A Place of Peace

This is the text of the reflections I offered at the congregation I serve here in Charlottesville, Virginia on Sunday, July 1, 2018.  I wanted the second half to be less consciously conceptual and more a free flowing of spirit, so this is a reconstruction of what those who were here heard.

Opening Words:

The abbot of a provincial monastery was in something of a tizzy, because the abbot of his school’s main temple was coming for a visit, and he wanted everything to be just perfect.  He had set his students to polishing every bit of wood, and brass, and gold, and to seek out every single dust bunny.  He, himself, attended to the grounds.

An old monk, a recognized Zen master who had retired to this monastery watched as the young abbot spent several hours raking leaves from all of the walking trails.  The abbot wanted the woods to exude quiet, and peace, and … well … perfection.  He imagined walking these clear, unobstructed paths with his honored guest, just as he strove to lead the monks under his care over the clear, unobstructed paths of the dharma.

As I said, the old monk stood watching the abbot at his labors the whole time.  When he was finished, the abbot came to the monk, and with pride in his accomplishment the young man asked the old man what he thought.  “Well … ,” the old monk said, “I have to say, you’ve certainly worked very, very hard at this, and it’s almost right. 

The abbot replied, somewhat anxiously, “Please, tell me what I have to do to make it perfect.”  “I’d rather show you,” the old master said.  He took the rake, and spent the next hour putting the leaves back on the path.  “There,” he said when he was done. “Now it’s perfect.”

He gave the rake to the startled abbot, and walked away without another word.

Sermon:

One hour a day.  One day a week.  One week a year. 

One hour a day.  One day a week.  One week a year. 

I want you to hold on to that formula.  We’ll come back to it later.  (I’ll come back to that story about the monks and the leaves in a bit, too.)

Most Sundays I note that the heart of our sanctuary service is not the sermon, or the music, (or the offering!), it’s what we call the time of “Going Deeper.”  Our lives can be so full, and so hectic, I say (as if it would be news to any of us).  Every religious tradition I know anything about exhorts us to seek, to find, or to create spaces and places in our lives where we are not overcome by the cacophony of life; where our hearts and our minds can find respite; where our souls can be silent and calm. 

In the book of 1 Kings in the Hebrews Scriptures the story is told of the prophet Elijah who asks to see G_d.  After all manner of images pass him by – a strong wind that can destroy a mountain, an earthquake, an all-consuming fire – after all of these things pass him by, Elijah finally recognizes his G_d in what is usually translated as, “a still, small voice.”  (It is alternately rendered, “a gentle whisper,” or, my favorite, “the voice of quiet stillness.”)

We have, hopefully, each of us had our own experiences of such sacred silence, times where the world grew quiet … and so did we.  Spiritual practices such as meditation and contemplative prayer can be understood to be, at the very least, about learning to create and cultivate such peace in a world, in our lives, which are most often anything but.

We need such times.  We need such places.  We need such experiences.  Because just as we have been learning how vitally important sleep is to our bodily and mental health, so too is such peace vitally important to our spiritual health. 

The Unitarian Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson (who, a colleague once described as, “wash[ing] out of the ministry early”) had more than a little to say about sacred space.  In his essay Nature, St. Ralph described an experience he had in nature, that has been often quoted (although here I’m going to read a little more than is usually used):

Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear.  In the woods, too, a [person casts off [their] years, as the snake [its] slough, and at what period soever of life is always a child.  In the woods, is perpetual youth.  Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how [they] should tire of them in a thousand ears.  In the woods, we return to reason and faith.  There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair.  Standing on the bare ground – my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space – all mean egotism vanishes.  I become a transparent eye-ball.  I am nothing.  I see all.  The currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.

The Austrian poet René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke, better and more simply known as Rainer Maria Rilke had similar thoughts about the ocean:

"When anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, and the sea drowns them out with its great wide sounds, cleanses me with its noise, and imposes a rhythm upon everything in me that is bewildered and confused."

How many of us have had such experiences?  How many of us – in the woods, by the ocean, at the bank of a river, on a trail, in our gardens – how many of us have found this kind of sacred space and felt its healing balm (at least some of the times)?  I have always loved the power of an incoming storm, when the temperature drops and the winds pick up, and the sky changes color and, almost, texture.  (I’ve read that the Persian poet Khalil Gibran did too – going up to the roof of his apartment in New York City whenever a really powerful storm was coming.)  Like Emerson, I experience “a perfect exhilaration […] am glad to the brink of fear,” and find my worries and woes dropping away.

