“What a Friend” by Mark W. Harris
December 11, 2016 – First Parish of Watertown, Unitarian Universalist
Opening Words – from Beverly and David Bumbaugh
Our church exists to proclaim the gospel that each human being is infinitely precious, that the meaning of our lives lies hidden in our interactions with each other. We wish to be a church where we encounter each other with wonder, appreciation, and expectation, where we call out of each other strengths, wisdom, and compassion that we never knew we had.
Reading – from The Secret Chord by Geraldine Brooks
Our reading this morning comes from a fictionalized account of the story of King David from the Hebrew Scriptures. The famous story of friendship in the Bible is that between David and Jonathan, Saul’s son, but this reading depicts a conversation between Nathan, David’s servant and seer, who becomes his friend and confidant and helps him work through all the pain he has experienced because of his own actions and those of his children.
As I have mentioned in previous sermons, I am not someone who logs into Facebook very much, except when it comes to receiving birthday greetings. Every year when my birthday rolls around countless people seem to wish me a happy birthday. While I can say it is just some quick push of the button, it does make me feel like someone is thinking of me. This week I was motivated to post something and not only be a selfish recipient. I saw that our former First Parish member and student of mine, Morgan McLean had a birthday. I had not communicated with her in some time, and so not only wished her a happy birthday, but also mentioned how her new ministerial settlement in Davis, CA is the site of my old internship church. She wrote back, noting that she needed to learn more church history. I don’t know if this was a reference to reaping more from my well of knowledge, or that I had become so old that I was now part of church history. She concluded by saying Miss You!
I have hundreds of UU colleagues who are Facebook friends, and yet I do not communicate with them regularly, and in fact, barely know most of them. They are not close friends , but even for those who once were, our ability to communicate is impeded by distance.. Ministry is a lonely profession. You might say that is ridiculous because we ministers are around people all the time. Yet many of us have heeded a call that has landed us far away from those who we were once closet to. It also seems we all get tied up in the day to day living of our lives, and time spent with those who were once your dearest friends is limited to an occasional email or a lunch at the annual General Assembly. Those of us who serve a parish devote most of our lives to the parish, which means most time and energy is given over to our calling. The perennial question for ministers is can parishioners be your friends? Even if we spend some social time with parishioners it becomes a complicated question. A minister may really like and communicate well with certain parishioners and enjoy spending time together, but can a minister cross the line between minister and parishioner to reveal intimate details about our lives? At some point you have to become minister to this person, and the idea of a close friendship where you can say anything, and merely be yourself is limited. Moreover, parishioners must be treated equally in a minister’s purview, and thus befriending certain people means, you do not befriend others. Of all people, the minister has to be fair.
Finding friends in the parish, though, is not fair for anyone. This question of friendship arose because we were speaking at a meeting recently of why people may stop coming to our church. The general response seems to be that while most people find the church to be a warm, welcoming place at first, those who leave in a year or two do so because they did not make a personal connection. I have had many people tell me this after they had already left, and I tracked them down to ask why. While the preaching may be stimulating, the music awesome, and the RE supportive and helpful, these features will not seal the deal on a faith commitment unless something happens personally that is supportive, social, fun, enlightening, and maybe even life changing. Some may feel that they already have enough friends, or they come to be reassured by the presence and company of their old friends, or they may even say that this is not their community of friends, but that they only come here for services. I can’t demand that you change your patterns of why you come to church or why you stay, but I do want to suggest that making new friends will bring experiences, growth, support and maybe even challenge that you would not know otherwise. And a reminder that many of those people who walk through our doors are looking to find a friend.
Every personal encounter is not ripe soil for cultivating a friendship. Over Thanksgiving many of us were paranoid that there were going to be ugly conversations with family or friends who happened to be supporters of the political opposition. But here at First Parish the odds of you finding someone here who shares your political, social and religious values is quite high. Religiously, we begin with certain values. In the fundamentalist church of my childhood we used to sing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
“What a Friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry.
Everything to God in prayer!”
While no one is likely to take up that song in our UU church, the idea of modeling friendship is important. We may not have a religious deity to share our griefs with, or a source of solace to bring our reflections to for relief, but we are a source of connection in what we can offer to each other. The other day my son was saying you would think that in a church everyone would get along. Most of us know that is not the case. Some say their most difficult encounters occur in such a community. We know that personalities clash, that even if we don’t believe in that sin I sang about as a child, we understand people are flawed in their expressions and often judge others or react to personal challenges with anger. Friendships are broken, even as they are created. Friendships can also encourage us to reflect on our behavior, seek forgiveness, and become more compassionate towards others.
Friendship is one of the key examples that is made of Jesus’ ministry. The other night I had a dream where I was with a group of people, and we were arguing about whether or not we would follow the Didache. What is that, you might ask? Only a historian would dream about the Didache which was an early Christian manual that outlined the organization of the church, taking it from an itinerant ministry to an actual institution. How do we make a church for everybody? For us it may mean making space for people both metaphorically and literally. Jesus had defined what a true friend was. It is ultimately found in laying down your life for another. While that may seem extreme, the implication is what are we willing to risk or sacrifice to be part of a community. Many of our UU congregations are reflecting on this very question as we approach the next four years. If there is a Muslim registry, for instance, would you be willing to register as a Muslim? Would you be willing to stand up for the life of another? Jesus says he calls his disciples friends because everything he learned from God he shared with them. He didn’t hold anything back. This would be true if we stood up with an ally, and said I am not going to let you be hurt, or judged by others. Jesus does this when he touches and heals the unclean, or the leper.
For many of us this reminds us of a time not long ago when the AIDS epidemic was in our midst. Many people, including President Reagan, made jokes about the gay lifestyle and the onset of AIDS. A general perception in some of the culture was gay men were being punished for their sins – the wages of sin is death. A recent book portrays the courage of the gay community not to be destroyed by such rhetoric, but to find inner strength to carry on with perseverance and patience until better health care and medicines could be found, and, of course, more general acceptance. One of my most engaging students I have ever taught, a young man named Mark, who was a member here when he was a Tufts student in the 1970’s, eventually succumbed to AIDS. I tried to keep in touch with him over the years, and realize I could have made more allies as I tried to do then by raising money and sponsoring healing services and giving care.
This is the first sign of friendship in the church. Are we willing to show compassion for each other? The classic example of a person who is caught up in a series of afflictions in the scriptures is Job. In Chapter 2, Job’s three friends hear of all the “evil that had come upon him,” and so they respond by coming “to condole with him and comfort him.” Fourteen chapters later he refers to them as “miserable comforters are you all.” What happened? The pastoral care team showed up, but they certainly were not very well trained. Maimonides, a Medieval scholar, said that Job’s friends represent three different positions concerning divine providence that we may hear from our friends. The first position of Eliphaz is that Job must have done something wrong to deserve this kind of punishment. This is the classic affirmation that “it’s your fault.” I might say “my heart went crazy because I climbed Mt. Kathadin this summer. I overdid it. As a friend you might be the opposite of Eliphaz, and say, it’s not your fault.
The second position is expressed by his friend Bildad. This is the idea that you are being tested, and will receive a greater reward if you hang in there. We sometimes translate this to mean that this suffering is good for you, and you will be a better person for having endured this. Finally, there is Zophar, whose position is most like ours, not punishment, or great reward, but simply that these terrible things are arbitrary, and sometimes we are just darn unlucky. In those circumstances the friend might say I am here for you, let me listen, or maybe eventually you might come to the realization to enjoy what you have been given, even if much is taken away.
In my first church in Palmer, I knew George, an army veteran of Vietnam, who had trouble finding work, and felt his service was not recognized. He often said that he felt he was being tested, and that God would never give him more than he could handle. I worried that his anger would boil over, and the test he felt would come to an end. My happiest time with him was when we recognized his military service one Sunday. He did not feel so alone or shunned. His reward was not a great job, or even getting out of his trailer, but that someone heard him and honored his life. He stayed and found friends.
Muhammad Ali once said, “Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It’s not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything.” But making friends does not come naturally for many of us. Perhaps we are incorrigible introverts who fear new situations and new people, and so social hour feels like running the gauntlet. It is hard to make friends in a church because attendance does not mean automatic friendship. The person sitting next to you may be friendly, but it does not mean they are your friend. And it doesn’t mean that something is wrong with the church, if you don’t make a friend. You don’t make friends merely by showing up. It takes time to make friends. It also takes effort. Do you go to small group ministry, or potlucks or sing in the choir? Do you put yourself out there to be part of situations that will help you build friendships? I know I am an introvert, too. I don’t like people either, but if you want to be with wonderful, friendly people, then you have to be one of those wonderful people. Put yourself in a place where you can speak, or sing or be heard or give back in some way. Go to things. You are not going to find friends at church, but rather you must make friends at church. You have all those same values to share. You have that desire to grow. You have met these people. Now all it takes is the willingness to risk making friends.
