A powerful and restorative collection of poetry and prose for religious leaders.
This book was born out of both heartbreak and hope. Being a religious leader is challenging even in ordinary times: being on call all the time, losses and grief, natural disasters, budget shortfalls, and staffing challenges. And in extraordinary times, leaders are called to carry even more to care for their congregants and communities. Our religious leaders are struggling with exhaustion and burnout. But rest and solidarity can help lighten the load.
Bless the Weary is a balm for the exhaustion and overwhelm of being a religious leader. Edited by Connie Goodbread, this anthology of poetry and prose is an invitation to rest, reflect, and remember that you are not alone. It is also a call to action: to strengthen our bonds and nurture communities rooted in justice and compassion-together.
This collection seeks to offer you comfort without complacency and courage without despair. May it remind you of your own capacity for love, your own power to heal, and the joy that comes when we do the work of transforming the world.
Introduction
"The job of the church is not to build the church. The job of the church is to transform the world." -Natalie Briscoe
As I sit down to write this introduction in 2026, the world feels both tender and torn. So much is happening that could distract us, numb us, or convince us that transformation is impossible.
And yet the call to build the world we dream about remains unchanged: a world where every person is supported in becoming all that they can be; where we understand our deep interdependence and know that one person's liberation is bound up with the liberation of all people; where compassion is more common than cruelty, generosity more common than greed.
That dream is still alive-even when it feels distant.
Every generation, I suspect, feels it is living in both the best of times and the worst of times. At this moment, some communities in the United States are experiencing state-sanctioned violence, intimidation, and deep social fracture. It is easy to feel overwhelmed by shock, grief, fear, and anger.
And yet, life continues. The laundry must be done. Children must be fed. The sun rises and sets, painting the sky and water in colors that take our breath away. People reach for one another's hands and lock arms in solidarity. Love persists.
"And I'll bring you hope when hope is hard to find."
Many of us have sung that line in Unitarian Universalist congregations. It raises real questions: What does it mean to bring hope? What does hope look like in seasons of fear? What does it look like in seasons of abundance, when our spirits are steady and the path seems clear?
We are each carrying heavy burdens. We bring them into our relationships, our workplaces, our communities, and our congregations. And we are often searching for the people and spaces that will help us heal. Sometimes we know this; sometimes we do not. As bell hooks reminds us, "Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion."
This is true for all of us. It is also true for those who lead, those who serve, and those who hold responsibility-whether in religious communities, families, neighborhoods, or any place where people gather and grow.
Leadership of any kind-professional or volunteer, formal or informal-has never been simple. In calmer times, we still shoulder enormous responsibilities. Add to that natural disasters, global uncertainty, and the everyday challenges of being human, and it becomes clear that all this stress stretches the human spirit.
And yet the human spirit can also be fed-by living courageously, awakening to the wonders of the world, and striving for deeper understanding.
Taking care of ourselves is not indulgence; it is necessity. My friend and colleague Jessica York has often reminded me t
