No. 428: “Come out of the dark earth,”
From Singing the Living Tradition
No. 190 Light of Ages and of Nations
from Singing the Living Tradition
“God Comes to Us in Our Dreams”
by Mary Ann Moore
There once was a girl who lived with her family in a small village. It was a very small village, so everyone there knew each other. The girl’s family loved her and the people of the village loved her. When she woke up crying one night because she had had a frightening dream, everyone in the village knew about it and everyone cared.
In the morning, the people of the village asked the girl about her scary dream. “In my dream, I was walking down the path to get some wood,” she recalled. “All of a sudden a tiger jumped down from a tree and got in front of me on the path so I couldn’t go by.” The girl almost started to cry again as she remembered how scary it was. “Then the tiger started coming toward me and it was snarling and growling and showing its teeth, and I was sure it wanted to eat me. I turned around and started to run as fast as I could, but the tiger ran right behind me. Just as it was going to catch me, I turned around and started to run as fast as I could, but the tiger ran right behind me. Just as it was going to catch me with one of its huge paws, I woke up!” The girl went to her mother and hid her head under her mother’s arm. She was still very frightened when she thought of the dream, and she was afraid for night to come when she would have to sleep again.
The elders in the village gathered together and talked for a while about the girl’s dream. Then they went back to the girl, who was still with her mother, and said, “If you want to learn not to be afraid in your dreams, we can help you.
The girl thought for a minute and then said, very quietly, “I do want to learn not to be afraid in my dreams.”
One of the elders said to her, “All right then, try this: Tonight if you dream the same dream and the tiger starts to come toward you, don’t run, but stay where you are and say ‘Hello, tiger. “
“But the tiger will eat me,” said the girl. “I’m too scared.”
“Yes, you may be scared,” replied the elders, “but we believe you will be brave enough to do it. And we don’t think the tiger will eat you.”
That night the girl dreamed of the tiger again. But when the tiger started toward her, she remembered and stood bravely, facing the tiger, and said, “Hello, tiger.” When the tiger got right in front of her, it stopped.
And then a wonderful thing happened. As the girl looked at the tiger’s face, she saw it smile, and as she looked some more, the tiger’s face began to change and she saw there the faces of lots of animals. They smiled at her, too. As she looked some more, the animals’ faces changed into faces of people, and the people’s faces smiled at her. The girl felt a wonderful happy feeling coming over her when she realized that she wasn’t afraid anymore. And then, as she looked again, she saw not only the animals and the people, but trees and earth and sky and water and beautiful colors and beautiful darkness all swirling around and mixing together, and all smiling at her. And she felt a great joy.
The next morning the girl couldn’t wait to tell everyone in the village about her dream. Everyone gathered around, and as she told it, everyone sighed and smiled and shared her joy. Once again the elders went off by themselves for a while to talk about the girl’s dream. When they returned one of the elders said to her, “You were blessed, my daughter. Because you were brave, God has come to you in your dream and blessed you.”
Later that day, as the girl was walking down the path to get some wood, she was still thinking about her wonderful dream. She was eager for night to come so that she could dream again.
No. 487: “The bell is full of wind”
from Singing the Living Tradition
from the Boston Globe
[In wheatfields in south central England, mysterious huge flattened circles have appeared for years. Large numbers of people had come to believe they were put there by paranormal forces or by aliens.]
London. Every summer, the mysterious crop circles, large and intricate patterns of flattened wheat, appear in the fields. And every summer they are greeted by expressions of reverence and wisecracks about little green men.
Now two British artists have offered a new and elegantly simple explanation of the phenomenon: They done it.
Doug Bower and David Chorley, both in their 60s, claim to have created the circles all by themselves.
They said they worked at night, using a ball of string (to keep the circles round), a wire sight attached to a baseball cap (to keep the lines straight) and two long sticks with rope handles (to flatten the crops).
The con men said they came forward because they were tired of people making money off their joke.
In fact, two circle “experts,” Patrick Delgado and Cohn Andrews have made a nice income off the mystery in recent years.
Delgado and Andrews wrote two best-selling books about the subject. They also gave speeches and organized conferences. And they ran a $1.8 million dollar research project for Japanese television, aimed at capturing the formation of a crop circle on film.
The latest news on the crop circle front, that the whole thing apparently was a joke, came to Delgado last week in the cruelest possible way.
With a newspaper reporter and a photographer watching, Bower and Chorley made one of their circles in a wheat field. Then the circle was shown to Delgado, who solemnly pronounced it genuine and explained that no mere mortals could have made such a thing.
Then he was informed that two mere mortals had made it. The man was shaken.
“I was taken for a ride like many other people,” Delgado told reporters. But by yesterday, he tried to mount a recovery. When Bower and Chorley made yet another circle, this one for British television, Delgado gave it a firm thumbs down.
“This is not a genuine crop circle. It’s totally different from the real thing,” he said firmly.
Bower and Chorley claimed they started making their circles in 1978. At first, no one noticed. There was no media coverage. But then Delgado saw his first circle. And the mystery took off.
The hoaxsters said they did not get truly committed until they heard Delgado talking on the radio about the involvement of a “superior intelligence.”
“We laughed so much that time we had to stop the car,” Chorley said.
“Making Meaning of a Random Universe”
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka
There was once a man who lived in England and preached Universalism. The year was 1770, his life was working out badly, he landed in debtor’s prison, his wife and baby died, he was called to task for his theology in London. He decided to sail for the New World, much relieved that he would never have to preach again. His name was John Murray.
At the same time, an elderly man, Thomas Potter, sat in his farmhouse in Good Luck, New Jersey, and thought up a Universalist theology on his own. He was so enthused about this new religion of his that he built a little church building there on the farm. He figured, “If God wants my church to succeed, he’ll send me a preacher.”
Meanwhile, John Murray’s ship encounters some peculiar winds, and lo and behold, it goes aground at Good Luck, New Jersey, right there at Thomas Potter’s farm. Murray finds Potter just waiting for him to show up. Murray prays for the winds to shift, and fast, but they don’t. Obviously, God has sent Murray to Potter’s meetinghouse; Potter and Murray decide that Providence was clearly at work, and Murray winds up preaching Universalism for the next 35 years, thus starting the Universalist Church in America.
This story is nonsense. At least that’s my opinion. Sure, John Murray did wash ashore at Good Luck, New Jersey at Thomas Potter’s farm and all that, and what a great coincidence that was, but we really have no reason to believe that God meddles much in nitty-gritty day-to-day affairs down in New Jersey.
But we’re human beings. It would be so nice if the events in our lives made sense. But for us, meaning is not pre-figured by somebody else; we create it. If Potter and Murray want to start a new American religion, good for them. They have given their lives meaning. Just as if in our own lives a car goes out of control on 128 and nearly hits you but doesn’t, you can decide that yes, this is the day to finally tell your sister you really love her in spite of everything, and you will have made meaning of your near miss. Or say your teaching job gets axed, you decide you will find a way to get your MBA, which you had wanted to do in the first place. You have created meaning. Or you win the Mega-Bucks, you get yourself a new car, but you also donate a room to an AIDS hospice, and you have taken a random event and made meaning. We make the ‘promises we keep.’ We choose our own stars.
Our minister in San Francisco, Victor Carpenter, has a daughter, Gracia, age thirteen who operates at the level of a one-year-old. He finds that people frequently try to tell him the “purpose” for this tragedy; they want to explain why it makes sense that Gracia is the way she is; why this had to happen. Victor says, “We all want a world that is orderly and predictable and will conform, at least in the main, to our standards and expectations…. [Well,] Baloney! It is our ability and our willingness to deal with reality on its own terms that makes reality meaningful, us wise, and life endurable. I am continually amazed by the prevalence of [people] who always stand ready to offer “purposes” for Gracia (complete with silver linings). Cathe and I have been told that Gracia was sent to us in order that we might be better prepared to give comfort and solace to other people who were ‘afflicted’ with similar children. Or that she was sent because we were strong enough to learn from her and provide for her without breaking. Or for reasons God chooses not to vouchsafe but, nonetheless, we’ll discover one day. Such attempts to discover some kind of purpose are inappropriate because they always start at the wrong end of the situation. They start with some pre-established ideal of ‘purpose,’ then attempt to fit reality to that purpose rather than start with the reality.” (Stations of the Spirit, p.84)
You probably remember the book When Bad Things Happen to Good People, where Kushner says, “Let me suggest that the bad things that happen to us in our lives do not have a meaning when they happen to us. They do not happen for any good reason which would cause us to accept them willingly. But we can give them a meaning. We can redeem these tragedies from senselessness by imposing meaning on them. The question we should be asking is not, ‘Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?’ That is really an unanswerable, pointless question. A better question would be ‘Now that this has happened to me, what am I going to do about it?’ (p. 136)
We have to be careful. Because ambiguity is hard for most of us to tolerate, because an unpredictable universe is difficult to live with, because we find inherent meaninglessness unsatisfying, most human beings are prone to spot meaning where there simply is none, and we see patterns in randomness. Where there are stars, we see constellations.
When we see meaning in the meaningless we can be in some danger. For example, a fraudulent stockbroker gets some fancy letterhead and sends out 32,000 letters to potential investors. In 16,000 of these letters he predicts the index will rise, and in the other 16,000 he predicts a decline. No matter whether the index rises or falls, a follow-up letter is sent, but only to the 16,000 people who initially received a correct “prediction.” To 8,000 of them, a rise is predicted for the next week; to the other 8,000, a decline. Whatever happens now, 8,000 people will have received two correct predictions. Again, to these 8,000 people only, letters are sent concerning the index’s performance the following week: 4,000 predicting a rise; 4,000, a decline. Whatever the outcome, 4,000 people have now received three straight correct predictions. This goes on a few more times, until 500 people have received six straight correct “predictions.” These 500 people are now reminded of this and told that in order to continue to receive this valuable information for the seventh week they must each contribute $500. This fraudulent broker knows that a number of us are willing to ascribe meaning and predictive powers to what has in fact been random success. (Paulos, p. 32)
Most of us believe a number of things that aren’t true: We may not necessarily believe that a stockbroker has a corner on the future of the market, or that God sent John Murray to New Jersey, or that crop circles were made by aliens. But a large majority of the general public thinks itself more intelligent, more fair-minded, less prejudiced, and more skilled behind the wheel of an automobile than the average person. This phenomenon is called the “Lake Wobegon effect,” after Garrison Keillor’s fictional community where “the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” (Gilovich, p. 77)
If you think you are above these kinds of pitfalls, if you think you are rational, you might have fun with a couple of books that are out. One is Innumeracy (John Allen Paulos, 1988), and the other is How We Know What Isn’t So, by Thomas Gilovich (1991).
We all know, for example, that men and women who cannot have biological children and subsequently adopt, are more likely to then conceive a baby than couples who can’t conceive and don’t adopt. On-lookers figure that after having adopted, there’s less stress associated with the child-bearing issue, and the woman gets pregnant after all. I can think of a half dozen couples in this church who began filling out adoption papers and at some point went on to have biological children.
The thing is, the phenomenon is simply not true: If you are a couple who cannot conceive, it makes no statistical difference at all whether or not you adopt. Some of you will go on to have a biological child, and some of you won’t. It’s just that we tend to notice the pregnancies more in families who have adopted children. (Gilovich, p. 31) There’s no connection here, no causality, no meaning. Sometimes what we’re observing is simply probability theory at work, our high school math books come alive.
Just now there’s a lot of interest out there in randomness, in chaos theory, and in probability, partly because these mathematical theories demonstrate that our intuition often leads us astray. Part of this renewed interest was caused by a little teaser in Parade Magazine in September of 1990, the magazine that comes with the Sunday paper. You mathematicians know it as the “Monty Hall Problem.”
For 27 years, Monty Hall hosted the TV game show “Let’s Make a Deal.” Contestants are faced with three doors. Behind one, say, is a sports car. Behind the other two are goats. Monty Hall knows what’s behind each door. So you, the contestant, choose a door-let’s say Door Number 1. Before he opens the door you chose, Monty Hall opens a different door and shows you that one of the goats is behind it. Then he says, “Do you want to stick with the door you picked, or do you want to switch to the other closed door?” The question is, should you switch?
Most people’s instincts tell them that it doesn’t make any difference, that either way they have a fifty-fifty chance of winning the car. But they are wrong. If you switch, you will double your chances of winning.
Here we go. When you chose Door Number 1, your chances of winning the car were one in three. Monty Hall reveals a goat behind Door Number 3. He’s not back there moving goats and cars around, so the chances of the car being behind Door Number 1 haven’t changed any-you still have a 1 in 3 chance that the car is behind Door Number 1. But Monty has eliminated Door 3 altogether. Therefore, if Door 1 only gives you a one third chance of winning, Door 2, the only one left must give you a two thirds chance. If you switch to Door 2, you will double your chances of winning. What we want to believe, what we think we know, just isn’t true. (If you want to try it yourself, get three playing cards and try it twenty times or so.)
In American culture today, it is popular to want to nurture and cultivate “the intuitive” part of one’s personality. Intuition is seen to be somehow warmer, or more spiritual, than “cold rationality.” But what I’m working toward this morning is a reminder that fact and scientific truths have their place in our religion. Scientific fact helps us guard against outright fraudulence, to be sure. But perhaps more important, mathematical science can be its own miracle, and when we recognize that miracle, we have available to use a kind of “warm rationality” that also deserves a place inside us.
Let’s look at basketball. The books I mentioned both talk about basketball. You know the feeling: You dribble, you shoot, you sink the ball. You dribble, you shoot again. Swish. Another shot, another two points. You’re on a roll. You’re confident. You’re hot. The players, the coaches, and the fans all know that the player has a “hot hand.” Almost everybody believes that players tend to shoot in streaks. In fact, 91% of the people asked believe that a player has “a better chance of making a shot after having just made the last two or three shots.” (Gilovich, p. 14, Paulos, 46)
Not true. If you actually study the games, if you record the numbers and do the math, you find that players are not any more likely to make a shot after making their last one, two, or three shots than after missing their last one, two, or three shots. There’s no such thing as a hot streak. If you have a hypothetical player who sinks a shot 50% of the time, pure chance would predict runs of 4, 5, or 6 baskets in a row, just as flipping a coin results in predictable long streaks of heads or tails.
Certainly, hot streaks, if they actually existed, would be amazing, exciting, miraculous. But to me, the hard, so-called “cold reality,” is even more amazing, exciting, and miraculous. What I like about it is this: A great deal in life seems random. Will the basketball sink into the net? There’s no telling for any given shot. None. But over time, what seems utterly unpredictable falls into a dependable pattern. That’s what “chaos theory” is all about. (see Chaos, James Gleick, 1988) Who knows whether any given coin flip will turn out to be heads or tails? But over a long enough period, you can count on the fact that it’ll be heads about half the time, and tails about half the time. So do we live in a random universe or is it predictable?
