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

One of the aspects that I believe defines the religious liberal is the acknowledgement that we encounter the world and everything in it through our own lenses. These lenses are shaped by years of experience… by the people we meet, what we have read, and the journeys (literal and metaphorical) that we have taken. Religious Liberalism is often spoken of as a “Faith of Meaning Making”. At its best, Religious Liberalism is guided by principles, developed together and shared in covenant. At its worst, Religious Liberalism becomes a formless relativism. In either case, it is a faith practice that requires comfort with uncertainty. As I said in an article a few years ago, Religious Liberalism is the faith practice of living on the shifting sands, because such sands are all there are.

This aspect of Religious Liberalism has distinct implications for our encounters with anything in the world, but perhaps the difference is seen most clearly in how Religious Liberals encounter anything recognized as “scripture”. Such scripture may include the Hebrew or Christian Scriptures, the Buddhist Sutras, the Koran, the Baghavad Gita, the Popul Vuh, or even some of our own “scriptures”, such as the writings of some of our theological forebears (Francis David, Emerson, Parker, Channing, and so many more). The experiences of our lives can be understood as living scripture. It might be poetry or fiction, it might be science or art. What counts as scripture for those of Liberal faith is, unsurprisingly, liberal… and often very individualized. For myself, scripture consists of writings and experiences that have had a profound impact upon my life, or have had a profound impact on the lives of countless others. The philosophical writings of Mark Twain have had a profound impact upon my life, and so I include “What is Man?” and “The War Prayer” in my personal canon. Though I am not much moved by the Gospel of John from the New Testament, I recognize that millions have been so moved, so I also recognize its scriptural authority and seek to dance with it.

As I have encountered it in myself and others, the metaphor of a dance is the best I can find for how I and many other Religious Liberals (though perhaps not all) encounter scripture. In taking classes with non-religious liberals studying scripture of varying kinds (from transcendentalism to Christianity to Buddhism and more) I found the questions they most often asked were: “What meaning can be authentically derived from this scripture (exegesis)?”, “What is the context of this scripture?” and “What does this scripture require of me?”.

In encountering some of these same classes and scriptures with my fellow religious liberals, I found a different set of questions being asked… and I think this difference contrasts how religious liberals and others practice faith. Instead of asking “What meaning can be authentically derived from this scripture?”, I found Religious Liberals far more likely to ask “What meaning is there for me in this scripture, in this moment and in my context?” In other words, I found myself and many of my fellow Religious Liberals called to an eisegetical approach to scripture (reading meaning into the scripture) and not purely an exegetical approach (reading meaning from the scripture).

Now, there is a broad divide between how exegesis and eisegesis are viewed in the academic approach to scriptural reading and interpretation. That divide can be stated clearly… exegesis good… eisegesis bad, bad, BAD! Every class studying scripture I have ever encountered (save the one on Buddhist scriptures) understood the purpose of the class in part as purifying eisegesis out of the student’s engagement with the scripture. Students are required to write exegetical papers, and are chided by professors when they make what are interpreted as eisegetical statements. Papers are graded in part for the amount of eisegetical content that might be found in them.

There are two main problems I wish to highlight with this approach. The first is to ask the post-modernist question… Can we ever achieve objective exegesis? Is it possible to encounter a scripture (or anything for that matter) and leave all of the other experiences of our lives out of the encounter? Does not a poor black woman and a rich white man encounter a certain metaphor about camels and eyes of needles in different ways? How do you decide which of these ways is more valid or objective?

One of the answers to this problem of the variability of exegetical work that has gained traction, not in the academy, but in the encounters with scripture by many Conservative Christians, is the “Common Sense” approach. It is the belief that the biblical scriptures of the Christian tradition can be understood with “common sense”, and that you do not need any particular training or skill at interpretation… because there is no interpretation to be done. The meaning is plain and the same to everyone… and that if you do not agree on a scripture’s meaning that is because either you are being deceived by Satan or you are over-thinking it (or both).

