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.
I’ve spent the better part of the last two days puzzling over Theodore Parker’s “The Transient and Permanent in Christianity”… and I honestly have no idea what to make of it.
I am with Parker when he talks about the permanent being truth, which he identifies as finding in God and Jesus. I see what he means when he argues that ritual, dogma, even biblical texts are transient, and we shouldn’t use them as our barometer for truth.
But what I am struggling with is the inevitable conclusion – that we don’t need ministers telling us what the scriptures mean, that we don’t even need scripture to know the truth of Jesus, that we only need our own experience. I want to ask Parker how we can know about Jesus if we discard the New Testament.. are we to only seek our particular, individual impressions? Rely on faulty oral tradition with a healthy dose of skepticism?
In my youth, I was highly attracted to the transcendentalists – I was all about the personal, individual experience of the transcendent God. And maybe I still am to some degree. But I find as I get older that we have rituals, stories, knowledge that we can share through the ages – traditions passed down through the collective conscious/unconscious – that are valid and crucial to being humans freely seeking.
I am willing to have my thoughts on Parker disproved – it may be that my interpretation is wrong. But I find myself in reading him, longing for something to hold on to.
This week, in our UU polity/history course (taught by the marvelous Rosemary Bray McNatt), we looked at our history, in particular our European roots.
This stuff is important, because context matters. It matters that theologians, ministers, and other thinkers – in different times and places – questioned the validity of the doctrine of the trinity. It matters that they puzzled over the freedom to practice religion for themselves. It matters that no matter how hard people tried, these anti-trinitarian and free church thoughts kept cropping up… in Spain, in Switzerland, in Poland, in Transylvania, in England.
Why does it matter? Why should we care about context?
To me, if we don’t know where we came from, we can’t know what formed us and what we bring into the future. Sure, on a daily basis, it doesn’t matter that John Bidle wrote unitarian tracts that got volumes of argument in response. It doesn’t matter on a daily basis that beliefs we hold sacred were considered such heresies, people were actually put to death.
But we must remember our history; we must embrace the fact that we are heretics, daring to question the status quo, so that we have the strength to question the status quo in our modern world – the status quo who claims to be Christian but doesn’t act like Jesus, the status quo who turns a blind eye to the world’s woes in order to focus on the self, the status quo who fears being called out for the sin of certainty.
When we talk about exemplars and pioneers in our congregations, we are often talking about people like James Reeb, Harriet Tubman, Albert Schweitzer, and Dorothea Dix – people who stand out in our relatively modern American history. But we should also be talking about Michael Servetus, Farenc David, John Bidle, and others who dared to stand up even in the midst of major Christian reformation and call for more freedom and more reason.
There’s a lot of talk about freedom and liberty these days, and whenever I hear the word freedom, my mind instantly goes to Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms and the beautiful interpretations by Normal Rockwell. In his 1941 state of the union address, FDR proposed people “everywhere in the world” ought to enjoy:
Freedom of speech and expression
Freedom of worship
Freedom from want
Freedom from fear
These freedoms are much of what Unitarian Universalism is about – we speak of them in our principles, which affirm, among other things, the free and responsible search for truth and meaning; the right of conscience; the use of the democratic process; the goal of world community; and Justice, equity and compassion in human relations.
Noble – strong – affirming. But as I read our principles, and as I think about FDR’s four freedoms, something is missing.
And it’s something we don’t seem to embrace, almost as though we don’t believe it is our right to have it. That something is joy.
We are, as Garrison Keillor puts it, “God’s Frozen people.” Given a choice at death between spending eternity in the joy of heaven or in a discussion about the existence of heaven, UUs will choose the discussion. We are incredibly earnest, hardworking, compassionate people, who forget how funny the church parking lots full of Priuses with “coexist” bumper stickers look to outsiders. We wonder in amazement when during a committee meeting check-in someone actually has good news.
A search of the Unitarian Universalist Association’s Worship Web returns ZERO results for the keyword ‘joy’.
There is a little joy in our hymnal – we get “Joy to the World” at Christmastime and “There Is More Joy Somewhere” – but that’s about it.
