Hope Springs: Vulnerability and Longing
Last night I went to the movie, “Hope Springs.” For those who have not seen the previews, this is a movie about a couple (Tommy Lee Jones and Meryl Streep) in a 31 year marriage where the thrill, as they say, is gone. It is about their journey towards getting the juice back into the marriage.
My friend and I were worried about being a minute late and finding a good seat, but we need not have been. The Cineplex theatres, which were packed for action thrillers on a Saturday night, were not sending too many folks the way of this film. As we walked in and looked around, we saw about 20 other viewers. Almost no one under the age of 50 was there. And it was mostly women in pairs or small groups, as my friend and I were. Divorced or separated women? I can only wonder.
The plot of the movie is easily picked up in a five minute trailer: This couple has lost their love, lost their erotic connection, lost their passion in the dull mundanity of daily life. The delight in the movie was in watching very good actors portray characters who dare to live through the pain and the longing for love. I can’t imagine any viewer who would not relate to the story.
As I watched the film, I connected in particular with the character of Tommy Lee Jones. A man who has hardened over, he can barely stand to speak directly from his heart. Instead, he speaks with cynicism, judgment, and disdain for all that is vulnerable and longing. Indeed, it is not until he comes to realize that his wife may in fact leave him that he becomes at all motivated to overcome his loathing for his own vulnerability.
Whether or not we experience this part of ourselves in intimate relationships, in our workplaces, or in our spiritual lives/ relationships with God, I suspect that many of us know it well. We have wanted something for so long, and never got it, that we can no longer stand to want it. It hurts too much. We shut ourselves down.
The gift of watching someone else live through this is enormous. I can’t think of another movie that has shown it so directly and completely. And, if Saturday night’s crowds are any indicators, people would much prefer to have the adrenaline rush of watching heroes battling monstors, space demons, and vampires, than watching normal people battle the fear of intimacy, the terror of connection.
I remember when my daughter was young, and wanted to see the last Star Wars movie. I had heard that it was very violent, and I refused to let her go. She had, I reminded her, had weeks of nightmares after seeing “Lemony Snickets,” a cartoon-like story about young kids who, after their parents die, live with a series of evil adults and must trick their way back to happiness. “But Mom,” she pleaded, “That was different! That was a realistic movie. I will never be a droid warrior!”
I was astonished. Snickets did not pretend to be realistic in any way. None of the characters resembled real people one might meet in life, and the plot was completely unreal. But for my six year old, the terrifying plot premise of being without parents was a real fear, and so the film brought nighmares. I wonder if this is why folks aren’t exactly lining up to see “Hope Springs.” They’d rather experience fears that in no way touch their inner life.
Not me. I’m delighted that people took the time to create a movie as deep as “Hope Springs,” and I’ll recommend it to everyone I know. Realistic? You’d better believe it! But what a gift to have the universal terror of vulnerability and longing safely on the screen in front of us!
Grief and Atonement
There are so many reasons to be filled with grief: the four diplomats whose lives were cut short and the families devastated by the amputation of a beloved person from their midst. The loss of trust between partners in the US and Libya working for peace and freedom. Our national sense of violation and vulnerability from an attack by extremist Muslims on our most tender, damaged day.
But more than that, for me there is the grief that once again the violence inherent in narrow-minded, domination-centered, triumphalist forms of religion has bubbled to the surface once again. I do not forgive the Libyans who turned offense and outrage into murder. I also do not forgive the America-Israeli filmmaker who set out to cause offense and incite mayhem. Yes, killing people is worse—far worse—than hateful, bigoted language. But the inciter and the rioters came from the same place: a belief that their religion is right, that everyone else is wrong, and that their religious supremacy deserves to be accepted and honored.
I do not forgive. But as we approach the Days of Turning, the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur when Jews are called atone for offenses they have given and forgive offenses committed against them, I wonder if maybe we aren’t all called to atone. I know that the person who created the offensive film is no more representative of Christianity than the murderers in Libya are representative of Islam. But I suspect that all of us, whatever our faith, are in some way complicit in this tragedy.
I don’t suppose that anyone reading this message has vilified another religion, let alone physically harmed another in a religiously-fueled rage. But I wonder if all of us might not have moments when we treat the religious convictions of others with contempt, or let ignorance lead us into saying things that are offensive. I wonder if all of us haven’t fallen into some easy assumptions about who is right and who is wrong, who is good and who is bad. I wonder which of us is free, not from violence, but from the underpinnings of violence that assume that we can make others conform to our view of the world.
