Today, I read an essay by Aurelia Isabel Henry Reinhardt entitled “Worship: Its Fundamental Place in Liberal Religion.” Reinhardt explores briefly the history of worship with an eye to what we have inherited; that we have always sought public religion to unify us “in the common search for the Ultimate Good” and that we aren’t creators of something new, but simply reinterpreters of something ancient, “in the light of eternal truth and new knowledge.”
Reinhardt diagnoses some of the problems facing congregations – particularly in our denomination: that of a lack of beauty and significance. “Inquring as to the reason for monotony and threatened vacuity,” she writes, “one learns that it is the result of an effort to give a minority of the congregation due right. Criticism has eliminated the thing critized, but the creative processes have brought into being nothing to take the place of the rejected.”
Strong words – words we need to hear. I know that some congregations are doing innovative things in worship, exploring ways to get out of the “two hymns and a lecture” pattern found on many Sunday mornings. Reinhardt’s words are vital reminders of what we’re facing as we enter the next fifty years of our denomination, as we look at the shifting demographics, as we continue to wrestle with making our socially-responsible outsides look like our Sunday morning insides.
Reinhardt is on topic – and she offers a great deal of hope. She reminds us that we inherit not just the idea of worship but thousands of years of prayers, songs, stories that can be used/reimagined for today. She reminds us that “worship is one of the sources out of which new creations in the art of living arise.” She reminds us that “a service of worship is a poem written by the lover of God, a song sung by the lover of God.”
Fresh, amazing thoughts for this religion of ours in this time and place.
Of course, it was written in 1936, for the Commission on Appraisal, in a AUA report called “Unitarians Face a New Age.”
Yep.
So this new age we’re facing? It isn’t that far different from the new age our forbearers 75 year ago were facing. We have fixed some things, but we still have some of the same problems, the same concerns, the same pesky foibles.
Maybe… just maybe… we can do better this time around, so that the readers of essays in 2092 don’t identify so clearly. I know this is a huge part of my call; to Aurelia, I say “thank you for your eloquence” and “amen.”
I learned this week that I am a radical Universalist.
I credit David Bumbaugh for this. In his book Unitarian Universalism: A Narrative History, Bumbaugh spends 20 pages outlining the beginnings of the Universalist church in America, from deBenneville’s sermons preached across Pennsylvania; to the founding of the first Univeralist church by Murray in Gloucester, Massachusetts; to the founding on the New England Convention of Universalists; to Ballou’s Treatise on Atonement. It’s a rich history, and a reasonably short one: only 44 years passed between the first universalist sermons in 1741 and the first Convention in 1785 – just 44 years to go from idea to denomination.
I have always been fascinated by universalism, have always found it one of the most hopeful aspects of our faith. But it was in reading this treatment, seeing the varying theological differences within universalism, that I saw my place, standing with Caleb Rich and Hosea Ballou in believing that we pay for sins in this life – that “God doesn’t need to be reconciled to humanity; rather, human beings need to be reconciled to God.” I stand with them in understanding God as a loving deity and that Jesus’s ministry is largely about how to “grow into harmony with the Divine.” I stand with them – Ballou especially – in believing that “God would not endow humanity with reason and then present a revelation that was incompatible with that reason.” I also stand with Ballou in rejecting the Trinity and instead embracing the unity of God.
(I also, by the way, appreciate Benjamin Rush’s assertion that faithful Universalists must commit to social justice, which he calls “an unescapable consequence of Universalist faith.”)
Rich’s theology was called “Death and Glory”; unlike other Universalists who believed there is some punishment for sins after death but then eventual reconciliation with God, Rich said no – a loving God doesn’t want to see us suffer. In a world where a loving God exists, we have room to reconcile to each other, to work out our issues, to confront our sins, knowing that every step we take toward the good is another step toward the Divine. For me, it’s encouraging to think I don’t have to rely on some magical thinking to be saved from a mythical hell. Every mistake I make, every trauma I suffer, every sin I commit – everything I do to heal, reconcile, rectify, brings me closer to God and those around me.
Some find this theology too freeing – if there’s no eternal threat, why do good, they suggest. And I know it’s an issue people have long debated. But what I know is that it is human nature, for the most part, to do good – to act in altruistic ways, to nurture, to help, to want to improve the world. People want to be in right relations with other people. And when we do this, we create a more harmonious space. Universalism tells us that this isn’t an exclusive club, where only some go to heaven, and the only way you get in is by believing and/or doing exactly the right things. Univeralism tells us we’re all part of the club, and we have to do right by ourselves and each other in this world, while we can. And this is what I think the creator-creating God (see process theology) wants too.
So maybe I’m a radical process Universalist. Whatever the label, with this set of theological perspectives I feel loved, and compelled, and nurtured, and yes, in awe of the expansiveness of the Divine and of human potential.
Every Monday thru Thursday at noon, Union Theological Seminary holds a chapel service – they vary wildly, with many different speakers, themes, styles, music. Thursdays always incorporate communion, however, although the flavor and presentation changes each week.
The first communion chapel I attended two weeks ago was uncomfortable for me. As I have talked about a bit here and with others, I’ve been thinking more deeply the role Jesus might play in my life and in my theology. I have grown to appreciate the model, lessons, and hope that Jesus offers… but am still quite far from calling myself a Christian, as there are some seemingly important tenets of the faith that I cannot reconcile (and which I won’t go into at this time). Suffice it to say, however, I have grown to deeply respect a true Christian faith as modeled by Carl, and many of the friends I have made on Twitter and at Union. Thus, I feel strongly about my participation in some of the sacraments – or, I should say, refusal to particpate – particularly when it comes to Communion. In my mind, it is a sacrament shared by people who believe in Jesus Christ as savior and son of God; it is precious, meaningful, an important and sacred act of the faithful. Because I do not believe those things, I don’t believe I should take part – I haven’t taken part in a Christian Communion in almost 30 years – and I respect the sacrament too much to denigrate it by my half-hearted, unbelieving participation.