We don’t tend to be expressive in our worship.
Some of our African-American ministers have suggested that if we were more joyful, and more expressive about our joy in our worship, we would be a long way toward the multicultural vision we have for our denomination. But many outside of the protestant European-American diaspora find our services – as a rule – stuffy, full of somber reflection, lacking in play and laughter.
We stifle our joy, because we are serious people in serious times.
Why are we not joyful? Why all the embarrassment about being happy? Why do we not feel free for joy?
I pick on UUs a little, much like we pick on our sisters and nephews and cousins, out of love and long-standing relationship. I was born into a Unitarian family, and while my spiritual journey took me out of our congregations for many years, my return was much like that of the prodigal son. I was welcomed back in, without question, my chosen congregation, upstate in Saratoga Springs, making me feel like a place had always been saved for me. Like the father in the New Testament parable, our denomination said “let us celebrate and rejoice, for she was lost and now has been found.”
So I pick on us a little, because I know that given a little prod, a little permission, we can embrace our freedom for joy.
Now I hear you thinking, “there is so much suffering in the world! How can we possibly be joyful? We live in such a difficult, tragic world, that it is a denial of our common darkness to jump for joy!” And you might, rightly, quote theologian Fredrick Buechner to me, who said, “Compassion… is the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too.”
If we postpone joy until all the world is fed and clothed and peaceful and free – if we postpone joy until FDR’s four freedoms are a reality – we will spend generations in a dark and joyless world.
And that is so sad, for joy is an upswelling of life, of spirit, a blossoming of freedom. We are here for joy; philosopher Pierre Teilhard de Chardin would add that “Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God.” Joy is what makes life worthwhile. And yes, we can be joyful AND work to make the world just and safe and free; as poet Kahil Gibran said, “He who has not looked on Sorrow will never see Joy.” Joseph Campbell advises us to “Participate joyfully in the sorrows of the world. We cannot cure the world of sorrows, but we can choose to live in joy.”
A few years ago, two of the teens from our congregation spent a week working on a project in a poor neighborhood in the city of San Salvador; their project? Paint a mural. Studies have shown that brightly colored murals on long, foreboding walls and abandoned buildings will actually bring crime rates down. Alongside other Americans, the priests who ran the project, and some of the neighborhood’s teens, Alie and Emma painted by day and wondered by night – each evening, the families in this neighborhood would prepare sumptuous meals despite their own poverty; and they would dance and sing with wild abandon in celebration of these visitors from the north. Alie remarked to one of the priests how surprised she was that these people who had no running water, little money, meager and crowded homes, and a constant fear of crime, disease, and death, would be so joyful. The priest replied that when you have literally nothing, you celebrate everything you do have – even if all you have is a soul touched by God. Even in shockingly oppressive conditions, there is one freedom no one can take away; your joy. Or as composer Richard Wagner put it, “Joy is not in things, it is in us.”
Now this isn’t to say that we should only look on the bright side in the face of injustice. We don’t have to look far to see that we’re in a real pickle:
Man-made climate change is causing massive disasters, unwieldy temperature fluctuations, species extinctions, and a pile of consequences we can’t imagine.
There is a clear and present danger to women’s health, women’s rights, and women’s dignity, with more and more draconian laws being passed to turn back 100 years of progress.
As a country, we have failed the First Nations miserably, and continue to do so.
Clean energy solutions are being sidelined in favor of outrageous greed and ill-advised big oil interests.
The Borderlands continue to be a crucible for racism, poverty, oppression, and violence.
Veterans are being slighted – they are homeless, suffering with PTSD and often addictions. And they aren’t getting their due.
Religion is being used as a weapon against nearly everyone – and ‘freedom of religion’ is being perverted for deleterious causes.
Sexual orientation and gender identity are being so demonized, our LGBTQ and genderQueer youth are killing themselves.
Income inequality isn’t just a catch-phrase but a horrific reality that is causing starvation, homelessness, disease, and unease.
Anti-union sentiments assault workers of every stripe.