There is plenty to grieve for today and in the days to come. May our grief lead us toward the deep sources of peace rather than the temptations of violence.
Come In and Sing!
Dómkirkjan – The National Cathedral in Reykjavík, Iceland.
The National Cathedral in Reykjavík is a modest edifice, as far as cathedrals go, and despite the fact that I’ve passed by it at least a hundred times on my visits to Iceland, I had never stepped inside—until last month.
I’m not entirely sure why. I have ventured inside dozens of other churches in the country, although most of those either had some connection to my own family or some connection to other emigrants to North America. And like many visitors to Iceland, I’ve ascended the tower of Hallgrímskirkja (which many mistakenly assume to be the cathedral) to experience its breathtaking views of the city and surrounding countryside. Still, I would have thought that historical curiosity might have led me through the cathedral doors before last month, if nothing else.
As I think about it, I suppose I had never entered the National Cathedral because the heavy wooden front doors don’t exactly say, “Come in!” I’ve never stepped inside the Parliament House next door, either—for much the same reason—notwithstanding the fact that I’m almost as passionate about politics as I am about religion. Unlike the inviting, glassed-in entryways to retail stores and restaurants, the solemn doorways to the cathedral and parliament house seem to say, “Enter cautiously but only if you have business here.” This isn’t a criticism; it’s just an observation.
On my last day in Reykjavík this year, I was walking toward the old city cemetery for my ritual visit with the ancestors, both familial and spiritual. As I turned the corner by the cathedral, I noticed the door ajar and I could hear the faint strains of organ music escaping to the street. It was Friday afternoon and, as far as I could tell, nothing formal was happening in the cathedral. So I poked my nose through the door.
Upon seeing me, the custodian rested her mop and beckoned me to come in. As I entered the nave, the music became clearer. The organist was practicing and the building was filled with The Beatles’ song “All You Need Is Love.” There were a handful of other people inside and, as time went on, I noticed we were all softly singing along with the organ. Our hearts and voices were one.
Open doors and the gospel of love: that’s most of what a spiritual community really needs to thrive. It’s mostly what individuals really need to feel welcome and valued. Nestled in a beautiful place—a shrine, whether indoors or out; surrounded by companionable souls, even though strangers; inspired by a message of love, however simple and whatever the source; moved to sing familiar songs, both sacred and secular—in such circumstances the human spirit soars, our shyness dissolves, everyday cares are transcended, and we experience ourselves as one with the interconnected web of life.
The organ loft in Dómkirkjan, the National Cathedral in Reykjavík, Iceland.
All In This Together
Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh teaches about something he calls interbeing. “If you are a poet,” he writes about a sheet of paper, “you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper.” In his worldview, the clouds, the rain, the trees, the paper, and the sunshine all are the same thing, and, in fact, are the same as all things.
As a former scientist, I know this to be true. All that we see today, everything that exists in our Universe, everything that ever has existed, and everything that ever will exist all trace their substance–their matter and their energy–to a single cosmic event, a single “big bang.” When I breathe out, I exhale carbon dioxide that is taken up by plants and turned into sugars. When I inhale, I take up oxygen given off by the grass and flowers, I breathe in moisture that once evaporated from a far-away ocean.
All that we know, all that we see, all that we experience, is of the same stuff. It is all interrelated. It is all connected.
In my Unitarian Universalist faith tradition, we speak of “the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.” Usually, this phrase is used to refer to the natural world around us. Respect for this web leads us to environmental consciousness and an Earth-centered spirituality. I think we stop too soon in understanding the extent to which humanity is part of that interdependent web.
American society has long been centered on the individual. “Rugged individualism” is part of our national lore, in which people can “pull themselves up by their bootstraps” and make it on their own. As a nation, we venerate self-reliance and eschew any mention of collective action or collective responsibility. This leads us to be disdainful of people who don’t have enough, as if it is their fault entirely. This leads us to idolize those who have a lot, as if they earned their wealth through some great moral enterprise.
Individualism, however, is a myth. None of us can make it on our own. None of us. If you need proof, just imagine a baby dropped in a field somewhere; that human beings begin life completely dependent on others should give us a clue about the rest of our lives as well. We need one another–for survival, for inspiration, for challenge, for perspective. I need you, and you need me.
