Today, I stand at a threshold—the end of my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) residency and the beginning of a new chapter in ministry. It feels like I am standing at the edge of a river, pausing to honor the currents that brought me here and the vast, uncharted waters ahead.

This residency has been a year of deep learning and transformation. I entered it carrying the tools I had sharpened through years of ministry and study—tools of presence, prayer, and listening. But what I found was that this work asked something even more tender of me: the willingness to lay down the polished tools and simply be human, vulnerable, and whole.

✨ A Room of Grief and Tenderness

One moment that will forever shape me took place in a quiet hospital room, where the lights were off and the TV was on but silent—a muted echo of life that felt distant from the raw grief in the air. There was Mr. S, lying withdrawn, his eyes unfocused, his body turned away. And beside him stood his mother, Ms. S, her hand resting on the bedframe—a silent prayer, a yearning to reach her son.

I entered that room feeling grounded, present, and ready to serve. I did not have answers—I had presence. I introduced myself softly, making space for the heavy silence. When I spoke to Mr. S, I offered no demands, no pressure to talk—just an invitation to let me sit with him in his pain. I sat down at his level, reducing the power dynamic, and waited in the gentle quiet.

His mother spoke of her fear: “He hasn’t been himself since we lost him… It’s like he’s just gone.” Her voice cracked under the weight of her love and her worry, and I could see how desperately she wanted to pull him back to life.

I stepped outside the room with her, offering her space to name her grief, to let her tears flow. “I feel like I’m losing him,” she said. “I pray every night for him to come back to me.” I told her, “You’re not alone. Your grief is real. Your love for him is real. And that is no small thing.”

When we returned to the room, Mr. S whispered—so quietly—“I don’t know how to do this.” His mother gripped his hand and said, “You don’t have to know how. We’ll figure it out together.” And in that moment of honest, trembling connection, I felt the sacredness of presence—how even the slightest flicker of life, of love, can begin to heal what feels beyond reach.

✨ Key Lessons: From Masks to Authenticity

This year of residency has been about more than offering care to others—it has been about learning to care for myself, too. I came into this work with layers of survival, well-practiced masks of competence and control. I thought I had to “have it together” in order to be worthy of trust. But I have learned, again and again, that authenticity-not perfection-is what makes ministry real.

I have learned to sit with my own stories of struggle—the parts of me that I once thought I had to hide to be “professional.” My queerness, my mixed-race identity, my experiences of spiritual harm and sacred belonging—these are not liabilities. They are sources of deep empathy, of solidarity with those whose wounds echo mine.

I have come to see that ministry does not ask me to erase myself. It invites me to bring my whole self—messy, honest, and alive—to the sacred work of accompaniment.

✨ Transformation: From Wounds to Witness

One of the greatest gifts of this year has been learning to speak from my scars, not my wounds. I no longer rush to explain or spiritualize my pain. I honor it as part of the mystery of being human. I have learned that the moments of most profound connection often come when I let go of the need to “fix” and instead witness.

This shift has allowed me to lead with less defense and more softness. It has allowed me to love myself more honestly and to trust that what people need is not my curated strength, but my real, imperfect presence.

I now understand my story as part of a larger narrative—a story of queer and trans resilience, BIPOC survival, and liberation faith traditions that declare love as holy and justice as sacred. My story does not exist in isolation—it resonates with countless others. In telling it, I hope to help others hear their own truth echo back.

✨ Stepping Forward: A Ministry of Love and Sanctuary

As I prepare to step into congregational ministry, I carry all of these lessons with me. I carry the quiet power of presence, the humility of not needing to have all the answers, and the unwavering belief that love—radical, messy, and fundamental—can transform even the most broken places.

I know the work ahead will be full of challenges and joys, grief and laughter, and questions that have no easy answers. But I am ready. I am ready to create spaces of sanctuary where people can bring their whole selves, to nurture communities where justice and tenderness meet, and to be a witness to the sacredness in every story.

This residency has not just shaped me as a chaplain—it has shaped me as a person. It has taught me that my past is not something I work against; it is something I draw from. In that drawing, I become a more bottomless well of presence, for myself and for those I serve.