Both the academic search for an exegetical objectivity and the “common sense” answer of many of my Conservative Christian friends share the same problem… they often seek to define the scripture as having one meaning, one interpretation, and one purpose. At least in the Academy they invite dialogue and conversation between different interpretations, however the purpose of that dialogue is often (in my opinion) is to convince others of your position. There is similar variability of interpretation among those who follow the “common sense” approach, with much less dialogue. I do find my “Common Sense” Christian friends to be a bit more strident on what will happen to you if you do not agree with them than my friends in the Academy. Failing a class seems so much less scary after listening to descriptions of hell and damnation.

I highlight these two different approaches to interpreting and finding meaning in scripture not to put them down, but to highlight the difference that I see between these approaches and the one I believe we are called to practice as Religious Liberals. Both the academic exegetical approach and the “common sense” approach have value in that they provide a basis for meaning for those who practice them, and each provides a larger base of thought on the scripture for the Religious Liberal to encounter and dance with. My concern with the academic exegetical approach comes when it does not make room for the validity of any other way of encountering and understanding scripture. My concern with the “common sense” approach comes when it seeks to enforce such an individualized interpretation of scripture upon others (for I believe that the common sense approach is actually a mask for doing eisegesis while pretending it is exegesis).

As Religious Liberals, I believe that we are called, as a spiritual practice, to “dance” with the scriptures that we find move us and have power for us in our lives. I believe we are called to “dance” with the scriptures that others find moving and powerful, and that we have yet to find the same within. I believe we are called to “dance” even (and perhaps most importantly) with those scriptures that we find disturbing, that challenge our basic assumptions, but that others see as authoritative. Our encounters with scripture (of all types) should be fluid and dynamic, an interplay between that which makes up who we are and the scripture.

Let me use a section of Christian scripture as an example of one part of my own personal dance. As a teenager in a Southern Baptist Church, I remember a day when a scripture reading seemed to contrast strongly with the practice of my church. I had long begun to believe that for many of my fellow Church members, they came to church mainly to be seen coming to church. There was always a show of how much each tithed to the church. Some people seemed to want to be noticed in prayer during the service. Some seemed to compete for who could say “AMEN!” first. I had accepted that trying to show your piety publicly was a part of what it meant to be a Christian. We had regularly been told that we should “wear our crosses on our sleeves”, so that we could better witness to others. Everyone we met should know that Jesus had saved us, and that he could save them too.

Then one day the Pastor read to us Matthew, Chapter 6. At first, I thought I had heard him wrong, as he said “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them”. I was flabbergasted when the scripture told us not to pray in the temples and synagogues or on street corners, but rather to “go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret.”

‘God is in secret?’ I thought. ‘Since when?’

I had been trained in the “Common Sense” school of understanding the Bible, and the common sense meaning of this scripture told me that I should get away from this church as fast as possible… something I eventually did. At that moment in my life, this scripture became part of why I asked my parents to quit making me go to church (there were other reasons, many of them not so religious). It was then that I really began developing the idea of an individual understanding of my relationship to God, and seeking a private understanding of prayer. By twenty, I was a Christian Deist.

Years later, as I was studying with a Zen Buddhist Roshi and practicing Zen meditation, I encountered this scripture again. I remembered how important that verse had been to me in my teens, but now my dance with it had new steps. I had found a way to “pray” behind closed doors, if not always alone in a room then in silence, seated on the floor and facing a wall. I realized that part of my practicing Zen was a public form of piety… I was given credit by many of my fellow Unitarian Universalists for being “pious and spiritual” because I spent some time every day sitting and facing a wall, even though a spiritual piety was not necessarily my internal reality. I used my connection to Zen to foster that image however, because it was useful to be seen that way in seminary. And when I prayed as a minister in public, I found myself at times “heaping up empty phrases”, and realized there was a disconnect between my private prayer life and the public prayers that were a part of my understanding of the role of “minister”.

Encountering Matthew 6 was a part of my re-evaluation of the places that Zen, Unitarian Universalism, and prayer were playing in my life. That evaluation eventually led to my stepping away from Zen (among other reasons), and focusing again on my own personal practices of prayer and meditation. Eventually I will seek a re-encounter with Zen, but at a time when I am not seeking it for reasons of public piety and ministerial formation.

Two very different encounters with the same scripture… what was different? The scripture was the same, but the meanings I found at each time were very different, and in each case they were transformative for me. What was different was me. The scripture spoke to me differently because I had changed. I had different lenses, different needs, and different experiences. The ability for something, anything, to speak in different ways to different people at different times in their lives may be the unifying definition of what is scripture for me.

