LITE

The future of Unitarian Universalism does not lie in Christianity Lite any more than the future of Anheuser-Busch lies in Bud Light.

Oh, wait: Anheuser-Busch doesn’t have a future: it was bought out . . . by a European corporation that makes tasty beer.

In our consumerist religious landscape, the mainstream Christian denominations are scrambling to survive. I don’t doubt that they will do a fine job of brewing the new Christianity. A much better job than can Unitarian Universalism, except in very specific locations and boutiques.

Yes, as in beer, so in religion: the future for a small movement such as Unitarian Universalism lies not with Lite but with Hevy. The Godzilla of brewers, InBev, and the Presbyterians and United Church of Christ, and United Methodists et alia will do a fine job with the Lite. I think the future of Unitarian Universalism lies in micro-breweries. Boutique congregations, each with a recipe of their own.
Hevy

Keeping the church doors open after the Boomers are dead is the question. I’m not trying to be a controversialist. Like many ministers, I’m betting millions of dollars of other people’s money on a way to keep the church doors open into the future.

How?

A new book by Thomas Moore points to a possible way. In A Religion of One’s Own: A guide to Creating a Personal Spirituality in a Secular World, Moore makes a strong case for do-it-yourself (DIY) religion.

Aren’t Unitarian Universalist congregations uniquely suited to facilitate DIY?

We do well to draw a sharp line between the subjectivity of religious experience and the objectivity of a congregational, corporate life together. Where I get my personal religious jolt is up to me—Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism, paganism, pantheism, atheism, all of the above . . . Up to me. DIY. Where I find my meaning is up to me.

Where I go for my religious, corporate, home is up to us.

For those who will be following Moore’s advice on DIY religion, one of the best homes is a Unitarian Universalist congregation . . . If . . . we can awaken to how big the tent must be.

This is the wisdom of the idea of covenant embedded so deeply in Unitarian tradition. “We need not think alike to live alike,” is the sentiment, even if no one famous ever actually said it.

Treating others as we would have them treat us—or, better, treating others as they would wish to be treated—isn’t so easy. The challenge is subjective: how the heck do we know how someone wishes to be treated?

Well, there is that thing called compassion.

In the Unitarian Universalist tradition we say that everyone has “inherent worth and dignity.” I would propose that this is how we treat our neighbor (and fellow congregants): as if that person has inherent worth and dignity. Then, we may go a step further and learn what that worthy and dignified person wants and needs.

But . . . What if I know better? I mean, really—what if I know darn well that I know better than my neighbor what my neighbor needs?

Party Foul! What you or me or anyone knows is always and only our subjectivity. Where you get your religious jolt. How you do your DIY religion.

You don’t know about your neighbor in the pew until you ask.

Furthermore, words matter. For example, for many people the word “family” does not have a warm and fuzzy feel to it. We do well to use care when we call a congregation a family.

And, no, “Amazing Grace” did not “save a wretch like me.” The apparatus that produced “Amazing Grace” enslaved my forebears for generations. And Jesus? His incarnation as “the body of Christ” in the church has been cruel to many of us. Not warm and fuzzy at all.

That’s two for instances. There are more . . . . More instances of oppression and exclusion.

Monarchy, Malarky

Unitarian minister John Dietrich, the founder of religious humanism, believed that a democratic society would create a democratic religion. After all, evidence suggests that religions reproduce in their structures and theologies the political and social structures in which they develop.

To see this, we only need go so far as a comparison of Judaism and Christianity. As anyone familiar with the Hebrew book of Judges or 1 Samuel knows, the ancient Hebrew tribes were highly suspicious of monarchy. Hebrew tradition reveals that mistrust, even though the Hebrews flirted with monarchy in the time of King David and the subsequent temple at Jerusalem. (Speaking of disasters!)

Christianity, the child of Judaism, early fell in thrall to the structures and attitudes of the Roman empire. The bowing and hierarchy that is so much a part of European monarchy and much of Christian worship is foreign to the Jewish tradition. And it feels less and less OK to many of us living in liberal democracies.