To those who have walked with me on this journey—colleagues, mentors, patients, and loved ones—thank you. Your trust and your stories have taught me more than any book or training ever could. You have shown me the sacredness of accompaniment—the quiet power of being with someone exactly where they are.

🌿 I invite you, beloveds, to share:

Have you ever stood at a threshold moment—where one chapter of your life ended and another began?
What did you carry with you across that threshold?
What truths did you discover about yourself, your spirit, and your calling?

Let’s keep weaving this tapestry of stories and reflections.
In sharing, we remind each other that none of us walks this journey alone.

With deep gratitude and fierce tenderness,
Rev. Phoenix Bell-Shelton Biggs

“But Jesus, answering, said to him, “Allow it at this time; for in this way it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.” - Matthew 3:15

"The most important among you is the one who serves others. Those who try to lift themselves up will be brought down, but those who humble themselves will be lifted." - Matthew 23:11-12:

I have been moved to change my actions or perspective many times because of someone else's humility. One particularly impactful moment happened during my internship when I worked alongside a mentor whose actions in the face of adversity reshaped my understanding of leadership and vulnerability. This mentor was a seasoned leader, yet they never sought to dominate the conversation or assert themselves above others in moments of tension or difficulty. Instead, they opened up the space for others to contribute, listening intently to each person's voice, even when it meant admitting uncertainty or lack of knowledge. I recall a specific instance when we were navigating a particularly challenging situation, and rather than asserting control or offering immediate solutions, my mentor paused, acknowledged the complexity of the problem, and invited the team to share their perspectives.

This act of humility in leadership was incredibly striking to me because, like many, I had often equated leadership with authority, decisiveness, and the ability always to have an answer. I had internalized the idea that leaders needed to be infallible and any sign of weakness or uncertainty was something to be avoided. However, seeing my mentor embody humility in such a powerful and graceful way shattered that belief. Instead of diminishing their authority, their humility amplified their strength and deepened the team's trust. It was a profound realization for me: vulnerability, far from being a weakness, was a source of connection and strength, a doorway to collaboration and growth.

Over time, this experience shifted my perspective on leadership, particularly in ministry. I began to understand that leadership is not about having all the answers or carrying the burden of expertise. It's about creating an environment where others feel seen, heard, and valued, and all voices—especially those often marginalized—are welcomed and respected. This way, I recognized humility as the key to fostering a healthy, inclusive, and supportive community. I became more comfortable asking questions, seeking feedback, and showing my vulnerabilities rather than attempting to maintain an image of perfection.

I began to see humility as an invitation to growth. It allowed me to acknowledge my limitations and recognize the depth of knowledge, experience, and wisdom in others—wisdom that I had been too proud to embrace in the past fully. Humility created a culture of mutual learning and support, where individuals could thrive without the pressure of competing for validation or the fear of judgment. It also helped me reframe how I viewed my struggles. When I embraced humility, I was able to approach my growth with compassion, understanding that it was okay to be in the process and that my value wasn't tied to being perfect.

Witnessing my mentor's humility inspired me to adopt a more open and inclusive leadership style rooted in empathy, mutual respect, and collaboration. This shift in perspective reinforced my belief that leadership in ministry should be grounded in love and care, not in asserting authority or control. It also ripple effect on how I approached my relationships within the communities I serve, helping me create spaces where people could bring their whole selves, acknowledging their strengths and vulnerabilities.

I learned that to lead with integrity truly, one must show up with humility and remember that leadership is not about the leader but the collective, the community, and the shared journey toward healing and transformation.

It was near the end of my shift at the hospital. I was physically tired, emotionally spent, and spiritually hovering somewhere between grounded and tender. The day had already been full of connection, heartbreak, and silent prayers whispered in elevators. I was preparing to wind down when a call came from the nurse: A patient had just passed. The family wasn’t present. Could Spiritual Health come?

I said yes, instinctively.

Walking into the patient’s room, I immediately noticed the stillness. The kind that feels holy. No machines beeping. No TVs droning in the background. No soft rustle of visitors’ jackets or the quiet cry of someone saying goodbye. Just silence—and the presence of something sacred lingering in the air.