So the communion chapel two weeks ago was uncomfortable, because it was clearly a sacrament for Christian believers. I understood the message – and it was not for me. It’s hard to separate being excluded from excluding myself, but it was clear that this was not a ritual for me. I decided that I would probably skip most Thursday chapels as a result.
Fast forward two weeks to this past Thursday. I went to chapel despite there being communion, because one of my professors, David Carr, was giving the message. I figured that when we got to that part of the service I’d slip out, so I sat near an aisle. Professor Carr’s message was centered around the story in Matthew about the vineyard owner who pays everyone the same wage, whether they worked 11 hours or just 1. His message was about abundance, particularly in response to the latest charges against President Obama about ‘class warfare’ when he suggests that the wealthy pay their fair share. Carr spoke of Jesus’s message in that parable, that a society is healthy when all have food, and clothing, and shelter, and even an hour’s worth of meaningful work.
A good message… a healing one… but it was in the prayer that followed that God spoke to me (I am sorry to say I don’t know who wrote it):
God of abounding, lavishing, unfair grace,
At times, your generosity challenges us, overwhelms us, and even offends us. We ask that in this moment, you would push us to love one another more deeply. We also ask that you grant us grace for ourselves in those times that we fail to love one another well. As we approach your table, where all are welcomed and none go hungry, we are reminded that there are still many situations – in our own community and in the world – in which your abundance does not seem so apparent. We now pause to offer up prayers for people and places where more of your bountiful unfairness is needed.
God of abundance, teach us how to live with open hands and open hearts, that we may tear down the barriers that divide us and contribute to the healing of the world. As we come to your table, we ask that you continue to challenge us with your unrestrained love and meet us in all of our needs. In your name we pray.
Amen.
By the time the prayer ended, I was sobbing. After the prayer, we sang Daniel Schutte’s “Table of Plenty”:
Come to the feast of heaven and earth!
Come to the table of plenty!
God will provide for all that we need,
here is the table of plenty.
O come and sit at my table
where saints and sinners are friends
I wait to welcome the lost and lonely
to share the cup of my love.
Another of my professors, Paul Knitter, presided over the Communion, and while he used many of the familiar words of the sacrament, he repeated the sentiment that this was an invitation to share of God’s abundance, to sit at God’s table. All are worthy – whether they believe or not, whether they work all day or just an hour. All comers… all hearts welcome.
God opened up the table to me, who feels unworthy and unwelcome, excluded and apart from. Me. God invited me to sit at the table.
And I could not refuse.
Still sobbing, I made my way to receive the morsel of homemade bread dipped in wine and the blessing Professor Knitter offered. I sobbed through the final song, “The Peace of the Earth Be with You”… I sobbed in the bathroom after the service ended.
It has taken me until today to begin understanding what happened – and I’m still not quite sure, but I DO know that for all my feeling “outside’ – especially in a most decidedly Christian seminary, and with a most decidedly Christian boyfriend – God said “you’re welcome too.” God doesn’t seem to care that I have doubts. God doesn’t seem to care that I’m still quite angry. God doesn’t seem to care that I feel unworthy. God has a place for me at the table. How can I refuse?
Union has welcomed us, the 175th class to enter this seminary, with the theme of Stepping Stones. It is certainly fitting, as we’re all on a journey… wading into sometimes unfamiliar waters, not quite sure where we’re going to put our feet next. The Dean of Academic Affairs, Daisy Machado, talked to us about the story of Jesus walking on the water; Peter had faith enough to step out of the boat and was fine, until a storm came. Then he sank, but called out “Lord, save me.” Peter may have lost his step, but he didn’t lose his faith. He didn’t know where the next stepping stone was, but he was pretty sure there was one, and he reached out in faith in order to find it.
It’s that image that carries me, too, into seminary. In my piece on Getting to the Yes, I talked about Kierkegaard’s idea that we live life forward but understand it backward – and some of that is stepping out, seeking the next stone, not sure where it is or what it looks like. I have no idea where I’m going (woyaya!) but in faith (and with a lot of hard work) I’ll get there.
And so… all of this is but an introduction, to say that I’ll be using the category “Stepping Stones” to talk specifically about the seminary journey.
And what a journey it has been! A week in, and already my head is going to explode with all the richness and joy. Yes, I know, I’m still in those glory days… ten miles away from the muddy concert site as it were… classes don’t start until late next week. But we had an incredible week of orientation, everything crammed into fewer days because of the hurricane. Some highlights:
I met some of the most amazing people who will be on this journey with me – they are young and old, every race, every gender. Gay, straight. Christian, Jewish, other. They are still in school mode, or long out of college. They are already ministers or not sure they want to be minister. And their stories! Amazing stories of faith, hardship, struggle, and hope. Every one hearing a call to serve somehow, many – like me – unsure what form the call will take.
I met some of the most committed faculty and staff – from the facilities people to the president – all with a sense of calling, a sense of family, a sense that Union is someplace different. I know this place is special – it’s got a long history of being on the cutting edge of theological education, and situated as it is in a world class city, it’s got a special calling to be there.