Anti-education sentiments are destroying primary and secondary education – and threaten post-secondary education as well.
Racism thrives.
Are you depressed yet? Are you angry yet? Angry enough to do something? Good. In his book Between Heaven and Mirth, Jesuit priest James Martin writes, “The anger that rises in you over an unjust situation may be a sign that God is moving you to address that injustice. …but where is joy then? It comes from an awareness that God is working through the compassion you feel.” And remember: you don’t have to do everything – many hands make light work. And those hands are even lighter when they are accompanied by a smile, a laugh, and a little hope.
When you listen to the songs created by Africans who were enslaved in this country, something sticks out: they are all remarkably hopeful. Again, you would think a people so horribly and appallingly oppressed, would have little to be hopeful about; yet it is hope and joy that is the organic pulse of life, not oppression. It is faith, born in the midst of deep suffering, that allows the oppressed to hope for liberation and a vision of freedom. Joy and hope exist in the spirituals of the 19th century, and the blues of the 20th century; even today, as theologian James Cone remarks, joy and hope exist in the sermons, songs, and stories of the oppressed as they “respond to the vision that stamps dignity upon their personhood.”
Dignity.
So to be joyful is to be dignified!?
Why not? What, in the rule books, says we have to be stoic in order to carry dignity? Well, besides Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations – a rule book for Stoics. In fact, aren’t we more attracted to people who express joy rather than hide it behind the façade of gravitas? I think of Teresa of Avila, who said “let each of us humbly use joy to cheer one another.”
Cheering each other with joy is easy, because joy is contagious. When we express joy – through laughter, and dancing, and cheering, and singing, and even smiling – we share a little of that divinity with each other, and maybe help each other.
How many times have you been in a rotten mood and have been wallowing in it? You know the kind – the day started badly from the moment you put your feet on the cold floor made dismayingly damp by the puppy. Then there was no hot water in the shower. You spilled the used, wet coffee grounds on the counter. And once you got to work, you received a text from your daughter, upset because you forgot to sign the permission slip for today’s field trip. You are in a foul mood, and no one better get in your way. You wallow in it. You grumble audibly. You scowl and curse and fume, creating a PigPen-like cloud of disconsolate misery that follows wherever you go.
And then some wiseacre cracks a joke. You force yourself to not smile. “I’m not in the mood” you might say. But instead of leaving, this guy keeps it up, ribbing you playfully, maybe telling you how it could be worse – that you could have had your arms full of burgers and fries and shakes and trip on the door jamb just as you’re entering the room of your friends waiting for their lunches…. Or that you could have watched your bookbag full of final exam essays blow off the top of your car as you pulled away from the street, papers flying all over including squarely in the face of your neighbor – the judge, or how you could have hit a puddle just right so that it created a wave that drenched three nuns standing on the curb. You stifle your laugh and your lighthearted tormentor is not gonna let up and you fight it and fight it … until dammit, you can’t help it… and you guffaw.
And you feel a little better. Maybe the stress of the morning releases a little. Maybe you realize that sometimes we just have lousy mornings, and they help us appreciate the good ones a bit more. We laugh at ourselves and psychologically get out of our own way. Trappist monk Thomas Merton felt that “the main reason we have so little joy is that we take ourselves too seriously.” Reverend David Robb, over at All Souls, says that “those who can laugh at themselves can also look at themselves critically, but not harshly, as key element of emotional growth.”
That’s… joy.
Balm for a troubled soul.
The Persian mystic Hafiz would call it “the glorious sound of a soul waking up.”
Again, the caveat – I’m not saying we have to be joyful all the time. Sadness, anger, fear, anxiety – they’re all natural responses, and even desirable. They show we are emotionally alive. But joy shouldn’t be left out of that mix; nor should our freedom to express it. And maybe Joy – rather than melancholy or bitterness or sadness – maybe Joy should be our default setting.
So how do we all embrace our freedom for joy?
First: practice gratitude.
