Posts Tagged Universalism
This children-friendly homily was first preached at the UU Fellowship in Huntington, NY on 10/27/13 as part of our annual All Souls Day service. It reflects on two stories – The Water Bearer (Chinese Traditional) and Muddy Feet (Contemporary about Hosea Ballou)
All month we’ve been talking about helplessness in our services and my sermons. We all go through times when we feel that way – when no matter what we do, it feels like we can’t really do anything about whatever it is. Our story this morning reminds us that even when we feel broken, or down, or weak – we can still bring life to this world. I love the image of the watering can – or clay vessel – that’s just cracked enough to spill much of its water on the road along the way. We mean to be watering that garden over there, and through our flaws – through our holes – we wind up growing a garden everywhere we go.
While I talk, I want to invite anyone who took a piece of construction paper and crayon to draw a picture of that garden in your life. If you came forward today with a photo of a loved one – a person or a pet – that you lost – you’re welcome to draw the garden for them. Maybe draw them in your garden. Whether you’re a good drawer or not doesn’t matter. This isn’t about being good, but being loving. Think about what are the flowers – what are the things that you help grow in your life? What are you good at? Or if you’re really feeling on a roll – what are the things that you’re not so good at that sometimes surprise you and wind up helping the people in your life?While you’re doing that, I’m going to keep talking. I’m happy for you to keep drawing though!
Sometimes our mistakes can make us feel less than whole – not so good. Maybe we’ve really messed up. Maybe we feel we didn’t try hard enough. When this happens, we can feel like we need to beat ourselves up over and over – as if that was going to make all things right, or make the mistake finally work, or bring someone back into our lives. All of this is natural and normal. Sometimes we make mistakes and we need to make good on those mistakes. But sometimes we allow our guilt, or shame, or fear to start to define who we are – on the inside – to ourselves. As if the place where the water is leaking out of the clay vessel defines who we are as a person – for all times. That’s not very helpful, and it usually doesn’t make anyone feel any better, right?
I’d like to look at what our First Principle says about this. What’s our First Principle? (Inherent Worth and Dignity of Every Person.) We often talk about it as belief statement. We all believe in the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Well, most of the time we do believe that; that we must stand on the side of love in our human relations. Every person is deserving of love and compassion. Just because we live, each of us are deserving of being treated with respect. Even though we don’t always succeed in this, this principle reminds us of our struggle toward that goal.
It also reminds us that just like those we strive to support, we too are deserving of respect from others. We fight for others’ rights, and we struggle for our own. This principle reminds us that when folks are treating us poorly for our differences, we do not deserve it.
If all of the rough treatments we may be subjected to by others is wrong, what of those we inflict on ourselves? Who do we go to when our harshest critic and the most unjust judge is no one other than us? Sometimes, we forget to tell ourselves that our First Principle applies to us as well. When we beat ourselves up for the mistakes in our lives – way past any point of helping to make good on them – we’re not living up to our First Principle.
That principle is also an action statement – it’s a promise of sorts. We make a promise to each other, and to ourselves, that we’ll affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity in every person – even ourselves. When our watering can or clay jar has cracks in it – and know that all of our clay jars will have cracks in them from time to time – it doesn’t mean that we’re not worthy. Sometimes we have to find it in ourselves to follow our faith and remember that our flaws do not lessen who we are.
I want to tell you another story now. Feel free to keep drawing – maybe draw some of the things that happen in this next story. (Tell story of Muddy Feet about Hosea Ballou.)
By a show of hands – who here has ever come home with muddy feet? What happens? Do our parents still love us – (even if our carpets might hate us?) Does it mean that running around and ruining things with mud is ok? We have to try our best not to make those mistakes. But the mistakes don’t mean we’re not loved. They don’t mean we’ve lost who we are – we still have worth. We find dignity in how we handle our missteps.
Little Hosea also had another belief – or lesson he learned. This was about what happens when we die. All these photos we have on our memory table are pictures of loved ones who are no longer with us. None of us really knows what happens, but many people have many different beliefs. For little Hosea, his faith taught him that God is all loving and that all of us are inherently good despite our mistakes. That Heaven is a place that we’ll all go to someday. Historically, this belief was central to what the second U in our name meant – Universalism. That all people – universally – are worthy of love and Salvation. Over time, the lines around this belief have gotten a bit fuzzy with each new generation; but the core of the teaching is still important and healing. We all make mistakes, we all get our feet muddy – and still – and still – we are loved. Life is sacred despite our short-comings. No matter what the state of cleanliness of our toes – we can always come home.