My faith teaches me that what happens to you is directly related to what happens to me, and vice-versa. You and I are inextricably bound together in what the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., called “a single garment of destiny.”
I am, therefore, called to be concerned about what happens to you. I am called to be concerned about what happens to each of my human siblings, and each of my non-human ones as well. Put plainly, your fate and your plight are my business.
I wish that our national story taught of interdependence rather than independence. I wish that instead of debating how we might enrich and ennoble a privileged few we would turn the national debate to how we might uplift each and every person in our midst.
I realize that such a wish comes with a very partisan slant these days, and for that I am truly sorry. Americans of all political stripes believe in a society in which all people can be successful–it just seems more and more that we differ on how that success comes about. I believe it comes about when we realize we’re all in this together.
Savoring autumn days
It’s beautiful these days, cool and no humidity in Minnesota, but the days are also somewhat sad in my household right now. Dawn is breaking later every day, and sunset coming earlier, putting a dent in the time I have for gardening. Most of my high schooler’s friends are heading out of state to college. And our thirteen year old yellow lab, Penta, struggles to stand up now. Yesterday I bought a harness contraption that puts two handles on her back and on her hips so that we can lift her like a suitcase–help her get up, get into the car, get up the few steps she can now handle.
Life is change, and in general I am a person who loves change. But some changes, when what is now contrasts vividly with what was, just bring grief.
This morning, out in the garden, talking out loud to the plants as I often do, I heard myself say this to a pot of zinnias as I pulled them out of the planter they were in:
“Oh, zinnias, I remember when you were just seeds in the packet and I fell in love with your picture at the garden store! I had never planted only red zinnias but you were just so beautiful! And then when I put you under the grow lights, your first tiny leaves were adorable! And you have been so bright and tall and beautiful, blooming all summer here, right when I pull up my car…”
And then, as I saw how pathetically dry the soil was around their roots as I pulled them up, I continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t water you better. The other zinnias are still looking good because they’re over where I can use the sprinkler. I did not haul jugs of water out here often enough. I put you out of the way, baking in this metal tub, because you looked so beautiful here. I didn’t know you were this dry! You have looked amazingly good for a long time.”
And then I finished digging them up in silence, shaking the dry dirt off of their parched roots, feeling sad and grateful.
Somehow, telling the whole story, seed to compost pile, brings peace to me even as I feel the sadness. We’ve been doing the same thing with Penta’s demise, recalling to her what a fantastic puppy she was, showing each other photos of her, singing her the songs we used to make up about her when my teenager was young. There is tenderness as we help her to move, and there is a relinquishment in it too. I don’t know how long she will maintain a quality of life that seems fair to her. The day will dawn one day when, just like today I decided the zinnias had suffered long enough, and we’ll be saying goodbye to her, too.
As I wrote these words just now, I began to cry, and Penta heaved her old body up off her mat and left the room. An acutely sensitive dog, she’s never been able to bear it when I have emotions. I called her back, gave her a good pet and scratch, promised I wouldn’t cry anymore, and helped her back to her mat. There is still much to savor with her, I realize. It’s not time to cry about losing her when she’s not gone.
This little scene with Penta woke me up, as I seem to need to be awakened every day: It’s not winter yet! Go suck the marrow out of these gorgeous fall days and grieve when it is time to grieve! Pet the dog, pick some of the zinnias that are still blooming, and enjoy!
May we each enjoy what is ours to enjoy, savoring every moment of autumn even as we know it will be followed by winter’s chill.
Motivations
In religion as well as in politics (and probably in innumerable other realms of human endeavor as well), any seeker after truth and meaning can be bombarded with an incomprehensibly vast heap of supposed facts and truths. It is very easy to encounter a multiplicity of voices which appear to assert, with the utmost confidence, something to the effect of, “I have the truth, the real truth. Anyone who disagrees with me is completely misguided and mistaken.” Certainly political discourse in the United States doesn’t appear to invite much exploration of nuances and complexities. It’s not that difficult for religious exploration to meander down a similar path.