It doesn’t take much: you can start by thinking of one thing you are grateful for right this moment. Now practice that every day – like all new skills, start small – take one moment. Then build it up – maybe be grateful for something when you wake up (I’m grateful I woke up) and when you go to bed (I’m grateful for clean sheets). Add a little gratitude to your meals (I’m grateful for this food) and your commute (I’m grateful there’s a seat on the bus), and before you know it, you’ll be practicing gratitude. And you all know what happens when you are grateful for something – BAM! A little joy comes in.
Next: Practice the Principle of Delayed Understanding.
Sometimes we get so busy focusing on what is happening as it is happening, we forget to experience what is happening. We’re constantly analyzing it, looking for angles, and we get serious and thoughtful and then our thoughts take us someplace that might be sad or annoying and we start wondering why this came up and do I really blame my mother and maybe my cat would like me more if I wore catnip-scented perfume and before you know it, you’ve missed the moment.
Philosopher Soren Kierkegaard says that life is lived forward but understood backward; motivational speaker David Roche calls this the principle of delayed understanding. If we would just let go, we’ll experience what’s happening just fine and remember it later. The yogi Ram Dass would tell us to “be here now” – yes, it’s a way to find peace, but it’s also a way to find joy. Figure out what it all means later…be here now.
Third – and I’ll close with this idea, which is a riff off Ghandi – be the joy you want to see in the world.
This one is a bit tougher. Many of us work or study in places that are full of strife, conflict, negativity, and at the very least, complaining. The cliché misery loves company is a cliché because it’s true. It’s easier to say “me too” when someone complains than say “gee, not me!” Yet if we remember that We are not our Environment – and that we have an effect on our environment – then we can hold on to those moments of gratitude, the contagion of humor, the perspectives that allow us to share a smile instead of a frown – and maybe bring a little joy in. You are in a joyless place? Be joyful. Not sticky sweet Disney princess joyful – but honestly, gratefully, mirthfully joyful. Translate that to our congregations: be joyful in worship, in committee meetings, working for justice, caring for our community. We are already known as the Church of the Yellow Shirts – let us also be known as the Religion of Joy.
I’ve had plenty of traumas in my life – and I have worked at some soulless places. But one comment I get constantly is “you are always smiling.” In fact, when I told some colleagues I was preaching on joy, they said “there’s no one better – you embody joy.” I think my colleagues were being kind, because a lot of times it’s not easy to be joyful. I do suffer from episodic depression. I do go through spells of deep mourning and melancholy. But because I know – and remember most of the time – that I am made for joy, I can look at the world with hope. Yes, I am an optimist – because the alternative is unbearable. Despite the pain, it’s much more bearable to let joy be my default position.
So let us embrace this freedom, and let joy propel us and buoy us as we work to nurture the world. As the writer of Ecclesiastes says, “I commend enjoyment, for there is nothing better for people under the sun than to eat, drink, and be merry; for this will go with them in their toil through the days of life that God gives them under the sun.”
If freedom is the ability to make choices, let us be free to make a choice for joy.
Note: This was originally written as a sermon, delivered at the UU Congregation of Queens. To read it in its original form, click here.
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.
My friend Nan said this to me yesterday while we were having coffee to discuss the practical arrangements of my staying in her home while attending seminary. We were talking about what I want to do in ministry, and she was telling me what she saw as my gifts – my theatricality, my practicality, my gentleness, my insight, and my humility.
I agreed that on the first few, I could see it too. I have a deep background in theatre, which I know helps me when it comes to preaching and the worship arts. I have been both onstage and backstage, so I know the practical side of things. And being a GenXer, I have a bit of that pragmatic streak common in my generation. Gentleness, well, I’m working on that. I think I still have sharpness around the edges that are offputting to me and others. Insight? Well, I suppose it smore that I have a little more confidence that if I’m thinking about something, others may be too, and may wish to hear what I have to say on the topic.
But humility? How do you react to that? “Why yes, I do bring humility” sounds so… well, NOT humble. “Nah, I have no humility” is too self-depricating or snarky. I’m reminded of that funny Mac Davis tune (remember him?), “Oh Lord, It’s Hard to Be Humble”:
(Ah, Muppets. But I digress.)