This sermon was first preached at the First UU Congregation of Brooklyn on April 7th. It deals with the difficult topic of gender, violence and public discourse.
“When I think of home, I think of a place where there’s love overflowing; I wish I was home; I wish I was back there with the things I been knowing.” These words open up the song Home from the musical The Wiz. We heard a moving rendition by Melissa Paul this morning as our anthem. It’s a powerful song from a woman who has come far in her own story. In this version of the rewrite of the classic, “Wizard of Oz,” Dorothy is extremely introverted, she has, as Aunt Em teases her, “never been south of 125th street”, and refuses to move out and on with her life.
“When I think of home, I think of a place where there’s love overflowing.” It’s a myth of family, of home, of our roots that love – and all these things – are neatly intertwined. It’s a myth that’s sometime’s true, like in the case of Dorothy, and sometimes hurtful. But the heart of the message is that there’s a point in our lives where we do need to move on – as introverted or as closed-off as we might be – and leave our homes – or leave our families – for something new. Sometimes we choose to do this, and sometime this chooses us.
There are those moments in life where we look around and see all the crazy, madness that seems to surround us. The Wiz, or the Wizard of Oz, hold mean witches and flying monkeys to portray this. In the real world we leave home and have to face real humans with real hate in their speech, or their actions, or their lack of actions. We craft the fantastical to help us understand, or to accept, or to distance ourselves from the very normal, the very real.
I have in mind this morning, the flying monkeys of this age, the fields of poppies that put us to sleep, this week, this month, this year seem to me tied to our internalized and public sense of shame. The young Dorothy’s of this generation travel down roads, seemingly alone at first, where through no fault of their own they become targets of violence and denigration. We all know so many cases of this. Each is a more recent version of another, with other lives affected.
A case of rape, in Steubenville, Ohio. Where two teen boys targeted another drunk girl at a party. She could represent every Dorothy, although every story is different. There are horrors that will challenge the victim for years that we can’t just wave away. But there are also horrors that we as a society will continue to perpetuate that make me suspect the idea of the safe home, where love’s overflowing. Following the conviction of the boys last month, some news coverage took a disturbing route. CNN largely focused on the effect the conviction will have on the boys who were found guilty. The media showed – on loop – the heartfelt apologies one of the victimizers gave. The coverage lent a tone of heroism to the boy’s apology.
Candy Crowley of CNN asked, “What’s the lasting effect though on two young men being found guilty juvenile court of rape essentially?” Or reporter Poppy Harlow said, “It was incredibly emotional, it was difficult for anyone in there to watch those boys break down,” Harlow said. “[It was] also difficult, of course, for the victim’s family.” Or CNN legal contributor Paul Callan noting, “There’s always that moment of just — lives are destroyed. But in terms of what happens now, the most severe thing with these young men is being labeled as registered sex offenders. That label is now placed on them by Ohio law. That will haunt them for the rest of their lives.”
I watched these reports over and over. Trying to see the space where it became about the health and wholeness of the girl who was hurt. Or about how society doesn’t know how to handle the aftermath of harm. Or how the courts are doing their best to make clear that rape is rape. But all I see is sympathy for the lives of the victimizers that are destroyed by their actions. As if being labeled for life a sex offender – for the simple reason of being a sex offender – was a serious grievance done to these boys.
“Maybe there’s a chance for me to go back there; now that I have some direction. It would sure be nice to be back home; where there’s love and affection.” We all have to deal with hard times in our lives. Some of us, too many of us, need to face times of incredible pain. In those moments we wish to be able to turn back to a place of safety, of affection, of simplicity where we can regain our footing; and immerse ourselves in a sense of nurture. To return to our center in light of all that we have to face and all that we have learned. Journalism like this with CNN, or with those common lessons that teach women how to prevent harm to themselves rather that instilling in people the drive not to harm. The public sense of culpability errs on the side of how she could have prevented this rather than on why he should have known better. And to be true to the world, the victims are not always women – but it so often happens this way.