We human beings are funny. We seem to like feeling amazed, even when the chances of the event Occurring weren’t all that unlikely. Take birthdays. There are 366 possible birthdays. So if you have 367 people in a room, you know for sure that at least two people in the group have the same birthday. What if we wanted to be just 50% sure that two people in the room would share a birthday? How many people would have to be in the room? The answer is 23. Half the time that twenty-three people are gathered, two or more of them will share a birthday. To be truthful, if I were with 22 other people and two of them had the same birthday, I would think that was some special coincidence. But the truth is, the miracle is not in coincidence, but rather in the marvelous, dependable, predictability of the universe, that in a small room of people, one would reasonably expect that two people may have the same birthday.
I was once a high school exchange student for a year in Australia. While I was there, I knew another American exchange student. Years later, I ran into this fellow in a youth hostel in Denmark. I’ve always thought this to be an impressive coincidence; “What were the chances of my running into him?” But after reading these books, I’ve come to realize that the chances were much greater than I would have thought, that what’s impressive is that almost everyone can expect to have some kind of “it’s a small world” story. To my way of thinking, the logical response to what seems to be an amazing coincidence is not a belief in Providence, or synchronicity, or fate, or that something was “meant to be,” but simply to recognize the world as a pretty neat place, just on the face of it, just as it ordinarily operates. Myself, I was never very big on math. But I have learned some things this week. I have learned that one can expect a whole constellation of things to happen-to just happen. That one can expect some of us to get cancer, some of us to get a phone call from a kid selling magazines, some of us will win a trip to Disney World, some of us will get a grocery cart with a wheel that doesn’t turn right, some of us will die too young, some of us will inherit money from an unknown relative. I have learned that if the universe is operating in its usual random way, I can depend on all that.
And I have learned that we can decide to make meaning of the cancer, or the trip to Florida, or anything at all. Will I make something of my life, of this week, of the rest of the day? I decide.
And finally, I have learned that living in the midst of all that happens, the good things are abundant. John Murray lands in New Jersey. Or in that championship basketball game, you make a whole string of baskets in a row. Or you do get pregnant after all. Or you run into an old friend in a youth hostel in Denmark. We can expect all that.
May our eyes be open, and our hearts, and may we glory in the wonders that most certainly are ours.
Amen
No. 345 With Joy We Claim the Growing Light
from Singing the Living Tradition
No. 694: “May the Love which overcomes all differences”
from Singing the Living Tradition
by Joy D. Gasta
by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
People talk about love as though it were something you could give, like an armful of flowers. And a lot of people give love like that — just dump it down on top of you, a useless strong-scented burden. I don’t think it is anything you can give love is a force in you that enables you to give other things. It is the motivating power. It enables you to give strength and freedom and peace to another person. It is not a result: it is a cause. It is not a product: it produces. It is a power, like stream or electricity. It is valueless unless you can give something else by means of it.
No. 10 “Immortal Love”
from Singing the Living Tradition
“The Reverend James Wilson Bailey and Mrs. Eliza Whitcomb Bailey: A Jaw-ful Experience”
by Denise D. Tracy, from Living in the Wind
The Reverend James Wilson Bailey hitched the horse to the buggy and drove it ’round to the front of the house. He hopped down and helped his wife, Mrs. Eliza Whitcomb Bailey, into the buggy. Then he walked back ’round, got in, took the reins in hand, snapped them against the horse’s back and clucked, “Giddy-up.”
This particular Sunday night was crystal clear. The moon shone over the New Hampshire mountains and created shadows of white and silver where the dew lay heavy against branch, leaf and flower. Rev. and Mrs. Bailey held hands as they rode along in silence.
Tonight Rev. and Mrs. Bailey were undertaking an adventure. They had been traveling each Sunday night to the towns of Hinsdale and Winchester, New Hampshire, to preach the news of the goodness of God to these two tiny churches. From 10 to 20 to 30 people, the churches had grown. In enthusiasm and joy, people were becoming members of these two tiny churches. Tonight for the first time, the two tiny congregations would meet together as a sizable group at a school house half-way between their towns. The Rev. and Mrs. Bailey were excited and nervous. These two tiny churches had grown to be one very good congregation.
About ¼ mile away from the school house, the buggy crested a hill. The smell of the spruce forest was strong. The dew had settled on the fragrant pine needles and the air was heavy with the smell of spruce.
The needles shone with dew and moonlight. Every needle glowed silver. Rev. Bailey stopped the buggy .Together the two looked at the bounty of the universe. Dew, silver, moonlight, spruce, perfume.
“God’s joy surrounds us,” said Eliza. “Yes, let us hope we can share it with the congregation tonight,” replied James. When they arrived at the little school house, its windows were brightly lit. The little building was full to overflowing with excited new Universalists. Rev. and Mrs. Bailey entered, and a tall, awkward, bashful, kindly fellow welcomed them and offered each of them a piece of spruce gum to chew. “No,” said Mrs. Bailey, “I do not chew gum, but I will happily take it home to my children who will be very glad of it.”
As Rev. Bailey began to preach, he realized that he and Mrs. Bailey were the only two people in the congregation not chewing gum. Apparently as people had walked or driven in the moonlight to the little school house, they had stopped in the spruce forest and picked the gum off the trees to chew at church. As Rev. Bailey fervently preached, the congregation’s jaws fervently worked – as excited as he became, those jaws worked in equal excitement.
The minister could not look at his wife for fear of giggling. The people who were new Universalists truly loved the sermon and at its end sang the last hymn joyfully and loudly.
On the way home, Rev. and Mrs. Bailey laughed and talked about the new church. The moon shone brightly, the scent of spruce filled the air. “Well Eliza, we had a different kind of communion tonight.” “Yes, we came to give them the joy of God and the wonders of the universe and we learned a lesson too.” “Yes, we surely did. We wanted them to have a joyful experience and they did. They are joyful, exuberant Universalists. But they are also jaw-ful! Have you ever seen so much gum in anyone place!” And the two of them laughed and laughed. Finally Eliza said, “Oh James, would that all Universalists have such a fervent response as we did tonight.”
And so it was that Rev. and Mrs. Bailey learned about being both joyful and jaw-ful.
by Anna Quindlen, New York Times columnist
I have been married almost 10 years to the same person. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe. Neither of us was sure that any human being could be expected to live over the long haul with anyone as stubborn, opinionated and difficult as the other. Somehow it has worked, and it is not a gross exaggeration to say that this is partly because I am a much better cook than he is, and he tells much better jokes than I do.
A lot of people don’t understand how important these little things are to a marriage. I realized this when I was reading a magazine article about bachelors, many of whom were participating in organized sports instead of having relationships with women, just as their football coaches told them they should do when they were 17.
Many of these bachelors seemed to think that both partners would have to compromise and change a lot to stay married. Nothing is farther from the truth. One touchstone of marriage is security, and nothing makes you feel more secure than knowing exactly what another person is going to say or do at any given time. If my husband just cut into a slightly pink pork chop and scarfed it down — instead of holding up a piece at eye level, looking at it as though it were a murder suspect and saying, “Is this cooked enough?” — I’d become pretty suspicious, I can tell you that.
I felt this sense of security just the other night. It was cold and wintry , and I was getting ready to go to sleep when my husband said, “I don’t like that nightgown.” Once again I felt that magic little thrill you always get when you realize that some things in your life are immutable.
It was a flannel nightgown, one of those little numbers that looks like a fallout shelter and is designed to reveal only that the body beneath possesses ankles. It’s warm and comfortable, but I’ve always suspected that the only person who would consider it seductive would be Buddy Ebsen. Every year my husband looks at one of these things and says, “I don’t like that nightgown.” I guess if I were what my grandmother used to call a dutiful wife, I wouldn’t wear them. But just think how out-of-kilter my husband’s whole existence would become…
It’s a little late for me to fall in love with a man who likes cotton flannel and the allure of the dowdy… Besides, I know all his little winning ways, and he knows mine. I believe this is the secret to a successful marriage…
I like a certain reliability in a man, and I’ve got it. I put a plate of radicchio salad on the table, step back and count to five. “What is this stuff?” my husband says suspiciously, poking it with his fork. It warms my heart.
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
e.e. cummmgs
Love and Marbles
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka, Minister, Unitarian Universalist Church of Reading, Massachusetts
Do you remember? Do you remember the days when you were ten or eleven or twelve or so, the days of jump ropes and marbles? Remember? You’d just gotten it together, more or less …you knew how to operate your body; you knew how to operate your parents, your younger brothers and sisters; you knew how to operate your teachers, especially your substitute teachers. And you had friends, many of you, you were bonded togeher, it was “eddieandbill,” it was “bettyandisbel.” They were the days the movies “Stand By Me” and “My Life as a Dog” remind us of, the sweet and simple days just before the guys got cute and the girls got coy and complications all too quickly set in.
Bob Doss, one of our ministers in Wilmington, Delaware, tells a story (and, by the way, on a weekend that includes both Valentine’s Day and Presidents’ Day, it wasn’t easy to find just the right story — but this is a love story, and it’s about a boy named George and a girl named Martha, so I think I deserve extra credit.)
The boys, all about ten years old, says Bob Doss, were the marble shooters. The girls had more important things to do then, one imagines. But the boys seemed to play marbles all the time when the weather was dry and not too hot, but not too cold… marble season — in a place where the earth was packed hard and flat and a good ring could be drawn in the black dirt. Sometimes, the girls would deign to watch. And the boys, in training for free enterprise, accumulated great numbers of marbles — both by playing to win, sometimes by trading them for picture cards that came with flat, red pieces of bubble-gum, and sometimes by saving their pennies for more marbles.
George Markovitz was the best marble player. The others used to think it had something to do with his shooter. For, you see, George had a “moonie.” It seemed a little heavier than other marbles — the moonie. It was very smooth, but not glassie; pearlie looking and translucent… You could not see through it. They said it was made from moonstone and it did look like that — white, or pearl-like with a blue tinge, cool but not cold. A beautiful moonstone — a perfect sphere.
Everybody wanted one. But they did not sell “moonies” at the store where the marbles usually came from. George had the only one around. And what a shooter it did make. It was just about perfect.
Martha Bell, it so happened, had a birthday party. Her eleventh. And after the indoor games, and the cake, came the gift opening. And at the end of the gift opening, a small package was left, the smallest of the packages, a present from George Markovitz, and as Martha opened it, he started to blush.
She unwrapped the tissue inside the little box, and there was the moonie. just quietly glowing there, pearlie and bluish, cool and beautiful . . . George had given his moonie to Martha. Martha became very quiet, and sort of warm and smiling-like. And she looked into his eyes – eyes so deep she was afraid she was going to fall into them. And George sat there, melting in the presence of the great thaw. For a moment, everyone hushed. What was happening?
We know what was happening. We were there. We remember how it was when the little goat-footed balloonman came whistling into our lives and changed them forever. e.e. cummings’ poem is about just that, of course, about the Greek god Pan, playing a reed in the distance — Pan, the god of fertility, god of lust, — Pan, the root of our word “panic,” Pan, who did his best to rearrange eddieandbill in favor of eddieandbetty, and bettyandisbel into isbelandbill. When that moonie was passed from George to Martha, romance was born.
Romance. You know the kind of romance I mean. The “flames of love.” “Waves of passion.” “Wounded by Cupid’s arrow.” Valentines. Suffering. Queasy stomachs, weak knees, dry mouths; broken hearts, bursting hearts, aching hearts, lonely hearts, pounding hearts. Noble love, love between any two people, gay or lesbian or straight; love, which we consider the most enriching of human experiences; love, which at the age of twelve and probably a time or two subsequently, takes the form of moping and giggling and gazing. It is the “love and marbles” stage, when, as one wise Greek named Affines said, “the rocks in her head seem to fit the holes in his.”
Judy Blume, the popular author of novels designed to appeal to children of just this age, received the following letter: “Dear Judy, I first started a kind of relationship with a girl in a movie. We just saw each other there by coincidence so we sat together. The next thing you know we were holding hands. Before we left the theater she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. I’d never been so red at the face in my life. But if that’s what falling in love feels like I hope it happens to everybody! Greg, aged 12.”
Early love, new love, young love, it seems to me, literally takes a medieval form. In the Middle Ages, the height of romance was its impossibility. Romantic love was unconsummated love. The more hardships endured, the more romantic it was. Unrequited love, or insurmountable obstacles were terrific. The only thing even more romantic was a situation where the lovers could no longer stand to live without each other and they killed themselves. Now that’s romance! Those of you with good memories or who have watched your children go through episodes of first true loves may recognize the melodrama of the love and marbles stage.
It is, first of all, the stage not of the “long run,” but the “short run,” the time of life when infatuation is mistaken for enduring love, and new true loves blossom with dizzying rapidity.
Remember Romeo? One day in love with Rosalind. The next day, talking now about Juliet, he goes on and on, “See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!” The pattern is no different from the one we hear about in another letter to Judy Blume: “Dear Judy, I’ve liked this guy, Jeff, since the beginning of the year. He used to like me but he’s not allowed to like girls anymore. Now, even though I still like him, I am going with Bill. But I kind of like this other Bill, too, and also Kevin. The Bill I’m going with is thirteen, the other Bill is fourteen and Kevin is sixteen. Still, I like Jeff the best, even though he can’t like me. I feel that I’ll always like him a lot. I think about him all the time. I’m all confused. I don’t know what to do anymore. Do you have any advice for me? Morgan, age 13″
You may remember that this aspect of the love and marbles stage is torture. While it may be exciting, romance begins to eat away at life, and before long, it is life, having devoured the jump ropes and marbles and every kind of childhood normalcy. Breathing itself seems to hinge on a smile from Martha at the lockers or an affectionate punch on the arm from George, and nothing else matters, not the history quiz, not the baby-sitting commitment, nothing else matters. And then, a month later, the existence of the world as we know it rests on a smile from Bill or a punch from Betty. The enduring love of pinkish pork chops and flannel is completely unknown.
In our society, the stereotype is that over the years, we move from the pattern of constantly changing partners to a settled pattern of happy monogamous love. Of course this is only a stereotype, sometimes it happens, often it doesn’t. Our happiness might just as well be found in singleness, or in a series of partners, or any number of varying lifestyles. Or, through no fault of our own, we sometimes face an unfulfilling marriage, or the death of a partner, or divorce, or no marriage. But this morning I’m going to go with the stereotype — the map most of us were given as children, the progression from young love to enduring love.
No contemporary writer that I’ve read talks about “happily ever after.” Actually, I don’t know why that is — I think, with luck, a lot of people really do get to live happily ever after, without having to put up with too much, without having to work at it too hard, without having a lot of difficult circumstances intervene, enjoying one another’s mind, body, and soul over the long haul. And that’s a wonderful, wonderful thing.
But, one gathers from reading popular columnists, a number of couples appreciate being reminded why it is they’re still married after all those years; they want someone to recall for them what it was about the love and marbles stage, the romance and excitement and variety, that they aren’t supposed to want anymore.
