Some of my favorite quotes about stories and storytelling:

The destiny of the world is determined less by the battles that are lost and won than by the stories it loves and believes in (Harold Goddard)

 

I will tell you something about stories. They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death (Leslie Marmon Silko)

 

If you don’t know the trees you may be lost in the forest, but if you don’t know the stories you may be lost in life (Siberian Elder)

 

God made man because he loves stories (Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlev)

 

If you keep telling the same sad small story, you will keep living the same sad small life (Jean Houston)

 

The universe is made of stories, not atoms (Muriel Rukeyser)

 

 

Spirituality is closely tied to the fears and uncertainties in our lives—the inadequacies, the sense of helplessness, the lack and failure of control. Spirituality becomes a way by which we learn how to cope. It incorporates all that is involved in being able to face the challenges of life with serenity, with creativity, with courage.

 

As spirituality grows in our lives, so grows a sense of reverence towards the world, a capacity for forgiveness and compassion, a sense of basic trust, a sense of gratitude for the gifts of Life.

 

Spirituality asks the following question:

“What operates in human life with such character and power that it will transform us as we cannot transform ourselves, saving us from evil and leading us into the best that human life can reach, provided that we meet the required conditions?” (Henry Nelson Wieman)

 

 

Have you ever heard of the man who accompanied Christopher Columbus on his expedition to the New World and was worried that he might not get back in time to succeed the old village tailor–that someone else might snatch the job? (From Anthony De Mello’s The Heart of the Enlightened)

 

“In our creation myths,” says David Leeming, “we tell the world, or at least ourselves, who we are. We describe our ancestry, our conception, our first home, our early relationships with our progenitors, our place in the first world. In the process, we reveal our real priorities, our real fears, our real aspirations, and sometimes our real prejudices and neuroses.”

With this in mind, listen to this important comment about the historical milieu in which early American Unitarianism developed. It comes from Peter Tufts Richardson’s 2005 Minn’s Lectures:

“Unitaranism in Boston and coastal New England grew its strength from a maritime base. There is a certain openness, a restlessness, a larger embrace among populations oriented to global trading. Awareness of Arabic, Indian or Chinese influences broadens one’s comprehension beyond the fencerows and forested hills of one’s immediate landscape. A certain confidence builds with the capacity to outfit global voyages, time appearances in faraway markets, manage the sustenance and survival of crews ands ships for long-distance travel over the horizon from home port (all this long before the invention of the radio). Cosmopolitan awareness and confidence in individual judgment entered into the meeting house mix when Unitarianism was fermenting in coastal congregations.” 

The implicit creation myth here is that we come from a courageous, seafaring, cosmopolitan, self-reliant people. The seeds are already planted for a William Ellery Channing, a Ralph Waldo Emerson, a Margaret Fuller, an Olympia Brown (I’ll include Olympia Brown here, even though she’s a Universalist)…. 

No wonder Peter Mayer’s song “Blue Boat Home” is so terrifically apt a description of the Unitarian Universalist spirit!

Writer E. B. White once said, “I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.” (A variant quote puts it this way: “I get up every morning determined to both change the world and have one hell of a good time. Sometimes this makes planning my day difficult.”)

In saying this, E. B. White admits (without knowing it, perhaps) that’s he’s torn between Unitarian and Universalist ways of being in the world. 

The old saw about the difference between the two spiritual paradigms: “Unitarians believe that humans are too good to be damned by God, and Universalists believe that God is too good to damn humans.” Mark W. Harris comments: “Either way we end up saved, but the process–indeed the reason for salvation–could not be more different. The Unitarian emphasis is self-referential. It asks what I can do about my own salvation. It is about my striving for success on the road to moral perfectionism. The Universalist perspective … emphasizes our common relationship to the whole of creation, to a loving God who redeems all.”

More from Mark W. Harris: “[Universalism] tells us that God is a mysterious fountain of love from whence we have sprung. This is a gripping relational power that allows us to turn to the creation and feel trust and comfort; to know that our fears are held by this love, which increases in power as each of us opens to it. There is a completely egalitarian concept of salvation at work in this Universalist gospel. It is not our individual acts that will save us, nor is it the class we belong to which unites the universe. […] This theology affirms that all of us are good and just as we are, and so there is a kind of divine acceptance or grace in each of our very beings. No matter what we do with our lives, no matter what befalls us, there is still a love which embraces us.”

In other words: The Unitarian feels like one’s salvation and the salvation of the world depends on one’s works; the Universalist knows that there is nothing one can do to earn salvation, and so he or she focuses on opening up to God’s loving presence in each moment, and living out of that. The Unitarian experiences scarcity, and, anxiously, plans on being busy to fill up the emptiness and remedy the lack; the Universalist experiences abundance, and, gratefully, plans on extending and magnifying it. 

So, how does a Unitarian Universalist plan for the day?

 

We remember (again) that we are human when we fail in our attempt to be like God. This is what I learn every time I act on the presumption that I am a limitless self in a limitless world.

 

Congregations learn this too when they try to be all things to all people—when they try to gather two of every kind into their midst like a Noah’s Ark, and in this way attempt  to exert the kind of power only the Hebrew God of myth has.

 

This is what they learn—that they are only human—when they are driven by the anxious presumption that if any good is going to happen in the world, it must happen through them.

 

Congregations and individuals try to be like God, and we can do this even if we don’t believe in God. We might not believe, yet this disbelief is powerless in the face of the anxious urgency to act just like the God we don’t believe in.

 

When people stop taking God seriously, they unconsciously and unknowingly fall into the trap of trying to be like God.

 

This is what happens. And so, when all our efforts to be God-like fail—and after we are finished beating ourselves up and beating each other up because we fall short of omnipotence and omniscience—we are grounded in the earth of our humanity. We can find a more honest and compassionate way to live.

 

Religious faith, for me, consists in a trust relationship with the universe. Faith is a way of opening the door to the possibility of certain good things.  And so, through faith, I open the door to the possibility that life in general (and my life in particular) is worth living. Through faith, I open the door to the possibility that there is a unique purpose for my life either to be discovered or created or both. Through faith, I open the door to the possibility that I can dwell richly and meaningfully in this world, in the midst of joy and sorrow.

Through faith, I open the door. Better this, than for the door to remain closed and to disconnect myself from such existential possibilities.

In this way, I invite experiences into my life–of God, of beauty, of forgiveness. Naturally, my intellect responds with ideas about what is happening, and specific beliefs form. Yet faith as trust is always deeper than belief, and is in fact the necessary condition for their gradual improvement and evolution over time. 

Faith seeks understanding, in the same way that the love you feel towards another person moves you to want to get to know them better. Fides quarens intellectum. (For more information about this way of relating faith and understanding, see http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/anselm/#FaiSeeUndChaPurAnsThePro)

I don’t want to begin the spiritual journey with a head already full of conclusions. I don’t want closures, terminations, and endings crowding my brain when I am just beginning. I want the kind of faith that can open the door and send me in the direction of greater wisdom and peace in life. I want the kind of faith that amounts to love of life, life affirmation–TRUST.

Interestingly, this resonates with what Faustus Socinus believed. Faustus Socinus lived in the 16th century, and he was one of the key founders of the Unitarian movement in Europe. “Socinus,” writes George Beach, “insisted that faith, as trust and confidence in Christ, is to be distinguished from another form of faith that consists in assent to the truth of Christ’s words and promises. Justifying faith is not ‘right belief; (orthodoxy) but trust and confidence, a ‘believing in.’

“In our creation myths,” says David Leeming, “we tell the world, or at least ourselves, who we are. We describe our ancestry, our conception, our first home, our early relationships with our progenitors, our place in the first world. In the process, we reveal our real priorities, our real fears, our real aspirations, and sometimes our real prejudices and neuroses.”

One Unitarian Universalist creation myth has to do with our place in the “first world,” which I interpret to mean early American society. Unitarians were the established, majoritarian religion in New England–the “Standing Order.” We were at the center of cultural life in Boston, which was “the Athens of America.” Our job was (as Peter Richardson puts it) “to monitor and engage in teaching to lift the moral and spiritual wellbeing of all. […] There was no need for a signboard on the church for everyone knew what it was…. It was a church responsible for the wellbeing of all within the sound of its bell.”

This is one our our creation myths. And it becomes active….

…every time we proudly refer to one of our 19th century UU heroes,

…every time we strive—perhaps at times even overfunction?—to be at the heroic forefront of social change (since nothing less than this can be appropriate and proper for a Standing Order religion),

…every time we feel shock and dismay and almost a kind of disbelief when we acknowledge our current status as a faith community at the margins (how far the mighty have fallen),

…every time we locate our churches in difficult to find places, out of the way places, places that are hidden behind a bunch of trees (for, after all, a Standing Order church has no need of a signboard; everyone already knows what it is and where it is, or ought to).

As David Leeming says, our creation myths “reveal our real priorities, our real fears, our real aspirations, and sometimes our real prejudices and neuroses.” If we become more aware of the power of the Standing Order myth, we can gain greater clarity about the shadow side of our religious tradition and make healthier choices for our future. We can gain some relief from the oppressive power of our UU “superego.”

As for another UU creation myth–see my earlier post, entitled “Blue Boat Home.”

I’m a fan of crime fiction in which the detective is a clergy person or related, in some other way, to religious institutions. Here’s the link to a great crime fiction site that lists some 90 detective clergy, ex-clergy, monks, nuns, ex-nuns, rabbis, a rabbi’s widow, the clerk of a Quaker meeting, a Zen Buddhist, two choirmasters/organists, and some Wiccans: http://homepage.ntlworld.com/philipg/detectives/

Right now I am reading the Rabbi Small series, by Harry Kemelman. Not only are the plotlines consistently interesting, but so is the conversation about religious issues in general and Conservative Judaism in particular. There’s also this. In every book, part of the drama has to do with temple politics–there’s always some kind of fire that Rabbi Small is needing to put out. Very realistic, very relevant to anyone who regularly deals with church politics.

An excerpt from Wednesday the Rabbi Got Wet:

(Rabbi Small): “You see, Doctor, ours is an ethical religion, a way of life.”

“Aren’t they all?”

The Rabbi pursed his lips. “Why, no. Christianity, for example, is a mystical religion.”

“You mean that Christians are not ethical?”

The Rabbi made a gesture of impatience. “Of course they are. But it is a secondary thing with them. What is enjoined on them primarily is faith in the Man-God Jesus. And their ethics are derived from the principle that if they believe in Jesus as the Son of God and their Saviour, then then will try to emulate him and hance will behave ethically. There is also the belief, common among the evangelical sects, that if you truly believe, ‘if you let Jesus come into your life’ is the usual formula, ethical behavior will come automatically. And sometimes it works.” He cocked his head to one side and considered. Then he nodded vigorously. “Sure. If you have your thoughts on heaven, you are less likely to covet the things of this world. Your foot may slip occasionally, of course, but not as much as it would if that were all you had to think about. On the other hand, you might get to thinking that any fancy that flits though your mind is the word of God. With us, however, faith in the Christian sense is almost meaningless, since God is by definition unknowable. What does it mean to say I believe in what I don’t know and can’t know? […] Our religion is a code of ethical behavior. The code of Moses, the Torah, is a set of rules and laws governing behavior. The prophets preached ethical behavior. And the rabbis whose discussion an debates form the Talmud were concerned with spelling out in meticulous detail just how the general rules of behavior were to be implemented.”

I’m reading Derrick Bell’s Confronting Authority: Reflections of an Ardent Protestor, and there is much that is wise here. Some quotes from his work I am reflecting upon:

Protest that rescues self-esteem: “Often, the desire to change the offending situation, which is often beyond our reach, may be an incidental benefit and not the real motivation. Rather, those of us who speak out are moved by a deep sense of the fragility of our self-worth. It is the determination to protect our sense of who we are that leads us to risk criticism, alienation, and serious loss while most others, similarly harmed, remain silent.”

Passivity not always wrong: “This book does not aim to convince readers that a passive response to harassment and ill treatment is always wrong, a confrontational one always appropriate. Few, of any, of us could survive in modern society by challenging every slight, every unfairness we experience or witness. I do believe, though, that most people are too ready to accept unwarranted and even outrageous treatment as part of the price of working, of getting along, even of living.”

The protester’s dilemma: “The protester, while seeking always to carry the banner of truth and justice, must remember that the fires of commitment do not bestow the gift of infallibility. Even the most well-meaning can err in the mission of good, can worsen conditions they seek to reform. An important part of the challenge of confronting authority is to recognize human limitations in all these things, consider them along with the risks, and then, despite all, move forward and face powers greater than your own.”

Every act of protest equally threatening: “I have learned that those in power regard every act of protest—whether against the most mundane rule or the most fudamental principle—as equally threatening. […] What is most heretical, though, is that, in every case, the protester asserts the right to have a meaningful—as opposed to token—voice. That is what those in authority resist so desperately.”

In this blog post I want to focus on Theodore Parker’s main claims in “The Transient and Permanent in Christianity” and then critique them from my own philosophical/theological standpoint.

 

Parker’s main claims:

1. There is a dimension of religion which is “always the same thing and never changes.” Parker calls this “Absolute Religion.” Besides describing Absolute Religion as ahistorical and changeless (and therefore of absolute value), he characterizes it as “existing in the facts of human nature and the ideas of an infinite God” as well as “the deep sentiment of love to man and love to God.” He also says that Absolute Religion is true “like the axioms of geometry.” 

Notes on How to Find Your Mission in Life (by Richard Nelson Bolles)

 

What life is like when people are living their mission: “We now have a strong desire for living combine with a strange carelessness about dying. We desire life like water and yet are ready to drink death like wine.” (G. K. Chesterton)

 

Three aspects of Mission (according to Bolles)

 

First aspect: “to seek to stand hour by hour in the conscious presence of God, the One from whom your Mission is derived.”

·         Mission is shared with all others

·         Requires unlearning the idea that our Mission is primarily to keep busy doing something—it’s more about learning how to BE a Son and Daughter of God

·         “Before we go searching for ‘what work was I sent here to do?’ we need to establish or in a truer sense reestablish contact with this ‘One From Whom We Came and The One to Whom We Shall Return.’ […] [B]y the very act of being born into a human body, it is inevitable that we undergo a kind of amnesia… We wander on earth as an amnesia victim. To seek after Faith, therefore, is to seek to climb back out of that amnesia. Religion or faith is the hard reclaiming of knowledge we once knew as a certainty.” “But we are ever recalled to do what we came here to do: that without rejecting the joy of the physicalness of this life, such as the love of the blue sky and the green grass, we are to reach out beyond all this to recall and receive a spiritual interpretation of our life. Beyond the physical and within the physicalness of this life, to detect a Spirit and a Person from beyond this earth who us with us and in us…”

·         Cf. Rabbi Steinsaltz: “every descent is for the sake of ascension; when we fall, what we get is the opportunity to pick ourselves up and perhaps be even stronger than we would have been had we not fallen.”

 

Second aspect: “to do what you can, moment by moment, day by day, step by step, to make this world a better place, following the leading and guiding of God’s Spirit within you and around you.”

·         Mission is shared with all others

·         Requires unlearning the idea that everything about our Mission must be unique to us

·         “But instead of the mountaintop, we find ourselves in the valley—wandering often in a fog. And the voice in our ear says something quite different from what we thought we would hear. It says, “Your mission is to take one step at a time, even when you don’t yet see where it is all leading, or what the Grand Plan is, or what your overall mission in life is. Trust Me; I will lead you.”

·         “In every situation you find yourself, you have been sent here to do whatever you can—moment by moment—that will bring more gratitude, more kindness, more forgiveness, more honesty, and more love into this world. There are dozens of such moments every day. Moments when you stand—as it were—at a spiritual crossroads, with two ways lying before you. […] It all devolves, in the end, into just two roads before you, every time. The one will lead to less gratitude, less kindness, less forgiveness, less honesty, or less love in the world. The other will lead to more gratitude, more kindness, more forgiveness, more honesty, or more love in the world.”

·         “It is necessary to explain this part of our Mission in some detail, because so many time you will see people wringing their hands and saying, ‘I want to know what my Mission in life is,” all the while they are cutting people off on the highways, refusing to give time to people, punishing their mate for having hurt their feelings, and lying about what they did. And it will seem to you that the angels must laugh to see this spectacle.”

·         “The valley, the fog, the going step-by-step, is no mere training camp. The goal is real, however large: ‘Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth, as it is in Heaven.”

 

Third aspect: “to exercise that Talent which you particularly came to earth to use, in the place(s) or setting(s) which God has caused to appeal to you most, and for those purposes which God most needs to have done in the world.” 

·         This aspect of Mission is uniquely individual

·         Requires unlearning the idea that our unique mission (1) is something that we are ordered to do, without free choice on our part, (2) consists in achievements which all the world will see and recognize as valuable, (3) is something we accomplish on our own, without the Spirit’s constant partnership…. 

·         The talent we most rejoice in using “is usually the one which, when we use it, causes us to lose all sense of time.”

I commend to you an article in The Unitarian Universalist Christian (Volume 58 2003), by Peter Huff, entitled “Gandhi, King, and the Virtue of Hyphenated Religious Identity.”

Peter Huff begins by telling this story. “In May 1833, the S. S. Tuscany departed Boston Harbor for a journey half-way round the world. [While there was nothing particularly unusual about such a venture, what was genuinely unique] was its cargo. It was loaded with a renewable New England natural resource that would dramaically transform traditional Indian foodways and make American entrepreneur Frederick Tudor a cool fortune. The product was ice. Cut in blocks from frozen New England ponds, packed in felt and sawdust for the long overseas haul, and stored in specially constructed facilities in India’s bustling port cities, ice joined cotton and tea in the nineteenth century as one of the staples of Indo-American trade.

“Henry David Thoreau, intimately acquainted with the wintertime harvesting of ice from his beloved Walden Pond, was perhaps the only American capable of detecting any sort of spiritual dimension in this new international enterprise. […] In his own classic Walden, he concluded his chapter on “The Pond in Winter” with an engaging meditation on the parallel between his cabin-door view of workmen cutting ice for foriegn markets and his emerging insight into the significance of the East-West encounter….

“Thus it appears [says Thoreau] that the sweltering inhabitants of Charleston and New Orleans, of Madras and Bombay and Calcutta, drink at my well. In the morning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagvat Geeta…. The pure Walden water is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges.”  

With this, Peter Huff goes on to talk about the mingling of East and West in his own life. He says, “It makes it virtually impossible for me now to describe the condition of my spiritual life in categories drawn exclusively from a single religious tradition.” Then he talks about how this condition is “ultimately attributable to a long-term commitment to the cultivation of interior dialogue.” He says, “For about half a century, proponents of ecumenical and interfaith dialogue have argued that the true beginning point for genuine dialogue among religions is within the inner life of the individual person. In the 1960s, Catholic monk Thomas Merton … spoke eloquently of the need to ‘contain all divided worlds in ourselves.’ Since Merton, many of us dedicated to the wider ecumenism of interfaith work hae deliberately attempted to shift dialogue from a U.N.-style encounter of external forces to a deep interior meeting on traditions within our own experience.”

“What we are only now beginning to realize is that once this process of inner dialogue has been initiatied religious identity takes on an unexpected and unpredictable life of its own. In a context where, as theologian Catherine Cornille has observed, ‘the idea of belonging exclusively to one religious tradition or of drawing from only one set of spiritual, symbolic, or ritual resources is no longer self-evident,’ pluralism becomes much more than simply an objective description of outward cultural diversity. It becomes an inward state of being a new way of seeing reality…”

While Peter Huff has more to say in his article, I’ll conclude with his important observation that hypenated religious identity (or interspirituality, dual citizenship, or multiple religious belonging) should not be dismissed as “a harmless middle-class recreation, just another designer New Age adventure in suburban captivity.”  He says, “For Thoreau, the mingling of Walden and Ganges waters irrigated an already deeply-rooted sense of self-reliance that gave rise to an emerging radical tradition in American thought. For Vietnamese activist Thich Nhat Hanh … hyphenated religious identity enhances a degree of critical engagement with culture that poses a serious challenge to the materialism and nihilism of a decadent and secular West.”

And THIS is when Peter Huff starts to talk about the hyphenated religious identities of Ghandi and MLK…. 

Now that the race for the UUA Presidency has started, and the two candidates are casting their growth visions for our movement, I am mindful of an ancient story…

…about a mouse who was in constant distress because of its fear of the cat. A magician took pity on it and turned it into a cat. But then it became afraid of the dog. So the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began to fear the panther. So the magician turned it into a panther. Whereupon it was full of fear for the hunter. At this point the magician gave up. He turned it into a mouse again saying, “Nothing I do for you is going to be of any help because you have the heart of a mouse.”

This is a story for us to consider seriously. We can talk about “repelling fewer visitors” all day long–we can enumerate specific mechanical (magical) strategies which promise (although it’s really more presumption) to ensure temporary numerical growth. But the real issue has always been and continues to be: what is the state of our hearts? What is the inner dimension of Unitarian Univeralism that connects people with the sacred, heals relationships, and changes lives? What is the courage and conviction that will make us mice unafraid of cats, dogs, panthers, hunters, and all else that gets in our way?

There is a huge distance between “repelling fewer visitors” and people being swept up into a way of life that is adventurous and transformative and healing. With the latter, people are guaranteed to stay a while–rather than being initially excited but then eventually discouraged and disappointed.

I want the next UUA president to focus on the heart of our “mouse” movement. The issue is not centrally about numbers or size; numbers and size are byproducts of something far more important, which is clarity of purpose, a sense of adventure, and the availability of effective practices that grow our souls.

I have been struck, over and over, by the righteous indignation that various people over the past several years have expressed over the fate of the Pathways Large Church Start Up, using such language as “the Pathways fiasco.” Clearly, it did not grow into large size rapidly, as per the initial plan, which had been formulated by many many people. Whatever the flaws in this plan might have been, or in its implementation, I think it is critical that we do not throw out the baby with the bathwater. Many UUA staffers and leading ministers in our movement tried to do a new thing—they experimented with a new way of beginning churches. It is this spirit of innovation that we need to continue supporting and cultivating, even as we work hard to improve things on the implementation and accountability end.

 

Let’s learn the many lessons of the first Rapid Start Large Church—some positive, some not so positive—and move on. WellSprings (the second large church start-up–see http://www.wellspringsuu.org/app/) surely has; they have benefited tremendously from the lessons of Pathways—and this, of course, was one of the purposes of the Pathways project: through trial and error, to develop a sound, detailed blueprint  that could be used by other rapid-start congregations. (Why is it, by the way, that people have demanded perfection out of a project which was, from the start, supposed to have been “trial-and error”?)

 

We need to thank our innovators and encourage them, rather than tear them down, subject them to ridicule. Unless we do this, we cut off our nose to spite our face. We paralyze ourselves. We become a movement that is too freighted with self-criticism and self-condemnation to be imaginative and playful. And, since imagination and playfulness are the doorway to essential creativity, this is serious business.  

 

Just a short comment, which relates to the UUA Presidential Campaign. As I understand things, BOTH candidates affirm the importance of repelling fewer visitors. Thus Rev. Hallman talks about the importance of maintaining clean, attractive nurseries, which is key to not repelling young families.

As I see it, neither candidate “owns” this very important issue. 

Just wanted to share the letter I sent to my congregation, regarding the Knoxville shootings. I sent it before learning of the deaths of the two UUs.

 

Dear UUCA Members and Friends,

 

As you may already know, today (Sunday) a shooting occurred at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville, Tennessee where seven people reportedly suffered serious wounds and are in critical condition, while another 12 were treated for minor wounds. The suspect opened fire inside the church at about 10:18 a.m. He had no connection to the church.

 

We feel such anguish for the Knoxville congregation right now. Some of us have friends at this church—we see them regularly at various national and district events and gatherings, including the Southeast Unitarian Universalist Summer Institute (or SUUSI). Whether or not we know people from this church, our grief and sadness and anger overflow. It is so hard to comprehend senseless violence on this scale.

 

Please keep the Knoxville congregation in your thoughts and prayers in this time. There will be a vigil in the UUCA sanctuary this Monday at 7:15pm—please join us.

 

In the rest of this pastoral letter, I’d like to (1) offer up some resources that might be helpful to you right now, (2) say a little about how people cope in times like this, and (3) remind you about some pastoral care resources at UUCA that you can tap into, as necessary.

 

Resources

 

àUUA Trauma Response Ministry Web Site: Contains many helpful resources for times like this (look under “resources”): http://www.traumaministry.org/

 

à“Talking to children about tragedies”: http://www.simplemommysecrets.com/Pages/ArtBMI14.htm

 

àA poem, “The Peace of Wild Things,” by Wendell Berry:

 

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

 

à“Words for When I’m Wordless,” by Therese Borchard: http://blog.beliefnet.com/beyondblue/2007/04/words-for-when-im-wordless.html

 

àA Buddhist prayer: “May Fear Be Cleared Away” by Geshe Acharya Thubten Loden

May the pain of every living being
Be completely cleared away.
May I be the doctor and the medicine
And may I be the nurse
For all sick beings in the world
Until everyone is healed…
May the frightened cease to be afraid
And those bound be freed.  

 

 

On Coping

 

At times like this, you might find yourself wanting to know as many details about what happened as possible; you may find yourself glued to the TV or the internet. Others of you may want to get as much distance away from this as you can. People respond to tragedies like this in different ways, and all of these ways of coping are normal.

 

The personal impact of a tragedy like this can’t be underestimated. A moment like this can trigger memories of times when tragedy visited us and left us feeling out of control in our own lives. Please treat yourself with care and compassion.

 

Dr. Nadine Kaslow, from Emory School of Medicine, says that one of the best things that can happen in a messy time like this is to take things step by step and to help each other. She says, “One of the things you can do is let people talk, let them share their stories, let them talk about what they want, but also sometimes, they’re going to want to be distracted, and that’s okay too. Appreciate that everybody has a different way of responding.”

 

Some Care Resources Available at UUCA

 

There will be a vigil this Monday at 7:15pm in the UUCA sanctuary

 

Our UUCA Lay ministers provide pastoral care in the form of home and hospital visits during times of personal crisis and are available to provide longer term pastoral support to members. For pastoral care needs please contact the UUCA Office at 404.634.5134 and request to have a lay minister call you. You may also contact the lay ministers directly by emailing us at layministers@uuca.org

 

For assistance with families and children, please contact UUCA’s Director of Religious Education, Pat Kahn at 404.634.5134 or pkahn@uuca.org

 

Blessings,

 

Rev. Anthony David

Rev. Marti Keller

I received a heartfelt reply to my previous post about the shootings in Knoxville from Ryan, who pointed out that there is a free resource for congregations on confronting gun violence offered through Christianity Today. Here is Ryan’s complete comment, together with the link to the resource:

“This is such a tragic and unwelcome reminder of the pain and brokenness in our sinful world. Our prayers go out to our brothers and sisters in Tennessee as they mourn in this time of loss. I pray that, though difficult, events like this will help unify the church in the hope of the Gospel.

I was thinking about this today and found that Christianity Today is offering a free resource called “Confronting Gun Violence.” I’ll include the link below for any of you who are interested. While we can never predict when an act of violence might occur, this download offers some precautionary measures churches can take to safeguard their people and facilities.

Again, my deepest sympathies go out to our friends in Knoxville and I pray that we can learn to prevent such tragedies in the days to come.”

http://store.yahoo.com/cgi-bin/clink?yhst-78230354700659+8NQpna+cogunviatchd.html

I’d like to share the words I spoke at UUCA’s vigil this past Monday, as we held the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville at the center of our thoughts and prayers:

 

We are gathered here this evening because of a human tragedy. Yesterday, a shooting occurred at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville. Two people died, another 12 or so were treated for minor wounds, and five continue to be in critical condition. The suspect, Jim Adkisson, opened fire inside the church, during a youth performance of “Annie,” at about 10:18 a.m. His only connection to the church seems to be that his ex-wife used to be a long-time member there.

 

It is a human tragedy, and we gather to bear witness to the sorrows and sufferings that humans are prone to and inflict on each other. Whereas we Unitarian Universalists affirm the inherent worth and dignity of every human being, at times like these we are reminded that inherent worth does not automatically translate to worthwhile action in the world. What is potentially worthwhile may not become actual. Two wolves exist within every breast; one is for good, another is for evil, and life is a journey of making choices about which one of the wolves we feed.

 

Human tragedy gathers us here together this evening. And we gather in solidarity with our brother and sister Unitarian Universalists across the land, right at this very moment, all across the land, for this tragedy has struck close to home. Some of us have friends at the church in Knoxville—we see them regularly at various national and district events and gatherings, including most recently at the Southeast Unitarian Universalist Summer Institute (or SUUSI).

 

There is this—and then there is the knowledge that violence profaned and sullied one of our worship services, shattered sanctuary space and time. This in itself is so deeply disturbing. Reverence is so very fragile. Peace is so very fragile.

 

Finally, you may have heard some of the most recent reports about the suspect Jim Adkisson’s context and motives. The Associated Press reports that he recently received a letter from the state of Tennessee telling him that the food stamps he had been receiving would be reduced or eliminated. Jim Adkisson, already prone to violence in solving his problems—his ex-wife had put out a restraining order on him—was frustrated about being out of work, not being able to get a job. Which he blamed on liberal values and social policies. This is what he did. So he brought all this resentment and all this blame, and he decided he’d take it out on a Unitarian Universalist congregation with a liberal track record—which is so ironic, since last I heard, it’s liberal values and social policies at their best that fight against economic injustice and try to help people like Jim.

 

It’s a human tragedy, and we bear witness. Whether or not we know people from the Knoxville church, our grief and sadness and anger overflow. It is so hard to comprehend senseless violence on this scale, or the monumental misunderstanding that underlies it.

 

At times like this, you might find yourself wanting to know as many details about what happened as possible; you may find yourself glued to the TV or to the internet. Others of you may want to get as much distance away from this as you can. People respond to tragedies like this in different ways, and all of these ways of coping are normal.

 

Please treat yourself and others with care and compassion. It’s also true that a moment like this can trigger memories of times when tragedy visited us and left us feeling out of control in our own lives. The personal impact of a tragedy like this can’t be underestimated. Please treat yourself and others with care and compassion.

 

Dr. Nadine Kaslow, from the Emory School of Medicine, says that one of the best things that can happen in a messy time like this is to take things step by step. She says, “One of the things you can do is let people talk, let them share their stories, let them talk about what they want, but also sometimes, they’re going to want to be distracted, and that’s okay too. Appreciate that everybody has a different way of responding.”

 

In a moment, this is exactly what we’ll be turning to. After a time of prayer, Rev. Keller will lead us in a time of sharing, in which we can share our thoughts and our feelings and so begin the work of healing. 

 

But before we get there, though, I need to mention that we gather here this evening not just to bear witness to a human tragedy. We also gather to bear witness to the human spirit at its best, which mourns and rejects violence, which comprehends the violence that it is always capable of and yet chooses the better way of peace, works for peace and justice.

 

The human spirit at its best, represented by our coming together as Unitarian Universalists, undaunted by the events of yesterday, courageously standing up for our liberal faith and works though they be misunderstood, though they put us in places of risk….

 

The human spirit at its best, which, with Gandhi, says that “When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall—think of it, always.”

 

The human spirit at its best, which was so fully demonstrated in the example of one of the Knoxville church members, Greg McKendry, who sacrificed himself so that others might live. Greg McKendry, said a fellow church member, “stood in front of the gunman and took the blast to protect the rest of us.” Another church member made this comment: He “was a very large gentleman, one of those people you might describe as a refrigerator with a head. He looked like a football player. He stood up and put himself in between the shooter and the congregation.”

 

This is the human spirit at its best—and we gather today to witness this as well. Not to forget it, even as we are faced with the evil that people can do. There are two wolves in my heart and in yours; one is for good, another is for evil, and life is a journey of making choices about which one of the wolves we feed.

 

Today, we bear witness to the sorrows and the joys of that journey.

An excerpt from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love on happiness….

What is “diligent joy”? :  “I keep remembering one of my Guru’s teachings about happiness. She says that people universally tend to think of happiness as a stroke of luck, something that will maybe descend upon you like fine weather if you’re fortunate enough. But that’s not how happiness works. Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestation of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it. If you don’t, you will leak away your inner contentment. It’s easy enough to pray when you’re in distres but continuing to pray even when your crisis has passed is like a sealing process, helping your soul hold tight to its good attainments.”

Which takes us to”diligent joy”:    “As I focus on Diligent Joy, I also keep remembering a simple idea my friend Darcey told me once–that all the sorrow and all the trouble of this world is caused by unhappy people. Not only in the big global Hitler-‘n’-Stalin picture, but also on the smallest personal level. Even in my own life, I can see exactly where my episodes of unhappiness have brought suffering or distress or (at the very least) inconvenience to those around me. The search for contentment is, therefore, nor merely a self-preserving and self-benefiting act, but also a generous gift to the world. Clearing out all your misery gets you out of the way. You cease being an obstacle, not only to yourself but to anyone else. Only then are you free to serve and enjoy other people.”

In light of all this:   I am profoundly inspired by the children of the Tennessee Valley UU Church involved in the play that was to be performed during that fateful Sunday morning when all hell broke loose, who, during the healing service led by UUA President Bill Sinkford, sang these words from Annie:

The sun’ll come out
Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar
That tomorrow
There’ll be sun!
Just thinkin’ about
Tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs,
And the sorrow
‘Til there’s none! 

When I’m stuck a day
That’s gray,
And lonely,
I just stick out my chin
And Grin,
And Say,
Oh! 

The sun’ll come out
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
‘Til tomorrow
Come what may
Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
I love ya Tomorrow!
You’re always
A day
A way!

“The congregation,” says Annette Marquis, “spontaneously joined in singing with them, and after a few seconds, when the impact of this moment had sunk in, the crowd erupted into applause, tears, shouts, cheers, and many more tears. As the cast finished their grande finale, they took their long-awaited bows to an adoring, grief-stricken, and healing audience.”

Now this is Unitarian Universalism at its best. It’s diligent joy.

As Unitarian Universalists, we rally around a religious vision of people connecting with the Sacred in life—of being changed and transformed by this, called into acts of compassion and hope, expanding our circle of concern beyond self-interest so that we can be satisfied with nothing less than peace and justice for all. We rally around this vision of spiritual and ethical interdependency, and here at UUCA, we know that one of the essential ways of living the vision and making it real is being healthy in our relationships together: being mindful of how we communicate with and about others, seeking a peaceful and constructive resolution process when conflicts arise, celebrating the diversity within our community, building the common good. This is what we know, and rally around.  

 

Yet my question this morning is one of depth. The religious vision I just outlined, and its corresponding commitment to healthy relationships: how deeply rooted is it in our nature? Deep roots, or shallow? Teach a dog to fetch a newspaper, and that resonates with a basic capacity that is already deeply instilled in him—is this what Unitarian Universalism is trying to accomplish in us? Just cultivating and bringing to fuller expression potentials which are already ours in some way? Or, are we more like cats, and a capacity for fetching is just not part of who we are—and yet our religion foolishly persists in teaching us this anyhow?     

 

Scratch the surface of who we are, and what’s underneath?

 

It’s a question that has been asked with great intensity, especially since the savagery of World War II—the holocaust, the atom bomb, the willful destruction committed in Europe and Asia by otherwise civilized and scientifically enlightened people. Out of this, a dominant answer that emerged firmly rejected the “onward and upward forever” naïve optimism about human nature that so characterized nineteenth century liberal religion. In the harsh light of Nazi atrocities, or Soviet atrocities, this optimism appeared completely ridiculous. What seemed far more realistic was the grim idea that, deep down, humans are basically violent and amoral. And so, for example, a prominent scientist at the time, Konrad Lorenz, argued that aggression was a pressure within the human psyche that builds relentlessly, completely unrelated to frustrated desires and aims, without understandable and reasonable cause. The inexplicable pressure to destroy is within us, and it just builds and builds over time until it bursts through the thin veneer of human decency which religions and ethical systems like ours try so hard to shore up, but always in vain.

 

Then there was the thought of science writer Robert Ardrey. His 1961 book African Genesis argued what has since become known as the “killer ape” theory, which is that the ancient ancestors of humans were distinguished from other primate species by their greater aggressiveness, and that’s what drove their evolution, that’s the prime mover behind human development. It’s the famous scene in the classic movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, where a fight breaks out among a group of our ape ancestors, in which one bludgeons another with a zebra femur, and then that ape ancestor flings the femur triumphantly in the air, where, millennia later, it turns into an orbiting spacecraft. This is what the “killer ape” theory means: we’ve gotten to where we are today through genocide. Says Robert Ardrey, “We were born of killer apes, not fallen angels, and the apes were armed killers besides. And so what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments?” This is who we truly are, says Robert Ardrey. Liberal religion tried to throw away the idea of original sin, but secular science revalidated a version of it. Scratch the surface, rub off the thin veneer of religion and ethics and civilization, and we find something horrible which is nothing less than the secret of our success—which makes it even more horrible. (Not one of our favorite things….)

 

And so where do we go from here, if the horrible vision is true? Another movie scene comes to mind, this time from the classic The African Queen. Surrounded by the jungle, Katherine Hepburn’s character says, “Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.” In others words, work even harder to shore up the thin veneer of civilization, so that the jungle within us—the inexplicable pressure to do violence—is kept bottled up, pushed down. Sing hymns louder, perhaps—meditate more—repeat the Purposes and Principles regularly and often, as well as our Congregational Covenant of Healthy Relationships. Face your fate like a plucky and undaunted Katherine Hepburn, and rise above…

 

But this only goes so far. Putting on a brave face won’t take away the dread we’ll never be able to stop feeling about ourselves. The sense that there exists a murderous force within us, so alien to all that we hold sacred and holy, so untrue to the teachings of our greatest prophets, like Jesus and the Buddha. So alien to our hopes for peace and justice for all. So irreconcilable with the idea that people have inherent worth and dignity. No inner light within, but inner seething. Therefore we could never truly relax and trust our instincts; there would have to be constant vigilance to make sure that the thin veneer of sanity is maintained. Not freedom, but authoritarianism, would be the better way in religion and in life. Unitarian Universalism, in short, would cease to make any sense. This is what would happen.

 

All of what I’ve said so far is background for why the question about apes is so crucial, so momentous to our understanding of ourselves. Says Emory University professor Frans de Waal in his fascinating book Our Inner Ape, “If [apes] turn out to be better than brutes—even if only occasionally—the notion of niceness as a human invention begins to wobble. And if true pillars of morality, such as sympathy and intentional altruism can be found in other animals, we will be forced to reject veneer theory altogether.” This is what Franz de Waal says. Take a look at our closest animal kin—great apes like chimpanzees, bonobos, and gorillas—and see what their lives are really like. Perhaps humans can fool themselves and pull the wool over their eyes, but not apes. They are what they are, without deception, without shame. So put all the theorizing to the side. Put “killer ape” theory to the side, and just look at the evidence from the lives of our closest biological kin, with whom we share more than 97% of our DNA.    

 

And what do we find? A fine animal gorilla like Koko. A being who truly and deeply gets what we are doing here today. Blessing our animals companions, our pets—and Koko herself would do the same. Bless her beloved All Ball. Bless Smoky. We hold and rub and play with and talk baby talk to our cats and dogs, and so does Koko. “Koko love Ball. Soft good cat cat.” Stricken when All Ball was killed, as we are when our pets die. Sounding out a long series of high pitched hoots. Saying, “Cry, sad, frown.”

 

Now it is undeniable: when we look at our great ape brothers and sisters, some of the things we find are not nice warm fuzzies. Chimpanzees are notoriously brutal at times, and they are also incorrigibly tribal and xenophobic, fanatically patrolling group borders, viciously charging against strangers, fighting to the death to preserve the group’s territory if necessary. But, this said, the picture grows far more complex once you consider the larger picture: that there is amazing breadth and diversity within our biological family of great apes, and the behavior of chimpanzees cannot possibly represent the final word. Gorillas like Koko shed a very different kind of light on things. And then you have bonobos. Have you ever heard of bonobos? Bonobos make love, not war. Listen to how Frans de Waal compares them to chimpanzees: “One is a gruff-looking, ambitious character with anger-management issues. The other is an egalitarian proponent of a free-spirited lifestyle. [The chimpanzee’s] hierarchical and murderous behavior has inspired the common view of humans as ‘killer apes.’ […] I have witnessed enough bloodshed among chimpanzees to agree that they have a violent streak. But we shouldn’t ignore our other close relative, the bonobo, discovered only last century. Bonobos are a happy-go-lucky bunch with healthy sexual appetites. Peaceful by nature, they belie the notion that ours is a purely bloodthirsty lineage.” That’s what Frans de Waals says. Our human heritage, exemplified in our closest animal relatives, is mixed. Chimpanzees may be tribal and xenophobic, but bonobos, in the best United Nations way, regularly establish peaceful relations with foreigners. Our inner ape is just not one narrow thing, as “killer ape” theory suggests. What’s deep down in human nature is broad: as much love and compassion as it is murder. And our job is to choose wisely, which impulses we draw on.

 

Consider this story about a bonobo called Kidogo, who suffered from a heart condition. “He was feeble, lacking the normal stamina and self-confidence of a grown male bonobo. When first introduced to the colony at the Milwaukee County Zoo, Kidogo was completely confused by the keepers’ shifting commands inside the unfamiliar building. He failed to understand where to go if people urged him to move from one part of the tunnel system to another. After a while, other bonobos stepped in. They approached Kidogo, took him by the hand, and led him to where the keepers wanted him, thus showing they understood both the keepers’ intentions and Kidogo’s problem. Soon Kidogo began to rely on their help. If he felt lost, he would utter distress calls, and others would quickly come over to calm him and act as a guide.” That’s the story. The strong helping the weak. Genuine sympathy, genuine altruism, found in the sacred depths of nature, right there. Sending a message that our job as humans is not so much to follow Katherine Hepburn’s advice and “rise above” nature as it is to bring into fuller expression certain capacities it has gifted us with. To draw on the positive aspects of our inner ape so as make a better world. Hubert Humphrey once said that “the moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped.” Now if in bonobo society we have the strong helping the weak, why not in human society, and MORE of it? Why not?

 

Story after story documents in bonobos—as well as in chimpanzees and gorillas—kindness and empathy, a capacity for peacemaking and reconciliation, creativity, even freedom—this latter part suggested by Koko’s capacity to tells lies and her sense of humor. Blind actors carrying out a pre-set genetic program just can’t do this sort of thing, aren’t capable of the kind of improvisation and imagination that deception and humor require. Story after story opens up our minds to the fact that “our humanness is grounded in social instincts we share with other animals.” Our inner ape is just not a killer ape. Don’t say to me, “scratch an altruist, and watch a hypocrite bleed.” That makes no sense, in light of the facts. Kindness and sympathy and altruism are not veneer-thin but deep. You can’t scratch it away. It is a gift to us from our great ape brothers and sisters. It means we don’t have to be afraid of ourselves. It means we can replace a feeling of dread with a feeling of wonder. It means that to creation, we belong. Unitarian Universalism is real. Our Covenant of Healthy Relationships is realistic. The animals bring us back to our senses. “Fine animal gorilla” teaches us to say—and gives us courage to say—“fine animal human.”  

 

 

Rev. Anthony David

August 23, 2008

UUCA

In the Hebrew Bible it is said that “In six days God made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day God rested, and was refreshed” (Exodus 31:17).

 

In my life I have encountered this creation myth countless times and know it as the origin of the tradition of the Sabbath; and I thought I knew what it meant until only recently, when I learned that the Hebrew word translated as “refreshed,” vaiynafesh, literally means, and God exhaled. God exhales on the seventh day, says the myth—God breathes out and relaxes. So it must be that on the previous six days, God quickens existence and life with a creative inhale. And here we have a profound picture of the nature of the fundamental reality in which we live and move and have our being. The creative process, ongoing and never ending, in the larger world and in ourselves, has a rhythm to it. Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale: this is fundamental reality.

 

And this is the reality I would have us dwell on this morning, as we reflect on the spiritual meaning of Labor Day Weekend. Since the 1880s, it has been a time for honoring the working class and advocating for improved working conditions. It also brings with it a day off from work, wonderful but also bittersweet, since Labor Day has come to represent the end of Summer and the return of Fall endeavors. Soon we will be, with all our activities, inhaling like crazy; but on Labor Day, we exhale, we enjoy.

 

Take a moment, now, to try an experiment. Inhale deeply. Fill your lungs with air, as far as they will go. Now—don’t stop. Keep on inhaling….

 

Doesn’t feel good, right? Welcome to life in modern America, where the inhale-exhale rhythm of creation is out of whack. Today there is a constant flow of intense stimuli and endless information, mediated by satellites with their global reach, cable TV with its hundreds of channels, or the Internet, with its infinite connections. And we plug in, using the portable electronic gadgets at our disposal like cell phones, I Pods, Blackberries, and laptops. We plug in, and we inhale the emails, we inhale the images, we inhale the jabber, and we can’t seem to stop even as we end up feeling manic-depressive, feeling fried, feeling exhausted, feeling like we’re trapped in Wolf Blitzer’s Situation Room and can’t get out… 

 

And then there is this: the endless inhale of choices in our American marketplace. For me this is so well illustrated by something I once encountered at a restaurant called Macaroni Grill. “Create your own primo pasta,” the menu said. “Choose from everyday indulgences that take your pasta creation to new heights.” At this point, I’m rolling my eyeballs. The subtext, I know, is that as a consumer in a postmodern hyper-individualist society, the act of purchasing becomes nothing less than the art of declaring who I am, the art of constructing my personal identity. I am what I buy. But must this be the case when I’m hungry and I just want to eat some good Italian food? My eye scans the rest of the menu. I see five categories, each with multiple options: sauces, toppings, yummies, the actual type of pasta, and the type of side salad to accompany the dish. In all, there are 38 options to choose from, to take my pasta creation to new heights. I order a cheeseburger. 

 

The inhale is constant and exhausting. So many things to know, so much need in the world to meet, so many things to do, so many things to choose. And so, like Elizabeth Gilbert, we multitask like Swiss Army knives. We text while driving. To-do lists paper our walls. “I am so busy,” we say along with everyone else. It is the age of overwhelming.

 

But how did things get this way? What happened to throw the natural inhale-exhale rhythm of creation out of whack?

 

Perhaps it is the Law of Unintended Consequences in action. For surely we did not intend to fashion a world in which we must inhale without end. The original intentions were hopeful, and inspiring. Capitalism, with its intention of rewarding people for their initiative and hard work and creativity. Technology, with its intention of making life easier and raising our standard of living. But then there is that sober saying from Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Things are in the saddle and ride mankind.” Capitalism ends up in the saddle, and we see what has happened. The development of a system in which the driving goal is a never-ending MORE; in which the modus operandi is to create in people artificial needs; in which the people, bred to be needy, bred to be credit-card consumers of the MORE, find themselves on the wheel of work, working like mad, in debt like mad, running just to stand still if not to make the money to buy the things which they will have no time to enjoy because they are too busy working. This is what happens when Capitalism ends up in the saddle. And as for technology? Our “labor-saving” devices paradoxically cause us to work even harder than before, even as it arguably lowers the quality of our lives. Somehow, our technologies begin to alter our expectations for each other, so that, just as email is constantly available and instantaneous, people (we think) should be constantly available, and when we send an email, we should receive a reply immediately. The expectation is of course unreasonable, but it creeps within us nevertheless. Unfeeling, non-human technology setting the standard for flesh-and-blood. Don’t even get me started on how this is true where it comes to the work of democracy. How the nature of the television medium has shrink-wrapped political discourse into image and sound bite. Now, if a politician can’t explain his or her policies for a complex economy like ours in three sentences or less, he or she is dismissed as incompetent. 

 

Things in the saddle, riding humankind. Culminating, I would argue, in a myth that is diametrically opposed to the inhale-exhale creation myth of the Hebrew Bible. I’m talking about the myth of being a limitless self in a limitless world. The myth of the infinite MORE. The myth that we can keep on living unsustainably without consequences. This secular myth, so different from the ancient one, taking up a central place in our lives and shaping our conscience within. And so, even as we say to one another, “I am so busy,” we say it with pride, as if it is a desirable thing, as if we deserve a medal, as if we are demonstrating the goodness of our character. And then, when it all finally gets to us, and we can no longer bear the pain, and we’re burned out, at home in our pajamas, eating cereal straight out of the box and staring at the TV in a mild coma—we feel shame. We feel wrong, and we feel conscience-stricken. We have let the myth down. 

 

Perhaps these are some of the causes of the natural inhale-exhale rhythm of creation going askew. The Law of Unintended Consequences in action. The emergence of a new myth within culture and within conscience that worships the unlimited MORE. Whatever the cause, it hurts. It hurts to never stop inhaling.

 

In his tremendous book called Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in Our Busy Lives, Wayne Muller makes this clear. How busyness and overwork become a kind of violence in which we simply cannot be our best selves. No time for rest and a renewal of perspective. No time to savor and to feel gratitude. Just living at warp speed, living in anxious survival mode. “I have sat on dozens of boards and commissions,” says Wayne Muller, “with many fine, compassionate, and generous people who are so tired, overwhelmed, and overworked that they have neither the time nor the capacity to listen to the deeper voices that speak to the essence of the problems before them. Presented with the intricate and delicate issues of poverty, public health, community well-being, and crime, our impulse, born of weariness, is to rush headlong toward doing anything that will make the problems go away. Maybe then we can finally go home and get some rest. But,” Muller continues, “without the essential nutrients of rest, wisdom, and delight embedded in the problem-solving process itself, the solution we patch together is likely to be an obstacle to genuine relief. Born of desperation, it often contains enough fundamental inaccuracy to guarantee an equally perplexing problem will emerge as soon as it is put into place. In the soil of a quick fix is the seed of a new problem, because our quiet wisdom is unavailable.” That’s what Wayne Muller says, and it leads me to think of the enormous problems facing this country and facing the next President, and I hold John McCain and I hold Barack Obama equally in the circle of my compassion. In the circle of my compassion, I hold the fine, compassionate, and generous people in this congregation and beyond. There is so much to do, so many needs to meet. And yet the more needs we try to satisfy all at one time, the faster we try to go, the more we breathe in, and in, and in: the more frantic we get, the more desperate, the more reactive, the more sloppy—and our work for justice and peace is neutralized, seeds of future problems are sown. The Tao Te Ching asks us, “Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?” How would we answer? How would this congregation answer? Each of us as families, as individuals? 

 

Perhaps this is why, in Judaism, regularly observing the Sabbath is no less than one of the famous 10 Commandments. It’s right up there, with “thou shalts” and “thou shalt nots” like don’t murder, don’t steal, honor your parents, and don’t bear false witness against your neighbor. It’s just as momentous, just as far-reaching, even if, on the surface, the command to take spiritual delight in our days and to indulge ourselves in the beauty of doing nothing seems … frivolous. And here, I have to confess that, in the past, this is exactly how this commandment had seemed to me, in comparison with the others. In the past, there would always be this voice from Sesame Street coming up to sing, “One of these things is not like the other….” Why, I always thought, had the author of the Ten Commandments put “Thou shalt not murder” on the same footing as “Thou shalt remember the Sabbath and keep it holy”? Until I realized that people who lack an intentional practice for rest and spiritual reflection commit a kind of murder themselves. A murder of the life force within and without. Diminishment, depletion, erosion, exhaustion—in our bodies and in the body of our earth. There is a reason why the Chinese pictograph for the word “busy” brings together two characters: one for heart, and another for killing.

 

The message is clear: like God in the ancient creation myth, we do well to embody the rhythm of inhale and exhale in our lives even as it commits us to doing something that is countercultural and flies in the face of our secular world. Judaism teaches this, and so do other major religions around the world. Muslims are about to enter into their holy season of Ramadan, with its fasting, prayer, and reflection to achieve goals of spiritual and physical cleansing, and this definitely resonates with the Jewish Sabbath.  

 

Inhale, exhale. Take a deep breath now, fill up your lungs—and release. Relax into the exhale. Be a good steward of the present moment.

 

So now we turn to practicing the Sabbath—what’s involved. And to this end, once again we go back to the Hebrew scriptures, where we read that “On the seventh day God finished God’s work,” and we also read, over and over again, the refrain: “And God saw that it was good.”

 

A close reading of that line about the seventh day—God finishing God’s work—suggests that, actually, the Sabbath is not simply a day off, a day when nothing is done. God is finishing God’s work—and this is something. Something is happening, something is being done, even into the seventh day; but the character of what is being done is special, has finality to it, has uniqueness. So what might this be? According to the ancient rabbis, God’s work of finishing has to do with menuha, which means tranquility, serenity, peace, repose. Rest, in the deepest possible sense. Renewal. This is what God creates on the seventh day, without which the Creation is incomplete and lacking. God creates the exhale, to balance out the inhale.

 

It means that we enter into Sabbath space and time not simply by ceasing from doing any job-related activities, or pressing pause on whatever makes us feel busy. We cease doing all such things so that we might shift our focus to the creation of something higher and something deeper, something which puts all the labor of the previous six days into perspective and completes it. Wayne Muller describes it well when he says, “It is the presence of something that arises when we consecrate a period of time to listen to what is most deeply beautiful, nourishing, or true. It is a time consecrated with our attention, our mindfulness, honoring those quiet forces of grace or spirit that sustain and heal us.” That’s what Wayne Muller says. The Creation culminates in a direct sense of beauty, and nourishment, and grace, and healing, and the ultimate goodness of life. And what takes us to this is doing what God does in the creation myth: we consecrate the work of our lives, meaning that we step back and just look upon it, we attend to it, we listen, we honor, we give thanks, we appreciate.  

 

This is the proper work of the Sabbath. For observant Jews, the practice is to set aside the time from Friday sundown to Saturday sundown for this. To spark the imagination by lighting the Sabbath candles, to eat the Sabbath meal, to remember God and reflect on the Torah, to enter into an experience, ideally, of spaciousness. It’s not supposed to be heavy and legalistic. It’s supposed to be a time of sacred spirituality, sensuality, prayer, rest, song, delight. One of the more popular Sabbath activities, in fact, is making love. Apparently there is a tradition among some observant Jews that couples are to make love four times during the Sabbath. Once, Wayne Muller respectfully inquired about this with a friend, and the response was, “No, we make love only once. But, for the other three, we hold a deep intention.”

 

The proper work of the Sabbath: whatever invites the Spirit into our lives. Gardening can do that. Creative writing, or dancing. We are doing it right now, seated as we are here, in the round—not busy with our jobs, not busy with housework, not busy with committee work, but focused on work of a higher order, which is singing together, reflecting together, mourning together, rejoicing together, praying together, committing and recommitting our lives to that which deserves the loyalty of our hearts and spirits, dwelling in gratitude together. This work finishes our week, just as God’s work of creating tranquility and peace on the seventh day put the finishing touch on all that God accomplished in the previous six—and without which Creation would NOT be good, would NOT be worth living in, would not be enough, so that, presumably, God would be in the same spot so many of us today are in, trapped in the myth of the infinite MORE, and compelled to keep on creating: an eighth day, a ninth day, a tenth, an eleventh, and on and on….

 

But what God created on the seventh day makes the other six ENOUGH, makes them GOOD. So let it be for us. Every week, but also every day, let there be a Sabbath time where we turn away from our regular labor and pause, find a place of spiritual rest and repose, breathe in and breathe out the rhythm of creation. Be like the God of the myth, on the seventh day, and look upon the life you are creating with love, with compassion. Allow gratitude to well up within you. Let gratitude flow in your heart. God may see that it is good, but even more important is that YOU do. 

 

Rev. Anthony David

August 31. 2008

Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Atlanta

Yesterday I had the privilege of spending some time with the religious educators of this community in their annual, beginning-of-the-year teacher training event. In the part I led, we reflected on the value and meaning of their service to our children, youth, and families, as well as to themselves—to their own personal and spiritual growth. Between us, we shared some thought-provoking quotes about teaching, like this one: “A teacher is a compass that activates the magnets of curiosity, knowledge, and wisdom in the students.” Or this quote: “To teach is to learn twice.” Then there was this one: “Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. Anyone who keeps learning stays young.” This particular quote comes from automaker Henry Ford, and the group appreciated it, even though one person did say that Henry Ford has some answering to do for his part in global warming….  

 

A last quote points the way towards my theme this morning: “The future of the world is in my classroom today, a future with the potential for good or bad. Several future presidents are learning from me today; so are the great writers of the next decades, and so are all the so-called ordinary people who will make the decisions in a democracy. I must never forget these same young people could be the thieves and murderers of the future. Only a teacher? Thank God I have a calling to the greatest profession of all! I must be vigilant every day, lest I lose one fragile opportunity to improve tomorrow.” That’s the quote. The future of the world is in my classroom today. Around us: fragile opportunities to improve tomorrow. This is one aspect of the interdependent web vision that takes a place of honor as our Unitarian Universalist Seventh Principle. Future generations rely on what present generations do. Future generations need us, and we need them. This is interdependence.

 

And now, here we are today, in our annual ingathering service. We are seated in the round, and I’ve always liked how this underscores the importance of relationships and community to our Unitarian Univeralist sense of the Sacred. “I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be,” said Martin Luther King Jr., and this sense of mutual reliance most definitely animates the Gathering of the Waters ritual from a moment ago. To this place we bring our separate waters, infused by personal meaning and memory and hope, and we pour them all into a common vessel and a common life, to do things together that we cannot do alone. We may differ in belief, but we come together in common purpose to connect with life’s abundance. We may draw from a wide variety of religious and philosophical sources, but only so that we can invite as many people as possible into experiences of richness, experiences of justice-seeking and healing, expansion and inspiration, forgiveness and grace. Our diversity serves an essential unity. The inner-directed search, the free spirit, requires the encouragement and disciplines of a supportive community, lest that search and spirit become unfocused and too fuzzy to make any practical difference.

 

The interdependence vision. It links us to future generations, and it links us to each other. It’s about people, near and far and yet to be born. But it’s also about the planet. The various parts of our earth reflected in each other, as in a webwork of mirrors. Mirrored in a singular and lovely Georgia peach, you can see sunshine, you can see rain, you can see the red soil out of which the peach tree grew, you can see the human hand that picked it. A whole cosmos comes together to make one Georgia peach possible, or one banana, or one string bean. It is the same for everything. I have seen it. I saw this mystic unity one day long ago when, as a child, living in Northern Alberta, I stood at the top of a hill, feeling the sun on my skin, feeling the warmth in my body; watching the grasses wave in the wind, listening to their hush-hush-hush sounds, their susurrations; and then, far below, the Peace River, winding through the heart of town, silver waters flowing in from far away places and then flowing on, on to different lands, on to mystery. “The rivers flow not past but though us,” says the naturalist John Muir, “thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. […] Wonderful, how completely everything in wild nature fits into us, as if truly part and parent of us.” John Muir puts words to my wordless experience, the wonder of it, fundamental reality. I have felt it, and perhaps you have felt it as well. The web of life. “Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell….” Butterfly effects. Connections upon which everything depends.

 

So let us declare it. That’s my simple, central message this morning. Declare interdependence, because we can lose awareness of it even if it embodies the reality of our lives. This brings to mind a story about the great spiritual teacher, Jiddu Krishnamurti. One day he was traveling by car in the Himalayas. He was sitting in the front seat, beside the driver, while a student of his was in the back, together with another friend. The car climbed past waterfalls, across steep gorges, and over hills covered with flowers, but the two people in the back were oblivious to all that, focused as they were on discussing lofty topics like self-knowledge and awareness. Suddenly, there was a sharp jolt, but they paid it no attention, and kept on talking away. A few moments later, Krishnamurti interrupted them. “What are you two discussing so intently back there?” “Awareness,” they answered. But, said Krishnamurti, “Didn’t you notice what happened just now?” The two had no idea, so Krishnamurti said, “We just knocked down a goat. And you were discussing awareness!” It means that interdependence may be a reality and yet, as with the goat, we can still ignore it, we can still act as if we were merely skin-encapsulated egos and nothing and no one else has a stake in our decisions and actions. Contrary to the hope represented in our Gathering of the Waters Ritual, nothing stops us from choosing to flow apart rather than together, so that in reality we remain as a thousand separate bits of water, rather than the forceful river we could become. Who cares if our neighbor is in need? Who cares that one third of the world’s population now lacks enough safe water to drink? Who cares that ecosystems are losing their capacity to regenerate, or that the population of nonhuman species has declined 35% between 1970 and 2000? Who cares about our young people, or the people who don’t even exist yet, the generations of the future? Most everybody today resonates with the “web of life” image, but when we don’t declare interdependence, when we don’t live accordingly, the web of life becomes an engine of instant karma, and it conveys destruction to everything the web connects together. It can convey hellish impacts as faithfully as it can transmit heaven. Interdependence is a fact of life, and our challenge is learning how to live well and meaningfully within this fact. The fact is an opportunity, but now we must mindfully grasp it. I mean, how many times are we going to run over the goat before we notice what’s happening?