Our theology of Universalism asks of us to strive for a place of openness, of compassion for those that cause harm. Holding hatred, or malice helps no one, and harms most of all ourselves. It can grip our hearts, and make us forget to love freely, to live deeply, to hope when we need to so desperately. I appreciate the compassion in the journalists’ from CNN’s coverage. I criticize the focus. Many lives were ruined as they say – but some lives bear the brunt of their own mistakes – and that guilt, that shame, should not fall upon the victims in our world.
In my Good Friday homily last week, I reflected on how that day was the most difficult day in the Christian liturgical calendar. I want to return briefly to part of it because the message of Good Friday is important here – and as I was reflecting on the Passover week, stories like Steubenville were center in my mind. “On Good Friday, we are asked to stop and bear witness to the suffering figure on the Cross. Bloody and pierced, Jesus hangs with onlookers staring in grief and fascination. Our gut wants us to look away, even if we can’t stop staring. Our hearts want us to move as fast as possible to the hope reborn on Easter. But the discipline of that day, is not to move past it – not to let it go as quickly as we can. It’s to allow it to seep into our hearts – to face the reality of the death before us. One of my seminary professors – Rev. Christopher Morse – would remind his students every year that the Hope of Easter rests in the shadow of this day. Redemption in the story comes later – but this day marks not hope, but clarity. Not relief, but purpose. The Cross returns to us again and again in our lives. What is this death? It returns to us with our culture of shame – our culture of rape. Women being blamed for the very crime that was done to them. Voices that seek to silence her worth to save the faces of other men who’s lives might change because of their own crime. There is no hope when we hear the propaganda, but we can find clarity. The trial of the Cross is an indictment to each of us. Horrors happen in this world…. They can’t go away by just wishing them so. We must first face them. We must first accept that they are here – in our lives – in our neighborhoods.”
“Suddenly my world has changed it’s face, but I still know where I’m going
I have had my mind spun around in space, and yet I’ve watched it growing,” Dorothy continues on singing. Our childhood sense of normal, of safety, of home will go away – and return – throughout our lives. But we can find a compass to steer by; we can know where we’re going despite all that feels like it’s been thrown at us. In fact, it takes each of us returning to our compasses to see the way.
Common sense tells us that victims might be wise to learn how to avoid, as best we can, future harm – but the onus is not on them. The crime is not ours. The partners in so many homes throughout our country who are survivors of violence – may sometimes be stuck in a trap – but they are not the source of that trap. For some of us in this room – this is a given. For some of us in this room – they have learned this truth the hard way. For some of us in this room – we desperately need to hear it – right now. Our culture of shame is a collective trip we buy into, and it requires collective action to let go. We have to lovingly remind ourselves, time and again, that we ought not feel shame for the actions of others – that is for them to bear. It is for us to find our direction again in our own lives.
“If you’re list’ning God, please don’t make it hard to know if we should believe in the things that we see. Tell us, should we run away. Should we try and stay, or would it be better just to let things be?” Dorothy asks pleadingly. This question – right here – might be the heart of the message. The culture of shame we have built as a nation – around women, their bodies, and who gets to decide what – is not to be believed. It is as false as can be. We have fabricated an insane politic that lifts up personal freedom while simultaneously legislating corporate control of one gender’s identity – sometimes with as much emotional impact as other forms of actual assault. Our media blithely discusses “about women” in a way that men would be shocked should we ever do the same to us fellows. For the men in the room – try to imagine any form of legislation that would ever affect us where a panel of women sit and decide what we do with our bodies? Would that feel merely intellectual, or political, or would it feel invasive? Try to imagine a situation where we were the victim of sexual assault and where the news would take the side of the perpetrator or focus on how unfortunate it is that the perpetrator’s life is now ruined. I could not imagine this – at all. It would be seen as horrific, shocking. It would not be read as as simple statistic; a norm to be expected.
Victims of physical violence often internalize the blame – in part because we as a society say that we’re always able to have done something to prevent it – so when we didn’t prevent it we search for why we didn’t prevent it. We do this as kids when we’re hurt as kids. When we’re bullied as teens we draw the lines to why it’s really our fault, even though we hate the bully. And we carry that with us for the rest of our lives. As adults we’ve often convinced ourselves that we are able to accomplish so much so if this happens to us, we should have been able to stop it. And we’re trapped. We’re centered in our sense of shame. We seek to find blame – and while pointing anger toward those who are guilty, secretly – inside – deep down – we believe the lie that it’s about us. We echo the lie our culture tells us to believe.
