real transformation? Adrienne Maree Brown, whom I can’t quote often enough, lifts up a way of organizing for change in her book Emergent Strategy. She calls us to shift from “mile wide, inch deep” movements to “inch wide, mile deep” ones.

When I first read that, I pictured a boulder with thin fissures running down it—small, unassuming cracks that can break open the entire rock’s face. Or the way a slender root penetrates the earth, growing deep below the surface and connecting with other roots. The collective power of these roots can break through pavement, and at the same time hold entire landscapes together. Inch wide, mile deep.

The point is, we can’t do everything. When we try, we only hit the surface. But if each of us goes deep and if enough pathways—of different shapes, sizes, locations, and depths—are formed, the structures of power and injustice start to crumble. We need as many people as possible going deep, breaking up rock, holding us together. Deep roots both break open what is hardened and keep everything from falling apart.

So what does going deep mean for us? Your gifts—whatever they may be—can bless the world. How do you discern and then leverage them? Your talents, your passions, and your everyday circumstances can serve as a starting point.

In his essay, Hunter tells a story about his friend Ingrid’s grandfather, who lived in Norway under the Nazi regime. He learned that the resistance was hiding people in the basement of a church near a cemetery. As a florist who traveled to and from the cemetery regularly, he discovered a role for himself: smuggling messages in funeral wreaths and delivering them all over the city. He didn’t set out to design a perfect role; I’m not sure he would have recognized it on a list of possible paths. Instead, he found his space by circumstance.

We deepen into our paths by looking at what’s already around us—the circumstances and opportunities already embedded in our lives. In fact, I challenge you to find a single area of life that doesn’t offer some chance to resist hate, tyranny, and injustice.

Right now, people across our government, social institutions, neighborhoods, and communities are preparing for their own unique pathways of resistance. Retired lawyers post online to advise immigrants of their rights. Teachers refuse to water down lesson plans. Churches affirm their constitutional right to be a sanctuary. Veteran activists share wisdom with new waves of organizers. Whether it’s having a conversation with a neighbor, advocating for DEI programs at work, showing up for vulnerable community members, or raising children grounded in love, equity, and compassion—yes, I see you parents, grandparents, caregivers, and all of us supporting the next generation—each inch-by-inch act can change the world.

There will be times when we all come together in vital, large, and impactful ways—moments of mass protest that stretch down our streets. But much of what matters most we won’t see: it’s wrapped around flowers, tucked inside envelopes, or spoken in private conversations. These gifts—each in a unique, subversive way—break apart harmful systems, create alternatives, and make space for justice to take root. We can’t do everything, but we can do something.

And this is why we need community. Alone, we can’t save the world, but together, another possibility emerges. I can deepen into my path because I trust you are deepening into yours. Faith communities help us do this sacred, holy work of discernment and commitment. This community right here gives us spiritual tools, builds our capacity for loving relationships, and prepares us to do what we feel called to do.

When we gather on Sunday mornings to remember our values, when we share coffee, sit in meetings, or chat in the parking lot, we’re invited to ask: “Where do my values show up in my everyday life?” That question alone can shift our work from isolated actions—like attending a march or writing a letter—into something we carry with us: a way of seeing the world.

The Social Justice Network here at First Parish is an example of a space that helps us do exactly that. It’s a place to share where our roots lie, where we’re each going deep, and to support one another with resources, companionship, and joy in the work. Stay tuned for more opportunities in the coming months to connect around our justice work.

Alongside our individual paths, there’s also the collective path we walk as a congregation. What is First Parish’s path? How can we help our church go deep? There isn’t any corner of the wider world without a justice implication, and likewise, there’s no area of this faith community that doesn’t have one—whether it’s membership and welcome, religious exploration, music, or worship. All of these aspects of church life have gifts to offer in this time.

We have this building, our network of relationships, and a rooted presence in the community. Liberal faith communities are among the institutions we most need to preserve. The work we do here, to meet the moment, ensures that spaces like this exist and thrive—places that call us to go deep for sanctuary, rest, and renewal; places that foster and nurture justice; places that remind us of our values and help us practice how to love each other. These communities break open what seems impossible and hold us together.

They hold us together—and that’s crucial, because our collective paths will be strengthened and sustained by relationships. (We’ll talk more about that next Sunday.) Any work that doesn’t put us in contact with others we love, or come to love, won’t sustain the movements we need. It will only graze the surface. We must go to the depths, where mutual care, accountability, and love flourish.

As I look around at the challenges of our time, my mind, body, and spirit can feel tossed about by the storm of overwhelm, grief, rage, and despair. Yet I’m learning to steady myself, to pump the brakes and feel the soil beneath me—a soil that wants to welcome whatever path I choose to sow into it.

So, friends, may our blessing to this world be a holy disturbance—born of the gifts each of us brings to our everyday lives, both individually and collectively: the pathways we embark on, the conversations we begin, the letters we write, the institutions we strengthen, the orders we disobey, the visions we imagine, the laughter we share, the traffic we slow on seaside causeways in July, and the people we love. May these blessings call us to settle beneath the storm—rooting into the life-giving miles that stretch and intersect, that reach down through the layers of our shared lives, holding us together and helping our faith to break apart hardened ground, inch by precious inch.

Amen, and may it be so.