Why do we make the commitments we make, whether it’s about politics, religion, or anything else? What motivates us toward one thing and away from another? We are often driven less by facts and more by feelings. We can ask the same question about relationships. My wife and I will soon be celebrating our twelfth wedding anniversary. I could easily provide a long list of very sound reasons why I love her so much and why being with her all these years has been a source of immense happiness for me. Yet my decision join my life with hers, and to renew that commitment again and again, day by day, is not based on empirical, double-blind, peer-reviewed evidence. I did not engage in elaborate scientific investigations in order to determine that she would make a good spouse for me. I just felt it, and still feel it. There isn’t anything wrong with this — indeed, the prospect of a scientific study in order to determine the suitability of a particular person to be a life-partner would be absurd to most of us. What’s important is that we acknowledge the role of passions and deep fears, preconceived notions and unquestioned assumptions in all the decisions we make. It’s also wise to consider when those deep feelings may not be the best motivators. Many more people than most of us would care to think about (and that very often includes ourselves) make political decisions not based on carefully considered data, but on how they feel. A political candidate’s personal likability is a very significant factor in most elections. If pressed to consider it honestly, most of us would admit that the qualities we would seek in an ideal dinner companion are not necessarily the same as those characteristics we’d want in an effective civic leader. Yet frequently we make decisions on criteria we neither consciously recognize nor would really be altogether comfortable with if we did.
In religious life also, there is this dichotomy of the cerebral and the visceral. Many of us could give very cogent, persuasive reasons why we have made the religious commitments and embraced the faith convictions that we have. Yet there is also the element of the non-rational in these things. This is not inherently good or bad; where we must be careful is in acknowledging this truth of our humanity.
Pro-Life
The moral and ethical questions surrounding abortion are complex, and although I have my own firm opinions, I know that good people disagree with me for good reasons. I have no intention of arguing the question here. No, what I’m wondering about at the moment is just what it means to be “pro-life.” After all, being “pro-life” seems to me to be an excellent goal, a moral yardstick almost identical to Albert Schweitzer’s “reverence for life.” Just as a start:
If I am pro-life I will advocate for universal health care, for everyone’s access to technologies that literally sustain life.
If I am pro-life I will work for universal access to clean water, without which life is not possible.
If I am pro-life I will strive for everyone to be able to get healthy food, to live in communities that are not polluted, to breathe air that is clean.
If I am pro-life, surely I will be a proponent of arts in the schools, of public art and libraries and community theatre and senior citizen bands and all the ways that individuals and groups bring beauty and creativity into their own lives and the lives of those around them. After all, I am not just in favor of existence, but of life more abundant.
If I am pro-life I most certainly will be deeply committed to the conservation of our natural world, to the preservation of species and habitats, to combating climate change, to preserving life in all its diversity, not just human life.
The list could go on and on. In what ways are you dedicated to being pro-life?
Run for Your Life!
I have always been fairly athletic, and I enjoy playing a good game that gets my blood pumping. But I loathe exercise. I’ll run all day long if I’m on a court or a playing field, but ask me to run to get or stay in shape and I’ll kindly decline. I’ve tried several times in my life to become a runner, hoping to experience that “runner’s high” that I’ve heard so much about. In fact, when the running craze first hit the East Coast in the early ’70’s, I was among the first to buy a pair of bright blue Nike’s with the yellow swoosh on the side and take to the roads. I lasted about three weeks before pain and boredom overcame me. Two to three weeks seemed to be my limit every time I tried to get on the running bandwagon.
Then early this summer my daughter called and told me she had started the “Couch to 5k” program, and that I should try it too. I was skeptical, but she was persistent. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “Right,” I replied. “Like pulling fingernails is fun.” Eventually, she wore me down and I decided I’d give it a try. “C25k” (as we in the know call it) is an interval training program that starts off with lots of walking and a little running. By the end of nine weeks, you’re not walking at all, and you’re running the full 3+ miles.
I’m proud to say that I have stuck with the program and am now a “C25k” graduate, and that I’ve kept up my running since completing the program. My daughter and I have started looking for a 5K race we can enter together to celebrate our accomplishment.
But the truth is that I still find running really boring. I run a 3 mile loop around town that keeps me mostly on residential streets and a couple of busier roads. I was told that running on pavement is easier on your joints and muscles than running on the concrete sidewalks. So, when it’s not too narrow or busy, I opt to run in the road (always facing oncoming traffic as I was taught in grade school). I watch the oncoming cars carefully, to be sure that they see me and keep a safe distance. When a car gives me a wide berth, I usually give a little wave to acknowledge the driver’s awareness and kindness.