John Dietrich, and other humanists of the 1930s, thought that the monarchical model of the Christian tradition would disappear in the democratic age.

And it has, to a great extent. If it hadn’t, there wouldn’t be any DIY religion.

The only religion that will ever make sense to you—when you’re not going along to get along—is that one that you have arrived at by choice, in your own thoughts and your own integrity.

Religious experience is subjective. Personal. Forcing it on others is a party foul and a Golden Rule violation.

The Short Shelf Life of European Christianity

Reflect on this: of the people in the United States today, how many had Christianity forced upon their forebears?

Answer: Nearly everyone who lived outside of the Mediterranean basin in the 300-500s CE.

Reflect on this: how many of those who became Christian outside of the Mediterranean basin had a choice in the matter?

Did the British? Did the Irish or Welsh? Did the Germans or Norwegians or Poles or Swedes or Swiss or . . . ?

Nope. Most of the population in Europe had no choice. The choice was made for them by the ruling elites.

How about the Africans brought forcibly into the Western Hemisphere?

Nope.

The native peoples of the Western Hemisphere?

Nope. No choice.

For millions upon millions of people, Christianity was not a choice. Should we wonder then that so many of their children abandon an imposed religion as soon as secular governments and social expectations allow?

For most of us living in the Western Hemisphere, Christianity is an overlay, not a deep tradition. A Mediterranean imposition, not a value system that matches the flora and fauna and mores that most of us were born into.

Malcolm X taught this, but his words have not been heeded.

Pagans in the UU movement have been pointing this out for some time. In my congregation, the Jews, Hindus, pagans, and Muslims and atheists and others and more cry out . . . when will we be free?

When will we build that land, that inclusive place that is actually inclusive, the includes not just Christians but others?

Despite Liberation Theology, the Social Gospel, and the Emergent Church, Christian ritual and theology is the theology and ritual of oppression for many of us.

Yes, those lively spirituals subvert the dominant paradigm and reveal the ugly truth of oppression. But isn’t it time we sing a new freedom song? Isn’t it time we subvert the most dominant of paradigms—Christianity itself?

And then there is the inclusion of Christians too.

Think hevy. Think micro-brew. And DIY.

What if Unitarian Universalist congregations were actually, truly, a big tent where all are welcome, not just the Christians? Not just the humanists?

Can I have an “ameen”?

Some of us will not worship any prophet or any god, no matter what the cost. Where might we find a home?

How about a really big tent for the future?

Photo credit: The copyright on this image is owned by Simon Johnston and is licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 license.

Photo Credit: Angie McMonigal Photography

A couple of week’s ago, on a cold Chicago afternoon, after being cooped up for most of the week, my husband and I looked at each other and said, “Let’s go bowling.”

Now, nothing says wholesome family fun quite like putting on some smelly communal shoes and listening to drunk men swear at the football game, but after being cooped up in the house for more of the week, we were just a little bit desperate.

Matt and Jack have gone bowling together a few times, but this was the first time that Teddy had been bowling. After trying on three (three!) different pairs of shoes, convincing him that the bowling ball that looked like Darth Maul was too heavy for him (he’s just a tiny bit obsessed with Star Wars), and showing him how to put his almost-four-year-old fingers in the ball and roll it down the lane, he was ready to go.

“Self! Self!” he stubbornly said in true Teddy fashion.

He walked to the line holding the ball with both hands and I have never been more certain that a trip to the ER for a broken toe would be in our near future. (By the grace of God, he made it out of the bowling alley with all ten toes intact.)

For ten frames, Teddy grabbed his ball, stepped up to the line, and heaved the ball as hard as he could down the lane. Most of the time, he rolled the ball right into one of the bumpers and it would sloooooowwwly bounce its way down the lane. On each of his rolls, the ball moved so slowly, in fact, that I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t make it to the pins. And, more than a few times, Matt and I exchanged a look that said, “Which one of us is going to ask the surly desk attendant for help when the ball stops in the middle of the lane?” (Fortunately, we never had to answer that question, but for the record, it would have been him.)