The dance with scripture is an interplay, across experience and time, between an individual human being and a fixed point of wisdom, story, experience or thought. I do not have to agree with the wisdom for it to be scripture… I do not agree with John 14:6, (I am the way, the truth, and the light. No one comes to the father except through me). Yet each time I encounter that scripture it teaches me something new about myself and what I do believe.

The exegesis, the context of the scripture, the criticism of the scripture and other interpretations, and the meanings the scripture has held for others… these all form the dance floor. To truly be dancing with a scripture, you need to be aware of these… what others have claimed the scripture objectively means, how it relates to other scriptures and to the whole of the religious system, what meanings have been regularly found within the scripture. This is the setting for the dance, and you cannot dance without it. But they are not the dance…

The Dance is the interplay between your sense of self and the life you have lived with this fixed point of wisdom we call scripture. The interplay and interconnection between myself and scripture is one of the places where I see the Holy Spirit within my life. The transformations and inspirations from that dance are primarily for the individual who experiences them. My purpose as a Religious Liberal Minister is not to teach others my dance, but to help others discover their own. Perhaps then I might also be inspired and transformed by how they dance with scripture.

I invite you to dance.

Yours in faith,

Rev. David

I have spent the last seven years in the occasional study of a religious system that I believe has always existed, but has never been academically defined (except perhaps in secret by some graduate engineering students). My interest in this religious system is that my wife is an adherent, and in order to better understand her I needed to have a deeper understanding of her religious faith. Through that study, I have come to realize my wife is far from alone… that tens of thousands, if not millions of people believe, either explicitly or implicitly, as she does.

The name we have arrived at for this religious system (and a quick search of the internet shows we are not alone in this either) is Murphyism. At its core, it is the religious belief that the principle known as “Murphy’s Law” (Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong) is the guiding and unifying principle of the universe.

I will say from the outset that this article is a little tongue-in-cheek, but only a little. Perhaps because I am not a Murphyist I cannot fully grasp the seriousness with which the adherents of this faith take it. I know how serious it is, because I have seen it in this woman who has been my friend for 17 years, and partner for the last 10. So, I will attempt to place my own misguided lightheartedness aside, other than to say that if you find this article ridiculous, then you are not a Murphyist… but if it seems ironic to you, then you just might be a Murphyist…

I will also mention that this article has been approved by my wife, the Murphyist…

If you ever find yourself making backup plans for your backup plans… you might be a Murphyist. If you have ever dated someone because you think they might be “lucky”… you might be a Murphyist. If you are really interested in the results of crash tests when buying a car… you might be a Murphyist. If you set more than one alarm clock when you go to sleep at night… you might be a Murphyist. If the first thing you notice about a new room is the number of fire exits… you might be a Murphyist. If you look at a glass and see it not as half-full (optimist) or half-empty (pessimist) but as something that might spill on you… you might be a Murphyist. If you have thought up new things that you do that could fit within this paragraph… then you might just be a Murphyist. I’d love to hear those new “You might be a Murphyist if…” one-liners.

As with many religions, the origins of this one are shrouded in myth and mystery. The modern wording of this “truth” goes back at least 150 years, although there is evidence that it was old even in that time. Its initial modern codifications began in the fraught-filled field of military engineering, and some have traced the initial prophet Murphy to an Air Force Engineer in 1949… but even this is shrouded in mystery and controversy. As best as I can decipher the legend, it was the colleagues of an Air Force Captain named Ed Murphy who first noticed that he had an inherent penchant for disaster… and named the law appropriately.

At the core of this religious faith rests the immutable law “Anything that Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong”. This however is just the beginning of the religion, for from this center flows an entire theology. I have identified two separate branches of Murphyists: Secular/Rational Murphyists and Religious/Mystical Murphyists.

Secular/Rational Murphyists are those who believe that the workings of this law can be demonstrably shown to be an inherent part of the universe through observation and the scientific method. They do not perceive their Murphyism as a religious system, and often do not perceive themselves as religious at all. They can often be found in engineering and the physical sciences. The scientific method, with all of its checking, double checking, verified and reproducible results, is a comfort for them, yet they are not surprised when it does not work. They believe that Murphy’s Law itself exists and operates independently of any being or intelligence. Like gravity, it is a fact of existence. Its universality is a comfort for them, for they are able to say that, also like gravity, the law operates equally among all people… and any perception they might have that they seem to have worse “luck” than others must just be perception, not reality.