A small cross rested on the bedside table. The chart had indicated the patient was Christian, and though no words had been spoken to me by the patient, that symbol—a simple wooden cross—anchored the room in something familiar. Something ancient. Something loving.

The patient lay peacefully, their body a quiet echo of a life just lived.

I stood for a moment at the foot of the bed. Breathed. Grounded. Let the silence speak first. It wasn’t just absence I felt—it was presence too. The presence of Spirit. The weight of dignity. The undeniable truth that this human life had meant something, and that meaning deserved to be honored.

And then, I prayed. Not with grand gestures. Not with perfect words. But with reverence, honesty, and the deep ache of love that exists when a goodbye is whispered instead of spoken aloud.

“Loving and gracious God,
In your mercy, we entrust [Name] into your eternal care.
We give thanks for the gift of their life, for the love they shared, and for the ways their spirit touched others.
Surround them now with your everlasting light and peace.
May they rest in your embrace, free from all pain, and filled with your boundless love.

We also lift up their family and loved ones who could not be here.
Hold them gently in this time of sorrow.
Surround them with your comfort, sustain them with your strength, and bless them with peace and healing.
May they know they are never alone, carried always by your grace and tender care.

Amen.”

I stayed a while longer, silent again, letting the prayer settle in the air. I imagined the family—wherever they were. I pictured them aching, unaware that someone stood in this room bearing witness on their behalf. That someone prayed for them too.

And that’s when it hit me: this was the first time I’d ever been asked to offer a prayer after someone had passed with no one else in the room.

At first, I felt the weight of the moment—the heaviness of responsibility. But quickly, it became something else: sacred intimacy. I wasn’t just praying for a patient. I was praying for a soul. I was standing in the gap between life and death, between absence and presence, between love remembered and love still needed.

In that moment, ministry became something deeper than accompaniment. It became incarnation.

It became the presence of love when no one else could be there.

We often think of ministry as something that happens in conversation, in sermons, in pastoral visits filled with tears and storytelling. But sometimes, ministry is what happens when you show up in silence. When you say a prayer not just for the person in front of you, but for everyone who couldn’t be there to speak their own. When you offer care not for applause, or even thanks—but because the sacred asks you to.

This experience reminded me of something I deeply believe: no one dies alone. Not truly. Because love doesn’t die. Connection doesn’t end. And Spirit holds more than we can see.

I walked out of the room slowly. The hallway lights seemed brighter. The world moved on—nurses giving meds, doctors updating charts, families talking in low tones. But I carried something different now. A stillness. A knowing.

A deeper understanding that ministry happens not just in the big moments, but in the small ones. Not just when we’re seen, but when we see. Not just when we are accompanied, but when we choose to accompany—even into the quiet.

May we all remember: even when the room is silent, love is never absent.

Dear beloveds,

There’s something sacred about sitting down to write these words to you. Maybe it’s because they come not just from my head, but from my bones—from the places in me that have held pain, and from the places that are still healing.

I’ve known what it’s like to feel the world push back on your existence. To be told you’re too much, too soft, too loud, too queer. I’ve had people misname me, diminish me, or try to explain me away. I’ve heard slurs shouted in parking lots. I’ve received messages from strangers who think my ministry is a threat. I’ve felt the heartbreak of being excluded from spaces I once called sacred.

And still—I rise. Not with bitterness, but with clarity. Not with hate, but with holy fire.

There were days I tried to disappear. Days I wondered if being small would make me safe. I know what it’s like to survive off the scraps of worthiness, believing that if I just worked hard enough, proved myself enough, or smiled enough, maybe then I’d be accepted.

But here’s what love has taught me—what the Spirit whispers again and again through tears, through prayer, through joy:

I am already enough.
I am already whole.
And my spirit is not up for debate.

I’m made of stardust and sweat, of Southern soil and queer brilliance. I am the child who survived, the minister who believes in sanctuary, the person who keeps showing up even when it’s hard. I carry with me the strength of my ancestors and the tenderness of chosen family. And I refuse to let hate name me.

I’m named by love.
By the sacred.
By the miracle of still being here.

So when hate shows up—whether in headlines, or systems, or passing comments—I don’t meet it with silence anymore. I meet it with truth. I meet it with glitter and grace. With protest and poetry. With care that is radical and love that is real.

