Re-Imagining Unitarian Universalism: A New Name?

Let's just call ourselves: The Friends of Walt.  The Camerados y Cameradas.

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walk of dreams….
Your true soul and body appear before me….
Who ever you are, now I place my hand upon you that you be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear, 
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself.
None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you
None but would subordinate you, I am only he who will never consent to subordinate you.
I am he who places over you, no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself. 
I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully to you.  
I sing the songs of glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! Claim your own at any hazard!  

Set aside your scholarly quibbles about his literary merit.  And I am sure that one can find a retrograde line somewhere, some element of condescension, some phrase now understood to be insulting.  But, is there anyone in our national history who better embodies the wild expansiveness of the spirit that is our aspiration.  Name another who would look more at ease in bright yellow tee-shirt -- who would get without explanation 'standing on the side of love.' 

Such spirit comes from the depths. 

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first
just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair,
and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step--and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of
beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you--I think this face is the face of the
Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.



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