I have already made some friends I feel will be with me for many years after our degrees are completed – people with whom I instantly clicked, who have a variety of experiences I can learn from. Some, like Tiara, are fellow Unitarian Universalists. Some, like Valerie, are close to my age. Some, like Clayton, are opposites in many ways but still feel like kindred spirits.
There was a delightful moment, speaking with Ruth Tonkiss Cameron, the Burke Library archivist: she shared the story of going through a professor’s papers and books – someone who taught in the first half of the last century. On the general list of contents was a note “book, Spanish”…when she got to it, she discovered it was one of the original accounts from the Spanish Inquisition. And yes, she too had that uniquely Monty Python moment: “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!”
There was a moment that moved me to tears – when, during a dinner, Dean Yvette Wilson came up to me, hugged me, and said “I am SO glad you are here – I remember fondly our conversation last fall.” She remembered some salient details from it…that conversation that convinced me that Union was where I should go. That she remembered me and welcomed me personally…wow.
There is, admittedly, some growing sense of “what the hell have I gotten myself into”… the workload will be heavy, and I do carry some fears about my ability to get through it all. And yet, I am comforted by the fact that I was chosen out of hundreds of people who applied, that something about my application made them say ‘this woman will fit in here’. I’m sure most of my fellow classmates are wondering the same thing – what have we gotten into – and yet we will be there for each other.
There are so many more moments from last week that I can’t even remember right now. Much of the week was a blur, with so much information and sharing and feeling brought into the fold. And this coming week will be filled with so much more – advisement, meeting faculty, and the opening day of classes. But I feel blessed, and happy to be on this journey. Not sure where the next stepping stone will be, but I have faith that I’ll find it – or at least be able to call out for help if I can’t.
One of the limits of WordPress, I have discovered, is that it hates too many iframes, and thus is unwieldy to edit. So I’ve instead put up this followup post… it includes a link to the audio from August 21, as well as the words of Rev. Linda Hoddy’s blessing.
The audio – click here to listen – picks up at beginning of my formal remarks – right after “Song of the Soul”… it includes Linda’s blessing, closing words, extinguishing the chalice, and the postlude.
Linda’s words of blessing are below:
Spirit of Life,
We give thanks for this beloved community, this congregation,
where a call to ordained ministry can be felt and nurtured.
We give thanks for the one who is now being called to deeper service, and for her Yes,
We ask your blessings for her journey, and grant our own.
May Kim continue to be attuned to things of the spirit,
open to and heedful of the subtle signs and messages by which you will guide her into
the service of humanity and a better world.
May she be accompanied by wise and gentle souls
who will help her discern and refine her ministry.
May her academic preparation be excellent.
But more importantly, may her heart and mind be continually opened to your guidance and will.
May she increasingly know the divinity present in all creation:
in nature, in work, in play, in other human beings,
and herself and her call to service.
May she never doubt her own worth as a child of God, with gifts intended for the blessing of humanity.
May ministry not only be something that she does, but may it
deepen and mingle with the roots of her being, until ministry is the very essence of who she is.
May she find joy in the sacrifice and surrender that ministry requires.
We are grateful for all that she has shared with us in these few years:
Music and theater,
Administrative skill.
Laughter and tears,
Tenacity through conflict and tumult,
Warmth, wisdom, insight and friendship.
These gifts have enhanced our life together.
And now, as we release her to greater service, we wish her well.
May she know in times of doubt and struggle, as well as in times of joy,
that our prayers are with her. We will hold her gently in our hearts, forever.
Sometimes it isn’t enough to just share the text of a sermon. Sometimes it’s important to hear the music and the other words that form the entire service. Thus (and in lieu of recordings that feature the actual musicians from my congregation), I have included links from YouTube and other mp3s. Please take the time to listen to them as you read my story of getting to the yes.
Prelude
Lighting the Chalice
Words for Gathering
by L. Annie Foerster
Come we now out of the darkness of unknowing, out of the dusk of dreaming.
Come we now from far places, from the unsolved mysteries of our beginnings.
Attend our journey!
Come we now into the twilight of awakening, into the reflection of our gathering.
Come we now toward the light that beckons, toward the oasis that summons.
Harken the gathering!
Come we now all together.
We bring, unilluminated, our dark caves of doubting, filled with the rocks of our foreboding.
We seek, unbedazzled, the clear light of understanding, born of the fires of our attending.
May the sparks of our joining kindle our resolve, brighten our spirits, reflect our love, and unshadow our days.
Come we now. Come we together.
Come we now all together to begin.
Let us begin with Amen.
I went to Girl Scout camp for the first time when I was 9 years old – which would make it the summer of ‘74. It was an amazing time – in an amazing place, up at Camp Little Notch in Fort Ann. Our counselors were young women fighting for equal rights, proudly wearing the label ‘feminist.’ Our lessons were of self-reliance, strength, and independence. Our music was a blend of traditional camp songs and new songs from the new world of women’s music – Meg Christian, Margie Adams, Holly Near, and Cris Williamson. We sang “Gentle Angry People” and “Beautiful Soul” and the “Unicorn Song” and “Song of the Soul”… mostly “Song of the Soul.” A hundred little girls singing this song at the top of their lungs, finding harmonies, not knowing how deeply this song would later resonate.
My experiences at camp – the music, the women, the lessons – were in sharp contrast to the more conservative environment of the rest of my life, which was much more enmeshed in knowledge and education – not surprising, as my father was an educator and my parents were both non-practicing Unitarians.
But as a child – with my siblings much older and long gone out of the house, and living in an isolated corner of southern Rensselaer County – I spent many long hours reading and thinking and wondering about God.