Ellen Goodman, the Globe columnist, confesses to a passion for romantic movies. She loved, for example, the movie Falling in Love, where Meryl Streep and Robert DeNiro ride off into the “happily ever after” on a commuter train. But at this stage of her life, Ms Goodman can’t seem to help but ask herself what happens after Meryl Streep and Robert DeNiro stop “falling in love” and actually “land.” She imagines them when money is tight, when the refrigerator needs cleaning, and finally asks herself if she was just losing her taste for romance the way she once lost her taste for Sugar Smacks. Had she lost her interest in stories of quick romance in favor of the epic tale? Was she now more interested in how people stay together than how they get together, in “being in love,” rather than “falling in love?” She concludes that romantic movies “miss the kind of love that’s been around long enough to include friendship and trust and a whole lot of gratitude.” “As a love-story buff,” she says, “I know this is not what people write scripts about. It’s not on valentines. But it’s the surprise in the chocolate box, the happy non-ending, the stuff on which you build a life.”
If you have moved from the frantic pace of pre-teen romance to the stability of longer loving, you are aware of another change in your life. You no longer have to worry about “how to kiss.” Hours of agony, you may recall, can be spent on that one — here’s another letter to Judy Blume: “Dear Judy, I need some advice. I’m a big romantic but so far I’m convinced that there is no such thing as ‘true love.’ I’ve gone with a lot of boys over the last two years and I’m really confused. For one thing, in movies they make kissing look so perfect, but it’s not for me. In fact, we slobber all over each other and we always end up getting the flu… I wish I could have true love… I am fourteen years old. I want you to help me. Krista, age 14 “
For “Krista, age 14,” true love, as they say, is “in the kiss.” But Krista will no doubt get kissed a lot over the next few years, she’ll get the slobbering under control, if not the flu, she’ll probably run into boys who in her judgment are very good kissers — and even so, it’s doubtful that she’ll find her true love anytime soon.
It will be a long time before Krista changes her focus from kissing, from sex, to the intimacy required of the true love she’s after. Post- marble-stage seekers of love want to listen to the other and be heard, they want to tend each other and be tended, they want to relax in each other’s presence and be wholly themselves, they want to be loving and loved, and yes, they want good kissing too. When Krista finds all that, she can bet that the kissing will work out fine.
One last aspect of pre- teen love that is soon dispelled is the desperate search for the perfect girl or boy, the person who will make you happy your whole life long. “Dear Judy, I am thirteen-and-a-half years old and my problem is, I can’t seem to find the right boy for me… The right boy for me would have pretty eyes, dark hair, a nice build and soft skin. He would show me love and he would respect me, himself and others. He would have his license. But boys like this don’t come around here. I really need help… Sasha, age 13.” (p. 193)
Sasha has an appealing thought: that somebody has been placed on earth, custom made to her order, essentially to make her happy. Sasha will probably spend a long time searching for this perfect creature who’s devoted entirely to her happiness, and then she will grow up. She will, like most people, grow up and get married. She will have her ups and downs. She may admit, as the columnist Linda Weltner did, that “at times I’ve hated this man, blamed him for my unhappiness, been convinced that sticking with so much pain was a mistake, and wanted out. Yet every morning of our lives, both of us made the choice to stay married to one another, and most of the time we’re glad we did… Marriage is no safe harbor. Over the years, I’ve contemplated murder and known true contentment. I’ve felt trapped and liberated, challenged and defeated, in despair, yet determined to keep this love alive… The decision to marry means having faith in your own power to create the life you want with the person you have chosen…”
I’m not sure how much happiness has to do with one’s marriage partner. I know that people can be happy with their spouses, but are they happy because of them? If Sasha gets married, a marriage I suppose of the 1990s, I hope that she has first learned how to be happy on her own. She will need to know herself pretty well. She’ll need to know what accomplishments will make her happy, what, at the end of her life, she herself will enjoy pointing to with pride. She’ll need to know what kinds of friendships she’ll need to maintain, and how it feels to stand on her own. Before she gets married, Sasha will need to know who she is at her most self-centered just to be sure she has a self. Without that, no lover, perfect or not, can make her truly happy.
In the journal Christianity and Crisis, Will Campbell relates this conversation: “‘Would you say you’re happily married?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he answered. ‘Happiness is an elusive and illusive thing, generally not provided for one spouse by the other.’ He said he had never understood what happily married meant. ‘I suppose if I am happy and I am married one could say that I am happily married,’ he went on. ‘But I haven’t been happy every day for 40 years running. Sometimes I have been happy. And sometimes I have been sad, mad, depressed, and a time or two almost crazy. Was I sadly married, madly married, almost crazily married? Or just married all that time?’ As we talked I estimated that I had performed 500 marriage ceremonies. I recalled that I had never asked the parties to make one another happy. Nor did my friends promise each other that. [They only] promised to love each other”
We are, all of us, past the marbles stage, past the medieval stage, though there are days when, no matter how old we are, we seem to be thirteen. We have made progress. We’re better off. No matter how lonely we may be, it’s better than the desperate isolation felt by the child left out at the dance. No matter how bored we may be, it’s better than passions pounding us north and south and east and west. No matter how insecure we may be, it’s got to be better than the agonizing logistics of kissing with braces on your teeth. We have grown up, and it’s a blessing.
My oldest child is eleven. I would like to spare him the marbles stage of love. I would love to tell him that he could freeze the moment, that he and his buddies will talk with happy excitement of computer game cartridges forever and ever; that passion and uncertainty will never enter that world. I would love to tell him that he will never suffer over love, that pain will not consume him, that the hormones in his body will not command his every thought and move for the next decade. I would love to tell my son that for him, there will be no cause for moping, or wandering, or staring; that he’ll be spared the falling in love and breaking up and falling in love and being ignored and falling in love and being trapped and falling in love and being dumped. If only I could tell him that everyone will see what a wonder he is, that he’ll know he looks good, that everyone will treat him fairly and with kindness, that he will always know what to do, that he will never feel like an idiot, never feel unloved. But I can’t.
But I can say this: Someday, you will grow up. And your life will be filled with good things. Count on it. On some days, the sun will shine, and you’ll feel warm. Sometimes you will do an honorable day’s work, and you’ll feel proud. You will hear music now and then that grabs you and makes you dance or touches you and makes you cry with the tears of all people. In the woods you’ll find a tree you like to sit with. You’ll talk someday to a friend and feel a bond forever. You will wonder at the mountains, you will laugh at the silliest things, you will figure something out and be pleased with yourself. Your life will be filled with good things, and one of them, one of those things I think will be love. And this love, this grown-up love, will be easier, and nicer, and you won’t have to worry about doing it wrong, and you will talk together when you feel like talking, and sit quietly when that’s what you want. And you’ll be over- come with passion and overcome with tenderness and overcome with steady joy, and you will love. You will love.
But for now — but for now
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
Amen
by Kenneth Sawyer
And the most embarrassing statement,
the hardest thing to say, is this:
I love you.
I love you for who you are.
Perhaps you worry in the night because
it comes to you that you are different:
I love you because you are different,
and I love your differences.
Perhaps you have known yourself unworthy of love,
a spotted, flawed creature;
I have, too, and yet have been loved.
And I love you, spotted and flawed.
Perhaps there come voices, the callings of evil, the knowledge of an
inner nature less noble than we would proclaim;
Yet I proclaim you, waverings and all;
I know them, too,
and I love you.
A noble race, God’s very chosen,
Or pathetic, cruel, destructive, and hopeless?
Yes, you are both.
Yes, I am both.
Yes we are both.
and I love you.
Perhaps you are less than you would have yourself.
Perhaps the glory ends up inevitably mixed with shame
and the greatness with pettiness.
Perhaps you feel at times unworthy of the blessing that is life.
Yes, so do I.
In the end it comes to this: you are human.
Yes, so am I.
And I love you for it.
And I love you for yourself
No. 18 “What Wondrous Love”
from Singing the Living Tradition
by May Sarton
Return to the most human,
Nothing less will nourish the torn spirit,
the bewildered heart,
the angry mind:
and from the ultimate duress,
Pierced with the breath of anguish,
speak of love.
Return, return to the deep sources,
nothing less will teach the stiff hands a new way to serve,
to carve into our lives the forms of tenderness
and still that ancient necessary pain preserve.
Return to the most human,
nothing less will teach the angry spirit,
the bewildered heart;
the torn mind,
to accept the whole of its duress,
and pierced with anguish
at last, act for love.
No. 418, “Come into the circle of love and justice”
From Singing the Living Tradition
No. 93 To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love
from Singing the Living Tradition
“The Healing Power of God”
by Mary Ann Moore
Once a boy went to visit his grandparents. At his grandparents’ place there was a tree, and this boy climbed up into the tree just as he had done many times before. But this time, for some reason – maybe it was his smooth-bottomed church shoes – the boy suddenly slipped and fell out of the tree. He fell onto his right elbow, and by the time he was through falling, his arm hurt terribly. It hurt so much he cried.
His family all came running. When they saw his arm they knew something was really wrong, so they quickly took him to the hospital. There the doctor took an x-ray of his arm and found that the elbow joint was twisted out of place. The doctor said, “Don’t worry. I can fix it.” Soon the joint was back in place and the boy’s arm was in a cast.
The doctor said to him, “Your arm is going to be as good as new, but healing takes time. The cast will have to stay on for four weeks.” They gave him a sling to help hold up his arm, and the boy went home with his family. When he got home he ate a little bit, but he was so tired and soon went to sleep.
The next day he had to lie still and rest a lot, and his arm still hurt. His family brought him food, and his uncle cut up one of his shirts so it would fit over the cast. Other relatives and friends came by to see him. They told him how sorry they were that he had injured himself, and they tried to amuse him. They brought a balloon that said, “Get well!” And they made cards that said, “We’re sorry you fell out of the tree. Get well soon. We love you!” And they brought him some video movies to watch. By the end of the day the boy was feeling better.
As the days went by the boy felt a lot better. His arm didn’t hurt any more, and he got pretty good at doing things with his left hand. He even learned to write and draw with his left hand, although he usually used his right one. But he was tired of not having both hands and arms to do things with. He said to his parents, “I’m tired of not being well. I want my arm to get well right away. I want to take off this old cast! When can I take it off?”
His parents said to him, “We know you’re getting tired of having the cast on, but healing takes time.” They showed him on the calendar how many more days it would be before his arm would be thoroughly healed and the cast could come off.
“That’s too long,” the boy said. “I want to get well right now! Maybe God can make me well right now, or at least by tomorrow.”
So the boy talked to God. He said, “God, you probably noticed that I fell out of the tree and twisted my elbow out of joint and that the doctor put it back right and that now I have it in a cast. They tell me it’ll be lots more days before it’s healed, but I’m tired of having a cast. Couldn’t you make it heal faster? Couldn’t you make it well right now or at least by tomorrow?” And the boy waited to hear what God would say.
Finally the boy heard God say, ‘Yes, I know you’ve hurt your arm and I’m sorry. I know it must be hard to wait for it to thoroughly heal, but taking time is one of the ways that my healing power works.”
‘What are some of the other ways?” the boy asked, hoping there was a quicker way to get well.
‘Well, you’ve already been using my other ways. You went to the doctor and he used his knowledge of how elbow joints work to get your joint back in place. One of the ways that my healing energy works is with medicines and with doctors’ skills.”
‘What other ways of healing do you have?” the boy wondered.
‘Well, tender loving care is another,” God said. “And you’ve been getting that, too. Your family and your friends have been giving you lots of love and care, bringing you good wishes with balloons and cards and videos. My healing energy is in the tender loving care of family and friends. I know it’s hard to wait, but you will be well soon.”
So the boy said to God, “Okay, I guess I should be glad that you have all those different healing powers. I’m glad to know that my arm will be all well again.” And the boy decided to go and draw another of his left-handed pictures.
No. 481, “It is our quiet time”
from Singing the Living Tradition
by Frederick Beekner
Exactly a year ago tomorrow, a very good friend of mine died. He was an English man, a witty, elegant, many faceted man. One morning in his sixty-eighth year he simply didn’t wake up. Which was about as easy a way as he could possibly have done it. But it wasn’t easy for the people he left behind because it gave us no chance to say good-bye.
A couple of months later my wife and I were staying with his widow overnight in Charleston, South Carolina, when I had a short dream about him.
I dreamed that he was standing there in the dark guest room looking very much the way he always did, and I told him how much we missed him and how glad I was to see him again. Then I said, “Are you really there, Dudley?” I meant, was he there in fact-and-truth, or was I merely dreaming he was? His answer was that he was really there, and then I said, “Can you prove it?”
“Of course,” he said, and he plucked a strand of blue wool out of his sweater and tossed it to me, and I caught it between my index finger and my thumb, and the feel of it was so palpable and real that it woke me up. That’s all there was to the dream.
When I told that dream at breakfast the next morning. I had hardly finished when my wife said she had noticed the strand of wool on the carpet when she was getting dressed. I rushed upstairs to see, and there it was, a little tangle of navy blue wool.
The dream may very well have been just another dream. And you certainly don’t have to invoke the supernatural to account for the thread on the carpet. Maybe my friend really did come—in my dream, or maybe all that’s extraordinary-about-it, is the fuss I’m making.
Dreams like that happen every day to somebody. They’re a dime a dozen, they may mean absolutely nothing. Or, dreams like that are momentary glimpses into a mystery of such depth, power and beauty that if we were to see it head on, in any way other than in glimpses, I suspect we would be annihilated. If I had to bet my life, and my children’s lives, my wife’s life on one possibility or the other, which would I bet on? Which would you bet on?
On ‘Yes there is God in the highest?” or if that language is no longer viable, “There is mystery and meaning in the deepest?” Or [would I bet] on “No, there is whatever happens and it means whatever you choose it to mean, and that’s all there is?”
Of course, we can bet yes today and no tomorrow. We may bet one way with our lips, our minds and even our hearts and another way with our feet. But all of us bet and it’s our lives themselves we’re betting with, in the sense that the betting is what shapes our lives.
And of course we can never be sure we bet right because the evidence both ways is fragmentary, fragile, ambiguous. A coincidence, as somebody said, can be God’s way of remaining anonymous or it can be just a coincidence. Is the dream that brings healing and hope just a product of wishful thinking or is it a message maybe from another realm? Whether we bet yes or no is equally an act of faith.
By Jane Rzepka
Katie [the ministerial intern] and I are each going to tell you a story that we made up together. We’re each going to tell this same story. Katie is going to tell it from the point of view of one theological position, and I’ll tell it from another theological position. The theological stances we take are fiction, pure fiction—any resemblance to our own theological tendencies are purely unintentional… Here’s Katie’s.
I. The Ice Storm: It Was “Meant to Be” – Katie Lee Crane
I can’t believe this day! The roads are covered with ice, it’s treacherous under foot and they’re forecasting more freezing rain and sleet. Wouldn’t you know it? This is the day I have to be at the office for a meeting by 9:00. I’ve got to get going!
I’d better leave now. Skip the dishes. Get going. I’ll bet the highway is backed up for miles. Think I’ll take the back roads today. Probably safer and less congested.
The roads are even worse than I’d imagined. What a mess! I can barely crawl…
Ohhhhhhh!!!!!!!!
What was that? That branch just missed the windshield. It’s a miracle I wasn’t hurt! Someone was definitely looking out for me that time! Guess I’m not supposed to go this way. I have a feeling I should take Rte. 128. I know myself well enough to follow my instincts. I’ll just turn around here and get on at the next exit.