All of this is why our time of “Going Deeper” is the hub, the heart of what we do here week after week.  This time we set aside is, for some of us, the only time when we can slow down long enough to have even a taste of this kind of stillness.  And for some of us – no doubt for many of us – this place is as important as this time.  We come here, to this sanctuary, as, if you will, to an in-town forest or ocean.  We come here to seek a stillness, to find a stillness, so that that stillness can carry us through the rest of our week.

The Unitarian Universalist pastor and preacher Rev. Phillip Hewett described this seeking in words that are often used as Opening Words in UU congregations (it’s #440 in the back of our hymnals):

“From the fragmented world of our everyday lives we gather together in search of wholeness.  By many cares and preoccupations, by diverse and selfish aims are we separated from one another and divided within ourselves.”

Another story.  (And I haven’t forgotten that earlier story about the monks and the leaves, nor the formula with which I began – one hour a day; one day a week; one week a year.  I hope you haven’t yet either, and if you did I’ve just reminded you.)

I’ve mentioned before that when I was in my 20s I had the wonderful opportunity to spend two months in Japan working with the Kanjiyama Mime troupe.  This was in the midst of the twenty or so year period in which I followed the Zen Buddhist path, so although my work in Japan was centered mostly in and around Tokyo, I simply had to make a side trip to Kyoto, which was the Imperial capital of Japan for over 1,000 years.  It’s also been called “the city of temples,” because of its 1,600 Buddhist temples and 400 Shinto shrines.

I visited several Buddhist temples while I was there, particularly those with the justly famed gardens of stone and raked sand.  And I have to say, when I walked onto the temple grounds – and this was true of all of the temples I visited – I was overwhelmed with a sense of peace.  It was nearly palpable, and I felt myself infused with it.  Just being there quieted my mind and stilled my soul.  It was powerful, and an experience I hope I never forget (no matter how much else I may come to forget).

And this pervasive and palpable peace was perhaps nowhere more present than in the zendo.  These beautiful, spare spaces seemed filled with the energy generated by the monks who meditated there day after day, week after week, years upon years, over centuries and centuries.  It seemed to me that these halls had been infused by the peace of its monks, just as it held the fragrance of all of the incense that had been burned there.

At one of the temples the monk who was walking me around brought me outside the back of its zendo.  The meditation hall had been built at the base of a cliff, and there was a place where a small waterfall had carved a channel in the rock.  Ice cold water from a mountain stream above still fell, as it had for centuries.  At the base of this channel there was a somewhat circular, somewhat flat rock … about the size of a meditation cushion, actually.  And the monk told me that the most advanced students would sometimes leave the zendo during the time of meditation, that they would get off their cushions and come out here.  They would leave the peace and stillness of the zendo and come out here to continue their zazen practice— here, on that rock, under that icy shower.  He invited me to touch it, and even the brief period it poured over my hand was quite literally bone chilling.  And there were monks who choose to practice here under this freezing flow, rather than in the warmth and peace of the meditation hall.

Since I posted the Black Lives Matter sign on the wall behind this pulpit, I have heard from some of you who’ve said that it disrupted, and for some even destroyed, the feeling of peace you had in this hall, and which you sought still.  For some it’s the “garish” colors, discordant with soft blue of the wall.  Some felt it to be an intrusion of the outer world into this inner space, an imposition of the political – and the divisively political at that – into this place of peace.  “I used to look up at the altar throughout the service” someone said to me, “and it would allow me to let everything go.”  This person continued, “Now I can’t.  Whenever I look toward the altar I see that sign, and I can no longer get away from anything … even for just this one hour.”

I would note that this isn’t everyone’s experience.  I have also heard from some of you who find the presence of this sign a powerfully positive thing.  Many – not all, but many – people of color, and perhaps especially those who are new to the congregation, who are checking it out, have said that seeing that sign not only outside of our building, but inside it as well, has made them feel truly welcomed and safe in a predominantly white faith community … for the first time.  “You see me,” they’ve said.  “And you care enough about me to say that explicitly, here, in this sacred space, even though it must cause some of you discomfort to do so.”  As Unitarian Universalists – particularly as Unitarian Universalists committed to the vision of true Beloved Community, that is truly multigenerational and multicultural and committed to the dismantling of racism and the systems and structures of oppression of all kinds – as Unitarian Universalists we know that having our needs met is not the ultimate measure of our success.  Rather, it’s to be a people who know that what matters most is our collective needs, the needs of our whole community, and that means sometimes setting aside my own needs for the sake of someone else’s.  This is one of my reasons for keeping the sign where it is – while some of us are discomforted by its presence, others (and not just people of color, but some of us who identify as white, as well) are more comfortable because it’s there.