Central to our faith is the conviction of worth. Our first principle is not a simple belief statement that solely means we’re all inherently worthy. It does mean that too. We have worth – we have human value. It also means that we are tasked with committing ourselves to the discipline of fostering and uncovering the worth in each of us. Shame buries our sense of worth. Shame teaches us to limit who matters and by how much they are allowed to matter. The discipline of worth calls us to challenge anything that diminishes the human spirit.
“And I’ve learned that we must look inside our hearts to find a world full of love. Like yours; like me; like home…”. Dorothy blesses us with those closing words. We can turn this around. We are the people we have been waiting for. In all its complexity, all its difficulty – this world full of hurt is also a world full of love. Our hearts that are broken, also carry within them a love that is full whether we have forgotten it or not. In recognizing the careful messages we as a people have crafted around blame, shame, and power we can unlock the fullness of our hearts once more. We have to start by recognizing the messages for what they are. We either see them, or we live by them – and we can’t live by the culture of shame – not truly.
Check out my latest blog for the Huffington Post on Universalism, Consumerism, Christmas and OWS. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rev-g-jude-geiger/occupy-heaven_b_1175708.html
This sermon was first preached at First UU in Brooklyn on Feb, 7, 2010. It’s about the wonder of the universe, the imminent and the transcendent. The poem by Neil Gaiman can be found at http://j.mp/kOu7yw
At the beginning of this month, I went on a retreat with 20 other Unitarian Universalists to Murray Grove, NJ. It’s a simple retreat center about 2 miles from the ocean that serves as a Universalist pilgrimage site. It’s the location where John Murray, founder of Universalism in the U.S. got stranded off a sandbar on his way to NYC from England in the year 1770. The very brief version of the story goes that local farmer, Thomas Potter, had built a church 10 years prior to house a Universalist preacher in the pulpit. The problem was, there were no Universalist preachers yet in the U.S. It was either a case of extreme forward thinking, or merely fantastical wishing come true. The farmer Potter managed to convince the reluctant John Murray to preach the following Sunday should the wind not change by then, thereby freeing his boat. The wind didn’t change, and Murray did preach, and Universalism was born in America. This is said to be the only recounted miracle in Universalist history.
So 240 years later a few friends invite me to leave the barracks-like retreat center to go for a hike to the spot where Murray’s boat got stranded. I’m thinking, “sure… an easy walk through some forest and farmland to the ocean sounds lovely.” It’s sunny out, and a balmy 40 degrees. I run back to my room to put on better shoes – well sneakers without holes in them really, and my nice hand-crocheted scarf. I decide not to change out of my good jeans… and we’re off. The start of the walk is lovely, an easy trail through light woods. You couldn’t tell there’s a strip mall just off the road from where we started. The (first) time my running shoes break through the patch of snow hiding a thin veneer of frozen ice covering ankle deep water I vaguely recall the retreat director saying something about “everything should still be frozen over.” And I think, “oh, that’s what she meant.” Good thing those sneakers, the ones I had just bought that day, were black – or they’d really clash with the new shade of mud coating my good jeans.
This is the first teaching or challenge of the Universalist retreat center for my urban-self. Can a city-boy keep his heart and mind on the beauty and indwelling-presence of the natural world caked in mud and baptized in frozen water? Can I push aside the thoughts of my colleague next to me giving me a lesson in how to treat tough to get out stains, while focusing on the “now” I traveled 3 hours to get to encounter? Can I stop berating myself for packing so insensibly? Twenty minutes in, I realize after my crocheted scarf starts getting caught on thorns and 5 foot tall grass, that the “everything should still be frozen over” comment of the retreat director was a reference not to patches of ice, but to the frozen swamp that was the doorway to the ocean. I could hear Thomas Potter laughing as I realized that a century of untended farm-lands means that they’re probably not farmlands any longer. In New Jersey, most of the area surrounding the ocean eventually turns back to marshland when humans stop fighting it. And that was the trigger that woke me up – the absolute absurdity of unexpectedly trekking through an icy swamp in sneakers dressed as what another colleague labeled – “fashionista.” The mind turned off, and I could see the world around me again.