At age 12, I read a book describing meditation, and it suggested creating a picture in your mind of a place to go, a sanctuary. In my mind, I built a beautiful stone cloister – several stories high, with a beautiful courtyard in the middle, and arched windows along the inside where you could look out into the courtyard. That image – that sanctuary – has been with me ever since, and has provided a place of safety.
These are some of the earliest signposts that I remember seeing on this long journey that brings me here today. As I began preparing to tell you about my journey to the Yes, I realized that it wasn’t something that happened in a short, defined period of time, but rather a journey I’ve been on since my childhood. And that journey hasn’t been on a straight, paved, well maintained road… it has taken some concentration to stay ON the road, and it’s in the retelling here today that I can begin to map it out.
At the very center of the road – whether I recognized it at the time or not – is my spiritual path.
Through my childhood as a Unitarian in a Methodist Sunday school, and through my young adulthood immersed in a full gospel Pentecostal community, and long afterward, even into my agnostic phase, I still talked to God. I thought of myself as “spiritual but not religious” and felt I had a pretty decent relationship with the Divine. I found a place of expression in the pagan community, and I liked the connection to the earth and the ancient mythologies. But as connected as I was to the ideas and the people, I grew further and further disconnected from God.
And then I lost my partner to a needless death.
And then I had a major financial crisis.
And then I had a nervous breakdown.
And then a pedestrian ran in front of my moving car and was killed.
And then my back went out and I required several surgeries.
And then my mother passed away.
At every turn, God was missing. I continued to talk ABOUT God, and to help others find their voice and nurture their spirits. But I was angry. And hurt. And lonely. And I had long since stopped talking to God. I was certain – absolutely certain – that I was God’s punching bag.
Linda Hoddy talks about the time after her brother’s death, arguing with “the god in whom she did not believe”. I don’t know that I ever stopped believing in a god of some form, but I know that I got tired of arguing, and declared a schism. I decided Nietzsche was wrong: that which does not kill us does NOT make us stronger, it makes us angrier. I needed to be away from that conflict. God didn’t like me, so I didn’t like God.
And I felt even lonelier.
The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard said that “Life is to be understood backwards, but it is lived forwards.” I’m not sure of the source now, but in one of his books, Kierkegaard expanded on this idea: he said that we are all walking toward the light of God, but that because it is blinding, we walk backward. We look at where we have been, and gently nudge others so as not to trip on a root and avoid the rocks, all the while feeling gentle nudges from behind us making sure we don’t trip or stumble.
I like this idea – I like the idea that we’re all on a journey, that we see in retrospect the lessons and messages we encounter. David Roche, in his book The Church of 80% Sincerity, calls it the Principle of Delayed Understanding.
But whatever you call it, it is only in looking back that I can understand the messages that God, and my fellow travelers, had been sending. In preparing for today, I have remembered many friends from former covens, guilds, and congregations – hundreds of moments that have led me to this place. But of course it wasn’t until recently that I realized that they WERE messages.
Looking back, I see hints I left for myself, in journals, in letters, and in sermons. I look back at my talks on waiting, and faith, and being open to possibilities, and I now can see that while I was sharing some ideas that I hoped would help you, I was also leaving myself messages about my relationship with God and a possible future path.
Looking back, I recognize the metaphors – from the idea that my life was a tapestry, waiting to be woven so others could see the story, or that I was a wounded healer, telling the stories of my own woundings in order to help others heal.
Looking back, I understand the dreams I dreamed in significant places – at a women’s spirituality retreat in San Francisco, at my first UU Musician’s conference in Denver, and a notable one, in upper Michigan on Midsummer. I dreamed of being in a spa of some sort, where I was being nurtured and pampered. As my nails were being manicured and my feet being rubbed – I told you it was a dream – a handsome man came behind me as though to kiss me on the cheek, but instead whispered in my ear “not yet.”
Looking back, I learned that some messages came via Eeman’s Law, which states that half of life is figuring out what NOT to do. In my case, I had some false starts, seeking some greater way to serve, which never panned out. In the late 90s, I had an opportunity to take an intensive priestess training, but somehow the money never appeared. In 2006, I began the program to achieve a Credential in Music Leadership through the UUA, but this was cut short because of my back. About a year ago, I pursued some positions within the UUA – none of which panned out.
Now of course, in my state of schism, I saw each of these failures as further proof that God was not on my side.
But something happened in the spring of 2009. I met a former Lutheran minister who would later become my boyfriend. In our conversations, I told Carl about my schism with God, and he brought up the book of Job. Now I’ve heard all about Job, how God tests him by causing all manner of tragedy. I was pretty unimpressed – ‘cause if people aren’t quoting Nietzsche, they’re talking Job, as though they think that’ll help.
Hah.
But Carl brought up something I had not heard before. “After all of the tragedy in the first three chapters,” he said, “Job spends the next 39 complaining to God. Loudly. Forcefully.” Hmmm. “It’s okay to complain,” he continued. “In fact, it’s what you are supposed to do.”
Now this is something I’d not considered before. So, I started complaining. I began to argue, and yell, and list in painstaking detail the many grievances I had.
But it was not until later that summer that I got the feeling that God was talking back. Carl and I were driving through New England, and while I navigated the rolling turns of Route 7, Carl viewed the beauty of the Green Mountains through his eyelids. In the quiet, I began humming some of my favorite spirituals: “Over My Head, I hear music in the air” … “there is more love somewhere.” I got to a piece from our teal hymnal, called “Comfort Me.” Now the way Mary Neumann wrote the song, the third verse goes “speak for me, speak for me oh my soul.” But that day, I began to sing “speak TO me”…. And God said “I have been. I never stopped.”