I’ve also said, over the years, that if those of us who identify (or are identified as) white are really committed to the overthrow of the deeply and fundamentally racist culture that is U.S. culture, if we’re really committed to this work, then we are going to have to change.  We are going to have to be uncomfortable, because it is uncomfortable work to let of what we’ve known, and learn to see the world through new eyes.  Yesterday, at the Families Belong Together rally downtown, we were reminded by one of the speakers that as outraged as we are by the separation of immigrant families today, it’s been happening in our country to brown and black families since the founding of the nation – African families, native families, the families of anyone deemed to be “Other” have had their families split up as a deterrent .. a deterrent to even thinking about fighting back against their oppression and their oppressors.  This makes a lot of white folk really uncomfortable, as we want to believe that this kind of behavior is an aberration, and it’s tremendously disconcerting and disorienting to discover that it’s actually been a part of the fabric of our culture from the beginning.  

I’ve preached this need for those of us who identify as white to “get comfortable with being uncomfortable,” to lean into the pain that brings with it, and to realize that our assertion, our assumption, that we can and should be comfortable is a piece of privilege not shared equally.  Black and brown people – like women, those who identify as part of LGBTQI communities, Muslims, and everyone who’s been historically, and still are, marginalized – have had to get comfortable with being uncomfortable because that’s a part of their daily experience.  I’ve preached this, and this message has been greeted with applause and praise for my “courage” and willingness to “say what has to be said.”  The presence of this sign is one way to remind us of these truths.

My two Buddhist stories are another way of understanding what the presence of this sign, in this place, is all about.  It is easy to find peace in peaceful places.  It is easy to be still when there is stillness all around.  It is easy, with apologies to Kipling, for us to “keep our heads when all about us are keeping theirs.”  But try meditating under a shower of ice cold mountain water.  Try finding a clear path when it’s obscured by leaves.  Try looking at the altar and letting everything go when out of the corner of your eye you see a reminder of the pain and the struggle in our world.

I can imagine that some of you are experiencing these reflections as being more than a little … defensive.  And I can imagine that some of you are experiencing them as being dismissive … of your concerns, of your real disheartening discomfort, of your own felt needs.

I hope that I’m not being defensive; I’m hoping that I’ve been offering an explanation of why, in this regard, I am doing what I’m doing.  Agree or disagree, I hope I’m helping you to better understand. 

I am aware, though, that I have often come across as dismissive.  I acknowledge that some of you here – and no doubt many who are not – have felt dismissed, especially this year and especially since the end of February when that anonymous racist note and attack was directed at our Director of Administration and Finance, Christina Rivera, and her family.  And while I do recognize and acknowledge that for some here that has been the impact of some of what I’ve said and done, that was never my intent.

In her sermon on Sunday morning at General Assembly last week, the Rev. Susan Frederick-Gray reminded us that she had been called not just to be a leader in our movement, but also a pastor.  That really struck me.  It struck me deeply.  And it struck me deeply because I realize that – especially since February – I have not been as much of a pastor as I now realize I should have been.  Prophetic, maybe, but not all that pastoral.

I know that I have come across to some of us as if I were saying that there were one, and only one, way of being involved in the struggle for racial justice.  I recognize that I have not always said what I mean to say in ways that have been all too easy to misunderstand.  And I am aware that this has led some people to feeling blamed, or shamed, or, as I’ve said, dismissed.

The Universalist preacher Hosea Ballou said, “If we agree in love, no disagreement can do us any harm.  Yet if we don’t, no agreement can do us any good.”  I’m paraphrasing, but you see what we meant.  We don’t have to agree with each other, we don’t have to see things the same way, we don’t have to be the same amount of “woke” (as if you could measure that), we don’t have to be in the same place of understanding, or in the same place of action … if we agree in love, none of that need matter.  The Beloved Community has room for all of us.  We are all works-in-progress and, again, if we can remember to “agree in love,” we can move forward together.