 

We must declare interdependence. And I believe that the way there is practical, through sustainable living. By this I mean lifestyle choices which honor the integrity of the planet and honor the dignity of people near and far and yet to be born—doing all this, even as such choices enrich our lives immeasurably, sustain what is truly precious, and ensure that it won’t be wasted, won’t be exhausted, will be there for future generations as much as it is for us. What I am saying, in other words, is that sustainable living has two sides to it, and both complement each other. Honoring the planet and honoring other people go hand-in-hand with families and individuals living lives of richness and abundance. I like how David Wann puts this, in his recent book entitled Simple Prosperity: Finding Real Wealth in a Sustainable Lifestyle. He says, “It’s time for a new way of valuing the world and our place in it. The good news is that curing the pandemic of overconsumption at both the personal and cultural scale is not about giving up the good life but getting it back. […] By redefining our individual and cultural priorities, we can create a more satisfying sustainable American dream.” That’s what David Wann says. Sustainable living is about getting the good life back, getting clear about what’s truly important in life, crafting a better American dream.

 

And this is the adventure I want to share with you this year: crafting a better American dream, a better human dream. While I know that the phrase “sustainable living” may immediately bring to mind very nuts-and-bolts kinds of things (like recycling, or taking shorter showers, or buying locally) these are all merely ways of putting into action a larger understanding and feeling about the world, a certain set of priorities and values. Sustainable living is unsustainable unless our perception of reality shifts, and we can see sunlight and rain in a Georgia peach. Sustainable living is unsustainable until we get clear about what is of true value and worth, and then use this clarity like a compass, allowing it to direct how we give our time and energy and money, giving until the giving feels good. Recycling, or taking shorter showers, or buying locally are only small parts of a far larger picture that touches everything in our lives.

 

We have an adventure before us this year. Part of it includes a once-a-month, year-long sermon series focusing on the spiritual question of authentic happiness. Part of it involves religious education classes for all ages, focusing on environmentalism and sustainability. A key part of it will be this year’s annual stewardship campaign, “Creating spiritual community … working for sustainability,” in which we’ll have the opportunity to reflect on this congregation and all the ways it sustains our hearts and spirits, our friendships, our good works, our hopes for the future. This, in turn, will feed yet another key part of this year’s adventure: the work of our Care of Earth Team, which includes Lyn Conley, Manette Messenger, Louis Merlin, Sally Joerger, Bill Goolsby, Dana Boyle, Richard Cohen, Helen Borland, and Jules Paulk. Their mission is to listen to the hopes and dreams of this place around declaring interdependence and living more sustainably—to build on the work that’s already been done here on this, to write the next chapter. The Care of Earth Team will listen and then to develop a three-year plan that will empower this congregation to model sustainable living, as well as to support members and friends in their personal lives as they—as we—strive to make better choices. The ideas will come from us; they’ll develop and refine the plan; we’ll make it happen together; they’ll keep us on track and periodically let us know how we’re doing. Above all, it’ll need all of us pitching in. Eco-anxiety can paralyze us, and so can “green noise,” or all the conflicting advice we hear about what’s truly good for the environment, and what’s not. But if we pull together and not apart, we can beat that. We can find a way through.

 

Adventure awaits. The future needs us. The earth needs us. Atlanta needs us, and so does Africa. We need each other. Who cares if our neighbor is in need? Who cares that one third of the world’s population now lacks enough safe water to drink? Who cares that ecosystems are losing their capacity to regenerate, or that the population of nonhuman species has declined 35% between 1970 and 2000? Who cares about our young people, or the people who don’t even exist yet, the generations of the future? We care. We care. And this is what we are going to do: this is it: do all the good we can do. Become the river, all of our bits of water coming together, culminating, flowing forcefully, carrying us to the place of our dreams.

 

Rev. Anthony David

Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Atlanta

From Buddhism we have the following story, about a time when a bandit called Angulimal once threatened the Buddha with death. “Then be good enough to fulfill my dying wish,” said the Buddha. “Cut off the branch of that tree.” And that’s what the bandit did. One slash of the sword, and it was done. “What now?” asked the bandit. Said the Buddha, “Put the branch back.” At this, the bandit laughed. “You must be crazy to think that anyone can do that.” “On the contrary,” said the Buddha, “it is you who are crazy to think that you are mighty because you can wound and destroy. That is the task of children. But to create and to heal—that is the task of the mighty.”

 

And it is our task as well. From all our various source traditions—from Buddhism and Taoism and Confucianism, from Judaism and Christianity and Islam, from humanist traditions and earth-based traditions, from all these and more—we Unitarian Universalists hear the call to be mighty. We hear it clearly, and there is a reason why. It‘s because of our own spiritual ancestors, who paved the way. They opened up our ears—especially our ancestors from our Universalist side. These Universalists were intimately familiar with what the bandit Angulimal in the Buddha’s story represents: evils coming into our lives to steal and destroy. Specific incidents, but also ideas, visions of reality.  Especially this vision: that there’s just not enough love to go around, not enough grace, not enough forgiveness—the vision in that only some are elected to enjoy eternal salvation, while others are doomed to suffer eternal torment. Faced with a vision of reality like this, our ancestor Universalists could not stay silent. They proclaimed, against this vision of not enough, a vision of abundance, in which there is ALWAYS enough love to go around. Even when the economy of life seems to be in a slump, and people are feeling the pinch, there’s ALWAYS enough of what is essential. Love is eternal and abiding, and God does not take sides; God does not divide sheep from goats. God is good. This is the original Universalist vision, which our spiritual mothers and fathers proclaimed in the face of scarcity-based and fear-based visions of reality. They said to America, in the 1700s and 1800s and 1900s, “Abundance is real. Love is real. This is how the universe is. So our privilege is to live into this. Don’t allow fear to rule our lives; fear is not realistic. Connect with joy instead. Connect with compassion. Feel it. Trust it. Live the life abundant. Experience it for yourself to the degree that you give generously. Give back, even as you have been given to. Be mighty like this. Create, and heal.” This is what they said. Be seized by the vision. Be transformed by it. Know it not just in your head, but in your heart, your actions.  

 

And clearly, this is easier said than done, then and now. The vision of abundance is just not unshakeable. Hurricanes of one sort or another just come roaring in. Events like 9/11. Just a little over a month ago, a gunman entered into our sister congregation in Knoxville, Tennessee during the Sunday morning worship, when around 25 children and youth were presenting a musical called “Annie, Jr.” Before people were able to tackle him and take away his gun, several people had been shot, and in the end, two died, including the hero who tackled him. The shooter, Jim Adkisson, said he did it because he hates liberals; he hates their gay-positive stance; he blames them for ruining our country. The vision of abundance is just not unshakeable. In ways small and large, the circumstances of life can turn us away from it, and we get lost in our angers and resentments, we get lost in our sadness and hopelessness, we get lost in our self-absorption and greed. Fear wins. Scarcity wins. And so the continual challenge: to turn back towards the abundance of life which Universalism says is really there, despite the shake-ups and stress, despite the cruelties and pains. Coming to know abundance even more deeply than before, in fact, because the more our hearts are cracked, the more light can come in. Experiencing restoration and healing, so that when the bandit comes, we can be even mightier than before.   

 

All of this—the call to respond to life from a place of abundance and be mighty, the continual challenge of doing this in the face of life’s troubles, and yet the ever-present possibility of restoration and healing, of turning back to the hope-filled vision—all of this we see in the amazing story of the founder of Universalism in America, John Murray. Let’s take a look. His life speaks to our lives today.

 

John Murray. Born in England in 1741, died in America in 1815. I want to start in 1769, when he was still in the land of his birth. That year, he became a Universalist. It happened like this. He and his wife Eliza had heard strange rumors about a church across town. People were whispering that in this church, wicked and immoral things were happening, and a strange doctrine was being preached. John and Eliza absolutely had to check it out! But what they ended up finding was nothing wicked and nothing immoral, but a sober group of people instead who believed that no one was going to be damned in hell for all eternity. At first, the teaching repulsed John Murray, because like so many other people then and now, he believed that without threat of eternal hellfire, what’s going to ensure moral order on earth? What’s going to motivate people to refrain from doing bad, or to do good? But he got over that. Universalism, he realized, was true, and it changes lives.

 

In his case, though, one of the changes was quite painful. One year later, in 1770, he was excommunicated from his home church in London, a Methodist church, where he served as a lay minister. Fellow members had found out about his conversion to Universalism, and they wanted nothing to do with it. John and Eliza had to go.

 

This was just the start of wave after wave of misfortune. It’s but another example of the truth in the idea that when we follow a call in our lives—even a call to abundance—we find things disrupted and shaken up. Wave after wave of trouble: John Murray, arrested and imprisoned for debt, though soon released. His infant child succumbing to illness, and then death. Then Eliza became ill, and while struggling to support her and provide medical care, his debts began to pile up again. Then Eliza died. Then his eyesight began to fail. One thing after another. In the end, John Murray found himself contemplating suicide as the only way out. 

 

Ever had a year like that? Is THIS year a year like that? Wave after wave of bad news, illness, disruption, disaster? But now, consider the wisdom in the following saying: “Every problem has a gift for you in its hands.” Rather than commit suicide, my sense is that John Murray started to look for the gifts in the problems. He started to ask of the circumstances of his life, “What are you here to teach me?” For this reason, when he happened to encounter, purely by chance, a traveler from America, he was curious. Didn’t instantly discount the meeting because it was tied up with chance. Wondered instead, “What is the universe trying to say to me now?“ “What are you here to teach me, traveler from America?”

 

It was this: that he could have a new start in his life. A new start in a New World. Which he was desperate for. A totally new start. One that, as far as he was concerned, would no longer have anything to do with preaching. That’s right: this future founder of Universalism in America went to America with hopes that he was leaving religion behind him. The bandit had roared into his life one too many times, and he had run out of answers. John Murray never wanted to preach again.

 

Oh, life can hurt. There are times when, truly, it feels like there isn’t enough love to go around….   

 

And so, in the fall of 1770, he set sail from the land of his birth, on a ship called the Hand In Hand, for the Port of New York. He had turned away from hellfire and damnation to Universalism; he had turned away from suicide to a new start; and now, without knowing it, he was setting the stage for the next and greatest turning in his life.

 

Ever since, people have called it the Unitarian Universalist miracle. I prefer to see it as evidence of subtle order in the universe, the abundant web of life into which each of our lives is woven. I’m talking about synchronicity, coincidences that are so fine-tuned to the meaning of our lives that they seem anything but random. Have you ever experienced synchronicity? Here’s how it happened to John Murray. 

 

Three days out from the Port of New York, his journey suddenly goes haywire. The Hand in Hand encounters another ship carrying word that the Port of New York is closed, and with this, the Hand in Hand’s Captain decides to sail to Philadelphia. There, he discovers that the news concerning the New York Port had been wrong, and so, scratching his head, he once again sets sail for New York. But midway, off the New Jersey coast, the Hand in Hand runs aground on a sandbar, and it is held there by a strong wind. John Murray and everyone else aboard are stuck. 

 

Stuck at a place called Good Luck. I’m not kidding. The Universe has a weird sense of humor, even as it continually conspires to help us live out our calls. So: John Murray comes ashore, in search of provisions for the crew, and there he has another chance encounter, with a local well-to-do farmer named Thomas Potter. Potter meets him, learns that he has done some preaching before, and enthusiastically invites him to deliver a sermon at his private chapel on Sunday.

 

Now you should know that Thomas Potter was an uneducated but deeply religious man who had heard about Universalism years earlier and was looking for a preacher to preach it fully and truly. Following the “if you build it he will come” principle, he had built a chapel on his property and invited every preacher he met to come speak. But none of them was able to articulate the abundance vision that was so precious to his heart. Ten years later—lots of sermons later—he was still waiting for the right preacher to come.  

 

Enter, John Murray, the man who never wanted to preach again!

 

Of course, Murray refuses the offer. But Potter is insistent, doesn’t give up, and Murray finds himself open to relenting—not just because of Potter’s enthusiasm, but also because he’s getting the uncanny feeling that the universe is trying to teach him something. Too many meaningful coincidences, all coming together around Universalism. But Murray tells Potter that he needs one more kind of confirmation before he is willing to break his promise to himself, never to preach again. One more so-called “coincidence”: If, before Sunday, the wind changes and the ship is freed up to sail, he’ll leave. If the wind doesn’t change, he’ll stay, and he’ll preach. Let God decide.

 

That’s how John Murray put it, and what happened was that the wind, in fact, did not change. The ship remained stuck on the sandbar. Come Saturday evening, John Murray had to face up to the message the universe was sending him. He was gonna have to preach.

 

Here’s what happened next, in his own words: “I had no rest through the night. What should I say, or how address the people? Yet I recollected the admonition of [Jesus]: ‘Take no thought, what you shall say; it shall be given you, in that same hour, what you shall say.’ Ay, but this promise was made to his disciples. Well, by this, I shall know if I am a disciple….”

 

Murray continues: “Sunday morning [came]; my host was in transports. I was—I cannot describe how I was. I entered the [chapel]; it was neat and convenient…. There was one large square pew, just before the pulpit; in this sat the venerable [farmer, Potter,] and his family, also particular friends, and visiting strangers. Surely no man, upon this side of heaven, was ever more completely happy. He looked up to the pulpit with eyes sparkling with pleasure … and he reflected on the strong faith, which he had cherished, while his associates would tauntingly question, ‘Well, Potter, where is this minister, who is to be sent to you?’ ‘He is coming, in God’s own good time.’ ‘And do you still believe any such preacher will visit you?’ ‘Oh yes, assuredly.’ He reflected upon all this, and tears of transport filled his eyes; he looked round upon the people, and every feature seemed to say, ‘There, what think you now?’”

 

Can’t you just see it? Thomas Potter’s overflowing joy, at his hopes fulfilled? And John Murray: his anxiety as he feels the push of an amazing synchronicity of events towards taking up, once again, the Good News of Universalism. And then this, above all: in the very act of doing what he resolved he would never do again—in the very act of preaching—John Murray recovering and rediscovering his life purpose. His feeling for the abundance vision going to the next level, stronger and fuller than before. His life and his heart cracked wide open, and all the light and all the joy streaming inside….

 

And there’s more! The very moment his sermon was done, a sailor came from the ship with news that the wind had just changed direction, and they were free to go. I mean, after all these meaningful coincidences, astonishingly attuned to his psychological and spiritual state,

how could he not be confirmed in a career of preaching Universalism far and wide? How could he not go out and find the other Thomas Potters scattered across America who were waiting to hear the hopeful message? Build this faith? You better believe it. The very universe was saying to him, Yes!

 

Build this faith. And that’s what he did. John Murray. A Johnny Appleseed of the spirit, spreading seeds of hope throughout the country, during the years of the American Revolutionary war, and afterwards. Building spiritual communities that change lives, like you and I are doing here and now. It wasn’t easy. Preaching abundance in a world of fear and scarcity is never easy. People hated it, so they did all they could to stop it. Tried to lynch Murray several times, but he escaped. Interrupted him while he was preaching, but he kept on. Once, in Boston in 1774, he was preaching, and he happened to be standing right in front of a window. Someone outside threw a sharp stone through that window. The stone narrowly missed his head—it could have killed him, the stone was so sharp and big—and this is what happened next. Murray reached down and picked up that stone, showed it to his audience, and said, “This argument is solid, and weighty,

but it is neither rational, nor convincing.” And then got right back to his preaching. 

 

Build this faith. That’s our task too. Build it for all the Thomas Potters in the world who are waiting to hear a good word. Build it for the Thomas Potter that is within our children, and within us. Be mighty in the face of people who hate us because of what we stand for. Whenever it feels like there’s not enough—whenever the fear strikes—to turn back to the abundance vision, to help eachother find that vision again, to remember that for what is truly essential in life, always always, there is enough.

 

Which takes us to what happened at our sister church in Knoxville after the shooting. Afterwards, during the healing service led by Unitarian Universalist Association President Bill Sinkford, those 25 or so children and youth whose performance was so brutally interrupted sang these words from Annie, Jr. (sing along with me if you like):

 

The sun’ll come out
Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar
That tomorrow
There’ll be sun!
Just thinkin’ about
Tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs,
And the sorrow
‘Til there’s none! 

 

Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
I love ya Tomorrow!
You’re always
A day
A way!

 

“The congregation,” said one observer, “spontaneously joined in singing with them, and after a few seconds, when the impact of this moment had sunk in, the crowd erupted into applause, tears, shouts, cheers, and many more tears. As the cast finished their grande finale, they took their long-awaited bows to an adoring, grief-stricken, and healing audience.”  

 

John Murray’s story is our story. Tragedy, like the bandit in the Buddha’s parable, will enter into our lives. But our precious faith teaches us that there is a better way than to respond out of fear. The task of the mighty is to dwell within a place of triumphant love and, out of this, to create and heal. The Life Abundant is real. We can help create it for each other. Whatever our personal beliefs today may be about God, we know that, as we build up this community which sustains us, we can still lay hold of that essential Universalist vision. What is real is love. What is real is service. What is real is compassion. What is real is generosity. Abundance is yesterday, abundance is today, abundance is forever.

 

 

 

 

Rev. Anthony David

Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Atlanta

 

Thank you, Chairman Seabaugh and committee members, for allowing me to share my thoughts about the proposed changes to current Georgia gun laws [which would allow permit holders to carry concealed handguns into our congregations.] I’m Rev. Anthony David, Senior Minister of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation in Atlanta, one of the largest Unitarian Universalist congregations in the United States.

 

Recently, the Unitarian Universalist religious movement has been tested with violence. On the morning of July 27^th, during a worship service at our sister church in Knoxville Tennessee, a man named Jim Adkisson started shooting. 200 people were in the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church sanctuary that morning, including the 25 children and youth who were leading worship that day. Many were wounded and two ended up dead. Based on Jim Adkisson’s own testimony, as well as that of a letter he had written, he wanted to target the church because of its emphasis on freedom and inclusivity—his belief that liberals should be killed because they are ruining the country. He concealed a shotgun in a guitar case, carried that case into the church sanctuary, took the gun out and started shooting indiscriminately into the crowd, fully expecting to keep shooting until police arrived and he was killed himself. He fully expected to die that day, even going so far as to leave his home unlocked to make it easy for police to enter.

 

In the aftermath of this event, Unitarian Universalist congregations across the country are feeling vulnerable to hatred. Our sanctuaries should be places of safety, but we know now that safety is not a guarantee. There are people in this world who are already dwelling in hell, and they want to take it out on the innocent. So it is a time of discernment for us and for congregations everywhere, as we face the question of gun violence. Would things have been different if there had been people in our sister church’s sanctuary carrying concealed handguns? Ready to defend the congregation against the shooter?

 

One thing is clear—even if people in the Tennessee Valley Church had been carrying concealed handguns, this would not have deterred Jim Adkisson from doing what he did. He was not afraid of dying, and I suspect that this is generally true of the kind of person who’d want to kill people at a church.

 

Then there is the issue of competence. Even trained police officers, on average, hit less than 20% of their intended targets. As I understand things, there are no physical force or proficiency training requirements in order to get a concealed carry permit in Georgia. To me, this all adds up to my conviction that, even if some members of the Tennessee Valley church had been carrying guns, they would probably have missed their target.

 

But bullets would be flying, and this leads to yet a third consideration: unintended side effects. Not just in the moment, but over the long haul. In the moment, if some Tennessee Valley Church members had been carrying guns, they probably would have accidentally shot fellow church members. As for the long haul: imagine what happens if a gun accidentally goes off during a church event, or during a service—or if, God forbid, a child or youth somehow gets a hold of one. In the long haul, the presence of a gun does not minimize the possibility of violence but multiplies it. Imagine people coming to church carrying concealed handguns, and because of tragedies like Tennessee Valley, they are on the look out for others who appear suspicious and may, in their vigilance, develop an itchy trigger finger.… The long haul has to do with what happens to the larger culture of a religious community, which is supposed to lay out a welcome table to all who want to connect with the sacred in life. To bring handguns into the sanctuary is to bring the expectation of violence into it and therefore spoil the culture of the generous welcome table, which was so central to the spiritual vision of Jesus as well as to so many other great religious leaders. The guiding religious principle here is that the means we use to achieve the ends of nonviolence and justice in the world must themselves be nonviolent and just. You can’t get to true nonviolence through violent means. You can’t get to true justice through injustice. Perhaps this is why the U. S. Supreme Court, in its Heller decision, acknowledged that houses of worship are truly “sensitive places” where guns do not belong. This is emphasized by even Justice Scalia, who is one of the most conservative Justices on the Supreme Court.

 

In light of all I have said, I believe that for the Tennessee Valley Church, members carrying concealed handguns would not have prevented the tragic shooting and, in fact, would have made things worse in both the short and long haul. What did make all the difference, in the moment, were a couple of heros who tackled Jim Adkisson at full risk to themselves. One of these heros, in fact, died. In a situation like this—when someone is set on killing others—something bad is going to happen. But our task is to identify responses to violence which do the least harm. Our desire to be safe must not make us reach for solutions that will do more harm than good.

 

Is it possible to prevent tragedies like the one that happened at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church from happening ever again? Is there a way to guarantee that our sanctuaries will always be safe places? I don’t think so. Danger and risk are nonnegotiable aspects of the human condition. But what is all important is that religious communities are able to model spiritual leadership and might in the face of evil. Concealed handguns have absolutely no role to play in this. I believe this, and so does the minister of the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church—even after what happened. 

 

Rev. Anthony David

Sept. 23, 2008

 

 

**

 

Objection: But why shouldn’t congregations have the right to decide for themselves? Why not allow some congregations to ensure safety for themselves by developing and deploying armed security teams, while congregations that disallow concealed handguns can put a sticker on the door to make declare their places “gun free zones”?

·        Reply: First of all, a sticker on the door cannot replace the kind of deterrent that exists now, which is a misdemeanor charge. Even with a sticker at the door, people won’t have to be afraid of breaking the law, so what will stop them from carrying them in? Don’t see how this avoids all the negative consequences I mentioned earlier.

·        Also, whereas it may be true that some congregations may want the right to develop and deploy their own armed security guards—and again, given my comments above, I don’t know why they’d want to do this—I would not underestimate the incredible burden that this will put on all the other congregations in Georgia. Even congregations with stickers on the door will need to invest financial and volunteer resources to ensure safety in a world where people are not prohibited by law to carry firearms into churches.

·        Finally: this objection assumes something false about the role of government, as well as the nature of constitutional rights. Government’s proper job is to balance competing interests and competing rights in a way that does justice to the common good. As important as Second Amendment rights are, when they are emphasized to the detriment of other rights, then this is not justice but injustice. Government has the right and the obligation to establish laws that reflect a just balance between competing interests. The decisions it makes then act as healthy boundaries, and within such boundaries, people can exercise their individual freedoms.

 

 

 

I want to begin this morning by sharing a personal story that I am not particularly proud of. As with every personal story I share in this pulpit, it’s meant to invite you to reflect on similar stories that you may have in your own life, and to know that you are not alone, that we’re in this thing together.

The story has to do with graduate school. By sheer luck, I found myself in a program that specialized in classical American philosophers like William James, John Dewey, Charles Peirce, and George Santayana. I call it luck because it was not by any genuine forethought whatsoever that I went to Texas A&M University as an undergraduate, and it was desperation borne of restlessness that drove me to change my major time after time until, with philosophy, the restlessness became curiosity and even enthusiasm. But it was an enthusiasm for everything, and I really struggled with this—particularly after I was accepted into the graduate program and found myself facing the daunting task of writing a thesis. I needed to identify a specific topic to focus on, and quick. What was it going to be?

This is where I confess the part that I’m not proud of. I got way ahead of myself. I allowed ambition to solve the problem for me, rather than taking the more difficult route of listening to my life and discerning my genuine interests. I had aspirations of doing a Ph. D. at Vanderbilt University—I was told it was a prestigious department, and I had stars in my eyes about this—and it just so happened that the Head of the Texas A&M Philosophy Department at the time had strong links to Vanderbilt. The brilliant plan that unfolded in my prestige-addled brain was therefore this: I would choose a topic that would require me to work with the Head (which turned out to be George Santayana’s ethical theory), and this would be my ticket into the school of my dreams.

It did not work out. I ended up hating the topic I chose, and by the time I finished that thesis, I was smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. As for my relationship with the Head of the Department: not good. We were just not temperamentally suited for each other. Rather than moving me forward into my career as a philosopher, it set me back. Worst of all is the 20/20 hindsight I have now, many years later, about the treasure that was right there before me, all along, which I did not claim. This treasure: the world-renowned William James scholar who also taught in my department. William James, who has turned out to be one of my absolutely favorite thinkers—and I could have done my thesis on him. The thought had actually crossed my mind, but among other things, I suspected that the world-renowned scholar was too busy for me. Yet I never even inquired to find out if this were so. I missed my chance.

How easily it can happen. Ambition can put stars in our eyes, and we lose touch with who we are. Fixation on some end goal can cause us to stop paying attention to the journey, never mind enjoying it. Fear of being turned down can keep us simply from asking. Treasure is within our grasp, but we don’t go ahead and grasp it.

Why is this?

One of the things I value about Jonathan Haidt’s book The Happiness Hypothesis is that, through its unique blend of science and spirituality, it’s helping me better understand my own human heart , as well as to become a better student of happiness. Three of its insights—all from chapter five—come to mind.

The first is this: how it’s natural to care about such things as prestige. Desire for Vanderbilts of every kind reflect a deep impulse shaped by millions of years of natural selection, directed towards winning at the game of life; and it involves impressing others, gaining their admiration, and rising in relative rank. We all feel tempted to do this even when greater authentic happiness can be found elsewhere. Political philosopher Niccolo Machiavelli recognized this hundreds of years ago when he said, “the great majority of mankind are satisfied with appearances, as though they were realities, and are often more influenced by the things that seem than by those that are.”

Conspicuous consumption is an obvious example of this—the zero-sum game of “keeping up with the Joneses” that anchors the very real phenomenon of middle-class poverty—but I am particularly struck by the results of a recent experiment a group of economists set up using a beverage called SoBe Adrenaline Rush—a beverage that claims to increase mental acuity. The story here is told by Ori and Rom Brafman in their recent book, Sway: The Irresistible Pull of Irrational Behavior: “To test acuity, the researchers developed a thirty-minute word jumble challenge that was administered to three groups of students. The first group, a control group, took the test without drinking any SoBe. The second group was told about the intelligence-enhancing properties of SoBe, given the drink, and asked to watch a video while the tonic had time to take effect. These students also were required to sign an authorization form allowing the researchers to charge $2.89 to their university account…. We’ll call this second group of students the ‘fancy-schmancy SoBe’ drinkers. Finally, a third group of students was given the same spiel about SoBe but was told that the university had gotten a discount and that they would be charged eighty-nine cents for the drink. We’ll call them the ‘cheapo SoBe’ drinkers. Now, the results of the experiment were surprising. The group that drank the fancy-schmancy SoBe performed slightly better in the test than did the group that received no SoBe at all. But before we rush out to buy SoBe, with its acuity-enhancing powers, it’s important to note that the students who drank the cheapo SoBe performed significantly worse than either the fancy-schmancy group or the SoBe-free control group. Given that exactly the same SoBe beverage was served to both groups, we can only conclude that it was the value the students attributed to the SoBe that made the difference in their test scores. Strange as it may sound, fancy-schmancy SoBe made the students smarter, while cheapo SoBe hindered their performance.” And that’s the story that Ori and Rom Brafman tell. Humans are deeply susceptible to the power of prestige—so much so that we unconsciously, instinctively respond to fancy-shmancy SoBe by getting smarter and to cheapo SoBe by getting dumber. This is how vulnerable we are to the lure of prestige.

Again and again, we learn that the human heart is a complicated thing, and may we embrace this with compassion. We learn that each of us is many different selves all buzzing about like a committee—sometimes on the same page, and sometimes not. Where prestige is concerned, we can often find ourselves internally divided; and we can feel a great pull towards what is fancy-schmancy even though it may come at the expense of our true happiness.

But now, let’s turn to the second happiness insight: how people are generally inaccurate predictors of the ultimate impact of life changes, whether bad or good. In my own case, I anticipated going to Vanderbilt for my Ph.D. as a change that would bring about perfect happiness; but life would be over if I didn’t get in. This is what I predicted, and on this basis, I acted. All of us do something like this, as we face the future. Yet Jonathan Haidt asks us to consider the “adaptation principle,” which describes something we have all experienced—that people get used to conditions in their life that are constant. It becomes like wallpaper: taken for granted, just there. While people are extraordinarily sensitive to changes in conditions, after a time things settle down, and we are back to our usual state of happiness.

Jonathan Haidt explores this in an interesting way. He asks, “If I gave you ten seconds to name the very best and very worst things that could ever happen to you, you might well come up with these: winning a 20-million dollar lottery jackpot and becoming paralyzed from the neck down. Winning the lottery would bring freedom from so many cares and limitations; it would enable you to pursue your dreams, help others, and live in comfort…. Losing the use of your body, on the other hand, would bring more limitations than life in prison. You’d have to give up on nearly all your goals and dreams, forget about sex, and depend on other people for help with eating and bathroom functions. Many people think they would rather be dead than paraplegic. But they are mistaken.” They are mistaken, Jonathan Haidt says, because of the adaptation principle. “The [lottery] winner’s pleasure comes from rising in wealth, not from standing still at a high level, and after a few months the new comforts have become the new baseline of daily life. The winner takes them for granted and has no way to rise even further. Even worse: the money might damage her relationships. Friends, relatives, swindlers, and sobbing strangers swarm around lottery winners, suing them, sucking up to them, demanding a share of the wealth. […] At the other extreme, the quadriplegic takes a huge happiness loss up front. He thinks his life is over, and it hurts to give up everything he once hoped for. But like the lottery winner, his mind is sensitive more to changes than to absolute levels, so after a few months he has begun adapting to his new situation and is setting more modest goals. He discovers that physical therapy can expand his abilities. He has nowhere to go but up.”

This is the adaptation principle at work. Life changes can definitely bring pleasure or pain, but the pain or pleasure never lasts as long as you think it will, and we return to our natural and usual state of mind. I didn’t get in to Vanderbilt; OK, there was some weeping and gnashing of the teeth for a time; but then I got on with my life. My prediction about the impact of not getting in was way off base. I adapted, and moved on.

Which leads us to the next happiness insight to consider: that most environmental and demographic factors influence happiness very little. “Try to imagine yourself,” says Jonathan Haidt, “changing places with either Bob or Mary. Bob is thirty-five years old, single, white, attractive, and athletic. He earns $100,000 a year and lives in sunny California. He is highly intellectual, and he spends his free time reading and going to museums. Mary and her husband live in snowy Buffalo, New York, where they earn a combined income of $40,000. Mary is sixty-five years old, black, overweight, and plain in appearance. She is highly sociable, and she spends her free time mostly in activities related to her church. She is on dialysis for kidney problems.” Now, the question: who do you think is happier? Bob or Mary? On the surface of things, Bob, since he enjoys a string of what many would consider markers of power and privilege: he’s white, he’s male, he’s young, he lives in a beautiful climate, he’s attractive, and he’s wealthy. Yet it’s intriguing to get beneath the surface and take a look at what the research says. “White Americans are freed from many of the hassles and indignities that affect black Americans, yet, on the average, they are only very slightly happier.” “Men have more freedom and power than women, yet they are not on average any happier.” The old are generally happier than the young. “People who live in colder climates expect people who live in California to be happier, but they are wrong.” “People believe that attractive people are happier than unattractive people, but they, too, are wrong.” As for wealth—research shows that once people have sufficient money to pay for basic needs of food and shelter, the relationship between wealth and happiness grows smaller. At this point, more money definitely does not mean more happiness. Consider how it is that “as the level of wealth has doubled or tripled in the last fifty years in many industrialized nations, the levels of happiness and satisfaction in life that people report have not changed, and depression has actually become more common.” For all of this, chalk things up to the adaptation principle. All of these markers of power and privilege are life conditions that you either can’t change or which are constant for significant periods of time. And we get used to them. They become wallpaper in our lives. They disappear from our awareness. We take them for granted. 

And there they are: the three insights. (1) Natural selection attunes us to prestige even at the expense of genuine, long-lasting happiness; ( 2) people are inaccurate predictors of the impact of life changes to happiness; and (3) most environmental and demographic factors influence happiness very little. Happiness is not so simple a thing. The human heart is not so simple to figure out.

But now, putting these insights together: where does it take us, especially as we consider the new year ahead of us, with all its new possibilities?

One thing does stand out. Go back to Mary. We met her a moment ago; she and her husband live in snowy Buffalo, New York, where they earn a combined income of $40,000. By now, we know that all such factors are fairly equivalent to Bob’s, in terms of their power to influence happiness in life. This includes the fact of her being sixty-five years old, black, overweight, being plain in appearance, and being on dialysis for kidney problems. All such factors are constants in her life, and she has adapted to them.

Yet there are two advantages she has which Bob does not, which give her the clear  happiness edge, and here is the clue we are looking for. She is highly sociable, and she spends her free time mostly in activities related to her church. Research has shown both factors to have great impact on a person’s level of happiness, and part of the reason for this is that they are not so much constant conditions of life as voluntary activities that people choose to engage in. Because of this—because they take effort and attention—they aren’t susceptible to the adaptation effect.

One of the main things we can do, in other words, if we want to increase our happiness, is to invest time and energy in activities that lead to genuine gratification in some form or fashion. Sometimes, we are talking about activities which allow us to lose self-consciousness, connect with and express our strengths, and get into the flow of things. Other times, it can be activities that require some effort and yet the result is wonderful, as in exercise, or learning a new skill, or kindness and gratitude activities, or volunteer service. Such activities can make you feel vulnerable—you are putting yourself out there, after all—but once you do them, the good feelings last a long time.

In my case, what happened after the Vanderbilt disaster was this. Three kinds of activities that came together for me and ultimately helped me find myself again.

After I finished my thesis and defended it successfully, a week before I was to have graduated, I got a call from the community college across town, Blinn College. Would I like to teach a logic class? All my future plans were up in smoke, so why not? I took to that field, and like the sons in the Sufi wisdom story we heard earlier, I gave myself to daily labor, and to the round of the seasons. One class grew into three; three grew into five and a full-time permanent position; but most importantly, I discovered my passion for public speaking and teaching, and I realized that, for me, philosophy of religion was the bomb. 

I was discovering the treasure of the field, my happiness; and it was also happening at the Unitarian Universalist congregation I started going to, with Laura, once our daughter was born. I took to that field, and I gave myself to various opportunities that arose. I served as President of the Board of Trustees; I led some fundraising programs; I led some worship and taught a few religious education courses. Through volunteerism, I was discovering talents that I didn’t know I had. And, I was also making friends.

Which leads me to the third activity which helped me recover after the Vanderbilt disaster. Figure skating. Down in College Station, Texas, at the Unitarian Church, I met my future ice-dancing partner. It all came as quite a shock. Part of this has to do with the fact that, when I met Diane in 1996, I hadn’t skated since I was a boy of 13, and last I knew, serious figure skating was just for children and teenagers. Yet what I did not know was that, during my many years away from the sport, a significant adult skating program had developed, including regional, national, and international competitions. Diane knew all about it—and did I want to go skating with her? At first I resisted—one excuse after another came to mind—but Diane and then Laura kept on prodding me, and so, eventually, I went.

As it turns out, this was the final ingredient. I took to the field of teaching, I took to the field of church volunteerism, I took to the field of adult figure skating; and as I gave myself to all three activities, some kind of weird alchemy happened, and I found a clarity within me which I had never had before. I found a yearning to combine passion for public speaking and teaching and community building and leadership and artistry and spirituality all in one thing, and that thing was ministry. I would become a minister. That was the treasure in the field that I found, but only after giving myself to years of hard work, day to day and season to season.

“I prayed for twenty years,” Frederick Douglass once said, “but received no answer until I prayed with my legs.” The treasure is out there, in the field, and it’s not about prestige, it’s not about the things we can’t control, it’s not about the constant conditions to which we inevitably adapt. It’s about activity, action, praying with your legs.

And this time, I did not let fear stop me from talking to the people I needed to talk to, and doing the things I needed to do. I even turned down an offer to attend fancy-schmancy Harvard Divinity School—with funding—to go to one that was better suited to my family and me. 

When one of my friends heard this, he sent me a funny postcard featuring an orangutan wearing one of those square academic caps, with the tassel on the side. And this was the caption: WHAT? You haven’t been to HARVARD?” I laughed. OK by me.

 

Story Before the Sermon

There once was a farmer who lay on his deathbed in despair over the fate of his lazy sons. When he was almost gone, an inspiration came to him. He called his sons to his bedside and drew them in close. “I am soon to leave this world,” he whispered. “I want you to know that I have left a treasure of gold for you. I have hidden it out in the field. Dig carefully and well and you will find it. I ask only that you share it among yourselves evenly.”

The sons begged him to tell them exactly where he had buried it, but the father breathed his last and said no more.

As soon as their father was buried, the sons took up their shovels and began to turn over the soil in their father’s field. They dug and dug until they had turned over the whole field twice. Nothing–no treasure anywhere. But they decided that since the field was so well prepared, they might as well plant some grain just as their father had done. The crop grew well for them. After the harvest they decided to dig again in hopes of finally finding the hidden treasure. Again they found nothing, and once again prepared the field for sowing. That year’s crop was even better than the one before.

This went on for years until the sons had grown accustomed to the cycles of the seasons and the rewards of working together in daily labor. By that time their disciplined farming earned them enough money to live very comfortable lives. They grew very close and content. They had everything they could ever want or need. It was then and only then, that they realized what a great treasure their father had left for them out in that field.

 

Personality types. They’re like masks. They reveal and conceal at the same time. Products of nature in combination with nurture, they give us something to see the world through, and to be seen. They grant us a particular means of communicating; they incline us to care about certain things and not other things; they represent a vital avenue for experience and learning. Which leads to an irony. For to the degree that our personality masks settle on our faces and seem completely and utterly natural, we forget that we are, in fact, wearing a mask, or that others may be wearing different masks leading them to see the world in very different ways, to communicate differently, or to care differently. It gets us into trouble.

Consider the following incident, in which two people, Sheryl and Steve, are going to a meeting here at UUCA, and Sheryl asks Steve a very simple question, “What time is it?” What follows is like an episode of Abbot and Costello, a comedy of miscommunication. Steve replies, “It’s late,” but Sheryl has the kind of personality which prefers concreteness and exactitude of detail, so she responds, “No, I mean, what time is it?” Which confuses Steve, because he thinks he IS being to the point, although given his different personality, being to the point is a matter of clear imagery and intuitive vision. So he says back to Sheryl, “It’s time to go!” but with even greater insistence than before, thinking that will do the trick. It doesn’t, and now Sheryl is getting frustrated, and she says, “Hey, read my lips, what time is it?” When Steve replies, in a miffed tone, “It’s past three,” all heck breaks loose. “Listen,” says Sheryl, “I shouldn’t have to ask a simple question four times to get an adequate answer. How MUCH past three? What time is it EXACTLY?” To which Steve replies, “You are so picky. The time EXACTLY is 3:12pm, Eastern Standard Timezone, planet earth, solar system, outer arm of the Milky Way Galaxy!”

It’s a comedy of miscommunication. Two people hearing exactly the same question—“What time is it?”—but each approaching the answer differently. One prefers down-to-earth exactitude and specificity, the other prefers evocative imagery and future-oriented metaphors which can float above the ground. Personality types are real—vital avenues of expression and experience—but we can lose sight of this undeniable reality and fail to accommodate for the masks we wear in our relationships. The result is high drama. The stuff of soap opera.

It happens at home; it happens at work; and you better believe it happens in congregations like this one. Of course, when clashes and conflicts happen in congregations, we get extremely nervous. We think something has turned terribly wrong, since isn’t religious community the one place where we’re all supposed to be singing Kumbaya together, and all is spontaneous mutual understanding and peace and harmony?

It’s an unexamined expectation that so many of us bring to a place like this, and it can’t be farther from the truth. This is a home for the human spirit, and the human spirit brings with it variety and diversity, of all kinds. Meaning that, in the course of our taking this diversity and uniting it to serve common goals and common purposes, things heat up. That’s what happens, if a congregation is working right. If it’s NOT working right, things stay cold and clammy. Sluggish. People stuck in their usual sense of who they are, and what’s possible. No risks. No enthusiasms. No one united by a transforming cause. People entirely justified in saying “it’s not worth it” and walking away. But if a congregation IS working right, it heats us up. Takes us to difficult places. Takes us deeper. Causes us to care, to discern a higher calling. Gives us something worth fighting for. Charges us full with the electric charge of the soul. There is no better symbol of how congregations that work do this than our Flaming Chalice. The flame is the heat and the fire of our life together. Things are supposed to get hot, in a place like this. No wonder conflict can happen.

It’s just a natural consequence of being in a vital spiritual community. Natural, normal, necessary, and also this: neutral in value. What matters is not so much that we can disagree and feel frustrated by eachother as how we manage these disagreements and frustrations. How we respond.

Today I want to talk about personality types as they impact congregations. Different personality types give rise to different spiritual styles—so what are the different styles? How is each a valid way of connecting with the Sacred? And, when they clash, what can we do to respond in a manner that is creative and constructive? That’s my message today.

Beginning with the basic spiritual styles. Historically, there are many sources of insight about this we could look to—astrology being one of the oldest, together with the four classic temperaments (phlegmatic, choleric, melancholic, and sanguine). We could also look to the Enneagram, as well as to Carl Jung’s system of psychological types. Of the theories I’ve studied, one of my favorites continues to be Hinduism’s system of the four yogas—thousands of years old and yet still influential and credible. Very much worth a closer look.

Now when I say “yoga,” what might immediately come to mind is certain distinctive physical postures. But the word as I’m using it—its original sense—has a far larger meaning. Literally, it means, “to bring under disciplined training,” and right there we have an inkling of what we’re getting ourselves into. Each of the four yogas incorporates activities and practices that are uniquely effective for a particular personality type, in its quest for spiritual fulfillment. We’re not talking about a casual stroll along a garden path, in other words, and the thought of this is in itself significant, for there are times when life, completely without warning, challenges us to run a sprint, or a marathon. On the spur of the moment, it can require us to lift 300 pounds of deadweight. It can throw all sorts of stuff our way, and unless we are already actively developing our spiritual muscles, how can we expect to last or cope effectively? How are we gonna run our race, or lift that weight, if we aren’t actively training for it right now? 

“Yoga” means “spiritual workout,” and the first one to consider is the Yoga of the Rational Mind. Here, the central discipline is intellectual adventure. If you are a follower of this way—if you are a Rational Mind yogi—then you seek out all the wisdom you can find: in scripture, in science, in philosophy, in history, in literature, in the arts, and on and on. The marketplace of ideas must be free, for you; scholarship is your true love; study is your cup of tea; and your core spiritual practice may very well be … underlining. You are the kind of person who’s always asking questions, doubting, challenging conventional understandings, and always game for looking into a new idea or a new way. But with a main purpose. Not to parrot the wisdom of others, but to use conscience and reason to separate the good from the bad and fashion a worldview that rings true for you, makes sense of your experience. Gives order to the complexities of life. 

The Yoga of the Rational Mind. It stresses step-by-step logical reasoning as well as conceptual clarity and linguistic precision. Rational Mind yogis are the people who would rather stand outside of heaven and talk about it than step on in. In fact, that is their heaven. Realizing through critical discussion and thought the truth that sets us free. 

That’s the first Hindu yoga, and now here is the second: the Yoga of Transcending Mind. It’s very different. People on this path are generally active types, and they tend to be impatient with the theoretical and abstract. As far as they are concerned, head knowledge distorts rather than clarifies. Language does to the world what a funhouse mirror does to reflections. Others might pride themselves on their intellectual scholarship and be right at home with that, but not Transcending Mind yogis. They want something more body-centered, practical disciplines that calm “monkey mind” down and connect them to a peace that is above and beyond all words and theories. I’m talking about a capacity of awareness that is like a calm eye over the storm of our thoughts and feelings, an eye that’s always there, always, but we have to learn how to see through it, we have to calm “monkey mind” down to do that.

If this resonates with you, then more reading and more speculating are beside the point. No more talk. Action. So, as a Transcending Mind yogi, you will practice “asanas,” or physical postures that cleanse the body and develop the mind’s ability to concentrate. You will say a “mantra” or a sacred sound over and over again, throughout your day, to keep you centered and focused. You may meditate on your breathing or focus on a visual form like a candle flame, or a picture of a saint, or a mandala. Note, again, how all of this emphasizes a form of spirituality that is body-centered, image- and sound-centered, all to the end of experiencing first-hand the reality beyond all distinctions and difference, the bliss of no-thingness. You don’t want to just talk about heaven. You want to do heaven, be heaven!

That’s the Yoga of Transcending Mind. But now let us turn to yet another spiritual style: the Yoga of Service. If this is your preferred style, by now what you might be saying to yourself is this: something like, “Good Lord! What’s up with how Rational Mind yogis are constantly challenging the status quo or living in their heads? And as for Transcending Mind yogis—why would I ever want to twist up like a pretzel or chant all day OM? Seems totally beside the point. I mean, I just want a way of being at peace while I’m trying to be a good parent, or a good employee, or a good friend, or a good citizen. Nothing fancy. I want to work within the world, not outside of it. I want to work within the system, not buck it. I want to find the sacred right here, in the ordinary.”

That’s what Service yogis say. Stability and structure are their watchwords; they’re the ones paying attention to detail and rolling up their sleeves to make our communities happen. So naturally, for them, the central discipline is everyday work done with the right intention and without any expectation for certain results. Selflessness while paying the bills or commuting to the job or doing the laundry. One of the most popular scriptures of Hinduism, the Bhagavad Gita, says it like this: “He who does the task dictated by duty, caring nothing for the fruit of the action: he is a yogi.” This is how, in the midst of life’s wear and tear and busy-ness, the Service yogi attains peace.  

And now: the last of the four yogas: the Yoga of Love. Short and sweet: if this is your spiritual style, you are a people person. You are on a search for authenticity and uniqueness, and you want this for everyone else as well. You want to make everyone feel important and cared for, and you just want there to be harmony in the world, you peacemaker you.

People are so central to your path that, when you imagine the sacred, it must have a face. Your God is a personal God. And so your central spiritual practice is devotion. You will choose an image of God which is right for you. Perhaps an image of the Goddess like Kwan Yin, perhaps Jesus, perhaps Krishna. Some concrete image—and whatever it happens to be, you will open your total heart to him or to her. You want to fall in love. “Love the Lord Your God with all your heart and soul and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” That is the discipline precisely. Out of this love, you will study, you will practice asanas, you will chant, you will care for the hurting, you will do the work of justice, you will fulfill your everyday duties selflessly. But the motivation is, first and last, love.

Same motivation goes, even if you don’t believe in a God per se. Fact is, the Yoga of Love, like all the yogas, cuts across theological categories like theism and atheism. If there is no such thing as a God for you, then the face of the sacred will be beloved family and friends, a hero like Gandhi or Martin Luther King Jr. who has inspired you, people who belong to your chosen spiritual community (like UUCA), or the living earth. Out of love for these, you live fully and freely.

And there they are, the four yogas. Rational Mind, Transcending Mind, Service, Love. Four spiritual styles, for four different kinds of personalities. Each equally valid, as a way of connecting with the Spirit of Life. Keep in mind that the idea here is not that one and only one yoga will appeal to you—just that you will feel most at home in one, and make the most progress working in one, even if at times you might borrow some ideas and practices from the others.

Let’s take an even closer look. Worship preferences are extremely concrete and practical, so let’s see what each yoga might bring to this. Beginning with Rational Mind yogis, who might say, “Boy, I love intellectual-type sermons with lots of vocab words that get me thinking and give me something to talk about over lunch! I love the purity and complexity of classical music. But what’s up all the rituals, or the prayer? I don’t get it when the music for the day is drumming, or folk, or rock. I don’t like it when things feel too fuzzy and gooey and emotional and ‘spiritual.’ Makes it harder for me to focus. Makes it harder to read the song lyrics ahead of time so that I can be sure to sing only the words that make sense to me…”

As for Transcending Mind yogis, this is what they might say: “It’s just not worship if I don’t feel immersed in something larger than me. Give me spirituality, give me ‘smells and bells.’ Give me more ritual—I love getting out of my head and into the flow of an experience. Love our annual Water Communion and Moravian Love Feast and Flower Communion. Loved the Breaking Bread Ritual from this past Thanksgiving. Even something as small as getting up and greeting each other feels good. More meditation, though—I wish it lasted a lot longer than it usually does. How about five minutes? Ten minutes? And, have we ever thought about doing some chanting? Sometimes I think we could learn a thing or two from the Episcopalians down the road….”

Service yogis, for their part, might say this: “I love all the rituals too. Classical music is beautiful, but I feel more moved by drumming, or jazz, or folk, or rock. I just feel more at home in worship when we play music that’s similar to what I already listen to. As for sermons: honestly, the artsy-fartsy intellectual ones just don’t turn my crank. I like the ones that focus on life skills instead, on how to be a better partner, or parent, or citizen. Show me how! Finally—have we ever thought about regularly incorporating multimedia in our worship? I was at another church that projected the hymn lyrics on big screens in the sanctuary—they even showed a film clip from a popular movie where we would do a straight-ahead reading. At first I was skeptical, but I walked away amazed at how powerful the effect was—even more amazed at how my kids loved it….”

And then there’s what Love yogis might say: “I need a worship experience that really gets my blood flowing. Give me inspiration. I can do a sermon that is intellectual, I can do a sermon that is practical, but don’t forget to elevate it into poetry, and use lots of stories. As for clapping: I know it bumps some people out of the flow of worship, and I totally respect that, but for me it works. It makes me feel warm and good, and gets me into the flow of things. Finally, I love it when we all stand up and hold hands to close out our service!”

This is just a bare sketch of the different preferences the four yogas bring—and you can already see the potential for disagreement and conflict. Things heating up into our Flaming Chalice. While a Love yogi, for example, is perfectly comfortable with language that is evocative and poetic, a Rational Mind yogi insists on clarity. “What does ‘spirituality’ mean, anyway? Define your terms! Stop being so fuzzy and vague! How can I wrap my mind around things when I’m having a hard time perceiving a hard core there?” To this, a yogi of the Transcending Mind will say, “Come on! You’re just stirring up a tempest in a tea pot! Ultimately the sacred is a more-than-what’s-before-the-eyes-Mystery—every word and name is just like a finger pointing at the moon. So let’s not argue about our fingers. Let’s focus on the moon!” To which the Love yogi replies, “I agree where you say that ultimately the sacred is a Mystery, and all words and names for it fall short. But when you suggest that it is OK to be casual with words and names—especially traditional words and names—I can’t go there. As imperfect and fuzzy a word like God might be, I still need it. I can’t grow spiritually without it.” To which a Service yogi will say, “Would you all just get your act together and make up your minds? How are we gonna fulfill our mission in the world if all our energy is tied up in fighting?”

And that IS the central question. It brings to mind a personal story from my seminary years, when my colleagues and I were studying worship—what it’s all about, how to craft it. I found myself admitting to my class that I’d always been a bit cranky about the worships I’d experienced. Rarely had I experienced a service that satisfied me completely in all ways and didn’t leave me grumbling on the way out. There was always some element or other that struck me as pointless or irritating or not as good as what some other church was doing. To this, my worship professor at the time—the saintly Rev. David Bumbaugh—said, “Anthony, nothing can live up to your kind of standard, if you feel entitled to being satisfied completely by everything that happens in a given service. Instead, I would have you define success like this: If a worship service has touched you in at least one deep way, that is enough to have made it a success. Be positive and look for the one thing that will feed your soul; let all else pass. And know that the parts which are unimportant to you—perhaps even offensive to you—may very likely be feeding the souls of others.”

I continue to think that this is a wonderful attitude to have—one constructive way of responding to the disagreements over worship that are inevitable and will never end, given the different spiritual styles in the room. Stepping back from a sense of entitlement and stepping up to a sense of generosity and a willingness to be OK with something you might not prefer exactly because you know that it could very well be beautiful and meaningful for the person sitting right beside you.

Besides this, another thing to keep in mind as we face disagreement and conflict together is this: the idea that personality differences, while deep, are not absolute. People with different styles can learn to understand and even to sympathize with each other; people on different yoga paths can learn tremendous things from each other. It’s just like being right-handed—you’ve been using your right hand all your life to write and wave and do so many other things. But with conscious effort and patience, you can learn to shift over to using your left. It’s awkward. It takes time. But it can happen, and the result is a good thing: you’ve just multiplied your power in the world. Now you can do things with both hands, not just one. Similarly, when a given personality type learns to walk in the shoes of another personality type, what happens is greater wholeness. We grow towards greater wholeness in our lives. We become less one-sided, more compassionate, more complete.

Conflict comes with the territory. In spiritual communities like this one, it’s natural, normal, necessary, and neutral in value. What matters is how we respond. “Do not teach your children never to be angry,” someone once said. “Teach them how to be angry.” That’s what our Congregational Covenant of Healthy Relationships is all about. That’s what the Healthy Relationships Team is all about. Helping us face down the challenge of life in community as it does its proper job of heating things up, charging us full with the electric charge of the soul. We need to learn how to stand in this fire. We need to assume a stance of curiosity towards both ourselves and the other person or the situation. Not self-righteous certainty. But curiosity. “I wonder what my spiritual style is, that I would have such a negative reaction to that?” “I wonder what spiritual style she is speaking out of?” Asking questions like this. Valuing questions like this, as a necessary part of what it means to be Unitarian Universalist.  

I’ll close with a story told by Anthony de Mello, Catholic priest and psychotherapist:

In ancient India, water used to be drawn out of wells by means of the Persian wheel, a convenient device whose only drawback was the great noise it made when in operation. One day, a horseman happened to pass by a farm and demanded water for his horse. The farmer gladly put the Persian wheel in motion, but the horse, unaccustomed as it was to the noise, wouldn’t come anywhere near the well. “Can’t you stop the noise so my horse can drink?” asked the horseman. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, sir,” said the farmer. “If your horse wishes to drink, he will have to take the water with the noise, for here [HERE], water comes only with noise.”

 

Tomorrow is a special day in the life of the nation. We celebrate the man who said, when civil rights marchers were facing the dogs and clubs and fire hoses of Birmingham, “We must face the forces of hate with the power of love.” He said, “All people are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality.” He said, “I have a dream.”

Monday, we celebrate this great man, Martin Luther King, Jr. And then comes Tuesday. On Tuesday–not far from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, site of King’s “I Have a Dream” speech—Barack Obama will be inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States. “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible,” he said back in November, on the night of his historic election, “If there is anyone out there who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer. […] It’s the answer that led those who’ve been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.”

What celebrations are before us. What high points in our nation’s history. The dream of racial and social justice unfolding. Though much more remains to happen, still—how wonderful to be alive in this time, to witness the parts coming true!  

But the journey has in no way been easy, or straight. Messy all the way, in America’s larger social life, but also in the personal lives of the leaders we are celebrating. The man who now says “Yes we can” once, as a sophomore in college, ridiculed such idealism, disbelieving that he or anyone else could make a true difference. Long before his political opponents charged him as all flash and no substance, he said, “Pretty words don’t make it so.” “That’s the last time you will ever hear another speech out of me.”

Can you personally relate to this irony? See in your own leadership story a time when you believed something couldn’t be done—or it could be done but by anybody but you—but then it WAS done, and the person who had done it was YOU?

“We are made for community,” says liberal Quaker and activist Parker Palmer, and so “leadership is everyone’s vocation.” That’s our focus today—exploring what this means, and doing it with the spirit of Martin Luther King Jr. in the room, drawing on a messy moment in his leadership story to help us understand our own.

Here’s the story. Has to do with the time he was invited to become a part of the Montgomery bus boycott. As you may know, first there was Rosa Parks—her refusal to obey the bus driver’s demand that she give up her seat. What followed, as King’s biographer Marshall Frady describes it, was this: “That ‘No,” and Mrs. Parks’ arrest, quickly set off a spontaneous combustion among Montgomery’s black citizenry to boycott the city’s segregated bus system. Almost immediately, mimeographed leaflets calling for the boycott were coursing through the city’s black neighborhoods. But when, the night of Mrs. Parks’ arrest, [a local social activist by the name of E. D. Nixon] phoned [the young Martin Luther King Jr.] to ask him to join in the boycott movement, King, out of some uneasiness beyond just his absorption in his multiple other duties, seemed curiously reluctant: ‘Brother Nixon, let me think on it awhile, and call me back.’” Marshall Frady goes on to say that, “Concerned at King’s hesitation, Nixon called Ralph Abernathy…. Abernathy then called King to exhort him about the elemental importance of cooperating in this boycott effort. King finally agreed to lend it his support if it would not entail his having to aid in any of the organizing.” And that’s the story, with three things of note to lift up: the initial call to leadership, King’s hesitation to accept, and Ralph Abernathy’s intervention.

Starting with the call. What might it look like? As it did for King, sometimes the call takes the form of widespread social crisis, like the spontaneous combustion of the Montgomery bus boycott, against the larger backdrop of the burgeoning civil rights movement. This crisis gripped our congregation as well; we too were swept up in the civil rights movement, and in 1954 we affirmed desegregation, becoming the very first multiracial religious community in all of Atlanta. It represents one of the high points in our collective leadership story, here at UUCA.  

And may more highs ever be before us. Tomorrow, megachurch pastor Rick Warren will be the keynote speaker at Ebenezer Baptist Church as part of the MLK Day festivities. No doubt this is connected to his being invited to deliver the invocation at Tuesday’s inauguration, and both decisions, frankly, have been enormously controversial. Warren doesn’t just oppose gay marriage, he’s compared it to incest and pedophilia. He doesn’t just want to ban abortion, he’s compared women who terminate pregnancies to Nazis and the pro-choice position to Holocaust denial. Now Obama strongly disagrees with Warren here—he’s clearly said so. He’s invited him to deliver the invocation as a way of symbolizing his commitment to building bridges to parts of America he may strongly disagree with on some things but yet, on other things, there’s plenty of common ground—and right now, emphasizing common ground is the way forward. This is classic community organization strategy. Yet I would hate to see, because of this high-level emphasis on common ground, a tendency at the grassroots level towards apathy. You and I to stop disagreeing with Warren’s point of view because we’re afraid of being disagreeable. You and I to stop speaking out and letting people know who we are, what kind of place this is. People, our commitment to civil rights here at UUCA cannot merely be historical. It must be ongoing, and I believe that protecting abortion rights, as well as working for full social rights of GLBTQ people, constitute a key part of the civil rights movement that is here and now. Consider yourself called. Monday at 12:30 in the afternoon, the official MLK march will begin. Join us as we demonstrate our commitment to civil rights for ALL.    

It’s the call. We can hear it in the various crises and issues that trouble the larger world; but we can also hear it closer to home, when there is a crisis is our congregation, or a crisis in our family. A crisis of personal health. Even a crisis of spirit. You can feel two wolves inside you, in your heart, circling round and round, snapping at each other; one represents hatred, the other represents healing, and the one that you feed is the one that prevails. Something happens or does not happen in our congregation, for example, and you have an instant negative reaction—right here is a call to leadership. So what do you do next? Do you indulge your suspicions, cultivate your disgruntlements, insist on “my way or the highway,” believe that the rules don’t apply to you, perhaps even divide people into US vs. THEM, spread a spirit of war around rather than of peace? If you do this, you did NOT answer the call. You fed the wolf that destroys, not the wolf that heals. The leadership moment was missed.