I find I must keep at it. Making friends was not something I learned in school. My parents were not good models. They both worked all the time, and no one ever came to our house. As a boy I learned that to be a friend was to be part of a group or gang. We traveled in packs and played ball, or shot each other in war over and over again. Later we hung out, which is fun with friends, but friendship is more than hanging out, although not a bad idea to get a start at church. Friendships are people to be with and keep you company. But what of this issue of intimacy? Friendship progressed with me when I shared time with a colleague who was also a Dad, and lived nearby. And even though our situations and circumstances changed, we remained friends until he was removed from ministerial fellowship for conduct unbecoming, and perhaps because he was embarrassed by his actions, or didn’t trust our friendship, we mostly fell out of touch, and when I saw him again it was not the same. It is hard for men to share their intimate feelings perhaps because of upbringing or enculturation. Working on maintaining friendships is something I still struggle with. As I wrote this sermon I took time to send an email to a friend who I didn’t get a chance to connect with at a recent conference. I miss him. Just as Morgan said, she missed me. Taking time to call or email, I have learned after all these years that my friends are not just there to be found, but I must be making and remaking those friendships, or I lose my connections to others, and lose my connection to a greater, more meaningful life.
One of the great Biblical examples of friendship is found between King David and Saul’s son Jonathan, who stands by David even as Saul pursues David to kill him. David’s life is fictionalized in a recent novel by Geraldine Brooks. While the Bible depicts a deep friendship marked by a covenant which stated “the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David.” This implication of a sexual relation between them is played out in Brooks’ novel, The Secret Chord, where she writes about “a love so strong that it flouted ancient rule.” In the book Team of Rivals, Doris Kearns Goodwin, writes about the intimacy of friendship in nineteenth century America in the example of Abraham Lincoln. Goodwin says that in the absence of parents and siblings, men turned to one another for support sharing thoughts and emotions so completely that these relationships had qualities of passionate romances. Lincoln became very depressed, and apparently said in addition to avoiding being idle that business and conversation of friends gave the mind a rest from that intensity of thought that makes it threadbare. Lincoln wrote to his friend Joshua Speed, that “my desire to befriend you is everlasting.” We often say that passionate and affectionate male relationships were more accepted then, and perhaps that is true, but nevertheless this kind of intimacy provides an example for those of us who aspire to deeper friendships where intimate thoughts can be shared. For many of us, our ability to forge relationships with others is limited by our own efforts, but we can realize deeper and more lasting friendships.
We also see an evolution of friendship with the example of Nathan and David that we heard in today’s reading. Their friendship has evolved, with Nathan serving as his seer and friend from early days when Nathan was spared by the young warrior David. David is a flawed man who Nathan helps work through the deep pains of his life, and his successes and failures as parent, only to come see them to fruition in the advent of Solomon. Nathan is no longer his servant, but his close and intimate friend who allows him to find meaning in life by listening and affirming what is good, but not denying what is painful. Some years ago I worked on a book called Walking Together, which was a collection of articles on Congregational polity, which I still use in my teaching. That phrase is found in the book of Amos. “Can two walk together, except they be agreed? Friendships develop as people come to agree on reasons to be together, and it is only as good or as close as those individuals choose to make it. A friend is one whom you can be yourself with and never fear that he or she will judge you, but can still challenge you. A friend is someone that you can confide in with complete trust. A friend is someone you respect and that respects you, not based upon worthiness but based upon a likeness of mind.
In Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, J.K. Rowling has Hermione say,
“Harry – you’re a great wizard, you know.”
“I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him.
“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important things – friendship and bravery and – oh Harry – be careful!”
May we all find kindred souls who will be our friends, encouraging us to be brave, and reminding us to be careful. We need each other out there.
Closing Words – excerpt from “Where We Belong, A Duet by Maya Angelou
In every town and village,
In every city square,
In crowded places
I searched the faces
Hoping to find
Someone to care.
. . .
Then you rose into my life
Like a promised sunrise.
Brightening my days with the light in your eyes.
I’ve never been so strong,
Now I’m where I belong.
Kneeling in the Snow
The First Parish of Watertown
December 4, 2016
The Rev. Andrea Greenwood
Opening Words from “Ma Rainey,” by Sterling Brown
They come to hear Ma Rainey from the little river settlements,
From blackbottom cornrows and from lumber camps;
They stumble in the hall, just a-laughin’ an’ a-cacklin’,
Cheerin’ like roarin’ water, like wind in river swamps.
And some jokers keeps their laughs a-goin’ in the crowded aisles,
And some folks sits there waiting with their aches and miseries,
Till Ma comes out….
O Ma Rainey,
Sing your song;
Now you’s back
Where you belong,
Get way inside us,
Keep us strong. . . .
O Ma Rainey,
Little and low
Sing us ’bout the hard luck
Round our door;
Sing us ’bout the lonesome road
We must go
Time for All Ages A Zen Koan
The Master summoned the Student one Autumn day as the winds began to chill the fields near the school.
The Master said, ‘I offer you the gift of patience. You may receive this gift at this moment or you may receive it later.’
The Student replied, ‘I would like this gift now, Master.’
The Master lowered his eyes and said, quietly, ‘You are dismissed.’
A week later, the Student encountered the Master and said, ‘Master, I am confused.’
The Master said, ‘You may choose again,’ and the Student said, ‘I will receive this gift, then, later.’
The Master, once more, lowered his eyes and said, ‘You are dismissed.’
Time passed, and the snow covered the fields and the streams near the school froze in their beds, and the dry air crackled when the Master summoned the Student.
The Master gazed upon the Student and the Student said, ‘Master, I would decline this gift.’
The Master smiled at the student, looking directly into his eyes, and said, ‘You are dismissed.’
Reading from Mary Rose O’Reilly, The Barn at the End of the World
One day last winter, on a date sacred on various religious calendars, “I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one bladed foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one is limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it – one thinks many foolish things when winter’s bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze.
A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that?
Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, and this solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one’s youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. … So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly – or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind.
It’s an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: “nothing special,” as Buddhists say, meaning “everything.” Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral.
All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.”
Sermon Kneeling in the Snow
When you go out into the world, what do you look at? Where do you turn your eye? To the streets – a current-day Whitman, perhaps, noting the people – the woman in her fleece pajamas with her tiny leashed dog, which could almost be mistaken for one of her slippers; the kind man whose glasses glint hello as he walks to the library each day; the woman with amazing calf muscles, who commutes on the type of bike I didn’t think they made any more; no gears, no special tires. She usually has a bag or two slung over the upright handlebars, and she never looks tired. Maybe you notice the physical environment – the house on the corner of Fayette and Church streets, half-torn down and with mattresses blocking the doorways; the old stones of a foundation tumbled about; the pink roses that, incredibly, were still in bloom last week in front of Mila Deluca-Pedersen’s house; the random spot where the workers stopped edging the curb with granite and switched over the asphalt; the banners hanging in Watertown Square, the historic figures who shaped our story gazing back at you, and permeating the landscape.
Or maybe you look down. You watch your step, literally. Careful of where your feet land, the places you wander into. Sometimes it is a way of tuning in to your own thoughts; just blocking out the world around you. And sometimes it is what the world demands of you; a way of being on alert; keeping safe.
It could be – and probably is, if I am realistic – that you look at your device. Texts. I can’t get over how many people walk and drive while staring at their screens. Although, I must say, I LOVED watching all the people hunting Pokemon this summer. It was fun, and hopeful – exciting. All these people who are so often hidden emerged, and were in turn searching for something I couldn’t see.
Perhaps you turn your eye heaven-wards – to the hills, for strength; the clouds, promising change; the sun and its warmth; the stars, for a glimmer of hope.
Last month I was sitting in a meeting room at a Minneapolis hotel stuck between an airport and a wildlife refuge that is part of the National Park Service, thinking about love. How can you measure it? What does it look like? I was at a talk about the survival of the Universalist side of our religious identity; which, for those of you who are not quite as passionate about history as the folks in my house, is the part of our religion that is associated with love. Our denomination is 55 years old, formed by a merger of the Unitarians and the Universalists, and the stereotype is that we live in a perpetual tug of war between the bookish rational Unitarian types, a bit stiff and probably with the means to be comfortable if we believed in such a state; and the agrarian family centered Universalists who are plenty warm even though there is no hell fire burning below.