On every one of Teddy’s turns the ball moved at a snail’s pace, barely moving down the lane until, finally, it would make it to the pins and maybe even hit down a few. As one of THE most impatient people on the planet, I found the delay to be a bit unsettling at first. Waiting for the ball to plod down the lane, I felt nervous, jittery, and antsy.

But, after a few frames, I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t actually impatience; it was fear. Fear that the ball would never make it, fear that we’d have to ask for help from the surly man at the front desk, fear that Teddy would end up in a tantrumy heap of tears.

But, after a few frames, I realized that the ball would eventually make it to the pins even though it looked like it might stop moving at any moment. And with the fear of not making it subsiding, the waiting actually became the best part of it all. Because in the waiting, I had time to soak it all in. I could watch Teddy’s eyes light up as the ball moved down the lane, I could steal a few glances at my husband, and I watch my older son add up the scores on the screen.

Once the fear of never became the confidence of eventually, I was able to look at the waiting and the slowness in a whole new light.

And I wondered: How many other times have I mistaken fear for impatience? Fear of the never or the always. Fear of the falling and failing. Fear of dead ends and asking for help. Fear that without the end, the means just don’t matter.

And in this fast-paced, frenzy to get something or do something or hit the target, how much has gone unnoticed and how much enjoyment have I missed in the slow-moving journey?

I’ve been struggling a lot with impatience lately, wanting things to happen now, now, now. But I am realizing that this need for things to happen on my timetable is less about fulfillment and satisfaction, and far more about fear. Fear of losing control, fear that I will never make it, fear that I am somehow lacking just as I am and right where I am, fear that I won’t be satisfied until the pins are knocked down so to speak.

We tell ourselves that when the pins are knocked down, then we’ll be happy. When we get married, when we have a baby, when the kids are in school, when the kids are out of the house, when we get the job, when we get the promotion, when we are out of debt, when we buy a house, when we get an agent, when we get published, when we receive this award, when we land that sales account, when…, when…, when…then we’ll be happy. And all the while, the ball is moving slooooowwwwly down the lane and there is so much going on while it rolls if only we’d just notice.

The ball moves slowly, more slowly than we’d like, many times. And we wait and we wait and we wait, growing increasingly tired of all the waiting and more fearful that the ball might actually stop. And in all of that fear, we miss it. We miss the twinkly eyes and the emotions, the bouncing back and forth and the graceful movement to it all, the sights and sounds and people and various goings-on that are actually a really big deal if we’d just stop focusing so much on those damn pins at the end of our lane and trust that the ball will eventually get there.

After bowling for a few hours last Sunday afternoon, and watching the ball move slowly down the lane, I realized a few things. I realized that the ball will slowly, eventually, finally reach the pins; it just takes a little longer sometimes.  I realized that if the ball does stop, you can always ask for help (even if you have to ask the surly man behind the desk), get a new ball, and roll again. And, most importantly, I realized that there is so much good stuff going on while we wait for whatever it is that we’re waiting for.

So take your time. Pay attention. Enjoy the journey.

And know that, even when the ball moves slower than we ever thought possible, that at least the pins are happy for few extra moments of peace.

This post originally appeared on the author’s website at www.christineorgan.com.

I did not plan to write this post. In fact, I had intended to write something very, very different.

Given that this weekend marks the winter solstice, I had wanted to write something poignant and insightful about the beauty of the season. I wanted to write about the joys that winter brings, about sledding and snow angels and hot chocolate. I had planned to write something spiritual about the way that winter’s long nights give us a chance to rest and reflect. I wanted to write something optimistic about all of the warmth that lingers in the chilly winter, about growth and rebirth, about the the changing seasons as a reminder that everything is temporary.

I wanted to write about these things. I had planned to write about these things, had hoped to write about these things.

But I just couldn’t do it.

Because, honestly, I FREAKING HATE WINTER.