I’m late for sure, but with roads like these, everyone else is going to be late, too. Besides….
Uh Oh … here we go again. This car’s going to spin off the road!!!
Thank God I’m alive. And, as far as I can tell, the car’s OK too. Whew! Another close call. What’s going on here? I wonder what this is supposed to mean?
I’ll figure that out later. What am I going to do now? There’s no getting out of here without help. If someone stops, what should I do? You hear all sorts of horror stories. No, I’ll know. I’ll just know. I’ll have to trust that the person who stops was sent to help me. In fact, I’m confident someone will be sent to help.
This is one of those times when I wish I had someone. I enjoy being single but right now I’d trade my independence for a person who could come and help me out. What am I talking about? Think of it. Two near misses. And I’m fine. The car’s fine. What’s the message? I’m sure there’s a lesson here somewhere.
Is it about this car? Should I sell this car? No, something tells me it’s more than that. It’s about….
Someone’s stopping. A guy. He looks kind of familiar. Oh, I can’t believe this! It’s Butch.
“Butch, is that you?”
“Kathie? Kathie Stevens? I don’t believe this! Can it possibly be you?”
“It is and, you know, I’m not at all surprised to see you.”
“What do you mean you’re not surprised to see me? I haven’t seen you in… when was it… it had to be our tenth high school reunion and that was…
“Fifteen years ago!”
“Fifteen, is it really that long? This is just amazing. Just amazing! It’s the middle of an ice storm, I just moved to Woburn last month, I wasn’t planning to take this route—only came this way because traffic was backed up on Rte. 93—and, when I stopped, I had no idea it was you who was stranded! And you’re not surprised to see me?”
“No, clearly you were led to find me. And I’m not surprised because I had a dream about you the other night. Now I realize it was some kind of premonition or sign. Butch, there are no coincidences. Something or someone is bringing us together again after all these years. This is something more than chance. This is some kind of message from the universe. I guess we have some unfinished business, eh?”
“Yup. Hop in. Where to?”
“Next exit, take a right.”
“This is amazing, isn’t it? Absolutely amazing!”
“Not really, Butch, I truly believe it was meant to be.”
II. The Ice Storm: “What a Coincidence” – Jane Rzepka
I can’t believe this day! The roads are covered with ice, it’s slippery and they’re forecasting more freezing rain and sleet. Wouldn’t you know it? This is the day I have to be at the office for a meeting by 9:00. I’ve got to get going!
I’d better leave now. Skip the dishes. Get going. I’ll bet the highway is backed up for miles. Think I’ll take the back roads today. Probably safer, less congested.
The roads are even worse than I’d imagined. What a mess! I can barely crawl….
Ohhhhhhh!!!!!!!!
What was that? That branch just missed the windshield. Dumb luck that I wasn’t hurt. Given the high wind velocity, it would make more sense to take a highly traveled road. I’ll take 128. That’s good thinking.
I’m late for sure, but with roads like these, everyone else is going to be late, too. Besides….
Uh oh… here we go again. This car’s spinning off the road!!! But I’m alive. And, as far as I can tell, the car’s OK too. Whew!
Another close call. But with driving conditions like this, I should expect as much.
What am I going to do now? There’s no getting out of here without help. If someone stops, what should I do? You hear all sorts of horror stories. I’d have to assess the person quickly – chances are quite promising that somebody will stop, given the volume of traffic. This whole thing is such an utter waste of time.
Someone’s stopping. A guy. Looks kind of familiar. Oh, I can’t believe this! It’s Butch.
“Butch, is that you?”
“Kathie? Kathie Stevens? I don’t believe this! Can it possibly be you?”
“It is – I love these small world things—they happen so often.”
“Wow. I haven’t seen you in… when was it… it had to be our tenth high school reunion and that was…”
“Fifteen years ago!”
“Fifteen, is it really that long? This is just amazing. Just amazing! It’s the middle of an ice storm, I just moved to Woburn last month, I wasn’t planning to take this route-I only came this way because traffic was backed up on Rte. 93-and, when I stopped, I had no idea it was you who was stranded!”
“Well, an awful lot of people from our old town in New Jersey wind up in the Boston area. And you always liked skiing, and sea food, and the Celtics, same as me. It’s not so surprising that we both ended up around here. And you know, because our next reunion’s coming up next week, I had a dream about you and the old gang. It’s great to see you in the flesh – maybe we’ll decide to ride down to the reunion together.”
“Could be. But for now, hop in. Where to?”
“Next exit, take a right.”
“This is amazing, isn’t it? Absolutely amazing!”
‘Yes, this is one delightful coincidence.”
[Quick dialogue, Katie and Jane].
Katie: “It was meant to be!”
Jane: “What a coincidence!”
Katie: “I feel led to my actions; drawn to them.”
Jane: “I evaluate the situation, make a decision, and I do it.”
Katie: “Sometimes I need to learn a lesson, and I am given the opportunity.”
Jane: “Sometimes I need that like a hole in the head.”
Katie: “Everything is part of a larger plan.”
Jane: “Luck. Chance. They’re an important part of life.”
Katie: “Something, someone, is looking out for me.”
Jane: “We’re on our own.”
Katie: “It was meant to be.”
Jane: “What a coincidence.”
Sermon
“Is Anything Meant To Be?”
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka
Here at the church, our “Is Anything ‘Meant to Be?”‘ theology discussion was scheduled for last Monday evening. I had ulterior motives, of course: I had imagined that the conversation would include, broadly speaking, two groups of people-those who do believe that cosmic intention is likely – those who believe that what happens was indeed “meant to be,” – and those who think the very notion is preposterous poppycock, who believe that to the extent that anyone decides, we decide what happens.
On Monday, if you remember, we had a storm. Of the seven meetings here at the church that night, four were cancelled. But I was here in hopes of having the discussion (after all I needed the input for this sermon). People did arrive, and to a person, they fit into the group that is of the opinion that we direct our own fates. The other group, the group that believes in cosmic messages, presumably looked out the window, noted the sleet, ice, wind, cold, slush, and treacherous footing, and knew without a doubt that this meeting, just wasn’t meant to be.
In the story that Katie read, the character, a fictitious composite, to be sure, was a person who felt comfortable attributing meaning and intent to a wide variety of aspects of life. She might have seen significance, for example, in the fact that the ice storm occurred on the anniversary of her best friend’s divorce, or she might believe that tea leaves, or the position of the planets and stars, hold messages.
Or maybe not. Maybe she believes not in those particular avenues of meaning, but she does believe that there’s one special someone out there destined for her to love; or that dreams hold powerful clues to future courses of action; or that there’s significance in the fact that when the phone rang, it was just the person she’d been thinking about; or that if her throat hurts, she would do well to examine what it is she’s reluctant to “voice.”
Or maybe she doesn’t look at life in those particular ways, but she does believe that when she hits all the green lights, the universe has found a way to smile on her; and when she needs a hysterectomy, she knows she wasn’t “supposed” to have had children in the first place; and that when her shutters blew off her house, or her mother-in-law came to live with her, or she won the coin-flip, that those things happened for a reason—indeed, everything happens for a reason. Our first character believes there are no coincidences, that events are predestined.
The character whose story I told, on the other hand, lives in quite a different world. Sore throats occur because of viruses or strep, and because you’re worn out. Ice storms always occur on the anniversary of something; it’s the luck of the draw. True love? You have to work at it, cultivate it, make it happen. Tea leaves are, well, tea leaves. Dreams can prompt interesting flights of fancy—amazing what neurons and synapses can do. You can time the green lights if you want, but usually you might as well leave it to chance. There are no hidden meanings. If you do the math, you find that the probability is quite high that someone you’ve been thinking about will call you on the phone – it’s happened to just about everybody. “Small world” theory tells us that though the incidents may be counter-intuitive, “normally occurring abnormal occurrences” are a predictable part of the natural world. The “Argument from Personal Incredulity” [Richard Dawkins], i.e., “if it seems impossible to me, it must be impossible,” holds no weight.
The hysterectomy? A certain percentage of women have them; it might as well be you. The coin-flip. We know from chaos theory that over time, you can count on the fact that coin tosses will result in heads about half the time, and tails about half the time – a dependable pattern. But any one flip of the coin? Who knows?
When the shutters blow off, or when you toss a coin, for that matter, you know that in a perfect world, with the perfect computer, and an infinite amount of input, you could have set up the equations, the weather patterns and wind velocities and shutter strength. You could have done the math and the physics and calculated the moment of flight. But short of all that, the loss of the shutter is experienced as random, and meaningless, too. That’s how it is, living in a neutral universe.
This is the character who identifies with Don Marquis’s typing cockroach, Archy, who reports, “i once heard the survivors/ of a colony of ants/ that had been partially/ obliterated by a cow s foot/ seriously debating/ the intention of the gods/ towards their civilization.”
Obviously, neither of our characters is real, and the portraits don’t describe any one of us. Most of us here either take less extreme positions, or more extreme positions, or we occupy some middle ground. Moreover, we understand that neither point of view is free of danger.
For example, taken to the extreme, our “it was meant to be” character has an over-riding sense that the way things are is the way things are supposed to be. She could believe that if she is being abused, she is supposed to be abused; if some people are poor, they are supposed to be poor; and – most horrifying – the Holocaust was supposed to happen.
If she gets sick, it’s because she needs to learn some lesson, and the universe needs to provide her with a “teaching”—it’s her fault that she’s sick. This person, on the far end of the continuum, believes that suffering is inherently of value.
Furthermore, again in an extreme case, because she believes something outside herself is calling the shots, she may feel “led” to destructive courses of action—who knows what she’ll feel called to do. It was meant to be.
The way I see it, the “it was meant to be” character needs to fight against a tendency to relinquish personal control, she needs to guard against abdicating her individual responsibility, and she needs to watch her inclination to throw careful, reasonable judgment to the winds. She needs to seek out “reality checks,” for when she goes with the natural human inclination to discover meaning in events, she could always be dead wrong. She is a person who sees constellations, not stars.
Of course the “it’s all a coincidence” character takes a dangerous position too, for she sees the stars, but not the constellations. She sees no meaning anywhere unless she creates it herself. For her, the universe is not warm and caring; it just “is.” She would say, with the biologist Richard Dawkins, [River Out of Eden], that “The universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil and no good, nothing but blind, pitiless indifference.”
This, our second character is in danger of living in a world of profound cosmic loneliness, emptiness, and despair, where experiences, both good and bad, can come out of the blue with no redeeming value. She has to make life worth living, all on her own, and she may neglect to create that meaning. She will have to remember to celebrate the ups and downs of emotion, she will have to put extra stock in the depth of human interaction, and fun, and natural mystery and awe. And, like the first character, having viewed life through this particular lens, she could always turn out to have been wrong.
Now. We all know that as Unitarian Universalists, it’s perfectly OK to take either character’s position. But as a Unitarian Universalist minister, a person whose job it is in part to put forward our particular religious history and tradition, I want to point something out: As a religious movement, we are the people who defined ourselves in the late 18th and 19th Centuries as the religion that does not believe in predestination. We broke away from Calvinism precisely because we did not believe that anything was “meant to be.” Our sermon titles in 1759 read, “Natural Religion, as Distinguish’d from Revealed,” [Ebenezer Gay], and they were about the “Power of Self-determination, and Freedom of Choice.” We were the people who defined ourselves as those who “responded to the monitions of conscience and the dictates of reason.” [The Beginnings of Unitarianism in America, Conrad Wright, p. 114]. That’s what Unitarianism was.
If we were to become a movement primarily of people who do believe that events are “meant to be,” that would be a landmark change in Unitarian Universalist theology as we have practiced it up to now. We have changed before and we will change again—we are, after all, also the people who have always believed that “revelation is not sealed,” but I need to tell you that a theological change like that would be major.
The other rabbinical point I would underscore (rabbinical in the sense of carrying the tradition forward), is the message of our second reading, and the message being taught to our Fifth Graders as they study the Biblical story of the battle of Jericho and try to decide what really made the walls fall: In Unitarian Universalism, the method matters. Regardless of our theological conclusions, our way as Unitarian Universalists is to put reason to full use. From the beginning, as a religious movement on this continent, we have cared about judgment, and intellectual integrity, and conscience. This imperative doesn’t dwarf the full fruits of experience, and emotion, and sensitivity, but it does compel us to include all powers of reason in our theological decision-making.
Oh, as usual, I know we have only scratched the surface today, I know we could talk about Robert Frost stopping on a Snowy Evening, and why, and the piece of blue wool on the rug in the reading, and the ice storm. We could make a thousand cases for living in a predetermined world, and a thousand more for a random universe. And if we got started on “isn’t it a small world” stories we’d be here for the rest of our natural lives. After the service, if you have time, do come back up here to the sanctuary once you’ve grabbed your coffee, and we’ll talk more in an informal discussion. And meanwhile,
If there is a god,
If there is any power larger than us, larger than elephants or whales, larger than
clouds that burn with sunset color, larger than hurricanes that crush and fade,
If there is any cosmic thought or ideal
that brooding, watches over us,
guiding or wishing us toward goodness and health, If there is a will or presence
that grieves at our destructiveness
and glories in all our acts of love and of mercy, May that presence possess our hearts
and inspire our steps toward kindness.
And if there is not,
if no life or consciousness or purpose exists
except amid the yellow-leafed dying
and the merciful greening of this obscure, blessed earth,
May that same hopeful spirit still possess our hearts, and with a power more
needed than ever, inspire our steps toward mercy
yes, and again, toward every act of kindness.
[Ken Sawyer]
So may it be with us. Amen.
No. 128 For All That Is Our Life
from Singing the Living Tradition
No. 700, “For all who see God”
from Singing the Living Tradition
by Joy D. Gasta
“Come as You Are”
by the Rev. Roy Phillips
Can there be a supportive religious community in which people grow spiritually and become more fully their own best selves without prior agreement on theological or philosophical first principles?
Can there be vital religious community without the personal and institutional style of authoritarianism, of certainty and of ecclesiastical directiveness?
These are the questions which our experiment in religious community seeks to answer in the affirmative.
We Unitarian Universalists say: Come as you are. You don’t need to bother to get your beliefs on straight first, before you come. Come as you are. Come with your doubts, your hunches, your convictions, your ambiguities.
Come and be welcome. Come here as you are; let us be together, let all of us grow in open religious community.
Religious community is concerned with truth and love and personal growth. We say that to begin with “truth” may be to preclude ever getting beyond concern with “truth” to establish acceptance and love and personal growth.
In our experiment in religious community we are saying: begin with acceptance, begin with the openness which is a form of love, begin with the love that lets others be who they are – then personal growth is more likely to follow and truth – living, relevant personal truth – is likely to follow, too.
Marcus Aurelius said, “People are made for one another; teach them then, or bear with them.” People are made for one another – bear with them, learn to appreciate their differences and encourage them to speak honestly out of who they really are, and we will all be teaching one another, and all be growing religiously in the process.