So what IS humility? And how do you accept it as a quality you own?
Or… is it more like Grace… something that is a gift from the Divine, something you really only notice once it’s passed?
Or… is it something that you can’t ever own, or name for yourself, but only hope to achieve it in the abstract?
A dictionary definition calls humilitythe state of being modest, respectful, egoless. Interestingly, its Latin root, humilitas, means “grounded”…. something I never thought of until I looked it up just now. So maybe (wow, talk about abruptly altering the course of a blog post!), when we embrace being grounded – rather than being too much in our heads, too much in our personalities, too much in our ego selves – we are humble.
Now this is something I can wrap my head around. I know I am my best self when I get out of my own way. This doesn’t mean I don’t exist; I’m not a fan of the kind of egolessness that makes us disappear. I believe we are here, as ego-filled, individual, thinking humans for a purpose, and that purpose can’t be to disappear again into a singularity. Rather, when I get out of my own way, I am less likely to take things too personally, less likely to see things only from my point of view, less likely to measure myself against others. When I get out of my own way, I am more likely to have clear thoughts, enjoy the situation, and hear the joys, pains, sorrows, anger, and contentment of others. I am more likely to notice those moments of grace. I am more likely to be awed by all of Creation. And I am more likely to share that awe with others.
So…the paradox. Maybe it’s not such a paradox after all. Maybe accepting a compliment such as the one I got from Nan yesterday is about knowing a different meaning for humility and responding, “yes, thank you, I feel it is important to get out of my own way and let things happen.” How others interpret that may not matter – but it may be easier to handle being called humble and being graceful enough to accept it.
I will end with this quote from William Temple, Archbishop of Cantebury during the Second World War: “Humility does not mean thinking less of yourself than of other people, nor does it mean having a low opinion of your own gifts. It means freedom from thinking about yourself at all.”
At the end of the Friday morning worship at General Assembly, one of my fellow offsite delegates typed into the chat box, that was a moving service. Worship is my least favorite part of being a UU.
As someone whose probable program focus will be preaching and worship, I was floored. Isn’t that kinda the point of belonging to a congregation? If it’s for social or justice reasons, there are lots of other places to go, whereas a congregation puts all that together with a spiritual dimension.
As I contemplated this, I remembered a conversation I had with a member of another local congregation about the CRUUNY joint service. I was excited because we were going to have a lot of music – organ, choir, congregational singing, and even a multigen rock band. She sighed and said, I don’t think I’ll go then. I dislike music in a service. I’d rather just hear a sermon and some readings.
Again, I was floored. I was in the first class to pursue the Music Leadership Credentialling certification (which I dropped when a back injury kept me out of commission/having surgeries for 18 months). What’s the point of worship services if there isn’t music? If all you care about are the words, there are plenty of books and lectures.
And then I recalled a conversation in our Stewardship committee about Time, Talent, and Treasure. We all agreed that members should be willing to make an investment in all three, but what did Time mean, exactly? Was time the hours spent in Sunday services and at church-wide events? Or was it okay if someone didn’t come to church but attended a small group ministry once a month? Do we ask for a commitment to the one hour a week that everyone shares (as opposed to the many more hours we share in small groups, committees, task forces, etc.)? If you’re all about the small connections, then…what?
All of this leads me to a larger question, one I’m not sure I have the answer to yet, but one which I’m willing to entertain discussion on: does worship matter? Does it matter to a person’s spiritual development, to their connections, to their expression of compassion/acceptance/courage/love/trust/justice/service? Does going to a worship service (whether in person or online) make a difference?
My gut says it does. My gut says that without worship, we are nothing more than a social club with a service focus. Without worship, we forget how to enact the deeper parts of ourselves, which long remember the rituals of our ancient ancestors. Without worship, we become isolated, away from the interconnected web of which we are a part. Without worship, we lose touch with the sacred.
And more…without all the elements of worship – sights and sounds, touch and scents, words, music, movement, and silence – we are missing ways to access our own Divine spirit, as well as that which we define as Divine that is outside ourselves.