There is a zen like possibility here – head and heart; urban and rural; elite and just plain folk – but the fear has been that the merger was not equal; that the Universalist name was tacked on, their resources absorbed, but their message of inspiring love rather than dispensing truth was not taken seriously. The worry is that the love has been lost.
This presentation in the hotel, examining the centrality of love in our faith today, was a very 21st century affair. Thousands of pages of required reading for current ministerial student were scanned, in order to quantify how much love there was among the Unitarians, and the Universalists; and then, after merger, did the amount of love go up, or down?
But wait! I wanted to interrupt. What is love? How do you know? I for one have been fooled by it, and I know plenty of you have been, too. And what kind of love do you mean? Protective, nurturing, responsible; like a parent to a child; or something more like adoration, and blind faith? How do you reconcile counting words with embodying a feeling? And what about who or what the love is being ascribed to? The idea of a loving God can actually be less inclusive than simply caring for one another. Isn’t it more to the point to just get on with offering our hands and hearts to one another; to see the needs and hear the sighs, and know they are our own? What I really wanted to know was why one side has to win. Why can’t we be who we are, both/and, whole?
I found myself thinking back to an observation I made about ten years ago, wondering why I had never noticed earlier. The branches on evergreen trees point down. They start higher on the trunk, and then aim slightly towards the earth; that lovely tapered shape of our Christmas trees; but on deciduous trees – the ones that lose their leaves – the main branches reach up, like arms grasping for the sun. There are practical reasons for this, involving shedding snow so branches don’t break, and letting light in so leaves can grow – but I was thinking about love; and directionality. What flows down, to us from the heavens above; and what is sent aloft, soaring towards the light? And I was thinking about Jesus, born low in the stable among the animals, and reaching up to become part of the royal house; and Guatama, born a prince in the hills of India, seeking a way in to the valley of ordinary life, of suffering and loss.
Meanwhile, I was in such an odd landscape – perhaps for the simple reason that it was foreign to me. I had never been in Minnesota before, and I agreed to go for a silly reason. I wanted to see the Mississippi River. Years ago I learned in a song that the river started there, in the land of a thousand lakes, and that you could cross it in five steps, even though by the time it rolled south the water was impossibly wide; a separation so vast we are still unmoored by it. But in Minneapolis, the airport and all its ring roads didn’t really end before we were surrounded by what seemed like miles of military graves; a quarter million white stones lined up like so many squared shoulders behind black iron fencing; then, the broad boulevard and a cluster of long-term parking garages, and alongside them, hotels. Ours was in the back, one block off the main road, and if we had turned right instead of left, we would have been in the wildlife refuge instead. It didn’t look like much – a long, low visitor’s building was all you could see; but from the 8th floor of the hotel, that building became a gateway to small rolling hills in various shades of yellow and green, and then a winding blue ribbon of river. Nesting sites for herons, egrets and bald eagles lined up along the runways for the giant metal birds that carried us in and out of this place that had once been the western frontier. What does love look like? Where does it look to?
Mary Rose O’Reilly, in a book different from the one used in today’s reading, said that as a child she had “fallen into a geography of light;” looking to the sky for direction. She thought it was because her father had been a pilot; that her whole family was attuned to what was happening in the sky, and that it took her some time to look around her instead; to see the ground; or even to look inside herself as well as outside. In her words, I heard Thoreau: Heaven is under our feet as well as above our heads.
That line comes from a chapter of Walden called “The Pond in Winter.” Thoreau is kneeling in the snow, boring holes in the ice and calculating the volume of the pond, which is also a way of measuring himself. He writes of the impossibility of getting a level read; and he is talking about the uneven surface of the ice, but also of our ethical selves. “We are such poor navigators that our thoughts, for the most part,” avoid the depths, stand off “on a harborless coast, and converse only with themselves” he says. He wants to go wide and deep; to count every hidden cove and secret inlet, and to find the true bottom of the pond, to see if its lows correspond to the peaks of the hills nearby. The frozen pond, its surface mottled with shallow puddles, becomes a kind of looking glass. He writes, “I saw a double shadow of myself, one standing on the head of the other, one on the ice, the other on the trees or hillside.”
How are we to look at this world? I have had to practice this week. Originally my mind was partly on Standing Rock, the Lakota reservation where the water supply is threatened by an oil pipeline. The Army Corps or Engineers has said that as of tomorrow, the water protectors at Standing Rock must leave, or risk arrest. The state of North Dakota announced that taking supplies to the protestors can get you fined to the tune of $1000 for each infraction. Today is the Interfaith Day of Prayer at Standing Rock, and I believe it is helping. On Friday, over two thousand veterans decided to head to Standing Rock, arriving today and staying for at least three days.
All week, instead of writing, I have been watching the world around me, having trouble looking; having trouble turning away; waiting. Thinking of our story this morning, I wonder — Did I receive my gift of patience when I should have rejected it? I do not need to recount it all – the fires, the tornadoes; the fists, sticks, knives and guns from Columbus to Aleppo; the Merrimack River flowing by. Where do we turn our eyes, so that we see ourselves whole, and in context?
This is the time of year when nature grows quiet, uses less energy, sinks into dormancy. It is the season of unseen change; of life that looks like death, and we learn to submit to it; to trust the outcome. So often we represent winter as an old man, tilting against the wind and sleet, but the picture is not really one of age. This is about endurance – how long can we go on with how little. Maybe it is also about learning we do not need so much after all. So much of what we thought necessary was delusion. Now we relinquish our desires and our schedules and burrow down, reduce to the elemental, knowing that there is so much that is hidden – in the world, and in ourselves. The depths are not always visible; the ghosts of previous lives still inhabit our places and we do not always know where we are; what lies beyond the thin edges; what will emerge in a new season. Our capacity for reverence deepens as we linger on days that are far too short for any of us to believe we have time. At noon the shadows are already long and slanting; the sun gives way to the moon long before supper. But a single light is enough to call us home.
Years ago, when Toni Morrison wrote the novel Beloved, she was awarded the Melcher prize, which comes from the Unitarian Universalist Association. It goes each year to the book judged to make the most significant contribution to religious liberalism. In her speech accepting the award, at First Parish in Cambridge, Morrison asked herself why she had written this book, which tells the story of a ghost – the spirit of a baby murdered by her mother, an escaped slave facing recapture. Morrison said “ Well, it has become a little bit more clear to me, a year after Beloved, what perhaps, in very personal terms, the book has substituted for.
There is no place you or I can go, to think about or not think about, to summon the presences of, or recollect the absences of slaves; nothing that reminds us of the ones who made the journey and of those who did not make it. There is no suitable memorial or plaque or wreath or wall or park or skyscraper lobby. There’s no 300-foot tower. There’s no small bench by the road. There is not even a tree scored, an initial that I can visit or you can visit in Charleston or Savannah or New York or Providence, or better still, on the banks of the Mississippi. And because such a place doesn’t exist (that I know of), the book had to. But I didn’t know that before or while I wrote it. I can see now what I was doing on the last page. I was finishing the story, transfiguring and disseminating the haunting with which the book begins. Yes, I was doing that; but I was also doing something more. I think I was pleading for that wall or that bench or that tower or that tree when I wrote the final words.
In response to that speech, the Bench by the Side of the Road project began. It took twenty years, but in 2008 the first of Morrison’s museum in the streets – a bench – was placed, at Sullivan’s Island in South Carolina. This island – home to a National Park housing Fort Moultrie, with Fort Sumter hugging the shore nearby, in Charleston– was the entry point for approximately 40% of the West Africans enslaved in this country. The picture of the ceremony moves me – three hundred people, mostly dressed in white, walking out on the water. Of course it is not the exact pier that slave ships docked on, but it is the same place, the same ocean. The people are all under yellow umbrellas, like they are carrying their own suns.
At the time, the plan was for ten benches to be placed in spots significant in African American history, to help us acknowledge our past, and to remember more fully. But at least eleven benches have been placed by our road sides – and two of them are close by. One is at Walden Pond, and another at Caesar Robbins house, the home of a former slave that was moved to site near the Old North Bridge. Robbins home used to be on Brister’s Hill, overlooking Walden. There is a kind of poetic irony; a bench for those who were granted no rest; a small spot to stop and gaze out on a vast history. It is the nothing special that is everything, a feast of being. Toni Morrison liked the simplicity and accessibility. She said it was welcoming, open. “You can be illiterate and sit on the bench, you can be a wanderer or you can be on a search.”