No. 188 “Come, Come Whoever You Are”
from Singing the Living Tradition
“The Infidel’s Picnic – Jenkin Lloyd
by Denise D. Tracy, from Living in the Wind
Jenkin Lloyd Jones rode horseback with his Bible in his pack traveling to preach to those in the western wilderness. He traveled thousands of miles as a Unitarian Missionary in the west. Wherever people would listen, he would speak.
Today he was traveling to Wisconsin to see a man known as an infidel. He was curious, because in some towns, after he began to preach the Unitarian gospel of the oneness of God, he, too, was called an infidel.
“Infidel,” he said to himself. “An unfaithful person. But I have very great faith. It is not the faith of those who search for dogma, but rather it is the faith of the free thinker.”
The infidel he was visiting was known for gathering his congregation on the Fourth of July for an infidels’ picnic. Jenkin had heard far and wide of this event and had come to see what infidels did at a picnic.
When he arrived at the town, three people directed him to the infidel’s home. There was a man with his shirt sleeves rolled up standing amidst a herd of cows. He was touching them, patting them. He had white hair and was over 80 years old.
The night before the infidels’ picnic, Jenkin Lloyd Jones and the stranger talked late into the night. They talked of religious freedom, of their love of humanity. of their defiance to being like everyone else. The infidel was intolerant only of the intolerant, and he did not like pretense or lies.
Jenkin and the man did not quarrel once. They agreed on every- thing. Finally the infidel said, “We must get some sleep. Tomorrow we will celebrate my favorite holiday of the year.” So they slept.
The next morning the townspeople set out tables and benches for the infidels’ picnic. They set out platters of food and drink and then gathered in a circle – men and women together to celebrate the Fourth of July. Rumor had it that infidels danced in the street, drank too much and created a rowdy party for their most holy day. Jenkin was curious to see if that matter of celebration would occur.
This is what happened next: All of the citizens sitting in the circle took from their pockets and purses small, thin volumes. One by one the people read paragraphs, listened and responded to each other. The infidels on the Fourth of July read and studied the words of Thomas Paine –whose ideas helped shape the freedom and liberty which gave birth to our great nation.
At lunch time people ate and drank. Afterwards they discussed and celebrated Paine’s philosophy again, through sincere and thought- ful discussion.
Jenkin Lloyd Jones smiled to himself. Others have created a lie of the infidels’ picnic. It is a celebration of freedom, nothing more.
At the end of the day, Jenkin saddled his horse and bid farewell to the infidel. As he rode away, he said to himself, “I, too, am an infidel. I love liberty. Perhaps next year I will call my friends together for an infidels’ picnic, to celebrate freedom.”
from the Bylaws of the Unitarian Universalist Association Section C-2.1 Principles
We, the member congregations of the Unitarian Universalist Association, covenant to affirm and promote
The living tradition which we share draws from many sources:
Grateful for the religious pluralism which enriches and ennobles our faith, we are inspired to deepen our understanding and expand our vision. As free congregations we enter into this covenant, promising to one another our mutual trust and support.
Sermon: “Hold On to Your Hats: All of Unitarian Universalist History in Sixteen Minutes”
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka, Minister, Unitarian Universalist Church of Reading, Massachusetts
I have a confession to make. In the title of this sermon I say some- thing about “all of Unitarian Universalist history in 16 minutes.” The “sixteen minutes” part sounds precise. It sounds as if I really mean it. One would think that the “sixteen minutes” part could be counted on – it has the tone almost of a promise. But no. Don’t be fooled. It was a trap, a ploy, nothing more, and if at the end of six- teen minutes I hear your watches beeping or playing a tune, I plan to keep right on going, having made this confession in advance.
Now. A word about the part of the sermon title that reads “all of Unitarian Universalist history.” To take not one denomination but two, having origins in ancient Alexandria, 16th Century Transylvania, 18th Century England, and 19th Century America, two denominations whose theological identities have always grown and changed, to do justice to our rich heritage in one Sunday sermon- is of course no problem at all.
I’ll begin with a story , a story from the Jewish tradition, a story not at all connected with our history on the face of it, yet a story that tells it all.
“A young man went to seminary to study for the rabbinate. In the middle of the year he became discouraged and lost his faith. He went to his own rabbi and said, ‘I must leave the seminary. I lost my faith in God and do not believe in the Bible and the Jewish laws.’ The rabbi listened and then said, ‘Let me tell you a story.’ He went on, ‘About twenty years ago when I was a student at the semi- nary, I lost my faith and I went to one of my professors and said to him, ‘Professor. I must leave the seminary for I have lost my faith in God and I no longer believe in the Bible, and the Jewish laws.’ He said, ‘Let me tell you a story. About twenty years ago I studied to be a rabbi and I lost my faith in God and the Bible and the Talmud. I did not know what to do. I finally went to the head of the semi- nary, a tall saintly man with a white flowing beard and piercing black eyes. I said to him, ‘Father, Rabbi, teacher, I am ashamed to come to you for the purpose I have in mind. But I must leave the seminary. I have lost my faith in God and no longer believe in the Jewish laws. I must leave the seminary.’ The kindly man put his arm around me and said, ‘Sit down, I must tell you a story.’”, (East Shore [Ohio] newsletter)
Our own history shows generations and generations of people who seem first to lose their religion, and then by means of private struggle and personal risk, find new ways of being religious. Our founders were doubters, thinkers, people for whom integrity counted for something. In the language of the story , they too wanted to ‘leave the seminary’ but they too, through processes of theological reinterpretation and revolution, found ways to continue their religious lives.
We have countless founders – courageous, great minds, but many are lost to us. I will tell you our history, but with sadness, because we don’t know what we should about the contributions of blacks, of women, of Canadians, for example. I wish it were different, and we are trying to learn more.
Our first notable ancestor was an Alexandrian named Origen. It was the second century, when Christians were persecuted. Origen, at age 17, his father imprisoned and then killed as a Christian, was willing to martyr himself for his religious faith. But his mother kept hiding all of his clothes, preventing him from leaving home, thus saving his life. Origen went on to become a dedicated scholar , devoting himself single- mindedly to the pursuit of Christian truth through the use of reason, instead of faith. The more he studied the Bible, the more he began to doubt the usual notion of the existence of heaven and hell. Origen believed that everyone, not just Christians, not just good people, would find redemption. It was the “ultimate reconciliation of all souls with God,” it was “universal salvation,” it was “universalism.” Origen was condemned as a heretic, but Universalism lived on as a thread in our liberal history.
And then there was Pelagius, the fourth century English monk, another of my favorites. At a time when Augustine insisted on the total depravity of human nature, Pelagius, bless him, courageously advocated moral free will and spiritual liberty. Pelagius was well- respected at the time, and while Augustine clearly had the upper hand, Pelagius posed a real threat to the church’s doctrine of natural corruption. There is no doubt that Augustine won the debate. But again, a thread of faith has persisted: we have an ability to choose good over evil. We have Pelagius to thank for that.
A big jump now to the Reformation, where our hero is Michael Servetus, a Spaniard. I have mixed feelings about Servetus. Here we have a 19 year old kid who takes on both the Catholic and Protestant authorities. They believe in the Trinity; and Servetus says, and I quote, “Your Trinity is a product of subtlety and madness. The Gospel knows nothing of it.” He was brilliant and intemperate. He infuriated the Inquisitors as well as Calvin, they gave him chance after chance to moderate his views, he insulted them repeatedly, and finally, Calvin had Servetus burned at the stake. Personally, I wish Servetus had seen fit to proceed with a little more caution and save himself. He did leave us with the idea that God is indivisible, and the observation that there is no Trinity taught in the Bible, and those were important beginnings for a new theology. But I wonder, had he lived, where his theology would have taken him – and us.
Now to Poland and Transylvania, the cradle of European Unitarianism. Sixteenth century. Faustus Socinus. Socinus organized non-Trinitarian liberal congregations devoted to religious liberty, reason, and tolerance. The movement spread rapidly, attracting many of the most enlightened and gifted minds. But they were persecuted – the “Socinian heresy” was stomped on, and Socinus himself was attacked in the streets of Krakow – his face was smeared and his mouth filled with mud. Eventually, broken by the attacks, he died. A few Socinian exiles made their way to Transylvania (now part of Romania), where the liberal congregations survived and continue to survive 400 years later as Unitarian churches.
England. Eighteenth century. Religious liberals here knew about Socinianism: they advocated Socinian tolerance of differences in belief, they applied the Socinian test of reason to religious doctrines, and preached the Socinian concepts of God and Jesus. We come upon Joseph Priestley, discoverer of oxygen, Unitarian minister, and espouser of a number of liberal and unpopular causes, including the French Revolution. Priestley gave intellectual brilliance to the development of Unitarian religion and stimulated a mushrooming of Unitarian institutions. But established church leaders became exasperated, inflamed a mob, and Priestley’s home, laboratory, library, and Unitarian chapel were attacked and burned. He escaped by the skin of his teeth and, tempted by an invitation from his friend Thomas Jefferson, sailed to the United States in 1794, bringing Unitarianism with him.
John Murray, the late 1700s, another Englishman, a Universalist. Murray’s life in England was suddenly falling apart. His only child died, and then his wife, followed by his three sisters and his mother. He lost his job and landed in debtors’ prison. When he got out, he resolved to go to America to seek a new life. John Murray did just that, and wound up on a ship that was eventually grounded on a sandbar off the coast of New Jersey. While the ship’s crew waited for a fair wind and a high tide to move them along, Murray went ashore, where he met a farmer named Thomas Potter. Now it seems that this Thomas Potter had built a chapel nearby, and had just been waiting for a preacher who believed in universal salvation to happen by. Potter became convinced that God had sent John Murray to preach in his chapel. John Murray was not at all convinced. Potter said, “The wind will never change, sir, until you preach for us.” And Murray’s ship remained stuck until Sunday, when Murray began his preaching career, bringing Universalism to the colonies. It was largely through his efforts, beginning in Gloucester, spreading through small-town New England and heading westward into rural New York, the Western Reserve, Indiana and Illinois, that Universalism took hold in this country. It was a religion that praised God, and preached a loving theology of inclusivism in heaven and also here on earth. Universalism devoted itself to prison reform, schools, temperance, pacifism, and women’s rights.
Well. We’ve made progress. We now have Unitarianism and Universalism on the American continent. It is the early nineteenth century, and Calvinist orthodoxy, straight from the Puritans, is the status quo. Universalists, in their universal salvation, offered relief from the likeliness of Calvinist damnation. Unitarian-oriented clergy began more and more to sit up and take notice of Calvinist pessimism about human nature. The prevailing Calvinist theology in the culture forced them to come to grips with their own liberal theologies of human free will, dignity, and rationality. William Ellery Channing confirmed the presence of the new theological movement, and rallied the liberals together as a theological group. By the third decade of the nineteenth century, many of the Puritan Congregational churches began to call themselves Unitarian.
Every generation of American Unitarians, like the rabbinical students in the story with which I began, has questioned the faith. Almost as soon as American Unitarianism was established, a young generation of Transcendentalists – Ralph Waldo Emerson and Theodore Parker among them – changed the religious orientation from one of empiricism and historicism to a religion of direct intuition of God (or the universe). Unitarianism drifted away from belief in the Bible and the divinity of Jesus. The Universalists had fewer theological disputes and did retain the Christian basis of their faith more completely. But they, too, changed over the years, and by the early decades of the twentieth century, Universalism emphasized the notion that evil is the result of “unjust social and economic conditions.” Universalism, in the words of Clarence Skinner, was economic and social as well as spiritual.
The generations continued, and our denominations continued to evolve. The rise of the Humanist movement among the Unitarians has been an attempt to reformulate liberal theology on completely non-theistic grounds. The Universalists moved from their long- standing emphasis on universal salvation to an understanding of universalism as universal religion – “boundless in scope, as broad as humanity, as infinite as the universe.”
By mid-century, leadership in both denominations recognized the advantages of combining efforts through merger. The proposed merger was controversial for both Unitarians and Universalists, each quite naturally fearing a loss of tradition and identity. But finally, in 1961, the merger plan was overwhelmingly ratified by the individual churches and then by the American Unitarian Association Annual Meeting and the Universalist General Assembly. My description of the process of merger is history book-ish, and that’s too bad, because we lose the power and the color of the experience that so many of us lived through. A number of people in this church grew up Universalist, or Unitarian, and were for or against merger, and have thought it successful or tragic. We knew our neighbor, the minister in Concord, Dana Greeley, the first president of the merged denominations. We fought the fights and drank the champagne and changed the letterhead, and I, for one, am proud to be called a Unitarian Universalist.
I think once more of the story of the rabbinical students, and how generation after generation of good, earnest souls still examine the faith, reshape it, and persist in it. Frederick May Eliot, president of the American Unitarian Association from 1937-1958, once said, “one of the most interesting aspects of our history is the process by which the radicals of one generation have come to be regarded as ‘100% Unitarians’ by succeeding generations. The truth of the mat- ter is that we are a church in which growth is not only permitted But encouraged – growth in thought, growth in sensitiveness (sic) to moral values, growth in courage to put religion to work in the world.”
Jack Mendelsohn, a distinguished UU minister, wrote (adapted),
“We have inherited quite a religion. It is honest; of one piece. It does not indulge in self-deceit.
It is lived. It is not just a set of bromides and pietisms. It is a serious effort to conduct life according to principles and ideals.
It is emotional; heart-swelling. It is even naive. In spite of uncertainty, it does not rule out leaps of faith.
It is free, not bound by tradition, inheritance, geography, or the passing parade.
It is first-hand; a personal experience.
It is responsible. It does not try to escape the consequences of decision.
It is growing. It never thinks of itself as perfected and final.
It embraces humility, recognizing that faith is not certainty where there is in fact mystery.
It is compassionate. It understands that religions universally wrap their essence in myth. It reaches to grasp and appreciate the truths bound up in the myths of other believers.
It is tough on its possessors, committing them to sacrifice, but it is tender toward those who disagree.
It is social, struggling to realize its own vision at community, national and world levels.
It radiant, blessing its possessor with courage, serenity and zest.
This is our history, and also our hope.”
So may it be.
The Liberal Church
This is the liberal church:
A place to go where you know you belong –
Where the mind is free to soar beyond the coercions and crudities that inevitably beset all orthodoxies;
Where the heart is free to extend that large love to all, unencumbered by dogma, tradition, race, country or class;
Where the hands are free to work for the cause and the hope of peace;
Where the soul is free to open, stretch, discover, develop, deepen, change and grow, always and continuously and progressively;
Where the rights of individual conscience and action are guarded with vigilance, out of belief in the fitness of diversity, the liberty to be different, out of eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the human mind;
Where the glory resident and potential on our planet earth is enjoyed and celebrated, not denied or blasphemed in the name of sin or spurious escapes to another world;
Where the promise of humankind is nurtured, supported and blessed, and never cursed, degraded or despaired of;
Where the faiths by which we live are regarded as important enough to be examined and checked against the tests of experience, the cannons of logic, the methods of science;
Where the church is committed to speak and act on the great moral issues of the day not denying or hiding or ignoring its prophetic role as an agent for the transformation of society into a kingdom of righteousness;
Where the whole person can enter fully into the religious mood without insult to reason or irrelevance to daily life;
Where the whole person can utilize, without reservation, the resources of one’s own tradition, whatever that particular religious heritage is;
Where people are invited to be themselves – in joy, in sorrow, in the struggle of the deeper self to be born, in the resolution of some great issue, in the witnessing to high ideals, in living and dying, seeking and finding and serving;
A place to learn, to grow, to sing, to stand;
A place to be a more authentic self;
A place to encounter, reckon, judge, accept, and be accepted;
A place to be challenged by new insight and be reminded of what one already knows;
A place to respond to a vision of holiness, all arts, and other depths;
A place to be with others in co-creating with God;
A place to provide conditions for the coursing of the Creativity which vivifies, heals and makes all things new;
A place to go where you know you belong – this is the liberal church
No. 2 “Down the Ages We Have Trod”
from Singing the Living Tradition
by Unitarians in Edinburgh, Communications Committee, 1985
Our faith is personal
because it begins where people are.