We’ve got to be there when the moment comes. So much is at stake in how we use our influence. And it’s not always a matter of responding to crisis. Parker Palmer puts it this way: “I lead by word and deed simply because I am here doing what I do. If you are here, doing what you do, then you also exercise leadership of some sort.” Even just to smile across the room at someone you know—just to acknowledge their existence—can be a kind of leadership, an exercise of influence that is truly important. Just by smiling across the room, you are living into a larger vision of a community that strengthens and encourages. Someone was talking about this just the other day—how horrible and withering it feels to notice someone looking at you but they don’t smile, they don’t acknowledge your existence…. Leadership is about making the vision real, in acts both big and small. You see a piece of trash on the floor, and you pick it up even if you aren’t the sexton, even if you aren’t part of the paid staff, even if you hear a voice in your head that says, “Ahh, this is a BIG congregation—surely someone else will do it.” No. YOU do it, and as you do it, your simple act of leadership is helping to create the Beloved Community vision that says, We are all in this together. It’s up to all of us. Pull together and not apart. Everyone chip in. The ministry here involves every friend, every member, because that’s what it takes to live out our mission of changing lives. That’s what it takes. 

Leadership is everyone’s vocation, expressed through acts both big and small. It’s about how we use our influence, towards the direction of some larger vision. It’s about how we respond to the call, when it comes.

Which takes us to the second thing of note in Martin Luther King’s story: his hesitation to accept. It represented a momentous crossroads in his life, although he could not have known it at the time. Ultimately he did accept the call, and in this way achieved great visibility and respect as leader of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, which in turn led to his role in founding (with others) the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and then to his leadership in civil rights campaigns in Albany, then Birmingham, then Augustine and Selma, and then the March on Washington and his soaring “I have a dream” speech. It all got started with Montgomery, and King’s ultimate answer of yes. But what if he had said, instead, NO? What then? Without Montgomery, would there ever have been “I have a dream”?

Hindsight is 20-20. “We live forwards,” said philosopher Arthur Schopenhaur, “but we understand backwards.” With only the knowledge that is given us in the moment—already full of the pressures of existing responsibilities and anticipations of future work we already know of—it is truly understandable and fully human to hesitate when a call to something new comes before you.

King was only human, and this is something we need to be reminded of, so that we can be confident leaders in our own right. Here’s why I say this. We take a hero figure like Martin Luther King Jr. and we lose touch with his story. Soon enough, someone who had just as many flaws and complexities as the rest of us becomes transformed into a superperson, untouchable. A change agent who leapt from the womb holding a protest sign. He was fearless, but we feel fear. The work came naturally to him, without any effort or awkwardness, but as for us, we endure setbacks, mistakes, trial-and-error. He was bottled lightning, but we have to pinch ourselves to stay awake. The perfect snappy comeback was always on his lips, but as for us, it’s usually only 12-24 hours later when it pops into our minds.   

We lose touch with our heroes’ stories, and in this way we lose touch with our own powers and potentialities. We hear a call to leadership, but our response can be, Who, me? Yet the message of the life of every hero who has ever gone before us, or who may be in our midst right now, is that you don’t need to be perfect to have a dream. You don’t need to be perfect to make the world a better place. You don’t have to already know how to preach if it is your dream to preach. You don’t have to already have the right credentials or know everything there is to know to step up. And if you are feeling the need to do something in your life to make the dream real, you don’t have to wait to start until the circumstances are absolutely ideal, as in: I am the right age (not too young, not too old), the kids are grown, the job is secure, I have enough money, my relationships are all better, I even have all the big questions of life figured out, related to God, immortality, the meaning of life, the existence of extraterrestrial beings. Just do it. I am so grateful for a hero like Martin Luther King Jr., a man who, at a critical juncture in his life, hesitated. The world did not need a perfect person to do what he did. The world did not need that. The world needed him. And the world needs you and me.

Leadership is everyone’s destiny, in some form, big or small. And now we turn to the third and last part of King’s story: Ralph Abernathy, talking King into accepting the call. His intervention.

This represents another aspect of the hero story that is easily passed over. Often the message put out there (or the one received) is about rugged individualism. One person acting alone. Nothing or not much about family, the larger supportive community, the worship services, the committee work, the coalition building, the flurry of letters and emails and phone calls, and, in the midst all of it, above all, key sustaining friendships. People whose judgment you trust, so that even if all the world is criticizing you, if THEY believe in you, you believe. People who will lift you up when you need it; people who will bring you back down to earth, when you need that. Nothing about any of this. Just one person acting alone. Rugged individualism.

It’s just not true. You can’t get to Martin Luther King Jr. without his parents and family and teachers, the black church community, liberal communities like this one, all the committee meetings, all the worship and prayer and hymn singing, all his friends and colleagues. You just can’t get to him without Ralph Abernathy—the man who reconnected him to his sense of call and purpose when he hesitated. The man who was with him throughout, until the very end and beyond.

I’m asking you this morning: Who is your Ralph Abernathy? Who believes in you, so you can believe?

This place—this community—can itself be a support to you. But you’ll get out of it only as much as you put in. So, how much are you putting in?

We need our communities of support. We need our Ralph Abernathys, to grow into the leadership that is naturally ours.

On Tuesday, when Barack Obama is up there with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, being sworn in as the 44^th President of the United States, using Abraham Lincoln’s Inaugural Bible, I want you to think of a person named Regina, whom Obama knew in college. He had just delivered his very first political speech, about apartheid in South Africa and the need to stand up for social justice. He felt swept up in this; he was feeling the call. Yet at the same time, he was full of self-doubt, and cynicism. At a party that evening, Regina congratulated him, calling his speech wonderful, but he cut her off, said, “Listen, you are a very sweet lady. And I’m happy you enjoyed my little performance today. But I don’t believe we made any difference in what we did today. I don’t believe that what happens to a kid in Soweto makes much difference to the people we were talking to. Pretty words don’t make it so. That’s the last time you will ever hear another speech out of me.”

Barack Obama, hesitating….. But what happened next was this. He shares the story in his book Dreams from My Father: “Regina stuck a finger in my chest. ‘You wanna know what your real problem is? You always think everything’s about you. The rally is about you. The speech is about you. The hurt is always your hurt. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Obama. It’s not just about you. It’s never just about you. It’s about people who need your help. Children who are depending on you. They’re not interested in your irony or your sophistication or your ego getting bruised. And neither am I.” That’s what Regina said. Right words at the right time.

“Strange,” says Obama, “how a single conversation can change you.” ‘What was she asking of me, then? Determination, mostly. The determination to push against whatever power kept [a person] stooped instead of standing straight. The determination to resist the easy and the expedient. You might be locked in a world not of your own making … but you still have a claim on how it is shaped. You still have responsibilities.”

Godspeed, Barack Obama. Keep on pushing. We too, in our own lives, whatever our situations happen to be, as we realize the leadership story that is uniquely ours, and our destiny to fulfill. Undaunted by obstacles both within and without. Determined. Always before us … the Dream.

READING BEFORE THE SERMON

Our reading for today comes from Barack Obama’s autobiography, Dreams from My Father. The time is 1981, and he’s a sophomore at Occidental College in Los Angeles, protesting the apartheid system in South Africa.

It had started as something of a lark, I suppose, part of the radical pose my friends and I sought to maintain, a subconscious end run around issues closer to home. But as the months passed and I found myself drawn into a larger role—contacting representatives of the African National Congress to speak on campus, drafting letters to the faculty, printing up flyers, arguing strategy—I noticed that people had begun to listen to my opinions. It was a discovery that made me hungry for words. Not words to hide behind but words that could carry a message, support an idea. When we started planning the rally for the trustees’ meeting, and somebody suggested that I open the thing, I quickly agreed. I figured I was ready, and could reach people where it counted. I thought my voice wouldn’t fail me.

Let’s see, now. What was it that I had been thinking in those days leading up to the rally? … I was only supposed to make a few opening remarks … [but] when I sat down to prepare a few notes for what I might say, something had happened. In my mind is somehow became more than just a two-minute speech, more than just a way to prove my political orthodoxy. [I thought of how powerful a speaker my father was.] If I could just find the right words, I had thought to myself. With the right words everything could change—South Africa, the lives of ghetto kids just a few miles away, my own tenuous place in the world.

[I spoke passionately that day, but after other speakers took my place on the stage, I found myself] on the outside again, watching, judging, skeptical. Through my eyes, we suddenly appeared like the sleek and well-fed amateurs we were, with our black chiffon armbands and hand-painted signs and earnest young faces. […] When the trustees began to arrive for their meeting, a few of them paused behind the glass walls of the administration building to watch us, and I noticed the old white men chuckling to themselves…. The whole thing was a farce, I thought to myself—the rally, the banners, everything. A pleasant afternoon diversion, a school play without the parents. And me and my one-minute oration—the biggest farce of all.

At the party that night, [my friend Regina] came up to me and offered her congratulations. I asked what for.

“For that wonderful speech you gave.”

I popped open a beer. “It was short, anyway.”

Regina ignored my sarcasm. “That’s what made it so effective,” she said. “You spoke from the heart, Barack. It made people want to hear more….”

“Listen, Regina,” I said, cutting her off, “you are a very sweet lady. And I’m happy you enjoyed my little performance today. But I don’t believe we made any difference in what we did today. I don’t believe that what happens to a kid in Soweto makes much difference to the people we were talking to. Pretty words don’t make it so. That’s the last time you will ever hear another speech out of me….”

Here ends our reading for today.

 

“As a pediatric intern,” says medical doctor and holistic health pioneer Rachel Naomi Remen, “I was a secret baby kisser. This was so flagrantly ‘unprofessional’ I was careful not to be discovered. Late at night under the guise of checking a surgical dressing or an I.V. I would make solo rounds on the ward and kiss the children good night. If there was a favorite toy or blanket, I would be sure it was close and if someone were crying I would even sing a little. I never mentioned this dimension of my health care to anyone. I felt the other residents, mostly men, might think less of me for it.

One evening as I was talking to a patient’s father in the corridor, I glanced over his shoulder and saw Stan, my chief resident, bend over the crib of a little girl with leukemia and kiss her on the forehead. In that moment, I realized that others too might be struggling to extend themselves beyond an accepted professionalism to express a natural caring. Perhaps there was a way to talk about these things, even to support one another. 

One night when we were waiting to be called to the operating room for a C-Section, I told Stan what I had seen and that it had meant something important to me. Although we were alone in the doctor’s lounge, Stan denied the whole thing. We dropped the subject in embarrassment. For the rest of the year we worked together, thirty-six hours on call and twelve hours off. We became trusted colleagues, good friends and even occasional drinking buddies, but we never mentioned the incident again. 

Stan’s integrity was almost legendary. He would never have fudged a piece of lab data or said he had read an article when he hadn’t. But he would have had to step past our entire professional image and training to admit his heartfelt reaction to that little girl. It was impossible then. It is barely possible now. Expressing caring directly rather than through a willingness to work a thirty-six hour day or spend long evenings keeping up with the medical literature and the newest treatments transgresses a strong professional code. It was just not professional behavior. I stopped kissing the babies then. It did not seem worth the risk. 

In some ways, a medical training is like a disease. It would be years before I would fully recover from mine.” 

That’s the story from Rachel Naomi Remen, and it’s heartbreaking. The complete opposite of happy. Healers, wanting to obey a natural impulse to extend a caring touch, blocked by an ideology of professionalism. Don’t kiss the babies. Don’t sing to them. It’s shameful. Unmentionable. Against code.    

Meanwhile the children in hospital wards are touch deprived. The lonely and crying, uncomforted. Babies needing kisses, unkissed. 

As for the healers themselves—the doctors and nurses and other medical personnel, women and men—touch deprived as well. Hugs not given are hugs not received. Human beings denying their physical and spiritual wholeness in, as Rachel Naomi Remen says, “the mistaken belief that this would enable them to be of greatest service to others.”      

Today we are going to take a look at the struggle in medical science to recognize and affirm the role of physical touch in human wellness. Through this, we will be reminded of the larger struggle we all share, in one way or another. Touch deprivation is a reality in American culture as a whole. It’s just not babies needing to be touched in caring ways, or the sick. It’s not just doctors and nurses needing to extend it. It’s all of us, needing connection, needing to receive it, needing to give it, with genuine happiness at stake.   

Perhaps one of the most suggestive evidences of the basic human need for affectionate touch comes from the work of psychologist Harry Harlow in the 1960s and 1970s. Fellow psychologist Robert Hatfield describes it as follows: “Harry Harlow’s studies involved taking newborn monkeys from their mothers and raising them in isolation. The young monkeys were deprived of maternal and social touch…. In every other way the monkeys were very well cared for. They were well fed, their cages kept clean, and their medical needs attended to. They were “merely” isolated from any physical contact with their mother or other monkeys. Even physical contact with the researchers was severely limited. [Now, in one classic study, which has come to be known as his “wire mother” study,] Harlow placed the touch deprived monkeys in a large cage that contained two crude dummy monkeys constructed of wood and chicken-wire. One dummy was bare wire with a full baby bottle attached. The monkeys had been regularly nursed from similar bottles. The other dummy was the same as the first except that it contained no bottle and the chicken wire was wrapped with terry cloth. Placed in this strange environment, the anxious young monkey very quickly attached itself to the cloth wrapped dummy and continued to cling to it as the hours passed by. The infant monkey could easily see the familiar baby bottle no more than a few feet away on the other dummy. Many hours passed. Although growing increasingly distraught and hungry, the infants in these studies would not release their hold on the soft cloth of the food-less dummy. It was soon apparent that the young monkeys would likely dehydrate and starve before abandoning the terry cloth surrogate mother.” That’s what Harry Harlow discovered, and from this he concluded that, in infant and young monkeys at least—in all human beings, by implication—there appears to be a hunger more powerful than the craving for food: a craving for skin contact with something that feels comfortable and soft, something you can nuzzle and cuddle up to, something to hold and be held by.   

It’s hunger for touch—“touch hunger”—and Harlow’s findings helped shift the official scientific paradigm regarding basic human needs. Science’s eyes were just beginning to be opened. But it took a lot to get things to this point. Science’s eyes were firmly shut back in the 1930s, for example, to the work that Dr. Joseph Brennemann was doing in Bellevue Hospital in New York. He saw how the mortality rate of infants under one year of age was way too high. He acknowledged that ensuring sanitary conditions, plenty of food, and careful attention just wasn’t enough. What was missing was loving physical contact. So Dr. Brennemann established the rule that every baby should be picked up, carried around, and hugged and nuzzled and cuddled several times a day. The result? A mortality rate that fell from 35% to less than 10%. He had found a way to heal a disease that had been hounding American hospitals throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, called “marasmus,” which means “wasting away”—infants dying for no apparent reason, dying in the best of hospitals, dying under sanitary conditions, dying with all the food they could ever want. Dr Brennemann had done something of staggering importance, yet it didn’t fit in with the official scientific paradigm of the time. It didn’t translate. 

It’s because science in the 1930s was still very much in the grip of a perspective that had no room for something like “touch hunger.” This perspective (called “behaviorism”) said that the best way to understand human beings is to pay attention only to what can be observed by one’s five senses—which means that you ignore wishes, you ignore needs, you ignore feelings. You ignore all that and focus instead on creating environments which condition people to behave in optimal ways. Humans are like all other physical objects, and the art of happiness is reduced to a kind of hypermasculine physics. Thus it was that one of the key figures of the behaviorist movement, John B. Watson, dreamed that one day children would be taken away from the chaotic environments of their parents and raised in carefully regulated baby farms. Until that utopian day came, parents and all others responsible for the care of children needed to follow behaviorist principles. Avoid anything that smacks of unconditional love—don’t hold children or cuddle them or nuzzle them for no reason, because if you do that, you are ruining their training. Affection will make them lazy, spoiled, and weak. It’s unscientific. Stick with the training regimen. Take a hint from the “Dog Whisperer”… Sentimentality is to be avoided at all costs. Maintain a sophisticated aloofness. Keep them at arms length. Feed them by the clock, not on demand. All for their own good. 

This was the prevailing paradigm when Dr. Brennemann was working at Bellevue Hospital in New York, and this paradigm was still influential when Rachel Naomi Remen was a pediatric intern, being a secret kisser, wanting to talk about the power of touch with fellow colleagues but facing denial, even by those who were secret kissers themselves. Official scientific paradigms take a long time to fade away. At this point I am reminded of a quote by Max Plank—someone who witnessed the twentieth-century revolution in physics and saw, first hand, how such things happen. The messiness involved. He said, “a new scientific truth does not triumph by convincing its opponents and making them see the light, but rather because its opponents eventually die, and a new generation grows up that is familiar with it.” Perhaps it has been exactly this way where “touch hunger” is concerned. Passionate commitment to particular theories drive scientists to do the work they do, and they are as subject to group dynamics as the rest of us. In science as in religion and other fields of inquiry, facts and evidence only go so far. Sometimes progress takes the turning of many seasons, and new generations are required to get to the tipping point. 

Rachel Naomi Remen was and is part of this new generation. So was Harry Harlow with his primate studies. The tipping point is now. Now, scientific studies of touch hunger are on overdrive. Let me share a just a few main findings, and then we’ll turn to the practical question of what to do with all of this in our own lives. 

One finding has to do with the long-term effects of touch hunger. What Harry Harlow saw in his isolated and touch-deprived monkeys was truly disturbing. Fellow psychologist Robert Hatfield reports some of the findings: “Harlow’s primates over-reacted to most situations and engaged in a depressive withdrawal to the others. Almost none of their responses to common stimulation and situations were normal. These pathetic touch deprived primates demonstrated a high level of aversion to any form of touch from others. Their usual response to appropriate touch by other monkeys vacillated between fearful and aggressive. They were hyperaggressive and unable to form adequate relations with other monkeys when reintroduced to their group. Highly unusual sexual responses were typical. They were unable to perform sexually and found it exceedingly difficult to locate a receptive partner for their inadequate attempts at quieting their sexual impulses and drives.” Robert Hatfield goes on to summarize the findings by saying, “The review of all touch research to date leads to the inescapable conclusion that Harlow’s primate research has provided us with a highly useful human model of the behavioral impact of touch deprivation.” 

Couple this with the particular lack of touch in American society, and the implications are sobering. In one study, American, French and Puerto Rican friends were observed in a coffee shop over the course of an hour to determine how frequently physical contact occurs. American friends tended to touch each other an average of only twice an hour, whereas French friends touched 110 times, and Puerto Rican friends touched 180 times. Add to this the sharp observation of anthropologist Ashley Montague of Americans waiting for a bus: “Americans will space themselves like sparrows on a telephone wire, in contrast to Mediterranean peoples who will push and crowd together.” 

One scientist who has put two and two together is neuropsychologist James W. Prescott. Looking in particular at the aggressiveness of Harlow’s touch-deprived monkeys, Prescott hypothesized that cultures which lavish touch on their infants and children should be the least violent societies on earth. Conversely, societies that are most touch-deprived should be the most violent. After analyzing data collected from over 400 world cultures, he discovered that his hypothesis has great predictive value. The evidence supports it. And guess where America comes out? Our country, which has less than five percent of the world’s population but almost a quarter of the world’s prison population…. You can fill in that blank yourself. 

It’s disturbing. 

You know, today is Superbowl Sunday. Some of us could care less, others of us can’t wait. But I’ll tell you, the real “unofficial” national holiday we should be mindful of happened back on January 21. National Hugging Day. Created twenty years ago by an Episcopalian pastor, it’s all about permission to give free expression to our basic human need for warm fuzzies. “We need four hugs a day for survival,” says family therapist Virginia Satir. “We need eight hugs a day for maintenance. We need twelve hugs a day for growth.” National Hugging Day is meant to help us remember this. Bring us back to our senses. 

Which takes us to three things I’d like to recommend. Three invitations, as you and I hold our touch hunger with compassion and learn better ways of meeting it. 

One is to be on the lookout for lingering behaviorism. The message still lingers in our cultural atmosphere, despite all the current science that has flat-out debunked it. Worries about holding people (or being held) too often or too long. Worries about how hugging and cuddling will make people lazy and spoiled and weak. Not just regarding children, but people of all ages. The message is still out there, though it is wrong. Be on the lookout. 

That’s the first invitation, and here is the second: embrace the hug. Make it a habit. See it as fundamental justice work. See it as a central part of your spiritual practice. Consider the top ten benefits involved:   

Costs nothing

Boosts your immune system

Builds self-esteem

Fosters self-acceptance

Alleviates tension

Reduces aggression and social violence

Saves heat

Is portable

Requires no special setting or equipment

Feels incredibly good! 

Having said all this, I do want to add one caveat. Hugging is not as easy as it sounds. So many of us have experienced touch deprivation and, as Harlow’s primate studies suggest, the long-lasting result is a discomfort with touch. It’s so ironic. Touch being a basic human need, and yet, we can find ourselves uneasy with the hunger, we can find ourselves struggling with it, we can sometimes even find ourselves misunderstanding it and giving it the wrong name. Hungering for touch, but thinking that this necessarily means sex. The wish to be cuddled legitimated only if it is accompanied by sex. 

A lot more could be said here, but the basic point is this: to feed our touch hungers, we may have to first build up a tolerance for it, get used to it. And then there’s the need to be appropriate. Make sure the person you desire to touch gives their consent first. Ask, Can I give you a hug? A hug, a handshake, a hand on the shoulder, a comforting rub on the back are all examples of appropriate touch. 

Finally, there is this. My third and last invitation to you today. It’s about anticipating miracles when we extend love through a caring touch. Sometimes the people we hug—because of that hug, because of a connection through which, somehow, all the lost parts come together and we experience a wholeness and a knowing that transcends language—sometimes those people stay with you forever, and you are never the same again. You can never underestimate the power of a hug to change lives. “Reflections of grace in every embrace.” The Spirit of Life in all its fullness coming through. 

Go back with me to another hospital. Not the one where Rachel Naomi Remen was doing her pediatric internship, where she wandered about as a secret kisser. This other hospital is in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, and the medical professional in question was a young nurse who was not a secret kisser, but openly affectionate. Unafraid. One day, she spotted a young boy, miserable-looking, anxious and fretful because he was scheduled for surgery, and it was coming up soon. She just came and sat down beside him, quietly comforted him. Took him in her arms and loved him. His name was Anthony. The experience was so powerful for this young nurse that she walked away thinking to herself, “If I ever have another son, I’m going to call him Anthony.” 

That young nurse was my mother. This is the story of how I got my name. 

Never underestimate the power of touch. 

Once upon a time, the country was in a recession, and a shoemaker and his wife fell upon hard times. One day, the cobbler found he had enough leather for only one more pair of shoes. The cobbler did not despair, but sat down, cut the leather carefully, and started to sew. When evening fell, the new shoes were still unfinished; and, as it was time for dinner, he put his work to the side and went home, intending, in the morning, to pick up where he left off.  

What he found on the following day astounded him: the new pair of shoes completed, so expertly made that there was not one bad stitch he could see. Far better made than any of his. Soon enough, the new shoes were sold, and the cobbler had enough money to buy leather for two more pairs. He spent the rest of the day cutting the material. When evening arrived, he put his work to the side and went home for dinner, intending, in the morning, to pick up where he left off.  

Waiting for him this time were four pairs of shoes! The mysterious helper had come again. The shoes were even finer than the first ones. They quickly sold, allowing the cobbler to buy enough leather for eight shoes. As before, he spent the day cutting the material, and when evening came, he put his work to the side and went home. Next day, there were 16 shoes of all varieties and kinds, arranged neatly in his shop.

This kept on for some time. Each night, the cobbler left pieces of leather out in his workshop. Each morning, he found beautiful shoes, in rapidly increasing numbers. Very soon the shoemaker prospered, and his reputation for marvelous shoes spread far and wide.

One day, near Christmastime, the cobbler said to his wife, “We must find out who is helping us, so we can thank them!” His wife agreed. That evening, they hid in the workshop, and waited anxiously. Right around midnight, the shoemaker and his wife heard singing, and saw two elves leap through the open window. The elves were naked as the dawn, barefoot and carefree. They sat down and immediately started making shoes and boots, and the cobbler and his wife were amazed at how joyful they were at their work. Singing constantly—at times suddenly getting up and dancing, or doing a somersault. In no time at all, they finished their work, skipped around the room and vanished on a moonbeam, leaving behind them more than a thousand expertly made shoes.

The shoemaker and his wife could scarcely believe their eyes. They said to one another, “Our mysterious helpers have been elves! We must give them a gift, to thank them for their kindness.” Since it was winter, and the elves were naked, the shoemaker and his wife thought that clothes would be the perfect gift. The shoemaker stitched two tiny pairs of boots, lined with fir, while his wife sewed two tiny jackets and two pairs of pants, fleecy and warm.

On Christmas Eve, they laid out the gifts in the workshop, then hid themselves and watched. At midnight, the two elves leapt through the window, and they looked around in bewilderment. Where was the leather for them to sew? Where were the tools to use? But then they saw the gifts. “Ooh!” exclaimed one elf, as he picked up a tiny shoe and tried it on. “Ahh!” cried the other one, as he squirmed into a shirt and coat. All the clothes fit perfectly. The elves admired each other as they danced with glee, then vanished into the moonlight. The shoemaker and his wife were delighted, and went to bed as happy as they could be.

The next evening, the elves did not return. Nor the night after, or ever again. “What have we done?” cried the shoemaker and his wife. But they were practical people, so the cobbler got right to work. He did not despair. He studied the work of the elves very closely, and with practice, the quality of his shoes got better and better. He also found himself growing into a habit of singing while he worked, just like the elves. In time, he was making shoes as beautiful as theirs. This is how he and his wife lived happily ever after.  

So ends “The Elves and the Shoemaker.” A fairy tale—a piece of fiction—yet like all good fiction, it tells the truth about our lives in a profound and memorable way. “The pitcher cries for water to carry,” says poet Marge Piercy; “the person [cries] for work that is real.” In a language of imagination and symbol, our story today is about this cry. It explores essential issues in the spirituality of work: coming to terms with the realities of everyday life; learning how to tap into inner creativity; fulfilling our deep desire to bless the world. Issues that have everything to do with growing our souls and growing good in the larger world.

It all starts with shoes. Psychiatrist Allan Chinen, in his fascinating book called Once Upon a Midlife: Classic Stories and Mythic Tales to Illuminate the Middle Years, takes special note of the fact that the protagonist of the story is someone who is married and has learned a practical trade. This marks it as very different from tales like Hansel and Gretel, or Tom Thumb, in which the themes are clearly youth-oriented. He calls “The Elves and the Shoemaker” a “middle tale,” one which focuses on the tasks and challenges of growing into maturity. “Behind the divine inspiration of youth,” he says, “lies an image of perfection—the hope of establishing a perfect society, playing a perfect game, finding a perfect love. Innocent and inspired, young men and women assume that perfection is possible. Experience with the real world eventually shatters that dream…. Young men and women surrender the idols and ideals of youth, and settle for doing what is good enough.” We become shoemakers, in other words—but not of the kind that can transport people to distant lands, like seven-league boots, or Dorothy’s ruby red slippers in The Wizard of Oz. Growing up is about making shoes that ground us in the here and now, with all the commitment and hard work that’s required. Comfortable for long hours of standing or walking; durable enough to weather lots of wear and tear. Made to get dirty.

It’s about coming to terms with the realities of everyday life. Real work. That’s what the shoemaker in the story represents. Giving up the fantasy of not having to take responsibility, not having to deal with adversity, not having to show up every day, regularly, to get the job done. And when we can’t give up the fantasy—when the only shoes we can ever be satisfied with are seven-league boots, or Dorothy’s ruby red slippers—we suffer from what’s called the Peter Pan Syndrome. Perpetual immaturity. Relationships that are for good times only, and whenever the commitment gets to a certain point, dropping it and looking for another. Seeing oneself as exempt from the rules and exempt from criticism. Inability to make promises and fulfill them. Withdrawal from the world, bitterness and cynicism, when things turn hard. This is so destructive in our personal lives, in this congregation, and in the larger world. Peter Pans going nowhere. And then there are the Wendys that must exist to support them, the Wendys that burn out in the task of enabling Peter Pans to keep on avoiding their responsibilities.  

But the shoemaker is no Peter Pan. Perhaps the most telling example of this is how he responds, in the story, to economic adversity. With just enough leather to make only one more pair of shoes, you’d think he’d just stop trying, step back, freeze up in despair. Fly up in the air, like a Peter Pan, away from the problem. How is one pair of shoes going to solve anything? But he doesn’t give into the fantasy that life should be easy. He doesn’t give into that. He’s grounded in an acceptance of real life. That’s what being a shoemaker symbolizes. He’s going to keep showing up, no matter what.

The wonderful irony in all of this is that, by refusing to give into fantasy, the shoemaker invites magic into his world. Isn’t that wonderful? Exactly because he does not give up, but gives himself to real work and dutifully starts on that last pair of shoes, the elves come. This reminds me of something that Barbara Sher talks about. Barbara Sher is a therapist and career counselor, widely known for such books as Wishcraft and I Could Do Anything (If I Only Knew What It Was), and one thing she likes to tell people when they are facing adversity in their worklife is this: “good luck happens when you are in action.” Don’t allow Peter Pan fantasies of perfection to make you stop caring about your life here and now. Keep moving, keep going, put yourself out there. She says, “If you go to the library and look up articles, call people, join organizations, go to appointments, [volunteer at your congregation!], something can happen to you. Try it. Set a goal, any goal, and start doing everything you can to think of achieving it. You might not get where you thought you were going, but you could easily wind up somewhere better. You’ll get breaks you never could have planned for because you never knew they existed.” “Good luck happens when you are in action.” The elves will come, if you can accept your life here and now and bring yourself to face, with courage, the last piece of leather you have.

Which takes us directly to the next spirituality of work issue: tapping into inner creativity. When it happens, work is uniquely fulfilling and productive. So how do we do that? How do we tap in?  

The story illustrates that there can definitely be a vital partnership between our conscious selves and our creative depths—and what the conscious self does is paramount. If the shoemaker works hard to prepare the leather each day, then he has something to hand off to the elves, who complete the work at night. If he stops, they stop. All he has to do is get things started in a particular direction, and then hand off.

The picture is true to life—although things are more complex. Lots more drama. I like how writer Anne Lamott suggests this, in her wonderful book entitled Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. To the question of how she writes her stories and novels, she says, “you sit down. You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day. This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively. So you sit down at, say, nine every morning, or ten every night. You put a piece of paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file….” In other words, the process begins with preparation. You have to purchase the leather and cut it, get it ready for sewing. Set the stage the same time every day, invite the elves to get to work, and then let it happen. Don’t force it. The gift must come to you, like grace.

It means that you have to get out of your own way, and this is actually very difficult. Right on the heels of the preparation phase of the creative process comes the frustration and messiness phase. “You are desperate,” says Anne Lamott, “to communicate, to edify or entertain, to preserve moments of grace or joy or transcendence, to make real or imagined events come alive. But you cannot will this to happen.” Desperation must contain itself, desperation must calm itself, yet at the same time it must still want a result, it can’t become complacent—and in this is a kind of insanity. You turn on your computer, says Anne Lamott, “and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge … child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again. Then, with your fingers poised at the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind—a scene, a locale, a character, whatever—and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what the landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Also hypochondria. […] There is a vague pain at the base of your neck. It crosses your mind that you have meningitis. Then the phone rings and you look up at the ceiling with fury, summon every ounce of noblesse oblige, and answer the call politely, with maybe just the merest hint of irritation. The caller asks if you’re working, and you say yeah, because you are.” Anne Lamott is right. Work infused with creativity is extremely hard. A desire to say something or solve a problem or see something in a new light moves you into a state of uncertainty, and this brings with it voices of anxiety and judgment, perhaps guilt, perhaps even doom. You sense a creative possibility, but you aren’t sure about where to go with it, how to proceed, what approach to take. It’s why another writer, Kurt Vonnegut, would say, “When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.”

Oh, the end result is amazing. The shoes the elves finish are amazing. But the process of negotiating between conscious self and creative depth is extremely challenging. Yet another dimension of real work, and it can twist us up like a pretzel. And while this drama is clearly not evident on the surface of the “The Elves and the Shoemaker” story, it’s there between the lines. The shoemaker and his wife giving gifts to the elves can be interpreted as an attempt to domesticate them. To cover up their nakedness, tone down their wildness, even to try remaking the elves in their own image—insofar as they presume to think that what the elves need is similar to what they need. All of this is suggests the very real, very common temptation to try to control things, force a premature result, stop the creative process from following its own inner logic. It’s Peter Pan again diverting us from real work—the ego fantasy that creativity should be easy, and that we should be able to produce poems or papers or projects or solutions effortlessly. Get it right the first time. “People,” say Anne Lamott, “tend to look at successful writers and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter.” That’s the kind fantasy we can fall into, about anything, and so, when the writing or whatever it happens to be ends up feeling like pulling teeth and the first draft is triple dog drat horrible—what then? The voice of the inner critic, getting louder and louder. Do you know that voice? The voice of anxiety, shame, condemnation. Wow, that sucked. What do you call that? People are gonna think you are an idiot. The end result is paralysis. Or, I should say, the beginning result. Because this is the kind of unhealthy thinking that prevents people from acting in the first place. It is what is behind that ancient complaint in families and businesses and congregations when change comes knocking on the door: If you don’t get it right the first time, people say, or imply, then don’t do it at all. No mistakes allowed. Or the corollary: We’ve never done it like that before.

The Peter Pan fantasy of perfectionism. Creativity puts us face to face with it because it is a journey that moves us through realms of messiness, to the cliff’s edge, and if we are going to go any further, if we are gonna get to the other side, where the inspired solution to an old problem waits for us—beautiful new shoes, in increasing numbers—then we must let go and let God and take the leap of faith and jump.

But I don’t want to be too hard on the shoemaker and his wife. While it is true that, from one angle of vision, we can see the act of gift giving as manipulative, there is yet another, more positive angle of vision to consider. In other fairy tales—youth tales in particular—the protagonists lose the magic because they’ve been greedy or wicked; but here, the shoemaker and his wife are doing a good thing. Maybe there is a shadow side to their motivation, but we can’t ignore their clear generosity and gratitude. So, here we have a puzzle: the shoemaker and his wife doing good things but losing the magic anyway. What can explain it? Above all, what in real life might this be referring to?

This brings us to the last spirituality of work issue that the story speaks to: our deep natural desire to be a blessing to the world. In this respect, psychiatrist Allan Chinen makes the key observation: “Husband and wife lose their magic when they shift from receiving gifts to giving them.” And then he says: “This is a good measure of when youth ends and maturity begins. Modern psychology corroborates these fairy tale insights. Erik Erikson was one of the first psychoanalysts to explore adult development [and he discovered that] the fundamental issue for the middle of life is developing generativity. This is a nurturing attitude directed first toward one’s children, and then towards the whole next generation…” In other words, from this more positive perspective, the shoemaker has not so much lost magic as he is growing into his own magic, and thus we see him at the end of the story, learning to make shoes as fine as any the elves created, singing as he works away, living happily ever after.

That’s what I want for all of us. Growing into our own capacity for magic. Our real work is not just about giving up Peter Pan fantasies and showing up for life, or learning how to be in creative partnership with our inner depths, but also this: paying attention to how our psyches and souls grow over time, paying attention to our steadily increasing hungers to bless the world. “What we do for ourselves dies with us, but what we do for others and the world remains immortal” (Albert Pine). “We have not lived until we have done something for someone who can never repay us” (Anonymous). This is what generativity is all about. It’s the song we sang earlier: “Wake Now My Senses.” And unless we get this, life is misery. We can be on the receiving end of all sorts of pleasures, all sorts of good things, but the restlessness will increase, the pain will only redouble. There’s a story of a man who died and found himself in a beautiful place, surrounded by every conceivable comfort.  A white-jacketed attendant came to him and said, “You may have anything you choose—any food—any pleasure—any kind of entertainment.”  The man was delighted, and for days he sampled all the delicacies and experiences he had dreamed about while alive. But finally one day he grew tired of all this. “I need something to do. What kind of work can you give me?” The attendant sadly shook his head and replied, “I’m sorry, sir. That’s the one thing we can’t do for you. There is no work here for you.” To which the man answered, “Well, that’s just great. I might as well be in hell.” The attendant said softly, “Where do you think you are?”

For you, I hope for heaven, a happy-ever-after of real work. Finding a place to serve out of your strengths and talents in this place and elsewhere. Being a shoemaker. Growing into the magic that is your own.

This morning I want to talk about the uses of adversity, and in doing so, I am mindful of a piece of wisdom that comes from the brilliant rabbi and scholar Adin Steinsaltz. Adversity is good, he says, though “the good is hidden” and “often several levels of excavation are needed to get to it.” Yet he also reminds us of an important teaching that absolutely needs to accompany this insight: “the injunction that we can say this only about our own suffering, and that we are forbidden to say it to someone else who is suffering.” “If you fall and bang your knee,” he says, “my response to you must not be, ‘Well, it’s for the best.’ On the contrary, if I see someone suffering, my one obligation is to try to help relieve that suffering. Telling a suffering person that everything is for the best is called, in the Talmud, ‘the sins of the friends of Job.’ Job suffered greatly, and his friends said to him, ‘Don’t you have faith in God?’ This is not what the friends should have said. … It is not appropriate to speak this theology while a person is struggling with pain and grief.” 

I wish more people knew this. Though I agree with Rabbi Steinsaltz that good can come out of adversity—that what is ultimate is neither tragedy nor failure—still, when I am in the midst of a particular loss or sorrow, and I am with someone else in a personal conversation, the last thing I want is for that person to try to clean things up for me, tell me it’s all for the best. Don’t do that. Don’t theologize. Just acknowledge my feelings about how it hurts, how it feels unfair, how it sucks. Do that for me and do it for everyone. Just give a hug, or hold a hand. Be present. If you don’t know what to say, say THAT. Help them know that they are not alone.

But Rabbi Steinsaltz is not done with us. What if the person in the midst of adversity is not someone else, but oneself? Here’s what he says: “If I fall and bang my own knee, I have a choice. I can wallow in my own pain, or I can use the experience to stimulate my faith and prompt me to examine my life more carefully and to grow, in empathy and understanding, from my experience.” That’s what Rabbi Steinsaltz says. Each of us is responsible for making some positive sense out of the reality of our suffering. Perhaps we need to wallow for a bit—we’re only human. But then comes the time to move beyond that and go deeper. Can adversity have positive uses? Is it really true, as psychologist Jonathan Haidt says in his book The Happiness Hypothesis, that “people need adversity, setbacks, and perhaps even trauma to reach the highest levels of strength, fulfillment, and personal development”? And, what does that look like? Rabbi Steinsaltz is saying to each of us today: choose to go deeper. Choose to find the good that is hidden beneath the pain. Seek it out courageously.  

To this end, we’re going to explore the adversity story of a person named George Bailey. We know him better in December than in other months, perhaps, because he’s the main character in the Christmas movie classic It’s A Wonderful Life. Yet George Bailey is nothing less than a modern-day Job-figure, having something to say to us in every month. So much to learn from his story. Starting with an up-close look at his particular struggle. See if any of it resonates with you. I know it does with me.

When George Bailey was a teenager, a fantasy formed in his mind of being a world traveler, going to Tahiti, sailing the Emerald Sea—exploring all these exotic locations and more, far away from Bedford Falls, the boring town of his birth. As he grew older, the hopes only grew more ambitious. In the movie, when he’s 21, we see him buying luggage for his trip to Europe. He’s got his life all figured out. First he’ll go to Europe, and then he’ll go to college, and then he’s going to build things: skyscrapers hundreds of feet high, bridges a mile long. He’s going to be a millionaire.

It’s around this time that his father asks him if he’d be interested in returning home after college to run the family business, the Bailey Brothers Building and Loan Company. Hearing this, George goes quiet. Right before, he was laughing and joking raucously with everyone in the house, but when his father asked him this question point blank, George got real quiet. Said, “I couldn’t face being cooped up for the rest of my life in a stuffy little office. I want to do something big, something important with my life!”

Just imagine how George’s father hears this—what this says about how his son misunderstands him. Parents and children miss each other like this all the time. George isn’t seeing his father’s life with eyes of compassion. He’s too caught up in his own success fantasy of skyscrapers and bridges and lots of money.

But you know what happens next. Even if you’ve never seen It’s A Wonderful Life, I’ll bet you know. George begins living into one of the mysteries of the human condition, which is the reality of limits. As a member of the middle class, naturally he’s been brought up believing that people are free to control their own destinies. No limits. Just do it. The only person stopping you from climbing the success ladder … is you. This is where George is coming from. This forms the core of his youth. But now one event after another is going to expose the lie.

His father dies, and George must give up his trip to Europe so he can settle his father’s business affairs. The long road of missed opportunities and regret begins. Then, just as he’s handing off important papers to the Building and Loan’s Board of Trustees, moments before he’s out the door on the way to college, his father’s arch-enemy, Scrooge-like Henry F. Potter, makes a motion that the Building and Loan dissolve. Potter, who is wealthy beyond measure and could easily afford to give, asks, “Are we running a business or a charity ward?” Hearing this, something snaps in George and he finds himself saying to Potter: “You’re right when you say my father was no business man. I know that. […] But he did help a few people get out of your slums, Mr. Potter. And what’s wrong with that? […] Doesn’t it make them better citizens? Doesn’t it make them better customers? […] Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you’re talking about … they do most of the living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn’t think so. People were human beings to him, but to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they’re cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you’ll ever be.”

What a wonderful but ironic speech! This is the same person for whom success in life is equivalent to world travel and skyscrapers and bridges and lots of money. This is the same person who basically told his father that he and his stuffy office were small and unimportant. Yet already we are seeing some of the uses of adversity. One of the benefits is that it challenges us to get clearer about what it is we genuinely value, and we discover that true success and happiness in life can mean something very different from what we think they mean. Only in the moment of facing down Henry F. Potter does George realize in himself a genuine and deep appreciation for what it is his Dad did. Only in the heat of that challenging moment. It was a gift of adversity—although it is not necessarily a gift that makes things simpler. George now has two competing success visions warring away in his heart. One is focused on service to his community and being rooted in that community; the other is focused on an almost Peter Pan-like desire to travel and build things and make lots of money. More on this internal conflict in a bit. For now, it’s enough to acknowledge that George’s speech was a moment of great personal discovery, and inspiring for others as well. The next thing that happens is that Building and Loan Board rejects the motion to dissolve but only if George takes over his father’s job as leader. And he does, but with great ambivalence. Life keeps on throwing him curveballs. Once, he thought he had it all figured out. But now he’s more like the poet Dante, who once said about midlife, “I found myself within a dark woods / where the straight way was lost.” What else can he do, but keep moving? He gives his college funds to his younger brother, Harry, and goes to work.

Circumstances crowd out the fantasies of youth and supersede them. In the end, George finds himself where he thought he’d never be: working in his Dad’s stuffy little office, stuck in Bedford Falls. He gets to continue his father’s work of economic justice in the community, and while this is important to him, still, his heart is at war with itself. Regret upon regret pile up. He’s just a mess of contradictions. He marries a beautiful caring wife, he has wonderful children, he is loved and respected throughout Bedford Falls, but all the wild wonderful energy and humor of his youth gradually go away. He’s cranky. He’s cynical. “I want to do what I want to do,” he complains, but no one’s listening.

The bounce in his soul is gone. And it’s like this with so many people today. The adversity of conflicted selves, heavy with regret. Thinking and feeling they are failures even as they are doing great work in the world. Afraid because of the economy, even as they are surrounded by something far more reliable than money ever could be, which is family and friendship, the beloved community of a place light this, and within: the sustaining and transforming power of the Spirit of Life. As close-up to our individual lives as we are, who are we to judge them wrong, or a failure? Who are we to offer up a global judgment like this, as if we were able to transcend our myopia and see ourselves from a God’s-eye point-of-view?

The bounce is gone. And if it’s gone, how is a person going to bounce back in the face of sudden crisis and change? The problem just escalates.

Here’s what this looks like for George. What happens is that absent-minded Uncle Billy misplaces the $8000 which was supposed to have been deposited in the Building and Loan funds. George faces bankruptcy, scandal, prison…. In complete desperation, he sees no alternative but to turn to his enemy Henry F. Potter for help. Asks for a loan. And Potter, who sits in the cat bird’s seat now, says to George, “Look at you. You used to be so cocky. You were going out to conquer the world! You once called me a warped, frustrated, old man. What are you but a warped, frustrated young man? A miserable little clerk, crawling in here on your hands and knees, begging for help.” 

It’s horrible. I mean, the movie may be called It’s a Wonderful Life, but when it gets down to this part, I’m watching it through my fingers, like I do with the The Exorcist or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Especially the scene where George wanders onto the bridge near Bedford Falls. It’s night and snow falls in large sticky flakes. George’s face is screwed up in pain. Potter’s words ring in his mind—“you’re worth more dead than alive.” Below him—the raging torrent of a river. He’s thinking suicide. He’s thinking The End.

But is it? Despite all that has happened, can George bounce back? And we as well? For I know that George is not alone with his outrageous reversals of fortune. Some of us may be on that bridge with George right now, and the rest of us can relate. The past few years have brought reversals of fortune to us all, in some way or another. Bad things happening to good people. It can feel so unfair.  

But what happens next in the story illustrates yet another use of adversity: we learn that we are stronger than we know…..

Picture the scene. There he is, George Bailey, a man who’s lost the bounce in his soul nd it’s so flat, it can’t cope with the loss of $8000. He just can’t take it any more. He finds himself alone, beaten, standing on a snowy bridge in the night, raging river below. Suicide seems the only way. And then—splash! Someone else has taken a dive! And suddenly, instinct takes over. Takes him two seconds to grasp the situation, and he jumps right in to save that person who’s drowning. He risks his life to save another.

Now this is incredible. Adversity has broken him down completely, and yet, in the midst of direst weakness, he discovers that strength still remains. And so can we. You know, often we can find ourselves saying, as we contemplate horrible possibilities, “If such-and-such happened, I could never survive it.” Or, “If such-and-so happened, I wouldn’t know what to do.” And yet when the worst happens, and we go numb with shock, we discover a persistence within us simply to take things one step at a time, one moment at a time. Events rush and swirl past us. The broken pieces of life overwhelm, but for a time we let things be. It is enough just to keep moving, and somehow we do. Somehow we just keep going. “More and more I have come to admire resilience,” writes poet Jane Hirschfield.  “Not the simple resistance of a pillow, / whose foam returns over and over to the same shape, / but the sinuous tenacity of a tree: / finding the light newly blocked on one side, / it turns to another. / A blind intelligence, true. / But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers, mitochondria, figs / all this resinous, unretractable earth.” Adversity helps us discover this same persistence in ourselves, when the worst happens, and we come to realize we are stronger than we ever thought possible. A confidence in ourselves starts to grow, and we learn that, whatever else the future may bring, we have stood in the fire before, and we can stand in the fire again. We can. We are stronger than we know.   

This is what adversity teaches. In fact, there are times when it lifts us out of ourselves completely, and we find ourselves blessed with a better dream and a healing vision of life that we realize directly, first-hand—one we never could have known otherwise. Adversity can have this use as well.

Here’s how it happens for George. If you’ve seen the movie, you know that the person he saved from drowning is none other than Clarence Oddbody, Angel Second Class. He’s an angel, and he comes to earth to give George a great supernatural gift: direct experience of what Bedford Falls would have become had he never been born.

And it’s terrible. Horrible. Without George Bailey, Bedford Falls turned out to be a hellish place. And it blows his mind. It opens it up. He was living a wonderful life without knowing it. Everything he honestly and truly needed for happiness, he already had. Even with all the bad luck circumstances that seemed, time and again, to prevent him from pursuing his youthful hopes—even though he never became a world traveler, or went to college; even though he never built a skyscraper hundreds of feet high or a bridge a mile long—even so: the worth of his life was diminished not one whit. Worthy dreams can happen, even in a stuffy small office, in boring Bedford Falls. A hero journey, right there in the everyday. Being there for people in need, again and again, even when it put him at risk. Standing up for the little guy against bullies like Henry F. Potter.

Even in Bedford Falls, greatness can happen. And George finally gets it. The big picture pulls all the pieces of his life together, grasps him in his soul, heals his conflicted and regret-filled heart. The greatness he has always longed for—he realizes that he’s already been doing it. His father as well. And now he doesn’t want to give it up. The hero adventure is right here and right now! Who needs to travel to exotic locations like Tahiti, when you can have everything you want in Bedford Falls? Clarence!” he cries, “Clarence! Help me, Clarence. Get me back. Get me back. I don’t care what happens to me. Get me back to my wife and kids. Help me, Clarence, please. Please! I want to live again! I want to live again. I want to live again.”

Change your mind, and life changes. George Bailey wants to live again, and I would have you see clearly how badly he wants it. He wants it despite the fact that, as far as he knows, he’s still out $8000. Despite the fact that coming back to life will mean facing bankruptcy, scandal, prison…. But it no longer matters. How can he give up the life that he’s always wanted, which is the life he’s always been living but only now realizes it? 

Wherever you are this morning—whatever adversity you might be facing—I invite you to consider its uses. It clarifies our values, it teaches us that we are stronger than we know, and it also makes us relentlessly hungry for a transformed vision of who we are. We do not need to be visited by an actual angel to learn how to see our lives through angel eyes. Eyes that see clearly the truth of the preciousness of friendship and community and life even if some version of bankruptcy or scandal awaits us. The preciousness of friendship and community and life… And also this: how the world needs us and doesn’t care that we might never have traveled to that exotic location, or gone to that school, or built that mile long bridge.

Tap into angel vision, and the bounce in our souls comes back.

Coyote is a key trickster figure in Native American mythology. He’s a shape shifter, part human and part animal, combining within himself all that makes up the human character. In numberless exploits, he is portrayed as greedy and gluttonous, thieving and lecherous. Clever and foolish at the same time. Yet he is the one who created the world, created people, stole sun and moon and the seasons and made them available to the people he created, shaped the very character of the land.

Here’s one story about this fascinating being: Coyote is sealed up in a hollow log as punishment for some trick he played. Once again, he’s been too smart for his own good. So he’s caught in this log and he tries with all his own personal power to escape but it’s useless, he can’t move an inch, the fit is too tight.

He’s stuck.

Which makes what happens next so ironic. There he is, stuck in the log with no way out, and all of a sudden he hears the sound of a woodpecker pecking away at the hollow log. And while you’d think that Coyote would be overjoyed at this possibility of release, he’s cranky instead. “What a racket!” he says to himself. “What an irritating sound!” It doesn’t even occur to him that Woodpecker was going to be his salvation. He just hates all the noise. So he shouts at Woodpecker to get away.

“Stop that!”

Luckily, Woodpecker keeps on pecking. He can’t hear Coyote shouting from within the log. He keeps on pecking away until he’s drilled a small hole that lets in a bit of the light. And Coyote sees the light—in more ways than one. Suddenly he’s not at all irritated by the sound. Now he wants more of it! He starts shouting again, but this time, it’s to say, “Hurry up! Get me out of here!”

But now that there’s a hole, Woodpecker can hear Coyote more clearly, and Coyote’s shouting startles him. He flies away. It’s only when Coyote begins to appreciate the humor of his situation and disengages from all his anger and irritation and just shuts up that Woodpecker feels safe enough to come back and start pecking at the log again, according to a pace and a rhythm that is natural for him. Coyote stays quiet, doesn’t say another word. Waits until enough of the log is pecked away, and he is free, and then … he laughs!

This adventure of Coyote’s takes us straight into today’s topic, which is “comic spirituality.”  Comic spirituality is about being at home in the world amidst all its conflicts and struggles and dangers. Comic spirituality counters the temptations of the tragic point of view. Comic spirituality also says that, when life is at its worst, a sense of humor saves. Laughter saves.

The person and the community and the world that laughs, lasts.

One of the things I love about Coyote stories is that they give us a behind-the-scenes look at how things came to be and how they are—and it’s a playful how. Coyote represents an unquenchable lust for being and life, and this lust drives all his creativity and all his actions. He is so very different from the God of the Hebrew Bible, who always seems to know what he is doing and has everything in control. Coyote acts, but he is vulnerable to the surprising and unexpected consequences of his actions, so he can find himself stuck in a jam, and he’s got to figure a way out, and he does, and this results in yet another close call, leading to yet another burst of creativity, and on and on.

And such is the process of the evolution of the world. Not by long-range planning—design established from the very beginning and then executed ideally without flaw—but experimentation, throwing yourself into it, seeing what happens next, facing loose ends and incongruities, experiencing breathtaking beauty and meaning but only to the degree you expose yourself to risk and therefore to pain. Shrugging shoulders at this fact of life; perhaps even laughing at the joy and absurdity of it all….

This is what Coyote stories reveal to us, as they take us behind-the-scenes of our everyday here-and-now. The heart of reality is not serious, but playful. Incongruity and pain are an integral part of the deal; sometimes it’s our fault, sometimes it’s not, and our best bet is to stay cool—to resist nurturing resentments and rage—to go with the flow, stay creative and loose.

“One day,” goes another story, “Coyote was walking along. The sun was shining brightly, and Coyote felt very hot. ‘I would like a cloud,’ he said, so a cloud came and made some shade for Coyote. But he was not satisfied. ‘I want more clouds,’ he said, and more clouds came along, and the sky began to look very stormy. But Coyote was still hot. ‘How about some rain?” he said, and the clouds began to sprinkle rain. ‘More rain,’ Coyote demanded. The rain became a downpour. But now Coyote wanted a creek to put his feet in, so a creek sprang up beside him, and Coyote walked in it to cool off his feet.’ It should be deeper, said Coyote, and so the creek became a huge, swirling river, and now Coyote got more than he bargained for. He found himself swept up into the currents, rolled over and over, thrown up on the bank far away, nearly drowned. When he woke up, he saw buzzards circling him, trying to decide if he was dead, and he shooed them off. He looked around him. He had made the Columbia River.

This is how that great river began.

I always think of Coyote when I sing “Bring Many Names,” #23 in the grey hymnal. There’s a verse that captures his essential spirit: “Young, growing God, eager still to know, / willing to be changed by what you started, / quick to be delighted, singing as you go: / hail and hosanna, young, growing God!” This is the only kind of God I could ever believe in, I think. Not a God that somehow stands outside of the natural order of the universe, who intervenes supernaturally in ways that favor one person over another or one tribe over another. Not a God that is locked inside the metaphor of maleness, or the metaphor of the human. Not a God that is all-powerful, with unlimited ability to act and yet appears to remain passive and uncaring when evil in the world is truly excessive, far beyond what seems needful for people to grow strong and wise. Especially not this last part, since then, how could the heart of reality be playful? How could anyone truly feel at home in a world in which a God existed who had the power to prevent evil but held back from using it? Who allowed the very worst to occur?

There is a current in contemporary theology, called process theism, that takes very seriously the idea that behind-the-scenes is a playful force like Coyote, or the “young, growing God” of our hymnal.

Process theism sees God as the creativity of the universe, and there are two sides to this. One is the body of the universe, the evolving interdependent web of all existence. Process theology tells us that it is sacred: galaxies and stars, trees and animals, you and I. All of it is part of God’s growing body. The world is God’s body.

That’s the first side, and here is the second. God is a consciousness over and above the universe, just as you and I have a consciousness that is over and above our own bodies. You and I feel our bodies and think about them; we hope things for them and envision goals and futures; and it’s the same thing with God. God has a conscious side to complement God’s physical side.

God is both the world and the consciousness of the world. Put the two together, and this is the kind of God that process theology envisions.

One of the immediate implications of this picture of things takes us right back to Coyote, and to comedy. God simply cannot force the universe to do whatever God wants. Therefore, things can get tangled up. Chairs can get pulled out from under us, and we fall, and the fall hurts.

Evil happens. God’s power is not unlimited. The universe has creative independence and freedom, just like your own body when it gets sick. Your mind doesn’t want it to be sick, but it is anyhow, and you have got to deal with it. Same thing with God. God doesn’t want the world to be sick, and yet the world has creative independence. God simply can’t enter into the world supernaturally, like a bull in a china shop, and stop this and start that. All God can do is influence the world from the inside—and I know this might sound strange, but think of how cancer patients participate in their own healing. Cancer patients visualize their immune system as strong, as powerful, as potent, and the immune system responds. Similarly, God visualizes blessing and healing for this world, and if we are open to it, we can respond and receive. Nothing supernatural here at all.

God influences the world from the inside, showers continual blessing up on us, impartially, universally, and does it without us having to ask. But the world has creative independence too, and so the blessing might not be received, we might be so stuck in the log of our fears and angers and resentments that we can’t hear God’s still small voice…. The blessing might not be received.

That is simply the reality and risk of freedom.

And by now you may be noticing something about comic spirituality. It’s not frivolous. It’s a way of being in the world richly, in the midst of incongruity of every kind—pain, suffering, death. It says, If the heart of reality is like Coyote, or like the God of process theism, then there’s nothing malicious behind-the-scenes for us to resent and rebel against, like some tragic existential hero. Life is an open adventure. Accidents do happen. We can get firmly stuck in logs of all kinds. But don’t forget about the woodpeckers out there, who are on their way. All we have to do is stay calm, and let them do their work to free us, so we can continue the adventure. 

And this takes us to the next theme of comic spirituality, which has to do with resisting the temptations of the tragic point of view. The temptations are great. Two quick illustrations are in order.

One has to do with an observation about kite string. Ever gone kite flying, and (wind being the trickster that it is) your kite takes a nose dive, and in the process of reclaiming your kite, you tangle up the string? If you are like me, trying to untangle it can make you impatient, and then angry, and suddenly you feel like a tragic hero. An internal voice drones, The world is unfair, the world is against me, the world is doing this to me … and before you know it, you have forgotten that your best bet is to finesse things. You are pulling on the tangles way too hard, jerking and tugging them, making a bad situation worse. What was originally just tangle is now a hard knot, an unredeemable mess.

Second illustration. Think Achilles, from ancient Greek mythology: his famous rage. Rage is the fundamental emotion that moves Achilles in the Trojan War—rage at being dishonored by the Greek general Agamemnon, so he will not fight; then rage at the Trojans who killed his close friend Patroclus, so now he will fight. Rage has him in its grip, and he is bursting with it, and not once does he question whether the Gods are on his side. He does not think: he acts. His deeds are larger-than-life and always to be remembered, but no one would call Achilles wise. The tragic mindset is not wise. Fundamentally reactive as it is, it simply cannot step back from the righteous heat of the moment and cool off; and this means it has a hard time being self-critical, or empathetic towards a different point of view, or creative. Every problem is a nail, to be solved by hammering.

Our world—with all its curves and complexities and behind-the-scenes jitters—is just not a good fit for straight-arrow people like Achilles, and that’s why the traditional ending of a tragic story is not the journey that runs ever on, but the journey stopped short by the death of the hero. Tragic heroes are swept under and destroyed by the very life that they are so ill-equipped to understand and work with.

Succumb to the temptations of the tragic point of view, and the result is disaster. We never get out of the log, in one sense of another. Emotions like anger and sadness and fear sweeping us away, and out of these we react to whatever life sends us; we become so noisy we scare away savior woodpeckers for good.

This is the key ingredient of the tragic mindset: stuckness in difficult emotions and endless rumination, which make it difficult to stay loose and creative in our thinking, keep things way too serious, cause us to feel discomfort with ambiguity and complexity, and prevent us from being able to walk a mile in another’s shoes.

In other words, low emotional intelligence. People finding themselves in a tangle, challenged by a diversity of valid perspectives and valid concerns, and before you know it, the tangle, which could have been finessed, has become a hard knot, another Middle East conflict. Well intentioned people wanting to fight for justice and for peace, but somehow they bring the fight to each other, and there is petty bickering and posturing and rigid political correctness and a party line; and suddenly these well-intentioned people, wanting to fight for justice and for peace, find themselves in the middle of a circular firing squad of their own creation.

If you have ears to hear, then hear this.