Lately, I’ve developed this little interchange between drivers and me into a kind of spiritual practice. For the past several runs, I’ve begun to say a small prayer or blessing for each passing motorist. As I wave, I say “May you know peace” or “Know that you’re loved.” I wish health, happiness, peace, love, passion, success, and joy to the occupants of the cars that pass me by. For those drivers who either aren’t watching or don’t care to give me some space, I pray for their attentiveness, their alertness, and their foresight as I hop up onto the curb.
In offering these small blessings to strangers who pass me by, I find that I, too, am blessed. As I pray for these things for others, I am reminded of the joy, peace, love, passion and successes I find in my own life. I experience the blessings of good health, of the air that I breathe in, of the incredible machine my body is. I notice the gifts of the sky, the trees, the wind and the sun.
May you know peace today. May you know that you are loved. May you feel joy. And may you find, in some small way, the opportunity to wish that for others as you go about your day.
Love,
Peter
Friends: The Spice of Life
If most of our life consists of basic repetitive tasks that are simple and predictable—some would say boring—it’s the people we interact with who make our days interesting. If our life were a soup, the people we know would be the spices.
Some people, like salt and pepper, are always nearby, always present at the table, every day. They are our basic fallback for a good meal. Even though we may get fancy with varieties, the basic flavor is familiar, easily accessible, comfortable to use. Other people are more rare in our lives, and have very particular ways in which we interact with them.
This morning, missing a particular friend, I found myself thinking that she makes me think of chipotle pepper. My handy dandy search engine told me that the adjectives often used to describe chipotle pepper include: intense heat, dark, smoky flavor, wonderfully hot and smoky. Yep, that describes my friend in a nutshell. When you miss her, you miss her particularity.
Reading those adjectives made me wonder about the adjectives commonly used to describe other spices, and how they might also describe people.
Do you know someone who is strong, sweet, and familiarly cool? That’s the mint in your life. And someone nutty, warm, spicy, sweet? That’s your nutmeg friend! On the other hand, if you are friends with someone who is bitter when raw, perhaps they are more like juniper berries.
Some friends, not to mention acquaintances, are like cayenne: They are very hot and spicy, so should be used with caution. Or like savory, should be used sparingly. Others must be interacted with very carefully, as they can stain, like turmeric. Or, like cloves, can quickly become overpowering—we need to use great care when working with them!
Some folks we know are slightly bitter, just like celery seed, marjoram, and paprika. Some are kind of nutty, like poppy, sesame, or carroway seeds. Some are earthy and pungent, like bay leaves.
Clearly not all people, or spices, combine well together, and all are best in particular kinds of situations, or dishes. Some are very versatile. Some are associated with particular cultures or nationalities. Some are great fresh and some really need a lot of careful cooking. Some, like cinnamon sticks, add flavor while cooking but should never actually be consumed.
In my kitchen, and in my life, I like to have all kinds of different options. Just as I would be unhappy with only using salt and pepper for my spices, I would be much less blessed if my friends were all of the same age, temperament, race, gender or culture.
In my kitchen, and in my life, I love variety. And while salt and pepper may be my go-to spices, I have no interest in a salt-and-pepper life! Thank heavens for a wide variety of friends who are spicy and diverse!
Worship as Emotive Experience
This past Sunday, I became emotional in the pulpit… again. Ok, truth to be told,
I’m always emotional in the pulpit. It’s part of why I never schedule anything for Sunday afternoon, because preaching a good UU sermon will wipe me out, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. I usually maintain enough reserves to make it through the coffee hour, but afterwards I have to go home and sleep for a few hours before I will be able to be worth much at all… and then it’s usually best for me to sit in front of the television and watch a movie.
It’s also why I tell anyone who has anything to talk to me about after the service that they should email me about it. I will listen during coffee hour, I will nod my head and I will even respond somewhat intelligently… and the chances of my having anything I would call “good recall and follow through” are slim. I’m simply operating in what I call my “coffee hour fugue”, a kind of emotional afterglow from the experience of worship, of preaching.
One thing I have noticed is that it was less emotional, less exhausting, and less “coffee hour fugue” inducing when I was mostly travel preaching as when I am regularly presenting worship in a congregation I know, and that knows me. The five years I spent travel preaching, the emotional content I was aware of was mostly just my own. While that was draining, I usually maintained enough energy to make it through the coffee hour and the multiple-hour drive home.
