My First Cheat Code
David R. Weiss – April 13, 2024

I’ve never actually used a cheat code. Not yet. (In case you don’t know, cheat codes are short bits of code—sometimes short phrases—that help you get past an especially challenging point in a video game. They might let you instantly reach the next level or overcome an otherwise formidable foe. Basically, they provide a special power unavailable according to the established rules of the game. They let you … cheat.)

Mind you, this is all second-hand knowledge I’m sharing. As I said, I’ve never actually activated a cheat code myself. Partly because I’ve never been into video games. I’ve also never really been a fan of cheating. Though I suppose it’s a fair question to ask whether sometimes the rules themselves are wrong and a cheat code is required to move forward.

Anyway, a couple weeks back I was sitting next to a friend, Diane, at a local theatre, waiting for the performance to start. We were mostly just making small talk to pass the time. As one does. Except this talk didn’t stay small. And its unexpected bigness has stayed with me.

Diane asked how my transition to the Unitarian Universalist tradition was going. Well, that right there took it beyond small talk.

See, I was born into a very Lutheran family (on Christmas Day, no less!), and I grew up very Lutheran myself. As in, at church almost every Sunday and engaged in other church activities during the week—pretty consistently from childhood until well into my fifties. So Lutheran that I went to Lutheran seminary. And, while I never wanted to be a pastor, I did complete a second graduate degree in Christian Ethics so I could become a Lutheran theologian. So, yeah, very much Lutheran.

And I became a good theologian. I’ll even say a very good theologian (though I’ll understand if you think I’m biased). I taught college religion and theology for twenty years at five different schools. And I did “public theology.” That is, in essays and op-eds, and in public lectures on college campuses and at churches across the country, I reflected on contemporary issues in light of Christian faith—and in plain English (hence, “public”).

Over the years I moved from liberal to progressive—and beyond. I stretched Lutheran theology to its limits. And then stretched it some more. Eventually, about four years ago, I shifted from a Lutheran congregation to a United Church of Christ one. The UCC is known as the most progressive mainline Christian church in terms of social attitudes, social justice commitments, and expansive theology. I felt like I needed more elbow room, more breathing space. And I suppose I did.

Except. Over the twenty years that I wrote and taught and thought Christian theology, as I became a better theologian—more nuanced, more authentic in my theology—I also became less and less Christian. (Oops.) So, in truth, by the time I moved from an ELCA to a UCC congregation, I wasn’t very Lutheran or even very Christian at all anymore.

Though, if you ask me, I’d say I became more than Christian. I never rejected Christianity; but my thinking, my convictions grew wider. And deeper. I cared less and less about doctrine, and more and more about core ethical convictions. As a theologian I was no longer sure exactly where I fit, but I knew at least that the UCC had something of a “Don’t’ Ask, Don’t Tell” policy when it came to edgy personal belief. For someone who felt like a full-blown-heretic or merely a humanist-in-hiding (depending on the day), the UCC seemed like a relatively safe place for me to hang my theology shingle. And for a while it was. But only for a while.

Which is why I finally moved (in early 2023) from a UCC congregation to a Unitarian Universalist fellowship. When I did, I expected to feel a measure of relief at finally feeling able (even invited!) to bring my unedited self to the community each week. I expected to relish the freedom of not having to navigate so carefully exactly where the “outer edge” of Christianity was, lest I stray too far. I expected to savor the chance to set the map entirely aside and simply allow curiosity, wonder, conscience, and the company of those around me to serve as my small catechism (and compass). And all these expectations were met.

However, after several months, a brooding sense of sorrow and loss appeared. This caught me by surprise. As I considered this unexpected bittersweetness I was feeling among the UU’s, it slowly dawned on me. I’d been a very good theologian. Yet, as I matured in my thinking, it cost me more and more to stay “within the lines” of Christian theology. The result was that in a whole array of small … “accommodations,” I’d limited the best and the most daring impulses of my own thinking lest I think myself right outside even the expanse known as progressive Christianity.

And now, among the UU’s, suddenly and without warning, I felt heart-wrenching grief at what might’ve been … but wasn’t. At the company I could’ve kept … but didn’t. The colleagues I might’ve made … but never did. And I felt a stinging bitterness that I had elected, not so much consciously as by quiet, safe default, to never fully unfurl myself so as to maintain the comfortable discomfort of a “home” that was at least familiar … even if not really a home at all. That is some soul-deep grief.

Now, I wouldn’t trade what I’ve found among the UU’s for anything. But this sharp sense of loss and regret, of what might’ve been, has put an unexpected and deep note of melancholy on my otherwise happy discovery of the UU tradition. And that’s what I voiced to Diane. Not in all these 750 words, of course. (I needed to fill you in; she knew much of this.)

No, but in just several short sentences, I said as much. We were, after all, simply making small talk to pass the time. I concluded with a wistful lament, “I can’t help but think that I could’ve been a really great UU theologian. And that stings.”

Diane’s reply came swift and direct, impulsive and intentional: “Hey, it’s never too late.” I offered my uncertain agreement, “I know …” She repeated, “It’s never too late.” To which I mustered a slightly more determined but no less uncertain, “You’re right.” At which point I swear Diane, clicking her heels together like Dorothy in Oz, said for a third time, “I’m really serious. It’s. Never. Too. Late.”

Then, as if for dramatic effect, the lights dimmed, and the show began. And there we left it. Until a couple days later when it hit me with force: Diane just gave me a damn cheat code!

Here I am, in my mid-sixties, feeling (for a whole variety of reasons) emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, and vocationally banged up, worn down, and just plain weary. Sure, I’m in a cheery enough Unitarian Universalist room, but it has only a locked window—and that window only looks backward and hints (okay, leers) at what might’ve been.

And Diane—I am NOT making up that three-fold repetition, though I might have added the heel click as artistic license—set a 3-word cheat code in my lap. A code with the power to flip the view in that window from what-might’ve-been to what-might-yet-be. And to unlock it, so it provides not just a view but a potential path forward.

As I said at the beginning, I’ve never actually used a cheat code. Until now.

Time to find out what might-yet-be.

***

David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.