I think, too, worship matters for groups. For several years, I was what they call a solitary practitioner in the pagan tradition. I held rituals, by myself. I meditated, sang, danced, incanted, by myself. And half the time, I gave up before I had finished, because it felt empty or I felt silly. When I was in ritual with even one other person, suddenly there was meaning. A shared experience. A connection.
It’s this connection that then leads me on to act. just being with other people in scared space makes me want to be a better person, more engaged, more connected. They don’t tell me to, I feel it. I sing it. I smell it and touch it and taste it.
And…if we are to understand who we are and where we are going, it helps to share this experience time and time again, together, in worship, in community.
So… I was blessed to be an offsite delegate to General Assembly this year – an experiment to see if having people connected remotely would work, not just for watching, but for participating – speaking, voting, engaging. Despite a couple of technical glitches and some need for adjustments to process, overall, it was great, and I’m pleased to say that the assembled voted to change the bylaws to include offsite delegates.
But that’s only part of the story.
What I’ve been reflecting on the last few days is the difference between my experience and that of onsite delegates. Namely, I’ve been reading a lot about escallators, rain, access issues, confusion on the floor, crowding. Yes, they’re talking too about the votes, about Karen Armstrong’s stunning Ware Lecture, Kaaren Anderson’s invigorating Sunday sermon, about being together when NY passed marriage equality… but it’s very gritty too.
Or to put it in Woodstock terms: muddy.
As an offsite delegate, there was no mud. No crowding, no endless escallators, no rain on the rally (although here in upstate NY we had plenty of rain… one plenary session was interrupted by a knock on the door; an old man with a beard asked me if I knew what a cubit is…). Instead, the experience let me immerse in the messages. I was in a comfortable chair in a comfortable space and I could get a drink or a snack and not disrupt the procedings. I could listen in rapt attention without disturbances of those around me. And I didn’t get muddy.
I bring this up, because I think that while there is something amazing about incarnation – being IN PERSON – there is something a bit magical too about being present remotely, much as Joni Mitchell was during Woodstock. (For those who don’t know, she was slated to be there toward the end, but by the time she arrived, access was blocked and she stayed in town.) She instead caught the spirit and vision of the event, and wrote the seminal song about it:
And so… I feel a bit like Joni Mitchell. I got to hear the incredible messages, catch the spirit and vision, which I think can be summed up in Kaaren’s phrase “Connection and Compassion”…. something happened at this GA; we coalesced as a denomination. We found our heart, we found our message. We are preparing for an incredible journey at next year’s GA, and thank God we know what we’re saying now.
I’m not sure if on-the-ground observers could see the change…maybe they did. I know I did, watching it, unmuddied, open to the spirit and vision and voice of our faith.
I’m exhausted…but thrilled. And I feel invigorated.
Rev. Scott Alexander, lately of the Vero Beach congregation, shared a message of hope, excitement, and invigoration. He woke me up when he said that there are more people who believe they were abducted by aliens than are Unitarian Universalist. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? What are we missing? How are we not getting our message out?
For me, it helped me even more clearly define why I am hearing the call to ministry. Namely, I want more people to know. I have been so helped and healed by this faith, so invigorated and comforted by this denomination. If it can pull me from the depths and help me with major crises, surely it can help others. I want others to KNOW it can help them.
And of course, the question is “how”? We tend to be a cold and cerebral crowd… it seems the heart is missing sometimes.
I remember Kaaren Anderson speaking at District Assembly a few years ago (she did the Gould Discourse), and she used the “E” word: Evangelism. Her point was that we too have incredibly good news to share, so we should share it. Indeed, much of what she shared was practical – getting feet on the ground, getting the congregation organized to handle the effects of outreach. But I have kept the word “evangelism” in my pocket since then, wondering how we can do it effectively and not offensively, wondering how to share our message, or at times, even what our message is.
It seems to me we’ve not done a very good job defining who we are and what we’re about. No wonder our symbol is the Question Mark…
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.
THE ART OF MEANING 