For the Religious/Mystical Murphyist, nothing could be further from the truth. They are deeply aware that the “Law” does not apply to all people equally. The experiences of their lives have convinced them that some people are more prone to the effects of this “Law” than others, and they sense a mischievous divine intelligence behind this fact. They look to past religious traditions that name “trickster” gods such as “Loki” and “Coyote” for their ancient sourcing.  Put simply, the Religious/Mystical Murphyist believes that they are the “chosen” of the God Murphy, and often feel like a small mouse that a cat plays with. The God Murphy is a fickle, trickster God who cannot be appeased, only mitigated and suffered.

The Rational/Secular Murphyist believes that:

Murphy’s Law is the primary, guiding law of the Universe.

Murphy’s Law applies to all situations and all people equally, though humans may not always perceive its workings.

Systems such as the Scientific Method have been developed to allow humanity as a whole to mitigate the effects of this law upon progress.

Everything in human life should be checked at least three times by two or more people before it can be trusted, and then that trust should only be provisional.

When systems such as the scientific method and other checks are used and things still go wrong, there is no guilt or fault that attaches, because the universe is designed to go wrong (Chaos theory). You just find out how it went wrong this time, correct for that, and try again.
The Religious/Mystical Murphyist believes:

Murphy’s Law is the primary, guiding law of the Universe.

Murphy’s Law is manifested by a trickster God, named Murphy.

The effects of Murphy’s Law are not manifested equally throughout the universe. The God Murphy has chosen some human beings to be his “favorites”. They experience the effects of the law more profoundly than others.

The God Murphy cannot be appeased… only mitigated.

Some human beings, often termed “lucky” are mostly ignored by the God Murphy. Though this is unfair, it is simply the way things are.

Those who are the “chosen favorites” of the God Murphy have developed ways of living their lives that mitigate the effects of being the “chosen” of the God Murphy. Some of these strategies include always having multiple backup plans, utilizing all possible safety equipment, and spending time with (and sometimes becoming life-partners with) those that they perceive to be “lucky”, hoping for some balancing effect.

When things go wrong, Religious/Mystical Murphyists realize that is it probably not their fault. Fault only attaches if they can identify some precaution that they could have reasonably taken that they did not. If they took all reasonable precautions and things still went wrong, then the Religious/Mystical Murphyist remembers the God Murphy and seeks to mitigate any and all effects.

Each of these religious systems begins and ends in the same place… and in this beginning and ending lies the strength of each of these systems that I wish to hold up to close this article. I look forward to hearing from the Murphyists out there as to how well I have captured a snapshot of your religious system, as I am one of those “lucky” one’s that a Murphyist has married to seek some kind of cosmic balance. I freely admit that I am only seeing part of it, having not lived the reality myself.

The strength in each of these religious system is that they begin with a firm ideological foundation (Anything that can go wrong will go wrong) and the end with a way to place the fault for things going wrong on something besides the self, so long as one has done the hard work of precautions and testing that is the spiritual practice of the Murphyist. Thus, taking precautions, developing backup plans, testing possible results, cushioning consequences, purchasing safety equipment, etc… all of these become an intimate and intricate dance in the life of the Murphyist, be they religious or secular, rational or mystical. The Murphyist is called to live a life of preparation, knowing that all preparation will ultimately fail. However, if they can prepare well enough, then the God Murphy can shoulder any blame. The true Murphyist becomes an expert at “picking up the pieces” of that failure and trying again. It is all they can do.

As I believe that all good theology should have a Science Fiction analogue, I have found such an analogue for the Murphyist. If you reach deep into Science Fiction you will find, within the Universe inspired by Larry Niven, a race of beings known as the Puppeteers. They live on a world with no hard edges, no corners, and no surfaces that are not cushioned. They prepare constantly for any danger, mitigate any threat, and seek safety as their primary purpose. Any Puppeteer who seeks adventure is declared criminally insane, and immediately exiled. When they sensed the impending energy-death of the Universe, they moved their entire solar-system to an area of the universe that would last longer than others.