Try as I might to dig deep spiritually and see all the good that winter offers, I just can’t seem to do it. In fact, I hate almost everything about winter. I hate the snow and ice and frigid temperatures. I hate the bulky sweaters and heavy boots and the way my hands are always cold. I hate the muddy puddles that pool by the door. I hate that it’s dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. I hate shoveling. And I hate that it takes longer to get my kids dressed in their winter gear – coats, snowpants, hats, and mittens – than it does to actually get where we are going.

The optimist in me wants to learn to love all of life’s seasons, even the cold and dark ones. And the UU in me is trying desperately to “respect the interdependent web” and enjoy winter for its role in that cycle of connectedness. Yet despite my spiritual, optimistic, glass-is-half-full attempts to appreciate winter, the simple truth is that I HATE WINTER and I’m only hoping to survive the next few months.

I want to be more tolerant of winter’s harsh personality. I want to see God’s beauty in the dormant bud as much as in the flowering bloom. I want to be stronger, more resilient to the bitter and biting cold. I want to be more flexible to the changing seasons on the calendar and in life.

But some days, it is just so hard to be tolerant, to see the beauty, to be resilient. Some days it is really hard not to be consumed by the darkness. Sometimes it is almost impossible not to rage against change, almost impossible not to scream “ENOUGH ALREADY! I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!” (By now you’ve probably figured out that I’m not just talking about winter here.)

It feels selfish and self-indulgent to wallow in my disdain for what amounts to a minor inconvenience, a slight discomfort. It seems short-sighted and pessimistic to focus on the darkness and the harsh conditions. It feels feeble and gloomy to wallow in the ugliness, desperate and ungrateful to long for lighter, warmer days.

But does loving life mean that we have to hide our disdain for the colder times? Does respecting the web of connection mean that we have to delight in all aspects of a network so complex and delicate that we cannot possibly make sense of it all? And does the cultivation of gratitude mean that we are prohibited from yearning for better, brighter days?

Hardly.

Maybe tolerance doesn’t come from looking with favor on every hassle and indiscretion, but rather through an admission of our unhappiness and a willingness to move through it. Maybe resilience and flexibility don’t ask that we greet bleak conditions with delight, but simply that we acknowledge the discomfort with truth and kindness.

And maybe Grace isn’t found in pretending the dark and cold times aren’t exactly what they are – hard and difficult. Maybe Grace comes from a simple acknowledgement that “THIS SUCKS,” followed by a deep breath and the inherent understanding that, for better or worse, this too shall pass.

This article originally appeared on the author’s website.

All religions, all this singing, 
one song. Rumi


1.

A poet I met once,
Leslie Scalapino, said
“stay in continual
conceptual rebellion.”

She thought we must
“re-form” our minds,
“make it new, every day,”
as Pound put it, or fall

for the snake oil routines
of all the drummers and
askers around us.

“No” to con-vention,
she thought, checking
out of the general meeting
where the selling
is done is “yes” to life.

2.

Seeing things as they are,
Nagarjuna said, is the way
to wisdom. Finding first causes,

hooks on which to hang a hat,

is a fool’s game and leads
to distinctions–this is
not that. And on and on.

Until there’s only suffering.

We like listening
to the snake oil salesmen
throwing out distinctions
and offering attachments.

It’s entertaining.
It’s death.

3.

When an old man was asked
what held the earth up, he
said, “It sits on a turtle.”

And under the turtle?
“Another turtle.” And

under that one? “It’s turtles
all the way down,” the man
laughed. And it is. Turtles.

It’s turtles all the way down;
turtles all the way up;
turtles in every direction,
and turtles because there
is no direction. It’s turtles,
and we, too, are turtles.
Or one turtle.

Or snake oil.
Or light.

Bodhidharma sat there,
they say, nine years, but
you know how they talk.

Bodhidharma there to
wonder why he thinks
this could be different

from that. To wonder
what it might have been
we think differentiates

one depth from another.
Isn’t that the secret?
Bodhidharma said

to the wall. You
won’t know your
self until you stop

deceiving yourself,
Bodhidharma said
to the wall. Sounds

sound, until the self-
referentials begin
to sink in. Then

words mumble. Slow.
Into the nothing that is
the walls around.