To anyone reading this who has been pushed to the margins: I see you. You are not alone. You are worthy of love, of joy, of a life that doesn’t ask you to hide.

Let us keep rising. Together.

With fierce tenderness and unwavering hope,
Rev. Phoenix

If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to share it. And if you want more like this—words for the soul, rooted in resistance, healing, and radical love—subscribe below. This journey is better with you on it.

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This time, we center the voices of two women named Mary—Mary of Nazareth, the mother of Jesus, and Mary Magdalene, the first to witness the resurrection. Their story is often quieted beneath the louder proclamations of empire and patriarchal theology.

But not today.

Today we say: these women felt it all—grief, rage, heartbreak, and holy hope. And in their story, we glimpse our own.

"Who Will Roll Away the Stone?"

“Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?”

It’s a question echoing across generations, across identities, across communities that have faced death and dared to hope for something more.

The Marys did not turn away from their pain. They moved toward it. They bore witness. They showed up.

Beyond Grief—Into Righteous Anger and Courageous Love

To reduce these women’s experiences to mere mourning is to ignore the depth of their humanity.

Mary of Nazareth—mother of the crucified—must have felt profound rage. She birthed a child who was killed by the state in public view. She watched the empire crucify her hope. I would be angry too. Wouldn’t you?

Mary Magdalene, a disciple and companion of Jesus, stood by the tomb, weeping—yes—but also showing up in faith. Her love did not end at the cross.

And then… a voice. A presence. Resurrection.

“She turned and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize who stood before her.” (John 20:14)

Even in grief, even in confusion, love speaks. Love reveals. And Mary Magdalene becomes the first preacher of the resurrection.

Resurrection Is Not a Return—It’s a Revolution

So often, we treat resurrection like a tidy conclusion. But this story—this gospel—is anything but neat. It’s a disruption.

And that disruption continues today.

In the face of violence and injustice—in Palestine, in the streets of America, in our own communities—we cry out like the Marys.

We are still waiting for the stone to be rolled away.

James Cone, in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, writes: “The Christian gospel is more than a transcendent reality... It is an immanent reality—a powerful, liberating presence among the poor right now in their midst.”

Cone asks: How do we reconcile the gospel of liberation with the reality of oppression? This is the real Easter question.

Reclaiming the Gospel from Empire

We must resist theologies that glorify suffering or justify systemic harm. The resurrection is not about enduring pain as virtue. It’s about rising in the face of it.

The cross was not God's demand—it was empire's violence. Jesus didn’t come to die. He came to love, to liberate, to embody God-with-us. And that message got him killed.

But empire didn’t win.

Love rose anyway.

And love keeps rising—in Black liberation movements, in Palestinian resistance, in queer and trans communities claiming sacred worth, in every act of defiant compassion.

The Table of Defiant Love

Easter invites us to communion—not as a guilt-ridden ritual, but as a love-filled gathering. A meal that says: You belong. You are loved. There is nothing you must do to earn this grace.

As the liturgy from enfleshed reminds us:

“We will not look to the cross for what saves us. Let us refuse to glorify empire’s violence… Blessed is this flesh of God. We remember. We weep. We remain followers of defiant love.”

That’s the heart of the gospel.

The Final Question: How Will Love Rise in You?

On this Easter morning, we are invited to ask not only what happened in the tomb—but what is happening now in our lives.

What love is asking to rise? What pain are we carrying that needs to be held tenderly? What anger might be holy? What resurrection are we being called to live out?

Because resurrection is not just an event—it’s a practice. A call. A way of showing up for one another, again and again, even after death, even after despair.

“Love is the spirit of this church, and service is its law. This is our great covenant: to dwell together in peace, to seek the truth in love, and to help one another.” – James Vila Blake, 1894

Let Us Begin Again to Love

We cannot roll away the stone alone. But together—like Mary and Mary—we can bear witness. We can proclaim resurrection. We can rise in love.

So I ask you, dear one: What love is rising in you today? And what is that love calling you to do next?

Christ has risen. And so must we.

I am the child who learned to fear their own voice. Who was told their truth didn’t matter, who was taught to pray away their queerness, who carried shame like a second skin. I am the one who sat in pews, crying silently, wondering why the God I was told to worship didn’t seem to love someone like me.