Research shows that our eyes turn different directions, based upon whether we are imagining – constructing an image – or remembering. When we recall smells of pine and cinnamon; the experience of cold pinching our noses or the warm embrace that stops us from shivering, our eyes turn one way; and when we are imagining what it might feel like to be truly free, or to live in peace, they turn another. Maybe if we look straight ahead, we can find the balance between what we aspire to and what we feel ourselves to be; to knit the halves of ourselves together. Maybe we can sit together, and close our eyes; brought to our knees by the knowledge that we are here, together, part of this day; that every faint footstep leading up to this place matters and is honored in our shared silence. The horizon is as wide as the sky, and we are tethered to a world of meaning, even when darkness falls, because we are sitting here, together.
Closing Words– Andrew Wyeth
I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future – the timelessness of the rocks and the hills – all the people who have existed there. I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape – the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”
“If Only . . . “by Mark W. Harris
First Parish of Watertown – November 27, 2016
Opening Words – from Ralph Waldo Emerson
Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
Reading – from On My Own by Diane Rehm
Life is filled with “might have beans” or “what if’s.” As soon as I began thinking about this sermon examples kept popping up. I recently saw the Woody Allen movie “Café Society” at the library. It is the story of Bobby Dorfman, a young New Yorker who goes to Hollywood to find a job with his rich and famous uncle Phil, who is an agent to the movie stars. Bobby falls in love with his uncle’s secretary, Veronica or Vonnie and they enjoy time together, but it turns out that Vonnie is also having an affair with uncle Phil, who is a married man. Vonnie ends up loving both men, but finally Phil decides to abandon his wife, and Vonnie agrees to marry him. Disappointed and forlorn, Bobby returns to New York, and makes it big in the nightclub business. He marries another woman named Veronica, and life is fine until the original Vonnie pays him a visit with his uncle. Bobby and Vonnie both feel the spark of romance all over again, and agonizingly ask themselves, what if they had chosen each other in the first place? This unrequited love has been smoldering for years. The movie leaves us with the question unanswered, will they abandon their respective spouses and act on the love that still burns in their hearts? Or will they always ask themselves, what if I had chosen differently? Or finally, what if they stay with their spouses, and accept their decision as something to be thankful for. The movie ends, and we never know.
The same day I saw the movie, we returned the church silver to the Museum of Fine Arts. It seemed like perfect timing to stay and see the William Merritt Chase exhibit, which has been on my must see list. I thought this was a fabulous show, especially the pastels. One painting I recognized in the show was a portrait Chase did of the famous American artist James Abbott McNeil Whistler (think “Whistler’s Mother”). It seems that Chase met Whistler when Chase stopped in London on his way to Spain in 1885. He had admired Whistler for a long time, and wanted to introduce himself. But he extended his stay when Whistler encouraged Chase to remain in London so that they could paint portraits of each other. This was a bad idea. Chase despised the experience. He said Whistler proved to be a veritable tyrant, painting for hours on end so that the posing Chase had limbs that ached and his head throbbed. Whistler would continually scream, “Don’t move!” Finally, it seems that Whistler may have destroyed his portrait of Chase, possibly because of his response to Chase’s portrait of him. Chase created an elongated Whistler using drab colors. He believed his portrait honored Whistler, but it backfired. Whistler was deeply offended, and called the painting a “monstrous lampoon,” and furthermore never spoke to Chase again. I think we would call him a difficult person. Do you suppose Chase might have asked himself, what if I had said no to the idea of painting each other, and just continued with my original plan to relax in Spain? Poor Chase may have wondered for years how things could have turned out differently – what if I altered my style? OR perhaps he said to himself I am glad I learned what he was truly like. Good riddance. He thought it was a good portrait. I thought so, too.
These cultural experiences represent two typical ways we ask ourselves, what if . . . or if only . . We may have lives of endless speculation. Some of us may go back to childhood memories and ponder what if our family lives had not been a civil war much of the time. Or perhaps we are more up to date and ask what if we had worked harder on this last election to ensure the victory of our chosen candidate, and now we fear for the future. We may despair over our lack of action, and regret that it might have been otherwise. In our lives we have all wondered about that partner or lover who we rejected or rejected us, and then we concocted scenarios about what life might have been if we stayed with them. Maybe we even tried to meet up with them again years later, or at least thought about them. Maybe we feel we made a mistake with the choice we made, but now it is too late.
There are so many decisions in life where we ask this, including having a child, or taking a job, or moving away. And even long after we made the decision that resulted in today’s status quo, we wonder – what if I took that church, or moved to Minnesota? Those are the big what if decisions we sometimes reflect back upon, but there are also daily decisions, which may seem insignificant, but like Chase, they may end a relationship forever, just because we did not live up to someone’s expectations, or they were just too difficult to bear. How often, like Chase, might we say to ourselves, if only I had continued on my way, and not stopped and changed my plans, or if only I had responded differently. We might have stayed friends. He might not have gotten so upset. Perhaps I could reach out to him. And then there are all those little daily reminders that there are so many things that could have been different –driving home a different way, being in a particular place at a certain time. Time . . . everything is timing.
There is a new book called Time Travel: A History by James Gleick. I have always been fascinated by time travel, since I first encountered it with Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Can we change history? Can we change our history? Some have speculated that time travel books are our new dystopias. We dream of switching lives to different eras in time, so we occupy Downton Abbey or Game of Thrones. I think some of those reenactors must wish they lived at a different time.. Other writers see time travel as a quest for immortality. This is not merely about our own finite lives, but more particularly the life of the planet. In years to come we may use up all the planet’s resources, but we think that in this future world we will travel from planet to planet after we have consumed all that is useable in the old one. Or perhaps we can indeed time travel and go to the past so that we can teach the inhabitants of earth to preserve their resources, and thus prevent ecological disaster. Time travel became a new genre of literature more than a century ago, almost a new kind of science. It was not only a challenge to invent some kind of machine to travel in, like a “Back to the Future” DeLorean time machine, but it was a challenge to see if we could alter history so that the disasters human created could somehow be avoided.
There is an interesting bit of time travel that is created in the musical “Hamilton.” Who makes up this cast that depicts the founders of our country like Washington, Burr and Hamilton? In the lived history of the past they were the old dead white men who are often much maligned these days in their stone cold, marble mantles, but they are the ones who occupied that historical moment. Yet the cast would have us reinvent history, and give a place to a much more diverse group. For women, people of color, the poor and oppressed, this diversity of today’s past takes the historical separation that they feel in this formative part of our nation’s history, and suddenly gives them a central place in it. In 1800 they were locked out of the room where this happened, so as much as we say the founders called for freedom, they also denied basic rights to others. What this change of history does is make the founders people who fought for everyone, not just the privileged few. So instead of maligning them as odious, we transform them in the new history into a diverse patchwork of the America we are today.
Hamilton reminds us that history always belongs, not to the winners, as we often presume, but to the writers. Today we often hear of former icons such as Jefferson reviled for racism and slave holding, even to the point of neglecting his contributions to our national values of freedom and equality. Complete rejection of the past, may destroy the very foundation we build upon, so there is something appealing about taking the vision of a nation built upon diversity and immigrants, and making it come alive in our very founding to reflect the country we dream of living in to today. We can be culturally accurate even as we blur what is “historically” accurate, so we can all see ourselves reflected in the story. It becomes my story, too. We have the opportunity to reclaim a history that some don’t necessarily think is their own. We can ask again, what if . . the founders were so diverse?
Those who feel left out of our nation’s past would probably like to travel back in time to be able to literally change this history. They want to be part of it. Rosalind Williams, who donated our flowers this morning, and is an MIT professor recently reviewed Glieck’s book on Time Travel in the Washington Post. She says time travel reflects one of humanity’s deepest longings. It comes from an awareness that every moment passes, and that we are transient creatures in a transient world. Every day we are haunted by losses – the things we might have done differently, but also the people we have lost to the past. And so when I conduct a memorial service I reflect on all that this person loved and lived for when they were alive, and people evoke memories of what it was to be with this person day in and day out. They time travel, if you will, back to the days when the person was full of life. And perhaps our imagination about literal heavens are the dreams we hold to time travel into the future to be reunited with the ones we loved. We don’t want to lose what we love, and so we imagine how we might regain it.