Yeah, okay, I know many of you are skeptical of spiritual experiences, or of God, but I have no other way to describe it except ‘God said.’
And God said, “I never stopped talking to you. You are the one who stopped.’ And so I asked her, “I haven’t heard you. How have you been speaking to me?”
The answer came immediately, as the napping Carl let out a loud, forceful snore.
Which made me realize that God had been speaking to me, through the divinity in each of us. Through the long conversations with Carl, and Linda Hoddy, and Brent Wilkes, and Nikki Ferguson, and Aaron Broadwell, and others… through the poetry and music that has made me weep from their beauty… through the many quotations from books and movies that I’ve collected… through the little moments of grace I’ve witnessed and been blessed with. All of them, messages from the Divine, all of them hoping that in the spirit of Kierkegaard, I would recognize them in retrospect.
Looking back on the road I traveled, with its broken pavement when there’s been pavement at all, with its twists and turns and steep hills and narrow bridges, I realize that the long and winding road has led me to the door of ministry.
And its road signs all say “Yes.”
“Yes” echoed first during a service where I served as worship associate. Linda asked me to read a poem by Edward Hays as the meditation. The poem, about being open to the divine, is based on a Sufi saying that reads “don’t invite an elephant trainer into your living room unless you have room for an elephant.” As I read the poem, in front of you all, I heard “yes” so loudly that I barely got through the reading.
“Yes” echoed when Linda invited me to join the Wellspring spiritual deepening group, although I believe I only expressed my interest in passing. And, “yes” echoed over and over again during the year of sessions with other seekers on the journey.
“Yes” echoed in the words of Jim Mihuta, who told me I had a knack for saying the right thing at the right time… in the words of Joe and Sally Russo, who said they never wanted to miss a chance to hear me speak… in the words of Barbara Freund, who said I had the kind of presence, even just singing in the choir, that suggested I should become a minister… in the words of Ashley Friedman, who said she remembered my 80% sermon and that it still resonates with her as she makes her way through her first years at college.
“Yes” echoed the day I went to visit Union Theological Seminary in NYC…. I walked into a large stone building, and after our little tour group gathered, our guide took us into the courtyard. It was the courtyard of my sanctuary… the same arched windows, the same shape, same stone. “Yes” reverberated through the place as I enjoyed an informative tour, an amazing lecture, and a wild and welcoming service led by the Queer Caucus.
“Yes” echoed the evening I ended my meditation with a sudden need to flip through an old Methodist hymnal I own. I opened the book and began singing the hymn in front of me… Open my eyes that I may see…
“Yes” resounded in the song that I had known since my youth, a song I have sung over and over again as the introduction to “Song of the Soul.” “Yes” further echoed as I read the third verse:
Open my mouth, and let me bear,
Gladly the warm truth everywhere;
Open my heart and let me prepare
Love with Thy children thus to share.
And finally, “Yes” echoed in early January, when I awoke from a dream… in which a handsome man hugged me and whispered in my ear “now.”
At that final “yes,” I completed my application, and Linda and Murray Penney were among those who wrote recommendations for me. They must have said some nice things, for in April, I was accepted.
I’m five days away from orientation now… five days away from setting foot on this new road – most assuredly, as Robert Frost puts it, “the one less traveled by.” Not surprisingly, I keep finding myself singing “Woyaya”… we are going, heaven knows where we are going, but we know we will…” and I invite you to stand as you are able and join me in singing it now.
The road isn’t completely uncharted, however, and yes, I already know there will be bumps and rocks and uneven pavement just as on the road I’ve already traveled. But I do have some sense of where I want my ministry to go. I joke with Linda that I am keeping a list of reasons not to go into congregational ministry… but I think, at this point, my path is heading in other directions. On the other hand, as the rabbis in the Talmud say: “Do you want to make God laugh? Tell him YOUR plans for the future.” So who knows? I do know that there are some fascinating things happening in our denomination – a resurgence of universalism, a call to spiritual deepening, a sense that now that we’ve reached our 50 year mark, it’s time we figure out who we are now and where we are going.
I feel called to share our religion with a world that I think is absolutely ACHING for a meaningful, active, useful, nurturing faith such as ours. I believe I’m called to help people nurture their souls – to help more people find a home in what our president Reverend Peter Morales calls “a religion for our time.” I am inspired by his words, and those of Scott Alexander…and Kaaren Anderson… and William Shultz… and Deane Perkins…and many more Unitarian Universalists of vision. Their words are calling all of us to make a better world through our faith and actions.
And I know there’s so much to understand, to explore, and to share. My gifts in music and theatre… along with my desire to know and to heal… seem to make for a potent combination in ministry. Will I work with congregations, clusters, and districts? Write and lecture? Do community ministry? Or land in a congregation after all? I don’t know… as my friend Alan Rudnick says, “when working in the business of faith, faith is needed.” I do know that I once I began hearing “yes,” I could not say no… and the continued yesses from friends and acquaintances and newfound colleagues tells me others may be interested in what I may eventually have to say.
As I enter Union – a place brimming with diversity of race, gender, religion, age, talent, and ability – I bring with me the experience I have with love, community, and support that I have found here, from you.
This congregation – you together and individually – you have listened to me and watched me grow. You have nurtured and comforted me through some difficult times, providing not just emotional support, but rides, and meals, and help when I needed it.