We heard from Emerson in our reading this morning that, “I do not wonder at a snow-flake, a shell, a summer landscape, or the glory of the stars; but at the necessity of beauty under which the universe lies; that all is and must be pictorial; that the rainbow, and the curve of the horizon, and the arch of the blue vault are only results from the organism of the eye.” What we encounter we glimpse at through our world of perception. What we see, or hear, or feel. It’s also what gets conveyed more subtly or more insidiously. The beauty of the surrounding is modified in our minds by our company of friends or family, or our perception of those loved ones, at the time. It’s altered by our concern for the stuff we bring with us – whether that stuff be our designer jeans or attachment to our opinions. We forget the present with thoughts of homework, deadlines, debts and other fears. Or it could be innocuous like my one friend who can never simply say that the day is rainy – it always has to be “awful and miserable” as well. Or more troublesome prejudices – the kind where one gets distracted by two men or two women holding hands in the park, or those of us who may need to cross the street when someone of a different race comes our way.
I usually preach against bias as a justice issue, going through all the ways that it separates us from our common humanity, or fails to honor our first principle where we covenant to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person – and some would say every being. This morning, I’d like to remind us that it also is a spiritual crisis. The biases of the mind – whether they be the awful miserable titles to our rainy days or the more serious slurs we label anyone who’s different than ourselves, makes it distinctly more difficult to experience Emerson’s “necessity of beauty under which the universe lies.” They cut us off from our religion’s first source — that transcendent mystery that affirms life and defies description. They garb us as fashionistas in a landscape that’s better suited to more practical attire. They may build us up, and make us think we look better than those around us, but in truth it just serves to slow us down; to complicate the snags along the way; and to leave our hands and feet icy and cold for the road ahead.
Even Emerson is guilty of this dressing-up. We heard him write, “…There is no need for foolish amateurs to fetch me to admire a garden of flowers, or a sun-gilt cloud, or a waterfall, when I cannot look without seeing splendor and grace.” I do hope that Emerson could only see splendor and grace in all things – he’d be a truly remarkable soul if he could. I know that’s something that’s very hard for me to keep in the forefront of my experience. I guess I prefer to be in the company of foolish amateurs — I sure need them to remind me of what I’m seeing.
Our poem by Neil Gaiman laughingly prods at this human condition – our capacity to get so tunnel visioned that we miss the world for the problem. He takes us along a different road to absurdity with mythic alien invasions, walking dead, and robotic dominance that are readily missed for the much awaited phone call. The extreme is not seen for the mundane thing that we can’t let go of since we long to have it. This mirrors my parable of the frozen swamp. The extreme wonder of the living world can be missed by a cost-benefit analysis of mundane dry-cleaning prices. The beauty and indwelling spirit of our fellow human beings gets cloaked by our bias, or fear, or simple discomfiture. And that cloak is sooo easy to see, when the sublime “rose of beauty on the brow of chaos” is sooo easy to miss.
What are we waiting for? When we’re sitting in our living rooms staring at the phone for whomever to call, with a world falling apart around us in one hand, and extravagantly awe-inspiring on the other, what exactly is it that we need? When we’re checking emails or text messages every 3-5 minutes – what do we not have in the spaces between? Do we need to be reminded that we’re ok, just as we are? That we’re loved? That we’re human and beautiful despite what the magazine or billboards may otherwise depict? Have we convinced ourselves that those products of air brushes and photo-shopping Frankenstein creations are real and we are not? Is it that we’ve forgotten that the natural world is a resource and the anchor of being, and not a commodity? That we’re foremost and first citizens – not consumers?
All of these subtle shifts turn us toward or away from our living, breathing selves and world. We are barraged by an overload of information that constantly informs and misinforms. Some of it is useful data that allows us to navigate our daily lives. Some of it false. Some of it obscures with it’s addictive voracity. The correct or incorrect bits are useful or discarded for a time. It’s those bits that create a fog of hazy dreaming that I want to help dispel. When the phone rings, will he or she still love me? Will I lose my job? Did I make the right decision? Will she pull through? All those questions may really matter; they may all point to something truly serious. But do they also sometimes cause us to miss the transcendent mystery that is living? We’ve got a long road ahead of us, but regardless of that, we’re still on the road. The view’s worth looking at – always. I promise you, it’s a better sight than the silent phone.