Glieck concludes that all time travel is really a longing for immortality, a way to elude death. There can often be many assorted what if’s as a loved one nears the end of life. We make medical decisions and then question ourselves that we could have done more. The idea to preach on this topic surfaced for me last month when I attended the memorial service for the wife of a colleague. He and I were part of a UU historical meeting here in Watertown in July when he told us his wife’s cancer had gone into remission, and that he was expecting life to return to normal for her, and him. It was not to be so, and we heard the surprising news this fall that she had died.
Thus I was struck at the memorial service when the minister reminded us to remember what was, not what might have been. I could hear echoes of what if we had treated her sooner, or what if we had tried this, but they had responded in all the ways that she found conformed to her values, and how she wanted to live her life. We can all endlessly ask ourselves what might have been, and feel terrible, or we can let go of those things which are now out of our control, or perhaps were never in our control, and accept them. In the end it is best to celebrate what we have. We remember what was with grief and loss, but also in celebration for all the happiness and joy it brought us. Diane Rehm in our reading asks, what if her husband had lived to see her win the humanities medal, and speculates how happy he would have been, but it was not to be.
We have said that the idea of time travel emanates from our longing to connect to those loved ones we have lost. We go to the past to be with them again as they are gone from our lives. We go to the future to be reunited with them again, so we can know the joy and love we once knew yet again. Yet in reality we know we are captured in time, and so while we can look back or forward to a dream state or another time or place, we also know that this is the only time we will know. Time negates possibility because it erases the life we might have had. We mostly do not get a second chance. We choose one partner. We choose one career. We know those lives can change, as they have for me. Yet there are things that are not in our control, and once we make a choice we cannot go back. Life does not have a do over. Time erases the life we might have had. It erases what if. . . because what if has become what is . . . especially as the years pass by. So even as less is in our control as the years pass, how we respond to life’s circumstances is always in our control.
So as we celebrate the leftovers of thanksgiving, we can make the choice to feel gratitude for the life we have, rather than feel regret for the choices we made, or anger for what happened to us. Rather than saying life would be better if this didn’t happen to me, we say this is what happened to me, and I can respond to these circumstances by loving the life that I have. Rather than saying what if I had chosen that career, or that partner, we might ask: What if I greeted each day with gratitude for all that I am, and all that I have, rather than feel regret for what I have failed at or are missing? What if I greeted each day with the courage to try new things rather than fear that if I do something it won’t work out. What if I greet each day with hope that something good will happen to me rather than I am going to be victimized or will lose out. What if I greet each day with the belief that I will be given the chance to try something new rather than the belief that life holds no new possibilities.
It is okay to grieve for the life you won’t be able to live, but then we must let go of what if and accept what is no longer in our control. Then, what if we greet the day in celebration of what you have been able to live – the people you have met, the art and culture you have seen and heard, the food you have eaten, the places you have been, the books you have read, the care others have shown for you, and still do. There are so many what ifs in life that pass you by, or that you failed to choose or see, but yet there has always been so much to be thankful for; the joy you have felt in the morning, and the peace you have felt at night, and all the laughs and learning and even the trials that challenged you and helped you grow in between. Each day you can shout, what if or if only I had . . .. or, you can shout it has all been so amazing, and I am so thankful for it. Live for the good each day.
Closing Words – from Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology
“And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.”
November 13, 2016
The First Parish of Watertown
The Rev. Andrea Greenwood
Opening Words from Hillary Rodham Clinton, Nov. 9, 2016
Our constitutional democracy enshrines ….the principle that we are all equal in rights and dignity, freedom of worship and expression. We respect and cherish these values, and we must defend them….
So, let’s do all we can to keep advancing the causes and values we all hold dear: Making our economy work for everyone, protecting our country and our planet, and breaking down all the barriers that hold any American back from achieving their dreams.
We … say with one voice that we believe that the American dream is big enough for everyone, for people of all races and religions, for men and women, for immigrants, for LGBT people and people with disabilities, for everyone.
So, now our responsibility as citizens is to keep doing our part to build that better, stronger, fairer America we see, and I know you will.
I hope you will hear this. I have spent my entire adult life fighting for what I believe in. I’ve had successes and I’ve had setbacks, sometimes really painful ones…. You will have successes and setbacks, too. This loss hurts, but fighting for what’s right is worth it. …
Never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams.
I still believe as deeply as I ever have that if we stand together and work together with respect for our differences, strength in our convictions, and love for this nation, our best days are still ahead of us.
We are stronger together, and we will go forward together.
Scripture tells us, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we shall reap, if we do not lose heart.”
So, my friends, let us have faith in each other. Let us not grow weary. Let us not lose heart. For, there are more seasons to come, and there is more work to do.
Reading Mending Wall, by Robert Frost
Frost was the very first poet to take part in a presidential inauguration. Because Kennedy closed so many campaign speeches with Frost’s line, “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep,” the president invited the poet to speak. Frost was 88 years old, and the winter sun made so much glare he couldn’t read. Lyndon Johnson got up and took off his hat, tried to hold it to make a shadow on the page, but Frost gave up, and recited an old poem he knew by heart instead.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: ‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: ‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I’d ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him, But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father’s saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
SERMON: “Broken Fences”
Perhaps you noticed on Wednesday that both Tim Kaine and Hillary Clinton – leaders who believe in diversity and inclusion – quoted from the New Testament in their speeches acknowledging the painful defeat to a man who represents a party that believes itself to uphold Christian values. Oddly, perhaps, this made me feel better. It was reassuring to know that each had a source of strength and comfort to turn to; and it helped me, too, because I know those parables, and I know those lines. They are speaking a language I understand.
I have never qualified as a Christian myself. I was born a UU, and I do not accept the idea of an exclusive faith; of one right way. But I thought, in listening to these gracious and righteous remarks, they are showing us something here. They are demonstrating faith for us, and in a language that many, many people will be able to hear. About three quarters of our country identifies as Christian. After this election, in which nearly half the people who voted rejected the core principles of our Unitarian Universalist faith, we are left deeply shaken. It is hard not to see this vote as legitimizing hate and rage, and even enshrining it as Christian. But in listening to Clinton and Kaine, I was reminded, the angry people do not own the Bible. And, by extension, they do not own our story.
Earlier this fall, for reasons completely unrelated to politics and church, I was doing some research on resilience, and I learned that the most important predictor of health and the ability to cope with stress is to develop an “intergenerational identity.” That is, we all carry bits and pieces of others within us – and that the narrative we create about ourselves can change, depending upon who we look back to, or ahead to. Children are not missiles launched into the future, and great grandparents are not relics left in a time capsule. History is not linear or circular. It is push and pull, up and down, back and forth; yesterday and today. We need stories about who we are that move backward and forward in time; that capture our hopes and dreams, even when those dreams were not realized by the one who first envisioned a new way. This research was medical, and based on individual families, but I thought: Doesn’t that sound like church? And isn’t that what I was responding to when Kaine and Clinton used a sentence or two from the Bible? When I saw that Leonard Cohen had died – our rabbinical Zen priest – I had these swirling pieces of my own past: the band here, at this church, playing Hallelujah, talking with Judy Kamm about how much Cohen meant to her, and thinking about baffled kings and broken hallelujahs; about David and Israel.
Maybe this collection of books is not our primary religious inspiration, but knowing the language of the Bible and the stories it tells, which are foundational to Muslims, Jews and Christians – might offer us a chance to engage with the population we are sharing the world with. This is most certainly a time when our faith is needed – not just for ourselves; our personal healing and struggle to accept the country we inhabit – but for all of the people; for those who now have legitimate fears based on their racial, religious, or sexual identity. Who we are in the wake of this election is the same as we have ever been, but perhaps with more work to do at a time when we might have thought we could rest.
On Thursday morning, as he was brushing his teeth before school, my 18 year old asked, “Is it possible for people to appropriate UU culture?” This was a surprising question, and it seemed to me there was an agenda behind this, such as someone thinking we are not a legitimate religion. There was not time for much thought if he was going to be on time, so I quickly said, Yes, most of the American institutions that were put into place in the late 19th century, such as free public schools and libraries were Unitarian culture that spread to the broader society, and the idea that all people – every color and gender – were equal and should have the same rights was a Universalist principle. Of course, after he was out the door, I realized this is a wrong answer – no one appropriated these things. We WANTED those parts of our identity to spread. Our religious forebears worked very hard to make sure that the blessings enjoyed by some were extended to all. Our mission now is the same – to spread our message of equality, inclusion, fairness and continuing spiritual growth. We want, as our capital campaign reminds us, to open doors – to let people in, and to get our saving message out. And now, in the wake of this election, this is more important than ever.