When I came here in October of 2004, I was emotionally shattered, in need of spirit, connection, comfort, and community. And you provided – in spades. I never felt so welcomed in all my life; through the many congregations I’ve been part of, I never felt home before. I often find myself thinking of a song from The Wiz, which begins “when I think of home, I think of a place where there’s love overflowing.” This place – this group of people who love each other and work together and drive each other nuts– this place is home.
And yes, I feel a little like the bird being pushed out of the nest… or the teenager being shipped off to college. And I will be back many Sundays, but only as a congregant, sitting in the pews, maybe singing on occasion. And of course, my role here will change… I won’t be doing chores anymore, but I will be bringing home my dirty laundry and looking for a good hot meal. What I bring of you to Union is far greater than what I’ll bring home. And even at school, I will have some of you with me, as member Nan Asher has graciously allowed me to stay in her home in Queens, which helps me extend an already very tight budget. But most of all, what I bring is the knowledge that where there is room for growth, space for possibilities, a firm foundation of love and respect, anything IS possible.
In just over two weeks, I head down to the city to begin orientation at Union Theological Seminary. It’s been so far away for so long, it is surprising to realize how close it is now. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been resigning positions on boards, finishing terms on committees, closing up projects, generally putting my house in order so that once classes start, I can concentrate on work and studies.
A few weeks ago, I first identified a certain good melancholy – a bit sad to be no longer seeing these people on a weekly or monthly basis, but knowing I am leaving on good terms and heading for something more.
But the last week or so, I’ve been sad in an unsettling, unclear way.
Now I have tied some of the sadness to a particular fear I carry with me – an odd academic fear. I’ve always been good at school when I put my mind to it – I grasp things easily, see connections, know, and excel. But since the surgeries in 2007-08, I’ve noticed that my memory is compromised – it is a strikingly noticeable effect of the pain meds and thrice-in-one-year doses of general anesthesia. And I know, once I get into it, I’ll likely see my strengths come back and add more tricks to those I currently use to get by with a diminished short term memory.
But even with that nagging worry, and recognizing the loss associated with ending certain activities, I’ve been sad. It became sharpest last night, when Carl and I were talking. I was telling him about my day – the many good things that happened. Normally, I’d be smiling and triumphant in the good stuff (finishing a hard project, getting a new one, having a great experience with an author, etc.). But I was still terribly unsettled and weepy. When we hung up, I should have gone to sleep, but I was left wondering WHY the things that would normally signal a good day didn’t have the same effect.
And then I remembered the Edward Hays poem:
Don’t make friends with an elephant trainer unless you have room in your home for an elephant.– saying of the Sufis
O Blessed one, you whose voice calls me
to the sacred path of the pilgrim,
I wish to seek you with all my heart.
Yet I am often half-hearted in that desire
when I realize the cost of such a quest.
My life is rather comfortable and well-ordered
and fits me like an old shoe.
I fear the knowledge that if I romance you
I may lose what I hold dear.
Be compassionate with my hesitation
as I measure the cost of loving you.
I have read in the holy books
and know from the lives of the saints,
that you, my god, come as purifying fire
to burn away all that is not true.
I tremble at the thought
of you consuming those things that I love
and even my prized image of who I am.
Yet, I also want to know you more fully;
help me to embrace the awesome implications
of my inviting you to enter my life.
Enlarge my half-hearted love
with the ageless truth
that if I seek your kingdom first,
seek to be fully possessed by you,
everything I need shall be given me,
and happiness beyond my wildest dreams
shall be mine.
Come today, Creator of elephants and saints,
and be my friend.
And I realized that there is a lot more going on.
I realized that I’m not just giving up or changing parts of my life, nor am I intentionally making changes to my life. Rather, I am giving myself over to a change, giving myself over to the service of God. I am stepping into a role that carries a holy and sacred calling. I am saying Yes, I am willing to be different. I am allowing the reality of God to change my reality. Like a magnet being wrapped in copper coil and run through with electricity, my very polarity is changing. Like a length of iron being heated up and hammered into a sword, I am being strengthened. Like a piece of wood burning in a fire, my chemical makeup is altering.
And as hard as I have worked to change myself for the better, God is taking those things and changing me for good.
The change is indeed unsettling. And I don’t know if everyone who enters seminary goes through this – maybe others have always just known, or have had an easier time letting go of control, trusting God. I know it’s been hard for me to put my weight down on the “trusting God” thing; I’ve been angry with the Divine for many years, and I’m unsure of my footing.
And that in itself is a little sad.
But as unsettled as I feel… as sad and unsure… I know that even this is a good sad.
What’s funny is that just last night at Wellspring, I was expressing my deep fear that this had all passed me by… that I would not get in, and then what?
The “then what” question has been weighing on me for a while. What if I didn’t get in? What path would I pursue? How would I manage to find my ministry? Would I apply elsewhere? Would I say “this is a sign”? Would I slink back to my congregation with failure on my face?
I was actually thinking about writing on this today…and then I got the mail.
Of course, first was the panic, as it was a VERY SLIM ENVELOPE. That’s never a good sign… that’s usually a “thanks, but no” letter.
So imagine my surprise and joy when I read “congratulations!”
I’m still floating…and grinning… going to meet with my minister shortly before choir; she’ll be so pleased.
So… I visited Meadville Lombard – a great trip, great place, great people. (Shout outs to Justine Urbikas, Tina Porter, Qiyamah Rahman, and Christine Robinson!)
After visiting, I sat down with Carl and outlined the pros and cons of Meadville v. Union. And I’ve made a decision, largely based on a question put to me by Tina Porter at lunch. She said, “are you going to seminary to become a minister or are you going to seminary to go to seminary?”