One source of the barrage of information is the T.V. I’m beginning to wonder if some contemporary news sources are more like the mind that’s sitting waiting for the phone to ring than the investigative news of, say for example, the Nixon era. When a tragedy hits the world, we get cycles of information that seem to repeat themselves without adding anything new of substance. Getting the word out about Toyota’s recent recall is important. But I’m not sure that repeating the same clip of news about the disastrous threat of uncontrolled acceleration is the best application of cutting edge reporting or my precious viewing time for that matter. I could tell you everything about the delay in reporting, apologies, legal obligation of drivers to bring in their cars, etc. I can do this because I heard the story at least 6 times in one hour – the same story. It’s much like the utility of replaying that disastrous argument you had with your loved one. Some of it is valuable in recognizing how to move forward, but five sixths of it is wasted space that could be better filled. I’d rather hear more about the nuances of the health care debate, or comparative views on the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” But I suppose we’ve relegated that to episodes on comedy channels, like the Daily Show. That’s the only T.V. news source that I’ve seen consistently do comparisons between politicians promises or views of 2 years ago with their stance dances of today. It sets an odd tone where we label intelligent investigations as comical, and name serious, reporting which fixates on repetitive fears.
I used to blame the conglomerate that we call news for its own failings. Well, to an extent, I still do. But a greater part of me begins to wonder whether prime time news is simply reflecting our human condition. Are we so used to fixating on the moment of disaster in our lives, that we can’t let ourselves move on to the stuff that matters, or the life that continues on, or the complexity of what brought us all to and through that moment? Maybe the news is structured as it is, because it better matches our own minds.
Considering it in this light, I suggest that paying attention to the disease of that news medium, the repetitive kind of news that fails to add more substance to data, can prove helpful to our own capacity to more fully engage life. Attend to the feelings that arise from the repetition. Take note of how it affects you bodily. Do you feel more anxious? Do we feel frustrated? Does our breathing change? Do we feel more connected to our global community or feel more isolated? Do we feel more connected to our humanity, or less so?
These questions are valuable in regards to our own often repetitive minds as well. The negative iteration of some contemporary news sources can be seen as a useful mirror to how our over-thinking minds impact our lives and our humanity. Holding onto the moment that was, or will be, or might be – over and over – affects our feelings, our breathing, our anxiety and our human connectedness. Allowing the barrage of information to echo in our heads, rather than inform us, actually serves to diminish our awareness of the world rather than better inform it.
I’m not sure simply being aware of this will change how our news sources communicate, although it’s probably advisable to frequent the less common but genuinely investigative reporting than the more common type I’ve been speaking about. But we can change how we are affected by the medium. We can change how we are conscious of echoed talking points. We can be aware of the over-thinking mind that’s reflected in the cultural-consciousness we call the news. I feel it’s a metaphor for our own selves and a useful tool to awaken to the reality that we often do this to ourselves within our own heads. For myself, one clue that this is true is that I find it much simpler to point toward the noise on T.V. than I am to the noise in my head. Easy target. And yet, it does map the pattern. Just like people, the only ones we really have any power to change are ourselves, so we might as well seek to start there.
If awareness of considerate reporting that remains conscious of nuance and complexity is the goal for a healthy news medium, what is the path toward healing in our own consciousness? If we accept that the news can reflect our own mental states at times, what does it point toward? In my heart, I believe we as a species are struggling deeply with learning to be able to disagree with one another without holding onto our sense of rightness; without maintaining a stance that demands our take on the information we see to be 100% truth. There’s another verse from Emerson’s writing that talks about that indwelling spirit, that sense of presence, being likened to a bird flitting amongst the trees. It lands on this branch then the next, popping up from different locations and directions. No one tree masters it. Conscious awareness is like this. Truth is like this bird. Once we try to grasp firmly, the bird is no longer free to be itself. A certain beauty is lost or mangled, and the capacity for flight is grounded. The lessons of Emerson’s flitting creature is in the awe it inspires, not teaches. It’s in whatever wondrous moment that finally pulls the person, waiting for the phone to ring, away from their stupor and schools them back to life. It laughs at a world view that suggests we can sift through all the data pouring through our well-informed minds and separate things neatly into a sense of right and wrong that just so happens to cleanly align with our way of doing things. …Whatever that might be this week, or year, or century. We are awash with another type of information in our lives; one that gets lost beneath our thinking distractions. Our first source as Unitarian Universalists points toward that direct experience of wonder that leads us to a renewal of the spirit – one that affirms and upholds life. I would marvel at an education that used this litmus test on truth. How does what I’m learning right now affirm and uphold life?
