"Who are you?" How would you answer that question? "Who are you?" Imagine how you'd answer if you were asked this question by a stranger on a downtown street? "Who are you?" Imagine how you'd answer a stranger at the mall or the airport. "Who are you?" What if that stranger were a clerk at the cash register or ticket counter? How do you perceive the question differently? What do you answer when someone here at our church asks you, "Who are you?" Do you answer differently at coffee hour than you might at a spirituality retreat? Who asks you, "Who are you?" Do your friends ask you that? Or do they think they know you? Do you think they know you?

That simple question –"Who are you?" - was the basis of a group-building exercise in the UU men's group I belonged to on Long Island. Here's how it worked. We broke the group into pairs of men. In each pair, one was designated the "Hero" and the other the "Witness." The Witness's job was to ask the Hero, "Who are you?" and then listen without comment to the answer. When the Hero had given an answer, the Witness was to ask him again, "Who are you?" The Hero was to give a different answer. Still truthful, but different from the first time. When the Hero had finished that answer, the Witness asked again, "Who are you?" and the Hero answered again. And so it went, for a full for five minutes. Then our facilitator asked us to switch roles, and repeat the exercise.

Imagine yourself in the Hero's role. Think what you would answer the first time: "Who are you?" … And what would you answer the second time: "Who are you?" … And the third time: "Who are you?" … And the fourth- "Who are you?" … And the fifth: "Who are you?" … And the sixth. Are you getting the feel of it? Now imagine yourself in the Witness's role. You ask, "Who are you?" The Hero gives an answer. He stops. You say, "Who are you?" He gives a new answer. He stops. You say again, 'Who are you?" Another answer comes. Silence. "Who are you?" More slowly, more thoughtfully now, comes the fourth answer. When he's finished it, you ask again, "Who are you?" He pauses in thoughtful silence before the fifth answer unfolds. After some time, he is silent again. You ask, "Who are you?" He frowns, or makes a face, or rolls his eyes. A moment later comes the halting start of the sixth answer. By the way, do you remember all he's said so far? Did you understand all that he said? Remember, your job is to listen to all these answers, without comment or question, and yes, to retain what you can. There's a good chance he doesn't remember all that he's said so far. What will you be able to tell him when the five minutes are up? Do you have the feel of this role?

Now how in the world did a group of guys decide to come together to do this? Well, we didn't start out this way. In fact, this was the third attempt to form a men's group at that congregation. The first attempt followed a format sort of like an encounter group's. Their thesis was that men don't know how to be intimate and share their feelings, so the group was to be a place to practice those things. And if you didn't—if you held back or lightened up— the group got mad at you. That group broke up after a few months.

The second attempt aimed to give men a time and place to socialize, get better acquainted, form friendships, and let trust and intimacy develop naturally. We had enjoyable evenings with good attendance, and we did get better acquainted, but the hoped-for intimacy did not develop. I attended this group only sporadically, partly because I was in seminary and very busy, but also partly because after a while, it might as well have been a cocktail party. The group had evolved "naturally," without being steered toward any new norms of behavior, and it had gravitated toward the same cultural norms we'd hoped to transcend.

The third attempt took a middle path between the intensity of the first group and the looseness of the second. We took care to prepare ourselves and our space, to put ourselves in a more spiritual frame of heart and mind. We lit candles and turned off all the electric lights. Someone would read a poem. We'd meditate or sing together. And then we'd do something like the "Who are you?" exercise. It helped us make the transition from the busy-ness of our days to the sacredness of this time together. It helped put us in touch with the feelings we longed to express. It brought us to attention, to attend to one another. It helped us be present to one another, to be witnesses for each hero in the circle.

We agreed to keep our sharing confidential, and this helped us to build trust and be open with one another. As our trust grew, so did the depth of our sharing. We achieved a rare bond of intimacy, a spiritual kindred-ness, a feeling of cherished brotherhood. Through our experience in this group, we each began to discern ways to be better men, and by being witnesses for one another we gave each other strength to resist our culture's messages that what we were doing and discovering was not "manly." We knew we were breaking the mold, that we were not doing "typical guy things." But we also knew that what we were doing opened the door for what one of us called "beneficial self-expression."

I like that term: "beneficial self-expression." For me, it captures the sense we had that our sharing in the group should be more than sounding off. That we expected each other to take responsibility for it. That whatever we shared should be thoughtful enough and heartfelt enough that it was not only beneficial to ourselves to articulate it, but beneficial to the group to hear it. This became a norm for us, a rule that never needed enforcement. We abided by it because it was written on our hearts, in as deep a place as the thoughts and feelings we shared. I still remember with awe the height of our achievement, the breadth of our brotherly love.