But a comic perspective keeps things sane. It keeps us working together in world that is impure, keeps us hopeful even when the system we can’t extricate ourselves from is compromised and flawed. In this regard, I like what Chinese writer Lin Yutang has to say: “[T]he tremendous importance of humor in politics can be realized only when we picture for ourselves … a world of joking rulers. Send, for instance, five or six of the world’s best humorists to an international conference, and give them the plenipotentiary powers of autocrats, and the world will be saved. As humor necessarily goes with good sense and the reasonable spirit, plus some exceptionally subtle powers of the mind in detecting inconsistencies and follies and bad logic, and as this is the highest form of human intelligence, we may be sure that each nation will thus be represented at the conference by its sanest and soundest mind. […] Can you imagine this bunch of international diplomats starting a war or even plotting for one? The sense of humor forbids it. All people are too serious and half-insane when they declare a war against another people. They are so sure that they are right and that God is on their side. The humorists, gifted with better horse-sense, don’t think so.”

Amen to that. The temptation of the tragic point of view is ultimately a temptation to do violence and war—especially in the name of our highest and noblest ideals. But comic spirituality counters it. A sense of humor saves us.

Which leads to the third and last theme of comic spirituality I want to address today: the power of laughter—unquenchable, invincible laughter.

Consider the experience of Captain Gerald Coffee, who was a prisoner of war in Vietnam. After three months in captivity, Coffee’s Vietnamese jailor ordered him to wash in a rat-infested shower room littered with rotting things and garbage all around him. As he felt the stream of cold water against his body, he was overcome with despair. There he was in a dismal hole, body broken, totally uncertain of his fate, pressure to do this, do that, hostility his daily fare, men dying every day, the fate of his crewmen unknown. That’s where he was, mind, body, spirit, as the cold water washed over his body. Then he raised his head, and saw something. There at eye level on the wall in front of him, scratched in by some other American who’d been there before him, were these words: “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!” And he couldn’t help but smile.

In that crazy place, woodpecker had come for him, and he laughed out loud. He felt such gratitude for the spunk of that unknown American who was able to rise above his own dejection and pain to inscribe a line of encouragement. And Captain Gerald Coffee, there in captivity in a Vietnam prison, found strength to go on.

Sometimes laughter takes us by surprise, and we find strength to go on. Better yet, though, is a conscious intent to nourish our sense of humor regularly. Never allowing the humor tank in us to go empty. So brush your teeth every day, but also top off your humor tank every day. Watch John Stewart, or Bill Maher, or South Park. Read The Onion. Whatever. Whatever punctures our self-righteous pretensions, loosens us up, brings us back down to earth, keeps us energized and plucky.

We laugh so that we can last.

I want to close with some humor aerobics. It’s just like regular aerobics to get the blood pumping—humor aerobics to get the sense of humor pumping. To do it, you don’t have to feel particularly happy beforehand; although by the end, you might just be laughing like crazy, and it feels so good….

Here’s the exercise. It’s one of my favorites—it’s called “The American Bat Face.” It’s especially good to do right before you are about to enter into a difficult conversation. Let me describe it first:

1. Place your hand on top of your head, with the fingers pointing straight forward

2. Reach down with the middle two fingers and touch the tip of your nose—pull the nose up, flaring the nostrils

3. Flap your tongue in and out of your mouth while making a high-pitched squealing noise

4. Think to yourself repeatedly, “This is not stupid, it’s silly.”

If this feels too uncomfortable for you, you absolutely have permission not to do it. But I hope as many of you as possible will try it and see what happens. As you do it, see if you can hear Coyote laughing with you…

Ready? Let’s go on three…..

**

It is essential that you know the difference between “stupid” and “silly.” “Stupid” means ignorant and uneducated. But having fun and playing is not stupid—it’s “silly,” and “silly” is a word that comes from the Old English, meaning “completely happy, completely blessed.”

Silly was a blessing you wished upon those you loved.

I wish that upon you today, and forever.

Be more silly in your life, and be blessed.

About the good news of our shared faith, the Rev. Clinton Lee Scott once wrote a “Parish Parable” which echoes the old “thee and thou” language of the King James Bible. It goes like this: “Now there was a certain man that for many years did frequent the Temple on the Sabbath day. Then did he cease to be found in the Great Congregation. And a neighbor inquireth of him, saying, “How is it that thou art no more seen in the Temple on the Sabbath day?” And the man did give answer, “I like not the words that the Master speaketh: for he putteth not an end to the questions that vex my mind, neither provideth me with a sure salvation for my soul: verily he leadeth us into deep waters, and leaveth us there without means of rescue.” Now when this conversation was told to the Master of the Temple, he answered, saying, “Go tell him that remaineth away from the Great Congregation that the Temple standeth not to provide life preservers, but is a place wherein one learneth how to swim.”

This is but a classic statement of the Unitarian side of our faith, which is fundamentally a faith in people. It says, to each and every one of us, You have abundant potential. You are not inherently perverse and fatally wrong-headed, doomed unless some higher authority gives you life preservers in the form of detailed answers to which you must submit and never question (at pain of hellfire). You are not fundamentally weak, incapable of rising up to meet that challenges of the day, best kept in the shallow waters of life, best kept self-centered and indifferent to what’s really going on. No! You have inherent worth and dignity. It is a priceless inner wealth, actualized by all the heroes and sheroes that have gone before you, and you can realize this for yourself in your own turn. It naturally attunes you to truth and to justice, if you would but learn to hear; and to this end do Great Congregations and Masters of the Temple exist: to help you learn. To help you nurture and develop the potential that life has given you. Not to give you the answers up front, but to give you space and room in which to follow the nose of your curiosity and conscience, help you come into the integrity of your own answers. Not to protect you from the realities of suffering and evil, but to move you to engage the deep waters of social problems and do your best to make a difference. That’s what classic Unitarianism says. It is faith in the abundance of human potentials to fashion lives of positive wisdom and leadership and citizenship. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. Don’t say I can’t ask questions. Don’t tell me that there’s nothing I can do to make a difference in the larger world.

Unitarianism says, “Jump in! Swim! Yes you can!” But as for the Universalist side of our faith—the classic message is different. Thomas Starr King, who was a minister in both Unitarianism and Universalism, back in the 19^th century and long before the two movements officially came together, once had this to say about the difference: he said that Unitarians think people are too good for hell, whereas for the Universalists, what keeps people out of hell is not people, but God. God is too compassionate, too good. That’s the classic Universalist vision. We are held and supported by an eternal, all-conquering Love that’s far greater than who we are as individuals. And so, if at some point you find yourself thrown out into deep waters and you have been trying the best you can to solve the burning, difficult questions of life but, in the end, you feel that the complete answers will always evade you; or, you have been trying the best you can to make a difference but, in the end, you know economic injustice will still exist and war will still exist and hatred will still exist and, on top of all this, your marriage is in trouble and the recession is hitting you hard—when you find yourself out in deep waters, like this, Universalism will come to you. It will gently take your hand and, with consolation and encouragement, say to you words like those the poet Philip Booth once said to his daughter: 

Lie back daughter, let your head

be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man’s float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

Remember, whispers Universalism.  No matter what—when you and I are in deep waters, and our strength is seemingly gone—the sea will hold us. Failure is impossible. So lie back. That’s the Universalist message precisely. Let the abundant strength of the sea be our strength. There is nothing we need to do to earn it. We don’t need a Ph. D, we don’t need lots of money or class or beauty or personality. Just open up and let this abundance flow in us; let us dwell in it; and it will surprise us. Suddenly we will find ourselves healed and whole—and more courageous than ever. Bubbling up in our hearts and lives, this abundance will move us spontaneously into works of beauty and service and justice, and we will also find ourselves moved into faith-sharing. For how can we not share this good news? Only in giving to another the hope of abundant love, does our own joy become complete. It spoils if kept. “The joy that isn’t shared,” says one poet, “dies young.”

By now I feel like a shaken-up can of soda. I just can’t talk about this stuff without getting all excited. It’s the good news of our Unitarian Universalist faith, fizzing and frothing and bubbling up, ready to be shared. So today our focus is liberal evangelism—what that can look like for us. Getting us all shaken up like I am, so the pressure of our Unitarian Universalist message becomes so great within us that we have to do something about it. And then to talk a little about what this “something” might be—to offer up some hints that come to us from one of the preeminent evangelists in our history: the Rev. Quillen Shinn, credited with starting at least 40 congregations all across North America, one of which was the First Universalist Church of Atlanta, Georgia, organized February 24, 1895. Because of people like Quillen Shin, we are. Literally. Others may give him fancy names like “the Saint Paul of the Universalist Church,” but here in Atlanta, we can call him grandfather.

There’s something you might want to know up front, however, about Grandfather Shinn, and this actually takes us farther along the road of exploring our Unitarian Universalist good news as it has evolved from classic to contemporary form. Quillen Shin proclaimed an abundance message that, in at least one respect, is significantly different from our own today. He preached a Universalism of dogmas: the centrality of the Bible, the love of God, the parenthood of God, the immortality of the soul, the divinity (though not the deity) of Christ, the certainty of punishment for sin, and the universality of salvation. He preached these dogmas as central to what it meant to be a Universalist, against what he saw as a rising infidelity in many of his fellow ministers and especially against what he called those “go-as-you-please Unitarians.” “Occasionally,” he once thundered, “a church falls into decay under the leadership of an upright pastor because that pastor is too indefinite, too vague and uncertain. He talks too much about ‘Truth for Authority,’ and too little about ‘The spiritual authority of Jesus Christ.’ Of course,” says Quillen Shinn, “’truth is authority,’ when we know what the truth is, and take our affirmation of ‘The universal Fatherhood of God.’ The world received that not by evolution but by revelation. Christ is our authority for this sublimest truth, believed and cherished by man. When a minister ceases to regard Jesus as authority, he steps away from the bed-rock of faith, and drifts into those vague ‘Universals’ fascinating to many who call themselves liberals and who seem to be well equipped with circumference, but without any center.” That’s what Grandfather Shinn said, around the turn of the nineteenth century, and clearly he was feeling the growing trend in liberal religion, which had been building for decades, ever since the advent of such things as modern Biblical scholarship, the comparative study of world religions, and Darwinianism. The trend was away from an exclusive Bible-centered faith, towards one that opened up to the riches of the world’s religions, as well as to the findings of science. The trend was away from Jesus Christ being at the center, towards the Mystery at the center. And all who wanted to live into this Mystery were welcome in our congregations, together with whatever path they chose, whether or not Jesus was meaningful for them, or God a meaningful concept.

Even though Quillen Shinn did not like it, Universalism went the way of all liberal religion, towards a deepening appreciation of the abundance of Mystery. He saw it as decay and as drifting away, and he feared that it would be our doom. But on the side of history we’re on, we know that what happened was what happens to the snake when it sheds its skin. We were simply reborn into something more honest and therefore more vital. This side of history, we affirm that whatever the Sacred is, it is an elephant too complex and too big for any individual blind man to fully comprehend. No single book or system of belief can possibly hold all the truth. What’s at the center is fundamentally a Mystery—and therefore it is endlessly fascinating and provocative, provoking interpretation after interpretation, inviting a personal creative response from each of us. While we can no longer speak about Universalism like Quillen Shinn did, in a one-size-fits-all way, the central abundance insight nevertheless remains: that there is in reality some process or power that is larger than the individual person, and when we connect with it, we are transformed in ways that we cannot transform ourselves. Use whatever language you want to describe it. Some will talk about God. Others will talk instead about the reality of the unconscious, or synchronicity, or the interdependent web, or Buddhamind, or the Goddess, or simply the embracing arms of healthy human relationships. Still others will speak a rich vocabulary of all of these and more, seeing each metaphor as a uniquely valid pathway into an experience of the Sacred. The point, though, is that at our center is Mystery—this is where the past century has brought us—and it means that our faith is abundant with creativity, abundant with diversity, abundant with possibility. The good news message of our faith is all about abundance.

But now, how to share this with the world? Now here’s something that would make Quillen Shinn smile. “In truth,” he once said, “no [person] knows the full joy of Universalism until he sends it to another; and, in fact, he cannot keep it for himself in its fullness, unless he is sending it abroad.” So, how to send it?

First of all, send it and say it with purpose. A humorous story about Quillen Shinn comes to mind. His biographer says that once, when he was at seminary, he delivered a somewhat rambling sermon, and he was asked by his professor to describe the subject he was trying to preach on. He replied, “I didn’t have any subject but I had an object and that was to show that Universalists have the best principles and that they ought to be the best people.” You better believe that his preaching improved over time, but the basic principle never changed: have an object; have a purpose.

Definitely our purpose in sharing Unitarian Universalism can’t be about declaring what is best in general; we are too modest for that. It definitely can’t be about declaring what’s best for you, or else; we don’t even believe that. But what the purpose can be is this: to share how it has been best for us. How the message about abundant human potentials has enabled us to think thoughts and do deeds that other contexts and communities would have stifled or denied. How the message about abundant love that is larger than us as separate individuals has lifted us up and supported us when we were in the deep end and could not swim anymore—abundant support of this caring community, abundant arms of Life. How the message about abundant Mystery has encouraged active exploration of our spiritual depths, opened us up to the riches of the world’s religions and of science, invited us to be creative in our religious lives. Our purpose in sharing Unitarian Universalism is helping another person know how powerful this abundance faith has been for us—and perhaps they are in a place in life that makes them ready to receive. Perhaps. We can share it with the same graciousness as we would news about a fantastic restaurant, or a brilliant movie. Without any heavy-handedness, and only to say: it has brought wonderful things into my family and my life, and maybe it can do the same for you.

Say it with purpose. Also say it with structure. Don’t ramble on like Quillen Shinn did in his seminary attempts at preaching. One of the ways of preventing this—of ensuring that you have a focus to your conversation—is by developing for yourself an “elevator speech,” or a short statement about Unitarian Universalism’s value to you that, theoretically, you could give in the three or so minutes it takes you to go from the bottom floor to the top. While real conversations often aren’t as tightly compartmentalized as this, and tend to go on or spill over, still, the discipline of the elevator speech is a good one. It challenges you to think about what’s especially important and meaningful to you about our faith. Clearly, It won’t say everything, but it can at least get you started, get your foot in the door—either plant a seed that will ripen sometimes later, or move a person to open up right then and there for a richer conversation.

I’d actually recommend having several elevator speeches on hand, each one doing a different thing, to be called on depending on circumstances. Practice developing these with each other. Sometimes just a general historical orientation seems to be called for, so you might say, “Unitarian Universalism comes out of the Protestant tradition in Christianity, and some of the oldest churches in America are UU churches. Thomas Jefferson and Ralph Waldo Emerson were UUs.” In other words: not many people may be familiar with us, but we are as American as apple pie. Other times you will want talk theology, and you could say this: “Unitarian Universalism says that God is bigger than any single book or single religion. That’s why we draw from many sources of wisdom and truth.” Another good one is this: “Unitarian Universalism doesn’t tell me what to believe about such things as God or an afterlife because it knows that all such specific beliefs are way too important to be answered for us by someone else. It tells me that people have to come to their own answers, first-hand, for them to be truly meaningful.” Yet a third category of elevator speech addresses current events—you draw on recent things you did at UUCA that were meaningful for you. As in, “A couple Sundays ago, there was a guest speaker who talked about slavery after the Civil War, and I had no idea. I love the fact that my congregation gives me new insights into justice issues and expands my sense of things!” And it IS cool—it is evidence of the core abundance of our faith.

Say it with purpose. Say it with structure. And then also say it with confidence. Some years, Quillen Shinn traveled 25 to 30,000 miles, and you better believe that, to be received as he was, he needed to be nonanxious. Surely we can model this same calmness in the relatively few conversational miles we will travel!

How we say something communicates far more than what is actually said. When evangelism comes out of a place of anxiety, you might stutter and stumble over your carefully prepared elevator speech. You might actually look offended, get defensive, even get angry. Or you might come across as cool as an ice cube—giving off the impression that, for you, Unitarian Universalism is of no more than clinical interest. All would raise red flags in the questioner, make them wonder if the emperor has no clothes, if there’s something to be ashamed of, if there’s some terrible secret to hide, or if it’s somehow not OK to ask. But our goal is to make the abundance of our faith contagious. Not to force it on anyone. Just to share something that has meant so much to us. What moved Quillen Shinn to plant his first church was the memory of his mother, and all that she had given him. Same thing goes for us. We give because we have received. So let this thought relax us. We can take a deep breath. We can ungrit our teeth, relax our bodies, and take a curiosity stance towards the journey that each conversation will take us on. See where things go.

Yes, sometimes the other person will use it as an opportunity to tell us we’re wrong, but we’re allowed to agree to disagree. We don’t have to allow ourselves to be abused. We can rest confidently in our experience, knowing what our faith has done for us. Uncomfortable conversations will happen. But then there will be the conversations that make it all worth while. Because you say yes to evangelism and make yourself available, in your own person you will transmit some of the abundance of our faith to another, and they will catch a glimpse, and what they see is something they have been looking for but never even knew existed, never even knew it had a name. Someone wanting to get out into deeper waters, just waiting for permission. Someone in deep waters over their head, looking for encouragement. And you give them what they need. That’s what you do.

There are times when deeds don’t go far enough. The hungers of others require words that only we can give, and evangelism becomes the means. Walking the talk must be matched with talking the talk. Our faith tradition is all about abundance, and it fizzes and froths and bubbles up, ready to be shared. So let’s do that. Let’s make our Grandfather Shinn proud. He helped start us up, so let’s start something up too. Make him proud.  

 

 

Poet Robert Frost writes,

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

The other day I was thinking about how Unitarian Universalism is truly a religion of the honeybee. Like honeybees, which do not elevate one kind of flower or tree above all but go wherever there is nectar to be found, we Unitarian Universalists affirm a “many ways” spirituality. We go wherever truth is to be found, and out of this, we create a honey wisdom.

Life in covenantal community is also essential to who we are, and here again, honeybees are suggestive. They have hive and honeycomb, and we have church and congregation. Bees do the waggle dance and the tremble dance to communicate, and we do the complex, many-faceted dance of human community. They follow instinct, and we do our best to follow our Covenant of Healthy Relationships. 

Finally there is the often-made observation that honeybees are aerodynamically unsuited to fly. It seems incredible, given how they are shaped, that they should ever be able to take flight. Yet they do. And so do we. Some people may think that a religion has to define a detailed system of beliefs in order to work, but we know the power of the open spiritual journey. Says writer Doug Muder, “We give our members the freedom to doubt and encourage them to question their beliefs not so they will see all beliefs as whimsical and contingent, but quite the opposite: We find that hard-tested and hard-won beliefs are more likely to withstand the challenges of modern life. A marriage whose every assumption and duty has been freely negotiated is not a house of straw, but rather a house whose every brick has been carefully laid. The freedom of liberal religion is an invitation to engage with the most significant issues of human life and society, not an excuse to fall into a shiftless and vacant hedonism.”

Just something to ponder … Unitarian Universalism is a religion of the honeybee.

 

Once upon a time, a young Pygmy boy heard the most beautiful song coming from the forest. The song was so beautiful, he had to go and see who was singing. Deep in the forest he found the bird, and he brought it all the way back to the camp to feed it. This deeply annoyed his father; he didn’t want to give any of their food to the bird. But the boy pleaded and pleaded with him, and the bird was fed. The next day the bird sang again; it sang the most beautiful song, and again the boy went deep into the forest to find it, and again he brought it all the way back to feed it. This time the father was even more angered, but once again he gave in and fed the bird. The third day the same thing happened. But this time the father took the bird from the son and told his son to go away. When his son had left, the father killed the bird, the bird with the most beautiful song, and with the bird he killed the song, and with the song he killed himself and he dropped dead, completely dead, dead forever.

Joseph Campbell once said that the purpose of myth is to tell us—in metaphor and symbol—of “matters fundamental to ourselves, enduring principles about which it would be good to know if our conscious minds are to be kept in touch with our own most secret, motivating depths.” The myth of the boy and the bird and the father is clearly once upon a time, but also here and now. Now, there are songs to be heard which trigger experiences of awe and wonder. Now, there is a young Pygmy boy within us who is ready to be deeply stirred and moved. And there is an angry father as well, now, who wants no part of it.

But how so? What might this all look like, in real life? 

Consider this story from a colleague of mine, the Rev. Dr. Kendyl Gibbons. She says, “As a young Unitarian Universalist in the 1960s, I was educated about human sexuality in a relatively open fashion; human religious experience, in contrast, was a closed book. I discovered my spirituality in much the same way that my peers raised in more conservative faiths discovered their sexuality—accidentally, furtively, without guidance, moved by overwhelming inner tides, and with some sense of shame. I longed for the white organdy First Communion dresses and the menorah candles of my neighbors. I secretly memorized Louisa May Alcott’s ‘My Kingdom’ prayer, written when she was thirteen, and sang myself to sleep with ‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’ I was fascinated by the hidden life of nuns. I yearned for someone, anyone, to take my childish capacity for devotion seriously. But seeds planted in paper cups on the Sunday school windowsill, the dead bird discovered in the backyard, the calligraphic hymns in We Sing of Life, and the annual flower communion were the scant resources my liberal religious education offered. To my parents and teachers—almost all of whom had grown up in other religious traditions—the absence of texts, rote prayers, sacraments, holy objects, and moralistic picture books represented freedom. But without any language for my emerging sense of mystery and wonder, I came to feel the contrary: deprived of the tools with which to understand or express those experiences. I floundered in a kind of guilty yearning until I became intellectually mature enough to claim the rich heritage of humanity’s religious cultures for myself. I did so greedily, with none of the literalism that afflicts fundamentalists, whether orthodox or humanist. As a student of religion in college, I read the Christian women mystics, Zen teachers, Taoist poets. I studied the art and architecture, music and mysteries of the world’s religions, and discovered how each constructed the landscape of spiritual experience. What I sought was some way to bring order to what had always been going on inside of me. And I encountered a whole universe of souls, across every culture and tradition, who knew all about it.”

That’s Kendyl Gibbons’ story, and in it, she is just like the boy ready to be deeply stirred and moved, who goes out far into the forest. As for the bird with the most beautiful song—how about the things to which Kendyl found herself drawn in reverence: initially the white organdy First Communion dresses, the menorah candles of her neighbors, a prayer from Louisa May Alcott, a song with which she would sing herself to sleep. Then, when she got older: the world’s religions, their literature and art and architecture, the whole universe of souls across every culture and nature who had heard the beautiful song. But then there is the religion she grew up in, in which spirituality was seen as regressive, cliché, lowbrow, not progressive enough. In her judgment, this reflects a kind of pridefulness. “There is nothing so petulant,” she says, as to throw away what our ancestors have tried to pass on to us, in stories and stones, in scriptures and songs, in rituals and prayers, because we think that we in our adolescent hubris know better now. Who can stand in the shadow of the great pyramids, or the radiant light and soaring stone of the cathedral at Chartres—who can listen to the deep cadences of the Book of Common Prayer fall sonorous on the ear—and not realize in the very fiber of being that our wonder and our hunger and our terror and even our most valiant ‘yes’ to life are not ours alone, but echo down the ages of the whole human race?” Whatever the reason, people in her congregation did not provide language and symbols of reverence that would have helped her give voice to her emerging sense of awe and wonder. Neglect threatened the bird with the most beautiful song with death—but somehow Kendyl had the resilience to outlast this, only to become one of the leading Religious Humanist ministers in our movement…

This is but one example of the myth unfolding in real life, and here is another, coming to us from Jonathan Haidt, author of our study book for this year, The Happiness Hypothesis. In it, he shares an experience he had while reading The Sacred and the Profane, by the great historian of religion, Mircea Eliade. Jonathan Haidt reads this book, and it tells him that the perception of sacredness is a human universal, and that regardless of their differences, all cultures have had sacred places and sacred times and sacred activities, all meant to allow contact with something that is larger than oneself, something which inspires reverence and awe. The book goes on to tell him that the modern West represents the first culture in all of history that has managed to strip space and time of sacredness and render it completely profane. But then he reads this passage: “Even a person committed to a profane existence has privileged places, qualitatively different from all others—a person’s birthplace, or the scenes of a first love, or certain places in the first foreign city he visited in his youth. Even for the most frankly nonreligious person, all these places still retain an exceptional, a unique quality; they are the ‘holy places’ of his private universe, as if it were in such spots that he had received the revelation of a reality other than that in which he participates through his ordinary daily life.” This is the passage that Jonathan Haidt reads, and as he does, he gasps. The realization is powerful, visceral. “Eliade,” he says, “had perfectly pegged my feeble spirituality, limited as it is to places, books, people, and events that have given me moments of uplift and enlightenment. Even atheists have intimations of sacredness, particularly when in love or in nature. We just don’t infer that God caused those feelings.” In other words: the bird with the most beautiful song never stops singing, though its song can be drowned out or denied by the culture surrounding it. The bird with the most beautiful song never stops singing, though its song may be different from how common stereotypes portray it. 

The myth unfolds in Jonathan Haidt’s life, in Kendyl Gibbons’ life, and perhaps by hearing their stories you are on the way of drawing your own connections with it. For myself, at this point, above all, what I’m trying to figure out is why the father would want to kill the bird. Why a church might make spirituality a “don’t ask, don’t tell” sort of thing. Why an entire culture might try to deny or drown it out the bird’s song.

We’ve already heard one possible theory about this, coming from Kendyl and her musings about the church she grew up in: the father is prideful, arrogant, imagines nothing significant can come from the bird. Or perhaps this: the father wants to kill the bird because he thinks it is a phony and the most beautiful song a fake. Perhaps he refuses to give time to the bird because he imagines himself just too busy. Or perhaps he has never himself found a bird like that—perhaps it reminds him of one he once found but lost—and so, in his shame, he turns into a bully. So many possible reasons for why the father does what he does.

Each reason would take significant time to trace out, so here (in the spirit of this science and spirituality sermon series) I will look at only the second one: the father kills the bird because he thinks it is a phony. A delusion caused by chemical misfiring of nerve cells in the brain, with no positive purpose. Why should I take my precious food and give it to a useless delusion? Ever heard this objection before?

It’s fascinating how neuroscientists Andrew Newberg and Eugene D’Aquili speak to this in their book Why God Won’t Go Away: Brain Science and the Biology of Belief. One of their experiments involved injecting radioactive material into people practiced in meditation as well as in prayer, and using a high-tech imaging tool to scan blood flow patterns in their brains. The radioactive material would be injected only when subjects indicated that they were deep into the flow of their experience and close to a sense of interconnection with all life (or, alternatively, a mingling with God), so that the scientists could see what was happening in their brains at the climax of their meditation or prayer. And what they—Drs. Newberg and D’Aquili—saw was significantly decreased activity in the posterior superior parietal lobe, or the part of the brain responsible for orienting people in physical space—helping people know the difference between up and down, here and there, and above all, “me” and “not me.” Block activity in this part of the brain, through damage for example, and even a simple task like lying down becomes an impossible challenge. You can’t locate yourself. You miss the chair, hit the floor, don’t even know how to lie down. But this was not at all the case with the people meditating or praying. They maintained control of their bodies just fine; it’s just that they had these deep experiences of oneness with the Universe or oneness with God. In this, Drs. Newburg and D’Aquili did not see any nerve cells misfiring or anything manifestedly contrary to what our bodies are meant to do. They did not see anything that would smack of delusion.

Their ultimate conclusion? Our human capacity to hear the bird with the most beautiful song is a valid product of natural selection. It is primal. Evolution put the neurological mechanisms responsible for the experience of self-transcendence in our brains, because when we are able to escape the limited bonds of our narrow selves through love and trust and openness, we become stronger. We become able to accomplish things that otherwise we could never do. This is a “neurobiological need” we see in all living beings, expressed in various degrees of sophistication, from the ritualized behavior of animals to the most sophisticated of human ceremonies. In animals, think headbobbing, think vocalization, think grooming: all these and more enabling members of the same species to recognize eachother as such, enabling communication of various kinds, enabling most importantly mating and reproduction. And as for humans: think this morning: our singing together, our lighting of the chalice, our responsive reading, one event after another unfolding in our midst; and soon, the ringing of the bell, the time of meditation, the offering, the benediction. The rhythm to all of this, so that we can feel opened up, connected to each other and to the larger values we serve. Turn of those cell phones so that we’re not jarred out of our dance together… Underneath all of it is a naturally selected-for neurobiological need to reach out, connect beyond oneself, unite. Underneath is the reality of what poet Rabindranath Tagore spoke when he said, “The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.” 

This is nothing less than divinity, with or without God. Rooted in our biology and in our bodies, it is no wonder that people experience sacredness in some form or fashion regardless of theological belief. “The holy is nothing but the ordinary,” says Kendyl Gibbons, “held up to the light and profoundly seen. It is the awareness of a creativity and a connection that we do not control, in a universe that is always larger, more intricate, and more astonishing than we imagine. It is the acknowledgment that we are formed by the earth from which we arise, and in which we live and move and have our being; and that we are, finally, not alone.” Whether or not God exists, we need this awareness, and we can have it.

And it can happen in surprising ways….. I’ll close with a story from Andrew Newberg and Eugene D’Aquili in their book I mentioned earlier, Why God Won’t Go Away. 

“At midnight, in the shadowy choir loft of a candlelit gothic cathedral of the Calvary Episcopal Church in Pittsburgh, a fifty-four year old businessman named Bill sits in a crowded pew enjoying a concert by the innovative jazz ensemble known as the Paul Winter Consort. It’s a hallmark of Winter’s group to set their stage in unusual and atmospheric venues—canyons, beaches, old stone barns—to reflect the moody, reverent spirit of their music, which often blends their own live performances with the recorded songs of nature. Tonight’s concert … has included a lyrical duet with a school of singing humpback whales and a haunting serenade build around the keening of eagles. Now, as the evening draws to a close, Winter and his group are providing the instrumental accompaniment to the tape-recorded singing of a pack of free-roaming wolves. The rhythmic, otherworldly wolf serenade echoes eerily in the monumental quiet of the cathedral’s soaring spaces. The wolves raise their voices in raw howls of sheer animal power, then let them soften to haunting, melancholy cries. [With Winter’s moody soprano sax in call and response fashion, the effect is] to lift listeners out of their everyday lives, and into another world. And as the wolf serenade reaches its emotional crescendo, that’s exactly what is happening to Bill. […] He feels deeply, serenely at peace. Then, suddenly, he is seized by a surge of excitement. It rushes up from the gut in a burst of joy and energy, and before he can think twice about it, Bill is on his feet, with his head thrown back, and he is howling from the bottom of his soul. Remarkably, at the same moment, other people have begun to howl. At first it’s half a dozen, scattered throughout the church. But in moments others follow their lead and soon the entire cathedral is alive with joyous noise, as hundreds of people joyfully join in the primal song of the wolves.”

Something like that is what I hope for each of you, too. To join in with some primal song. In fact, right now I want you to feel the young Pygmy boy within—feel how he is ready to be deeply stirred and deeply moved. Now, from that, howl!

*** 

It’s the neurobiological need for self-transcendence we sense, as we sing that primal song and feel the shivers run up and down our spines … as we feel wonder. That’s what evolution has done for us. Put a capacity for wonder in our hearts. Divinity—with or without God.

Listen to this poem by Pem Kremer, called “Epiphany”:

Lynn Schmidt says
she once saw you as prairie grass,
Nebraska prairie grass;

she climbed out of her car on a hot highway,
leaned her butt on the nose of her car,
looked out over one great flowing field,
stretching beyond her sight until the horizon came
vastness, she says,
responsive to the slightest shift of wind,
full of infinite change,
all One.

She says when she can’t pray
She calls up Prairie Grass.

That’s the poem, about a woman named Lynn Schmidt who describes her experience of the Sacred. A vastness of prairie grass, responsive to the slightest shift of wind, full of infinite change. This is the image she conjures up in her mind, when a need for prayer rises up in her but she can’t easily give voice to it. Not an image of some powerful, transcendent male monarch battling and triumphing against enemies; not an image of a majestic, distant, forbidding grandfather who exists outside and beyond the earth that He has manufactured. Not any of these, but rather: a memory of prairie grass, evoking wonder and awe in her heart. A memory, but also a seed for nothing less than a new mythology, a new way of imagining the Sacred.

Today our topic is the Goddess: what this symbol means and can mean for women and men today.

Definitely this: consciousness-raising. Jewish feminist theologian Judith Plaskow (with whom I personally studied in seminary) tells a story about a gathering of mainly Christian women in 1972, in Loveland, Ohio, to explore theology together. “In one of the small working groups that was a daily part of the conference, the women realized that traditional names for God no longer adequately reflected their experience. They began to call out words that meant God to them, putting their designations on a large newsprint board. One of the fascinating aspects of the resulting list,” says Plaskow, “was its large number of ‘ing’ words—changing, creating, enabling, nurturing, pushing, calling into question, suffering, touching, breaking through. The God of their experience was not an immutable being ‘out there,’ but a process of which they were part.”

“Brushing out my daughter’s dark silken hair,” writes poet Sharon Olds,
before the mirror
I see the grey gleaming on my head,
the silver-haired servant behind her. Why is it
just as we begin to go
they begin to arrive, the fold in my neck
clarifying as the fine bones of her
hips sharpen? As my skin shows
its dry pitting, she opens like a small
pale flower on the tip of a cactus;
as my last chances to bear a child
are falling through my body, the duds among them,
her purse full of eggs, round and
firm as hard-boiled yolks, is about
to snap its clasp. I brush her tangled
fragrant hair at bedtime. It’s an old
story—the oldest we have on our planet—
the story of replacement.

That’s the poem. Mother and daughter—the changes of life—the story of replacement. And it is a sacred story, told with the “ing” words of the women from Loveland Ohio in 1972: changing, creating, enabling, nurturing, pushing, calling into question, suffering, touching, breaking through. This is what the Goddess is. The Goddess moves within the cycles of life and death and rebirth, in the natural world as well as in our relationships, in community. The Goddess is a symbol of that, a way of giving honor to that.

But does the Goddess actually exist? Is the Goddess a being in Her own right, or simply a poetic symbol of the inherent worth and dignity of nature and people, as well as of the flow of interdependencies in which we live and move and have our being?

Here’s how Starhawk answers this question. Starhawk is a feminist writer and activist, a major figure in today’s neopagan movement, as well as an influential voice in the 1995 decision by our Unitarian Universalist Association to formally include earth-centered traditions as one of the six sources of our faith. She says, “It all depends on how I feel. When I feel weak, [the Goddess] is someone who can help and protect me. When I feel strong, she is my symbol of my own power. At other times I feel her as the natural energy in my body and the world.” That’s what Starhawk says, and right here we have another opportunity for consciousness-raising, relating to our understanding of what good theology looks like. Must good theology insist on single answers, or can it be large and contain multitudes? “Is there,” asks Carol Christ, another leading voice in the Goddess spirituality movement, “a way of doing theology that would not lead immediately into dogmatic controversy, would not require theologians to say definitively that one understanding is true and the others are false? Could people’s relation to a common symbol be made primary and varying interpretations be acknowledged?” And then she says: “The diversity of explications of the meaning of the Goddess symbol suggest that symbols have a richer significance than any explications of their meaning can express….”

For me, one particular use of the Goddess symbol is especially profound, and like Starhawk, I go back and forth with it, sometimes seeing it as factually true, other times regarding it as sheer beautiful poetry, but all times moved and inspired to wonder. It’s this: the image of the earth as the body of the Goddess—the one source out of which everything emerged, guaranteeing the interrelatedness and kinship of all things. All beings as children of the same womb, cherished by Her.

“How the days went,” writes poet Audre Lorde (and imagine her voice as the Goddess, speaking to the world that is her body):

How the days went
while you were blooming within me
I remember each upon each—
the swelling changed planes of my body
and how you first fluttered, then jumped
and I thought it was my heart

How the days wound down
and the turning of winter
I recall, with you growing heavy
against the wind. I thought

now her hands
are formed, and her hair
has started to curl
now her teeth are done
now she sneezes.
Then the seed opened
I bore you one morning just before spring
My head rang like a fiery piston
my legs were towers between which
A new world was passing.

Since then
I can only distinguish
one thread within running hours
You, flowing through selves
toward You.

Just listen to that. How different our world would be if this had been the prevailing image of the Sacred in the West—not patriarchal male God, who manufactures the creation as something outside of him, as a watchmaker would skillfully make a watch, but the Goddess, for whom creation is birthed out of her very substance and essence, in pain and in joy? Then, a vision of earth that is common today would simply be unthinkable: that the earth is but a temporary, discardable stage upon which the drama of individual salvation is played out—valuable only insofar it functions as a stage, a holding place, a location. OK to pollute, OK to poison, OK to use as humans see fit. How could this even be thinkable, if the earth were seen instead as the body of the Goddess, in fact or simply in poetic imagination?

Poetry is powerful, whatever the facts may turn out to be. Symbols are powerful. Carol Christ emphasizes this when she says that “Even people who no longer ‘believe in God’ or participate in the institutional structure of patriarchal religion still may not be free of the power of the symbolism of God the [domineering, jealous] Father. A symbol’s effect does not depend on rational assent, for a symbol also functions on levels of the psyche other than the rational. […] [The] mind abhors a vacuum. Symbol systems cannot simply be rejected; they must be replaced. Where there is no replacement, the mind will revert to familiar structures at times of crisis, bafflement, or defeat.”

I remember a college philosophy class from years ago, when I triggered a mini-crisis in my students. We had been talking about traditional Western God images and how they have a stubbornly masculine, angry-jealous-God-of-the-Old-Testament dimension. My class of course denied this. Not just men in the room but women too, saying, “Everyone knows that God is beyond gender.” Then I talked about a classic argument for why the Catholic Church rejects women as candidates for the priesthood: Jesus Christ as the incarnation of God was male, maleness is thus tied up with God, therefore only men can be priests. I talked about this—how it was only the tip of the iceberg of instances where women have experienced oppression because they are not made in the masculine image of God. Women locked in stereotypes of passivity, completely contrary to the strength seen in the Goddesses of old: Athena, Artemis, Isis, Brigid. Women absorbing the prejudice that there is something fundamentally wrong and shameful about female bodily functions, like menstruation. Childbirth treated like a disease requiring hospitalization. The fanatic pursuit of youthfulness—postmenopausal women knocked off the pedestal they were placed on when younger—their distinctive beauty not celebrated as it should be. All these instances of misogynism, and more.

Then I gave them the challenge. Thanksgiving was coming up, so I said, When you go home to see your family, ask to say the Thanksgiving blessing over the meal, and just see what happens when you pray like this: “Mother God, who gave birth to our universe and to the abundance that is before us, we thank you….. “ I could just see the wheels turning in their minds, eyes widening when they imagined the consequences. Symbols go deep. Rationally, of course God can’t be male. But the poetry of this persists. Poetry is powerful, deeper than reason, comes first—it is, in fact, the material which reason, second of all, sifts and sorts and makes sense of…. But the poetry, the imagination comes first.

It’s exactly as Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: “A person will worship something, have no doubt about that. We may think our tribute is paid in secret in the dark recesses of our hearts, but it will out. That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping we are becoming.”

Consciousness needs to be raised. Reminds me of an incident that happened a couple weeks back. One morning, just as I was starting my car and about to leave my home in Decatur to come here, I resolved to take a slightly different path than was my usual habit. I wanted to avoid the noxious traffic on South Candler Street right beside Agnes Scott College, and to do that, early on in my trip I needed to turn right on Kirk Road rather then left. Just this—so simple. Turn right on Kirk, then left on Avery, Avery would take me all the way down to East College, which in turn would take me to Commerce, and on and on. Less traffic this way.

Great. I shifted the car into drive, started off, and my thoughts immediately turned away from my plan to take a different path to work and raced way ahead to the work itself: meetings and conversations and issues and things to do. Details details details. I was already on South Candler Street, slowing down to a stop behind a long line of cars, before I realized what the heck had happened. I had switched to auto-pilot, and auto-pilot doesn’t follow new orders that disagree with deep programming. How could I have lost focus so easily?

For me, the image of the Goddess is powerful because solidifies my intent and my decision to take a different route through my world than usual. It reminds me to expand my sense of the sacred beyond the patriarchal male images that are an inescapable part of our cultural programming, because I don’t want to get stuck in that kind of traffic. Gives a man a heart attack. Alienates a man from love. I mean this sincerely. It happens when men attempt to model their lives after the patriarchal God, which they do. I want to take a different route, turn right when my programming says turn left, and for this, I need to stay focused, I need to stop the chatter of the status quo from taking center stage, I need a God-image that helps me imagine the sacred to be BIGGER than that. BIG, because what I am worshipping I am becoming, and I want to be BIG in my heart. That’s what I want, and I suspect you want it too, men and women alike.

I’ll close as I began—with a poem about prayer. This one comes from Joy Harjo, entitled “Eagle Poem”:

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

It was Abraham Lincoln who once said, “You have to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was.” Today we honor and celebrate our youth coming of age, which can also mean parents coming of age. Parents struggling and letting go of the “helicopter” instinct to hover—parents renegotiating, once again, their relationship with their children…..

And it’s hard. Listen to this poem by Sharon Olds, called “The Summer-Camp Bus Pulls Away from the Curb.” Listen between the lines to the pride but also grief of the speaker, who is a mom, or a dad:

Whatever he needs, he has or doesn’t
have by now.
Whatever the world is going to do to him
it has started to do. With a pencil and two
Hardy Boys and a peanut butter sandwich and
grapes he is on his way, there is nothing
more we can do for him. Whatever is
stored in his heart, he can use, now.
Whatever he has laid up in his mind
he can call on. What he does not have
he can lack. The bus gets smaller and smaller, as one
folds a flag at the end of a ceremony,
onto itself, and onto itself, until
only a heavy wedge remains.
Whatever his exuberant soul
can do for him, it is doing right now.
Whatever his arrogance can do
it is doing to him. Everything
that’s been done to him, he will now do.
Everything that’s been placed in him
will come out, now, the contents of a trunk
unpacked and lined up on a bunk in the underpine light.

That’s the poem. “Whatever is / stored in his heart, he can use, now. / Whatever he has laid up in his mind / he can call on. What he does not have / he can lack. The bus gets smaller and smaller…”

But is it true that “there is nothing more that we can do for him?” Children grow away from parents and into deeper relationship with peers and mentors, teachers and confidants. This is as it should be. But that’s not all there is to their growing. In adolescence, people flicker between maturity and immaturity in the blink of an eye, and so, what is always possible for parents to do is setting reasonable and healthy boundaries, providing a container with which to continue shaping and reinforcing growth into maturity. This as well: in the midst of all the ups and downs, highs and lows of adolescence, parents can be generous with their encouragement and acceptance, no matter what. Be a true home to their children’s hearts and souls.

One day, the bus leaves. It gets smaller and smaller. But, there is a connection between child and parent that can never be severed, no matter what the relationship might have been like. Even if you move across the country, never speak, change your name. Some of us discover this only after our parents are gone, even when we ourselves have been parents for many years. We learn, with Alden Nowlan, what it means to grow up. He says, “The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise.”

There’s a story I go to in the Hebrew Bible when I’m in the midst of adversity, and I’m fighting for the meaning and way of my life. It’s in the book of Genesis, Chapter 32. It’s night, and Jacob is about to meet his brother, Esau, whom he hasn’t seen in many years. Last time he saw him, Esau said he’d kill him, for Jacob stole Esau’s birthright. “That same night,” says the Bible, “Jacob got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and likewise everything that he had. Jacob was left alone; and an angel of God wrestled with him until daybreak. When the angel saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go, for the day is breaking.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’ So he said to him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said, ‘Jacob.’ Then the angel said, ‘You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.’”

That’s the story. Life is full of initiatory experiences, and they are difficult like wrestling matches against adversaries as daunting as angels of God. But if we persist, we will prevail—even though in the process our hip might be put out of joint, and the rest of our days we bear a scar from the struggle that transformed us forever and blessed us and gave us a new name, a name that says who we really are. If we persist, we will prevail, and we will become more fully ourselves.

Today I want to talk about Unitarian Universalism’s wrestling match with the Bible: the struggle of our Unitarian and Universalist ancestors to engage the Bible rationally, for the sake of freedom—and how this has determined to a great extent who we have been, who we are today, and who we may yet become in the future.

Start with Michael Servetus in the 16th century, facing a church doctrine like the Trinity (the idea that God is a unity of three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost). Servetus opposed it. Didn’t matter that it had been declared official doctrine way back in 325CE during the Council of Nicaea. Didn’t matter that, by openly opposing it, even mocking it, he could be burned at the stake. Servetus stood his ground, because he believed that the soul of Christianity was at stake. People hungered for bread, but they were being given stones by a church that had lost its way. People hungered for spiritual liberty, but the church was binding them to falsehood and error. The way out—the way to freedom—was to cut through all the add-ons and accretions of institutional history and go back to the Bible. Use the Bible as the sole standard for everything, and use reason (not church tradition) to discern exactly what this standard was.

This was Servetus, wrestling with the angel. For him, the Bible, interpreted by the light of reason, was the way to liberty. The doctrine of the Trinity represented corruption; but reason would expose it for what it was. And though, for all this, Servetus was burned as a heretic, his larger vision and hope carried on. For hundreds of years, into the 18th and 19th centuries, religious freethinkers and liberals followed his pattern of being exclusively Bible-centered and relying on reason to discern spiritual truth. So, for example, in one of the great classics of Universalism, A Treatise on Atonement, published in 1805, Hosea Ballou went through the Bible with a fine-tooth comb to argue against a prevailing idea of his day (one that still prevails for many): that Jesus died on the Cross to atone for our sins—that God requires this for people’s salvation, otherwise, we are doomed to eternal hellfire. This, argued Ballou, was patently unscriptural and against reason. For how can finite creatures like ourselves offend the infinite God? Why might our finite sins, to be wiped away, require the infinite sacrifice of the Son of God? The real issue, said Ballou, is just not about God, or God’s accepting us. The real issue is that we don’t make ourselves available to God. We don’t believe that we could ever be loved as deeply and as truly as God loves us. The problem with the atonement doctrine is similar to that of the doctrine of the Trinity: both represented ways by which the church was binding people with falsehood.

But if we wrestle with the Bible and don’t let go, it will set our spirits free. That’s what Hosea Ballou, one of the fathers of Universalism in America, believed. And so did the father of Unitarianism in America, William Ellery Channing. “We regard the Scriptures,” he said in 1819, “as the records of God’s successive revelations to mankind, and particularly of the last and most perfect revelation of his will by Jesus Christ.” Yet one of the things that distinguished Channing’s approach from Ballou’s and definitely from Servetus’ was his acknowledgement of the rootedness of the Bible in history, and the need for reason to take this into consideration. “We find,” says Channing, “that the different portions of this book, instead of being confined to general truths, refer perpetually to the times when they were written, to states of society, to modes of thinking, to controversies in the church, to feelings and usages which have passed away, and without the knowledge of which we are constantly in danger of extending to all times, and places, what was of temporary and local application.” The Holy Spirit might have breathed inspiration into the writers of scripture, but Channing insists that “a knowledge of their feelings, and of the influences under which they were placed, is one of the preparations for understanding their writings.” Without this, you just can’t be faithful to the Bible. The result is disaster. We apply Bible insights to our day recklessly, ignoring the fact that what the Bible writers are talking about may be very different or even absolutely different from the present concern on our minds. Or we overlay present meanings onto the past. We read into the Bible our own agendas and interests and standards and make it kill when its proper function is to give life. Here’s a joke about this that Channing would have enjoyed:

A teacher asked her Sunday School class to draw pictures of their favorite Bible stories. She was puzzled by Kyle’s picture, which showed four people on an airplane, so she asked him which story it was meant to represent.

“The flight to Egypt.”

“I see,” said the teacher. “And that must be Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus. But who’s the fourth person?”

“Oh, that’s Pontius–the pilot.”

The joke is not so ridiculous, however, when you consider all the ways in which people (Unitarian Universalists included) ignore Channing’s advice and do something that’s equivalent to hearing about a “flight” to Egypt and then drawing a picture of an airplane. One of these mistakes is seeing the Bible as a single book. Do this, and it’s easy to assume that everything in it belongs to a single category of writings that can be interpreted using the same rules. A classic instance of this is viewing the Bible as a science text—everything in it to be interpreted as saying something factual about the world. Genesis says the world was created in seven days, so that’s literally what happened. Genesis says that Jacob wrestled with an angel, so angels must really exist. Fundamentalists define the Bible in just these terms and swallow it whole; reverse-fundamentalists define the Bible in these same terms, but they spit it out. Tastes gross. Yet neither stop to wonder about their basic assumption. Is the Bible just one book? Or is it more like a compendium of many books that has evolved in Wikipedia-like fashion over time, involving many authors and editors, incorporating as well many different kinds of literary genres to get its various points across? This last insight is especially important to absorb. We just can’t listen correctly to what the Bible is trying to say unless we realize the genre of the piece we are encountering. Take the recent Star Trek movie—we completely misunderstand what it is all about if we classify it as a documentary and expect it to communicate literal truths about what our future holds for us. Similarly, when we see the book of Genesis as science, rather than the mythology that it is, we completely miss the point. We’ve heard the word “flight” and we’ve drawn an airplane.

Channing once said, “We profess not to know a book, which demands a more frequent exercise of reason than the Bible.” It’s true. Consider yet another way in which we can hear “flight” and draw an airplane. Has to do with how people today read into the Bible an ethic of reporting history that is actually quite foreign to the mindset of the ancient Bible writers. Today, when someone makes a speech, every word can be captured on tape and transcribed accurately, so when we read about it in the newspapers—when we read “President Obama said…..”—we are expecting word-for-word accuracy. Nothing less is acceptable. But this is not the standard that ancient Bible writers followed. When reading “Jesus said…” or “Paul said…”, we have to press pause on our assumption that the words ascribed to them are the ones that literally came out of their mouths. Historians back then just had different standards than ours. Listen to what one of the best of them—the Greek writer Thucydides—had to say about this: “I have found it difficult to remember the precise words used in the speeches which I listened to myself, and my various informants have experienced the same difficulty; so my method has been, while keeping closely as possible to the general sense of the words that were actually used, to make the speakers say what, in my opinion, was called for by each situation.” That’s what Thucydides says—and did you hear that? “To make the speakers say what, in my opinion, was called for by each situation” (!!!). But this was the standard in the ancient world. “The past is a foreign country,” says writer Leslie P. Hartley. “They do things differently there.” And we’ve got to honor this.

Back in 1819, when Channing made his key points about Bible interpretation, he was building a way that was new for America (and, almost 200 years later, is still new for too many people). The occasion was an ordination sermon entitled “Unitarian Christianity,” and it’s a defining moment in our history. Before it, if you were a Unitarian in America, you belonged to a movement that was amorphous and in the closet. It had no clear leader. It had no clear definition. The name “Unitarian” was a badge of shame. But along came Channing. He outed the movement, gave it clarity, took up the name “Unitarian” with pride. He did all of this in his 1819 sermon. And a big part of it had to do with his wrestling with the angel of the Bible. The Bible, central to Channing’s sense of what Unitarianism was all about.

But Channing’s achievement would not prove final. Within his lifetime, in the very next generation, a different sort of struggle with the Bible ensued. Not so much about how best to interpret it, but whether it is the sole source of revelation available to spiritual seekers.

For Ralph Waldo Emerson, it is most definitely not. “Live after the infinite Law that is in you,” he says, “and in company with the infinite Beauty which heaven and earth reflect to you in all lovely forms.” Revelation, in other words, can’t possibly be contained just within the Bible. The wellspring is fundamentally within each of our souls; revelation bubbles up out of the spark of the Divine in our depths. Add to this the revelation of nature, as well as the revelation embodied by the Bibles of many times and lands, such as Hinduism’s Bhagavad Gita. Ultimately the spiritual vision here is one of abundance, not scarcity. God is just too big to be contained by any single book. And it’s not only Jews or Christians who have ever wrestled with the sacred and written about it….

Despite this abundance, however, scarcity abounds. In Nature, Emerson says, “A man is a god in ruin. […] Man is the dwarf of himself. […] At present, man applies to nature but half his force.” This is Emerson’s constant complaint and argument. God bursts every seam, and God is within each of us, full to bursting. Yet we feel empty; we feel dry. Why? Emerson blames historical Christianity. It has “fallen into the error that corrupts all attempts to communicate religion.” It has done this by committing the sin of idolatry. Whereas Emerson believes that Jesus continually pointed people toward their own God-like potentials of compassion and wisdom, traditional Christianity says that only Jesus gets to be God. And then it gathers up the revelations of Jesus and of select teachers, seals them up in the one and only one Bible, and says that revelation is over, it is through. No wonder people are Gods in ruin. “That which shows God out of me,” Emerson says, “makes me a wart and a wen. There is no longer a necessary reason for my being.” “You shall not,” Emerson characterizes traditional Christianity as saying, “own the world; you shall not dare, and live after the infinite Law that is in you, and in company with the infinite Beauty which heaven and earth reflect to you in all lovely forms; but you must subordinate your nature to Christ’s nature; you must accept our interpretations….”

Emerson’s message here is bruising. It’s not that he finds nothing liberating in the Bible, for he absolutely does. But he will not stand for the bullying that people can do in its name. And he will no longer abide by the exclusive Bible-centeredness of his forebearers: Servetus, Ballou, Channing. There are so many other Bibles to draw from. And above all, people must rediscover the Bible that lies within them. This is the way to freedom.

And this brings us to today. Transcendentalism expanded our spiritual universe, making the Bible just one source of the vibrant spiritual life and not THE source. Through Transcendentalism, we also learned that the Bible is not so much a record of what God says as a record of what humans have said about their long struggle for purpose and meaning in life. And perhaps because Unitarians and Universalists had engaged with the Bible so intensely and for so long, they were ready for different horizons. They felt that they had gone as far as they could with the Bible, and it was time for something new. Alternative forms of spirituality. Not Christianity, but theism. Humanism. Hinduism. Buddhism. Paganism. Blends of all these and more. Anything and everything but the Bible. In any other church or congregation, you better believe you are always going to have Bible study courses. But not in Unitarian Universalist congregations.

Meaning that the current state of our wrestling match with the Bible is different than it has ever been before. A first, in our long history. The current state is disengagement. It is apathy. We no longer know the Bible. It’s become strange to us over the years. Strange, and therefore threatening, because during our sleep, the Religious Right stole it and transformed it into a set of conservative talking points. And because we didn’t know any better—because we no longer read the thing ourselves with any degree of sophistication—we took their interpretations to represent what the Bible actually says. No wonder we don’t want to read it. It’s a vicious cycle.

Which is so sad, since there is a sweet wisdom in Scripture that can make the wounded whole. There is a sweet song that can lift our hearts and make them glad. Unitarian Universalist spirituality is there within its pages. We are missing out on one of the most fascinating and rich books in existence.

We are missing out personally, and we are missing out politically. Where are our Hosea Ballous today? Where are our William Ellery Channings, who might go toe to toe with the ridiculous James Dobsons and Jerry Falwells? Bible-based arguments continue to be extremely powerful and persuasive in America for shaping the common good, but we are no longer conversant. There is still more freedom to be won, but we have a lot of work to do to step up to the challenge. Angry voices argue, for example, that the Bible condemns homosexuality. They cite proof texts, one after the other: rat-a-tat-tat. But it’s not good enough any more to just shrug them off, shrug the conversation off. They need to be troubled by a better wisdom. They need to know and we all need to know that there is no word in the original languages of the Bible that corresponds precisely to committed and mutually respectful love relationships between same-sex partners. What does the Bible truly say about homosexuality in the 21st century? Nothing. And saying this is not evading the authority or demand of scripture. It’s being faithful to it.

Besides being spiritually vibrant, I know that this congregation is and wants to be even more a social justice congregation. I think it’s great. Of course. But I would add that, as essential preparation for this, we need to know the Bible. Whatever our individual theologies and passions happen to be, we need to know the Bible so as to enable effective social witness in our time, here and now. Our wrestling with the Bible is not over, not by a long shot. It’s showing no signs of easing up. We can’t let go. We’re not done. There’s a new name out there for us, a blessing to win, but we haven’t won it yet.

I love this Jerry Seinfeld quote: “Life is truly a ride,” he says. “As you make each passage from youth to adulthood to maturity, sometimes you put your arms up and scream, sometimes you just hang on to the bar in front of you. But the ride is the thing. I think the most you can hope for at the end of life is that your hair is messed, that you’re out of breath and that you didn’t throw up.”

Finding meaning within: that is our focus this morning. Living amidst the ups and downs of the world richly, with a sense of something to live for and something to die for. While Rev. Keller has focused on this more generally, my focus will be on exploring our story for today from Paolo Coehlo’s great book, The Alchemist—highlighting the specific wisdom it brings to the art of living.

One insight is this: balance the amazing with the mundane, the big picture with the details. In the story, the wise man invites the boy to wander around his castle and witness all its wonders. But then he says, “As you wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing any oil to spill.” At first, the boy overfocuses on the drops of oil and misses out on all the wonders. Then he overfocuses on the wonders and loses the drops. Neither will do for the wise man. The secret of happiness, he says, “is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.”

Perhaps one way of thinking about this balance is in terms of alternation. For me, the drops of oil represent the nitty-gritty of our days: the tasks and responsibilities that keep us busy at work and at home, the established relationships in which our lives are grounded, the habits and patterns which give us comfort and regularity. The drops of oil are all this, as well as the perspective that results from one’s attention being narrowly focused on such things. And this is as it should be, says the story. It’s one part of the good life. But don’t get stuck. Make room in your life for the wonders of the wise man’s castle also. At times, expand your perspective into one that’s more us-centered, more community-centered, more cosmic-centered. Do a random act of kindness, expecting nothing in return. Balance times of great busy-ness with times of reflection and retreat. Step back and see your life from the perspective of history. Read a book. Go to a museum. Come to Sunday services here at UUCA. At night when you arrive home, don’t just go straight into the house—pause and look at the stars and feel awe at your existence. Step out of the daily grind and go on vacation. Go on a date with your partner or spouse. Go dancing. Go sing Kareoke. See a movie that takes you out of yourself and into the world of possibility. Try something new.

The art of living requires an alternation between these two: the drops of oil on the spoon, and the wonders of the castle. Otherwise, trouble. If we fixate on the daily and weekly tasks and responsibilities without allowing for times of retreat or play, we become unimaginative and dull. Same thing happens if established habit and pattern rule our lives and we never question the sacred cows, never try something new. The air in our balloons leaks out, and we’re sagging. Life is no fun, because we take ourselves way too seriously. Whereas we may be building up a cathedral brick-by-brick, all we can see is each individual brick, and we are disheartened. Larger wisdom says about every crisis, “This too shall pass. You are not the only one to ever have experienced this. You are not alone. One step at a time.” But if our eyes are fixated just on the drops of oil, we can’t hear that wisdom. We feel alone in every crisis. We make a mountain out of every molehill.

Conversely, if we dwell only within wonder and possibility, then we are flighty. Flaky. Commitment-phobic. A walking, talking Peter Pan syndrome. Everything has to be made new, which means that we keep wasting energy reinventing the wheel. We love to flit about in the midst of other people’s ideas and achievements, but what about our own? Grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Why can’t we be more like them, we say, but when it is time for us to step up and lead, we say, Not me. “There is a time in every man’s education,” says Emerson, “when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till.” This is what Emerson says, which means that if, indeed, we are stuck in wonder, then we remain abstract in our lives. Because we don’t want to get our hands dirty with details, we end up knowing more about history than making it ourselves, here-and-now. No kernel of nourishing corn comes to us, since the plot of ground which has been given to us to till requires too much discipline, too much hard work.

We’re in trouble, if it’s one or the other and not both. The drops of oil which we carefully carry, and the wonders of the wise man’s castle. Remember both, however—take care of both—and that is the secret of happiness.

It’s a question of balance. The art of living.

But now let’s turn to the other kind of balance that the story points out. It’s subtler than the one we’ve just looked at, but foundational, in fact, to everything else…..