It’s not just survival. It’s transformation.
It’s healing that runs deep and wide.
It’s the audacity to say: I am made of love. I am worthy of joy. I am sacred.

The road here has been long. It’s taken years of unlearning and reimagining. Years of reclaiming my body, my spirit, my voice. I’ve sat in therapy rooms. I’ve lit candles for my ancestors. I’ve screamed into the wind and whispered prayers to the stars. I’ve met people who saw me when I was invisible to myself. I’ve found God again—this time, not in the image of wrath, but in the tender gaze of liberation and justice.

So now, I tell my story not to relive the pain, but to claim the power. To make space for others to do the same. Because I am not alone.

We are many.

Takeaways

• Thriving during the holidays is a birthright for everyone.

• The holiday season can evoke both joy and pain.

• Choosing joy is a conscious decision, especially in difficult times.

• Community and connection are vital for thriving.

• Personal narratives shape our experiences and perceptions.

• Rest is essential for mental and emotional well-being.

• Authenticity is key to thriving and feeling enough.

• Listening to ancestral wisdom can guide us in our journeys.

• Cultivating practices that support thriving is essential.

• We must hold space for all experiences during the holidays.

• Thriving Through the Holidays: A Journey of Authenticity

• Navigating Joy and Pain During the Holidays

• "Thriving is a birthright."

• "Rest is revolutionary."

• "You are not alone in this."

1. Intro - “Hope Waits” v 1 - Amanda Udis-Kessler - https://queersacredmusic.com/track/2808216/hope-waits-for-us-at-advent-verse-1-for-week-1

2. Outro - “Hope Waits” v 4 - Amanda Udis-Kessler - https://queersacredmusic.com/track/2808227/hope-waits-for-us-at-advent-verse-4-for-week-4

• Revolutionary Prophecy is about building a liberated society.

• Love is at the core of Unitarian Universalist faith.

• Connection and community are essential in ministry.

• Navigating change requires support and collaboration.

• Risk is inherent in advocating for marginalized voices.

• Revolutionary love can transform our world.

• The podcast aims to explore both joy and pain.

• It's important to reflect on our identities in conversations.

• The journey of faith is filled with milestones and growth.

• Together, we can prophesy new ways of thinking and feeling.

Music: If the Prophets Lived Today by Amanda Udis-Kessler

Samara Powers has a chapter on Prophetic Polyamory in Skinner House Book's forthcoming Queer Theology, an anthology of queer "theology" for Unitarian Universalism and beyond, edited by Rev. Lane-Mairead Campbell and Rev. Michael Crumpler. Skinner House links:https://www.uua.org/publications/skinnerhouse

https://www.facebook.com/skinner.house

Public Chaplaincy is an emerging area of ministry that brings spiritual care to arenas where pastoral services are not typically found. There are public chaplains under Rev. Karen Hutt’s supervision doing spiritual care in laundromats, city buses, shelters, coffee shops, public parks, and more. Stay tuned to developments, opportunities, and Public Chaplaincy news on the Facebook page. UU Public Chaplaincy link: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100089322236503

UU Ministerial Candidate  and UUFF Intern Minister roddy bell-shelton biggs explores forgiveness and personal growth through an "Open Letter to my Oppressors." They share a story of resilience wherein, despite bullying and abuse, they find their inner light and decide to add their voice to the river of opposition and the ever-growing ocean of love as a member of Unitarian Universalism. And they invite us to reconnect the pieces of our lives to heal ourselves and others.

The Four-Steps-to-Brilliance PDF 

Amanda Udis-Kessler is a hymn-writer, songwriter, and composer, specializing in music and lyrics for liberal/progressive religious people and communities, including inclusive, social justice-minded Christians, Unitarian Universalists, and other open-hearted religious traditions. Amanda writes at the intersection of progressive religion, sociology ethics, and social justice to support human flourishing and ease human suffering. Amanda's religious music is used across the US, Canada, the UK, South Africa, and New Zealand.

You can learn more about her writings and her music at https://queersacredmusic.com/home as well as at https://amandaudiskessler.com/.