Our faith is reasonable
because it respects the place of human thought.
Our faith is free
because it provides space for individual growth and development.
Our faith is developing
because it grows with our greater understanding of how things are.
Our faith is supportive
because we share it with others in a mutually creative, tolerant and compassionate community.
Our faith is responsible
because we cannot separate it from the local, global and ecological communities of which we are part.
Our faith is diverse
because it draws not only on Jewish and Christian teachings about responding to God’s love by loving our neighbours as ourselves; but also on wisdom from the world’s religions, insights from science and humanism, and on personal experience.
Our faith is Unitarian
because it acknowledges the unity of the cosmos, the oneness of God, and the humanity of Jesus and other religious pioneers.
Our faith is Universalist
because it draws upon traditions which will not limit the love of God but affirm the dignity of every person.
There is no human being who does not carry
a treasure in the soul,
a moment of insight,
a memory of life,
a dream of excellence,
a call to worship.
No. 360 “Here We Have Gathered”
from Singing the Living Tradition
“Hosea Ballou: What Are You Thinking?”
By Denise D. Tracy, from “Living in the Wind”
Hosea’s father was a Baptist who believed that everyone was born with a stain of sin upon them. Even the tiniest babies had evil in their hearts and minds. Hosea was not sure what he believed. He wanted to believe as father did, but how could he be sure?
One day Hosea was leaning against a tree, thinking. His forehead was creased in thought. “What are you thinking?” asked his father. Hosea replied, “Suppose I could create a being which I knew would suffer forever. Should I create such a creature, and would it be good if I did?” Hosea waited for a reply. His father shook his head and did not respond. (Sometimes children surprise their parents with questions that they cannot answer.)
But Hosea thought a lot. He and his father talked about beliefs and ideas, and sometimes they argued, because their love was strong enough to allow for differences. Hosea had heard about Universal ism and it appealed to him. His father disagreed.
One day Hosea was sitting on a woodpile reading a book. His father asked him, ‘What book are you reading?”
“A Universalist book,” answered Hosea.
Later the father saw that Hosea had gone on to other things, leaving his Universalist book on the woodpile. Curious to see what this book was and wondering what his son was thinking, the father raised the volume and smiled. The book was none other than the Bible.
Hosea became a Universalist minister, and he and his father never agreed on theology. But their love was stronger than their differences. And they always tried to find out “What are you thinking?”
from All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
by Robert Fulghum, Villand Books, 1988
This is kind of personal. It may get a little syrupy, so watch out. It started as a note to my wife. And then I thought that since some of you might have husbands or wives and might feel the same way, I’d pass it along. I don’t own this story, anyway. Charles Boyer does. Remember Charles Boyer? Suave, dapper, handsome, graceful. Lover of the most famous and beautiful ladies of the silver screen. That was on camera and in the fan magazines. In real life it was different.
There was only one woman. For forty-four years. His wife, Patricia. Friends said it was a lifelong love affair. They were no less lovers and friends and companions after forty-four years than after the first year.
Then Patricia developed cancer of the liver. And though the doctors told Charles, he could not bear to tell her. And so he sat by her bedside to provide hope and cheer. Day and night for six months. He could not change the inevitable. Nobody could. And Patricia died in his arms. Two days later Charles Boyer was also dead. By his own hand. He said he did not want to live without her. He said, “Her love was life to me.”
This was no movie. As I said, it’s the real story – Charles Boyer’s story .
It’s not for me to pass judgment on how he handled his grief. But it is for me to say that I am touched and comforted in a strange way. Touched by the depth of love behind the apparent sham of Hollywood love life. Comforted to know that [two people] can love each other that much that long.
I don’t know how I would handle my grief in similar circumstances. I pray I shall never have to stand in his shoes. (Here comes the personal part – no apologies.) But there are moments when I look across the room – amid the daily ordinariness of life – and see the person I call my wife and friend and companion. And I understand why Charles Boyer did what he did. It really is possible to love someone that much. I know. I’m certain of it.
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka
“Love is the spirit of this church, and service its law.
This is our great covenant:
To dwell together in peace,
To seek the truth in love,
And to help one another.”
Some of you who grew up in our religious tradition may have recited these words as children. The words sound wonderful – how comforting it is to know that a group of people, somewhere, believe in love and care and peace.
The affirmation so many churches have repeated is a comfort because we would so much like people to be loving and caring and peaceful. And we are not. We can covenant together to live in peace and love ’till we’re blue in the face, and no matter how much we try (and, indeed, we must try), – no matter how much we try, we will get furious on occasion, or we will feel terribly hurt, we will misunderstand or offend or forget or misjudge or disappoint, we will feel cranky or resentful, we’ll be too silent or talk too much, or stomp around and yell or sulk, and we will be acutely aware of the fact that our great covenant to dwell together in peace and love and help is more dream than reality.
I feel sure that ever since people became people, we’ve had difficulty getting along with one another. A lot of very smart folks have lived and died, and no one yet has figured out how to ensure that human relationships will run smoothly. Nonetheless, every few years, somebody develops a theory that is supposed to answer once and for all the questions, “Why can’t we get along?” I am always cynical about these pop psychological theories, as you probably know, mostly because they are so often presented with zeal as the “one true path,” and anyone who has a question or two is labeled as a defensive “denier,” I do have questions about every theory I’m going to mention this morning – it’s frustrating that there isn’t time in a sermon to critique these theories – I hope you will come to see me after the service when we can talk in more depth. But all my reservations notwithstanding, I still think that these artificial psychological overlays are useful for shaking up our molecules – for helping us view our everyday relationships with new eyes.
We are easing, or shall I say we’re being propelled into, the holiday season, Many of us will be interacting with our families and extended families and friends at a level of intensity reserved only for November and December, So I’ve chosen four psychological dynamics, all of which are newly recognized and popular – you’re probably familiar with them – and I’m going to blatantly over-simplify and present them to you, in hopes that they will remind us that we can think about our relationships in new ways.
The first is “triangulation.” Triangulation. Let’s say, for instance, that the holidays are coming up, Joan gets the annual phone call from her mother that asks, “What time will Steve be bringing you over for Christmas this year? You know, all year I look forward to having you for Christmas dinner – just count the days.” Joan says, “Gee, I don’t know, let me talk to Steve.” Joan feels tense, already. She says to Steve, “So Steve, are we going to my mother’s for Christmas again or what?” “I can’t stand it over there, you know that. They do Christmas wrong – they string gaudy colored lights all over, they invite every relative over – even little kids – they kid around, they sing loud songs, they say what they think, they hug, they have pasta with their turkey and later all those little Italian cookies. I can’t take it another year. I mean, whatever happened to Christmas morning in church, a quiet glass of egg nog, and Handel? Call your mother back and tell her we won’t be coming.” Joan’s. feeling a lot of stress by now!
This is triangulation. The relationships between Joan, Steve, and her mother form a triangle. In family systems theory, the family is the unit to be looked at, not the individual. So we are not to view the situation as “Joan with a problem,” but rather as three people who have difficulty relating to each other as a group. Nor are we to view the situation as a problem about Christmas. In family therapy, one looks at the dynamic, not the content. The problem is not a person or an event, but the emotional patterns and processes of interacting.
In this Joan-mother-and-Steve mess, Joan is the one feeling stressed, anxious, and upset, even though actually, she couldn’t care less what they do about Christmas. Mom’s doing fine, Steve’s doing fine. Of course they are, because instead of dealing directly with one another, they have turned to Joan, made a triangle, and they both talk to her! That’s what happens in these triangles, a third party comes in and takes on all the stress. You know what has to happen – Steve and Joan’s mother have to resolve this conflict directly. They have to “detriangle.”
I think family systems theory, the idea of triangulation in particular, alerts us to two common pitfalls in human relationships: first, when we are feeling upset, we must always ask ourselves whose problem the problem really is. Your co-worker is upset with your boss and tells you every detail, your daughter has a problem with a teacher, your housemate had a run-in with your neighbor, your golf buddies each complain to you about the other, your sister tells you about your brother – they all try to draw you in, or worse, you insert yourself into their problem. That’s triangulation, and each of us will want to excuse ourselves from that dynamic as quickly and as firmly as we can.
The other thing this triangle concept makes us ask ourselves is, “Am I treating my own problems directly, or am I inviting a friend, a spouse, a relative, or a co-worker into my problem? Am I creating a triangle?”
So. Joan steps out of the triangle, Steve calls her mother, her mother would be just as happy to have them over on New Year’s Day, and they all live happily ever after. That’s how detriangulation works.
Another conception, this time out of the psychoanalytic model, but strongly identified with feminist psychology and theology , is “connection.” Traditionally, therapists are trained to gauge a person’s ability to separate and individuate. A person has been thought to be healthy and mature when he or she is independent and autonomous. Twelve years ago, our denomination’s press, the Beacon Press, published Jean Baker Miller’s book, Toward a New Psychology of Women, which argued that many women were not especially interested in modeling themselves after the lone ranger. Healthy women, according to this theory, thrive not on autonomy, but on connection. Women experience strong relationships as empowering.
My husband plays the trumpet in Thursday night jam sessions. He was telling me how much fun it is for each of them to perform and try to improve. They don’t really know each other very well, but they each have a strong interest in musical excellence, and Chuck says the emphasis on improving motivates them each to strive for new heights. The conversation put me in mind of my grandmothers, who used to play the violin and piano with a group of women. I remember vividly stories of them glorying in the company of one another and their harmony. It was the playing together, and the tea and conversation after the music, that my grandmothers loved.
What has happened of late in the fields of psychology and theology is that the value of interconnectedness is being recognized. No longer would the psychotherapuetic community say that only the members of those jazz sessions are healthy and mature, whereas my grandmothers were just frittering away their time. Now we would view the attention paid to human connection as being just as important as individual achievement. Close, deep human relationship is now seen as essential to our well-being, and interdependence is no longer a sign of weakness. Any person who can empathize, listen well, express feelings fluently, and maintain a closeness is to be admired in this new world of psychology. A balance of independence and connection is the new model. A balance of independence and connection.
The third concept I’d like to mention this morning is the genogram. The genogram is the notion that patterns and problems and mythologies get passed down from one generation of a group or a family to the next. We inherit our notions of what’s normal, of “how we ought to do things.” I heard our minister in Wellesley Hills, John Nichols, use the Red Sox as an example: As soon as this last season officially opened, the Red Sox experienced a team slump. “Think for a minute about what a team slump means. It means that every one of the teams’ hitters stops hitting. Boggs doesn’t hit, Evans doesn’t hit. Greenwell doesn’t hit. Barrett doesn’t hit. Players who were doing quite well suddenly stop doing well.” “A. Bartlett Giamatti, former president of Yale and now commissioner of the National League put it this way, ‘The Sox have always had that kind of elegant melancholy… There’s an almost Calvinistic sense of guilt at success, that we must reenact the Garden of Eden again and again. There’s a sense that things will turn out poorly no matter how hard we work. Somehow the Sox fulfill the notion that we live in an imperfect world. It’s as though they’re here to provide us with more pain.”
The Red Sox had a team mythology of hopelessness that they passed on down the line. Families do this kind of thing too – for generations the pattern in the home might be stern, reserved, and achievement-oriented, or boisterous, emotional and hopeful. If you have ever lived with someone who grew up with a very different set of family expectations, you know the power it holds. Maybe a family develops a pattern of alcohol abuse and passes that on down. Or maybe it’s a “silent strong husband/hysterical wife” routine that gets passed along, or an equal partnership model, or a tradition of single parenting. We inherit a “family culture,” for better or for worse, that moves from generation to generation – we live amidst a web of historical family systems.
The Red Sox’s club owners fired the manager, promoted one of the coaches to manager, and the team won 19 out of the next 20 games. What happened? Family therapists would say that the dysfunctional system got disturbed. By getting a new manager, the whole structure changed, and the group pattern and mythology of hopelessness was broken.
In my family, the women have their first baby at about age 26. This is unspoken, and probably unconscious, but a reliable family pattern. In my family, when you get old, you get rid of your belongings and move yourself into a nursing home. In my family, even when you don’t have any money, you find a way to travel to unusual places. (I fully expect that my grandchildren will one day find themselves in Iceland or Tasmania and will wonder what drove them there.)
Family patterns can be easily broken, but only if they’re recognized. A nursing home may not be the best choice for me when I get older, but unless I work at it, I can’t imagine anything else. It may be that I really don’t enjoy crossing the Baltic, but I don’t even ask myself the question unless I stop and try to understand why I’m there in the first place. We must each ask ourselves what parts of our family system we would like to perpetuate, and which patterns we should end. That’s what the concept of genograms is for.
The last dynamic I might mention is co-dependence. This one is sweeping the nation. The concept of co-dependence arises out of the field of alcoholism – it was used to describe the spouse (or even a child) of an alcoholic who had coped by trying to take care of everything, to control everything, so that life wouldn’t fall apart, and of course as a side-effect, the alcoholic could continue to drink. The idea of co-dependence has expanded now to include anybody who, above all, tries to (1) please people to win approval, (2) take care of others in what turns out to be an attempt to control them, and (3) expect perfection from themselves.
Barbara Merritt, one of our ministers in Worcester, tells a story. “This summer,” she says, “my husband taught a friend how to skip rocks on the Bay of Fundy. After this co-dependent had, for the first time, successfully skipped a rock 7 times, she looked around, and in anguish discovered that no one had been watching. What she then said could be understood as the co-dependent’s creed. She cried, ‘No one saw my rock skipping (my success) so it doesn’t count!’
“Not only does it not count, co-dependents believe that nothing we do has any reality unless there is an audience, a reaction, and approval. In order to get that approval, we will do just about anything. We become ‘people-pleasers,’ we feel we don’t have it all together, so we put up a good front. We will say yes (when what we want to say is no). We will say we are fine (when in fact we are in enormous pain). We will sacrifice our own legitimate wants, needs and desires …”
There is a story in the Christian Scriptures (Luke 9:59-62) that I have never understood. “And Jesus said to a man, ‘Follow me.’ But the man said, ‘Lord, let me first go and bury my father.’
“But Jesus said to him, ‘Leave the dead to bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.’