Yet in serving churches in Evanston IL, Midland MI, and now Ventura CA… that is not true. In each case, I believe I am becoming “in-tune” enough with the congregation that I am feeling more of what they feel. When, from the pulpit, I see a congregant with tears in their eyes, I know them well enough to have a fuller appreciation for what all those tears might mean. When I see a congregant laugh, I know them well enough to know some of the parts of their lives that might make laughing difficult. When a congregant comes up to me passionate and energized after the sermon, I now know them well enough to sense where that passion may be coming from (‘cause it is never actually my “wonderful sermon”).
I have said before that I believe we human beings are far more emotional creatures than we are rational creatures. Our ancestors on the evolutionary chain felt emotions far, far longer than we have had anything remotely resembling conceptualized rational thought. Our emotions have had many times many the centuries of development and opportunities to embed themselves into our nature, character and psyche than our capability for rational, symbolic thought has had. I believe that the primary purpose of reason is not to suppress or replace emotions, but rather to allow us to make some order and meaning out of our emotional lives. This understanding of reason accepts that our emotional lives remain the primary influence over who and what we are, and that reason just operates upon that primary influence.
Yet human emotion is often perceived by that reason, and by the outward society that reason reflects, as dangerous. As such, our society has created ways in which emotions can be “safely released”… Think of a football game, where emotions such as aggression, excitement, and anger can be safely released in a controlled manner about a topic that does not truly threaten our survival. Horror movies do the same for fear. Roller coasters do the same for both fear and excitement. Daytime talk shows such as Jerry Springer provide a safe experience of and release of some of our more shadow-filled emotions… jealousy, greed, superiority, etc.
At its least, congregational worship fills a similar role. I know, a shocking thing for a minister to say, to compare what we do on Sunday morning to Jerry Springer. There are some key differences… the first, and most obvious is the emotions that are brought forward in the congregational worship experience. Now, different traditions and different denominations of religious faith work with different emotions on a regular basis. I know that I experienced worship during my childhood in a different faith tradition as a regular emotional flow between superiority and shame. Superiority over all of the “sinners” who would be sent to hell when the judgment day came… and shame over my inability to save them all, and for the ways in which I too was one of those sinners. I know that when I have attended the Pentecostal churches of my mother’s tradition, there was some of that… but there was also the ecstatic emotions of joy, excitement, and connection.
The second key difference between our experience of many other societally sanctioned expressions of human emotion and congregational worship is that, at least in my understanding of the Unitarian Universalist tradition, those emotional experiences are to be shared communally. Experiencing and expressing these emotions is not a solo act. Worship should be a time where we allow the barriers that society creates around our emotional experiences to come down, just a bit… so that we can see one another as emotional creatures. And in seeing that, learn to accept our own emotional selves as normal, and beautiful.
I remember a time after a particular service where I became emotional in the pulpit, and the congregation became emotional with me. After the service, a fairly new member who was a social worker came up to me, quite disturbed. She was concerned that such an expression of emotion in a public way was unhealthy, and that it might even be unethical. Remember, this was after a sermon, so I was in my “coffee hour” fugue… but I think I responded along the lines of that congregations had been experiencing emotions together for thousands of years, and we just needed to be careful of and supportive of one another as we learned to be our emotional selves with one another. Later, that interaction helped me to develop a lens of being more aware of the emotional space of the congregation during the sermon, and to realize that some of the most important pastoral care work a congregation does happens in the Sunday Morning worship service.
Yet, I dream of something more for our time of Worship together than just an expression, even a collective expression, of our emotional selves. I dream of something more than creating a space in the lives of our congregants where it is okay to cry if you are called to cry, or laugh if you are called to laugh. I dream of something more than creating a space in the lives of congregants where it is okay to laugh with someone else, or cry with them. I dream of a space in the lives of congregants and in the life of a congregation where we can come together and not only express our emotional selves, but use the gift of our rational faculty to explore what those emotions mean for our understanding of and connection with life, the universe, and everything.
I want worship that is not only inspirational, but gets at why and how we feel inspired. I want worship that is not only deepening, but gets at why and how we feel deepened. I want worship that is not only challenging, but gets at why and how we feel challenged. I want worship that not only brings us to tears, but gets at why and how we are brought to tears. Not alone… not in a way that diagnoses what is wrong with us or makes us feel inadequate… but in a way that is simply about our learning to trust and care for our emotional souls… together.
I can dream…
Yours in faith,
Rev. David