It’s about balancing a desire to experience meaning in life with a capacity for patience. The poet John Keats calls this “negative capability,” which is when, as he puts it, “[a person] is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts without any irritable reaching after fact & reason.” Without a burning desire to know, we would never risk putting ourselves in the midst of uncertainties and Mysteries and doubts; but to the degree that our reaching is irritable, meaning evades our grasp. It’s just one of the frustrating and yet delicious paradoxes of the spiritual path.

Desire to know, and yet a capacity for patience. We see this already developed in the boy in the story, even before he encounters the wise man. Clearly he has a great desire to know the secret of happiness, otherwise he would never have left home. And so for forty days he finds himself lost in the desert, wandering, but he doesn’t give up. For two hours, he has to wait his turn to speak to the wise man, but he doesn’t get impatient. When the wise man appears, he has the audacity to say that he doesn’t have time just then to explain the secret of happiness, and then he gives the boy a truly weird assignment: to explore the wonders of his palace while, at the same time, he carries a spoon with mysterious drops of oil in it. But the boy is game: he does it. And then he does it again. And we know that in the end, meaning emerges—but only because the boy has been able to unite his great desire to know with a capacity to trust the process.

It’s a hard balance to strike. The process of our lives can take us into unexpected, strange places, ask us to do seemingly strange things. Stuff happen. And whereas we could be like the boy, just going with the flow, seeing where it takes us, often we demand far more control, and when our circumstances refuse to explain themselves to us—tell us their rhyme and reason—we pitch a fit. Or I should say, I pitch a fit. I just struggle with this at times, and maybe you struggle along with me.

Reminds me of a poem by Billy Collins, called “Introduction to Poetry.” The speaker is clearly a frustrated professor talking about his students, but the speaker could also be God, and the poems referred to our own lives……

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

How are you interpreting the poem of your life this morning? Are you like the boy in the story—in search of meaning, in a strange place, but able to wait, capable of allowing the meaning to emerge in its own good time? Or are you beating your life up with a hose, trying to torture a confession out of it?

The spiritual way is a paradoxical way. To desire meaning with all your heart, and yet not to reach for it irritably. Trusting that it is there. Loving the questions of life, so that someday, you live right into the answers….

There’s an old Italian joke that writer Elizabeth Gilbert tells about a poor man who goes to church everyday and prays before the statue of a great saint, begging, “Dear saint—please, please, please … give me the grace to win the lottery.” This lament goes on for months. Finally the exasperated statue comes to life, looks down at the begging man and says in weary disgust, “My son—please, please, please … buy a ticket.”

Life stands before us like a big question mark, and at times we can harden our hearts, or our hearts can go faint, because we do not already have an answer in hand. We want the conclusion before we even begin; we want a guarantee up front; we want … a miracle. But what we must do instead is simply buy the ticket. Begin from wherever you are. Take the first step, and then take another. Give yourself to the rollercoaster ride of life. Place yourself in the field of uncertainty, Mystery, and doubt, and do not despair. Allow life to surprise you. Trust. This IS the secret. Right here.

Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav once said, “The world is a narrow ridge. The key to crossing is not to be afraid.”

We take this to heart this morning as we consider some of the most controversial, hot-button ethical issues of our time: abortion, euthanasia, and stem cell research. The narrow ridge that each of these separately and together represent. The key to crossing.

But why these three issues, and why now?

Simply this: because of current events close to home and close to heart. Just two weeks ago, on May 31, we heard the news about Dr. George Tiller, shot to death as he stood in the foyer of his church in Wichita Kansas. His women’s health clinic had long been a flash point in the battle over abortion rights because it was one of the few that performed late-term abortions. Dr. Tiller’s murder is especially ironic because just several weeks before, President Obama had delivered the commencement address at the University of Notre Dame, talking about “how we must live together as one human family” in order to address the pressing problems of our times, including “violent extremism.” He says, “The question, then, is how do we work through these conflicts? Is it possible for us to join hands in common effort? As citizens of a vibrant and varied democracy, how do we engage in vigorous debate? How does each of us remain firm in our principles, and fight for what we consider right, without … demonizing those with just as strongly held convictions on the other side?” “Nowhere do these questions come up more powerfully than on the issue of abortion,” says President Obama, and then, two weeks later, as if to underscore his point, Dr. Tiller is murdered. A great tragedy. My heart goes out to his family as well as to all health care workers and professionals who put it on the line every day to protect women’s health and constitutional rights. Just right across the street—the Feminist Women’s Health Center….

It’s close to home and close to heart. And then there is euthanasia. Regarding this, the current event that comes to mind happened back in late February and early March. I remember opening up my Atlanta Journal-Constitution and reading the March 1 front-page headline: “Suicide group tests society’s limits.” Here’s the first several lines of the article: “Critics charge that the Georgia-based group Final Exit Network is undermining national efforts to make assisted suicide universally accepted and legal. But supporters and members of Final Exit Network said the group merely wants to extend the right to die beyond people who are terminally ill to include those who simply believe their quality of life isn’t worth living. They believe Georgia—where four members of the group are being charged with assisted suicide after a Georgia Bureau of Investigation sting operation last week—is now the new battleground in the fight to extend this right of ‘self-deliverance’ to those whom doctors have not diagnosed as terminally ill.” These are the opening lines of the article. There had been a sting operation, in this state. Four people charged, one of whom (I learned later) is a Unitarian Universalist. In a very public way, the euthanasia issue had come home to roost.

Reading through the article a little further, I saw a quote from the controversial assisted suicide advocate Dr. Jack Kevorkian, indicating his disagreement with what the Final Exit Network group is doing, as well as his firm belief that physician-assisted suicide should be reserved only for people judged to have no more than six months to live. And I was struck by this. A diversity of opinion about what a good death means, within the euthanasia movement as in all other movements. Of course. Diversity of perspective on when the prolongation of life goes against human dignity and is truly worse than death. Publicly the debate goes on, and it goes on privately as well, even when an aging parent has made clear his or her do-not-resuscitate request, and yet in the heat of the moment, faced with the doctor’s urgency to save life at all costs, faced with our own grief at the loss of a loved one, do we withhold antibiotics or surgery—do we say no to life-support—and allow death to take its natural course? What do we do?

It’s close to home and close to heart. Abortion, euthanasia, and stem cell research as well. Last week, a congregant shared a story with me about her grand-nephew who has hemophilia. Born with it. Discovered by his parents in a horrible moment when, after his circumcision, he would not stop bleeding. From that time till now, he’s had to take a special infusion twice weekly—delivered by needle—so that his blood will clot normally. Yet there is hope that this twice-a-week needle regimen might end someday, through stem cell research. When Peter’s sister, Selena, was born, the parents had her umbilical cord frozen and handed over to a private research facility. In five years, the private researchers say, they hope to have achieved enough progress in working with the stem cells in Selena’s umbilical cord that they can be used on Peter, enabling his body to produce the blood-clotting factor on his own.

A cure like this is just the tip of the iceberg. Diabetes, blindness, Parkinson’s disease, glaucoma, AIDS, cystic fibrosis, stroke, lymphoma, infertility, cancer: all of these and more are potentially resolvable through stem cell research. No wonder some people call the stem cell “the Aladdin’s Lamp of biology.” Rub it, and a genie pops out and grants wishes. But President Bush wasn’t buying, because for him, days-old embryos are destroyed in the process, and he sees this as the taking of life. Some liberals stood with him too, although for very different reasons. Pro-choice feminists concerned about how such research might turn women’s eggs and wombs into commodities. Environmentalists wary of biotechnology and cautious about genetic tinkering. An odd-couple of conservative and liberal standing together—the result being the banning of federal funding for research into stem lines created after 2001. Only research on the 22 stem cell lines already in existence would be federally funded, but the problem here is that these lines “lack genetic diversity and were generated with early methods that produced poorer quality stem cell lines than are now available.” This last point comes from Unitarian Universalist Molly Walsh, who adds that they “also include no disease-specific lines, so scientists can’t use [them] to study diseases. [To make matters even worse,] the original lines were all isolated using a mouse-based media, and these lines would run the risk of introducing mouse viruses to humans, so they will not be usable to treat humans.” It’s true: newer and better stem cell lines could still be developed and studied, but without any federal finding, and this is the big problem. As a 2001 Chicago Tribune article puts it, “federal finding is key because it can unleash a huge army of university researchers who could greatly speed up important discoveries. Without federal money, embryonic research would proceed at a snail’s pace in privately funded labs.” In 2001, the Aladdin’s Lamp of biology was within reach, but President Bush stepped back.

But that was then, and this is now. This past March, President Obama reversed the ban on federal funding, meaning that the pace of research would step up tremendously with a focus on newer stem cell lines. “Medical miracles do not happen simply by accident,” he said, and then he promised his administration would make up for the ground lost under his predecessor. “Rather than furthering discovery, our government has forced what I believe is a false choice between sound science and moral values. […] But I believe we have been given the capacity and will to pursue this research and the humanity and conscience to do so responsibly.”

So much has happened in just the past three months. Abortion, euthanasia, stem cell research coming close to home and close to heart.

We are braving the narrow ridge. And now it is time to ask, What’s the key to crossing? How to move forward?

We know what Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav says about this: Be not afraid.

In particular, there are three sources of encouragement that I would have us consider today.

The first is this: that we should not feel like failures if these controversies are hard to resolve and evince a “push-down, pop-up effect”—as in, we push down conflict over here, but over there it pops up again…. We should not feel like failures because abortion, euthanasia, and stem cell research are all new faces of an ancient storyline which is this: human ingenuity engaged to ease suffering and enhance life, with the ironic result that feathers are ruffled and arguments explode over limits, over the difference between playing doctor and playing God. The storyline is ancient, and we do well to remember this in the present, as hot-off-the-press news breaks over us like a tide.

The specific myth I’m thinking of is at least 3000 years old, from ancient Greece. Prometheus, who is said to have created human beings out of clay, in the image of the Gods. Prometheus, who gifted humans with the arts of civilization, such as writing, mathematics, agriculture, medicine, and science. Prometheus, who saw his children’s suffering and, out of compassion, wanted to improve their lot in life—so he gave them technologies to focus their minds and strengthen their hands, including the use of fire. He stole fire from the Gods and gave it to us. Why he had to steal it is an open question. But steal it he did, and for this, he was punished by Zeus. Chained to a rock for all eternity, where an eagle would come everyday to feed on his liver (which, because Prometheus is an immortal, would regenerate overnight, allowing the whole scene to repeat ad infinitum). It’s an ugly picture. Vicious harm coming to one who sought only to help humanity, because in doing so he transgressed limits established by the Gods. He stole.

It’s fascinating to take this myth and overlay it on the issues we’re talking about today. All sorts of resonances emerge. One in particular relates to the role of technological innovation in driving conflict. For Prometheus, it’s the arts of civilization, especially firemaking. Today, it’s the availability of modern abortion technologies that are safe and ensure women’s reproductive health; it’s aggressive end-of-life care protocols like ventilator support, resuscitation, and the feeding tube that can keep people alive long after their quality of life has diminished irreparably; it’s also powerful microscopes and lab techniques that enable work on a cellular level. What the ancient myth is trying to say is that technological innovation changes our world immeasurably—generates all sorts of new questions—and thus can’t help but spark conflict. It did for Prometheus, and it does for us, it will continue to do so in the future.

The task before us, as we walk the narrow ridge, is only to do all that can be done. Not to shoulder a burden of shame for being unable to clean up that which is inherently messy—and by that I mean the human condition. Technological innovation will shake things up. Established orders will be transgressed, in pursuit of what some people think is progress. Each side will see the other as some kind of thief, and feelings will run high. (Remember this last point in particular, when we get to a quote from Tom DeLay in a moment.)

It’s just the human condition, and we can do only all that can be done. This honesty about ourselves can be a source of encouragement for us, and now here is another source: this insight: that acknowledging the complexity of issues surrounding abortion and euthanasia and stem cell research is OK to do—that it doesn’t represent some kind of evasion or avoidance of duty, as when some politicians filibuster a bill to death, or some fundamentalists spout bumper-sticker theology, as in “The Bible says it, I believe it, that settles it.” The issues are just too complex for this. Each specific case has unique aspects that can’t be ignored as we evaluate them. There can be multiple moral principles that appear to apply equally and yet are in conflict with each other. There can even be a single moral rule we all agree on—people on all sides of the debate—and yet this single rule is interpreted and applied differently.

Take the Terri Schiavo case. For about 15 years, Terri had been in a persistent vegetative state. If you had looked at a CAT scan of her brain, you would have seen that large portions of it were gone, replaced by cerebrospinal fluid. Recovery was simply not possible. So in 2000, Florida state judge George Greer ruled that Terri would not have wanted to continue living under her circumstances because they were undignified, the quality of her life was negligible, so he ordered her feeding tube removed. That was in 2000, and after that, the controversy only increased. The tube was removed only to be replaced by virtue of a civil suit coming from Terri’s parents. They wanted her to remain alive as long as possible because they believed that all life, no matter what its quality happens to be, is sacred. On March 18, 2005, Terri’s feeding tube was once again removed. That’s when congressional leaders decided to intervene. House Majority Leader (at the time) Tom Delay called it “an act of medical terrorism” and also said, “one thing that God has brought us is Terri Schiavo, to help elevate the visibility of what is going on in America.” That’s what he said—and I wonder if this is how Zeus might have sounded, when he found out about Prometheus stealing fire—all self-righteous and pompous…. In the end, in an act that was widely hailed as unconstitutional, all but five House Republicans voted for emergency legislation throwing the Schiavo case into the federal courts, the Senate agreed, and President Bush signed it into law.

It was a mess. Feelings running high on all sides. Highly ironic, since all sides saw themselves as speaking on behalf of human dignity. The Golden Rule. Love One Another. Do No Harm. Revere Life. This is the spiritual core of morality, the center, the essence, and we are united in this. Every religion on this planet, from every age, says the same basic thing. Love One Another. How can we disagree on that?

Yet this core religious value, which unites us in the abstract: what happens when we use it to help us figure out social policy—or the politics of whether or not to remove Terri’s feeding tube? All of a sudden, we find ourselves deeply divided, because what does Human Dignity mean, exactly? How do you interpret it in terms of legislation, or rules?

Human Dignity: these two simple words hide a world of complexity. Are we talking quality of life, so when the quality is poor, one’s human dignity is violated and the right-to-die practice of euthanasia is justified? Or does human dignity mean the sanctity of life no matter what, no matter what the condition, so even if you have someone in a persistent vegetative state for 15 years you keep the feeding tube in, because life is an absolute value, life is a great mystery, like a star shining, and who are we to say exactly when the shine should end?

In other words, we’re not all reasoning from the same set of premises. We might possess a different set of facts, or a different set of errors. How about different social biases? Different takes on science, or scripture? Different emotional premises? Though we all start with the same Golden Rule, different premises will lead us to different conclusions.

Things can’t help but be complex, and communication difficult, when a reality like this is before us. That’s why President Obama’s commencement speech at Notre Dame is so important and yet another source of encouragement—the third and last source for our purposes here and now. How do we work through the conflicts? Not by “reducing those with differing views to caricature.” Bill O’Reilly on Fox News, for example, referring to Dr. George Tiller as “Tiller the Baby Killer,” saying “He’s guilty of Nazi stuff.” And then some liberal activists, on the other hand, taking the worst side of the pro-life camp (exemplified by people like Bill O’Reilly) and making it sound like this is the best it has to offer, and thus easily and instantly dismissing it.

Not like this. But through “fair-minded words.” “Because when we do that,” says President Obama, “when we open up our hearts and minds to those who may not think precisely like we do or believe precisely what we believe, that’s when we discover at least the possibility of common ground. That’s when we begin to say, ‘Maybe we won’t agree on abortion, but we can still agree that this heart-wrenching decision for any women is not made casually, it has both moral and spiritual dimensions.’”

Life is perennially messy. The ancient myth of Prometheus tells us that. Yet we must again and again strive to find out how we can live together as one human family. Stop the increasing trend towards violence and hate speech. Hold the Bill O’Reilly’s of both the right and the left accountable. Begin again in love. Discover at least the possibility of common ground, and courageously move forward. That’s how we cross the narrow ridge. That’s how.

Listen to this story from Paul Kivel, from his book Men’s Work: How to Stop the Violence That Tears Our Lives Apart:

It’s Sunday night and my son, Ariel, is supposed to be finishing his week’s homework assignment, due tomorrow. He sits down at the table, looks at the last page and says, “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?” I ask in disbelief.

“I don’t have an encyclopedia.”

“But we went through this last week. You are supposed to check your homework ahead of time to see if you need an encyclopedia. I’ve told you before that’s not an acceptable excuse.” I can feel my anger rise.

“I looked at it. It’s a crossword puzzle on domestic cats. I didn’t think I needed an encyclopedia.”

[At this, Paul Kivel says] I know I’m stuck. There’s no way he can do the assignment. Once again he has managed to postpone some of his work so that when the final hour comes he can’t finish it.

“Can I watch television now?” he asks in all innocence.

“No, you can’t. I told you that you couldn’t watch television until your homework was done; I said that forgetting to bring home the right books isn’t an excuse.”

“But Dad…”

“That’s it. You can just sit there and figure out a way to do your assignment.”

I leave and he starts to cry. We both feel terrible.

That’s the story, from Paul Kivel. A snapshot of a difficult fathering moment, on this day that we honor fathering even as we brave difficult territory and go deeper into what it all means.

As I shared this story, how many of you felt yourself tensing up? You’ve been there, done that. You know what it is like to be that kid, on the receiving end of an authority figure saying angrily, “You can just sit there and figure out a way to do your assignment.” Resenting their power over you, in the face of your own seeming powerlessness. You’ve been there, done that. And perhaps you’ve been the authority figure as well. Your parents said such words to you, and now you say them. You say them, feeling responsible for the wellbeing of your children. You say them, feeling the heavy burden on your shoulders.

Fathers can feel this in a unique way. As a father myself, I can honestly testify to an underlying desperation, linked to a sense of ultimate and absolute responsibility. Behind it is an anxious thought process, running like a broken record, which sounds like this: If you don’t teach your kids now, immediately, they will grow up to be failures. Let them off the hook—cut them some slack—and you are neglecting your responsibility. Make them do what’s best, right now—it’s ridiculous to give them a say in the matter. What do they know? But you know the discipline they need, and they need it if they are going to succeed in this world. Drill it into them. When I say “jump,” they better respond with “how high.”

That’s the anxious thought process. That’s the kind of desperation fathers can carry into their fathering. “You can just sit there and figure out a way to do your assignment.” Desperation separating fathers from children and disempowering children even as the fathers are trying to connect with them and care for them. Desperation that even causes some to absent themselves entirely from the process. Too intense. Too overwhelming.

Listen to this dream I had maybe 20 years ago. “I’m in a strange and dark classroom, stuffed into a desk that’s way too small and hurts. My Dad is teaching me how to analyze images. He assigns homework. But I don’t think I need any of this, because I love my Dad. I love him. I tell him how I feel, but he doesn’t believe me. I try my best to prove it, but nothing works. He just continues lecturing, relentlessly.”

Something like this is precisely what happened to Paul Kivel, at the death bed of his own father. “He had few words for anyone during his illness,” he says. “But one week, when the doctors told him his heart was working at only 25 percent capacity, he suddenly wanted to tell me a great deal about what he thought I should know. With sadness, self-pity, and anger … he not only explained to me what he thought was important financially, he also made a final attempt to get me to value the things he had—security, stability, family, and civic responsibility. On his deathbed he was trying to get me to shoulder that role while conveying his anger and despair that he would be unable to do it himself. In his eyes he had failed on two counts. [For myself,] I had romanticized his death and though, Aha, there will yet be a final scene when he confesses his love for me. Then we will cry in each other’s arms and forgive each other. Instead, after unloading all the family business onto my shoulders and criticizing me, he lay back on his bed. My mother said, ‘Why don’t you tell Paul you love him and appreciate what he’s doing?’ My father simply said, ‘No, he doesn’t need that ego-boosting stuff.’”

What tragic, painful irony. And I know that this does not do justice to all the varieties of fathering out there, or experiences of our Dads. I admit this up front. Yet there is enough frustration around fathering to suggest that we are on to something significant. In the hearts of too many of our Dads: strangeness and darkness. Love, felt as desperation, felt as a sense of overwhelming and ultimate responsibility, held anxiously, conveyed through harshness, leading to the tragic, painful irony. “On the days I am not my father,” writes poet Scott Owens,

I don’t yell. I don’t hold inside
the day’s supply of frustrations.
My hands stay open all day.
I don’t wake tired and sore,
dazed from senseless, panicking
dreams. […]

On the days I am not my father …
I listen well.
I let things go unfinished,
in an order I didn’t plan.
My mouth is relaxed. My teeth
don’t hurt. My face stays
a healthy shade of pink all day.
On the days I am not my father
I don’t fill the silence with my own
irrational rants. I don’t resent
the voices of others. I don’t make fun
of you to make myself feel better.

On the days I am not my father…. What’s going on here? The clenched fist, the fatigue, the tense mouth, the gritted teeth, the red face, the irrational rants, the cruelty?

I go back to my dream of the dark classroom. The desk that I am sitting in, that squeezes me with its smallness, that makes my body hurt. Dad drilling his lesson into me, relentlessly. I believe that there are times when dreams communicate a poetry of the soul, and perhaps my soul, 20 or so years ago, was telling me something about my training as a man. How it’s like a Procrustean bed—an arbitrary standard to which exact conformity is enforced. If a part is too big, it gets cut off. Too small, and it is stretched. That’s where the clenched fist comes from, and the fatigue, the tense mouth, the gritted teeth, the red face, the irrational rants, the cruelty. All of it inescapably carried into one’s fathering, to some degree or another, for fathers are men first.

“Be a man,” the entire world says to a boy. The message coming not just from fathers, but mothers too, the media, teachers, and peers. Also from the only kinds of initiation rites that are generally available to men today, centering primarily around team sports, military life, gang life, and prison. All of them, sources of a surprisingly consistent message, which the following scenario tries to convey. (It comes from The Oakland Men’s Project, with which Paul Kivel is associated.) Here it is: imagine a ten-year-old-boy in a chair at home watching television. His Dad walks through the door holding a piece of paper:

DAD: Turn off that set.
SON: Aw Dad….
DAD: Turn it off. Now! This place is a mess; why isn’t it cleaned up?
SON: I was going to do it after this show.
DAD: Excuses. You always have excuses. Do you have an excuse for this? What is this?
SON: My report card.
DAD: Look at this right here: math, D.
SON: I did the best I could.
DAD: Sure you did. You’re just stupid. You know what D stands for? It stands for Dummy.
SON: (Starting to get up) That’s not fair.
DAD: Sit down. I didn’t say you could go anyplace.
SON: (looks down, near tears)
DAD: What’s the matter, you gonna cry about it? Poor little mamma’s boy. You’re just a wimp. (Pushes him off the chair onto floor) When are you gonna grow up and act like a man around here? (Storms off)
SON: (Picks himself off the floor. He’s angry, confused, hurt, says to himself:) “He’s always coming in here yelling, pushing me around, shouting at me to be a man. I hate it! It’s not fair!”

And that’s the scenario. A dark classroom. In other words: numb yourself to your feelings. Stay sitting down when you want to stand up. Be suspicious towards your tears. Ridicule yourself whenever an emotion emerges that registers vulnerability.

“Be a man.” Kill the instinct you have to take your confusion to other people, so you can get clarity about what you are feeling. Kill your need for real friendship and intimacy. Learn to be lonely.

“Be a man.” Of course you can have male friends, but these will only be people you will measure yourself against in competition. Never ever anything else. You can’t turn to them for support—that’s for sure. That’s what a wife is for. You can dump all your intimacy needs on her, and she’ll be your lifeline. You really only need one source of emotional sustenance in life, and that’s her.

“Be a man.” Take responsibility for your success. Control and conquer. There can be no excuses, ever.

That’s the overt training on how to be a man. That’s what it looks like on the outside, if not at home, then on the streets, in the playground, on the Internet and TV, at work, at war. “Be a man.” Success is the goal, but the problem is that what we have here is a perfect recipe for failure. One cannot possibly be strong unless one is whole in oneself and connected to others, but “be a man” means having your feelings cut off and being cut off from others—doubly so if you happen to be gay. “Be a man” is all about power and control, but this makes men (gay and straight) only feel worse about their lives and not better, makes them do desperate things to prove their manhood. Men all their lives wondering, Am I a man yet? Have I finally made the grade? Paul Kivel’s father on his deathbed, conveying his anger and despair at not having lived up to his responsibilities, and not even death can be an excuse. There can be no excuses, ever.

It’s a recipe for failure. It’s why, as Paul Kivel says, “the fabric of men’s lives is interwoven with violence.” When you’ve been bullied, you bully others, you pass the hurt around to counter the feelings of powerlessness. Some aspects of this are clearly visible, as in the case of physical violence. Rape. Gay bashing. Husbands beating up wives, even killing them—no doubt when the wife failed, for one reason or another, to live up to the impossible expectation that she should meet every one of the emotional and intimacy needs that the husband has dumped on her.

“Be a man” ends up being more about passing the hurt around than anything else. If not physical violence, then verbal violence, or violence against oneself: men going overboard drinking, or ignoring their health needs and refusing to take care of themselves. And then there are other kinds of violence, far more subtle: stone cold silence. Paul Kivel’s father, on his deathbed, refusing to bless his son, saying “No, he doesn’t need that ego-boosting stuff.” Subtle violence: the desperation that fathers can feel, when they bring to fathering their “be a man” training—desperation that presses down upon them, makes it impossible for them to let up, ease up, cease from trying to drill the discipline into their kids NOW.

But desperation is not the last word. Men can get up off the Procrustean bed of their “be a man” training and become whole again. Stop passing around the hurt. Grow back the parts that have been cut off. Allow the parts that have been stretched to resume their proper proportion. Father their children from out a more healthy place. Success like this—real success—can absolutely happen.

There can be a new morning. A significant part of this involves consciousness-raising, in which three different kinds of things happen simultaneously. One is a growing awareness of how one has been trained to “be a man”—going right back to all those moments when you were sitting in the chair, and someone said something or did something that did not feel fair, and you were about to stand up in protest, but then you heard the all-powerful voice of Dad saying, “Sit down. I didn’t say you could go anyplace.” So you sat back down. Becoming aware of these kinds of moments, what it felt like for your integrity to be violated. Crying tears that have been so deeply stuffed for so long. It is an awakening, and it hurts. It can make you long to go back to the numbness. Yet the only way out is through.

Which leads to the second aspect of consciousness-raising: male friendship. Safe places in which one can be heard into speech. Encouragement from others who have been there, or are there with you right now. This congregation’s men’s group, for example, meeting on a regular basis—aiming for a different kind of male bonding. Not competition, not hatred of some “other,” but honest sharing, mutuality, respect for others, and emotional risk taking. “The kind,” says Paul Kivel, “we often envy women for, the kind that we each long for ourselves.”

Growing awareness of our “be a man” training, growing friendship, and then this: growing capacity to let go of the desperate need to control. That’s the third aspect of male consciousness-raising, all to the end of learning how to father from a more healthy place.

For Paul Kivel, it happened like this. Go back to the fight he had with his son, over homework. In the days following this, he reflected on what had happened, drew on his awareness of his “be a man” training, talked about it with his men’s group, and came to the realization that things weren’t working precisely because he had all the power and all the responsibility. He says, “I resented my responsibility and Ariel resented my power. It finally occurred to me to sit down and talk about it with him.”

I told him I didn’t like playing the enforcer when it came to his completing his homework assignments; I didn’t like yelling. But I was concerned and wanted to know what kind of support he needed from me.

“What I need from you is to back off some, stop yelling at me every day about my assignments.”

“What can I do? Stay out of it completely?”

“No, don’t stay out of it, just lighten up some.”

“What else would help?”

“Ask me when I’m going to do my homework instead of telling me to do it. Then I can plan out the right time.”

“What if you save it till you’re too late and you’re too tired?”

“I just won’t save it all for late.”

[At this point, Paul Kivel says that he bit his tongue. He found this hard to believe, but he didn’t say anything, just this:] “Okay, it sounds good to me.”

“Yeah [his son responded], I need you to answer questions about the assignments and things.”

“Sure.”

And that was the conversation Paul Kivel had with his son. “It was a tremendous relief,” he says, “to both of us. It didn’t completely end the arguments, but it confirmed that we were both on the same side. It also shifted the responsibility from me to him for planning his homework schedule. The next day after school he told me his schedule he had planned. And he followed it. He still forgets his books at times, or loses assignments. But he doesn’t feel like a billiard ball bouncing between the wrath of school and home. He feels in charge of his homework and I feel like his ally.”

Now that’s a father’s blessing. That’s what real success looks like.

During this year’s Ministry Days and General Assembly, the trend toward multiculturalism in American society came up repeatedly—most notably in Paul Rasor’s Berry Street Lecture and UUA President Peter Morales’ campaign speeches.

Paul Rasor asks, “Is our brand of religious liberalism fatally linked to a demographic that’s fading?” In 2042, projections indicate that white people will compose only 50.8% of the population. Will we still be a faith community that is 90% white, as we are today and as we have been for the past 10 years, even after all the proactive antiracism, multiculturalism work of leaders in our denomination? “We face a major turning point: will we stand, or will we move?”

Echoing this, President Morales says, “One of our problems is we have a faith with enormous appeal, but we need to stop packaging it in Yankee culture.” We need “a new faith for a new America.”

Our congregational culture proves to be a barrier to many people who would otherwise love to be a part of us because they love what we love: the promise of personal and social transformation through free religion. Of what does this culture consist? From comments shared by Rosemary Bray McNatt, following on the heels of Paul Rasor’s lecture, this culture is a matter of aesthetic and lifestyle preferences: “We don’t own TVs, don’t like gospel and pop music and definitely don’t like rap, are unapologetic nature lovers, eat locally, say NO to shopping at Wal Mart, listen to NPR, love Garrison Keillor, read ahead in the hymnal to see if we agree with the words we are about to sing.” But, says Rosemary, “how does this allow us to encounter people whose experience of church is different? What’s their entry point into our congregations?”

I can personally attest to this. As Lead Minister of the Pathways Church project (the initial “rapid-start large church”) from 2003-2007, I was given this marching order: think outside of the Unitarian Universalist box, explore ways in which non-UU churches attract people by the thousands, and then, through trial-and error, create a church that integrates these dynamic elements. Build a new kind of Unitarian Universalist church for a new day, one that is at its core UU even as, on the surface, it might look and feel very different from what UUs are used to.

I can personally attest to what Paul, Peter, and Rosemary are getting at because the people who resisted this the most and gave me the most trouble were existing Unitarian Universalists. By contrast, people who had never heard of Unitarian Universalism before and found us (or we found them) were delighted, excited, on board and wanting more. But not existing UUs. Part of this definitely related to worship style. At Pathways, we modeled our worship after the intense, full-immersion worship favored by many evangelical and non-denominational congregations. Our music was primarily popular—one time we even did some rap—and it proved to be the golden thread that ran throughout our services, at times joyfully energizing us while, at other times, taking us to sweet silent places of prayer and reflection. Our services also appealed to multiple-learning styles in that they featured visual, dramatic, and kinesthetic components. I will never forget after one of our first services, how a 75 year-old-woman came up to me and said that it was the best worship she had ever experienced in her life. She loved the music. She loved the slice-of-life dramas. She loved the multimedia. The lesson is clear: it’s absolutely false to say that only youth and young adults prefer contemporary worship. Many people in this world hunger after worship that helps them connect with energy and joy in the idiom of contemporary American life. Many people, that is, who are not already Unitarian Universalist. I can’t tell you how many times I was “pecked to death” by people who came to us from other Unitarian Universalist congregations—people whose sense of what is proper for UU culture was mortally offended by what they were experiencing in our pews. They smelled white trash, and they sneered.

Pathways definitely taught me that Unitarian Universalism, as it is practiced in most if not all of our congregations, is an ethnic religion with cultural norms. Violate the norms, and you are in trouble. Free religion only in mind but not where freedom most fully and truly resides: in the heart and in the body.

And yet…. Even as I can personally relate to what Paul and Peter and Rosemary are saying, I feel that there are other, more significant obstacles to people entering into our faith (and staying). I am particularly struck by how all such obstacles tend to remain generally unspoken, unsaid, and unacknowledged.

One of these unspoken obstacles came to light for me during the opening events at General Assembly. During the opening plenary, outgoing UUA President Bill Sinkford reviewed the highlights of his administration’s achievements, and part of this included a recitation of injustice after injustice in the world, which he enjoined the Unitarian Universalist community to address. Then, during the opening worship that followed, he spoke of truth and reconciliation and formally apologized to representatives of local Indian tribes for what we did in the 19th century: our complicity (however ineffective) in the U. S. government’s initiative to “civilize” the indigenous tribes of Utah and elsewhere. By no means do I think that such an apology was unnecessary. By no means do I think that the evils of the world should go unchecked. Yet the whole thing, from first to last, was so solemn, so earnest, so suggestive of … overfunctioning. I sensed behind it all a larger pattern—a troubling pattern—which I will call “the Unitarian Universalist superego.”

Historically, our UU superego can be traced back to our Boston Brahmin forbearers, though the form it takes today reflects great distance from those social movers and shakers and the transformation of many years. Now it is a moralism that combines masochism with workaholism. Every evil in the world becomes our problem—its very existence suggests some kind of collaboration on our part, unwitting if not witting. And since we are interrupted Calvinists who have rejected the guilt-discharging techniques of our ancient ancestors without replacing them with anything else, the sense of guilt just builds and builds. Can’t get away from it. Our backs ache from the accumulated weight. We have become guilt-grubbers. We look for ways to kick ourselves.

The UU superego is into masochism, and it is into workaholism. We must be overachievers, in the lead attacking every social ill. Theologically, it’s not enough to become familiar with one world religious tradition—we’ve got to know them all, in addition to every liberal art and every science. Our dreams have got to be the biggest. And if we are going to do “diversity,” well, then, we’re gonna do Noah’s Ark diversity. We’re gonna gather two of every possible kind within our walls—we’re going to aspire to doing something only a God could do. We are going to act like the God that most of us don’t believe in. It’s all up to us. Poet Wendell Berry says, “Not by your will is the house carried through the night,” but we don’t believe it. It’s ALL up to us. If we don’t do it, it’s not going to happen.

Now I know that I verge upon exaggeration. I know it. Yet every time I hear a key UU voice reciting a litany of all the evils in the world, together with the message that we’ve just got to DO something, I feel the weight of the Unitarian Universalist superego: the masochism, the workaholism. What a heavy burden we place upon our shoulders. What a heavy burden we place upon the shoulders of those who come to us.

Makes me wonder what Meg Barnhouse’s surly waitress would have to say to us. “In my life,” says Meg, “I have certain things to take care of: my children, my relationships, my work, myself, and one or two causes. That’s it. Other things are not my table. I would go nuts if I tried to take care of everyone, if I tried to make everybody do the right thing. If I went through my life without ever learning to say, ‘Sorry, that’s not my table, Hon,’ I would burn out and be no good to anybody. I need to have a surly waitress inside myself that I can call on when it seems that everyone in the world is waving an empty coffee cup in my direction. My Inner Waitress looks over at them, keeping her six plates balanced and her feet moving, and says, ‘Sorry, Hon, not my table.’”

We need to have a surly waitress within ourselves and within our movement, so we don’t burn out.

The next day, I went to Mark Morrison-Reed’s workshop entitled “The Perversity of Diversity.” In it, I was delighted to encounter a message that echoed my own sensibilities somewhat. It was my first GA workshop—I came there right after breakfast at the Radisson, during which I spent most of the time gulping coffee and writing cranky things in my journal. Mark shared his own thoughts about how UUism is an ethnic religion. He affirmed how, as a liberal religion, we are especially responsive to currents and trends in contemporary life, saying, “Rather than leading, we are reaping the rewards of a changing society. The growth of the black and Hispanic middle class has led to more blacks and Hispanics in our pews.” Mark also put his finger on how we assign ourselves incredibly ambitious goals and then, when (of course) we fall short, we fret, we self-flagellate. It’s moral workaholism, moral masochism: the UU superego. I know it well, since that’s exactly what the Pathways experience made perfectly clear. The ambitious and beautiful dreams that led to it; the incredible consternation and embarrassment and outrage that exploded when things did not unfold as expected and the small church did not become large instantly, as if it were some bag of microwave popcorn. As for the people who risked much to do a new thing: scant gratitude. Small thanks.

President Morales: “One of our problems is we have a faith with enormous appeal, but we need to stop packaging it in Yankee culture.” Yes. But more important is that our faith returns to a sense of genuine reverence, as defined by philosopher Paul Woodruff: “Reverence is the virtue that helps human beings from trying to act like God.” “Reverence and a keen eye for the ridiculous are allies: both keep people from being pompous or stuck up.” It’s Meg Barnhouse’s surly inner waitress, coaching us to loosen up. We can take ourselves way too seriously. We can become anti-liberal and inegalitarian in our enthusiasm. We can become overcontrolling of each other. We can nurture a sectarian spirit that makes us feel superior to all the other religionists who are working for world peace too. Perhaps if we talked more about God we would be better humanists. We would do a better job remembering our human limitations.

Of course we should aspire to bring healing and wholeness to the world. Of course we should incarnate our “many ways” theology and celebration of life in communities of vibrant diversity. Of course. But let this not become a moralistic burden, one we are lectured into by a superego that continually whispers in our ears that we are shameful. Our surly inner waitress needs to counter and silence our Unitarian Universalist surperego. Only then will we recognize what is and what is not our table.

Mostly, I’m talking about the need for an attitude adjustment. Resisting the anxious, perfectionistic impulse to clean up the messiness of the world. Savoring the world so that our impulse to save it flows out of a sense of abundance and love. Serving out of the deep knowledge that we exist in partnership with a grace-filled universe. “Not by your will is the house carried through the night,” says Wendell Berry:

The grace that is the health of creatures can only be held in common.
In healing the scattered members come together.
In health the flesh is graced, the holy enters the world.

What if, for example, this grace and this health were the focus of the opening worship at General Assembly, every year? Starting out, not by reciting an earnest litany of social evils and injustice, but by remembering and invoking the grace and the health in which we live and move and have our being? The President of the UUA, saying, “Here we all are, gathered together again, and the Spirit of Life is with us as well, within us and between us, leading us towards more strength and more healing and more peace. Let’s see where it takes us, in our time together. Let’s expect to be surprised. Let’s see where we go….”

The attitude adjustment is remembering always to serve out of a visceral sense of grace and abundance. Put this at our center, and our cultural ethos will be far more sustainable and far more encouraging. We will indeed repel fewer visitors and retain more members, but more importantly, we will be making our contribution to the healing of the world, and we will trust that, however imperfect or limited our contribution, the gracious universe will turn it into some good. It will be enough.

The holidays always take me back to times at my grandparents’, when I was a kid. 9655 81st Street in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. The trip from my home in Peace River would take around six hours; we’d leave after Dad got off work at the clinic and drive all 300 miles south listening to eight track tapes of family favorites, including Barry Manilow, ABBA, Captain and Tennille, the Bee Gees, but also Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, and the Red Russian Army Choir booming out “Kalinka.” All this great music, filling up the inside of our 1970s wood-paneled station wagon, as we sailed through the frigid night. Then, the music would click off, and this was the sign: we’d arrived. I’d instantly wake up. Baba and Dido’s house. Christmas lights like electric gumdrops framing the windows. Sometimes even Northern Lights high above, a shimmering red and green river running through the Alberta sky. Baba and Dido, waiting for us in their warm kitchen with a big tray of sandwiches (some of which were onion for my Dad: onion, salt and pepper, bread, and that’s it—a favorite of his, but not my Mom’s).This is how our holidays with them would begin.

And during those holidays: abundant time for the imagination. Mom and Dad and Baba and Dido busy doing adult stuff; so my brothers and I had to figure out what to do for ourselves. No computers or video games. No Charlie McButton temptations. Just the low-tech mysteries of a creaky house with lots of old things to explore. Strange but cool smells. Mothballs. My Dad’s old bedroom: his Boy Scout uniform hanging in plastic in the closet and, on a shelf, the classic book Tom Sawyer, with this inscription: “To Robert Makar, from Joan Scott.” Joan Scott? Who was that? Did my Mom know?

Then there was Dido’s office. He had come over from the Ukraine in the 1930s—didn’t speak a word of English, but with his immigrant ethic of hard work, he learned in no time. There, on the office wall: a big plaque honoring his 40+ years of service in the Canadian National Railway, as a carpenter. And on his shelves, all sorts of books which I suspect he never read but collected because he knew that education was the way to success. I loved to flip through them.

Finally, in the TV room in the basement, best of all: a huge wooden table with thick legs like tree trunks, to which my brother and I would haul big sofa cushions. We’d make a fort; and in the deep darkness of that fort we’d click on the flashlight and start the storytelling. Supremely low tech, but supremely high yield. Avatar in 3D simply can’t compare.

Just some of the memories that the holidays bring back for me. Nothing really accomplished in those times, no big or even small projects completed; and yet from those seasons of free play came a sense of history and identity and creative ability, growing quietly and resolutely. Nothing less than imagination coming into focus in me, and about this, the writer of Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain, once said, “When your imagination is out of focus, you can’t depend on your eyes.” Focus the imagination first, and then you will see truly.

That’s what I want to talk about this morning, as we explore chapters three and four in Walden: what it takes to focus the imagination, and how this represents time well spent. “I love a broad margin to my life,” says Thoreau. “Sometimes, in a summer morning,” he says, “having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller’s wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been.” That’s what Thoreau says. It’s all about imagination coming into focus, in order to see truly. Doesn’t matter whether it happens at Walden Pond in summertime Concord or Baba and Dido’s house in wintertime Edmonton or your own house here in Atlanta, in cold January. What matters is time well spent in the cultivation of the human spirit, as we move into a new year and a new decade. Growing like corn in the night.

But it is a controversial issue, and Thoreau knew it. He sat in his sunny doorway, there at the edge of Walden Pond, in pursuit of a broad margin to his life, with or without a book to read, and he could just feel the withering disdain of many of his fellow-townsmen. To them it was, no doubt, “sheer idleness,” but, he says, “if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard, I should not have been found wanting.”

Thoreau stands with nature, as he critiques his contemporaries. Being the gadfly he is—a modern-day Socrates—he wants people to recognize how they are stuck. “I do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to be flattered by them,” he says, “for that will not advance either of us. We need to be provoked—goaded like oxen, as we are, into a trot.” So he takes us to task for our common prejudice against creative loafing, doodling, doing nothing. Far better to cram our days with important things to do; far better to push ourselves to do more and do it faster. For it is said: “idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Doing nothing structured raises suspicions. It raises anxieties.

It definitely does for parents, especially these days. One child psychologist says, “This generation of parents has swallowed whole, and in some cases, is choking on, the belief that the sooner you expose a child to learning, the more he or she will learn. If they don’t get it during those critical early childhood years, well, forget Harvard.” Another psychologist says, “As a society, we have talked ourselves into believing that we have to make every moment count, and that we have to fill our children as we would empty vessels. Parents feel compelled to give their kids every advantage they can afford. So they cram their days with art, music, sports, and even weekend enrichment programs.” No wonder that kids today have half as much free time as they did 30 years ago. That’s what a national study coming out of the University of Michigan Institute for Social Research shows. Kids are as time crunched as their parents.

And the intentions are all good. We want our kids to be all that they can be. But the trend to overschedule is backfiring. Children, with a range of symptoms from headaches and stomachaches to temper tantrums, sleeping problems, an inability to concentrate in school, an inability to tolerate and manage boredom. As for parents: stress and exhaustion. Running a frantic race to keep up. More at home on the road than in their own living rooms.

Above all, the idea that it’s a waste of time to do nothing is false. The co-author of a book entitled Einstein Never Used Flashcards: How Our Children Really Learn and Why They Need to Play More and Memorize Less, Kathy Hirsch-Pasek, Ph.D., says, “There is a myth that doing nothing is wasting time, when it’s actually extremely productive and essential. During empty hours, kids explore the world at their own pace, develop their own unique set of interests and indulge in the sort of fantasy play that will help them figure out how to create their own happiness, handle problems with others on their own, and sensibly manage their own time. They need time to recharge their batteries and process what they’ve learned. Free time allows them to explore, to be scientists, discoverers, creators, and innovators. They do that when they build pillow forts in the family room, sail away in a laundry basket to a foreign land, or find the remarkable in the mundane.” Dr. Hirsch-Patek continues: “In our well-intentioned efforts to give our children the best of everything, perhaps we’ve forgotten the importance of a balanced life. As parents, we have a choice. We can groom our children to be worker bees—to take in information and it spit right back out—or we can help them be creative problem-solvers, to look at a cloud and see dinosaurs or birds, to be energized by their own imaginations and curiosity. That’s where doing nothing, sometimes even to the point of being bored, comes in.”

In other words: corn needs night to grow in. What Dr. Hirsch-Patek is arguing for, and what Thoreau is arguing for, is a greater sense of trust in this, which is ultimately self-trust. Why anxiously fill our children up, and fill ourselves up, as if we were empty vessels when, in fact, we are already full of good things just waiting to be recognized, powers to be released, creativity unleashed? This is exactly what Thoreau is talking about when he says, “I love a broad margin to my life.” The margin is where the wild things are. The margin is where the magic is, which can be brought in to infuse all our living. No wonder he loves it. No wonder he invites it in, as he sits there in the sunny doorway of his cabin at Walden pond from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, in defiance of the anxious busy-ness of his neighbors. Like corn in the night, he grows.

And he invites us to do the same. It’s not just about our children. It’s about all of us. We all need a broad margin to our lives. Imagination focused, so that we can see the world truly. Time well spent.

Reading is a big part of it. “How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!” he says. “There are probably words addressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could really hear and understand, would be more salutary than the morning or the spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the face of things for us.” For Thoreau, it’s the classics that do this best. Plato, Shakespeare, Emerson, scriptures from the world’s religious traditions, helping us see things from angles that we’re not necessarily used to. A book called Walden. Lifting us up out of our near-sightedness and putting us up in the balcony, giving us a balcony view of our lives. “These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us,” he says, “have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life.” And at the very least, even if their answers cannot be our answers, still, our way of imagining ourselves is shifted, we feel surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, we feel welcomed into a common purpose of wisdom-seeking that spans millennia, and in this we can experience genuine consolation. Says Thoreau, “The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision.” We are united across the generations. We are not alone.

Besides this, reading has what Thoreau calls a “liberalizing” impact. Just listen to this quote, which makes him sound exactly like a contemporary Unitarian Universalist preacher: “The solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of Concord, who has had his second birth and peculiar religious experience … may think it is not true; but Zoroaster, thousands of years ago, travelled the same road and had the same experience; but he, being wise, knew it to be universal, and treated his neighbors accordingly, and is even said to have invented and established worship among men. Let him humbly commune with Zoroaster then, and through the liberalizing influence of all the worthies, with Jesus Christ himself, and let ‘our church’ go by the board.” In other words, become post-Christian! Don’t leave Jesus Christ behind, but join him with Zoroaster, the Buddha, and Lao-Tzu, and wise women and men of all places and times. How we imagine religions is changed forever, through reading.

If, of course, we read, and read well. But, says Thoreau, “Most men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of; — and yet we learn to read only as far as Easy Reading, the primers and class-books…; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very low level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins.” Oh, it drives Thoreau nuts. How shallow reading and limited reading dry up the imagination, impoverish its vocabulary, narrow its scope and power, render it fuzzy. Can’t imagine what he would say about today’s mass media culture. We’ve got unparalleled technology in something like Google Earth, yet increasing ignorance about the basics of world geography. More than 40% of Americans under the age of 44 did not read a single book—fiction or nonfiction—last year. “The mind of this country, taught to aim at low objects, eats upon itself.” That’s Ralph Waldo Emerson, who joins Thoreau in a concern that is by no means new.

He also joins Thoreau in his approach to focusing the imagination that balances reading with something else equally important: sustained attention to the things of the world. Direct experience. Listen to what Emerson says in his American Scholar address from 1837: “Books,” he says, “are the best of things, well used; abused, among the worst. […] Man Thinking must not be subdued by his instruments. Books are for the scholar’s idle times. When he can read God directly, the hour is too precious to be wasted in other men’s transcripts of their readings.” That’s Emerson. And as it happened so often, Emerson wrote about it, and Thoreau lived it. Thus Thoreau’s social experiment of one at Walden Pond. Him sitting in his sunny doorway, rapt in a revery, reading God directly in everything around him so as to feel personally connected, so as to feel like he belongs. Reading God in the railroad, as when he envisions the whistle of the locomotive as the scream of a hawk sailing over some farmer’s yard, or the train engine as a fiery steed, shaking the earth with his feet, breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils. Reading God also in his natural surroundings: the distant lowing of the cows, the whip-poor-wills “chanting their vespers,” the hoot owls, the screech owls. “When other birds are still,” says Thoreau, “the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning women their ancient u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is truly Ben Jonsonian. Wise midnight hags! It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tu-who of the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the infernal groves. Yet I love to hear their wailing, their doleful responses, trilled along the woodside; reminding me sometimes of music and singing birds; as if it were the dark and tearful side of music, the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung. They are the spirits, the low spirits and melancholy forebodings, of fallen souls that once in human shape night-walked the earth and did the deeds of darkness, now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions. They give me a new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our common dwelling. Oh-o-o-o-o that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n! sighs one on this side of the pond, and circles with the restlessness of despair to some new perch on the gray oaks. Then — that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n! echoes another on the farther side with tremulous sincerity, and — bor-r-r-r-n! comes faintly from far in the Lincoln woods.”

This is just a sample of many similar passages in chapter four of Walden, and at some point you might have paused to ask yourself, What the heck is Thoreau trying to do here? What’s going on? For myself, I was helped by something I read in a book by creative art therapist Shaun McNiff, called Earth Angels: Engaging the Sacred in Everyday Things. “Sustained attention to the particulars of a thing” he says, “passes through resistance and opens the soul. ‘Depth’ has more to do with staying in compassionate and attentive contact with the presence of another than with revealing ‘deep’ secrets, which may take us away from the immediacy of the present engagement. Deep down is always right here and now.” Again Shaun McNiff says, “The medicine of renewal comes through the imagination and constantly looking at things in different ways, with desire, or at least with aesthetic appreciation. […] I can change the significance of a bus ride I take every day by approaching it aesthetically. […] Personifying the bus expands my compassion for its experience. The demon bus, the thing I loathe to ride, is transformed into a psychic helper who shows me how to look at things differently. Stuckness, boredom, anxieties, and even depression involve a certain failure of imagination….”

And that’s it. Moving into a new year, a new decade, we don’t want imagination to fail us. We want it focused, so we can see the world truly. Reading good books will expand our minds, but then comes the task of sitting with Thoreau in the sunny doorway of his cabin at Walden Pond, allowing for this broad margin in our lives, listening to the sounds of our world, playing with them creatively, transforming them poetically, reviving what we take for granted, personifying train engines and bus rides and traffic and all other things that from one perspective could be seen as horrific, but we befriend them instead, we expand compassion for them. It’s about feeling connected, feeling at home. Time well spent. There is an angel possibility in the uncarved block of marble that lies before us as the new year, and everything depends on whether we can see it. “I saw the angel in the marble,” said Michelangelo, “and carved until I set him free. “ So may we.

“There is a promise that is a common theme in world mythology and folklore,” says philosopher Sam Keen in his book entitled Inward Bound: Exploring the Geography of Your Emotions. “We discover beauty only when we embrace the beast. Where we stumble and fall, there we find the gold. Beneath the fault lies the virtue. The stone the builders reject becomes the cornerstone. The treasure is hidden in the trash. Authentic happiness,” he goes on to say,” is only possible when we allow ourselves to experience the full range of human emotions, including boredom, fear, grief, anger, and despair.”

And so it is. Beauty only when we embrace the beast. And for religious liberals, this point has particular poignancy, since for too long, our movement has been suspicious towards emotion, often wanting to recast religion and the religious life as a hyperlogical sort of thing, presuming that only when you become free of emotion, spiritual sanity and truth will come—but it won’t come. Can’t possibly come. Cutting-edge neuroscience tells us that reason and emotion operate in the very same brain centers, so for one to conquer the other is like cutting off your nose to spite your face. In cases where people’s brains have been damaged—through a stroke, or a tumor, or a blow to the head—and they can no longer feel anything, even though reason and logic remain intact, what happens is that their lives fall apart. They can no longer make even the simplest decisions or set goals for themselves.

Just in pure neurological terms: no beast, no beauty. But also in practical terms. Here, I’m thinking of an article in the UU World magazine from 2009, by my colleague the Rev. Christine Robinson, entitled “Imagineers of Soul,” and I’ll quote her at length. She writes, “Four out of five Unitarian Universalists came to Unitarian Universalism after a childhood spent in other faith communities. We left those communities because we no longer believed what they taught, and we often left wounded and bewildered by our experiences. If we were led to feel that our inability to believe what we were taught was due to a flaw in our nature, we brought with us a burden of shame. […] And because of that deep, shaming message, many Unitarian Universalists experience their rejection of what others believe—and, often, what they themselves used to believe—as not simple or freeing but as complex, angry, brittle, and defensive.

“But we don’t need to pretend to believe what we cannot believe in order to reclaim our spirituality. We Unitarian Universalists mostly have what twentieth century American theologian Martin Marty has called ‘wintry spirituality’: Our religious experience is of doubt, shades of gray, and absence. Although there are plenty of wintry spirits in conventional religious communities, what is celebrated and held up as ‘real spirituality’ is the summery, ‘What a friend I have in Jesus’ sort of spirituality, which comes in many theological variations but which is always celebrating the clear presence of spiritual ideals.

“There are summery Humanists who can hold on to the glories of the human spirit and its potential for unlimited growth even while watching the evening news. There are summery Transcendentalists who have never for a moment doubted that their lives were a part of a Great Plan. There are many among us who live in quiet faith that God is with them. But most UUs are doubters, clearer about what they don’t believe, aware that the ideals or beliefs they hold could be wrong, and experiencing God’s presence or surety of their ideals only in fleeting moments.

“Many people come to our congregations thinking that, since they don’t have an unending conversation with their friend Jesus, they must have no spiritual life at all—a painful thought. They come to us to see if here, by any chance, someone will point them to experiences of depth and wonder and meaningfulness, sans dogma; if something will bring tears to their eyes and strangely warm their hearts. They are hoping to be introduced to a spirituality for agnostics, theists, Transcendentalists, pagans, or liberal Christians that is not dependent on unending sunny days of the soul.

“Once here, they need some help in discerning how their wintry spirituality can feed them. Since they are unlikely to have had soul-shaking spiritual experiences, they need ways to discover the more subtle movings of the Spirit of Life. They need someone to elicit their story about the time the world stood still for them, or how one day, out of nowhere, on a bus, they were released from anxiety and freed to move ahead in their life, to hear those kinds of stories and say, ‘Wow, that sounds wonderful,’ and ‘Yeah, it went away; it does that, you know.’ They need to learn the rich history of wintery believers and faithful skeptics. They will be grateful and they will be able to say to themselves, ‘There’s not something wrong with me after all,’ and they will be healed of their shame.

“Until the healing happens, though, if there is one thing a person who has been shamed knows how to do, it is to shame others in return. That’s how it happens that, amongst Unitarian Universalists, the tools of scorn and shame are so often used to scare off any hints of spirituality.

“At a meeting of the worship committee, one member ventures the thought that she’d be a better worship leader if the group would spend some time talking about the spiritual aspects of worship. ‘I don’t know why you’d want THAT!’ someone says, his voice tinged with scorn. That was the end of that topic. He knew not what he did, and if he’d been called on it, he would have protested that he was just speaking the truth: He can’t imagine why anybody would want to talk about spirituality. If it had been a debate team or a science lab, this rational argument would have done no harm; it might even have provoked those who disagreed to work harder, but in a spiritual community, scorn is deadly.

“Our faith, our thinking about our faith, and our conversations with others about faith don’t do well around belligerent language, close questioning, and scorn. Very few people are willing to talk about their spiritual lives if they think they will be ridiculed or misunderstood.

“Imagine what may be going through a fellow church member’s mind: If I think you are going to laugh at me, ridicule me, or try to prove me wrong, I’m not going to say that when the congregation really gets to singing and clapping with the musicians, that’s when I feel the spirit move through the room. I’m certainly not going to tell you about that one precious time, when I was scraping the bottom of my barrel, I felt, for an infinitely sweet half hour, held in the palm of God’s hand, and that sometimes my longing for a repeat of that amazing few moments is so strong that I could just weep. I just can’t bring myself to say that aloud. I’ll just shut up and wait, if I don’t wander away, for someone to imagineer a place where it’s safe to speak about my tender, precious spiritual life.

“A shame-ridden people deal with pain by flaming every intimation of spirit.” And that’s it. That’s what I read in the Rev. Christine Robinson’s UU World article. Does it speak to your experience? She puts her finger on the shame that many of us can carry into this place because we were no good for the religion of our childhood, or it was no good for us, or because our wintry kind of spirituality seems so different from the sort that society celebrates and holds up as the real deal, or because we have a summery kind of spirituality that keeps on bumping up against obstacles in this home for the human spirit. The beauty of free religion trying to happen in our midst—the free flow of the Spirit of Life, trying to happen—but unless the four out of five of us (and in fact I would say the five out of five of us) learn how to face the shame, befriend it, work with it intelligently, then we will act it out against each other. We will hurt each other. We won’t be able to live up to our “speak the truth in love” principle. “If there is one thing a person who has been shamed knows how to do, it is to shame others in return.” Unconsciously, reflexively communicating belligerence, close questioning, scorn. We say with our lips that this environment is undogmatic and open, but because we are not seriously dealing with the emotional dimensions of our life together—don’t have emotional intelligence on an institutional level—the practical result is that we develop spiritual spores. We wall the unloved and unappreciated parts of our tender, precious spiritual lives away. Put ourselves on ice. But this is a survival strategy, and not a way of life. There can never be free religion, when emotionally we are unfree. Never. I don’t care how many advanced degrees there are in the room, what the collective IQ is in this place. Beauty, only when we together embrace the beast.

The promise applies to us collectively, and it applies to us personally. The anger in us, the gladness, the fear, the laughter, the sorrow, the shame all give us our sense of solidity in the world, our history, our integrity. Like nerve endings, they connect us to ourselves, and they connect us to the world. Through them, we know truly who we are, warts and all, and what we want. Says Sam Keen, “Until we pause to register how something feels, we have not digested our experience—we don’t know what it means. As long as I am only sensing a world around me, I have not taken a position in the middle of my own experience as a unique person with a particular set of memories and hopes.” The one life that is ours is wild and precious to the degree that it is Technicolor with emotion and we know how to hold all that dazzling, intimidating, burning Technicolor in the palm of our hands. We know how to tolerate it, think with it, relate to other people and to the world through it. Through the beast, beauty.

I want to say a little more about emotional intelligence—what’s involved—and then introduce our spiritual exercise for this month. Just as a bit of background: today’s sermon is the fourth in our “Planting Seeds of Soul” series, which draws from Warren Lee Cohen’s book entitled, Raising the Soul: Practical Exercises for Personal Development. In October, we planted the seed of self-knowledge; in November, it was the seed of clear thinking; and in December, it was willpower. All of them aim towards a certain quality of living I am calling soulfulness, characterized by self-awareness and enjoyment and perspective and non-anxiousness and compassion. Doing justice to the inner self so we can do justice in the outer world. That’s what the sermon series is all about.

But now: emotional intelligence. What exactly is it?

The phrase was originally coined by Yale psychologist Peter Salovey in the early 1990s to describe such things as awareness of one’s own feelings and the capacity to regulate them in a way that enhances living. Both give rise to yet a third important aspect of emotional intelligence: empathy for the feelings of others.