Donald Trump ran most of his campaign on the rallying cry of a wall – an “impenetrable, physical, tall, powerful, beautiful southern border wall” he called it. To quote him, “a wall is better than fencing and it’s much more powerful.” This made me think of an essay that had charmed me years ago, in which Sherman Alexie talked about acquiring superpowers at the age of three, when he began to understand the purpose of fences. A novelist, poet, and film-maker, Alexie grew up on the Spokane Indian reservation, but was left out of many tribal ceremonies because of severe disabilities that stemmed from hydrocephaly – water on the brain made his head huge and caused seizures, and other kids were merciless. An outsider among the outsiders, the boy decided to love books.
“The words themselves were mostly foreign,” he wrote, “but I still remember the exact moment when I first understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph… It was a fence that held words. The words inside worked together for a common purpose. They had some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me, and I began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs; of collections of things that went together held in by fences.”
The reservation was a small paragraph within the United State; fencing in the Indians; but within that enclosure, his house was a paragraph distinct from the houses to the north and south, and inside the house, more paragraphs – each person in the family, linked by genetics and shared experiences, but separate, too. Using this logic, he said, “I can see my family: an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father, older brother, deceased sister, my younger twin sisters, and our adopted little brother.”
I loved the visuals created by the idea of a paragraph as the ground we inhabit, divided up, demarcated, parceled out. It is the Word made flesh; a text made into a geography, and it can seem pastoral — sheep and split rails, or old stone walls with the woods reclaiming them; apple and pine greeting each other, like Frost and his neighbor. There is actually a lot of research on the role of fences in creating peace. Boundaries can make us feel safer and grant autonomy — they are not necessarily negative. However, when there is conflict, the presence of physical barriers always exacerbates the issues. Who decides on the boundary? Who says which people belong on which side? The idea of being fenced in on a reservation is ugly, and the larger purpose of Alexie’s essay is to show how he used books to construct his escape.
Fences suggest a kind of liminal space, where our edges meet, and brush up against each other, and our discomfort with that contact. Think of all the chain link in our neighborhoods, and the way Trump drew support by reassuring people that a wall would protect us; keep us like Eden before the fall, with the evil on the other side. We could resist being changed by voting for change. Never mind that the story of Eden begins with Adam and Eve being told that they were supposed to inhabit the whole earth, not the garden. They were afraid, and wanted to stay put in a place that never changed, and God is the force that moved them out, into the world and all its adventures. Paradise, Biblically speaking, is not any one couple’s small corner. It is all of creation. Even for those behind walls, there are transactions across borders. We are all in this world together.
August Wilson’s play Fences depicts 1950s Pittsburgh, and the lines drawn between those who inhabit a shared space. The barrier in Wilson’s play is between black and white, and father and son, and expectations and ideals. The father in this story keeps telling his son that liking people has nothing to do with anything; that what counts is duty and responsibility. Wilson writes, “Mr. Rand don’t give me money come payday because he likes me. He gives me because he OWES me. I done give you everything I had to give you. I gave you your life! … liking you wasn’t part of the bargain. Don’t try and go through life worrying about if somebody like you or not. You best be making sure they doing right by you. You understand what I’m saying?”
This seems to be our task now; to make sure that we do right, and that those in power do, too. Certain things are owed, regardless of anyone’s feelings.
Talk about a nearly 2000 mile long wall around the southern United States, whether it is a literal wall or a political construct, made me think about Jericho. The ancient walled city is the oldest continually occupied place on this planet. Instead of being on the far side of the desert sands of Yuma and the Rio Grande, Jericho lies across the River Jordan – in the land of milk and honey that Israel believed was their destiny; promised to Abraham centuries ago, and finally within sight, after all those wilderness years. From Jericho, you can see Mount Nebo, where Moses died while looking to the land he was allowed to glimpse, but never reach. This city — behind stone walls that were fourteen feet wide, and a dozen feet high, at which point a brick wall began, and rose another 36 feet, but cut in on a steep angle and then connected to another, taller stone wall — was the first obstacle to reaching the Promised Land, after emerging from captivity and then wandering across the desert. So perhaps Trump had some Biblical inspiration. But what happens to Jericho?
The Israelites don’t really even have to fight. There is no tunneling under or launching over. There is no long siege that prevents food from getting in. Instead, Joshua leads his people in a silent march around the walls, once a day for six days. Then, on the seventh day, they circle the city seven times, and on the final circuit, they shout and blow their horns. The walls come tumbling down, collapsing at the sound of the trumpets. God describes Jericho as his city, a place where everyone is devoted – and therefore tells Joshua not to take anything, and not to hurt the people; in fact, not even to move in. And the Israelites do not. They take nothing from the Canaanites. The wall coming down is the whole story. And if you have been to Jewish weddings, perhaps you’ve seen the ritual of the bride circling the groom seven times before the vows take place. It is a dismantling of the walls built around our hearts, so we can build a new life together. It is intense; a forced awareness of the barriers that we can have between us, and their dismantling. The point is not to be protected with walls and force, but with love. The point is to learn how to be in the world, to not be locked in. Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.
Even at the time of this story, Jericho was an ancient city; more than six thousand years old. Later, it became a winter resort for the wealthy; in Jesus’ time, Herod had a palace there. Because the city was very low, it stayed warmer than the surrounding area; but it was expensive. Many people who could not afford to live there would visit Jericho – for trade, and as a welcome respite from the harsh weather higher in the Jordan valley. The walled city exists on a strategic crossroad – between Jerusalem and Galilee, and also on the path to Mecca. The road itself is a boundary between tribes; Judah on one side, and Benjamin on the other – and the Jericho road is where a famous story about neighbors takes place. A traveler on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho was robbed and beaten, and left by the side of the road. A priest going by does not stop to help, and neither does a Levite – a member of the priestly tribe. Both are afraid of what might happen to them if they stop. Maybe this injured man is faking it. Maybe the robbers are lying in wait, and will get them, too. So, even though these men are leaders, the embodiment of the revered religious institutions, and should care for the injured man, they continue their journeys instead. Then a man from Samaria – a distrusted foreign territory, hostile to Jews – comes along. He sees the victim, tends to his wounds, and carries him to a place of safety, and pays for his lodging, promising to come back and settle the tab on his return trip. This is the Jericho Road; a place to contemplate what separates us, and why. The person who was kind and helpful and put himself at risk was the one no one expected anything of; and the priest hurried away without even stopping.
The message of this story cuts both way. We want the parable to be about the undocumented immigrants, and how they are not a threat; but maybe we also need to learn to see that some of the people who we are afraid of; the people who have recently come into power can also surprise us. I do not want to be naïve. I am not counting on good will and open-mindedness. I think we will need to work very hard to get what is owed to the people, and the land. But I am aware that I am on the Jericho Road, and that everyone else is, too. The wall came down long ago, but the dangers remain, because they come from us. I always get a little squeamish when I hear people talk about fighting – fighting for what’s right, fighting for a cause. I want it to be less violent and messy. But I think the best we can do is fight from a place of love. Fight for justice and what is right, not against people, not out of fear.
Years and years ago, Margaret Mead and James Baldwin held a public conversation they called “A Rap on Race.” They talked for seven and a half hours, and one of the things Baldwin said that I think about today is this: “I’m part of this society and I’m in exactly the same situation as anybody else — any other black person — in it. If I don’t know that, then I’m fairly self-deluded… What I’m trying to get at is the question of responsibility. I didn’t drop the bomb [that killed four black school girls in Birmingham]. And I never lynched anybody. Yet I am responsible not for what has happened but for what can happen.”
All of us are responsible for the future, and that means we have to understand where we are coming from. Our collective past is a driving force, and we need to harness it constructively.
We are each other’s only hope.
Let us walk quietly around these barriers that look insurmountable, day after day, and then blow our trumpets, and build a new way.
Closing Words Simone Weil
Two prisoners whose cells adjoin communicate with each other by knocking on the wall. The wall is the thing which separates them but is also their means of communication. It is the same with us. Every separation is a link.
Election Sunday – November 6, 2016
First Parish of Watertown – Cody Urban with Mark Harris
Opening Words – from Rebecca Parker
In the midst of a world
marked by tragedy and beauty
there must be those
who bear witness
against unnecessary destruction
and who, with faith,
rise and lead
with grace and power.