If such a world appeals to you… then you might just be a Murphyist.

Yours in faith,

David

A few years ago, a member of my congregation with a background in science asked me why, in his words, “so many people insist that there’s some kind of life after death?” I don’t think he was prepared for my response, which was to say that it’s because there is.

I believe that that death is not an end, but a change in the way we are in this world.

I believe that life and death are, in the words of Rabbi Rami M. Shapiro, a “twisted vine sharing one root.”

I believe that though what we call “life” may end at death, existence does not.

Surely, our molecules do not die—whether they are burned and scattered, or buried in the ground, the molecules of our being become part of the Earth. They are recycled in the clouds and the rain, falling into streams that sing as they rush towards the sea. They are reclaimed by the bacteria of the soil, reused by the tree that grows in that soil, and then consumed and changed by the flame that feeds on the wood from that tree.

Any student of advanced chemistry can tell you that matter is neither created nor destroyed. Again and again, our molecules will cycle through all of life, for all of eternity. They will change and be changed, they might be converted to energy or infused with more through complex pathways. But our substance exists long after our life has ended.

Surely, our actions do not die—they are remembered in the thoughts and deeds of our loved ones, they are used by people seeking to learn, they serve as inspiration or lessons, memories or building blocks for something new. Every interaction we have ever had with another being changed the pattern of neurons in that person’s brain. We have made imprints—tangible, concrete imprints—in the lives of many, and those imprints spread out like ripples. Our deeds live on in the lives of others. Our presence in a particular place at a particular time creates a different future for all those who would follow us.

So, even if the conscience dies, if there is nothing of a soul to carry on after we are gone, can it really be said that the dead are really dead if there is someone to remember and celebrate them? If there is someone, somewhere that carries their genes or something, somewhere that is using their matter? If there is someone, somewhere, whose life is different for having encountered them?

Can it really be said that the dead are no longer with us if there is someone among us who reads what they wrote, or cooks from their recipes?

Someone who is warmed by the quilts they stitched by candlelight or who treasures the picture of an ancestor they never met?

Someone who has been inspired by their life, someone who has made better by their work, or someone who has learned from their mistakes?

This week, I had the honor and privilege of conducting a funeral service for the father of a member of the congregation I serve. Funerals and memorials are among the very hardest thing I do as a minister—and yet they are also among the most meaningful.

Part of how I face this task is by making visible all of the ways in which the departed loved one we are celebrating lives on. It means we are not so much saying goodbye, as learning to live together in a new and different way.

My thirteen-year-old daughter and I have different ideas about what it is that she will be doing with her summer vacation, which will be upon us in a few days. I think that the summer before she enters high school would be a good time to get a jump start on subjects she finds challenging. Also a good time to learn to type properly, or play the piano. Not to mention that there are a good number of household projects that could use some manual labor. I know that she will be bored with the vacant hours, and I have warned her repeatedly that her days will not be spent in front of the computer or TV screen.

And I keep asking her just what it is that she expects to do this summer. What is it that her days will look like when she is not off at camp or visiting an out of town friend? All I get for an answer is that she doesn’t know – and doesn’t want to be asked.

She doesn’t have a way to say it, but I think what she is looking towards is sabbatical time – a Sabbath of the school year where she can, to paraphrase Whitman, loaf and invite her soul. She wants to be free from pressure, free from schedule, free from things that have to be done and other people’s expectations that she do what other people think is good for her. That’s what the Sabbath is for. It is a time of forced openness, when you give up work and see what remains. Outside of the structure of daily life your soul gets a chance to stretch out.

OK, I confess I’m a little scared to see what remains for my young teen outside of her structured life. It’s hard to trust that her soul will be well served by weeks of openness. But there’s something to be said for being bored, for sitting with the emptiness long enough that something from deep inside might come to fill it. There’s not that much to be said for being the mom who has to listen to the whining that accompanies that boredom until that mysterious something comes along, but I guess that comes with the territory.

There isn’t any magic formula that decrees how much of our lives needs to be given to work, or to improving our selves and the world around us. But the tradition of the sabbath and the sabbatical teaches that a seventh of our time is not too much to give our souls the space to expand. I’ll let you know how it goes.