Take self-awareness. It’s about understanding how it is that, even as feelings are central to who we are, we can nevertheless be woefully unaware of them. Our emotions have Technicolor range and complexity, and yet so very often we experience them only in grays, or only greens and never reds. It’s a strange picture we get of our inner life. But why? Says Sam Keen, “No matter how wise and loving our parents, they could not have kept us innocent and spontaneous. Every child must explore, test limits, disobey in order to develop and independent personality.” And so we are forced out of the Garden of Eden forever. We grow up, the pain of growing up becomes unbearable, and we develop survival strategies to help us endure. We become experts in stopping the natural flow of emotion when we sense that it’s about to take us to a place that we’ve been taught is unlovable and unacceptable. We feel fear, which threatens to disrupt the “good soldier” survival strategy we’ve worked so hard to develop, and we stop the flow. We feel joy, which threatens to disrupt the “don’t expect too much out of life” survival strategy, the “get-with-the-life-is-miserable-and-then-you-die-gameplan” strategy, and we stop the flow. That’s right—sometimes the beast we face is joy. Sometimes the beast is enthusiasm, playfulness, generosity, gentleness. And so we stop it. We snuff it out. Each of us has a unique way of doing this. Finding something else to worry about. Workaholism. Drinking. We’ve already talked about how, when others threaten to uncover our spiritual shame, we can take on a scornful tone with them. Make fun of them, to stop the flow. But through self-awareness, we develop a mindfulness discipline where we watch exactly how we do this, and exactly when. We become students of ourselves, students of our own experience.

Besides self-awareness, there is a self-management aspect to emotional intelligence. How we hold all that Technicolor in our hands. And this is significantly impacted by the kind of beliefs we have about our emotions. Fill in the following blanks:

“I think of my grief or fear or despair as _____.”
“What my grief or fear or despair says about me is _____.”
“If I were to fully experience my grief or fear or despair, I would _____.”
“What I’d most like to do with my grief or fear or despair is _____.”

Don’t know about you, but I find it easy to fill in the blanks with negative stuff. Negative beliefs, that make it so hard to relax into the flow of emotion, trust it, have faith that ultimately it’s going to be all right. “Dealing with any [unpleasant] emotion,” says Sam Keen, “is like running the rapids in the Grand Canyon. In the turbulent Colorado River the greatest danger is getting thrown out of the boat and getting caught in a whirlpool or roller that sucks you down. If you struggle prematurely to get to the surface, you will likely drown. But if you go deeper, the action of the water will spit you out twenty feet downstream on the surface.” That’s what Sam Keen says. The only way out is through. And it’s so hard, since the emotions we’ve learned to stop have become truly scary. We’ve walled them off, and over time, they’ve become like poltergeists. What we repress festers. So easily they possess us, Exorcist-style. But to befriend such emotions, we’ve got to believe that friendship with them is both possible and desirable. In turn, belief paves the way for breathing into the unpleasant emotion, smiling at it with our hearts, building up tolerance so you can just hold it in your hand for a while, learn from it, allow the energy it represents to transform and become something different. Shame, turning into anger, anger turning into sadness and grief, sadness and grief turning into empathy for our parents and teachers and fellow congregants and others, empathy turning into compassion for a world in which Buddhism’s First Noble Truth is indisputable: how the suffering of birth, old age, sickness and death is unavoidable. Life, with all its changes, is suffering. And yet, through suffering, there is a path. There is a path running to enlightenment. Through the beast, beauty.

That’s emotional intelligence. And now, it’s time to present this month’s planting seeds of soul exercise. If you choose to join me in practicing it, please don’t forget about the others. Practice them as well. The system I am presenting is comprehensive and meant to develop our full personhood, our thinking-willing-feeling self. It’s an issue of balance.

Four basic steps.

Step one: Establish a baseline for your work on your emotions. Discover what you truly believe about them by completing the fill-in-the-blank questions I mentioned a moment ago. How might you adjust your beliefs or replace them so that you become more able to trust the flow of emotion even when it takes you into difficult places?

That’s step one. Step two is developing the parameters of a personal mindfulness discipline, where you become a student of your experience, a scientist who simply observes the flow of emotion without judgment or criticism. In developing the parameters, decide on a time every day during which you can set up your psychic laboratory and give your feelings the most concentrated attention you can without detriment to your daily responsibilities. Besides this, set the intention that you will be looking for two things in particular: the emotions which come easily for you, and the ones that you stop the instant they surface. How do you stop them? What strategies do you use?

Step one, step two, and now step three. During the actual time of the exercise, allow feelings to come in, and just observe. Watch your emotion as you would a bird alighting on a tree. Don’t scare it away with any sudden movements. If you feel jarred by the emotion, if it threatens to overpower you, soothe yourself with deep breathing. Breathe in and say, “I acknowledge this emotion and I breathe into it.” Then breathe out and say, “I acknowledge this emotion and I breathe it out.” Breathe in, breathe out. Smile as you breathe. Relax. Trust. Allow the whirlpool that has sucked you down to spit you back out. Let the emotion flow.

Finally, step four. This one has to do with times when you are outside the laboratory: here at church, or at work, or at home. When you sense that you’ve just stopped an emotion—when you’ve automatically scared away the bird in the tree—acknowledge that you just did that, acknowledge that this was part of survival growing up, and be thankful for that, but that was then and this is now. Now is a different time. So find appropriate opportunities to express the neglected emotion. Look for them. See what that’s like. Conversely, when an emotion flows freely, when it’s like a whole flock of birds descending upon the tree, as in the Alfred Hitchcock movie, take a deep breath. Try to consciously live with it for longer than usual. Someone in the social hall says something about spirituality (or politics, or anything else, really) that immediately strikes you as ridiculous, and you feel the irritation surging up, the aching desire to express scorn. Take a deep breath and press pause. Hold the feeling in your hands. I know it’s hard. I so know it. But if you do, the bird will change shape. The bird is mythological, magical. Perhaps you will see the shame that’s there, or something else. The bird is trying to tell you a story … about you. It’s coming home to roost. It’s your one wild, precious life singing to you, a songbird.

Beauty, only when we embrace the beast. Let’s plant the seed.

1. …. anything natural has an inherent shape
and will flow towards it.
And a life is as natural as a leaf.
That’s what we’re looking for:
not the end of a thing but the shape of it.
Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life
without obliterating (getting over) a single instant. (Albert Huffstickler)

2. Every puzzle piece is important in a basic sense.

3. Depending on what you are working on at any given time, only certain pieces are going to get your attention, and the others will remain in a heap.

4. Everything we need is already within our possession–the only challenge is finding the right combinations of pieces–pieces finding their right fit. Sometimes the piece is right before you, but you don’t see where it goes. So many times we try to fit the wrong piece to another–but this is progress too.

5. The pieces that remain in a heap: sometimes they hide the pieces you need. So, you sift through the heap and get glimpses of stuff that looks interesting but is not necessary at the moment.

6. There’s never enough time in one life to fit all the puzzle pieces together.

7. It is an absurd puzzle that cannot be put together completely.

8. You work and work with pieces that have the right basic coloration but they don’t fit together. Yet you can’t completely ignore them, since when you find the piece you’re actually looking for, the others instantly are in play.

9. Be sure the table you are working on is big enough.

10. You can look at the pieces too intensely and lose perspective. Sometimes your eyes need to be soft; other times they need to be hard. An extra pair of eyes is often immensely helpful.

11. The process is sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

12. Sometimes you find puzzle pieces that don’t belong to this life.

13. Doesn’t matter how many times you’ve searched for a certain piece and not found it. Keep looking–it’s there.

Dr. King once said, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” He said it in 1963, there at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C., and now, almost 50 years later, America has elected its very first African American president. What does it mean? What is the meaning of Obama, on MLK Day?

It’s a question that Tim Wise raises in his book Between Barack and a Hard Place: Racism and White Denial in the Age of Obama. Too many people—too many White people—may be thinking that in electing Barack Obama we have settled our national debt to Blacks, if not to all people of color. How horrible to think, about the millions of people mobilized by Obama’s call to change, that they might go back to sleep, hit the snooze button, because they interpret the election as itself the complete solution to hundreds of years of injustice and inequality—because they see it as the entire and perfect fulfillment of Dr. King’s dream.

But there is another possibility, going forward. Millions, including you and me, seizing the moment, feeling the fierce urgency of now, as we “channel the energy unleashed by Obama’s historic election into the work of antiracism and social justice.” Making this community right here truly multicultural, ensuring that all people (including people of color) are able to share their gifts and that no one feels invisible and adrift. Whites taking their share of the responsibility for addressing racism, Whites breaking the silence, Whites leaning into their whiteness to understand what it means, Whites willing to do their fair share of the heavy lifting. “To insist on the audacity of truth, says Tim Wise, “and not just hope, to demand better of ourselves than perhaps even we thought possible.” “If we say that we will not allow this one man’s rise to serve as a stand-in for the experiences of the nearly 100 million people of color in this country, people whose lives and degree of acceptance by white folks are quite different from Obama’s—then we may yet be able to mobilize those millions energized by his efforts and his campaign into longer-term work on the road to true freedom and equity. We may in that case be able to experience Obama, symbolically, as adrenaline, rather than anesthesia.”

That’s what Tim Wise says, and I’m with him. The meaning of Obama on MLK Day is opportunity to do at least two things: reflecting together on what racism really is, and committing ourselves to the kind of personal and political work that will bring increasingly more and more of the dream to life. Adrenaline, rather than anesthesia. The fierce urgency of now, reaffirmed.

But there’s a White culture of silence around racism. We’re talking about racism, and the White Jiminy Cricket within me and perhaps in our very midst wants to hush this up, whispers that to talk about race is itself racist, part of the very problem we’re trying to solve. An act of utmost ungraciousness, especially in light of the fact of Obama’s election. For the kind of old-fashioned bigotry we have long known in America that would have made Obama’s election utterly impossible has gone away: slavery, disenfranchisement, the regime of legalized segregation, all reinforced by murder, lynching, and terror on a grand scale. But we’ve progressed far beyond all this. It’s opened the door for people of color to the highest office in the land. So, how ungracious and mean-spirited to continue speaking of racism! Racism is over in America, and it is over in people’s lives to the degree they refuse to speak or act in intentionally mean-spirited, prejudicial terms. Why continue bringing racism up, when I’m not a member of some hate group and I don’t say hateful things about Blacks or Asians or Native Americans or Latinos?

But racism is far more than simply individual acts of meanness. Racism persists, even after the demise of old-fashioned bigotry, even after Obama’s historic election. For racism is like environmental pollution infiltrating the entire ecology of a society. It’s in the earth and in the air. It’s fundamentally a system of advantage based on skin color, which transcends individual acts of meanness even as it mandates them. As the brilliant 19th century civil rights activist and historian W. E. B. Du Bois saw, the word “White” originated as a legal term and formal designator for special social privileges and protections. It meant “public deference and titles of courtesy”; it meant access to “public functions, public parks and the best schools”; it meant the right to sit on juries, to enjoy voting rights, and so on. But W. E. B. Du Bois also saw this: that in pre-Civil War times, rich landowners used “whiteness” as a way to manipulate poor Whites who owned no slaves, preventing them from launching a labor movement that would have improved their lot and addressed the severe economic injustices of the time. Whiteness, for a poor white, was like a consolation prize, a way of feeling good about yourself at the expense of people of color even as you were starving. Victims, blaming victims, while the real culprits got off scot-free. And Dr. King saw this too. In 1967, he said that White supremacy can feed the ego of poor Whites but not their stomachs.

There is a history to White identity that is fascinating, if painfully so; and it’s about a system which blesses only some and not others. Whites continue to benefit from it even if they don’t feel personally powerful, owing to other aspects of their identity that may disadvantage them socially, like poverty, or disability. And even if a person of color happens to be a jerk and goes around saying and doing prejudiced things against others, still, he or she does not benefit from the larger system. A racist culture that’s been rigged in favor of Whites from the beginning is like a racetrack, and only one of the aisles is free of hurdles owing to skin color. There may be other hurdles, relating to being gay, or being a woman, but not because you are White. One less hurdle for a White person, one more hurdle for everyone else.

Racism is systemic. It’s in the air and in the earth of a society. Pollution. Which means that it has significant inertia to it. “That which happens in one generation,” says Tim Wise, “affects the next, and so on, and in the very same way as before, until and unless something, some force, produces a change.” Definitely, the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s was one of those forces that produced incredible change, yet the change was not total. Some aspects of our racist culture were unaffected and carried over, as in White privilege. Other aspects simply mutated. Take “Racism 2.0,” for example, which Tim Wise defines as “enlightened exceptionalism, a form that allows for and even celebrates the achievements of individual persons of color, but only because those individuals generally are seen as different from a less appealing … black or brown rule.” Tim Wise continues: “Whereas whites have been able to run the gamut of observable intelligence, articulateness, accent, and erudition [including the ability to pronounce “nuclear” correctly] and still become president, or obtain other high-ranking positions in the private sector, for instance, people of color have long worried about being tokenized, and accepted only when they make whites sufficiently comfortable.” Which Barack Obama does. But does this mean that a person of color must be like a Barack Obama to make it in this world? People of color are all right to the degree that they don’t make White people feel uncomfortable?

Racism is like pollution—has inertia. What is not stopped continues, goes around, mutates. And before I speak directly to the issue of White identity, we need to know one more thing: that racism, like pollution, is a legacy—White people today are not the original cause. We did not ourselves set up the White supremacy system, kill off Indians, enforce slavery, patrol Jim Crow. Yet such evils have helped make us into what we are now. Evils that are part of us, never letting us go. Meaning two things. Clearly, that though we did not start the system, we’ve got to work to end it. It’s bad for everyone. The wounds we inflict on others rebound upon ourselves. They become our wounds. “I have a dream” said Dr. King, “that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” But to the degree that skin color continues to be a source of suffering and division—to the degree that this supremely shallow criterion of difference becomes an excuse to make a power play over others—we are all harmed irreparably. Dr. King’s four little children, and your children, and my children. All of us children of God.

There’s a second implication to the racism as legacy idea. It’s this: that White people who become proactively antiracist—who become part of the fierce urgency of now don’t just do nothing (which is in effect a vote to support the system)—need to enter into this work with deep sincerity coupled with deep humility and a dash of self-deprecating humor. It’s an attitude and an approach that will save us as we become more conscious of all the ways we benefit from the old system of advantages and also unwittingly act it out in our lives and feelings, reinforce it, serve it. It’ll also save us as we enter into the conversation with people of color and hear, perhaps for the first time, the extent of their frustration and resentment. As in our reading today: the complaint of the bi-racial author against his unintentionally obnoxious White co-worker who says, very sincerely and innocently, “I wish I was ethnic.” Or when White people declare that they are colorblind. Fact is, race is something that has been pushed into the face of people of color for as long as they have been alive. They know what it is like continually to be seen, not as free, self-determining individuals (which is what Whites expect and get for themselves), but only as members of a group—either as a “credit to their kind” or as confirmation of some negative stereotype. It turns out that color blindness is really only just another instance of White privilege, a claim to racial innocence which is nothing but evasion and denial. It’s the system of racism coming through unconsciously and unwittingly, and it drives people of color nuts. And they’ll tell White people, too, who are willing to listen. And as Whites listen to the frustration and the pain, they need to realize that the system is larger than they are—as in the movie the Matrix, it just comes through and takes over (BZZAP!)—and that it will take a lot of careful work and a lot time to become more aware of this as it is happening, together with forming new habits. Far better to be gentle and encouraging with oneself in this process than to be a bludgeoning taskmaster.

Which takes us directly to something I said earlier, and extends it forward: How part of the fierce urgency of now has to do with Whites taking their share of the responsibility for addressing racism, Whites breaking the silence, Whites leaning into their whiteness to understand what it means. Whites can’t really understand color of any type or work effectively with people of color until they come to understand their own, come to terms with it, tie it to a larger commitment to a more just society.

This is in itself a huge area—there’s an entire scholarly discipline dedicated to it called “critical whiteness studies”—so here, we will only be able to scratch the surface.

Do that, and what immediately comes up: guilt and shame. I knew them in a non-racial context , as a doctor’s son, who enjoyed social status without ever having earned it on my own. It was all stolen glory, and I moved through my old home town feeling like I was never truly myself—always part phony, part fake. I knew guilt and shame like this, and I knew it as I saw First Nations people around me, Native Indians in my old home town, struggling with a legacy of cultural brokenness that was a direct result of Whites who immigrated into the New World and stole directly from the aboriginal peoples already there. I wondered about the waves of immigrants, like my grandfathers, who came after this, who innocently and unwittingly mixed their labor with long-stolen goods. How legitimate can any gain be when it is ultimately founded on a crime?

Whiteness comes with guilt and shame like this. Knowledge of ill-gotten gain. And because it is so powerful, so painful, it morphs into many different forms. Guilt that spills over into fear and anger directed towards people of color, irritation at why they “always” have to make such a big deal about racism. Or guilt that makes a White person overly-zealous about it all, making them feel like everywhere they turn, everywhere they go, they are responsible for saying something, that they can’t pick and choose their battles. Or guilt that causes a White person to distance themselves from other Whites and to over-identify with people of color, to deny their own whiteness completely. Cultural appropriation in worship, cultural appropriation in all other places and phases of life.

Just some of the transformations of guilt that are endemic to White identity. How about guilt that leads to quick solutions that are ultimately more about restoring and redeeming a White person’s sense of innocence, rather than actually achieving significant things for people of color and society as a whole? Ultimately, I believe that this is the fantasy underlying such movies as Dances With Wolves, however powerful and profound they are. The White person becoming a hero and Messiah to the people they once oppressed. Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai, Pocahontas, District 9, and of course, Avatar. The fantasy becomes real in small and large ways. A white ally who goes into a person of color “safe space” and takes over the conversation, thinks they have all the answers, feels like they have to come to the rescue—and once again, people of color don’t get to realize their own ability and capacity; they don’t get to save themselves. Or this: just listen to what historian Shelby Steele says about Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society in his powerful book, The Content of Our Character: “[Consider] a famous statement by President Lyndon Johnson at Howard University in 1965: ‘You do not take a person who, for years, has been hobbled by chains and liberate him, bring him to the starting line of a race and then say, ‘You’re free to compete with others,’ and justly believe that you have been fair.’ On its surface,” continues Shelby Steele, “this seems to be the most reasonable of statements, but on closer examination we can see how it deflects the emphasis away from black responsibility and toward white responsibility. The actors in this statement—‘You [whites] do not take a person [blacks]…”—are whites; blacks are the passive recipients of white action. The former victimizers are challenged now to be patrons, but where is the black challenge? This is really a statement to and about white people, their guilt, their responsibility, and their road to redemption. Not only does it enunciate a black mission, but it sees blacks only in the dimension of their victimization—‘hobbled by chains’—and casts them once again in the role of receivers of white beneficence.” That’s what Shelby Steele says. It’s so ironic—guilt and shame that in effect reproduces the oppression that the guilt and shame is a response to. The fantasy of swooping in and being the hero, being the patron, making it all better—but this is more about a White person’s ego than it is about magnifying the strength of people of color.

Many transformations to a White person’s guilt and shame. And leaning into this is an aspect of the heavy lifting that Whites are challenged to do, as they partner with people of color in the good work of antiracism and justice for all. Whites knowing themselves. Whites becoming helpful allies to people of color, at work, here at UUCA, here in America, in this age of Obama. For Shelby Steele, what’s required is “healthy guilt,” which he describes as “simply a heartfelt feeling of concern without any compromise of one’s highest values and principles.” But then he asks, “How can Whites reach this more selfless form of guilt? I believe the only way is to slacken one’s grip on innocence. Guilt has always been the lazy man’s way to innocence—I feel guilt because I am innocent, guilt confirms my innocence. It is the compulsion to always think of ourselves as innocent that binds us to self-preoccupied guilt.”

This is an extremely powerful insight. Self-preoccupied guilt as the lazy person’s way to redemption and reconciliation. And the way beyond it is to give up the idea that the fundamental moral goal of life is purity. Got to slacken the grip on innocence. If my hands must be totally clean for me to do any good and worthy work in this world, then I’m stuck. History paralyzes me. I can go no farther. The sort of evil that flows from the bureaucratic mindset divorced from human compassion—it stains my hands. The sort of evil that comes from obeying whatever the authorities say and shying away from being disturbers of the peace—it’s underneath my fingernails. The sort of evil that flows from how we allow ourselves to be deceived when at a deeper level we know real wrong is being done—I can smell it on me. I am guilty. But my dirty hands are all I’ve got to work with. My hands. I must forgive myself and be forgiven. And with these dirty hands, I must resolve to work for justice. I must resolve to do what is right. My whiteness comes with a lot of social privilege, and so let me use it to do good, as an ally, not as a Messiah. Let me offer it upon the altar, rather than ignore it or give it away. Let it be my offering of righteousness. Let it be part and parcel of the fierce urgency of now. Let it be my contribution to the Dream.

The Rev. Suzanne Meyer was the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Atlanta’s Associate Minister from 2001-2003. On Sunday, January 31, we celebrated her life and service. I wrote this eulogy for her.

In the late 1970s, Suzanne attended a memorial service at Thomas Jefferson Memorial Unitarian Church in Charlottesville, Virginia. One of her co-workers at the time had died of cancer, and she went to pay her respects. “I had been to my share of funerals,” she says, “and I found them dismal. I had planned to stick my head in the church, sign the guest book, and make a quick exit. Was I in for a surprise!” And she was. The experience, in her own words, was nothing less than a “homecoming.” Nothing less than a “life changing event” that would put her on a path of emotional and spiritual healing, open her to a call to ministry and almost 30 years of service, surround her with beloved friends and colleagues, and ultimately strengthen her with hope and grace in her last days and dying moments. That memorial service, decades ago, and this one today: a homecoming. Completing the circle. Coming home with Suzanne.

Here’s the story, as she tells it:

“Was I in for a surprise! The memorial service was a typical Unitarian Universalist service—uplifting, life-affirming, positive—unlike anything I had experienced in the Baptist church [growing up]. There was no sermon, no alter call, no mention of heaven and hell. I forgot about my plans to make a fast exit; I found myself glued to the pew.

“It was a beautiful and inspirational service. Even so, I began sobbing uncontrollably—out of grief for my father [who had died after a long and difficult illness], out of grief for my failed marriage, out of grief for the deeper issues concerning criminal justice that were being surfaced by my job with the Offender Aid and Restoration organization, but most of all I cried for the loss of a spiritual home which until that very moment I had never realized I missed so much and needed so badly.

“I was an instant convert to Unitarian Universalism, not for intellectual or theological reasons, which would come later, but for emotional reasons. Like so many other UU converts, I had experienced a homecoming at that memorial service. Even though I had not known that I was looking for a home until I had found one. I knew that the Unitarian Universalist church was for me.

“I came to understand that the memorial service and my reaction to it was a kind of epiphany—an experience of the divine in my life. I knew something inside me had changed. I was fearful and excited. I started going back to church for the first time in a decade. I knew something in my life was about to change in a big way. […] I felt I was being called to something, but to what?

“One night, at church, waiting for a meeting to start, I had a brief but significant conversation with my minister at the time, Terry Sweetser. I explained my dilemma to him: graduate school, yes or no? To stay in the field of justice reform: yes or no? To go back to Texas, yes or no? Unlike most people who were quick to hand out advice, he asked me, “What is it you really want to do with your life, Suzanne?”

“For the first time in my life, someone important was taking me seriously. I was stunned. […] In a stumbling way, I told Terry that I wanted to connect with human beings at a deeply personal level; I wanted to continue to work for social change; I wanted to explore the spiritual dimensions of existence; I wanted to make a difference in the quality of life on this planet; I wanted to save the world; I wanted to write the truth; I wanted to help people. I wanted to do everything.

“I retrospect, I am surprised Terry didn’t laugh out loud at my naïve idealism. Anyone else would have written me off as an overly dramatic 25 year-old-woman without much direction or focus in her life. But Terry smiled and said, ‘It sounds to me like you want to become a UU minister!’ I laughed. Me, a church drop out, a minister? But that night as I walked home from church, I kept hearing Terry’s words echo in my head. I knew what I had to do. I had a calling.”

And that’s Suzanne’s homecoming story, in her own words. A memorial service opening up the door of her life, putting her on the path. A path that would take her to seminary at Meadville Lombard Theological School and then, beyond that, almost 30 years of service in the larger Unitarian Universalist Association together with congregations in Texas, Louisiana, Oklahoma, here at UUCA in Georgia, Missouri, and Wyoming. “This is the true joy in life,” I can hear her say, along with the writer who originally penned the words, George Bernard Shaw. “This is the true joy in life, being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it what I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.” I can just hear Suzanne saying this.

And she was a force of nature. Says UUCA member Helen Borland, “Suzanne was a big woman (5’3″ or 4″ and heavy set) with a big personality. She had the coloring of a modern-day Cinderella; dark brown hair and fair skin. She complemented those assets by always wearing dark lipstick and dark nail polish.” Elaine Eklund puts it this way: “I loved her long nails and outlandishly red nail polish and flashy Chico’s clothes. She was a genuine Steel Magnolia.”

A consummate professional, as well. Beth Stevenson says she was “quite ‘classy’ in her sense of professional ethics and responsibility as a minister. “An excellent administrator of her areas of responsibility,” says Janet Paulk, “always available to work with UUCA congregants on programs and issues of importance, offering just the right mix of leadership AND support which encouraged others to contribute and be more dedicated to and effective at the work in which they were involved.” Janet in particular remembers her contribution to compiling a notebook detailing UUCA’s social justice programs which culminated in this congregation receiving the 2002 Bennett Award for Congregational Action on Human Justice and Social Action, a major award honoring the congregation that is considered to have done the most exemplary work in social justice in the entire Unitarian Universalist Association.

“With each congregation,” says Suzanne, “my goal has been to help them discover and celebrate what makes them special and to honor their own history and culture. At about the same time, I have tried to educate each congregation about the history and theologies of Unitarianism and Universalism.” Teaching was definitely one of her gifts. Dotty Powers remembers her offering such courses as “The Transcendentalists,” or “Religions of the Book: Judaism, Christianity and Islam,” or “From Jesus to Christ,” and (says Dotty) “the one I very possibly enjoyed the most: ‘Southern Spirit: A Look at the Psyche and Spirit of the American South through Modern Literature.’” She was a terrific teacher,” says Dotty, “and she helped me grow spiritually.”

Suzanne was a consummate professional. But at times, she had to assert this against unfair prejudice. Undeserved cruelty. Beth Stevenson recalls a story she once told, about how, as a female minister, she went to a funeral home wearing her black robe to officiate at a service. As the time to begin neared, she approached the funeral director and pointed this out. Time to start. But this is what the funeral director said, to Suzanne, standing there in her black robe: “don’t you think we should wait for the minister?” Too many of my female colleagues have had to struggle through prejudice like this, from men and from women, even in the here and now. Pettiness like this.

But she was undiminished—the torch of her life burning brightly. A force of nature, in service to a mighty purpose. Says Helen Borland, “I remember that she was an extremely fast speaker and I didn’t know if it was because she thought she’d only have one chance to speak in our pulpit and had a lot to say, or if that was her style.” It was her style. Lots to say. A brilliant mind and brilliant writer. “Because our theology is ethical rather than metaphysical,” says Suzanne, “we emphasize two things: relationship and behavior. What is our relationship to the moral imperative, to each other, to the earth, and so forth? What does it mean in this context to be a good human being? What is right relationship? What is our duty here and now at this juncture of history?” All these urgent questions, rolling down like thunder in and through her ministry.

She loved what she did. And it helped ease a pain that she carried with her most of her life, which was loneliness—her long sorrow at not having a spouse and children. As an only child she dreamed of being surrounded by a large, loving family. But it was not to be. Or, it was to happen in only a partial way, through collegial relationships and service in congregations around the country.

Colleagues and congregants meant everything to her. Elaine Eklund talks about her friendship with Suzanne, how they shared a common culture growing up: “poor white trash ancestors who moved into the middle class.” Also a love for southern culture and flashy fashion. Just before Suzanne left UUCA to become the Senior Minister of First Unitarian in St. Louis, Elaine took up money for a gift and bought her, she says, “an ‘in your face jacket’ from Chico’s (her favorite store) and a copy of The Encyclopedia of South Culture.” Says Elaine, “I wanted a copy so badly I could taste it, so I knew she’d like it.” A genuine Steel Magnolia.

Another story comes from Beth Stevenson: “Because Suzanne was from Texas (like myself) and grew up in Galveston, we tended to cook some good Texas fare. She loved good spicy barbecue. We had her for Thanksgiving one time and she walked in just laughing, having passed John and my brother-in-law Brad frying a Cajun turkey on the driveway. Not only did she love the fact we cooked up things spicy, but that it was always an adventure eating at our house. ‘I fully expect,’ she said, ‘to show up some time and you all will be using a blow torch to cook the food in some wild and dangerous way!’”

Not everyone saw this side of Suzanne, though. Some people, or even many, experienced Suzanne as “professional and correct” only, strongly boundaried. Marjorie Girth says, “I did not doubt that she enjoyed my company, but soon decided that she had learned too well the lesson that apparently all ministers are taught about NOT having friends among your parishioners.” And Marjorie is right. As any minister knows who has left one congregation to serve another, you pour your life and energy into helping build a community which, in the end, you must leave behind to the colleague that follows you, and you must do this “no strings attached.” Being both minister and friend is a tricky thing. Ministers are reminded of this all the time when, for example, they are at a congregational event having fun and they let down their guard, and either what’s said or done becomes gossip, sometimes hurtful gossip; or, in the blink of an eye, on the turn of a dime, someone raises a pastoral care concern, or asks about some congregational business, and the professional minister in the man or the woman must step forward instantly and infallibly. Being both minister and friend is a tricky thing, and it requires compassion and understanding on all sides.

Perhaps it was only in her dying days that the sense of loneliness left her. It was then that Suzanne was surrounded and strengthened by hope and grace, and I want to touch on this part of her story now.

It is interwoven with the deaths of three dear people in her life: her mom, the Rev. Martha Griffith (who served this congregation for a time), and Marshall Bever, a beloved congregant from her time at the church in New Orleans. In all three cases, says Suzanne, she “learned to experience the ‘grace’ of friends and church members who were so supportive and kind….” And in the case of Marty and Marshall, in particular, she found role models and guides who taught her how to face death with dignity. “Even as it became clear,” says Suzanne about Marty, “that the chemotherapy was not working, Marty spoke often about how her faith and her Unitarian friends gave her strength and hope. Her death was peaceful and brave.” Marshall in fact was a support to Suzanne in the months before Marty’s death. And soon after that, when he himself was diagnosed with a terminal illness, Marshall ministered to Suzanne in ways that she could not. Marty and Marshall taught Suzanne how to face death with dignity. “I can speak from personal experience, says Suzanne, “that my faith has enabled me to face grief and loss as well, if not better than, the more orthodox religion of my childhood. Both Marty and Marshall spoke openly about how their UU faith gave them comfort as they faced the end in their lives. I know,” says Suzanne, “that I can preach and teach the Unitarian Universalist ‘gospel’ with the confidence that comes from facing my own ‘dark night of the soul.’”

“My health failed me in the end,” she says, “but my friends did not. I never felt abandoned by God, or punished; in fact, my cancer brought me closer to God by bringing me closer to other people’s suffering. My greatest life-long fear was that I would die sick and alone in some indifferent institution. Thanks to my loving friends, I never felt alone or isolated. I was overwhelmed by the love of friends. Through them I caught a glimpse of heaven.”

Suzanne, we surround you with our love today. Thank you for your ministry and service in the larger world, and within this community. We’re coming home with you today, coming full circle, in this memorial service—remembering, in the midst of all the rush and gush of life, in the midst of all that is mere noise, all that is petty—remembering what is of true importance and value. Unitarian Universalist faith and community. Being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. The love we show each other that can take us all the way to heaven.

“I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”

That’s what you have done, Suzanne. You have done it.

I’ll give Carole Galanty the last word here: “Suzanne, I miss you, I love you, and may you be in peace. Namaste.”

Recently I came to learn that the number one sport in America is not baseball, nor basketball or football, nor even my beloved figure skating, but birding! That’s what the Audubon website claims, as it says, breathlessly, “Did you know that birding is the number one sport in America? According to the US Fish and Wildlife Service, there are currently 51.3 million birders in the United States alone, and this number continues to grow!”

Birding. As in, becoming knowledgeable about where to look for our feathered friends in a given area: cranes, rails, coots, doves, cuckoos, owls, swifts, hummingbirds, kingfishers, thrushes, thrashers, wood warblers, tanagers, and on and on—knowing your habitat and the kind of life it can support. Then this: knowing what to look for. Noticing distinguishing physical marks. Color variations, variations in size and shape, also in behavior, as in, is the bird acting alone or in a group? Is it stalking, standing still, or flitting about? Finally, this: knowing how to listen. Some birds that look similar in color and shape are distinguishable by sound only. Sound is key. All of these together, says the Audubon website—knowing where to look, what to look for, and what to listen for—add up to rewards that are well worth the efforts. Birding brings a sense of wonder, and it is just fun.

I was inspired. And it helped me see my topic for today—our diversity as Unitarian Universalists—from a unique angle. Not so much “b-i-r-d-i-n-g” as “b-u-u-r-d-i-n-g.” Our goal is to take out our binoculars and go looking for the different kinds of Unitarian Universalists that are in here, in this bird sanctuary of our congregation, or elsewhere. Carefully watching for distinguishing marks and behaviors. Listening for the varied songs we sing. Doing this because it will bring a sense of wonder at our faith tradition which aspires to do something that is so unique among the religions of the West—to be a true universalism and not a partialism. Doing this because a greater awareness of self and other helps tremendously in appreciating our differences and dealing with them more effectively. “Conflict is inevitable,” says religion writer Max Lucado, “but combat is optional.”

So here we go. Birding for Unitarian Universalists. Consider this sermon a field guide, to use as a reference. Not at all exhaustive and comprehensive, a mere thumbnail sketch, but hopefully helpful enough.

Certainly an obvious place to start is with our theological diversity. A quick test: how you instinctively respond to the following possible sermon topics may indicate the kind of theological bird you are: here we go:

God the Noun
God the Verb
God the Adjective
God the Expletive
Too Confused to Decide
Why Are You Doing This To Me?

Actually, we’re entering into tricky territory. Labeling others and labeling ourselves. As a theist of some type, for example: either supernaturalistic or naturalistic, as deist or pantheist or panentheist or transcendentalist or neo-pagan or even henotheist. Then there’s non-theism of some type: atheist, existentialist, humanist, or some versions of Buddhism. Then there’s types that resist classification as theistic or nontheistic, like agnosticism (which does not know whether or not God exists) or mysticism (which affirms direct experiences of oneness with the universe, and this may or may not disclose anything about God). All these labels! Labels labels labels! How many of you tend to feel that all such labels are confining? You experience the spiritual search as free and open-ended, and maybe you strongly identify with one today, but who knows about tomorrow? It just doesn’t have to be one or the other but not both. It just doesn’t have to be all so cut and dry. It just feels wrong when others seem to have pigeon-holed you—you feel falsified, made out into something you aren’t.

Nevertheless, even as we may prefer the both/and style in religion, labels still have positive uses. They can help to name the different and varied songs we hear in small group gatherings and in religious education classes and in the social hall and in worship. They can help us to appreciate where other people are coming from and how to speak across differences, how to translate ideas into a language that others can understand. Above all, theological labels can help us recognize our own song, clarify it, stimulate deeper self-reflection about what it is we do and do not believe. DOES agnosticism express who I am better than something else, at this time in my life? DO I find greater personal resonance with the teachings of the Buddha than with Jesus? How can these labels and categories help me get a clearer sense of what my heart years for, what my head tells me is reasonable, what my soul says is true? Maybe the story my heart, head, and soul tell will be different in the future, but the task of life is not to live in the future but to live deeply right now.

One set of theological labels that I find particularly helpful as I go birdwatching for UUs is this: “pragmatic versus metaphysical.” Now, this distinction draws on a powerful and provocative definition of Unitarian Universalism coming from the Rev. Forrest Church: “Unitarianism proclaims that we spring from a single source; Universalism, that we share a common destiny.” In other words: one source, one destiny. That’s Unitarian Universalism.

I like to expand on it a little more, though. “One source” can also mean: the oneness of all life, the interdependence of all existence; it can mean the mutual sympathy of all things, experienced first-hand if we open ourselves to it; it can mean cosmos, as opposed to chaos; it can mean meaningfulness, as opposed to meaninglessness.

As for “one destiny,” it too can be expanded upon. It can mean that what happens to some happens to all; it can mean all-embracing love; it can mean ultimate spiritual fulfillment for everyone; it can mean ultimate justice, a continuing hope that out of every tragedy the spirits of individuals shall rise to build a better world. It can mean all this.

But now the question becomes: on what basis do we affirm Unitarian Universalism? Why do we affirm “one source” and “one destiny”? Is it because the ideals of “one source” and “one destiny” are so beautiful and noble that we will work to make them live no matter what the nature of reality happens to be—even if reality turns out to be fractured, nihilistic, absurd, or even malicious? Or is it because we believe that ideals like “one source” and “one destiny” have genuine metaphysical standing, reflect the way the world really is, beyond all illusion? “Built into the human makeup,” says scholar of world religions Huston Smith, “is a longing for a ‘more’ that the world of everyday experience cannot [satisfy]. This outreach strongly suggests the existence of something that life reaches for in the way the wings of birds point to the reality of air. Sunflowers bend in the direction of light because light exists, and people seek food because food exists.” In a similar vein, do Unitarian Universalists affirm “one source” and “one destiny” because these ideals reflect a longing for something real that both transcends humanity and attracts humanity to it? Pragmatic UUs will say NO. Metaphysical UUs will say YES. There is a famous quote from UU history that talks about how the arc of the universe is long, yet it still bends towards justice, but pragmatic UUs will work for justice even if the universe has no bend to it, or even if it bends away from justice. God or the immortality of the soul or reincarnation are not on their radar screens. But it’s different for metaphysical UUs. They simply can’t make sense of Unitarian Universalism without such realities. Both, I hasten to emphasize, agree on the value of the ideals of “one source” and “one destiny”. Both work to expand them and magnify them in the world. But they come at them from very different angles, understand them in very different ways, live in very different worlds. The person sitting beside you right now, possibly living in a completely different world, even though their commitment to “one source” and “one destiny” is as solid as yours….

And that’s a little on our theological diversity. The varied kinds of bird song we hear in this place. Any of this coming home to roost for you? (I know…. couldn’t resist….). But now let’s turn the page in our field guide to a different set of things to look for. Not so much about theology as sociology. Specifically, the different ways people happen to enter into our faith community.

Here’s two of them: the “come-outer” way and the “born-inner” way. “Come-outers” are the majority among us—they grew up in non-UU faith traditions and, finding them unsatisfactory for one reason or another, left, only to discover, at some later date, the new world of Unitarian Universalism. “Born-inners,” on the other hand, were born into the faith, grew up as UUs. These are two very different kinds of feathered friends.

Take the come-outer. One of the best descriptions I’ve found of this particular UU bird is from the Rev. David Bumbaugh, who writes, “Throughout our denomination, a large proportion of our adherents are relatively recent come-outers–people who have left the religions in which they grew up and are involved in the necessary process of defining themselves in relation to their new freedom. Consequently, for many of our people, their new-found Unitarian Universalism has a decidedly negative tinge to it. Typically, new Unitarian Universalists may not be able to tell you what they believe, but they will have little difficulty expounding on what they no longer believe. Often they are Unitarian Universalists largely for negative reasons–because this religious body validates and accepts their doubts and does not demand that they meet some external standard of religious belief. Here they may redefine, question, or deny the existence of God; here they may proudly reject any metaphysical or theological explanation of existence; here they may redefine, question, or denounce as invalid such traditional religious practices as prayer or meditation; here they may question all assertions and even give vent to anti-clericalism and hostility to all forms of organized religion, including this one if they wish. Here no one will demand they embrace a view of life they cannot embrace in good conscience.” David Bumbaugh continues: “For [come-outers], Unitarian Universalism is important because it provides them a breathing space, a decompression chamber, an institution which will help them to get unhooked from the religious assumptions with which they grew up. This is part of the reason that we witness, over and over again, the phenomenon of people who join us and for a few months or years are filled with enthusiasm for the church and its program, and then gradually and without explanation drift away. The church has been useful in the process of unhitching them from the past, and when that has been accomplished, their need for our church is no longer so great. They become our ‘graduates,’ people who learned here how to be free from religious assumptions and dogmatic demands which had become painful and crippling, but who no longer feel a need for the church after that task is accomplished. They still feel warmly toward us. If they ever go to church again, it would be to a Unitarian Universalist church. They would hate to see us go out of business, for there may be other people who need us as they once needed us, and some day, driven by some other need, they may come back for a post-graduate course. But for the moment, organized religion no longer has an important role to play in their lives.” And that’s David Bumbaugh, on the come-outer. In process of defining themselves; perhaps a bit cranky and adolescent; knowing more about what they don’t believe than what they do believe; appreciating Unitarian Universalist community because it allows them breathing space to get unhooked from the past; but whether Unitarian Universalism will be in their future is another matter entirely. Maybe, maybe not.

Have you ever seen this feathered friend before? Are you this feathered friend?

Then there is the born-inner. Who here resembles this kind of feathered friend? Consider the rich description that comes from the Rev. Kendyl Gibbons: “I am,” she says, “a child of humanist parents and the product of Unitarian Universalist religious education, shaped by the philosophy of the religious educator Sophia Fahs. She advocated allowing children’s own experiences and growth to lead them naturally to discover wonder and sacredness in life, rather than imposing religious texts or ideas on them. And so I have built my theology out of my own experiences, not according to any blueprint, but rather from the material of my life’s pondered meaning. I cherish the freedom of my religious inheritance, and I have never had a moment when it has seemed likely that any self-conscious supernatural personality actually presides over the universe. Nevertheless,” continues the Rev. Gibbons, “this approach had its drawbacks. As a young Unitarian Universalist in the 1960s, I was educated about human sexuality in a relatively open fashion; human religious experience, in contrast, was a closed book. I discovered my spirituality in much the same way that my peers raised in more conservative faiths discovered their sexuality—accidentally, furtively, without guidance, moved by overwhelming inner tides, and with some sense of shame. I longed for the white organdy First Communion dresses and the menorah candles of my neighbors. I secretly memorized Louisa May Alcott’s “My Kingdom” prayer, written when she was thirteen, and sang myself to sleep with “For the Beauty of the Earth.” I was fascinated by the hidden life of nuns. I yearned for someone, anyone, to take my childish capacity for devotion seriously. But seeds planted in paper cups on the Sunday school windowsill, the dead bird discovered in the backyard, the calligraphic hymns in We Sing of Life, and the annual flower communion were the scant resources my liberal religious education offered. To my parents and teachers—almost all of whom had grown up in other religious traditions—the absence of texts, rote prayers, sacraments, holy objects, and moralistic picture books represented freedom. But without any language for my emerging sense of mystery and wonder, I came to feel the contrary: deprived of the tools with which to understand or express those experiences.” And that’s Kendyl Gibbons, on the born-inner. From the first, freedom to grow naturally, without the imposition of a single text or set of religious ideas. From the first, nurtured in inner-directedness, all questions and all thoughts welcomed. Yet, the result is often a collision with the needs and allergies of come-outer parents and adults. Come-outers welcoming the absence of more traditional religious ideas and practices because they are looking for breathing room in which to get unhooked from the past, but born-inners suffering from this same absence, often needing to leave Unitarian Universalism in order to find spiritual food. It’s so ironic. Come-outer parents anxious for their children to be born in the faith, but the parents’ need to stay at arms-length from their past unwittingly resulting in their children’s faith being stunted and shallow. Born-inners—birthright UUs!—overlooked as our congregations cater to the large majority of come-outers.

It’s a challenge. These two different kinds of birds sing very different songs, at odds with each other. One threatens to overwhelm the other, in fact, and this is NOT diversity. It’s the OPPOSITE of diversity.

But there is a way forward. It happens when the come outer bird takes the next step in its development and follows the phoenix path, becomes what David Bumbaugh calls “born again.” Not in a Christian evangelical sense. But simply in terms of finding oneself in a different place regarding one’s religious past and therefore one’s religious future. Says David Bumbaugh, “Some Unitarian Universalists, having gone through the experience of being unhooked from old, personally destructive religious forms, discover that the experience of freedom is not the end of the journey. Freedom from dogma, freedom from creeds and traditions, freedom from past ways of thinking and looking at the world is not the answer to any ultimate question. Rather, freedom poses the most terrifying of all questions: Now that you are rid of past loyalties, of past commitments, of past concepts, how will you use your freedom? ‘Freedom from’ always casts us into the dilemma of ‘freedom for what?’ To what will you be loyal? By what will you be defined? By what star will you steer? The born-again Unitarian Universalists,“ he says, “are those who have broken the mold of the past, have transcended their rejections, and now reach toward the affirmation of life and the ‘something more’ which underlies all the various forms and rituals, dogmas and assumptions of religion.”

It’s the burning, transforming issue: by what star will you steer? Freedom for what? In this, the future of Unitarian Universalist churches and congregations rests. Taking the phoenix path. More and more come-outers learning to answer in positive ways, which ultimately represents a needed working-through of allergies born of old resentments and possibly old misunderstandings. More and more come-outers doing this, as a way of honoring their own personal and spiritual growth, as well as honoring the growth needs of born-inners together with the needs of people who come into our midst who grew up unchurched, who don’t really have formed prejudices yet (either positive or negative), who want to know what’s up with this God thing and thing Bible thing, who hunger for an experience of the sacred and are open wide, tabula rasa. What about them, and so many other varieties of UU birds that I haven’t had time to mention? We’ve got to keep our diversity healthy. Its ultimate purpose is to be an exciting and enriching environment in which each of us can come into a positive sense of our purpose in this world. Transcending rejections, reaching towards affirmations that make sense, grow our souls, grip our souls, send us into the world as servants and healers and creators and teachers. One source, one destiny. All-embracing love, whether it is but human love that we work hard to magnify, or the love of God. Justice, no matter how the universe bends. Amidst all our difference, amidst all our times of discord, let there be a larger harmony of song we build towards, a harmony of hope, that out of every tragedy the spirits of individuals shall rise to build a better world. Whatever else we find, as we go birding for Unitarian Universalists, let us find at least this.

Some tensions in the very fabric of ministry:

1. Pouring your life into building a community that can never be truly yours–that you must one day leave behind “no strings attached” to pave the way for the next settled minister.

2. The growth of the community depending upon the size and clarity of your vision, but the wear and tear of life in community–at the very least, the intense busy-ness of it–continually threatens to contract the vision and make it smaller, fuzz it out.

3. The community looks to the minister for leadership, and yet only as more and more people see the work of ministry as theirs–only as more and more staff see the work of ministry as shared–does the community MOVE and LIVE.

4. Living always in the face of possible “explosions” and “earthquakes” (e.g. a conflict coming at you from left field, an additional urgent task, a death, something else) and yet it is critical to remain nonanxious, positive, cautiously optimistic.

5. Staying firmly grounded in your own story and your own truth, and yet (by virtue of being in a covenantal relationship with hundreds of people) you are challenged to speak to hundreds of different stories and hundreds of different truths.

5. Staying joyful, even as the work is often so serious and so filled with death, tragedy, political agendas, control and authority issues, and on and on–things that can turn a saint cynical.

How to make these tensions creative–a source of growth and life?

At the end of the day, I believe that ministry, unlike anything else, places a person directly into the stream of life. “Joy and woe woven fine, clothing for the soul divine.” To do ministry, there must be a commitment to compassion, and compassion felt fully. Trust that the universe can take whatever one’s offering happens to be, however imperfect, and turn it into some good.

“There are strangers above me, below me and all around me,” says poet Joy Harjo, “and we are all strange in this place of recent invention.” The place of recent invention is Los Angeles, the city of Angels, but it could be anywhere in modern America, it could be Atlanta. “We matter to somebody,” the poet says:

We must matter to the strange god who imagines us as we revolve together in
the dark sky on the path to the Milky Way.

We can’t easily see that starry road from the perspective of the crossing of
boulevards, can’t hear it in the whine of civilization or taste the minerals of
planets in hamburgers.

[…]

Everyone knows you can’t buy love but you can still sell your soul for less than a
song, to a stranger who will sell it to someone else for a profit until you’re
owned by a company of strangers in the city of the strange
and getting stranger.

I’d rather understand how to sing from a crow who was never good at singing or
much of anything but finding gold in the trash of humans.

So what are we doing here I ask the crow parading on the ledge of falling that
hangs over this precarious city?

Crow just laughs and says wait, wait and see and I am waiting and not seeing
anything, not just yet.

But like crow I collect the shine of anything beautiful I can find.

And that’s the poem. We’re on the path to the Milky Way, which is so hard to see from the perspective of the crossing of boulevards, so hard to taste in hamburgers. What are we doing here, in this city of the strange?

Henry David Thoreau, in Walden, wonders about it, too. “Society,” he says, “is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other’s way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another.” Society is commonly too cheap. Strange. Full of Sneetches. Full of Sylvester McMonkey McBeans.

Yet this is not to say that human relationships are categorically toxic. Only to say that there is generally a pattern in force, in the process of becoming a functioning part of American culture—and this pattern tends to be about buying and selling souls, or at least losing them. It is why Thoreau says, “We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers.” Among people, the mask goes on. And it stays on for so long—we relate so thoroughly through our mask—that we forget it is but a tool, a means; it becomes “old musty cheese.” Among people, the larger soul that we are—the knowledge of this—is lost.

During a Senate Armed Services Committee hearing earlier this week, Saxby Chambliss, United States Senator from the great state of Georgia, insisted that the military’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy toward gays and lesbians should be continued. Doesn’t matter that Admiral Mike Mullen, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, said that he personally supports ending the policy. “Allowing gays and lesbians to serve openly would be the right thing to do,” said Admiral Mullen. “No matter how I look at the issue, I cannot escape being troubled by the fact that we have in place a policy which forces young men and women to lie about who they are in order to defend their fellow citizens. For me, personally, it comes down to integrity—theirs as individuals and ours as an institution.” That’s what he said. But it doesn’t matter for Senator Chambliss. Senator Chambliss has fixed a mask on gays and lesbians, glued it on, and he won’t allow it to come off, he won’t allow gays and lesbians to have integrity as unique individuals of inherent worth and dignity. The mask means immorality. The mask means chaos. The mask means bad things. Ending the policy, says Senator Chambliss, could lead to watering down of other military rules, such as those regarding alcohol, adultery, fraternization and tattoos. Chaos, disaster, let loose.

To this nose, it is a sentiment that smells of old musty cheese. So strange. I heard it, and—knowing that still too many people agree with him—felt again that old feeling of loneliness in the midst of a crowd. Wondered about what I am doing here, on this strange path to the Milky Way. Would rather understand how to sing from a crow who was never good at singing or much of anything but finding gold in the trash of humans. Maybe you too.

Today I want to share some insights on this that come from chapters five and six in Walden, entitled “Solitude” and “Visitors.” If among people, in ordinary society, we can lose ourselves and feel lonely, in solitude we can find ourselves again. “Evidences of unexplored and uncultivated continents” to be discovered—but only if we are intentional about it. “What do we want most to dwell near to?” Thoreau asks. “Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life… [T]his is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar.” Right there.

Now, one of the unexplored and uncultivated continents that Thoreau discovers in solitude is a renewed sense of relationship with people. (For solitude is not incompatible with friendship, or company.) Solitude, setting up a situation in which people no longer act like Sneetches or Sylvester McMonkey McBeans. Says Thoreau, “Children come a-berrying, railroad men taking a Sunday morning walk in clean shirts, fishermen and hunters, poets and philosophers; in short, all honest pilgrims, who came out to the woods for freedom’s sake, and really left the village behind, I was ready to greet with — ‘Welcome….’” And if he should happen to be gone when they came by to visit, they would leave him things. “I find,” he says, “that visitors have been there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip. They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the forest into their hands to play with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or accidentally. One has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table.” It is all for freedom’s sake. Taking the mask off, for a time; for a time, leaving the village behind.

Reminds me of a short poem by Rumi:

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing
there is a field. I will meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

Do you have access to such a field? Do you dig your cellar there? For some, camping is how it happens—getting out there, putting up the tent, setting up the campfire, letting life happen at a completely different pace than usual. For others, it can be a small group in a congregation, a covenant group or some other group—people you learn to open up to, grow with over the course of a time, until you can feel a campfire at the center of your circle even if you happen to be indoors, meeting in group member’s contemporary home. Yet a third way can be a way that no one hopes for: your car breaks down, your house floods, you get bad news, and the illusion of control shatters. But in the midst of this, unexpected kindness. Humaneness. A peeled willow wand, woven into a ring. The lost soul found.

So many ways to the field that Rumi talks about. So many ways to Walden Pond. Although I will say, with Thoreau, that even then, some people resist. The opportunity to take off the mask might be right there, but some people won’t do it, or have forgotten how. “I could not but notice some of the peculiarities of my visitors,” he says. “Girls and boys and young women generally seemed glad to be in the woods. They looked in the pond and at the flowers, and improved their time. Men of business, even farmers, thought only of [loneliness] and employment, and of the great distance at which I dwelt from something or other; and though they said that they loved a ramble in the woods occasionally, it was obvious that they did not. Restless committed men, whose time was all taken up in getting a living or keeping it….” That’s what Thoreau says, and in my life I have known it first-hand, perhaps you as well. One psychiatrist calls it the “weekend neurosis.” It’s time off, but you can’t relax, can’t stop thinking about things left undone. Though you might have already done ten impossible things, someone points out the eleventh impossible thing undone, and because you aren’t comfortable with the fact that you are only one person, who can do only so much—a natural being of rhythms, of seasons, of both action and stillness—you allow that eleventh impossible undone thing to penetrate into your deepest self, to become an inescapable irritant. Can’t leave the village behind, can’t leave the email alone, can’t take the mask off.

This is suffering. There’s got to be a better way. And crow—the crow of the poem—just laughs. Crow says, Find a way. Dig you cellar in solitude. Wait, wait and see. Unexplored and uncultivated continents are right there, waiting to be discovered.

Yet another one of these is what Thoreau calls “intelligence with the earth.” “I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature,” he says, “a part of herself. As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me.” Can’t you just see this, in your mind’s eye? And then it begins to rain, and Thoreau says, “I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.” And so Thoreau concludes, rhetorically, “Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?”

How suggestive all this is. To me, what it sounds like is that Thoreau, in his solitude and communion with nature, has directly experienced a hidden through profound implication of our Unitarian Universalist affirmation of the interdependent web of all existence. Interdependency means no arbitrary breaks in nature; it means a basic seamlessness out of which all the varieties of existence, organic and inorganic, arise. Yet for hundreds of years now, certainly ever since the philosopher Rene Descartes, an arbitrary break in nature has been canonized and made sacrosanct. I’m talking about res extensa and res cogitans—that’s Latin for matter and mind. Nature broken up into two basic pieces: dead matter on the one hand, and organic beings capable of some kind of experience on the other, from the simplest reactions of single-celled organisms to stimuli, to the sophisticated conscious functioning of humans, and dolphins … and crows.

This break in nature’s fabric is what Thoreau appears to reject. “Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me….” Everything, he seems to be saying, not just human beings, possesses interiority and depth. The world is truly an interdependent web of all existence in the most basic of senses—an ocean of feeling—feeling fundamental to all things organic and inorganic—and this becomes the very possibility of experience and consciousness of any type. Call this idea pansychism, or panexperientialism. No longer is it impossible in principle to explain how dead matter gives rise to experiencing, living creatures. For dead matter is not dead. Even in matter, there is interiority and depth, if only of the most rudimentary form. The interdependent web is truly interdependent. No arbitrary breaks.

“Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?” Such deep emotion here, in Thoreau’s words…. Perhaps nothing less than an emotion of homecoming. For the mask we wear in usual American society includes a deep sense of alienation from the rest of the universe. On the outside, looking in. Pride in our uniqueness among all things in nature, which is at the same time a sense of being cut off, of utter and agonizing loneliness. How can we truly belong to the earth, how can this world truly be family and home for us, if what is most intimate to us—our experiencing, inner self—has no place in this world, is inexplicable in this world, is but a view from nowhere? A scientific and philosophical problem that hundreds of years has not put even a dent into. A scientific and philosophical problem that has, in fact, twisted up the best minds, “makes science incapable of making rational sense out of the very existence of scientists.” This comes from philosopher Albert North Whitehead—his take on the infamous mind-body problem.

But Thoreau, in his solitude and communion with nature, experiences directly the ocean of feeling that is in everything in a basic sense. The presence of something kindred. Intelligence with the earth. He digs his cellar right there.

The mask goes off, for a time. Not that human society is fatally toxic and resists all reform. I want to emphasize this. Thoreau readily admits that he loves society as much as most, says “I am ready enough to fasten myself like a bloodsucker for the time to any full-blooded man that comes in my way.” Yet there are times the old musty cheese smell overwhelms, times we need renewal, times we need to recover the soul, times when we need to deal with our strange world of Sneetches and Sylvester McMonkey McBeans and Saxby Chamblisses, our world of “weekend neuroses,” our world of intractable philosophical problems. Our world, which is nevertheless on the path to the Milky Way.

So what are we doing here I ask the crow parading on the ledge of falling that
hangs over this precarious city?

Crow just laughs and says wait, wait and see and I am waiting and not seeing
anything, not just yet.

But like crow I collect the shine of anything beautiful I can find.

And we can do that too. Follow Thoreau’s lead. Lots of shine to be found.

Reading before the sermon

Our reading today is from a book by Susan Vaughn M.D., entitled, Half Empty, Half Full: Understanding the Psychological Roots of Optimism.

Once upon a time a scientist broke the rats in his laboratory into random groups. The rats in the first group were placed one by one in a big tank of water made opaque with milk. They had to swim for a set amount of time. These rats were the lucky ones, since their tank had a tiny island hidden under the water on which they could perch without having to swim. Their island was always in a fixed location in the tank, there for them to find without fail, a way of getting a tiny leg up and a respite from the swim.

The rats in the second group swam for exactly the same amount of time in the milky water as those in the first group. But their tank had no island, no oasis amid the vast vat. After their swims, the rats in both groups were plucked from the water, weary and bedraggled. Both groups then rested, ate, and otherwise recuperated before the real Rat Race.

When the big day came, both groups of rats were at it again. The researcher once again made them swim one by one. But this time all the rats swam in a tank without an island. Much as they swam, there was simply no oasis to be found, no respite from having to paddle like mad just to stay afloat. The researcher rescued them before their whiskered noses slipped beneath the water. Then he carefully recorded precisely where and for how long each rat swam before returning it to its cage, wet and waterlogged, probably surprised to be alive.

When the scientist tallied up the time each rat spent in the tank, imagine how surprised he was. He found that those lucky rodent racers whose island had been there for them the first time swam for over twice as long, looking for the island where it had previously been. In contrast, those who had never found a predictable foothold in their hour of need were reduced to wandering aimlessly around the tank, swimming in seemingly directionless circles, chasing their tails in vain as they looked for a means of escape.

Now, you may find it a stretch to say that the rats that had experienced a consistent island in their prior swims were optimistic. But given that they were broken randomly into two groups in the first place, how else can we understand what kept them looking for twice as long as their competitors rather than paddling haphazardly around the tank? Isn’t their belief that there is something definite to swim for a positive expectation rooted in the reality of their earlier experience? Since there was no island in the tank in which they took their second swim, isn’t it fair to say that what made the difference as to whether they sank or swam was the illusion of an island, their ability to conjure an inner image of an island to swim for when the going got rough, even if such an island existed only in their imagination?

The sermon

It’s Olympics time again—and I love the Olympics. I see it as a sports version of our very own Unitarian Universalist values, of the inherent worth and dignity of every person; justice, equity and compassion in human relations; acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth; a free and responsible search for truth and meaning; the right of conscience and the use of the democratic process; the goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all; respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. All these good things, evident in the pageantry of Friday’s Opening Ceremonies. The people of Canada’s First Nations opening and blessing the event … then the 2500 athletes from around our troubled world, parading in … and I’m just realizing that one of the most fun parts of the Parade of nations is seeing what people from different lands actually wear … and then the stadium floor is cleared, transformed, and through magic of light and sound it becomes an ocean floor, whales swimming across, singing their song … then things change again, the stadium becomes a forest, Sarah McLaughlin performs her song “Ordinary Miracles”… then another change, another transformation: an immense screen coming down, taking the form of the Canadian Rockies, images of Olympic events projected on it, with skiers and snowboarders suspended from the ceiling … then later on, k. d. Lang singing Leonard Cohen’s amazing song, “Hallelujah” … and on and on. I’m just an Olympics nut. Friday night, snowing like crazy outside, snow in all our United States of America (except for the lone holdout, Hawaii), but I and the family are bundled up, watching the spectacle taking place far away in Vancouver….