There must be those who
and do not avoid seeing
what must be seen
of sorrow and outrage,
There must be those whose
grief troubles the water
while their voices sing
There must be those
rises with lovely energy
There must be those who
are restless for
respectful and loving
companionship among human beings,
whose presence invites people
to be themselves without fear.
There must be those
who gather with the congregation
of remembrance and compassion
draw water from
and walk the simple path
of love for neighbor.
There must be communities of people
who seek to do justice
love kindness and walk humbly with God,
who call on the strength of
and bless life.
There must be
“The True Unbelievers” by Christopher G. Raible
The true unbelievers of our time are not those who do not go to church – they are those who do not go to the polls.
To vote is to perform a religious act.
To vote is to pray, that is, to express hope for the future notwithstanding the uncertainties of our days.
To vote is to affirm that we have power as individuals to influence the state of society and the course of history.
To vote is to join with others across the continent in a common ritual expression – an exercise in liberty.
To vote is to trust that our collective judgment as a people is in the long run better than the dictates of any one of us.
To vote is to testify our faith that the good and the true are most likely to emerge and prevail in the free marketplace of diverse opinion.
To vote is to commit ourselves to be participants rather than spectators despite the deficiencies of the candidates, the distortions of the truth, and the inadequacies of our individual judgment.
To vote is to believe – not blindly or gullibly – that we live in a world which is ours; it is strengthened by our service, brightened by our sharing, bettered by our presence.
To vote is to act – to take a chance, to take heart, to take hold.
To vote takes time, takes trouble, takes trust – it may seem easier and safer not to bother and not to believe.
To vote is to have convictions, and to have courage. We only continue as a “land of the free” as we are also a “home of the brave.”
Election Sunday – Mark Harris
It is election Sunday. When this ancient parish was first gathered preachers typically gave election sermons. Those were addresses intended to convince their parishioners whom to vote for. With the separation of church and state, I cannot implicitly say who to vote for, as that would violate a basic principle of our country. BUT, it may be obvious whose values most clearly reflect those beliefs I hold most dear.
Many people have been disturbed by the level of discourse during this election season, and we fear the outcome like never before. There have been many vicious exchanges and outrageous statements, but they have not occurred without precedent. When Andrew Jackson faced off against John Quincy Adams in 1824, the candidates hurled out many a disparaging word. Harriet Martineau used to tell a story about a New England Sunday School teacher who after she had told her students about Cain and Abel, asked one pupil to tell her who killed Abel, and he answered “General Jackson.” This is a reminder of our current election, where the electorate is always ready to believe the worst not only of our candidates and leaders, but of each other. We have lost much in terms of civil behavior and respect for one another with angry accusations of deception and lies that often have no basis in fact other than the unfounded venom of the accusers. Our leaders should help shape respectful behavior among the electorate, but they have not.
In June my family visited Nashville, Tennessee, and as part of our trip we toured The Hermitage, home of Andrew Jackson. As I have implied, we can see parallels with Jackson and this 2016 election. He was a populist who ran against the establishment in Washington. He considered himself a man of the people who appealed to angry voters who feared that a political elite wanted to control them, and destroy their way of life. They wanted their freedom. Yet if Jackson was a man of the people, he only represented some of the people. He was a rich plantation owner, who held many slaves in bondage, whose dwellings places are now restored for tourists to visit. He is also remembered as the President who initiated the infamous Trail of Tears, where Native Americans were forcibly removed from their lands and herded to the West, with many dying along the way.
You may see parallels today in the incursions on sacred Native American lands in North Dakota where a proposed oil pipeline has been challenged by demonstrators who see it as an environmental and cultural threat. In this election confrontation some Americans have affirmed their absolute freedom, and that freedom has seen expression in the extreme and disturbing narcissism of one candidate. Other Americans affirm a vision of moral egalitarianism. They believe in welcoming the stranger, the hurt, the minority in a land where everyone is equal and deserves to be treated fairly. This belief implores us to extend a hand of kindness to all those who have historically been denigrated or denied rights. We have long been a nation that has tried to balance these sometimes conflicting beliefs in freedom and equality as each side claims their own interpretation of our civil religion. Today these divisions seem stronger than ever.
On Tuesday, we will exercise the most sacred rite of our democratic civil religion when election day occurs. Voting is an act that reflects our basic belief that we have a voice in how our nation should be governed, and it also reflects hope that we can have a positive impact on our society. We try to keep hope alive with our ballots and with our bodies, as there are other ways to exercise our duty as citizens of the nation besides voting. Among these is free speech, and the right to advocate for a cause, or demonstrate against actions and laws that we perceive as unjust. One of the oldest Hebrew religious directives is to do justice. Citizens are still challenged to question political institutions, parties and candidates because we expect to create a society with enduring moral standards to live by, and thus the political nearly always has religious implications when we take seriously the simple instruction to love our neighbors as ourselves. When human rights are violated on the streets of our cities, or our environment is threatened with desecration, then many see it as their religious duty to speak out against threats to people and to the planet, so that we together would help build a safe, peaceful and just world for all.
Cody Urban is a young man who is deeply concerned about what kind of planet his generation will inherit. He is the son of Guy Urban and Charlyn Bethell. He grew up in our church, and is a graduate of our Coming of Age program. He is a member of the Portland (Oregon) Rising Tide Climate Justice Action Collective. He is often engaged in civil disobedience and direct action to bring about social change. He almost failed to be here because he was arrested as a result of a recent action, and it seemed likely he would have to make a court appearance in the state of Washington. He is just back from a six week trip to Palestine, and he also made a trip to the Philippines last summer. Both of these trips were related to his commitment to protest violence that is inflicted upon minority populations by governments. For work, Cody has been a special education teacher. Today we will hear how he acts on his religious principles as a Unitarian Universalist, resulting in a commitment to social change which inspires him to help create a just society.
“The Future Says,” by Nick Drake
I know you are busy with your colorful lives;
I have no wish to waste the little time that remains
On arguments and heated debates;
But before I can appear
Please, close your eyes, sit still
And listen carefully to what I am about to say;
I haven’t happened yet, but I will.
I can’t pretend it’s going to be
Business as usual.
Things are going to change.
I’m going to be unrecognizable.
Please, don’t open your eyes, not yet.
I’m not trying to frighten you.
All I ask is that you think of me
Not as a wish or a nightmare, but as a story you have to tell yourselves –
Not with an ending in which everyone lives happily ever after,
Or a B-movie apocalypse,
But maybe starting with the line
‘To be continued…’
And see what happens next.
Remember this; I am not
Written in stone
But in time –
So please don’t shrug and say
What can we do?
It’s too late, etc, etc, etc.
You are such strange creatures
With your greed and your kindness,
And your hearts like broken toys;
You carry fear with you everywhere
Like a tiny god
In its box of shadows.
You love festivals and music
And good food.
You lie to yourselves
Because you’re afraid of the dark.
But the truth is: you are in my hands
And I am in yours.
We are in this together,
Face to face and eye to eye;
We’re made for each other.
Now those of you who are still here;
Open your eyes and tell me what you see.”
Sermon “Principles for a Planet in Crisis.” Cody Urban
There is a message calling out to us from across the northern plains of the United States. It is a message so simple in its form yet so significant in its delivery. This message at once affirms the truth of what we take for granted while challenging us to absorb the true depths of the emergency it emanates from.
Water is life.
This message flows from the epicenter of one of the greatest and most desperate fights for people and planet of my generation – the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in North Dakota. As I speak, thousands of courageous individuals are placing their bodies in front of construction equipment and military weapons to stop construction of what indigenous peoples across this country have named “The Black Snake”, oil pipelines and fossil fuel infrastructure, taking the form in this case of the monstrous Dakota Access Pipeline. Hundreds have been arrested. Countless have been injured. All have endured the loss of their comfort, their safety, their very human dignity.
And yet, they remain. They remain because water is life.
For these brave water protectors, this message drives them to protect the Missouri River from an inherently volatile pipeline. Yet, this message transcends spatial and circumstantial narratives. As it calls out to us, how do we respond?
We stand on the stage of a planet in crisis. What the water protectors of Standing Rock face is emblematic of what we all must stare down: climate change, driven by pillages for profit; racism, a lie told to maintain white supremacy; and militarism, a condition that should only be described as collective psychopathy. As these Black Snakes and parasitic ideologies continue to colonize our humanity, our very empathy, what guidance still exists for us amongst the ravaged landscape of time?
