I preached this sermon on October 12, 2025 at Rockville United Church in Rockville, Maryland. This was a blessing of the animals service; hence, the animal references and the regretful dog wiggle-butt illustration in the middle of the sermon.
This week, I saw a photo of a golden retriever giving a ride to a baby koala. The dog’s human noticed this unusual sight and came out to help the baby back into its tree, where it was safely reunited with its mother. Very cute. The week before, a video from 2013 went viral again after Jane Goodall’s death — a chimpanzee returning to hug her before being released into the wild.
We humans are fascinated by cross-species cooperation. Stories of animals setting aside instinctive animosity capture our hearts — a dog nursing kittens, a crow bringing shiny trinkets to a little girl who feeds it, or, as we heard this morning, “the wolf will dwell with the lamb; the calf and the lion cub will graze together….”
We love these stories because they are not the norm. Animals, for the most part, stay within their kind.
And so do humans — though our “kind” looks a little different. We live inside our own ecosystems: families, neighborhoods, faith communities, and political identities. These become the bubbles that shape our view of the world. When something or someone feels unfamiliar, our nervous systems react. It’s a very human response.
We are wired for safety. Our brains constantly scan for threat, comparing what we see to what we already know. When something feels different, our bodies whisper, “Be careful.” That instinct for safety isn’t the same as prejudice — but it can become prejudice when it’s shaped by what we’ve been taught to fear.
Our wiring gives us the impulse to stay safe. Our culture gives that impulse its content — whom to fear, whom to trust, which people are worthy of love and care.
My favorite song from the musical South Pacific talks about this:
“You’ve got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught
From year to year,
It’s got to be drummed
In your dear little ear —
You’ve got to be carefully taught.”
But we’re taught much more than prejudice. We’re taught who belongs — and who doesn’t. We’re taught which stories to believe, which voices to trust, and which differences we must repel.
Pew Research found that 80–90% of teens identify with the same political affiliation as their parents. That tells us something about how strong the pull of familiarity really is — and how easily our circles of belonging can become echo chambers.
What can be learned can also be unlearned, but that takes time, courage, and usually, stepping into discomfort. Research shows that regular exposure to different people, perspectives, and environments can reduce — even undo — unconscious bias. The more difference we see, the less we fear it. And when fear lessens, curiosity returns.
Sometimes, though, change is forced upon us. The world breaks into our bubble and we can’t unsee what we’ve seen: layoffs, rising prices, a neighbor suddenly targeted, or brutality in the streets.
That flicker of doubt about an old perspective — that uneasy sense that something isn’t right — can grow into a flame. And that flame, that restlessness for truth, is the spark of the Divine within each of us — urging us back toward love.
When that spark catches, curiosity is the oxygen that keeps it alive and allows it to grow. It’s the holy breath that turns a private awakening into the possibility of transformation — for us, and for our world.
But back to animals for a moment. Think of two dogs meeting on the street. They pull at their leashes, noses twitching, tails wagging. They’re curious: Who are you? Friend or foe? Some dogs may bark or growl before they even get close — they’ve already made up their minds. But most begin with curiosity.
What would our world look like if we did the same? If our first instinct toward one another was curiosity, not judgment?
Curiosity is easiest at the beginning. But once we’re rooted in our communities — especially when those communities are at odds — letting down our barriers takes courage.
And yet, that’s exactly what this moment in history calls for. We need all hands-on deck.
Some people are beginning to see cracks in the stories they once believed — starting to question, to reconsider. And those people are not our enemies; they are potential partners in restoration. They are essential if we’re to turn this ship around.
But here’s the thing: even when we begin to see differently, letting go of what we’ve built our lives upon is excruciating. The more we’ve invested — our money, our reputation, our emotional energy — the harder it is to walk away. Psychologists call this escalation of commitment.
In the 1950s, Leon Festinger studied doomsday groups after their prophecies failed. You’d think people would walk away, but most doubled down. They gave more time, more money, more loyalty. Because once you’ve tied your identity, your community, and your hope to a story, admitting it isn’t true can feel like losing your place in the world.
Fear probably played a role in those beliefs to begin with. Fear loves certainty. It makes simple answers magnetic.
So when someone starts to question — when they’re in that tender space between what they used to believe and what they’re beginning to see — the last thing they need is to be shamed or cornered. It doesn’t matter if their awakening came late, or if they once justified things they now regret. What matters is that they’re beginning to see differently — and that is sacred ground.
There’s a line from The Art of War that speaks to this:
“Never back your opponent into a corner. If you give them no way out, they will fight with everything they have. But if you leave them an exit, they may choose it.”
Even an ancient warrior text understood what Jesus would later embody: people change not when they are cornered, but when they are given a path forward.
What if our curiosity creates that exit — and grace allows them to go through? What if we left room for change? What if we gave each other the space to step into new understanding — without humiliation, without shame, and without fear of being cast out?
People rarely change when they feel attacked. They change when they feel seen.
They change when curiosity is extended toward them.
They change when they’re given the grace to grow.
And that’s what Jesus did again and again.
He didn’t corner people. He gave them a way forward.
Zacchaeus, the tax collector — despised by his community — Jesus looked up and said, “Zacchaeus, come on down. I’m going to your house tonight.”
The Samaritan woman at the well — judged and avoided — Jesus spoke with her as an equal, offering her living water.
The woman caught in adultery — surrounded by stones and condemnation — Jesus wrote in the sand and said, “Let the one without sin cast the first stone.”
That’s the pattern: not cornering, but creating space. Giving dignity. Extending grace.
That’s what our world is starving for.
We live in a culture that thrives on cornering — online, in politics, even in our homes. But Jesus shows us a better way: to leave a door open, to give people a path back to love.
We’re in a season of upheaval. Institutions that once seemed solid are shaking. Trust feels fragile. And the temptation is to dig in — to decide once and for all who’s with us and who’s against us.
But that’s not how new worlds are built.
On the other side of this destruction – and we will come out on the other side – what we long for isn’t more division, but something better — a world where love matters more than fear, where justice matters more than power, and where all creation is honored.
We can’t build that world alone. We need every ally we can get — even those who once stood against us.
Curiosity opens the door.
Grace invites people through.
And together, step by step, we begin to build.
So maybe that’s how the tales of animal cooperation can help us. Although animals usually act on instinct, they can surprise us. And we humans have something they don’t: the ability to choose curiosity over fear, grace over grievance, and cooperation over division.
If a dog can carry a baby koala home, surely we can carry one another — not because it’s instinctive, but because we choose to do so.
Because the spark of the Divine within us still believes that love can weave justice and mercy into what fear has torn apart.
Joni Miller, Ph.D., is a writer, researcher, spiritual coach, and speaker who uses her knowledge, education, and love of all things spiritual to help spiritual wanderers find a place they can call home, navigating by the light of Love. www.SpiritualGeography.net