Toward the end of October, I joined over 150 other religious educators for a week of service and learning in New Orleans during our annual liberal religious educators’ Fall conference. We broke up into groups of 15 or 20 to spend a day working in the fields, gardening, weeding, sorting books for kids who have few or none, among many other projects. We spent days in classes on music, local culture, personal stories. We explored angles of racism and classism. We learned how youth and adults collaborated to affect change. We witnessed how individuals from all financial backgrounds worked together to heal the corners of the blocks in which they dwelled. We went down primarily to serve, to help make things better down there; and we came away realizing “down there” had a lot to offer us to help out “back home.”
Blurring the lines between down there, and back home, was a main goal of the planning team for the annual conference. They were challenging us. They were asking us not to feel hearts full of charity, overflowing; but rather to experience solidarity at our core with the struggles of our fellow neighbors on this spinning orb we call home. The communities in New Orleans were asking us to come down and lend a hand, and in return, they’d show us their ways of making things better so that we could bring home the tools they’ve crafted, sharpened to excellence, and put to good use. We can serve with them, and in return, they’ll serve with us.
The personal transformation asked of us by this ethical stance, is central to Unitarian Universalist theology. I can recall the words of a mentor of mine, the late Rev. Dr. Forrest Church, previous Senior Minister of All Souls in NYC, who was known to teach that “we spring from a common source (Unitarianism) and that we share a common destiny (Universalism) and that both source and destiny are grounded in love.” I love that message. It feels very simple to say that we all spring from this living world, and we all share this road, this walk together. But it’s just as easy to forget this truth in our daily lives.
It’s just as easy to say we’re somehow better, or somehow above, the plight of others. It’s easy to come into a place of struggle and feel superior in our charity. It’s easy to impart our wisdom to a friend or family member who can’t seem to get their dating life, or their career, or their educational path together. Ok – with a show of hands, who here has ever given advice to a friend about how poorly they were managing their dating, or work, or school life? Now keep those hands up, if you weren’t able to follow your own advice. (mmm hmmm!)
We can laugh at ourselves (hopefully) for these foibles and everyday follies. But those are the little ways every day we commit acts of charity that lift ourselves up, without opening ourselves to the learning potential of mutuality, or solidarity. They’re some of the tricks we use to forget that we all spring from one common source and share one common destiny. Acts of solidarity, the moments we seek to serve while learning from those we aid, remind us of the truth of our origins and the nature and direction of our shared path. They humble us, and in our humility we come to realize how amazing this gift of life truly is. The big acts of service, of traveling across this country to help heal our brokenness, need to transform the little every day brokenness in our own lives, or we missed half the point and the wholeness of the message.
One of the lessons we learned in New Orleans, is that the community couldn’t do it alone. Individuals needed to work together. Non-profits, and congregations needed to work together. Congregational walls needed to open up to let more in and create collaborative opportunities. How much of that do we do locally? Do we work well with our fellow congregations in NYC? Where do we intersect with community groups in our neighborhood and our small town of Brooklyn? In some ways we excel, like the awesome reality of a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) that meets every Wednesday in our downstairs Chapel, and in some ways we have room for growth. But we have a good deal to learn from our Louisiana neighbors.
We’re trying to do more of this in the months to come. For example, many of you may know that our Senior High Youth group will be traveling to New Orleans the week preceding Easter to have a week of service and learning. Following the good modeling of the groups in New Orleans, we’ve reached out to our neighbors in Staten Island. Our Staten Island UU youth group will be traveling with us; they’ll be fund-raising with us; and we’ll be getting to know one another more and more over the year to come. In fact, about 15 of us spent an evening full of pasta and conversation just two nights ago thanks to the delicious cooking of Becky Huffman and Paul Eisemann. Their youth group, Religious Education chair and Senior Minister came to visit us in the first of many steps toward building community. I sincerely hope and pray that this will be a real opportunity for our two congregations to get to know one another better. I know our Weaving the Fabric of Diversity committee is also seeking to expand their collaborations with our sister congregation, and I commend them for their work.
Solidarity, unlike charity, demands we seek personal transformation. In the words from some of his seminal work, cultural ethicist, Michael Jackson writes, “As I, turn up the collar on my favorite winter coat this wind is blowin’ my mind I see the kids in the street, with not enough to eat who am I, to be blind? Pretending not to see their needs… I’m starting with the man in the mirror I’m asking him to change his ways and no message could have been any clearer if you wanna make the world a better place…”. The metaphor of the mirror is the clearest symbol of what solidarity demands of us; and what solidarity offers us. We’re not going find more food for kids in the street if we don’t look to our own ways, attitudes, and perceptions first and foremost.