Truth be told, I don’t know what my ministry will look like, but I know I don’t want traditional parish ministry…and to their credit, Meadville Lombard knows that is what they do. Their program is amazing, getting you immersed in the congregation and on the ground as much as possible. By the time you get your M. Div, you’ve Been There and understand more about the administration, politics, stewardship, and caring that goes into parish ministry than you’d get from books. It’s focused, the way a technical school may be focused on getting you ready for a system admin position; you walk out “shovel ready”.
And that’s not what I want.
I am more excited to let my sense of ministry grow organically… see what’s out there, what the conversations are, see how my experience in a multi-cultural, multi-denominational, multi-multi-multi instution like Union might shape me.
Any minute now my ship is coming in I’ll keep checking the horizon And I’ll stand on the bow And feel the waves come crashing Come crashing down, down, down on me
And you said,”Be still, my love Open up your heart Let the light shine in” Don’t you understand? I already have a plan I’m waiting for my real life to begin
They say that we teach what we most need to learn – and that is no truer than it is at this very moment. I’d like to tell you some things about me, and maybe the story will shed some light on today’s theme, starting here, starting now. I realized about a month ago, rather sheepishly I might add, that I’ve always been waiting for something in order to get my life on track, waiting for something so I could accomplish my goals. “Just as soon as I finish school”… “Just as soon as I get a raise”… “Once the check comes in”…“As soon as I meet someone”… “Once I move”… “After I lose weight”…. And the second part of those sentences promises a wonderful future. An educated, rich, loving, beautiful, thin future. The “just as soons” got even sharper in 2004, when I quit my corporate job due to mental and physical stress. I moved back here from NC, full of “just as soons” – getting a new job, moving out of my sister’s house, then of course the 18 months of “just as soon as the next doctor’s appointment… test… surgery” as I dealt with a severely damaged lumbar disk. It seems I have spent my adult life waiting for something to happen, or get finished, so that I could begin approaching something called a goal. This is further complicated by a vision I once had. Maybe it was a dream, maybe it was a sleep-deprived hallucination, but it has stuck with me for over a decade. In my vision, I was in a spa, with women pampering me – manicure and pedicure, facials, peeled grapes, handsome, shirtless men fanning me with palm fronds – the whole nine yards. An older, attractive man (who was some sort of divine god-figure) leaned in behind me to kiss my cheek. But instead of a kiss, he whispered two words: “Not yet.” I have no idea for certain what he was referring to, but it was clear I wasn’t ready, that I must wait some more. And so, I have been waiting for “yet” for a decade. Now some of you may remember the last New Year’s sermon I gave in 2009. It was the first sermon of Linda Hoddy’s sabbatical, and I felt the weight of it. I spoke about the Church of 80% Sincerity – that when we give ourselves permission – the 20% or so – to mess up, we actually allow hope, love, and grace to come in. I spoke about being open to possibility, and not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I encouraged you all – and me – to allow for the ‘other shoe’ to be something good, not always something bad. It’s two years later now, and I have been better at this – much better. In these two years, I have been more aware that grace is there for the taking. My editing and publishing business has gone in some interesting directions, because I was open to the possibility rather than focused on a strict business plan. I let love in from a surprising place – Minneapolis – and that relationship daily reminds me of the possibilities of love without bounds. And – perhaps most significantly – being open to possibility, open to grace, and open to the messages the Divine has for all of us if only we have ears to hear, has led me to realize that the sermon I gave in early 2009 was the first major clue that it is time for me to pursue ministry as a formal path, one I decided to follow actively a month or so ago. Now you’d think that all is sunshine and roses. Business! Love! Ministry! Joy unbounded and rapture divine! And “yet” is finally here! But… no. Because just like my life before 2009, I am still waiting. Maybe the other shoe is Cinderella’s glass slipper, rather than a heavy work boot that’s going to knock me out. But I am still waiting…and the waiting is driving me nuts. On the professional side, I am waiting for a number of clients to say “go” on their projects. I am still waiting for book sales to take off, for the right reviews, for the million dollar project. My relationship is in waiting mode – waiting for his youngest to graduate from high school, waiting to see what will happen with my career path, waiting for something to make the future more clear for us. And ministry – I have begun applying to seminaries, but there’s waiting for acceptance, waiting to see if I can afford to go, waiting for some sign that this truly is the path I’m supposed to be on and not just a diversion. All of these things seem dependent upon each other, as if I’ll know what to do on all counts if even one of them breaks loose. As Colin Hay sang, “I’m waiting for my real life to begin.” I realized this while speaking with my spiritual director last month. I suppose it was appropriate that I started talking about waiting during Advent – `tis the season, you might say. I spoke to him about feeling paralyzed by the waiting, as if the waiting was stopping me from doing anything else. He said to me, “stop stopping” – in other words, stop letting the promise of “just as soon” keep me from living now. After we spoke, I thought of Moses, leading his people through the desert for 40 years. Now I have a feeling that the actually number is quite different, and that after following a man who refused to ask for directions, it only FELT like 40 years, but let’s assume it is true. Forty years of wandering, seeking the promised land. “Just as soon as we get there”… a big “just as soon” – perhaps the biggest there is. But during those 40 years, people died, babies were born, grew up, fell in love, had kids of their own. Food was found and prepared. Life happened – a whole new generation finished a journey started by their parents and grandparents. But what we remember is the big goal and 40 years, not the life that happened in the meantime. For Moses and Company, the “just as soon” was all that mattered. It was indeed a test of faith, and I don’t mean to dismiss that in the least. As I sit with my wondering about seminary, a certain amount of faith is required that if it is meant to be, all will work out. But what happens in the mean time? As we know, the “meantime” can be a mean time – full of pain, angst, and worry. Now I’m not sure this is true, as I’m just now thinking about this, but I suspect that the meantime can be less mean when we live right now, in this moment, not in the meantime. In other words, be here now. I know, I know, it’s what the Buddhists have been trying to tell me for years. Or at the very least, Eckhart Tolle. I will admit: I resisted reading The Power of Now; I’m one of those people who gets put off by hype, and once Oprah had this author in her sights, that was it for me. But now, after the hype has died down, I’m willing to look. I haven’t read it all yet, but I did get a good start, and fortunately, Tolle presented the real gem of the piece early on, on page 35:
Realize deeply that the present moment is all you will ever have. Make now the primary focus of your life. Whereas before you dwelt in time and paid brief visits to the now, have your dwelling place in the now and pay brief visits to the past and future. Always say ‘yes’ to the present moment.