“Another said, ‘I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.’
“Jesus said to him, ‘No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”
If we look at this episode from the point of view of best-selling pop psychology , Jesus is talking to a couple of co-dependents. He’s saying, “Don’t do what everybody else wants and expects you to do, do what you know in your own heart is most important! Follow your heart, not society’s expectations.”
It seems to me that the key to getting out of co-dependency (if you buy the concept in the first place), is recognizing that each of us, just by being living breathing human beings, is worthy. Almost all of us are competent, basically good, and deserving of love. We don’t have to please everybody. We don’t have to control anybody else’s life. We don’t have to be perfect. That’s what co-dependency is all about.
So that’s the 1988 answer to “why people don’t get along”: triangulation, a need for connection, dysfunctional genograms, and co- dependence. All four of these paradigms are well worth pondering. But if we, in the end, go back to more traditional models for trying to live gently with one another, our hearts and spirits will still be changed. If we believe, as Chris wrote in her meditation, that “each day is a new beginning,” and we try to “remember the peace of the morning,” our hearts and spirits will still be changed. If we only look across the room on an ordinary day and are startled by our love, our hearts and spirits will still be changed. If we covenant to “dwell together in peace, to seek the truth in love, and to help one another,” if we want simply to believe that “love is the spirit of this church,” our hearts and spirits will still be changed. So may it be with us. Amen.
Just a few references:
Triangles:
“Chronic Anxiety and Defining a Self,” The Atlantic, September
1988, p. 35.
Family Therapy Techniques, Salvador Minuchin, H. Charles
Fishman.
Connections:
Toward a New Psychology of Women, Jean Baker Miller
In A Different Voice, Carol Gilligan
Genograms:
Generation to Generation, Edwin Friedman
Intimate Partners, Maggie Scarf
Co- Dependence:
Co- Dependence, Anne Wilson Schaef
Co-Dependent No More, Melody Beattie
by the Rev. Bruce Southworth, adapted from Hymns of the Spirit
We turn aside from an unquiet world, seeking rest for our spirits
and light for our thoughts.
We bring our wounds to be healed,
our hopes to be renewed, and
our better selves to be quickened.
From the world of many things and many doings,
We come to seek the unity of a constantly loving spirit.
We are divided within ourselves by many cares, by many pleasures,
by diverse and selfish aims.
The majesty of the world bewilders our minds;
Temptations and perplexities break us asunder;
Tragedies small and great tempt our faith.
Yet in all the universe, there is no wholly severed thing,
For all things are part and substance of the other .
Nor can anyone of us find alone a separate good, bound as we are
one to another .
We gather this hour, here, together, to restore the soul’s freshness
and vision.
We seek to leave behind the broken parts, the hurts, the pains, to find new strength that leads to a trusting spirit and a grateful heart.
With faith in one another,
With faith in the infinite possibilities for love,
With gratitude for all blessings known and unknown, remembered
and forgotten,
We give thanks for this amazing thing;
We live, we laugh, we cry , we love.
Amen
No. 354 “We Laugh, We Cry”
from Singing the Living Tradition
In the days ahead,
May you have:
Enough happiness to keep you sweet,
Enough trials to keep you strong,
Enough sorrow to keep you human
Enough hope to keep you happy,
Enough failure to keep you eager,
Enough friends to give you comfort,
Enough wealth to meet your needs,
Enough enthusiasm to look forward,
Enough faith to banish depression,
Enough determination to make each day
Better than yesterday.
No. 426, “The wilderness and dry land shall be glad”
From Singing the Living Tradition
No. 105 “From Age to Age”
from Singing the Living Tradition
Damon And Pythias by Sophia L. Fahs
Many years ago there lived in Greece two young men whose names were Damon and Pythias. They were good friends, and loved and trusted each other like brothers.
At that time, the city of Syracuse in Sicily was ruled by a tyrant, King Dionysius. Today we would call him a dictator for he had forced the people to make him King and he ruled with a cruel hand. Dictators fear and punish people who tell them unpleasant truths. Therefore, when Pythias dared to oppose Dionysius he was condemned to death.
Brave Pythias was willing to die for the sake of what he believed to be right, but he was eager first to say good-bye to his parents who lived in another part of the country. He looked King Dionysius in the eye and said:
“Your Highness, you have the power to take my life. But I beg you to grant me one request. Before I die, give me one week to go home to say good-bye to my parents, and to arrange for their comfort and safety. I promise I will return by the end of the week.”
“Pythias, do you take me for a fool? If I let you go, you will never come back.” Proudly Pythias tossed back his head:
“You have my promise. I do not break a promise.”
“Fine words! Fine words! But life is sweet. Once out of Syracuse, you will never return!” At this Damon interrupted. He had listened quietly but now could no longer keep silent:
“King Dionysius, Pythias has never broken his word. He will come back. To prove my faith, I will go to prison in his place, and die for him if he does not return.” An ugly smile lit the face of the tyrant.
“So be it!” You may take his place. But expect no mercy. If he is not back by sundown on the seventh day from now, you die.” Damon cast a loving look at Pythias and said:
“I am not afraid. He will return.”
Damon was led away to prison and Pythias hastened to his parents to plan for their well-being and to say a sad good-bye.
The trip home went smoothly. The skies were sunny and the streams easy to ford. Pythias was a good runner. In two days he reached home.
With breaking hearts his parents heard the reason for his visit. They did not try to hold him. He had learned his high sense of honor from them. After a few hours of planning and weeping, his mother said:
“Now you must go. Damon lingers in prison until you get back.” The parents both gave him their blessing and he was speedily on his way.
Suddenly the weather changed. Storm clouds gathered. An inky darkness covered the sky. Soon lightening zigzagged and thunder clapped and roared. Then a torrent of rain descended and drenched Pythias to the skin. His garments clung about his legs. It was difficult to run. The streams turned into rivers and these rivers soon overflowed their banks and washed away the bridges. Where Pythias had walked through fords, he now had to swim against a rushing current. Precious time slipped by and Syracuse was still far away. A horrible fear gripped him. Would he get back in time?
The morning of the last day came. King Dionysius went early to the prison and entered the cell where Damon lay upon a bed of straw. A smile of evil triumph distorted his lips:
“It is still but morning. Sundown is the appointed time.”
“You do not mean that you still expect Pythias?”
“Indeed I do! He will be here by sundown!”
“Amuse yourself with your fairy tale a few hours more. It may help you to forget that when the sun sinks behind the clouds today you die!”
The hours passed. A crowd began to gather to watch the execution. “Too bad,” they said, “an innocent man is to die. Of course he was a fool to expect that his friend would return — yet he was a noble fool. Too bad! Too bad! Will his courage hold out to the end?”
Now the guards were leading Damon from the prison. They paused before the special seat prepared so that King Dionysius could watch the execution in comfort.
“Pythias has not returned, Damon.” In a clear voice that rang through the court Damon answered:
“He will still come or else you will soon learn that he has died on the way. Tell him that I went to my death in the sure knowledge that he had not betrayed me.” The light of faith that glorified Damon’s face caused Dionysius to lower his eyes. Suddenly a guard shouted:
“A man comes running — he seems exhausted! He stumbles! He falls! He rises again!” All waited in hushed silence. Then, with a last great burst of effort, Pythias entered the gate, and dropped before the throne of Dionysius. As he panted the words, “Your Highness, I am back!” a mighty shout of joy rose from the throng.
With amazement and awe King Dionysius gazed on the fallen man. A new belief crept into his heart. He had seen a love and a loyalty that were stronger than the fear of death. He rose from his chair. Above the shouts of the tumult his voice rang out:
“Pythias, you have come back to live, not to die. Two such true friends must not be parted.”
No. 493, “Fire of the Spirit”
from Singing the Living Tradition
The Best of the Oldest Dead White Males
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka
When I was little, I believed that Socrates was a big deal. In Sunday School we had a whole curriculum about him – how he asked questions, how he pursued wisdom, how he shook things up, how he stood by his principles even to his death. The Socrates curriculum came alongside other curricula that exposed us to our heritage: Jesus the Carpenter’s Son was one year, and there was Achnaten the (Egyptian) Sun God, and the one about Moses, that linked us to our Jewish heritage. I believed that these people were my heritage as a Unitarian: men who came from humble beginnings and grew to be great leaders, or men who dared to think for themselves and establish wholly new and courageous patterns of religious thought, men who were willing to die for the good and the right and the true. I internalized these men, I claimed them, I knew these guys – they were my people, and they made me proud.
Current thought in educational circles tells me that my Sunday School relationship with these fellows of antiquity is either impossible or bad. Today we believe that in order for me to identify with a role model, that role model must be more or less like me to begin with. But Socrates, for one, was a seventy-year-old man, and I was a ten-year-old girl. Socrates lived several hundred years before the Christian era, and I was Twentieth Century. Socrates, like all ancient Greeks, had black hair and olive skin; I was blond and pale. Socrates lived across the ocean in a thriving metropolis and intellectual center; I lived in rural Ohio in a vast intellectual wasteland. Nobody ever told me that because Socrates was different from me, that because he was a “dead white male,” he could not be my inspiration.
I am a champion of multi-culturalism. Nearly a year ago, now, when the Times columnist Anna Quindlen wrote a column (1/27/93) about Clinton’s choice for his inauguration poet, Maya Angelou, I clipped it. Anna Quindlen makes the case that because Maya Angelou, an African American woman, was chosen for this prestigious occasion, little Black girls everywhere would be empowered to imagine themselves as great poets. She includes a quote that says, “If there’s nobody who looks like you, you have the sense that you can’t do it. If there’s somebody who’s something like you, it seems possible.”
Personally, I was raised to believe that people are people, and if I wanted to, I could dream about being like Louis Armstrong, or Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, or Eleanor Roosevelt, or Harriet Tubman, or… Socrates. For me the point of multi-culturalism is that we all do have humanity in common, the point is that the range of human accomplishment is wide, the menu is incredible, the opportunity for inspiration is so vast, the gifts so great from all quarters of the globe and from all points along the time line, that we need to open ourselves to all that we can, no matter who looks like what. Yes, I believe in multiculturalism because I want to hear Maya Angelou and I want to hear Socrates.
But the thing is, we are told these days that dead white males are dead! And not only are they dead, we are told that their death is a blessing, that the dead white males are the bad guys, that, Socrates, a part of the prevailing culture of ancient Greece, was a bad guy.
Well he was a bad guy. And he was a part of a bad culture. Bad at least if we get to superimpose our 1990’s notions of good and bad onto a completely foreign culture in a completely different time. Socrates was part of a culture that, for example, favored sacrifice – not metaphorical sacrifice – not like a “sacrifice play” in team sports, or a symbolic sacrifice as we see in Christian communions, but actual animal sacrifices. Animal sacrifices, done according to elaborate ritual that to our sensibilities are among the most gory and barbaric imaginable. The hot Agean sun, the odors of sweat, blood, burning fat, rotting flesh, the swarming flies, this is not what we want to teach our children. The Greeks had their reasons, as do all cultures that practice animal sacrifice, but for most of us the custom seems simply a bad custom, and I would not defend it.
Ancient Greek culture has gone out of favor for three more reasons, and the first of those is the issue of slavery. The Greeks held slaves. We believe slavery is wrong, we believe fundamentally that people should be equal and free. That equality would have been an utterly foreign concept to the ancient Greeks. We don’t want to honor a slave-holding society, and again, of course I would not defend them.
Furthermore, Greek society was very rough on women. Women had no rights, no vote, no identities, and their roles were clear: Her duty was to order the house, to look after the property inside, and obey her husband. She had to train and supervise the slaves, if she had them; to store and manage the distribution of grain, wine, and oil; make and meet the annual budget; and see to the manufacture of household clothes from the raw fleece. She was not to sit by the fire but rather she should be constantly on the move, checking, inspecting, helping. She would rarely emerge from the house. (The Oldest Dead White European Males, Bernard Knox, pp. 49-52) These expectations would not go over well in most of our households, and once again, clearly, I would not defend them.
Finally, the ancient Greeks were racists. At least I think that’s what we’d call them. At all levels of society, from slaves to aristocrats, Greeks believed in a qualitative gulf between themselves and all other people, all of whom they labeled “barbarians.” Up until the time of Plato, Greeks believed that only they, the Greeks, among all people had the capacity for rational thought (The Legacy of Greece, M.I. Finley, pp. 8,9). You wouldn’t want to defend a culture like that.
The question is, were my Sunday School teachers wrong to have taught me about Socrates? Should we drop the ancient Greeks as a part of our heritage? Is a Sunday sermon about our classical heritage a waste of your time?
In 1671, John Milton wrote his long poem “Paradise Regained,” where we are reminded of the substantial list of splendors of ancient Greece by virtue of a little tour of Athens:
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence, native to famous wits
See there the olive-grove of Academe,
Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long,…
The schools of ancient sages;…
There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power
Of harmony in tones and numbers hit
By voice or hand, and various-measured verse,..
Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught
In chorus or iambic, teachers best
Of moral prudence, with delight received
In brief sententious precepts, while they treat
Of fate, and chance, and change in human life,
High actions and high passions best describing.
Thence to the famous orators repair,
Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democracy,…
To sage philosophy next lend thine ear,
From heaven descended to the low-roofed house
Of Socrates – see there is tenement –
Whom well inspired the oracle pronounced
Wisest of men….
(Paradise Regained, lines 240-279)
That’s the kind of list of credentials my grandmother would have given me as an argument for studying the ancient Greeks. My grandmother was, I think, the last living example of those people who for the last four hundred years believed that all that is good in civilization originated with the Greeks. She assumed that not only would you know how to pronounce all the names found in antiquity, you would study Greek and read the fellows in the original. She assumed that if you traveled at all, you’d travel there, to Greece. And be on a first name basis with the vases and the columns and the poets and the philosophers. She said the word “Acropolis” quite a bit in her everyday speech.
Well, I’m sorry, I never did any of that. In fact as a rebellious teenager I was real happy to find the poem by e.e. cummings that begins, “(ponder, darling, these busted statues! of yon motheaten forum be aware! notice what hath remained/ – the stone cringes! clinging to the stone, how obsolete….”
But as a Unitarian Universalist minister, I must admit that time and again I do stumble upon the precepts of the Greeks – four that I’ll mention this morning. And by now they are close to my heart, and maybe yours too.
The Greeks cared about intellectual knowledge. In our culture just now, and even within Unitarian Universalism, you don’t hear much about the value of cold, hard knowledge. Because we have short-changed other categories in the recent past, categories like ritual, emotional connection, spirituality, mythology – and because we want to give those areas the attention they deserve, we have sometimes left the life of the mind behind. I would hate to see us lose sight of the value of “thinking.”
Socrates believed that if you couldn’t define something with absolute clarity, then you didn’t really know what it was and you didn’t know what you were talking about. He used to say that you can’t make a shoe without knowing what a shoe is. (The Trial of Socrates, I.F. Stone, pp. 68-72) He cared about definition; he cared about truth, and he asked questions and struggled intellectually until he got as close as he could to an answer. Because I don’t want to forget the intellect, I don’t want to forget the Greeks.