And then came the lighting of the Cauldron. Four ice towers to rise and then fall into place, and at the center, a Cauldron to hold the Olympic flame. Four lighters of the Cauldron, too, which goes against the venerable tradition of just one final person to light the flame, together with its message about atomic individualism, lone rangerism. Four lighters, with a radical message about relationship, about how greatness is something we help each other get to, the power of team…. But the message got lost in the midst of a malfunction. There was a jarring pause in the profound seamless flow of the evening’s events. A problem with the hydraulic system, and in the end, only three of the four towers rose. Only three flames rushed up to light the Cauldron. One of the four lighters never got to put her torch to use. Perhaps an ironic echo of the Georgian luger who had died earlier that day, tragically, during a practice run.

The Opening Ceremonies were just not perfect. Not perfect. More than good enough, though, to get the 2010 Winter Games started. Something Canada should still feel extremely proud of.

But now let me ask you. How do you think the media treated the issue of the malfunction? What’s your best guess?

My working hypothesis is that the electronic media is essentially the human nervous system writ large. In the human body, bad news runs faster than good; neural pathways conveying threats are literally quicker—much quicker—than ones conveying positive things. It’s an evolution-based “negativity bias,” and it informs and is reinforced by a society that invariably features bad news on the front page and slips in the good news elsewhere, in easy-to-miss spots—and actually prides itself in doing this, sees this as responsibility. Sees this as realism and as virtue.

This is what Chris Chase, writing for Yahoo’s sports blog, says in his article entitled “The Ten Best Moments From Vancouver’s Opening Ceremonies”: Number 1: “The gaffe heard round the world.” “Former hockey star Wayne Gretzky, two-time NBA MVP Steve Nash and Alpine skiing legend Nancy Green were able to light their cauldrons, but speedskater Catriona Lemay Doan was left with her flame when the fourth torch failed to emerge from underneath the stadium. It was an embarrassing end to an otherwise flawless Opening Ceremony. Instead of the indelible memory of four cauldron-lighters, this ceremony will be most remembered for the cauldron that wouldn’t rise.” And that’s his number 1 best moment. It all goes downhill from there.

The media as the human nervous system writ large. Bad news running faster than good. So easy to get stuck in malfunctions, such that nothing else beyond can be seen and appreciated, and a more balanced perspective is blocked. Balance becoming impossible, negativity becoming contagious, the downward spiral taking on a life of its own—and people call it virtue.

It can happen to the Olympics, and it can also happen to congregations like ours which aspire to live Olympic-sized values, from the inherent worth and dignity of every person to the interdependent web of all existence. So much that is good going on, and yet congregations can get stuck on what church consultant and Unitarian Universalist minister Larry Peers calls “problem-saturated stories.” “A problem-saturated story,” he says, “has a dynamic of its own. Often when we are telling a problem-saturated story about our congregational situation it has a trance-like effect. The story is reinforcing. We ‘see’ only those things that reinforce the story. Whatever is contradictory to this problem-saturated story goes un-storied and is not ‘seen.’” Larry Peers goes on to say, “You can recognize the problem-saturated story when you’re in a group where someone offers an example of how difficult or awful something is in the congregation and before you know it the rest of us can’t help but chime in with more evidence for how truly bad and impossible the situation is.” All eyes and minds riveted on some malfunction, and there’s no room left for other perspectives or possibilities.

It’s the downward spiral. Rumination on the problem making you extra-vigilant for more of the problem, or other problems; extra-vigilance helping to trigger even worse things. Can’t let the problem go. Can’t get bigger than the problem, see it from a different point of view, get loose. Happens in our relationships, happens in our solitude.

And it’s more than just sociological or psychological in importance. Our situation as spiritual beings having a human experience means that our most profound religious realizations—the actual having of them—depends on an attitude of prior interest and openness. Desire for a certain kind of truth helps to bring about that truth’s existence. Philosopher William James talks about this in his magnificent article entitled “The Will To Believe.” “Do you like me or not?” he asks. “Whether you do or not depends, in countless instances, on whether I meet you half-way, am willing to assume that you must like me, and show you trust and expectation. The previous faith on my part in your liking’s existence is in such cases what makes your liking come. But if I stand aloof, and refuse to budge an inch until I have objective evidence, until you shall have done something apt … ten to one your liking never comes. […] The desire for a certain kind of truth here brings about that special truth’s existence.” What William James is saying is far more than just good advice on Valentine’s Day. If we want to live in a world in which ordinary miracles happen, hallelujah happens, forgiveness happens, healing happens, peace happens, creativity happens, our Seven Principles happen—all these things and more happening even in the midst of all the strife and all the pain—then we have to meet these possibilities half way. Got to open the door, first, to experience realities that can transform us as we cannot transform ourselves, whatever we want to call them, Goddess, God, the Tao, Buddhamind. Got to believe that the island is out there, somewhere, despite all malfunctions to the contrary. Got to keep swimming.

That’s what planting the seed of positivity is all about. A growing ability to conjure up an inner image of the island to swim for, even as the going gets rough. That’s what we’re talking about today, in this fifth installment of the Planting Seeds of Soul series. Positivity, like a flame for which everything is food, and everything helps it grow.

A story comes to mind—a remarkable example of what the human spirit is capable of. It originally comes from American doctor George Ritchie, who was in Germany during World War II, attending to wounded soldiers and people who had been imprisoned in the Nazi labor and death camps. “It’s about one of these prisoners in particular: a Polish inmate at the Wuppertal prison camp. When the Americans came to liberate the prisoners at this camp, they were struck by the health and vitality of this one man, whom they assumed had only been in the camp for a short while. Called him Wild Bill Cody. As it turns out, he had been in the camp for nearly six years, since 1939, living on starvation rations and in the most oppressive atmosphere. Surrounded by degradation, humiliation, death. Scarcely a darker time could be imagined. Then the liberators learned that he had been imprisoned in the camp immediately after he had witnessed Nazi soldiers murder his wife and children as well as many members of his community. He had seen them lined up and shot. He had plenty of reasons to hate, to be bitter and to want to seek revenge. However, he described to them that at the moment of his greatest despair, at losing all he had held most dear, he knew that he must forgive his captors (and the murderers of his family). He must forgive them completely and learn to see the divine spark that also lives in the hearts of these Nazi soldiers. And so he lived for six years in the prison camp and soon became the respected mediator between different ethnic groups that had little more affinity for one another than they did for the Germans.” This is the story, which originally comes from Dr. George Ritchie and as relayed by Warren Lee Cohen in his book which we’ve been drawing from in our sermon series, entitled Raising the Soul. Warren Lee Cohen’s closing words: “Wild Bill Cody was a source of hope for all who knew him. He spoke many languages, but most importantly he spoke the language of humanity, of forgiveness and positivity. This unusual quality not only saved his life, but it was also a source of tremendous strength for all who met him.”

This story can tell us so much about the nature of positivity. Perhaps the first thing is this: that it’s NOT a form of irresponsibility, or a way of avoiding reality—wishful thinking that prevents a person from seeing problems as they are and tackling them head on. “This,” says Susan Vaughn M.D. in her book, Half Empty Half Full: Understanding the Psychological Roots of Optimism, “has not generally proved to be the case.” There are important exceptions, she admits: “First, there are some gamblers whose belief in the illusion of control gets them into trouble and keeps them coming back for more, unable to admit that they are not really the rulers of the roulette wheel and all. There is also some evidence that teenage girls who have more illusions of control about getting pregnant may fail to use birth control with regularity.” However: “There’s more evidence going in the opposite direction: people who have an intact illusion of control are more likely to be proactive in addressing real problems.” Rats swimming furiously, looking for an island which is but an image in their brains. Wild Bill Cody, seeing into the severe reality of his situation, seeing what’s needed, and filling the need. Becoming a mediator between the different ethnic groups in the camp.

Positivity is NOT a form of irresponsibility, and neither is it a Saturday Night Live Stuart Smalley pep talk in front of a full-length mirror: “I’m going to do a terrific show today! And I’m gonna help people! Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and, doggonit, people like me!” Yet if you’ve ever seen Stuart Smalley on TV, or been acquainted with a real-life version of Stuart Smalley, you know that their daily affirmations amount to no more than enforced cheer and a compulsive fending off of anxiety. To others they can appear to be upbeat, but underneath it all is the sense of potentially crashing at any moment. Utter vulnerability and unsafety. Do you know what I’m talking about? But the positivity I’m referring to is different from this. It’s not a reactive defense against feeling difficult feelings. You can be positive and optimistic and yet still feel sadness when you see suffering around you, you can still feel anger, you can still feel fear—yet you don’t get stuck in any of it. Feel the feelings, talk about them—but keep on swimming to the island. Keep on taking one step at a time, moving forward, eventually moving yourself and moving others into a better place. Wild Bill Cody faced down his despair and faced down his hate, his bitterness. Touched them, knew them. Yet he also trusted that this is not all there can be, that transformation is still possible, through forgiveness. Positivity is ultimately self-trust—trust that even our most beastly feelings won’t devour us up, that we have inner resources giving us strength to move forward.

The Wild Bill Cody story has a lot to teach us. Positivity as responsibility, positivity as self-trust, and also positivity as a commitment to healing. I love how writer Elizabeth Gilbert talks about this. She says, “I keep remembering a simple idea [a friend] told me once–that all the sorrow and all the trouble of this world is caused by unhappy people. Not only in the big global Hitler-’n’-Stalin picture, but also on the smallest personal level. Even in my own life, I can see exactly where my episodes of unhappiness have brought suffering or distress or (at the very least) inconvenience to those around me. The search for contentment is, therefore, nor merely a self-preserving and self-benefiting act, but also a generous gift to the world. Clearing out all your misery gets you out of the way. You cease being an obstacle, not only to yourself but to anyone else. Only then are you free to serve and enjoy other people.” That’s what Elizabeth Gilbert says. It applies as much to Wild Bill Cody as it does to you and me. Positivity helps us get out of the way of our Unitarian Universalist principles living and moving in the world. That’s what it does. In the midst of malfunctions of all types, swimming for the island.

There’s so much more that might be said. Wild Bill Cody’s amazing capacity to see the Divine Spark in his Nazi guards, which in essence was a refusal to capture them right back in the snare of his negative expectations, thus reinforcing the negative. His sheer perseverance, leading straight to being a blessing to so many people who needed it. Just his physical condition—his physical health—after six years in a horrible prison camp. All these Olympic-sized achievements, all connected to positivity. And if, after hearing all this, you are wondering how it all might apply to you, all I can say is, I feel you. I hear it. For there is a traditional view of positivity and optimism that needs to be acknowledged, countered, debunked: the view that a capacity for positivity is something a person is simply born with. A matter of fixed temperament. Wild Bill Cody was able to do what he did because of good genes, or a good upbringing. Maybe the story speaks to some people, but not to everyone. As Susan Vaughn puts it, “Asking a pessimistic person to be more optimistic is like asking a leopard to change his spots.”

This is the traditional view. Yet it’s wrong. “I believe,” says Susan Vaughn, “that optimism is the result of an internal process of illusion building. I believe we should fundamentally redefine optimism as the result of a particular series of mental machinations, psychological somersaults. These internal gymnastics are not generally something that optimists are just born knowing how to do. Optimism is not, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson on hope, ‘a thing with feathers that perches in the breast.’ Instead it is an active internal process, more akin to learning to fly. It is a verb, not a noun. And pessimism, by contrast, is not the absence of some elusive winged creature that our biological birdcage either contains or lacks. That’s good news, because if optimism is the result of inner psychological processes, then we can all become better illusion-builders with practice. So if you can’t imagine that illusive island now, don’t worry. You can learn to.”

And that’s what we turn to, right now. Planting the seed of positivity. A daily practice to add to the other four practices I’ve introduced in this sermon series. Self-knowledge, clear thinking, willpower, emotional intelligence, and now positivity.

A caveat, before I go any further. For some people, this psychological and spiritual exercise may be extremely tough to do because your emotional weather system is snow snowy and icy that it’s impossible for your ideas or efforts to get any traction. The downward depressive spiral is in full swing. All fifty states inside you are under blizzard conditions. All your highways and roads are iced over, and there are massive car pile-ups everywhere. In this case, medication is clearly merited, together with therapy. Susan Vaughn speaks to this wisely in her book. Take a look.

But if your inner emotional weather is not so severe, then jump right in. The positivity practice begins like this: with a clear resolution to encourage yourself to notice more of the positive and praiseworthy in your daily experience. To do this for at least a month, if not more, everyday. Building up this specific attention muscle over time, and seeing for yourself that optimism is, in fact, a verb and not a genetic mandate. A choice that we can make, in our human freedom. Start each day consciously making this choice, and then, at the end of the day, as part of your Review of the Day, reflecting on how things went, what patterns did you see, and so on.

Between the beginning and end of the day, there are at least two positivity things you can do: simultaneously, or you can decide to alternate between them, focusing on just one at a time.

The first is inner-focused. It’s simply to pay attention to your thoughts about yourself or the world, and when you catch yourself falling into a downward spiral of pessimism, say “thank you for that perspective” and then shift things up. For example, you encounter a “problem-saturated” story: a story with a trance-like effect, a story that hypnotizes you and makes it easy to think that it is equivalent with the truth. Say “thank you for that perspective”—and then spoil the pity party. Shift gears: ask: “What would someone else say?” If it’s a congregation-related story, the questions might be: “What would the newest or longest member of the congregation say about this situation?” “What would a child say?” or, better yet, “What would someone who disagrees with me say?”

Another opportunity to shift gears is when we catch ourselves playing the “I wish I was [fill-in-the-blank] game.” “I wish I was…” or “I wish he (or she) was …” or “I wish we were …” Doing this is not positivity, and it’s going to make you feel horrible, and you don’t have to make this choice. You don’t! So easy to do anyhow, though—the habit is firmly fixed in so many of us. So if you catch yourself doing this, shift gears. Move from “I wish I was…” to “I’m glad I’m not….” “I’m glad she’s not…” “I’m glad we’re not…” Apparently this is something even the Dalai Lama does, as he works vigilantly on his own positivity. Probably everyone here can honestly say, “I’m glad I’m not Wild Bill Cody”—glad I didn’t have to go through what he did. And the ironic thing is that not only does this NOT harden our hearts against people like Wild Bill Cody—research shows it does exactly the opposite. Our hearts open up. In affirming that we are, relatively speaking, better off, we are more likely to use our resources to help people in similar situations. Fascinating and true.

As for the second positivity action: it’s outer-focused. It involves choosing to be more aware of the efforts of others around you, appreciating them, feeling gratitude. Says writer Marcel Proust, “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, for they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” Do this, and then then take things to the next level. Strive to find positive qualities in people or situations where appreciation and gratitude are not so easy. As a teacher, or a boss, or a co-worker, or a spouse or partner: feeding with your attention what is healthy and starving with a withdrawal of attention what is not. Looking for something good, no matter how challenging a person’s behavior might be. This in fact may allow you to help them work through their challenges. Not capturing them in the snare of your negative image, and thus only reinforcing the problem.

However we focus our effort—inside of ourselves, or outside—ultimately the practice is about building up the positivity muscle over time. Seeing for yourself the verb that optimism is. Choosing to learn how to sing a song entitled “Everything’s Possible” even though no one might have ever sung it to you. So much relies on this. The cessation of suffering. Getting out of our own way, as we strive to live out our seven Unitarian Universalist principles. This is an achievement that is nothing less than an Olympics of the spirit, and we set this for ourselves not every four years or two years but every day. Every day. Going to be lots of malfunctions along the way. Lots of them. But we carry on. The island is there. Keep on swimming.

March 7, 2010

Dear Henry,

I’m writing to share my thanks for your gift of Walden. I’m reading it along with the congregation I serve, the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Atlanta, and with every chapter, every time, something wonderful brings me home to my Unitarian Universalist spiritual roots. Penetrating critique and insight. Continued relevance, even more than 150 years after you published the thing. Passages that make me howl with laughter. Passages of such beauty that I can’t help but weep.

Now we are on to Chapter 11, which you entitle “Higher Laws.” At one point, close to the end, you write about a man named John Farmer, but he really represents everywoman and everyman. “John Farmer,” you say, “sat at his door one September evening, after a hard day’s work, his mind still running on his labor more or less. Having bathed, he sat down to recreate his intellectual man. It was a rather cool evening, and some of his neighbors were apprehending a frost. He had not attended to the train of his thoughts long when he heard some one playing on a flute, and that sound harmonized with his mood. Still he thought of his work…. But the notes of the flute came home to his ears out of a different sphere … and suggested work for certain faculties which slumbered in him. They gently did away with the street, and the village, and the state in which he lived. A voice said to him — Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existence is possible for you?”

That’s what we read in Walden. A beautiful vision of essentials, conveyed, if not through notes of a flute, then through words of a book like your book, or through something else. A vision elevating us, opening us up to a voice of wisdom, which you and your Transcendentalist colleagues liked to call “genius.”

And so you say, “No man ever followed his genius till it misled him.” For genius, as you define the term, can’t possibly mislead. On this, Transcendentalism as a spiritual movement and a reform movement took its stand and takes it now. Genius is a capacity to glimpse, in one total vision, the right ordering of the whole of society which, in turn, leads to the maximum benefit of each individual. Genius, in other words, is not just mere idiosyncrasy, or eccentricity, which is how some people today might understand the term. Genius is, rather, a glimpse into order that is universal. Genius is like a compass which points towards how things ought to be—the ways and the rules—that will bring the world to fulfillment.

It’s something that Antoine de Saint Exupery illustrates in his book, The Little Prince, when he has the book’s hero speak with a great king:

“Sire [said the Little Prince]–over what do you rule?”
“Over everything,” said the king, with magnificent simplicity.
“Over everything?”
The king made a gesture, which took in his planet, the other planets, and all the stars.
“Over all that?” asked the little prince.
“Over all that,” the king answered.
For his rule was not only absolute: it was also universal.
“And the stars obey you?”
“Certainly they do,” the king said. “They obey instantly. I do not permit insubordination.”
“I should like to see a sunset . . . Do me that kindness . . . Order the sun to set . . .”
“If I ordered a general to fly from one flower to another like a butterfly, or to write a tragic drama, or to change himself into a sea bird, and if the general did not carry out the order that he had received, which one of us would be in the wrong?” the king demanded. “The general, or myself?”
“You,” said the little prince firmly.
“Exactly. One must require from each one the duty which each one can perform,” the king went on. “Accepted authority rests first of all on reason. If you ordered your people to go and throw themselves into the sea, they would rise up in revolution. I have the right to require obedience because my orders are reasonable.”

That’s the passage from The Little Prince, and Henry, you were acting out of that magnificently simple King-place within you when, one afternoon, near the end of your first summer at Walden, you went to the village to get a shoe from the cobbler’s, and the village taxman informed you that you had not yet paid your taxes, and you said good. You spoke out of that deep genius vision place within, which saw American society at the time full of rules essentially requiring an entire category of citizens to go throw themselves into the sea of slavery. The system was not reasonable. So you said no. You did not “recognize the authority of the State which buys and sells men, women, and children, like cattle, at the door of its senate-house.” Your civil disobedience took its stand on your King-like genius, which enabled you to envision the kind of society that WOULD be worthy of your obedience, because it IS reasonable.

Would you pay the taxman today, Henry? Rules and laws requiring entire classes of people to throw themselves into the sea are still in place. People who can’t get quality, affordable healthcare. People who love each other but aren’t allowed the dignity of marriage. Always, always, the poor. And on and on. Just not reasonable. Just not right. Would you pay the taxman today?

For you, it is all a question of “life in conformity to higher principles.” And that’s the larger issue that you raise in our reading for today. You raise it with urgency. Your Transcendentalism (which us our Transcendentalism) is no easy spirituality. It’s not just about big moments of conscientious objection, as when you refused to pay your taxes. “Our whole life is startlingly moral,” you say. “There is never an instant’s truce between virtue and vice.” Everything we do—even acts which are the most private and seemingly mundane—either amplify the music of genius within us, or muffle it, block it. There’s no neutrality, no Switzerland of the spirit. Everything that John Farmer does counts.

And this is why—so it seems to me—you spend so much time in Chapter 11 talking about food. Diet. “Man flows at once to God when the channel of purity is open,” you say, and how and what we eat can help to keep the channel open, or to close it. A very different motivation than the usual, than what is normally behind the vast array of diet possibilities currently out there, such as Atkins or South Beach, the Zone or the F-Plan, the Scarsdale Diet, the Cabbage Soup Diet, the Astronaut’s Diet, the Sleeping Beauty Diet, the Three-Week Trance Diet, or the More of Jesus, Less of Me diet. I’m serious. I could go on and on.

One food-related issue you bring up has to do with obesity. Drawing on an observation from science, you say, “It is a significant fact, stated by entomologists, that ‘some insects in their perfect state, though furnished with organs of feeding, make no use of them’; and they lay it down as ‘a general rule, that almost all insects in this state eat much less than in that of larvae. The voracious caterpillar when transformed into a butterfly … and the gluttonous maggot when become a fly’ content themselves with a drop or two of honey or some other sweet liquid.” You say all this, and then here is your concluding insight: “The gross feeder is a man in the larva state; and there are whole nations in that condition, nations without fancy or imagination, whose vast abdomens betray them.” Henry, just tell me what you really think about the problem of obesity….

But did you really have a lot of “vast abdomens” in your day? We sure do now. Two-thirds of Americans, more than 190 million of us, are overweight or obese, making this, in the estimate of the Obesity Society, “the most fatal, chronic, relapsing disorder of the 21st century. Obesity is a leading cause of United States mortality, morbidity, disability, healthcare utilization and healthcare costs. It is likely that the increase in obesity will strain our healthcare system with millions of additional cases of diabetes, heart disease and disability.”

It’s a mess. As Yale University scholar Kelly Brownell puts it, “If you go to McDonald’s today, you can buy a quarter-pounder with cheese meal—that means the large drink and the large french fries—for less than it costs to buy a salad and a bottle of water.” And then he says, “There’s something wrong with that picture.” Over $30 billion dollars spent each year on food advertising, and too much of it is making our children gross feeders, too much of it makes eye-catching claims about products being healthy when they are anything but. Laws allowing this tantamount to demanding that entire classes of people throw themselves into the sea…. I know personal responsibility is, of course, a key factor in making things better, but to really win the battle against obesity, completely, we’ve got to change the laws and make them reasonable. Come together in our schools and in our neighborhoods. Fashion the changes from a genius-oriented, King-oriented perspective. If increasing taxes on cigarettes led to a drastic drop in smoking, then what might just a penny per ounce tax on sugared beverages do?

A tax law, which even you, Henry, would approve of and would, in fact, contend has deep spiritual implications. “Every man,” you say, “is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own…. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Any nobleness begins at once to refine a man’s features, any meanness or sensuality to imbrute them.” Once again, the urgency theme. No act is too small to impact eternity.

It’s prophetic, Henry: your comment about “gross feeders” and “vast abdomens.” And so are your comments about eating meat. You say, “there is something essentially unclean about this diet and all flesh…. Having been my own butcher and scullion and cook, as well as the gentleman for whom the dishes were served up, I can speak from an unusually complete experience.” Again you say, “The practical objection to animal food in my case was its uncleanness; and besides, when I had caught and cleaned and cooked and eaten my fish, they seemed not to have fed me essentially. It was insignificant and unnecessary, and cost more than it came to. A little bread or a few potatoes would have done as well, with less trouble and filth.” Because of my year-long happiness pledge to abstain from meat, I’m starting to understand this better and better.

All I know is that, 150 years later, your words still sing. The John Farmer in me gets it. But John Farmer today is bringing different experiences than your readers from yesteryear. John Farmer today often brings a lack of awareness of this uncleanness to which you refer. Or, he’s bringing a hyperawareness of it, a hypersensitivity.

Fact is, many people today have no idea what it’s like to be one’s own butcher and scullion and cook and consumer. We just grow up and through a consumption pattern that has been set up for us by culture and by family. We take it for granted. It’s just who we are. We go to the one-stop grocery store, look into the freezer, grab what’s lying there (shrink-wrapped or in a box), and there is no thought regarding where it comes from and what the journey there might have looked like. Shopping for price tag and taste only.

And then there’s the people who bring something completely opposite: hyperawareness and hypersensitivity. They’ve researched the ins and outs of the “industrial agriculture system”—defined in part by mechanical methods of planting and harvesting; animal agriculture on a mass scale; human manipulation of natural processes through a variety of means like chemical fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides; or growth hormones for livestock; or genetic engineering. This is industrial agriculture, and it has led, undeniably, to a radical transformation in food production, resulting in levels of plenty around the world that have simply been unknown in all previous generations of human existence. Starvation has always been a major threat for the human race—except now. Thanks to industrial agriculture.

And yet when these people look more deeply into it—this source of human plenty, this ultimate reason for why we can one-stop shop—what they discover is also a vast ugliness. An uncleanness that you, Henry, could never have even dreamed. All the unintended consequences of the system, including pollution, economic injustice, and a decrease in biodiversity. All the hidden costs, all the environmental side-effects. Those shrink wrapped chicken breasts we buy at the grocery store, for example: how the living beings they came from were “confined in windowless sheds filthy with their own excrement; [how] their beaks were seared off to prevent them from pecking their neighbors due to the stress of overcrowding; [how] breeding and hormones had sped up their growth so that the weight of their bodies deformed their legs and arrested their hearts; [how] they were fed a constant stream of antibiotics to stave off disease (meanwhile creating antibiotic-resistant strains of disease with the potential to plague the rest of creation); and [how] their feed might legally include ground-up cattle parts, as well as the corn from those vast fields treated with enormous quantities of pesticides and herbicides” (from Amy Hassinger’s “Eating Ethically” in the Spring 2007 edition of the UU World). This is just one instance of the vast ugliness that comes at a person when they dare to look deeper into the industrial agriculture system.

As for what all this hyperawareness and hypersensitivity can lead to: one form it takes is to hear about what happens to chickens and other animals and to hear about all the flaws and downsides of industrial agriculture and simply to shut off. To deny. The shock of it all so overwhelming that we turn a blind eye. This, or the other extreme: to hate with pure hate the agricultural system that has blessed humanity; to demand that the system change instantly and immediately, even if the changes are not sustainable in the least; to see humanity as one big blight upon the earth and for oneself to feel ashamed for even existing—to feel cursed by an original sin—to believe that one has no right to take a place in an interdependent web and a circle of life that, in truth, love us and make room for us and only want us to leave a lighter footprint…..

What I’m saying, Henry, is that both forms of hyperawareness and hypersensitivity are obstacles to living in the truth. We cannot any longer turn a blind eye to the ugliness of industrial agriculture; and yet reactive hate towards the system and towards ourselves is no answer either. Perhaps you are in agreement with me, for you say, “Is it not a reproach that man is a carnivorous animal? True, he can and does live, in a great measure, by preying on other animals; but this is a miserable way — as any one who will go to snaring rabbits, or slaughtering lambs, may learn — and he will be regarded as a benefactor of his race who shall teach man to confine himself to a more innocent and wholesome diet. Whatever my own practice may be, I have no doubt that it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual improvement, to leave off eating animals, as surely as the savage tribes have left off eating each other when they came in contact with the more civilized.”

I appreciate this. It is wrong for the laws of our land to require animals to throw themselves into the sea. The genius vision in you sees that, and I see it. But I and we also know that it is a journey. It is a destiny we must drive towards, to become a better human race.

And it will not be without its complexities. One comes up in the very opening of the chapter, where you say this: “As I came home through the woods with my string of fish, trailing my pole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented.” All I can say is, Whoa! Way to make a point! Your point being, I think, that there is within each of us the animal, representing energies which become creatively useable by us only when tamed and transformed. Healing the division within ourselves is necessary to healing divisions without.

And then there is this complexity, which, truth be told, I’m really relieved to know about. You yourself were not a strict vegetarian. You ate meat rarely, it is true; but there were times when practicality or convention left you with few or no options. Said your friend Moncure Conway, “Thoreau never attempted to make any general principle on the subject [of vegetarianism], and later in life ate meat in order not to cause inconvenience to the family.”

You see, I’m writing this letter to you fully aware that I’ve not been perfect in my pledge to eat a meatless diet this year. Oh, I’ve given up my “I [heart] bacon” T-shirt, and I’m no longer the rabid meat-eater that I was. But once and a while, there have been times when practicality made things difficult, or the time of year. Like Thanksgiving with friends. Or the Superbowl. Henry, I know: “There is never an instant’s truce between virtue and vice.” Yet in the eye of your genius, as in mine, we know that perfectionism is an obstacle to growth. We are tempered by reality. We are tempered by humility. Wee must not allow our big genius visions get in the way of our living with each other. Even Transcendentalists must remember that we need not think alike to love alike.

And so may our Transcendentalism never become a grim affair of finger-pointing and guilt-mongering, even as it urges us forward. Let us sing our spirituality. Let it be the same kind of music to us as it was to John Farmer. Lovely notes from the flute, waking us up from our slumber, gently raising us above the street, above the village, above the state in which we live, so we can see it all from a mountain-top perspective. A voice in the music, saying to us: “Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existence is possible for you?”

Henry, I love you—thank you for being a spiritual grandparent to us all—

Sincerely,

Anthony

This is what the poet Rilke says:

May what I do flow from me like a river

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for

may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,

streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.

The poet, Rilke. His prayer … his resolve. Ours as well. “May what I do flow from me like a river.” “Singing as no one ever has.” As Unitarian Universalists, we talk about inherent worth and dignity in each and every person; we affirm it; and surely what we affirm, above all, is an inner healing intelligence, an inner abundance of mind and heart and soul, an inner wisdom like a river, ready to spring forth when unblocked.

Abundance that is a “swelling and ebbing current,” a “deepening tide moving out and returning.” These are Rilke’s visionary words, and in them, I sense a rhythm of becoming more than we ever thought possible, a rhythm of new relationships and new possibilities. Creativity, and the joy that it releases into our sciences and arts and our daily lives.

Here’s one activity that (for me) has always helped to release joy. It’s called “poetry communion,” and it works like this: usually I assemble people into two groups. One group completes a short question that begins with the word WHY, and the other group completes a short answer that begins with the word BECAUSE. I ask people to do this on the spot, no lengthy preparation and no stress. No contriving. Just letting things flow and writing down whatever comes. Then, in the end, I randomly read one WHY card with one BECAUSE card, and that’s when the unpredictable happens, the silly, the bizarre, and sometimes even the amazing. Dots connected that perhaps have never been connected before. Moments when rigid categories of thought that have been hammered home all our lives, dividing and dissecting our experience, keeping things neat and tidy, suddenly fall away, are shoved aside, and we see the world anew.

I have here some Why and Because cards, filled out at the start of this service. Haven’t even looked at them yet. Here we go. Poetry communion….

Do you feel the energy that’s just been released? Can you feel the river rising within you, moving?

And surely it’s been this way in all moments of illumination, when women and men around the world and in all times have felt the river flowing in them, leading them to sing a new song. In our study text for the Planting Seeds of Soul series, called Raising the Soul: Practical Exercises for Personal Development, Warren Lee Cohen mentions Isaac Newton and his brilliant insights into the laws of motion. Countless people before him seeing apples falling from trees, but no one before him thinking at odd angles to usual categories of thought, no one before him seeing and mathematically defining the dynamic relationship between apples and the earth like he did, which, as he saw, apply as much to apples falling as to people walking, birds flying, the cosmic dance of planets and stars and galaxies. Dots connected that had never been connected before.

Did you know that Isaac Newton was a Unitarian? We want to follow in our spiritual grandfather’s footsteps. So many kinds of apples falling for us—in our personal lives and relationships, or at school, at work, in this congregation, wherever we happen to be—and we want more moments when we can discover newness in the midst of all that we have taken for granted, more moments when we see dynamic relationships we have never seen before, more moments when we come to know our world as if for the first time. Feeling the river within us, flowing. Singing a new song.

That’s our purpose today. Planting the seed of open-mindedness.

But what exactly are we opening?

See this cartoon in your mind’s eye. Comes from a book entitled Inward Bound: Exploring the Geography of Your Emotions, by Sam Keen. A man in a prison, his sad face looking out between two solid bars, perched just above his hands, each of which grips a bar. Stuck in this prison but good. Yet when you zoom out and take a look at the whole picture, you see no other bars. Just the two he grips hold of, as if for dear life. He could let go, he could look around, see avenues of escape to his left, to his right, behind him, but no. There he stays, absurd in his stuckness, his sad face perched above his fists. No escape, even as the opportunities for escape are boundless.

This cartoon came to mind when I encountered an article on being lucky. Comes from Richard Wiseman, a psychologist from the University of Hertfordshire in the UK. How is it that lucky people consistently encounter positive opportunities, whereas unlucky people miss them, or even consistently experience the opposite? What’s going on? Richard Wiseman conducted an experiment on people who self-identified as either lucky or unlucky, and here’s what he says: “I gave both lucky and unlucky people a newspaper, and asked them to look through it and tell me how many photographs were inside. On average, the unlucky people took about two minutes to count the photographs, whereas the lucky people took just seconds. Why? Because the second page of the newspaper contained the message: ‘Stop counting. There are 43 photographs in this newspaper.’ This message took up half of the page and was written in type that was more than two inches high. It was staring everyone straight in the face, but the unlucky people tended to miss it and the lucky people tended to spot it. For fun, I placed a second large message halfway through the newspaper that said, ‘Stop counting. Tell the experimenter you have seen this and win £250.’ Again, the unlucky people missed the opportunity because they were still too busy looking for photographs.” Dr. Wiseman’s conclusion, from this and other experiments? “[U]nlucky people miss chance opportunities because they are too focused on looking for something else. They go to parties intent on finding their perfect partner and so miss opportunities to make good friends. They look through newspapers determined to find certain types of job advertisements and as a result miss other types of jobs. Lucky people are more relaxed and open, and therefore see what is there rather than just what they are looking for.”

And so, to answer the question from a moment ago: What we are wanting to open today is our mindset: the collection of prejudices and biases that we bring to the encounters in our lives, including our own self-encounter. Prejudices and biases that are just like the two sole bars in our absurd existential prison.

But where do they come from?

From Gordon Allport, author of the classic book The Nature of Prejudice, we learn that prejudice is partly an outgrowth of normal human functioning. “The human mind,” he says, “must think with the aid of categories…. Once formed, categories are the basis for normal prejudgment. We cannot avoid this process. Orderly living depends upon it.” Yet what this inevitably sets up is a tendency to distort perception. Individual things become invisible, hidden behind the category of thing it is, meaning that differences within categories are minimized. All of a sudden, to be a Unitarian Universalist means, for example, that you voted for Barack Obama and you support the Democratic plan for health care. All of a sudden, to be a Unitarian Universalist means that you can’t possibly be Republican. All you Republican Unitarian Universalists out there, invisible behind a label. You affirm our Seven Principles as much as anyone. Yet you are not as liberal fiscally as you are in terms of social values. You reflect an important source diversity in our midst. Yet where are you? Can’t see you…. And so on, and so forth. The diversity we supposedly treasure, compromised.

This is what unchecked, unreflective categorical thinking leads to. Also this: an exaggeration of differences between categories. There’s an old Yiddish story of a peasant whose farm was located near the border of Poland and Russia, where boundary markers shifted with every international dispute. The peasant did not know from one year to the next whether his farm was in Russia or in Poland, and eventually he hired a surveyor to resolve the uncertainty. After weeks of painstaking assessment, the surveyor finally announced that the farm was just inside the Polish border. “Thank God,” the peasant cried with relief, “now I won’t have to endure any more of those horrible Russian winters!” A funny story—yet how often do we hear in polite Unitarian Universalist conversation something similar? People smugly distancing themselves from others perceived to be truly Other: as in, for example, evangelical Christians. “They aren’t searchers like us.” “They aren’t thinkers like us.” But Gina Welch, a self-professed liberal and atheist, in her recent book In the Land of Believers: An Outsider’s Extraordinary Journey into the Heart of the Evangelical Church, reveals something very different. She says, “In spite of my smug self-conception as a tolerant person, I had this calcified, unrecognized prejudice against evangelical Christians. Their politics angered me, their culture seemed silly. Most of all, their vocal efforts to see the world converted to their views made me, frankly, afraid of them.” But then she decided to walk a mile in their shoes—live among them for several years. Who were these people, really? And she says, “The biggest surprise for me was the individual reflectiveness of church members.” She says, “I think I’d had this stereotype of evangelicals as blisteringly arrogant dogmatists. But I observed instead humility and a kind of obsessive self-reflection, enacted through prayer. They call it listening to God’s voice, but it seemed to be like a constant internal pat-down of conscience, which really resulted in care with choices, and a movingly ample capacity for selflessness and generosity. I learned a lot,” Gina Welch says, “by their example.” Even with people with whom we may disagree on fundamental things—even with people whose values we fight in the political arena—if we can hold back from exaggerating differences and seeing the people as alien, our disagreements will feel less absolute and less daunting. Can’t take the worst of them—like Glenn Beck—and see them as representative of the best, or the rest. Stand back from the exaggerations, and we’ll be more likely to luck into positive opportunities for bridge-building and cooperation. Luck will happen.

You can’t shake hands with a clenched fist. The very nature of our thinking in categories predisposes us to clenching up our minds, keeping us in the two-bar prison, and this is only reinforced by social conditioning in our earliest years and beyond. As poet Jane Kenyon writes about learning in the first grade:

“The cup is read. The drop of rain
is blue. The clam is brown.”

So said the sheet of exercises—
purple mimeos, still heady
from the fluid in the rolling
silver drum. But the cup was

not red. It was white,
or had no color of its own.

Oh, but my mind was finical.
It put the teacher perpetually
in the wrong. Called on, however,
I said aloud, “The cup is red.”

“But it’s not,” I thought,
like Galileo Galilei
muttering under his beard….

Can’t you just see the small girl in the poem, saying out loud “the cup is red” even as she knows it is not red? “The cup is red.” “It is normal to be with a person of the opposite sex.” “The world is a dangerous place.” “I am not good enough.” You are taught it and you say it and say it, even as you mutter in your beard, but you say it and say it so often that it becomes a part of you and you forget ever muttering in your beard. The hurtful voice of mother and father, or teacher, or society, becomes your very own voice in your very own head, and now we’re talking internalized oppression, now we’re talking about that river within us, that river every person alive is born with, dammed up, stopped up, blocked. That’s what we’re talking about.

Got to open up. Plant a seed of open-mindedness. Here’s how. And before I go over the steps, remember, for those of you who are choosing to practice these spiritual exercises with me, which we are learning one per month, don’t forget to keep practicing the others we’ve covered so far:

Review of the day
Clear thinking
Willpower
Emotional intelligence
Positivity

And now, open-mindedness. Step one is to establish a base line. As you go through your day, be mindful of your automatic responses to yourself, to other people, and to the world around you. Notice moments when your energy contracts, and you can just feel your hands tightening around the bars of some prejudice.

Someone tells you that you did a good job, and instead of just saying “Thanks” and allowing yourself to feel good, you put yourself down somehow, you instantly clamp down on the good feeling. Put that on the list.

Or: you are in a gathering of Unitarian Universalists, and the subject of prayer to God comes up, and you say, “Well, we don’t have any of that around here. Unitarian Universalists don’t do that.” Put that on the list.

One thing that’s on my very long list relates to diet. Not too long ago, my daughter Sophia asked me if I wanted to try one of her milkshakes. Now Sophia is a vegan and eschews all animal products. No eggs, no dairy, no meat. So the milkshake: made of hemp protein, green powder, vanilla, cinnamon, cacao powder, almond milk, banana, wheatgrass, and carob chips. She hands it to me, and I hold it carefully like a grenade. I already know she’s into weird food. “Dad, try it!” “Heck no,” I say. It’s green, and it has brown chunks gurgling around in it. But after 20 minutes of cajoling and some ridicule, I did try it, and hey, it was pretty good. Then she told me the ingredients. My response: “Uuuuurrrgggh.” Put it on the list.

Step one is about listening to your life, and establishing your base line of prejudices.

Step two is to stretch. To explain, let’s take a look at some additional insights about luck that come from psychologist Richard Wiseman’s research. “Unlucky people,” he says, “often fail to follow their intuition when making a choice, whereas lucky people tend to respect hunches. […] Unlucky people [are also] creatures of routine. They tend to take the same route to and from work and talk to the same types of people at parties. In contrast, many lucky people try to introduce variety into their lives. For example, one person described how he thought of a colour before arriving at a party and then introduced himself to people wearing that colour. This kind of behaviour boosts the likelihood of chance opportunities by introducing variety.” Isn’t this interesting? Accordingly, in step two of the exercise, when you find yourself in situations in which a prejudice kicks in, look for opportunities to stretch yourself. Allow intuition to guide you, or introduce some kind of variety—all to the end of enabling a different perspective than the one you are used to to live within you for a time. That’s exactly what Gina Welch did, in her effort to walk a mile in the shoes of Christian evangelists. Henry David Thoreau’s Walden experiment is all about this. Large scale, small scale. All about transforming NO! into OH?

Finally, step three: each day you do the exercise, conclude by reflecting upon how things went in the evening (similar to or along with the Review of the Day). Track what happens in your journal. Practice compassion towards yourself, as you get clearer about the prejudices you bring to your life. Practice right effort, as you open your mindset more and more, and you look around and realize that your prison has only two bars in it, and things suffocated and diminished by prejudices of your mind start surprising you, dots are starting to connect that had never before connected, fantastic Isaac Newton-like insights popping up like lighbulbs over your head, and you are feeling freer than ever before, free religion is becoming more and more a reality for you, and you are feeling joy rising up in you, the river rising and rising within you, flowing, flowing freely, and what you find yourself doing, effortlessly, effortlessly, is singing, singing as no one ever has, and you are

streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.

Dear Friends,

By now, you may have heard about an incident during the 11:15am service yesterday. As I was delivering my sermon, a man sitting in one of our upper rows collapsed and fell over. It was a traumatic experience for us all and a powerful reminder of the fragility of life. I don’t believe that anything like this has ever happened during a UUCA worship in all our 50+ years.

Before I say anything else, please know that the man is currently in good condition. Seminarian-in-residence Duncan Teague testifies to this. Duncan accompanied him to the Emory Hospital and sat with him during tests, etc. Duncan says, “By the time the doctors were discussing his tests and how the evening would proceed, he and I had been talking about his family, his previous relationship with UUCA, and his travels and work. We were laughing and the few hours passed quickly. The man seemed to be doing a lot better.”

Our pastoral caregivers also visited the man this morning, so we are making sure that he is feeling cared for. (In the interests of privacy, I am not releasing this person’s name out to the public.)

As for what happened during the service. One congregant felt that “the emergency was handled very expertly.” Another congregant described it like this:

“What Troopers!! Yesterday at church, an attendee collapsed. Calm prevailed… Our Minister stopped the sermon; 911 and relatives were called; our own first responders (a police officer, two nurses, and cardiologist) went to work; the congregation remained seated; the band moved its gear to make a way for the paramedics; we had prayer, meditation, healing thoughts; the Minister of Music did a solo; our Minister and nurses kept us informed.

“After the paramedics wheeled out our member for transport to the hospital for tests (alert and accompanied by friends) – our Minister addressed our need to care for ourselves today given this experience.

“He asked permission to continue the service (we are a democratic congregation); we sang ‘Spirit of Life’; he resumed the sermon; the band got the gear back up in minutes, and they played our final song; the service concluded a half hour late; we left in fellowship.”

Calm did prevail, and I want to express my sincere appreciation to the congregation for this. When the going gets rough, we stick together. We take care of each other.

Let me also re-emphasize how a traumatic experience like this can get under your skin. It can bring up difficult emotions and fears. Please take care of yourself. Let the ministers know if we can be of assistance to you. And above all, remember these lines from a colleague of mine, which I used to conclude the 11:15am worship service:

Take courage friends.
The way is often hard, the path is never clear
And the stakes are very high.
Take courage.
For deep down, there is another truth.
You are not alone.

Blessings,

Rev. David

This is my April 2010 article for UUCA’s monthly newsletter….

Back in January, I preached a sermon entitled “What Kind of UU Are You?” and I used the metaphor of birdwatching. We explored all the variety of UU birds in our midst.

In this month’s article, I want to expand the metaphor into its largest sense: that of “biodiversity.” Biodiversity is about the variation of life forms within a given ecosystem, and it is used as a key measure of health. History shows that monoculture (the lack of biodiversity) is a key factor behind illness and system instability. For example, The Irish potato blight of 1846, a major factor in the deaths of a million people and migration of another million, was the result of planting only two potato varieties, both of which were vulnerable to disease. Biodiversity means health and resilience, whereas monoculture means extinction.

But what causes monoculture? What tends to decrease biodiversity? One clear answer is the destruction of species habitats. A “habitat” is the natural environment that is fine-tuned to the needs of a given species population. The more habitats within an ecosystem, the greater the biodiversity. But when specific species populations no longer have unique places within the larger system to call home—when they no longer have sufficient resources to support their singular path through life—they die. In other words, if the larger environment is going to support the flourishment of variety, it must protect and preserve habitats which are fine-tuned for only single kinds of things. You can’t have biodiversity without habitats. No such thing as “generic” biodiversity.

Now what does all this have to do with our congregation? Well, our shared Unitarian Universalist spiritual vision is that unity-in-diversity, and over the centuries we have employed many images and metaphors to evoke it. “We need not think alike to love alike.” “Democracy.” “The Welcome Table.” “Beloved Community.” “Spiritual, not Religious.” “Multicultural Community.” “The Interdependent Web of All Existence.” And on and on. “Biodiversity” is simply another way to evoke the same “unity-in-diversity” vision.

But what is particularly powerful about the biodiversity metaphor is the accompanying insight that we need to build and preserve habitats for the different kinds of UU birds among us. UUCA’s Cultural Mosaic Group is a wonderful example of one way in which this is happening among us. The group sponsors special events highlighting the importance of different cultural and ethnic groups at UUCA. But more than this, it’s a way of building a habitat in our midst for people of color to know themselves and each other, to articulate the gifts they have to bring to this place, and to energize and celebrate their vision. Without this precious habitat, our biodiversity is diminished, and so is our common strength.

My question now is: How are we doing with regard to our spiritual path habitats? Are we actively building and maintaining habitats in our midst that will support these? If you are a Pagan UU, for example, is there a habitat in our midst for you? A place where you can find people who are sympathetic to the Pagan UU vision and who want to practice its related spiritual disciplines? Or, what if you are a UU Christian? A UU Metaphysical Mystic? And so on and so forth? Or, what if you just have a positive interest, and you want to learn more, you want to go deeper? The answer is this: you need a habitat within the larger UUCA ecosystem to dwell in.

Make no mistake, we all have a stake in this. Monoculture weakens the entire system. We already know what happens when we plant only two varieties of potatoes, and the blight comes. If you are a UU Buddhist, it is absolutely in your best interest to encourage the development and maintenance of a UU Christian habitat. If you are a UU Atheist, it absolutely strengthens you to affirm a UU Theist habitat. Doesn’t mean you have to be enthusiastic about (or even “get”) the ethos of a different habitat. Hawks are so very different from owls–and we need them both. We need the coockoos and the kingfishers and the swallows and the crows. In the larger world, where habitat after habitat is being destroyed, we have “conservation biologists” working their tails off to prevent this. Here at UUCA, we ALL need to have the conservation biology mindset. Everyone needs to pull together, to help multiply our spiritual habitats at UUCA. It’s for the common good.

Some of our spiritual path habitats here at UUCA are strong. Just to name a few: the L’Chaim Jewish Celebrations and Awareness Group, or the Buddhist Meditation Group. But we need to see more. Many of you have spoken to me about this. It’s time to do better around this. So, I am looking for leaders. I am looking for people who want to work with me in increasing the number of spiritual habitats we have here at UUCA. Please email me if you are passionate about a specific spiritual path in Unitarian Universalism, and you want to help build a habitat in which it can flourish in our larger UUCA ecosystem.

Blessings,

Anthony

Rev. Anthony David
Senior Minister, UUCA

Once again, with the turning of the year into springtime, we find ourselves in the holy season of Passover and Easter, and we are also observing our Unitarian Universalist Flower Celebration. And this year, Patricia Polacco’s story “Chicken Sunday” reminds us about what’s at stake, what it’s all about.

Take Mr. Kodinski. At one point, when the children return to the hat store and give him a basket of pysanky eggs, he softens up, he says thank you in Russian, “spaseeba,” he sees that they are not the ones who were throwing eggs at his door, his eyes glisten and his mouth curls into a warm smile, he invites them to have some tea…. And this is when you turn the page in the picture book, and you see the artist’s rendering of the scene: a red-haired girl with two long pony tails, who is author Patricia Polacco as a child, then her two friends Stewart and Winston, all drinking tea and eating slices of poppy-seed cake, and Mr. Kodinski, smiling, wearing the big black hat and prayer shawl of an Orthodox Jew, holding out a cup to one of the boys, and there, on the bare arm he’s holding out, is a tattooed serial number, his registration number from his time in Auscwitz. Mr. Kodinski had been there. And no doubt he had returned, at least momentarily in his mind, when the bigger boys were throwing the eggs at his door, and he cried out, “All I want to do is live my life in peace.”

It’s our cry too. The cry of ages for justice and freedom. The cry from roughly 3500 years ago, when the Israelites ached under the grinding enslavement of their Egyptian masters. The cry from 2000 years ago, first-century Palestine, when people suffered the brutality of Roman rule, as illustrated in devastating form through Jesus’ execution. The cry from just 70 years ago, when Nazi Germany emerged as the 20th century’s version of ancient Egypt and Rome; when oppression took the form of fascism, the concentration camp, the Holocaust; when a fellow Unitarian Universalist, Dr. Norbert Capek, was arrested, sent to the death camp in Dachau, murdered by poison—a man who dared preach about spiritual freedom, who dared compare the inherent worth and dignity of each and every person to a flower. All these cries, over the ages. That’s what Passover, Easter, and our Unitarian Universalist Flower Celebration convey to us. Through them, we remember. Through them, we hear.

This is the world that the kids in the story are in, and we’re in it too. Bigger boys throwing eggs at the door of civility and common decency. Bigger boys and bigger girls who are bullies, who are thieves, who have succumbed to the temptations of abusive power in some form or fashion, and either they are consciously siding with Pharaoh and Caesar and Fuhrer, or their hearts and minds have become enslaved and they do not know it, they don’t know, they make choices that go against their best interests and they brag about it, they berate everyone else, see themselves as righteous, as pure. This is our world. Temptations of abusive power everywhere.

Yet the children in the story don’t succumb. The power they exert is not abusive, but creative. They don’t take up with the bigger boys and throw eggs, but decorate them. Make pysanky eggs instead and give them as a gift to Mr. Kodinski, or sell them so that they might get Miss Eula that pink hat she’s been wanting so desperately. Such good, creative children….

And it is all out of love for Miss Eula. That’s what saved them, I think, from going the way of the bigger boys. Gratitude. The opposite of resentment. The opposite of a sense of entitlement.

Miss Eula. A different religion and race from the child Patricia Polacco, but she adopted her as her own, side-by-side with Stewart and Winston. Miss Eula fed their bodies with amazing friend chicken and collard greens with bacon and hoppin’ john and corn on the cob and fried spoon bread. Fed their spirits, too, with her song voice like slow thunder and sweet rain, or her unstinting trust and belief in them, or her honest longing for the Easter bonnet in Mr. Kodinski’s window which she openly shared. “The most beautiful I ever did see,” she’d sigh…. This is how she fed them, body and soul, and they wanted to get her that pink hat more than anything in the world.

Do you have a Miss Eula in your life? A Miss Eula for which you feel such gratitude that you would use the power you have creatively and not abusively? More than anything in the world?

For myself, my grandmother comes to mind, my Baba, who among all the many adults rushing around in my life actually slowed down and took time with me. Played games with me like Scrabble and Trouble on Saturday afternoons. Taught me card games, solitaire. One Easter weekend many years ago, she boiled dozens of eggs, prepared dyes, put into my hand the stylus that you use to draw patterns on the egg shells in hot wax and showed me how, how to make my own pysanky eggs. You never forget these things. You never do. They build up a gratitude in you that takes on a life of its own, and you want to keep giving this goodness away.

Miss Eula can remind us of exactly such things—people and events that have fed our individual growth. But she can also bring to mind how we are fed body and soul by the amazing grace world in which we live, and even when life turns hard and scary, we are still fed by small things, a hug from a friend, birdsong, the turning seasons, a wise word, a sense that whatever happened it could have always been worse, a singing voice like slow thunder and sweet rain. The universe is nothing less than Miss Eula to us all. The approximately 100 trillion cells of my body, or your body, and all these cells organized into greater degrees of complexity—tissues then organs then organ systems then you and me—and all of it survives and thrives by the grace and sacrifice of other organisms: other bacteria, other plants, other animals. Nothing we’ve done deserves this; they are there not because of anything I have done necessarily; their lives have their own significance and standing. And yet they die for me. My very living requires their dying. They die for me, and in my own turn, at some point, I will die for them, I will give my body back to the earth. The circle of life goes on.

How can we not go in gratitude? Miss Eula is everywhere. And Miss Eula is also how the Passover Story ends, and the Easter story, and the story of Dr. Norbert Capek. Moses, aided by the power and might of the Lord, leading the people out from bondage and into freedom, proclaiming “Let my people go.” Jesus’ followers after his crucifixion, unarguably feeling that despite the brutality and finality of his death, he was somehow still with them, resurrected, still alive and vibrant, his message of the life abundant undiminished. And then Dr. Norbert Capek: just look at how his ideals have triumphed and still live among us, in the Flower Celebration he created—in the end proven far stronger than the supposedly invincible Third Reich ever was.

The temptation to abuse power is always there—to throw eggs rather than create with them. To steal rather than to preserve, or give. But gratitude saves us. Gratitude for the slow thunder and sweet rain voice of love in our lives, for all the Miss Eulas that surround us and inspire us.

In this holy season, my hope for you is to be like the children in the story when they go into the backyard, when Stewart reaches into the hole in the trunk of their “wish tree” and pulls out a rusty Band-Aid tin. They count the money they’ve been saving for weeks, because they want to know if they’ve got enough to buy Miss Eula that pink hat. And they don’t. So they start to think. How can we make this happen? How are we going to express our gratitude for you, Miss Eula? That’s what I hope for you. This day, to wonder, how can I express my gratitude for my life? How can I start a gratitude habit, or strengthen the one I’ve already got? Since last October, once a month, we’ve been planting seeds of soul—learning spiritual exercises that can grow our hearts and spirits—and you need to know that they all point to this seventh and last one. This is the last and final exercise. Every day before you go to bed, write down five things that you can be grateful for. Or, in some other way, devote 5 to 10 minutes each day to think about and feel how the actions of some person or being have made a positive difference to you. You want to work for justice in this world, and create with the eggs you’ve been given rather than throw them? Start with gratitude. You want to use your power positively and not abusively? Start with gratitude. It’s all about turning up the volume of the voice of slow thunder and sweet rain. Turning up that volume. That’s what the holy season we’re in is really all about. That’s it.

“However mean your life is,” says Henry David Thoreau, “meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is.” I re-read this carefully this morning—very carefully—while I was being serenaded by the bangs and crashes and beeps of DeKalb Water Department tractors and personnel at the literal edge of my driveway, attached to the Stone Mountain home I purchased just three weeks ago. It was a leaking water main. Yesterday late afternoon we’d left the house and all was well; when we returned several hours later at 10pm our part of the neighborhood was lit up like Christmas, streets were closed, heavy equipment everywhere, men in hard hats, a huge hole where the end of my driveway had been. Imagine our surprise. The culprit was the tall pine at the edge of our property, which up till that point had seemed friendly-enough; little did we know that its roots over the years had silently aimed for the water pipe running underneath. I went to sleep with the music of a buzz saw in my ears.

And I awoke ready for some good news. And so: “love your life, as poor as it is.” I was of course already familiar with the passage, but changed circumstances have a way of changing one’s perspective. “Love your life.” “Love your life.” The words sound impossible, and yet … I’m listening. I’m listening for the good news there, the possibilities, even as the hard-hatted men in the tractors continue to gouge my driveway and yard. “The morning wind forever blows,” says Thoreau, “the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.” We hear the groans and beeps of the machinery, the metal scraping, the rattling, but not the poem of creation that ultimately we and the machinery and the hard-hatted men stand within and are an integral part of.

We do not hear wholly. It is Thoreau’s constant refrain in Walden, together with his bright conviction that life gifts us with so much more than we normally think, or grasp. “The universe is wider than our views of it.” “Be a Columbus,” he says, “to whole new continents and worlds within you.” “There is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we tolerate incredible dullness.” The poetry of creation goes unheard in all or even in much of its complexity, and this is truly tragic when you remember that the unique vocation of our humanity in the wide universe is to witness to it, to give the poetry a true voice, to take conscious pleasure in it, as well as gratitude, knowing how fragile beauty can be.

That’s our holy vocation as humans. To know the wholeness in all its variety. To piece the groans and the beeps and the metal scraping and the rattling in our lives all together, until the poetry emerges, and we see how we can love our lives, poor as they are. We see.

I go to Thoreau to be reminded of exactly this.

And you know, it’s true of so many people. Since October, when I began this sermon series on Walden, I’ve encountered story after story of people who have gone to our Unitarian Universalist ancestor to be reconnected with a sense of purpose and wholeness. To be confirmed in the hope that, “if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success in common hours.”

One of these people is Wade Rouse. Wade Rouse is the author of At Least Someone In the City Would Hear Me Scream: Misadventures in Search of the Simple Life, and in this book, he talks about what it was like to grow up gay in rural America. He says, “I grew up worshipping Erma Bombeck instead of George Brett, Joe Montana, or Buck Owens. When boys from school would come to my house they would inevitably make fun of her books—The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank and If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits?—which I had sitting on my nightstand, and the photos of her I had pinned to my corkboard wall.”

“’What’s wrong with you?’ they would often ask.”

“Which is why I ran and ran, and kept running, from rural America, until I found myself in the city doing everything but what I had initially set out to do. Write. I was making great money, I was traveling, I was eating at the best restaurants. But was I happy?” Ultimately, this question—this yearning—would lead Wade Rouse to emulate Thoreau and return, after so many years, to life in a rural setting, and opportunity for the poem of creation to emerge and become known…..

So many stories of people engaging in their own Walden-like experience. Another one comes from psychologist Stella Resnick, in her book The Pleasure Zone: Why We Resist Good Feelings and How to Let Go and Be Happy. She says, “After years of graduate study and training, I became a successful therapist with a thriving practice in San Francisco. I bought a home, made many friends, and traveled widely giving talks and seminars. The only problem was that I wasn’t happy. […] Here I was—a therapist. I clearly had something worthwhile to offer others; my practice was full. Why wasn’t it working for me? I had been in the best therapy for years, with leaders in my field. I had my insights, my dramatic breakthroughs when I would erupt into tears and rage over the pain of my childhood—my parents’ divorce when I was five, the years living with a neglecting mother and a physically abusive stepfather. I did yoga. I meditated. I exercised. I became a vegetarian. Why did I still suffer? Why wasn’t I happy?”

It would lead her to spend a year in the country “more alone than ever before.” “But this time, she says, “it was a chosen solitude. For guidance, I read Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. Like Thoreau, I had a pond full of croaking frogs in the summer, which froze over in winter. Like Thoreau, I had a visitor now and then and made regular forays into town for supplies. And like Thoreau, days and days would go by when I neither saw not spoke to another living being.”