Back in May, as my comrades and I hastily constructed an encampment on rail tracks to block oil trains from entering the Shell and Tesoro oil terminals in Anacortes, Washington, I was struck by what a woman in her seventies said to me – “I’ve spent decades organizing rallies, signing petitions, attending hearings, and lobbying politicians while seeing hardly enough change happen. I’m left with this – getting in trouble by standing in the way. It’s the only way to save my grandchildren from our inaction.” Two mornings later, 52 of us were arrested.
Our transgressions? Direct action. Civil disobedience. In the fight for climate justice, a goal seeking both an end to climate change and the full implementation of social justice, Unitarian Universalism presents a very strong case for disobeying unjust laws.
The transcendentalist and once-Unitarian writer Henry David Thoreau wrote extensively on this philosophy of righteous transgression. After spending a night in jail for refusing to pay poll taxes that would inevitably support slavery and the Mexican-American War, he wrote, “If the injustice is part of the necessary friction of the machine of government, let it go, let it go: perchance it will wear smooth -certainly the machine will wear out… but if it is of such a nature that it requires you to be the agent of injustice to another, then I say, break the law. Let your life be a counter-friction to stop the machine. What I have to do is to see, at any rate, that I do not lend myself to the wrong which I condemn.”
Herein lies the essence of direct action – it acts as an emergency shutoff valve to the workings of a corrupt system. It demands a halt to business as usual. Thoreau came to realize that even if he spoke against the injustices of his time and convinced others to do the same, he would eventually have to place the ball in the government’s court, merely hoping that his teachings would lead the government to make a different move. But a power structure set on its own course need not yield to any teaching it stands illiterate to understand.
Eventually, Thoreau realized that the machine could not be convinced to stop on its own. Machines must be physically shut off. Withholding tax money withheld the necessary fuel for the ravaging acts of injustice enacted by Thoreau’s government. This is the same realization that the water protectors of Standing Rock have made. When politicians and bankrollers refused to hear their pleas, they chose to use their bodies to intentionally halt construction of the Black Snake. When I realized my cries would not be heeded in any government or corporate office, I decided to use my own body as a barrier to the reckless machine of destruction I saw in the fossil fuel industry. In the words of anti-imperialist activist and writer Arundhati Roy, “Colorful demonstrations and weekend marches are vital but alone are not powerful enough to stop wars. Wars will be stopped only when soldiers refuse to fight, when workers refuse to load weapons onto ships and aircraft, when people boycott the economic outposts of Empire that are strung across the globe. ”
Yet, direct action is about even more than stopping the machine. While leading one of the greatest and most famous civil disobedience campaigns in history, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. inspired a movement when he proclaimed that, “noncooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good.” By boycotting segregated busses, civil rights activists not only directly impacted a racist system, they expressed their moral and spiritual character with their actions. They chose to live their principles.
As Unitarian Universalists, we are presented with seven principles to guide us on our moral understandings. In each of these principles, I hear the call to use direct action to fight against the forces of climate change and global oppression.
- The inherent worth and dignity of every person – As worth and dignity are torn from the bodies of humans and all living beings in the endless extraction and destruction of ecological and communal systems the world over, we must not allow any action, or inaction, to enable this devastation.
- Justice, equity, and compassion in human relations – Justice means that all have life, safety, and respect. Equity means that each person’s needs are met. Compassion means that we act out our empathy in our relationships. It is not enough that we show these virtues to others – we must actively work to dismantle the human systems that prevent their presence in others’ lives.
- Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations – By accepting one another, we affirm each other’s right to live in their own lands without disruption, a right constantly violated towards those living in precarious frontline communities – indigenous folk, rural dwellers, those from low-lying and island nations. If we are to encourage spiritual growth in ourselves, how can we do this as we stand by and allow our fellow people to fight their struggle on their own? What kind of spiritual fulfillment is that?
- A free and responsible search for truth and meaning – True freedom is never realized without responsibility, and any personal meaning achieved at the expense of others’ justice is a shallow and false truth. In acting upon our principles, we must see our own freedom and meaning as incomplete unless utilized in solidarity with those struggling against all odds for theirs.
- The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large – To act collectively in defense of our communities and our future generations is perhaps the most democratizing act one can commit. While the democratic process of government may at times seem efficient, it does not always make it a system of conscience. To consciously engage in the democratic process is to occupy spaces reserved for a powerful few and thrust open their gates for silenced voices to become amplified.
- The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all – As long as oppressive forces wreak havoc across the planet and our natural environment warms ever hotter, our world community will always be at risk. True solidarity across the world necessitates that our liberty is either achieved in common, or lost on all of us. Without solidarity, there can be no liberty. Without liberty, there can be no justice. Without justice, there can be no peace.
- Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part – interdependency means that our actions towards others must reflect the actions we wish taken towards us. The struggle for climate justice means that if another community is under direct ecological or political threat, we defend them as we would defend ourselves. After all, we are never spared, we are simply further down the line. To protect the worth and dignity of others is to secure it for ourselves.
Our Unitarian Universalist principles don’t merely suggest that we take part in this struggle. Our Unitarian Universalist principles DEMAND that we put ourselves on the front lines of climate justice. If we plan to stand in front of a world of many oppressors and countless oppressed and claim any semblance of moral integrity, then it is BEYOND TIME that we put our principles to action, to our highest ability and capacity, and deliberately disrupt any unjust action that protects profit over planet and people. We are not only fighting for our ability to survive on this planet. We are fighting for our right to survive here. If we were to magically abolish all excess carbon levels, reforest our wilds, and purify our oceans tomorrow, without eliminating poverty and racism, decolonizing indigenous lands, and breaking the global military machine, then we would not have proven our right to inherit a healed planet for our sick and broken society.
Yet therein lies not only the necessity of direct action, but the transcendental possibility of finding our genuine spiritual selves. By acting out our principles, we affirm them unconditionally to the world, and we invite others to join us. Only collective action can challenge oppression and bring us back from the brink. We not only need to dismantle an unjust system, we need to build a just system in its place. What if putting our moral principles to action and directly challenging the oppression of climate change is our only chance to build a better world? What if this struggle presents us with the greatest chance to unite at long last as a global and ecological community? Is that not worth getting in trouble for? Is that not worth being vulnerable for? Is it not worth giving up who we are now to become our greatest inspiration?
Here, at the crossroads of tomorrow, listen to the words of our spiritual role models:
Water is life.
Spoken Meditation – Mark Harris
Voice of all our voices, spirit of compassion, spirit of hope for building up the community, we pause today for a time of reflection. Many of us are worn with care and stress over the outcome of this electoral process. Some of us have misgivings about our candidates, one or both, some of us feel fear, and thus we worry about tomorrow, about escalating inequality, about environmental devastation, about repression of rights. Some of us will be happy about the results of the election, and others devastated. Our country is divided now as it may never have been before, and yet no matter who wins or loses, we know there are no miracle cures for all our ills. There will still be chaos amidst our search for peace, and there will be grief and loss even as we celebrate life’s beauty and joy.
We will still gather in community to fashion a faith which will bring inspiration and meaning to sustain us through the difficult daily challenges we all face. We are grateful for the support we receive from one another, the affirmation to believe in ourselves, and the encouragement to value our own worth and exert individual power to put our voices and talents to use in the world. Here we celebrate the deeper meaning of life, no matter who occupies the White House or controls the Congress. Here we search for values and the qualities of life that make it worth living, the building of them into our daily lives, and the passing of those values on to those who follow us. Voting is a sign that we have hope that tomorrow might be better if it is served by more honest and compassionate government implemented by politicians with integrity and courage. But that better tomorrow finds its building block in the future we create with our lives here and now, how do we treat our neighbors, how much time and energy we give to our children, how much care we show for our community and immediate surroundings and sometimes to speak out publicly in advocacy of values and issues we stand for or in protest of injustices we witness.. We want to elect good people to office, and we have sometimes searched in vain to find that goodness, but most important is our own dedication to exercise our own power to be good. May we live that dedication out each and every day. Amen.
Closing words – from Robert Kaufman
“We have come together to share our deepest concerns, speaking and singing words of inspiration and hope. We have committed ourselves to do what we can to ease the burdens of those who suffer, to stand for decency and compassion. We have pledged to work for a more wholesome environment for us and for all the generations that will follow.
But these are just words. The hymns we sing are just songs. All our reflections are just idle thoughts. When we convert them all into loving and responsible action throughout the week, then and only then will this morning become what we want it to be—a time of true worship. “
Worship points beyond itself to a life in the world – how can our life be changed by worship, and how can that in turn change the world. So we close by invoking the words often heard in religious communities throughout this land: Our worship is over, let the service begin. Amen
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