A second aspect of ancient Greek culture that has made all the difference for Unitarian Universalists and a few other Protestant branches is the concept of democracy. The citizens of Athens themselves were the sovereign authority, just as in this church you, the members, are the final authority. In Athens, citizens gathered in an Assembly every eight or nine days, and they maintained an almost day-to-day control over their local government. As a congregation, members here gather twice a year as a pure democracy for our annual meeting, and as Unitarian Universalists continentally, we gather annually in June, as a denominational exercise in democracy. We have the Greeks to thank for the lack of authoritarianism in our religion.
For the Greeks, the fact of this new democratic form of government meant that a third aspect of society developed, and that was essentially a liberal arts education. Citizens needed to be educated in order to participate in their democracy: they needed to know how to think, to persuade, and to speak well in public, when up until then what the average man needed was physical strength and technical skills. The notion of wholeness, of a well-balanced and well-rounded education was born: in Athens it was said that a well-educated man was one who could play the flute, but not too well (The Greek Realities, Finley Hooper, p.1 79).
Now I don’t want to leave you with the impression that with their fancy liberal arts education the Greeks were necessarily stuffy – these three poems will put your mind at rest I’m sure. The first, entitled “Winter Scene”:
Zeus rains upon us, and from the sky comes down enormous winter. Rivers have turned to ice…
Dash down the winter. Throw a log on the fire
and mix the flattering wine (do not water it
too much) and bind on round our foreheads
soft ceremonial wreaths of spun fleece.
We must not let our spirits give way to grief.
By being sorry we get no further on,
my Bukchis. Best of all defenses
is to mix plenty of wine, and drink it.
(Alcaeus of Mytilene, Greek Lyrics, R. Lattimore, p. 44)
And another:
Keep traveling, you swine, the whole way toward Smyrna.
Go through the Lydian land, past the tomb of Alyattes,…
big chief and point your paunch against the sun’s setting.
(Hipponax of Ephesos, in Lattimore, p. 13)
(That’s it.) The next…
Hold my jacket, somebody, while I hit Boupalos in the eye.
I can hit with both hands, and I never miss punches.
Finally, what I like about the ancient Greeks, the oldest European Dead White Males, is that they were such radicals. I know that these days they are cast as the old-fashioned conservatives to be left behind, but the fact is, what they stand for is revolutionary, especially when applied to religion. They asked questions. And they questioned their religion. And as soon as that process began, the established order of Greek gods and religious ritual began to collapse. Protagorus, for example said, “About the gods I cannot know, whether they exist or not, nor what kind of beings they might be; there are many obstacles to knowledge, both the obscurity of the subject and the shortness of our lives” (Finley, p. 216). I like a little irreverence and skepticism in a culture.
At the local Unitarian Universalist ministers meeting on Wednesday I was talking with a colleague about the question of the ancient Greeks. I said, “When I was a kid, we always learned that we came from the Greeks and the Jews and the Christians – where did the Greeks go?” He said, “You know, when I was in theological school in the Sixties, we had to take a course on our Christian, Jewish, and Greek heritage. Where did the Greeks go?” Later, I checked the hymnbook for reading and hymn possibilities, and while there are entries for Buddhists, and Goddesses, and Hiroshima Day, and Kwanzaa, and Martin Luther King Day and Native American Spirituality and Pagans and Rosh Hashanah and the solstice, I had to wonder, “Where did the Greeks go?”
So here we are, in December, the month most designated for song and candles and story and glory and tears in the face of darkness and joy in the glimmers of light. We will celebrate it all: Hanukkah, the solstice, Christmas. But this year let us begin with the oldest of the dead white males, that all of us, whoever we are, whatever we look like, can celebrate their radical nature, their sheer brain power, and the best of their human spirit. May the holiday season begin.
No. 102 “We The Heirs of Many Ages”
from Singing the Living Tradition
No. 709, “Be doers of the word”
from Singing the Living Tradition
by Amy L. Fisher
Religion is beauty which rises above all ugliness, it’s a protest and a dream.
Religion is the candle of life lit from the rays of the sun of love.
Religion is a broken heart with an unquenched spirit.
Religion is laughter coming through tears.
Religion is the cherishing of values felt to be most vital to life and blessedness.
Religion is a perfect dream trying to get itself built in an imperfect planet.
Religion is an unanswered prayer answering itself.
Religion is someone without money going out to purchase the universe.
Religion is the quest for the largest and fullest satisfaction of felt need.
Religion is a mother’s kiss and a father’s benediction.
Religion is someone on the summit of a mountain wondering why they are there.
Religion is giving the best that we have to the best that we know.
No. 213 “There’s a Wideness In Your Mercy”
from Singing the Living Tradition
“Alonzo Ames Miner: Use Common Sense”
by Denise D. Tracy, from Living In The Wind
Alonzo’s father was a farmer. On their farm they raised crops, cows, and Morgan horses. Alonzo knew how to hoe weeds between the corn, and pick mustard which helped fertilize the corn; he knew how to pick corn and how to turn it into fodder for cattle feed.
He knew how to take the cows out to pasture, calling “cowbush, cowbush” and how to bring them in again in the evening. He also knew how to milk the cows. He was so good at milking that the barn cats would line up at the end of the stall and he would direct a stream of milk into each cat’s mouth. Afterwards they would lick their lips and walk slowly away, waving their tails with pleasure.
But Alonzo loved the Morgan horses more than anything. They were chestnut brown, large and handsome. He considered the horses his personal friends. He was a good rider, light in the saddle with gentle hands. The horses responded well to his touch.
His father had told him if he was ever thrown to always stay with his horse, never to let his horse get away.
One day Alonzo was riding and the horse did throw him. Remembering his father’s words, he held onto the bridle and was dragged on the ground for a long distance. He was badly hurt and bruised and had broken bones. It took many months for him to be able to walk again, and all his life he was to have pain from these injuries.
The fall from the horse changed Alonzo’s life. He could no longer hope to be a farmer which required that he be physically healthy. So instead he studied hard and became a Universalist minister. He became a minister at the Universalist Church in Methuen and Lowell, Massachusetts, and in Boston. He was an excellent pastor and preacher.
Often he preached on common sense. He told the story of the horse whose bridle he held onto because he had been told not to let his horse out of his sight.
“That rule was good for me to know, but if I had used my common sense, I wouldn’t have been hurt so badly.” But then he would think to himself, “If l had used my common sense, I’d have been a farmer, and not a Universalist minister.” Alonzo realized that rules ought to be adaptable, and that using common sense was the means to adapt a rule to fit the situation.
And no matter where Alonzo preached or who he pastored to, at the end of the day he always loved to go into the stable and feed the horses a carrot or brush their coats to shine! Horses were still his friend.
Often he preached on common sense. He told the story of the horse whose bridle he held onto because he had been told not to let his horse out of his sight.
from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Coleridge
“God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!
Why look’st thou so?” – With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.
And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe;
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow!
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
Ah, well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes;
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
O happy living thing! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware;
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.
The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.
“Shooting the Albatross”
by the Rev. Jane Rzepka
The way I hear the poem, this guy shoots a bird. He feels awful about it – I mean really awful, then later he feels better. And that’s the end of it. But there must be more to it, or why on earth would English teachers keep assigning Coleridge and poems like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?
The poem presents us with a problem: when we do something bad and feel terrible about it, how can we, in the end, accept ourselves once again? It’s not my job to understand Coleridge – that’s the job of those English teachers. But it is my job, and everybody’s job, to understand the universal religious problem of feeling bad about something you’ve done and then coming to terms with it.
“With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross. And I had done a hellish thing.” The sailor shoots the bird, the albatross. We don’t know why; maybe he himself doesn’t quite know why, either. But he soon recognizes his mistake, his “hellish thing,” just as any of us might privately acknowledge a slip-up, a lapse, an injustice, a serious wrong-doing.
When the Cosby Show first appeared on television, one of my children claimed he was to watch it for homework as an example of “realistic fiction.” At the dinner table, during a rare moment when the kids weren’t trying to bounce grapes off each others’ noses, we talked about whether or not the show actually was realistic. I said, “no.”
“They throw us a few realistic bones, Theo’s room’s a mess, the children insult each other, but I still don’t think the program shows family life as it is. Rudy doesn’t ever leave her toys in the living room, fighting has a witty, loving, tongue-in-cheek quality, and – the thing that strikes me most – the parents are never busy doing anything.” The kids fought me on this one. They said, “The Cosby Show is realistic Mom; it’s just that we don’t measure up.
“Why don’t you just accept the fact that, as a family, sometimes we do it wrong? There will always be elbows on the table, an unbrushed dog, experimental string pulleys or something crisscrossing the dining room at neck-level. There will always be days when we’re out of milk, when one of us is furious, when one of us is too busy for anybody’s good. The Cosbys are, realistically, the right kind of family. Accept it, Mom, we’re not.”
I want my family to feel happy and loved and cared for. And when they don’t seem happy or loved or well cared for or perfect (and of course they don’t always), I feel I’ve shot the albatross.
People shoot the albatross in different ways. Sometimes it’s the smallest things: forgetting an anniversary, over-reacting to a demanding co-worker, or letting the finance charges pile up. Or we are horrified about our drinking, our marriage, our self-indulgence, our children, our house, or a serious misjudgment or injustice or unkindness or betrayal. Somebody seems to say, “I needed you and you weren’t there,” or “You hurt me,” or “You let me down.” There are periods in a lifetime when we must say, along with the ancient mariner, “I have done a hellish thing.”
The mariner faced his failure all too thoroughly. By the third stanza the dead albatross literally hung around his neck, and he is
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
“The soul in agony.” The Universalist, Hosea Ballou, said, “It is as much the nature of sin to torment the mind as it is the nature of fire to burn our flesh.” Universal salvation is okay; it’s okay if there’s no Hell, because we will sufficiently torment ourselves over our sins as they occur in this life. Indeed, we are quite capable of subjecting our own souls to agony. Guilt can do that, and probably should. But not forever.
We expect more of ourselves, I think, than we should, and that makes our albatrosses heavier, the agonies of the soul greater, the heart drier and dustier, the wicked whispers louder. Right off the bat I can think of three expectations for life that nearly all of us have and almost none of us can attain.
First, for example, we expect our inner conflicts to resolve themselves eventually. We make a final decision or take some action – the ambiguous business deal, the gossip session, the child’s punishment – then we vow to put the whole thing behind us now that it’s “resolved.” Lo and behold, little bits of an internal vocal minority keep bubbling back up.
I believe that it is more realistic to strive simply for relative peace amidst the various aspects of ourselves than it is to expect a static, complete, mental and emotional solution to a complex human dilemma. Reconciliation is an on-going process; there is not perfect tranquility. Don’t expect it.
The second thing I believe might occasionally reduce the weight of the albatross – and I know it’s obvious – is to remove the expectation that we should be able to make “right” decisions. Many of us go on believing, despite repeated evidence to the contrary, that all problems have a right solution; it’s just a question of figuring it out.
We go over it and over it, the pros and cons of finally putting Dad in a nursing home, or of arranging to work more closely with the very attractive person in the office down the hall, or of giving our tax refund to the family Disney World fund instead of to the Friends of the UUA. The fact is, as you will remember, in most cases there are many ways to do things, and no choice is altogether right or wrong. Don’t expect to always make the right decisions.
A third way of lightening that albatross load – again, obvious – is to jettison the notion that we ought to be able to cope with it all. Some problems will never be resolved. Some will never go away. A mother may always wonder about the baby she relinquished to adoptive parents. A retired man may always wonder if he handled that difficult Saturday night back in high school in the best way. That pest of a nephew may hang around for the rest of your natural life. That’s all there is to it; problems are part of being human as are the ancient mariner’s agonies.
We left the mariner in despair. How does he snap out of it? It may seem odd, but he begins to watch the water-snakes. He begins to watch them, “blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things! No tongue their beauty might declare.” The ancient mariner embraces the world – beginning humbly with sea-snakes – but he embraces the world, nonetheless. “A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware.”
The mariner was smart to embrace the world around him. Albert Einstein says that’s exactly what a person should do. “We experience ourselves,” says Einstein, “our thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest – a kind of optical illusion of our consciousness. . . .Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security.” Even the Principles of our own Unitarian Universalist Association recommend that we give attention to the “interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. “
I think the mariner, Einstein, and the UUA are on to something. Within the universe we do have bonds; life to life, creature to creature, person to person. We are never so broken that we need feel “alone on the sea.” There is a gentleness to creation, when only we bother to notice nature, or the night sky, or the people around us in a room. When we’ve shot the albatross, there is a way out of the agony that follows. To finally accept ourselves as a part of life on this planet, none of it perfect; to feel a common sympathy for ourselves as part of the human condition; and to accept it all, finally, and be free.
You may have seen the Yom Kippur liturgical chant that the Rev. Mark Belletini adapted:
All vows, all promises we have made to ourselves, all commitments to unswerving thought, opinion and behavior are now cancelled, nullified and made as naught.
Now are we free to reexamine all our desires and all the roads
we have chosen to walk; for all vows, all promises we have made to ourselves, all commitments to unswerving behavior,
thought, or opinion are now cancelled, nullified, made as naught.
Now we are free to cling no more to convictions based on inner vows or laziness or apathy; for now all vows, all promises we have made to ourselves, all commitments to unswerving opinion, behavior or thought are now cancelled, nullified and made as naught.
Blessed are Thou, eternal, center of the world, and light within our hearts!
We are free to start again, in peace.
The message I share with you today is a gentle, reassuring one. That is not to say that any one of us isn’t due for one that prods, or kicks hard, or wrestles with us, or makes us uneasy. But for today, if we’ve done our best to be loving and decent, I believe we may loosen the albatross and appreciate the divinity that is ever within.
Spirit of Life
When all is quiet and we are small
And the night is dark,
May we hear the tender breathing of all who lie awake with us.
That together we may gather strength to live with love, and
kindness and confidence.
“The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.”
Amen
A Litany of Atonement
by the Rev. Robert Eller-Isaacs
For remaining silent, when a single voice would have made a
difference,
We forgive ourselves and each other; we begin again in love.
For each time that our fears have made us rigid and inaccessible,
We forgive ourselves and each other; we begin again in love.
For each time our greed has blinded us to the needs of others
We forgive ourselves and each other; we begin again in love.
For the selfishness that sets us apart and alone,
We forgive ourselves and each other; we begin again in love.
For falling short of the admonitions of the spirit,
We forgive ourselves and each other; we begin again in love.
For these and for so many acts, both evident and subtle, which have
fueled the illusion of separateness,
We forgive ourselves and each other; we begin again in love.
No. 323 “Break Not the Circle”
from Singing the Living Tradition
Here and Now
by Emily Curie
The place to begin is here.
The time to begin is now.
I unwrap the layers of my public self
And settle in the calm.
Awake, my song
and sing to me
of treasured times
in memory
of healthy hopes:
the world made one
a restful sleep when day is done
of broken hearts mended
of long grudges ended
the lonely befriended
And let it begin with me.
The place to begin is here.
The time to begin is now.
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