In this spirit of looking first to ourselves, the only people we can ever truly change, let’s reflect a little on our Hunger Communion this morning. I invite you to sit-up, feel yourselves in your body, open your hearts to the emotions that played across your mind during the communion portion of the service this morning. For those of you that had ample access to a nice loaf of bread, how did it feel to see the ample remainder upon the altar? Where did you feel pressure in your body when you turned to see most of the congregation struggling to share bits and scraps? For those of you receiving the opposite extreme, the absurdity of the 30 or 40 or 50 of you sharing one slice, where did the experience sit in your body? What arose in you when you saw someone else’s ample surplus sit upon our chancel? For those of you sitting somewhere in the middle, I challenge you not to make the mistake that the middle ground reflects the situation of the middle-class in the States. The vast majority of us in this room benefit as did the folks in the first three pews this morning. Even if we are relying upon food stamps, we have greater access to nourishment than most of our neighbors on this planet do. (And if you or your family are hungry this morning, come up to me after the service, and we’ll work together to change that. Many of us in the States and this city do go hungry every day.)
Knowing this, feeling this, experiencing this, what do we find in the mirror this morning? How does this annual ritual translate for us? From the safety and danger of this pulpit, I can not answer this question for any of you. We all need to come to that answer internally, but our religious community is a vessel for you to put those answers to practice. This religious home is a place of safety, of succor, where you can risk the glance into the mirror and take the first transformative steps. It’s what we’re all called to do here.
It’s common to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the challenge before us. Helping one person out there, in a charitable way, is a concrete thing we can accomplish so we’re often, though regretfully not always, willing to do it. The guests at our table boxes signify several hundred concrete steps this congregation takes each year to affect noticeable change in the lives of people they touch. Escorting those boxes down to our religious education classes and introducing the plight of others into the awareness of our children and youth are another hundred or so concrete steps we take every year. Food is the focus of this morning’s Communion, but access to clothing, and shelter, and even moments of celebration for young children, are all interwoven in the broader fabric of poverty. Each thread connects to another. Our annual toy drive, our split the plate with Good Shepherd, our periodic days of repainting shelters for our Queer Youth, our clothing drive for Christian Help in Park Slope expand the list. Money, and time, and concern are necessary to affect moments of reprieve, and occasional nudges against systems of oppression the world over. And we as a religious community must do them, because I often fear I’m not sure who else would if ethical gatherings of individuals ceased this work. And yet, they’re not enough alone. Charity is not enough even if it is a necessary point of entry for many of us.
We ritualize the Hunger Communion to transform our hearts and spirits. The internal awareness and the internal transformation are great gifts of solidarity to end the crisis of Hunger. Some of us change our eating habits to reduce our impact. For some this will mean vegetarianism (like myself) or veganism – both diets that reduce reliance upon grain-intensive livestock. For others it will mean supporting Community Supported Agriculture, to reduce environmental impacts while funding local farmers who quite often donate surplus to those in need in our local community. For some, it will mean supporting Community Gardens that teach folks how to grow food, the value of nutrition, and increase access to fresh foods.
Many in this congregation donate funds to build micro-credit banks in Haiti to help combat systems of poverty that reduce women’s access to employment and entrepreneurialism – at their best, these banks are acts of solidarity that empower individuals to increase their own capacity to be self-subsistent. These banks presume, given a fair chance and equal access, people can stand on their own. I agree with that presumption.
And the list can go on and on. I invite you, no I challenge you. If something was stirred in you this morning, seek the ways in which you can affect the change in world you seek to know. Begin with yourself. Begin with the everyday habits. Transformation of this world beneath the glow of justice is possible and it begins at home. It is an act of solidarity over charity. This is the saving message of our Unitarian Universalist faith. There is a path worth living and walking; there is ever a potential for hope in the unfolding of the human spirit; we are loved and maintain the possibility to love; perfections and products are pale compensations for forgetting our connectedness in this awe-inspiring living world. It is my hope and my prayer this morning, that our service of Communion reminds us of the truth of our interconnectedness. And that this truth stirs within our blood such compassion that we are quickened to act.