Can you imagine what that must have been like? Stella Resnick’s story is fascinating, especially in the way that it goes deeper and deeper. At first, the loneliness and crankiness. “I would find myself staring at a wall, not knowing how long I had been sitting there or what I had been so lost in thought over. […] Some nights when the cold winter wind blew especially hard, I would stay awake stuffing newspapers between the planks of the uninsulated walls of this summer house, grumbling to myself and wondering how this was ever going to make me into a cheerier person.”

At first this. But then the powerful insight comes upon her, which is the theme of her book. She says, “What I began to discover during those endless days was how little I knew about how to be happy on a daily basis. I knew how to criticize myself for how I wasn’t good enough. But I didn’t know how to take on a day and enjoy it.” “I began to see that while understanding and releasing pain is certainly crucial for lasting results in psychotherapy, it’s not enough. Getting good as struggling with problems just makes you more skillful at struggling with problems. To enjoy your life more,” says Stella Resnick, “it’s better to become skillful at what inspires your enthusiasm and generates vitality and good feelings.”

Hearing this, Thoreau would smile. That’s exactly what he was about, when he says at one point, “Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller’s wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance.“ Thoreau here was practicing the art of living, even as his more proper neighbors completely misunderstood what he was about. They thought he was escaping life, when in fact he was living more deeply into it, applying a discipline of revery and simple enjoyment that to many is in fact quite difficult.

Along these same lines, Stella Resnick goes on to say, “I certainly have learned a lot over the years, watching people at the office grapple with their need for love and their sexual longings, and then watching my husband and myself grapple with these same issues at home. A major factor that goes unaddressed in most relationships because it is so completely taken for granted is the common tendency to make matters worse by inflicting pain on ourselves and the people we care about—all in the name of trying to make things better.” “We seem to hold a curious philosophy,” she says, “that what brings people closer is talking about how they displease one another. I’ve seen couples who could easily itemize what was lacking for them in the relationship—carefully spelling out their resentments, disappointments, and sexual complaints—who would resist saying how much they appreciated one another.” We get so good at solving problems, in other words, that we can’t step outside of problem-oriented conversations, with ourselves and with others. A sunny doorway is just not drama-ridden enough to hold us, and so we can’t sit there. What is right in our lives and in our relationships becomes like the wallpaper—goes unnoticed. Uncomfortable to talk about, since we’re unpracticed in it, or it goes against the grain of our philosophy.

Few are the ears that hear the uninterrupted poem of creation…..

The tenacity of Earth and its creatures.
Kyrie eleison

These children who will go on to save what we cannot.
Baruch ata Adonai

The ordinary tenacity of plants and of people.
Om (The Rev. Barbara J. Pescan)

It’s me, waking up this morning ready for some good news. “Love your life, as poor as it is.”

And the struggles we often go through, to allow ourselves to hear. To advance confidently in the direction of our dreams.

Let’s turn once again to Wade Rouse—his Walden story. The day when everything changed, and he made the decision to get out of the city and do the Thoreau thing. He writes, “I had been waking up at four A.M. to write my first memoir, America’s Boy. I had been consumed with writing about my childhood—the beauty, the horror, the unconditional transformational love of family—and could not sleep any longer without getting it all out. One morning, when it came time for me to go to my job as a PR director at a prep school—a position that entailed mucho schmoozing and dwindling self-esteem—I had to force myself to stop writing by turning on the TV as loudly as possible to distract myself.

“The Today show was blaring as I raced around our tiny city bungalow, leapfrogging our mutt, Marge, in the hallway. Matt Laur was interviewing a couple who had quit their jobs to run a B&B in Bali. ‘We have discovered the secret of happiness. Follow your obsession,’ they told Matt. ‘You freaks!’ I yelled at the TV as I dry-swallowed a vitamin, aspirated Kashi, lint-brushed my suit, reviewed my meeting notes, and tossed a Bonz down the basement stairs for Marge to follow. ‘I’m happy!’

“I found myself in my car, already late to work for another day of insanity and stupidity—already preoccupied about what I was wearing, preoccupied about the fact that I didn’t have enough time to write, preoccupied about the last think I’d yelled. I was happy, damn it!

“Or was I happy in the way that sheep or lobotomy patients are happy, mindlessly bleating and going through the motions? Was I just one of the ‘sheeple’’ (part sheep, part people), a term a friend of mine used when referring to many Americans who seem to sleepwalk through their lives?

“I got into my car, gripped the wheel, and saw that my hands were shaking. I eased into an all-out traffic jam and instantly came to a complete stop. No! No! No! Move, traffic, I’m late!

“And for one moment in my life, I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t rush ahead. So I started thinking of my morning, of my life. Was I having a bad morning? Or a bad life? I asked myself again, Wade, are you happy?

“And then I became emotional. So emotional, in fact, that I lowered my head on my steering wheel and began to sob as Christina Aguilera told me I was beautiful.

“When a car honked to knock me from my stupor, to let me know I could inch ahead a few feet, I lifted my head from the wheel in time to see a man holding a sign on an overpass above the highway. The man, who looked like a greasy, heavily medicated version of Jesus, held aloft a cardboard sign that read in poorly scrawled letters: WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU COULD NOT FAIL?

“He was backlit by the morning sun, rays splaying from behind his body, and the image looked like one of those religious paintings, in black velvet perhaps, or color-by-numbers, that you find buried under other crap in cluttered antiques stores. […] As my car inched toward the overpass, the man simply reached over and, as if on cue, dropped his sign, which flitted and fluttered and floated like a butterfly caught in a crosswind before landing directly over my windshield. All I could see, in close-up 3D, my eyes crossing to make sure I was still reading it correctly, was its message: WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU COULD NOT FAIL?

“I braked immediately, panicked, unable to see, and fetched the sign off my window, ignoring the angry honks of drivers. I shoved the sign, which was covered in grimy fingerprints and smelled like gas and motor oil, into my backseat. As I came out from under the overpass, U glanced in my rear-view mirror, and Jesus was waving at me—alternatively blowing kisses and doing the sign of the cross, like a mix of the Pope and Liza Minnelli. The sun had obliterated his face into an explosion of whiteness. As my eyes turned toward the road again, it was then I caught a glimpse of the backside of Jesus’ cardboard sign reflected in the driver’s mirror. It was the outside of a packing box, with an address that read: WALDEN’S AUTOMOTIVE.”

And that’s Wade Rouse’s story. The struggles we can go through to get to a place where we can begin to hear the poetry of the universe. How we can struggle. But even when we abandon ourselves, the universe does not. The world, synchronicities and all, constantly calls us to a deeper life of witnessing to the Wonder and Mystery of creation. And then there is Thoreau. He’s the man on the overpass, dropping the sign, waving at us from more than 150 years ago. Love your life, Anthony, despite the broken water main. Love your life. Love your life, congregation. Love your life, friends. Start with love, to end with love. Love your life. Love your life.

Whenever I wonder about the phenomenon of sport—people’s investment of so much time and money and emotional energy—I go back to 1976, the living room of my house from all those years ago. Mom is watching the Winter Olympics, held in Innsbruck, Austria that year, and I’m watching both it and her. I’m nine years old at the time. The television camera is trained upon a milky white ice surface, and in the context of the Olympics, it has been transformed from simply one ice surface among many into an axis mundi, a world center, sacred space and time to which figure skaters from many nations bring their gifts of athletic grace. The sacred space and time flow into my living room also. My mom, overwhelmed with obsessive compulsive disorder and depression, becomes clearer. I am nine years old, and this is what I see. The Olympics in Austria—the temporary, limited perfection they represent—bring a measure of desperately-need sanity into our chaotic and isolated lives thousands of miles away in Peace River, Alberta. I could not have known it at the time, since our family did not go to church, but it was exactly like church. Sport and religion, in different ways, evoking a sense of connection to a life that is larger than the confusions of the moment—doing this for spectators and participants alike. Sport and religion, feeding the hungers of the spirit.

I’ll never forget when it was Dorothy Hamill’s time to compete. While she’s spinning and jumping and going through the moves of her program, my Mom is totally absorbed, moving along with her in sympathy, arching or lunging or twisting her body one way or another. Totally caught up in the drama. When Hamill launched into a difficult double axel, Mom stopped breathing, just held her breath, and then, when she landed the jump, Mom shrieked with joy. She shrieked a lot during the entire program, actually. When it was over, and Hamill had won the gold, Mom started to cry and laugh at the same time and grabbed me and gave me one of those jumping up and down hugs. Massive tension, massive release. It is the compelling drama to be found in every sport, individual or team, either in the context of a single competition or game, or building throughout the competitive season; and religion knows this sort of drama as well. In college I would learn that the oldest of literary forms is the epic, in which the protagonist undergoes great adversity to achieve a great good. What mythologist Joseph Campbell calls “the hero with a thousand faces.” Jesus the Christ, Siddhartha Gautama the Buddha, and Mohammed the Prophet. Our spirits rise up to meet the call of epic drama. In religion, and in sport.

But in 1976, when I was nine, the profundity of what I was experiencing with my Mom was inarticulate, without the words and concepts I would learn years later. All I knew was that something powerful had just happened, and the awkward, insecure boy that I was had to see it through. I had to experience figure skating for myself. Almost forty years later, I’m still on my figure skating journey, and I can personally attest to something that the ancient Greeks and Romans had to say: that sport at its finest can be an avenue to connecting with the spirit. Too often, of course, we do not see sport at its finest: its pollution by big business and greed; cheating and drug abuse; or sports heroes like Tiger Woods and Ben Roethlisberger who fail to be the role models we yearn for. (From figure skating, you may remember the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan fiasco—remember that? Watch your kneecaps…. ) Too often we do not see sport at its finest. And yet, when we do, the ancient Greek and Roman insight comes alive. Here’s how this has been so for me.

Someone once said that our greatest progress as people happens not when our visions and dreams are fulfilled easily, or even fulfilled at all—but rather when they are disrupted or denied. In my own case, my skating got off to a quick start. Soon after the Olympics in 1976, I started lessons, and I loved them. Worked hard, too. I have vivid memories of waking up at 5am, getting to the rink by 5:45 or 6 for practice before school. Dad always woke me up, and drove—even in the deepest, darkest winter mornings (and this is in Peace River Alberta, folks—doesn’t get much deeper and darker than that.) The earliest session would be patch, which is when skaters practice figure eights. No sounds in the rink other than blades edging into ice, or the scratching of toe picks, or sniffles and noses being blown. Not fun to watch, but it’s like Buddhist walking meditation. Concentration. Controlled tension, resulting in grace. Today, if I could, I’d love to take up this aspect of the sport. But back then, HATED IT! BORING!

What I loved was the later morning session, when I could do freestyle. From the monastic silence of patch, to music booming on the loudspeakers: ABBA, or Supertramp, or KISS (this was the 1970s, after all). I and the other skaters would practice our scratch spins, sit spins, camel spins, combo spins, waltz jumps, flips, toe loops, lutzes, axels, and all the other skater moves. We’d land them, or we’d fall and then get up and try it all over again. After this, school. And then after school, more skating! Memories of fourth grade, fifth grade, sixth grade, seventh grade are permanently linked to this skating schedule. I was dedicated. My coach thought I was talented. I went to my first competition. Things seemed to be going well.

And that’s when adversity struck. Just when things seemed to be going well. You know how that goes. Humans plan, God laughs.

For myself, adversity took the form of an unexpected move, in January of 1979—and bringing this up at this time is so ironic considering where we’ve been recently in America, with our health care overhaul. Canada apparently was undergoing a crisis of medical care in the late 1970s. Should it be nationalized? What would that look like? It all mattered because Dad was a medical doctor, and he was already terribly overworked. In his opinion and that of his colleagues, nationalized health care was a bad thing. In the end he decided to accept a position in a growing hospital in a small town called Palestine, in Texas, far away from Canada and far away from nationalized health care.

Far away from skating rinks, too. This is Texas in 1979! Not much of a skating scene in Texas, back then. And Dad felt awful about it, so did Mom. But you do what you have to do. They promised to send me back to Canada to skate over the summer of 1979, then again in 1980, but the three-months-on, nine-months-off training schedule was horrible. Every time I got back on the ice, I felt like I was starting over again, and by summer’s end, it felt like I was just getting back to where I had left off the previous summer. This, while fellow skaters were advancing way beyond me. It was frustrating, and demoralizing, and all the talk about talent made me feel like an imposter.

By 1981, I was done. 13 years old, and already washed up! What’s really amazing to me as I look back is that I simply slammed the door not just on figure skating, but on sports altogether. I mean, l was used to working with coaches, and I loved athletics. But I never replaced skating with anything else. I just got into my studies at high school. That’s it. And never watched figure skating on TV after that. No more moments like I’d had with my Mom, watching Dorothy Hamill, allowing the sacred space and time of the Olympics to touch me wherever I happened to be. No more opening myself up to the epic drama. Not until years later. Just slammed the door.

This was my experience of adversity. It struck like lightning, then it was a slow gradual process of erosion, until the dream was gone.

But if the life of the spirit is about anything, it is about transformation. It is about entering into interior grace, despite what seems stubbornly real in the external world. Our greatest progress as people happens not when our visions and dreams are fulfilled easily, or even fulfilled at all—but rather when they are disrupted or denied and yet find ourselves taking that next step, and then the next, and we are met each time with something that sustains us and helps us keep going, until we live into a new truth about ourselves, a larger sense of possibility.

I would never have known this personally until a certain opportunity came my way. Would never have known that my figure skating dream still had mojo to it, until 17 years later, when I stepped on the ice again with my friend Diane Platts.

A little background to this. By this time in my life, Laura and I were married and attending the Unitarian Universalist church in College Station, Texas, where we first met Diane and her husband Steve. Skating for me had become all but ancient history until, in a casual conversation one day, Diane mentioned that she skated, and I went Huh? Because Diane was even older than I was. I mean, adults skating? I had been gone from the sport for so long that I had not known that adult skating had taken off and there were competitions being held all over the country including the big one, Adult Nationals. I also had not realized that skating had taken off in Texas and now there were rinks all over the place. Diane said she trained weekly at a rink in Houston (not too far away from College Station), and would I like to go with her one Sunday afternoon?

And all of a sudden, the excuses started tripping off of my tongue. Just like crazy. I was too busy at work. And then there was church—I was board president at the time—so maybe when my term was done I’d think about it. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. What really got me to that ice rink in Houston, 17 long years after I had left the sport, was the insistence of my wife, Laura. It was her tough love for me. Cutting through my bull. Often we just can’t realize our dreams without some tough love and support like this.

So I got on that ice. 17 years later. And when it happened, there was this rush of old pleasure in gliding effortlessly across the ice… New pleasure, too, in realizing that I still had it, I could still skate.

And as we continued going together to Houston on a weekly basis, Diane and I,
two realizations gradually emerged in me. The first had to do with the meaning of the word “sport.” It comes from the Latin “des-porto” which means “carried away.” Getting carried away, losing oneself in physical exertion, feeling complete, connected, unimpeded, integrated all at once. Doing this vicariously as spectators, if not directly. This understanding came to me with a clarity that perhaps I could never have had as a kid, and by way of contrast, it exposed the dissatisfaction that was building in the rest of my life where I WASN’T getting carried away, I WASN’T feeling complete, connected, unimpeded, integrated all at once. A line from the poet Mary Oliver comes to mind, where she asks, “Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?” (That’s a question for all of us today. “Are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?”)

I was teaching college at the time, and it wasn’t working. I was hungry for something else. My soul wanted something else. And the experience of the sport of skating was leading me to it, towards the direction of a deeper spirituality. The Spirit was moving me through my skating. Moved me eventually into the ministry. I continue to be grateful for the grace of our Universe, such that, when the student is ready, a teacher always appears. Always.

That’s the first realization that started to gather and grow in me as I took to the ice again. The other had to do with my age. Every time I got on that ice, and over time as I got more and more back into shape, a sense of wild mischievousness grew and grew. I was doing something that only kids were supposed to be doing. Doing dangerous on-ice stunts. Looking ice square in the face, knowing that it’s hard and slippery and dangerous and I wasn’t 12 anymore so if I fell it would be a lot harder to get up again, but doing it anyway. Skating, for me, became a way of rising above myself, a way of touching delicious freedom. Daring to keep growing and learning even while the pressures of ordinary life often worked against this.

All this hardly begins to tell the story, but it is a beginning. The dream I had as a kid had gone the way of the phoenix, and even though the newer version was different than I could ever have imagined, I liked it. It was revitalizing my life, pointing me into a different career direction, reminding me that as I got older I could still be vital and enjoy my world.

Here’s some video of Diane and I skating. It’s four years ago, at the 2006 Adult National Figure Skating Championships, held in Dallas Texas. Just one of the four dances we performed.

[…]

The skating dream I’d had as a kid had gone the way of the phoenix. Diane and I competed at Adult Nationals fully knowing that there is no box of Wheaties at the end with our smiling faces on it, even if you do win gold, as we did. Adult skating is just a completely different thing. Just to find the energy and time, with everything else going on, is success. So many ways in which the rush and gush of life can steal your soul away. Just to be able to get on the ice and compete is the Olympics. Just to be able to do things that I had never done as a kid: the Olympics, for me, for sure. I can only hope that if my Mom were still alive, she’d be jumping up and down for me too.

And truth to tell, I thought that with this, my story around figure skating was complete. But with my experience at the most recent Adult National Figure Skating Championships, held this year in Bloomington, Minnesota, I got a clear message that my sport had more to say to my spirit. Humans plan, God laughs.

No video to show you (wouldn’t dare show you the video), but here is a picture:

I had a horrible skate. Diane wasn’t with me, this time—when I moved here to Atlanta, our partnership ended, and I shifted my skating focus towards freestyle. I just don’t think I fully realized how distracting her absence would be, out there on the ice. It was a bad skate. And, being the perfectionist that I am, I can’t tell you how embarrassed I felt by the whole thing. When you grow up in the midst of chaos, as I did, you like things clean. The way to survival becomes perfectionism and maintaining the perfect mask in public. That’s the way it is.

The worst had happened—I fell apart on the ice—but here’s what was so amazing for me. It opened me up to the kindness of newly-made friends. Opening up like this has always been tough for the isolated, awkward inner nine-year-old me. I was with a big crowd of fellow adult skaters after the competition, and one of them, Rob, who’d actually won the gold medal in my event, said, “We have to get Anthony a last place medal! I’ve been there,” he said, “I know what it’s like.” And so did everyone else. So there we were, in a big red van, tooling around Bloomington, Minnesota, laughing like crazy, looking for a last place medal. Now where do you find something like that? Went to a Jo Ann’s fabrics (definitely no luck) went to a Michaels (better) and then finally, found a Party City (jackpot). My last place medal was made of plastic.

The picture is me, right after Rob formally presented my last place medal. This generous man who had won the gold. I’m standing FAR to the left of the 4th place spot. It was such a hard medal to earn. But perhaps exactly the right medal at the right time, by the grace of God. I was being welcomed to the human race. I did not have to be an Olympic champion Dorothy Hamill to belong.

It’s just like an old Indian story that tells about a thief who, while pretending to be a yogi in order to avoid arrest, became enlightened. It didn’t matter how his meditation got started, only where it ended. At times we’ve all worn that last place medal, but even that can be turned to some transcendent good. When I am weak, then I am strong. That’s my testimony today. I’m not just sharing a private story, or home movies. I’m testifying about what the world we live and move and have our being in is like. So gracious. So grace-filled. Doesn’t matter how the meditation gets started. It ends by bringing us home.

Many of the Unitarians and Universalists and Unitarian Universalists who came after Thoreau struggled with his model and message. To them it was by no means clear what Walden meant for our spiritual movement, in contrast to the Americans all around them who got it and declared it a classic of the human spirit. To paraphrase Jesus, the prophet was not honored in his own country.

But we’ve come a long way, baby.

We’ve come a long way.

We hear Thoreau say, “Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison,” and this civil disobedience insight immediately brings us back to one of the main reasons for our existence: to create people who are leaders in this world, people who care about justice, people with knowledge and passion and skills to bring an effective prophetic witness to the times in which we live.

We hear Thoreau say, “The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly”—we hear this, and we remember that our Unitarian Universalism cannot be a one-sided focus on social issues. To do all that needs to be done—to leave undone all that which is truly non-essential—we must heal our hearts and relationships; we must increase our emotional and spiritual IQs; we must awaken and continually reawaken to the endless potentials of the human spirit.

We hear Thoreau say, “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone,” and we are called to one of the central spiritual disciplines of Unitarian Universalism, which is good stewardship of our life resources of time and talent and money. We realize that just as the first chapter in Walden is entitled “Economy,” so must that be the first chapter in our lives.

We hear Thoreau say, “Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?” “Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps”—Thoreau says this, and suddenly our Unitarian Universalist First and Seventh Principles begin to dance together. “We affirm the inherent worth and dignity of every person,” “We affirm the interdependent web of all existence, of which we are a part.” Nature’s good is our good; our good is in the preservation of the world.

Perhaps there was a time when the prophet was not honored in his own country, but that time is long gone. His own country honors him now and needs his voice to remain relevant to the 21st century. “There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root,” said Thoreau; and as for which one describes him, now we know.

So the question before us is, After spending a year with grandfather Henry, what’s next? Where to go from here?

Mary Oliver wrote this poem, entitled “Going to Walden,” after declining an invitation from friends to visit the pond:

It isn’t very far as highways lie.
I might be back by night fall, having seen
The rough pines, and the stones, and the clear water.
Friends argue that I might be wiser for it.
They do not hear that far-off Yankee whisper:
How dull we grow from hurrying here and there!

Many have gone, and think me half a fool
To miss a day away in the cool country.
Maybe. But in a book I read and cherish,
Going to Walden is not so easy a thing
As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult
Trick of living, and finding it where you are.

That’s what’s next: finding Walden where we are—a slow and difficult trick of living. You don’t have to travel to Massachusetts. Find Walden here. And the key to this, I believe, is coming to terms with a seemingly strange fact. This: that there are no less than four different Thoreaus in his great work. One is the fierce and unyielding social critic who acts in conformity to what he sees as higher principles and so sharply rejects slavery, refuses to pay the taxman, goes to jail. But then the second Thoreau’s attention is more on his soul and personal relationships than on society. He’s the one who practices a careful diet, who listens to rain and writes. The one who hosts annual melon parties with his neighbors and plays Tom Bowling on his flute. The one who spends hours in reverie doing absolutely nothing, or walks, or goes skating with Mr. Emerson and Mr. Hawthorne and skates circles around them. As for the third Thoreau: careful with numbers. Keeps a meticulous ledger. Carefully lists for his readers every item he used to build his house at the side of Walden, and how much it all cost, and how much was left over. Passionate about voluntary simplicity, and practicing the concept of enough. Finally, the fourth Thoreau: lover of nature, nature mystic. This one says, “In Wildness is the preservation of the world.”

Four Thoreaus—but what united all four and made them one person with integrity was Thoreau’s unifying insight that justice-seeking, personal and spiritual growth, concern for the economy, and concern for nature were all interrelated. His nature mysticism made his social critique strong, and his social critique strengthened his focus on the economy, and all were strengthened by his personal wellness practices. In other words, for him and for us, the interdependent web of all existence is not something fundamentally out there but in here, in our hearts. Needs to be in here: the sensibility that what we do in one part of our lives matters for every other part. All for one and one for all.

If sustainable living is anything, it’s that. Ensuring that each of the four Thoreaus has a home in us, and that they are talking to each other, strengthening each other. Paths WITHOUT heart narrow down on only one Thoreau to the detriment of the others. Paths WITH heart are wide enough for all four; and if we walk down paths like this, paths with heart, that’s how we’ll find Walden where we are. That’s how this congregation will become Walden. That’s how this nation will become Walden.

Next year is going to be an amazing year, a leadership year for this congregation. In 2011 we will celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Unitarian Universalist Association, and naturally this will put us in mind to wonder about the next 50 years and the role we here at UUCA will play in it. So, very appropriately, as a congregation we are going to ask this vision question: where do we want to go? How do we want to change lives? My hope is that, as we do this, we will envision our future through the sustainable living lens, and resolve to make room for all four Thoreaus in everything we do.

But that’s next year. For here and now: consider taking a year-long happiness pledge. Last year, 186 of us made one, and may there be even more this year!

Lots of ways to approach this, and one way is simply to reflect on whether you are missing one or more of the four Henrys in your life. Are you? Is Henry the social justice advocate alive and well, for example, but it’s been ages since you had a regular self-care practice involving, say, a hobby that was just fun and didn’t pretend at all to change the world? Or is it the reverse? Your focus has been mostly on personal development and wellbeing, but you haven’t been paying much attention to the small or great social issues of our times (like the egregious immigration law just recently passed in Arizona). Perhaps it’s time to find a way to get involved.

If there’s a Henry that’s missing in your life, what’s one commitment to some weekly or regular practice that might spark the missing Henry back to life?

Two things to say at this point:

1. What if you don’t want to make a year-long happiness pledge? No problem—this is only a friendly invitation. These pledges are meant only to encourage and support people in their personal lives and relationships. For some people, pledges like this give them focus and commitment, and they work.

2. What if you want to make a year-long happiness pledge, but you aren’t ready? You need more time to think about it, or you’d like to talk to someone first? Again, no problem. Take the time you need. Go to our homepage at http://www.uuca.org and see a video that gives you examples of happiness pledges from last year. You can also make your happiness pledge there as well.

As for my own year-long happiness pledge. Still thinking about it. But I will say that some members of the staff are going to do a collective pledge—to do yoga together at least once a week. We’re missing this Henry in our work together, so it’s going to help—help steady our bodies and minds for the work we are called to do together….

And now it’s your turn. Take out the white insert in your order of service, and as the music begins, please begin filling out your pledge form. In a couple of minutes, the ushers will come around to pick them up. (NOT money for the offering, though—that will come later on.)

Please also note that on the pink insert in your order of service, there’s a space you can use to write down a copy of your pledge, to take home with you, just to keep it before you.

So now—let the pledging begin! Let’s find Walden where we are!

[…]

To signify the blessing of this hour upon the Rev. Paul Daniel’s ministry in relationship to this gathered community, we will now have the laying on of hands ritual.

Paul, please come up here. Over a wonderful lunch several months ago we talked about your hopes for this time. That it would evoke the energy of blessing, but not in one direction alone. We talked about how we wanted the blessing to flow into your personal ministry but to flow back outwards, as well—to infuse the congregation that has called you with purpose and strength, in service to the Larger Life.

So now I invite all participants in the installation ceremony, as well as all clergy, to come forward and lay their hands on you now. Let these hands which we extend become conveyers and channellers of that which is older than recorded time and younger than the newest second. Let them be hands which shared warmth and wisdom a thousand years ago and will do so still, a thousand years into the future. Let the timeless energy of healing and hope flow into your ministry.

And now I invite the rest of the gathered community to form concentric circles around Paul. Please stand in body or in spirit. Let those who are nearest step forward and lay their hands upon the installation service participants, and then for people farther back, to lay their hands upon the shoulders of the people in front of them, until this entire place is linked in a pattern of caring and mutual goodwill. Let all of us be conveyers and channellers of that which is older than recorded time and younger than the newest second. Creativity. Generosity. Compassion. Healing. Hope that led this congregation to make a risky decision to engage new ministry even as there were fears that there wouldn’t be enough money to afford it. Hope alive, even after years of shakiness and difficulty. Let our hands be conduits of this kind of timeless energy which, as Unitarian Universalists, we give many names: Spirit of Life, Goddess, Tao, Interdependent Web of All Existence, God. Let us feel this in our hands and in our bodies—this mysterious source of ever-present grace—as it gathers and grows. Let us attend to this mystery, helped by our silent breathing together….

And now, I would ask everyone to continue standing, but to drop your hands to your sides, and turn around. Let’s do that now. Here’s where we turn the flow of energy outwards, from Paul to the congregation and world.

Paul, you told me that this installation service is not just about you but what you and the congregation resolve to do together, in service to a larger mission of changing lives. You spoke passionately about your pride in this congregation, its new sense of direction. So now I want you to place your hands upon the shoulder of someone in front of you, and say out loud, “Let us bless the world.”

Here’s the instruction for everyone else—don’t start until I say GO. Let each person place their hands upon someone in front of them, and in the exact moment he or she makes contact, say, “Let us bless the world,” and then be silent. Ready? Now GO.

And now, everyone together, say, “Let us bless the world.”

May the hands of this place convey and channel that which is older than recorded time and younger than the newest second. Paul, this moment in history needs you, and it needs this congregation as well. Be a blessing to each other, so you can magnify blessing in the larger world.

You may now be seated. The ancient ritual of the laying on of hands is at an end. We have felt that which is timeless in our hands and our bodies. We have felt, in us, the energy and joy that are ready to break forth to make a new world.

And so may it be.

This is my June 2010 UUCA newsletter column….

How long has it been since you looked at your high school yearbook? Inspired by our recent graduates (which we honored at the May 16th Bridging Service), I looked at mine. There I was—Anthony from 26 years ago—weird hairstyle and all. On one of the pages, a girl I secretly liked wrote, “Anthony, you are a super guy! I’ll never forget your sweet smile and your sweet spirit. Good luck in everything you do.” Did she say this because she secretly liked me back? Or did she write something like this in everyone’s yearbook? I know that I always tried to write something upbeat, no matter who was asking.

On the other hand, there were always a couple of jokesters. One was none other than my high school principal, Mr. Fistko. He wrote, “God made the Earth and rested. God made the Sea and rested. God made Anthony David, and since then, nobody’s rested.”

Then there was Ms. Starkey, my English teacher. Five feet tall, pudgy, with sparkling dark eyes and a razor sharp intellect. At the time, I was a fundamentalist Christian (Church of Christ), and she was a liberal Christian (Presbyterian, I think). For me, there was only one way to salvation. For her, there were many.

When I asked her to sign my yearbook, she said of course and then told me she’d get it back to me the next day. This surprised me. I expected her just to write something down then and there, like everyone else. But she wanted to say something especially meaningful.

Here’s what I read when I got my yearbook back: “My dear little Anthony. This is from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. It says a bit of what I believe. ‘Say not, ‘I have found the truth,’ but rather, ‘I have found a truth.’ Say not, ‘I have found the path of the soul.’ Say rather, ‘I have met the soul walking upon my path.’ For the soul walks upon all paths. The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.’ Your petals are, so far, a joy to behold. Thank you for sharing your mind and spirit with me for the past two years. “

I remember the moment I read this. My eyes teared up. Blood rushed to my face. Intellectually, I still disagreed. But emotionally, something clicked. Gibran’s words pointed to something far larger and nobler than I knew at the time. It would take 15 years for me to give a name to it: Universalism.

Let us honor the teachers and mentors that enter our worlds and plant seeds of the Larger Life. Thank you, Mrs. Starkey.

I was looking through some personal files the other day, and I happened to find some old progress reports from elementary school. Particularly interesting are the comments from grade two.

“Anthony is reading quite well in his group—his vocabulary is very good and he is able to attack new words quite well. However, his printing is messy and improvement in this area should be encouraged.” Not the first time I’ve heard something like that….

Here’s another comment: “Anthony’s attention tends to wander quite often and as a result he often falls behind in his arithmetic assignments. He is not doing as well as he could since he does not have a good grasp of the basic facts.” Not the first time I’ve heard something like that….

But now the final comment, and the one most pertinent to our topic this morning: “Anthony does not do very well in group work and always ends up arguing with his partners.” The comment sends me way back, over the long years, to my second grade mind, and I can almost touch its shocked realization that other people weren’t going to do what I said, when I said it, just because I said it, no matter how eminently clear and reasonable things felt to me. In moments like that, other people seemed perversely independent and idiosyncratic and complex, like cats, doing their own thing, though somehow I knew that, if all the right conditions were met, the cats could be herded, the cats could all get on the same page and accomplish something larger than any of them could ever accomplish alone.

I knew it. Thus my sense of shock—and the life-long pursuit, ever after, of learning the art of leadership. Learning what it is not, and what it is.

And clearly, to begin with, it’s not about dominating others. It’s not about acting like a second-grader when, like me, you happen to be forty-three.

I risk stating the obvious, only because there exists a stubborn impression that leadership in its essence is exactly about dominating others. As my colleague Erik Walker Wikstrom writes in his excellent little book, Serving With Grace: Lay Leadership as Spiritual Practice, “How do I understand the word ‘leader?’ This is a sticking point for many people in congregations today. […] [L]eaders are people who tell everybody else what to do and how to do it. Leaders exercise ‘power over’ and are relics of a patriarchal system that is no longer appropriate in the twenty-first century (if, indeed, it ever was).” That’s what Erik Walker Wikstrom says. The word “leader” can generate distrust when it comes up in liberal religious community, because of what instantly springs to mind.

What springs to mind for you, when you hear that word, “leader”? Lots of baggage we can put on that word, making it hard to see what it’s really all about.

If the image of dominator doesn’t come to mind, what about that of the saint? Me, a leader? Aren’t leaders the kind of people who go straight to the work naturally and make few to no mistakes? Aren’t leaders the kind of people who have easy eloquence and speak without anxiety in front of groups, who feel fearless when real people feel fear, who effortlessly cast vision and instantly inspire loyalty? Me, a leader?

Underneath the question lurks … perfectionism, and to the degree we demand perfection from ourselves, we demand it from others who dare to show up, step up, show the way. Paul Loeb, in his fantastic book Soul of a Citizen, tells the story of a small Minnesota college where a half-dozen students were sleeping in make-shift cardboard shelters. They wanted to dramatize the plight of America’s homeless. One participant recalled, “People who passed by treated us like a slumber party. They told us we were cute. But when we kept on going for a couple of days, people started to get annoyed. Some called us crazy or fanatical. One girl said that we were being hypocritical—homeless people don’t have blankets. I said yes they do; they just don’t have homes. To me it looked like she would have been satisfied only of we got soaked in the freezing rain and got hypothermia, or we launched a hunger strike, or something else!” That’s what the Minnesota college student said. In other words, if in your social activism you aren’t martyring yourself, presumably like the heroes and saints of old, then what kind of leader are you? What’s wrong with you!

How we define leadership is key. There are consequences. If to be a leader there must be perfection, then naturally if you take a leadership position, and you end up doing ten impossible things, but an eleventh impossible thing goes undone, or God forbid something goes wrong, you get to be the punching bag.

False images have consequences. Consider yet a third, that can turn us off even as we might unquestioningly accept it as accurate: leader as potential burn-out case. The people we always go to for help when no one else steps up, and they help again and again and again and again until they break. That’s leadership. The burn-out track.

A special case of this is the “good citizen”—the warm body willing to do what needs to be done, whether or not it happens to be a good fit for his or her skills, interests, and type. “Someone has to do it,” they say, so they do it; and with this—with the best of intentions and a most generous act of commitment—we often see the beginning of a long road of frustration for everyone concerned, and resentment that builds and builds, and burnout is around the corner.

Institutionally, this version of leadership as a burn-out track takes the form of a myth of limitlessness. It begins with a true premise: that the needs of this world are endless. The needs of newcomers and regulars; the needs of various age and lifestage identities like infants, children, youth, young adults, young parents, parents of children and teens, empty-nesters, divorcees, career transitioners, widows, the elderly, and the dying; and then the needs of various theological or social identities like theists, atheists, Pagans, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, gays, straights, whites, blacks, and on and on. All these needs, and so many others–and don’t tell me that the needs of one aren’t as important as those of another. Don’t tell me that the needs of the elderly aren’t as important as those of teens. Don’t tell me that the needs of theists aren’t as important as those of atheists. Don’t tell me that the needs of gays and lesbians aren’t as important as those of straight people. Don’t tell me that! How could you tell me that? The needs are all equally deep and equally important. So how do we decide between them? How can we serve one without serving all?

This is the question—and the myth of limitlessness has an answer. Do it all. Make ourselves available to every call for action, even as resources are limited. Go in all directions at once. Resist all efforts to focus, or prioritize, because all such efforts feel unkind. Just can’t say NO. Just can’t say LATER. There must be a response to every need, and it’s got to happen now. Every need, entitled to an instant response.

And in the end, here is where we are if as a congregation we have bought into this false dream of limitlessness. Here it is. Our congregational reality will ironically be one of scarcity. You would think otherwise, but no. It’s because we may accomplish spectacular things, but that won’t matter, because we can always point to a need that has not yet been met, and so there is always an excuse to chastise ourselves, always an excuse to feel guilty. Scarcity and disappointment will characterize our congregational reality, and so will this: internal strife. Different congregational groups all demanding resources on their own terms and timetable, without loyalty to the best interests of the congregation as a whole. Different congregational groups in isolated silos, like different compartments of the brain not talking to each other, oblivious to our Unitarian Universalist Seventh Principle of the interdependent web, which applies as much to institutions as to anything else.

Domination is just not going to herd any cats. And neither is sainthood, neither is the burn-out track. The art of leadership lies upon a completely different path.

And here we turn to a more positive vision of the art. Not domination, first of all, but servanthood. Leadership at its finest is a matter of serving the genius that lies within the heart of a group, listening for it, collaborating with the group to give it voice.

My favorite way of doing this is always to ask a group, what does success look like? (Who here has ever heard me ask this?) Asking the group to envision the end of a program or event, and people walking away fulfilled. What does that fulfillment look like? How have people been changed? What are they thinking? What are they feeling? What would need to happen for them to go to a friend and say, “Listen, I went to this event at UUCA, and it was amazing. You have to come with me next time!” What would take a person to this level of enthusiasm?

What does success look like? I love this approach because it has never resulted in the kind of arguments that apparently happened to me all the time in the second grade. Quite the opposite. By beginning with the end in mind, by directing everyone’s focus on that, what’s avoided is getting prematurely stuck on a favored tactic. Know what I’m talking about? It’s coming to the table stuck on an idea about what needs to be done, without first making sure that everyone around that same table has a shared sense of where we’re wanting to go. Without this shared sense of things, arguments over favored tactics get messy, fast. Cats staking out territory, spitting and clawing each other. That’s what can happen.

Ask the leadership question, though, and you end up in a completely different place. We put our favored tactics aside for the moment, we stop problem-solving for a moment, so that we can all share in the creation of a vision of success that gets us excited and pumped up. What does success look like? What does fulfillment look like? Ask the question, and then get out of the way. Write down what you hear. Faithfully record it. Then reflect with the group whose genius you are serving, whose energies you are trying to rally and move forward: If this is what success looks like, then what tactics will help us get there? Vision first, tactics next.

Note the process in all of this. The leader steps up to establish a clear framework for discovery, and then he or she steps back. Just gets out of the way.

Erik Walker Wikstrom, in his book I mentioned a moment ago, Serving With Grace, offers up an image of leadership that echoes all this. “The analogy,” he says, “is sometimes made to geese which, during their transcontinental flights, assume a ‘V’ formation. The goose out front is quite clearly the leader, not only helping to show the way but taking on the task of breaking through the headwinds to make it easier for all who follow. Yet the updraft of all the beating wings of the ‘followers’ makes the leader’s flight easier. And it’s also true that, at regular intervals, the leader drops back into a follower’s position and another leader comes to the front. Shared leadership,” Erik Walker Wikstrom concludes, “is not an oxymoron….”

And neither is imperfect leadership. This is my second positive point. The art of herding cats does not require sainthood but, rather, a persistent habit of calmly showing up, trying things to see how they work, learning from what happens, evolving. This nothing less than commitment to excellence. As the covenant that guides the work of our staff says, “We acknowledge that perfectionism is an obstacle to growth. As part of our commitment to excellence, we will view our mistakes as opportunities for personal and professional development and sometimes even openings for creativity and new perspectives.”

“If you don’t make mistakes,” it is said, “you’re not working on hard enough problems. And that’s a big mistake” (F. Wikzek). ”Never say, ‘oops,’” says another wise voice. “Always say, ‘Ah, interesting’” (author unknown). But this is exactly what perfectionism blocks. Perfectionism freezes us up, as individuals and institutions. We’re saying oops constantly. We’re staying away from the really hard problems that are inevitably going to expose our weaknesses and growing edges. It makes us, in a word, unlucky. That’s right. I say this, thinking about a social-science article I encountered several months ago, about how to be lucky. It says, “Personality tests revealed that unlucky people are generally much more tense than lucky people, and research has shown that anxiety disrupts people’s ability to notice the unexpected. In one experiment, people were asked to watch a moving dot in the centre of a computer screen. Without warning, large dots would occasionally be flashed at the edges of the screen. Nearly all participants noticed these large dots. The experiment was then repeated with a second group of people, who were offered a large financial reward for accurately watching the centre dot, creating more anxiety. They became focused on the centre dot and more than a third of them missed the large dots when they appeared on the screen. The harder they looked, the less they saw. And so it is with luck—unlucky people miss chance opportunities because they are too focused on looking for something else. They go to parties intent on finding their perfect partner and so miss opportunities to make good friends. They look through newspapers determined to find certain types of job advertisements and as a result miss other types of jobs. Lucky people are more relaxed and open, and therefore see what is there rather than just what they are looking for.”

That’s what’s going to herd cats. Leadership as servanthood, and leadership as openness to where you happen to be right now, with a commitment to growth. Finally, this: leadership as living within our means. Practicing the sacred art of saying NO in order to clear the way to practicing the sacred art of saying YES. For both are sacred, and both are needed.

It means that in our service to the world, we spend only the energy and talents we already have, never saying YES to a volunteer positions that aren’t a clear fit. Don’t sign up reluctantly, since no one else is stepping up. Don’t just be a “good citizen”—be a discerning one instead; find where your interests and passions meet the congregation’s need. “The pitcher cries for water to carry,” says Poet Marge Piercy—but not just any old water will do.

Living within our means also suggests that, as an institution, we never allow the creation or maintenance of programs and activities to get beyond existing resources of people and money. Government has to do this, and so do we. We just don’t get the cart before the horse. First things first. And yes, it’s going to mean that some needs go unmet. Not because they are unimportant. Far from it. But if a great idea—old or new—lacks people to champion it (and I mean not just brainstorming it but bringing it all the way to full fruition), then we have to press “pause.” And, pressing pause should be no shame at all. It’s got to be OK. So is letting go of congregational projects and programs that, to continue, require arm-twisting and life-support. It’s got be OK to honor them and then let them go. Got to take a deep breath and trust the process. Got to trust in the creative uncertainty that’s a part of it—the creative time of waiting for the next viable idea that will light this place up to find us. Resist the temptation to do something that only a God could do, which is to refuse to let any balls drop, and to do it all NOW, to juggle everything all at once. Only God is that good a juggler.

In liberal religious circles, a word like “leadership” comes with a tremendous amount of baggage. It’s no wonder that, when the word comes up, or the invitation goes out to take on a leadership role, we can scatter like cats. My hope is that we can unload the baggage and see leadership as if for the first time. Re-imagine it. Leadership as servanthood. Leadership as openness to learning and luck. Leadership as the sacred art of saying NO so we can practice the sacred art of saying YES.

I’ll leave you with one of my very favorite images of the art of leadership: the waitress in the sacred kitchen. The waitress as each of us individually. The waitress as us collectively, this congregation. The image comes from the Rev. Meg Barnhouse. She writes, “I love for a waitress to call me “Hon.” It’s comforting. She doesn’t know me and I don’t know her, but we fit into well worn, ancient categories: I am the Hungry One and she is the One Who Brings Nourishment From the Unseen Source. When I was younger, I worked as a waitress in Philadephia and New Jersey. I learned useful things while serving food to strangers. I know how to rush around with my hands full, thinking about six things at the same time, which has stood me in good stead as the working mother of two small sons. I know that people are not at their best when they’re hungry. That knowledge helps me to understand world events. If the citizens of the world were well fed, we’d have fewer wars and less mayhem. The most helpful thing I grasped while waitressing was that some tables are my responsibility and some are not. A waitress gets overwhelmed if she has too many tables, and no one gets good service. In my life, I have certain things to take care of: my children, my relationships, my work, myself, and one or two causes. That’s it. Other things are not my table. I would go nuts if I tried to take care of everyone, if I tried to make everybody do the right thing. If I went through my life without ever learning to say, ‘Sorry, that’s not my table, Hon,’ I would burn out and be no good to anybody. I need to have a surly waitress inside myself that I can call on when it seems that everyone in the world is waving an empty coffee cup in my direction. My Inner Waitress looks over at them, keeping her six plates balanced and her feet moving, and says, ‘Sorry, Hon, not my table.’”

And so may it be. Let the cats be herded. AMEN.

In the summer of 1977, I would not have recognized the name Carl Jung even though the major event of my life back then was premised to a significant extent on the work of one of his disciples, Joseph Campbell. I’m talking about that great space opera, Star Wars, which, over the course of six weeks, I would see no less than eleven times. (When I told my wife Laura about this—emphasizing eleven times—she muttered, “amateur.”)

Each time made me want more. Each time I witnessed Luke Skywalker stepping forward into the hero role, deep interior harp-strings were plucked and I could feel a music in my soul that surprised me with the sense of timelessness it carried, as if the music had always been there and I had always, at some level, known it. There was a Larger Life within—a two-million-year-old-person within, with all his wisdom—and Star Wars was tapping into it.

Of course, this was not the justification I presented when Dad walked into the garage one day and saw me blindfolded, whipping my hockey stick this way and that like a sword in order to defend myself against foam hockey pucks tossed at me by my brother. If you know the film, then you know exactly what was happening. I was mimicking the part of the movie when Luke Skywalker is practicing with his lightsaber, face completely covered by a specialized helmet, defending himself against the laser blasts of a randomly floating, metallic ball-like robot, while Obi Wan Kenobi is coaching him, saying, “Remember, a Jedi can feel the Force flowing through him. Stretch out with your feelings.” I knew deep-down I could be a Jedi, too. I was stretching out with my feelings. But when Dad walked in and saw how close I was to breaking a window, he shut things down, cried out, “What on earth were you thinking?”

Perhaps if I had been well-versed in Carl Jung’s thought back then, I would have replied, “But Dad, Star Wars has activated the Hero archetype in me, and I’m just trying to become more conscious of its characteristic energy so as to facilitate my individuation!” I might have even quoted Jung directly, saying, “Dad, don’t you feel it too? As Carl Jung once said, ‘In every adult there lurks a child—an eternal child, something that is always becoming, is never completed, and calls for unceasing care, attention, and education. That is the part of the human personality that wants to develop and become whole.’ That’s what Carl Jung says, Dad. What do you think?”

Clearly, it didn’t happen. What happened was … a sense of shame and confusion. Being shocked back to the earth Dad was standing on, which was the flat earth of an ego-consciousness that is usually taught to be, as the rock group Supertramp puts it, “sensible, logical, responsible, practical; dependable, clinical, intellectual, cynical; acceptable, respectable, presentable, a vegetable.” Flat-earth consciousness that secretly relies on the two-million-year-old wisdom within even to exist, but, as far as possible, pretends it isn’t there, resists it, blocks it.

What on earth was I thinking? I simply couldn’t say, and therefore I stopped, and that’s how it happens. That’s how we lose contact with our deepest instincts. That’s where the troubles begin.

But there are moments before self-consciousness becomes strong enough to paralyze the natural flow of the spirit. Moments beyond the reach of a flat-earth voice that shames. Carl Jung describes one in his spiritual autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections. When he was ten, and feeling particularly alienated from his school-mates, and therefore at odds with himself, he found himself doing something with the “yellow, varnished pencil case of the kind commonly used by primary-school pupils, with a little lock and the customary ruler. At the end of this ruler,” he says, “I now carved a little manikin, about two inches long, with a frock coat, top hat, and shiny black boots. I colored him black with ink, sawed off the ruler, and put him in the pencil case, where I made him a little bed. […] In the case I also placed a smooth, oblong blackish stone from the Rhine, which I had painted with water colors to look as though it were divided into an upper and lower half, and had long carried around in my trouser pocket. This was his stone. All this was a great secret. Secretly I took the case to the forbidden attic at the top of the house (forbidden because the floorboards were worm-eaten and rotten) and hid it with great satisfaction on one of the beams under the roof—for no one must ever see it! […] In all difficult situations, whenever I had done something wrong or my feelings had been hurt … I thought of my carefully bedded-down and wrapped-up manikin and his smooth, prettily colored stone.” Jung continues, “The meaning of these actions, or how I might explain them, never worried me. I contented myself with the feeling of newly-won security, and was satisfied to possess something that no one knew and no one could get at.” Jung goes on to say that, even as this moment “formed the climax and conclusion of his childhood,” he soon forgot about it completely until he was thirty-five, doing research for his book Psychology of the Unconscious, and he encountered accounts of “soul stones” found in ancient ruins near Arlesheim, Germany, as well as among the aboriginal tribes in Australia, half a world away. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. They were stones that looked exactly like his stone. As for the manikin, Jung found echoes of it in ancient Greece, in the form of the little cloaked God Telesphoros. All these echoes ended up surfacing the long-forgotten episode from his tenth year—and this is when, for the first time, he says, he developed the idea that, at bottom, far below ego consciousness, and below personal memories that have become unconscious, there is something deeper, a Larger Life, not personal but collective, ancient wisdom, two million years in the making, upon which we build our lives here and now. This must have been the source he was tapping into as a child of ten, when he did what he did, because no book read, no experience, nothing else in his life could have been.

It’s the singular message of the dream that Jung had in 1907 (which was our reading for today). Jung, on the boat with Sigmund Freud, sailing to America where they would shine as stars of a new movement in psychology called psychoanalysis. At the time, Freud considered Jung to be his intellectual heir and successor, the one to whom he would eventually hand over his life’s work. Yet even then, on the boat to America, Jung found himself balking at certain things, especially Freud’s theory that expressions of culture (including religion and spirituality) were ultimately repressed sexuality—that culture was nothing but a morbid consequence of repression. Just another form of original sin. “Yes,” Jung recalls Freud saying, “so it is, and that is just a curse of fate against which we are powerless to contend.” But Jung would never agree with such pessimism about what drives the human spirit. Not original sin, but original blessing. Remember the quote from earlier: “In every adult there lurks a child—an eternal child, something that is always becoming, is never completed, and calls for unceasing care, attention, and education.” Life has a spiritual purpose that can’t be reduced to something morbid. The eternal child within—which encodes the wisdom of the ages—is fundamentally healthy, and will take us to healing and wholeness if we learn how to follow Obi Wan Kenobi’s advice and “stretch out with our feelings” to listen.

But what exactly is this wisdom that Jung is talking about? The answer, in technical terminology: archetypes of the collective unconscious.

But what is that?

I’ll let Jungian analyst and scholar Anthony Stevens explain: “the collective unconscious is entirely compatible with the theoretical approach adopted by biologists who study animal behavior in natural environments. These scientists (ethologists, as they are called) hold that each animal species is uniquely equipped with a repertoire of behaviors adapted to the environment in which it evolved. This repertoire is dependent upon ‘innate releasing mechanisms’ which the animal inherits in its central nervous system and which are primed to become active when appropriate stimuli, called ‘sign stimuli,’ are encountered in the environment. When the stimuli are met, the innate mechanism is released, and the animal responds with a pattern of behavior which is adapted to the situation.” That’s what Anthony Stevens says. For the male stickleback, what triggers courting behavior is the female whose belly is swollen with eggs. For the mallard duck, what triggers amour is the handsome green head of the drake. Ethologist Konrad Lorenz discovered that if you appeared before newly hatched mallard ducklings and imitated a mother duck’s quacking sounds, the young birds would imprint “mother” upon you and follow you accordingly. Fundamentally, this is what Jungian archetypes are all about. Products of evolution; encoded in our DNA as built-in expectations, demands, and patterns of response; waiting for sign stimuli to be triggered; meant to equip us for successful adaptation to the ups and downs of human existence.

There is a seamlessness of humanity and nature in Jung’s psychology, in other words; biology reconciled with the life of the spirit. The interdependent web. Back in 1977, the movie Star Wars proved to be the sign stimuli that would trigger an ancient pattern of behavior encoded in my nervous system, the Hero archetype, which has been a part of the collective heritage of humanity for millions of years because it helps us adapt to our world. The Hero archetype, but also that of the Persona, the Shadow, Anima and Animus, the Self…. Archetypes figures like mother, father, child, God, Goddess, wise woman, wise man…. Archetypal events like birth, death, courting, sacred unions…. Archetypal objects like water, sun, moon, snake, cross, chalice…. Each and all representing patterns of meaning and feeling which we can know most directly through our dreams, as well as through world mythologies and art. “Your vision,” says Jung, “will become clear only when you look into your heart … Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.”

And that is the challenge: to awaken. A significant part of this is the work of becoming more conscious of the ways in which our archetypal potentials have been triggered in incomplete, distorted, or just unsatisfactory ways.

One example of this comes from Anthony Stevens. “Take,” he says, “the case of a woman whose childhood had been dominated by a tyrannical father, who insisted always on having his own way and made terrifying scenes whenever he was thwarted. The father archetype was activated … by this monster, but only partially: only the law-giving, authoritarian, commanding aspects of the father archetype [were built into the fabric of this woman’s personal orientation in life]; the loving, protective aspects remaining in the collective unconscious as unactivated potential. The result,” continues Anthony Stevens, “was that throughout her life this woman seemed fated to be drawn into the orbit of bullying, self-righteous men, whom she felt she had no alternative but to placate, appease, and obey. At the same time, there persisted in her an unfulfilled longing for the man who would do none of these things to her but, on the contrary, would give her love, support, and protection. Unfortunately, she could never seem to find him, for she could never get into a relationship with such a man: he was too alien, too essentially unfamiliar to her, and she did not possess the emotional vocabulary necessary to share such love.”

For this woman, the path to healing is to become more conscious of the unhealthy pattern she found herself living—seeing it at arm’s length, realizing that though it feels like fate, though it feels inescapable, it need not happen. For she has within her everything she needs for her fulfillment. Parts of the father archetype in her remains unactivated—the loving, protective aspects—and they just wait to be triggered. They come to her in her dreams. They call out to her from kind men in books and movies and TV. The task before her is to learn how to find them within—learning how to weave them into her emotional make-up, to become whole. So she might develop a fuller emotional vocabulary with which to connect with the actual kind of men she longs for.

This is only one case, among so many possibilities. But the general idea is this: our suffering in life results from imbalance. Parts of the ancient archetypes triggered by the circumstances of our lives, but not all of them. And lack of awareness that this is so. Feeling in the grip of fate. Feeling powerless, unfree, the downward spiral.

One kind of imbalance that particularly worried Jung had to do with over-rationalism. “Reason,” he says, “sets the boundaries far too narrowly for us, and would have us accept only the known and that too with limitations and live in a known framework, just as if we were sure how far life actually extends.” Again he says, “Prejudice cripples and injures the full phenomenon of psychic life. And I know too little about psychic life to feel that I can set it right out of superior knowledge. Critical rationalism has apparently eliminated, along with so many other mythic conceptions, the idea of life after death. This could only have happened because nowadays most people identify themselves
almost exclusively with their consciousness, and imagine that they are only what they know about themselves. Yet anyone with even a smattering of psychology can see how limited this knowledge is. Rationalism and doctrinairism are the disease of our time; they pretend to have all the answers.”

Perhaps this was on mind of poet Reginald Gibbons when he wrote,

The collection manager of the bird specimens at the natural history museum told of often stopping, on his way to work during spring and fall, at the immense convention building—tall, long and wide—on the shore of Lake Michigan, where on the north side he would gather the bodies of the migratory birds killed by their collisions against the expanse of glass before first light.

The north side, whether in fall or in spring—a puzzle.

Are these particular birds blown off course by winds, and do they return 
in starlight or dimness before dawn or under dark clouds toward shore, making for the large bulk they might perceive as forest?

They have been flying along this same route for tens of thousands of years, and not yet has their thinking formulated this obstacle of the city that has appeared in the swift stroke of a hundred and fifty cycles of their migration.

That’s the poem. In modern times we have raised up immense convention buildings of one sort or another with which the ancient rhythms of our lives collide, and one of these buildings is certainly the flat-earth consciousness of scientism. Says Jung, “Because we cannot discover God’s throne in the sky with a radiotelescope or establish (for certain) that a beloved father or mother is still about in a more or less corporeal form, people assume that such ideas are ‘not true.’ I would rather say that they are not ‘true’ enough, for these are conceptions of a kind that have accompanied human life from prehistoric times, and that still break through into consciousness at any provocation.”

Bidden or not bidden, God is present, no matter what expanses of glass are raised up that would block the flight of our spirits. God is an archetype of the collective unconscious, the part in us responsive to that which signals sacredness—responsive to mysteries which both terrify and fascinate simultaneously. The real question for Jung is not so much, “Does God exist,” as it is, “Who or what is your God?” Does the archetype come through in your life in distorted, imbalanced ways, so that your religion would cause harm to yourself and others? Or does it lead you to heal? Who or what is your God? Evolution has put the archetype into our DNA, so how are we going to do justice to it? If the idea of a God who is all good, or all powerful, or all male, or all certain is not true enough for you, then what other archetypal God-potentials can you tap into? What would happen if you were to see God as a source of evil too, as vulnerable too, as female too, as creatively uncertain also? What then?

Pay attention to your dreams, says Jung. Go back to the ancient mythologies from around the world. Witness what the arts and literature have to offer, and you might glimpse the form of God that will be true enough for you. For me, way back in 1977, it was the image of the Force in Star Wars. So much more compelling then the angry judgmental God I grew up with. “Remember,” said Obi Wan Kenobi—and it felt like he was speaking right to me—“a Jedi can feel the Force flowing through him. Stretch out with your feelings.” So I stretched out, I stretched out with my feelings, I felt beyond the God I thought I knew, and I will never stop.

**

The reading before the sermon:

Today’s reading comes from Carl Jung’s autobiography, Memories, Dreams, Reflections. It records a pivotal dream that Jung had while on route to America, in 1909. Accompanying him on this trip was Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis. They were together every day, and analyzed each other’s dreams.

This was the dream. I was in a house I did not know, which had two stories. It was “my house.” I found myself in the upper story, where there was a kind of salon furnished with fine old pieces in rococo style. On the walls hung a number of precious old paintings. I wondered that this should be my house, and thought, “Not bad.” But then it occurred to me that I did not know what the lower floor looked like. Descending the stairs, I reached the ground floor. There everything was much older, and I realized that this part of the house must date from about the fifteenth or sixteenth century. The furnishings were medieval; the floors were of red brick. Everywhere it was rather dark. I went from one room to another, thinking, “Now I really must explore the whole house.” I came upon a heavy door, and opened it. Beyond it, I discovered a stone stairway that led down into the cellar. Descending again, I found myself in a beautifully vaulted room which looked exceedingly ancient. Examining the walls, I discovered layers of brick among the ordinary stone blocks, and chips of brick in the mortar. As soon as I saw this I knew that the walls dated from Roman times. My interest by now was intense. I looked more closely at the floor. It was of stone slabs, and in one of these I discovered a ring. When I pulled it, the stone slab lifted, and again I saw a stairway of narrow stone steps leading down into the depths. These, too, I descended, and entered a low cave cut into the rock. Thick dust lay on the floor, and in the dust were scattered bones and broken pottery, like remains of a primitive culture. I discovered two human skulls, obviously very old and half disintegrated. Then I awoke.

[…]

What chiefly interested Freud in this dream were the two skulls. He returned to them repeatedly, and urged me to fund a wish in connection with them. What did I think about these skulls? And whose were they? I knew perfectly well, of course, what he was driving at: that secret death wishes were concealed in the dream. [… ] I felt violent resistance to any such interpretation.

[…]

I was never able to agree with Freud that the dream is a ‘façade’ behind which its meaning lies hidden—a meaning already known but maliciously, so to speak, withheld from consciousness. To me dreams are part of nature, which harbors no intention to deceive, but expresses something as best as it can, just as a plant grows or an animal seeks its food as best it can. These forms of live, too, have no wish to deceive our eyes, but we may deceive ourselves because our eyes are shortsighted…..

[…]

It was plain to me that the house represented a kind of image of the psyche…. The ground floor stood for the first level of the unconscious. The deeper I went, the more alien and the darker the scene became. In the cave, I discovered remains of a primitive culture, that is, the world of the primitive man within myself—a world which can scarcely be reached or illuminated by consciousness. The primitive psyche of man borders on the life of the animal soul, just as the caves of prehistoric times were usually inhabited by animals before men laid claim to them.

Here ends the reading for today…..