Easier said than done, I know. Frustratingly so, I’d add, especially since our culture is driven by “just as soons.” After all, we are immersed in an ego-driven, over-hyped, ambition-led society. We believe, thus, that we are incomplete. Tolle points out that this sense of not being whole “manifests as the unsettling and constant feeling of not being worthy or good enough.” We then enter a spiraling pattern of gratifying that need to feel worthy, to feel complete – and as soon as we do that, there’s more holes to fill. Sometimes we try to fill the holes we see in ourselves with material objects, sometimes with degrees, sometimes with relationships. We are always striving for something more, and we measure the size of those holes to determine our self-worth. Whether we think we need more knowledge, more skill, more love, more toys, or more experiences, it never seems to end. We are so good at striving, we have an entire industry built around goal setting and planning. We all know the aphorism, “those who fail to plan, plan to fail.” But it seems that our goal-setting ways leave Now behind. As Linda Hoddy once said to me, setting goals kills the moment. And yet, goal setting and future planning is important. Having a vision of our life five or ten years out with a strategic plan for implementation does give us direction. It helps us figure out where to go next. And heck, entire religions are built on an ultimate goal – heaven, or some form of life after death. But being focused only on the goal means we probably aren’t living. And it probably means we are trying to control too much. There is a Sandra Bullock film called 28 Days, which takes place at a rehab center in the woods. Among her fellow patients is Eddie, a major league pitcher played by Viggo Mortensen. Having received a box of balls from his coach, Eddie goes into the woods to pitch balls against a mattress with a strike zone drawn in. Bullock’s character, Gwen comes up behind him, picks up a ball, and pitches it wildly at the mattress, missing by a mile. As she turns to go, she grumbles, “great, another thing I suck at.” Eddie stops her and asks, “what were you thinking about when you threw the ball?” She responds that she was thinking about hitting the mattress. Eddie tells her it’s all wrong: “You get locked in on the strike zone, next thing you know, it’s looking the size of a peanut. And you’re thinking, ‘Damn, I gotta get that little ball in there?’ You’ve psyched yourself right out of the game.” He tells her to think about the little things – the things you can control. “You can control your stance, your balance, your release, your follow-through,” he says. “When you let go of the ball, it’s over. You don’t have any say in what happens down there. That’s somebody else’s job.” Eddie hands Gwen another ball, helps her get into position, and tells her to close her eyes. She thinks he is nuts, but she tries it, and lands the pitch clearly in the strike zone. Letting go of control. Being focused on the moment. Seems to me this might be a good way to get life going. But now the pragmatist in me is thinking about this and saying, “yeah, so? Now what do I do with it? How do I do it? It’s easy to talk about letting go and being in the now. But talk is cheap, Debus.” Yes, my inner pragmatist has an attitude. But she’s right: how do we make it happen? I think the first clue comes from the Bible. Any time some pronouncement is being made, the person (or angel) saying it begins with one word: “Behold.” “Behold, the king walks before you.” “Behold the lamb of God.” “Behold, I bring good tidings of great joy.” “Behold the things that are in heaven and on earth.” Behold. Look. Hold on for a moment and be in this present place. We know it works – consider the mother at Wal-Mart scolding a child; she usually gets down to eye level and starts with, “now look at me”… to get the child’s focus. We value eye contact in people we’re speaking with, and making eye contact is the difference between catching your waiter’s attention and sitting with an empty cup of coffee. We gaze into our lover’s eyes, being present with them. We don’t look ahead, we look at. We hold. We stop. We get our attention focused. I’m sure this is what the whole “focus on your breath” thing is about when we meditate. I think my mind wanders too much when I do that. But when I look at something and focus on it, I am absolutely focused. For that moment, I stop. I look. I behold. The “just as soon” thing I’m waiting for doesn’t matter. The thing I look at – the words on a page, the image on the computer screen, the cat insinuating herself on my lap, the onion I am chopping, the flame of the candle – those are all happening now. And there is joy in that. Writing down the things you’re grateful for each day helps keep that joy fresh. It makes you focus on what’s happening instead of what may happen eventually. It doesn’t dissolve the worry forever, but in time, with practice, we can be more present and productive. I think that the more we let go, the more we focus on the Now, the more we enjoy the life we are living instead of pining for the life we want to lead, we might find joy in the living. We might find that our goals are actually easier to achieve. And, we might find we’re more open to possibilities for a brighter future, because we are paying attention to those things that are in front of us now.
THE ART OF MEANING 