This is a community of good-hearted people, and we cannot afford to risk complacency – the time is too dire and the stakes are too high.  This is a community of beautiful and loving people, and we cannot let a comfortable appearance of peace supplant our commitment to justice.  The work we have set ourselves to is hard.  Relationships are hard.  For that matter, life itself is hard.  Yet as I say to my younger son, “We can do hard things.”

And the discovery of, or the creation of, the cultivation of places and spaces of peace is something we all have to do – individually and as a community – if we want to do the hard things our faith calls us to.  Our time of “Going Deeper’ is intended to be such a time each week, as I know listening to the musical gifts of Scott and James is for many of us.  But that’s not enough.

And that’s where we come back to the formula with which I began:  one hour a day; one day a week; one week a year.”  The Unitarian Universalist preacher Carl Scovel offered this as a pattern we can use to structure our spiritual lives, to ensure that we’re feeding that sacred silence.  Take one hour a day, each day, for quiet and contemplation.  Pray, meditate, walk your dogs and enjoy the walk, sip a cup of tea … for one hour a day give yourself some space to quiet down enough to listen for that “voice of quiet stillness.”   And then give yourself one day a week.  Think of the Jewish tradition of Shabbat, the seventh day of the week on which you are to abstain from anything that might be called “work.”  I’ve heard the practice of such sabbath time as being, “don’t do anything because you feel you have to do it.”  This one-day-a-week is not the time to do the laundry and the 101 errands that have piled up.  It’s a space for space.  And so is that one week per year.  Scovel suggested that we should strive to shape our lives so that we can have one hour a day, one day a week, and one week a year during which we can set ourselves to the no-thing-ness of stillness.

When we are intentional about creating such space – even if we can’t quite meet Scovel’s recommendations – we will find ourselves in a much better place to find that love in which, and through which, we can agree, letting no disagreement tear us apart.

Closing Words:

I have another story.  In Divinity School I was especially interested in cross-cultural monastic practices, so this is another story of a monk. 

This time it’s a Christian monk who was in her room, engaged in contemplative prayer.  It was a warm day, so her window was open.  Outside, the birds were singing, the crickets were chirping, the frogs were croaking, dogs in the distance were barking, and the wind was rustling in the leaves of the trees.  The cacophonous chorus of life was going on outside of her room, and the monk found that she simply could not concentrate on her prayers.

So she rose and went to her window.  Such was her spiritual power that she did not just close the window, she leaned out and shouted, “Silence!”  And all the world grew silent.  There was no sound at all – no birds, no crickets, no frogs, no dogs, no wind.  The silence was complete and total.

The monk returned to her prayers and, at first, she was able to go deep into her contemplations.  Yet she began to notice that again she was distracted, and this time it was worse than it had been.  The silence was nearly deafening.

So once again she rose and went to the window.  And once again she leaned out.  This time, though, she spoke more softly and said, “Sing!”  All at once, the song of life resumed, and she welcomed the world back into her prayers.

Pax tecum,

RevWik

Love Always Wins

I wrote this as a Letter to the Editor for Charlottesville' paper, the Daily Progress after attending a candle light vigil on our downtown mall in response to the shootings in Orlando.

I had just finished leading worship in the congregation I serve when I learned of the atrocity that had taken place in Orlando just a relatively few hours before.  The topic of my sermon was love – that no matter how simple it might sound, wise teachers from every religious tradition have stressed that “doing unto others,” that “loving our neighbor,” is the only needed guide for how to live in this world.  Rabbi Hillel the Elder famously said that everything else in the Torah, the Law, and the Prophets was simply commentary and explanation of this central teaching, and Jesus (a near contemporary of Hillel’s) said much the same, as did the Prophet Muhammad.  Every religious tradition we humans have ever created has its own version of the “Golden Rule.”  And yet, in the aftermath of the mass murder of 49 people, the serious wounding of 53 others, and the devastation to  countless lives of families and friends and all those touched by this tragedy, this message of love seemed not just simple, but simplistic.

What a gift, then, to gather on Monday night with hundreds of others at the Free Speech Wall to mourn, express our shock, give vent to our outrage, and recommit ourselves to one another and to the vision of Beloved Community.  And we were a beautiful representation of that Beloved Community – we were gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, cisgender, Latino/a, African American, Asian American, White, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Jew, Atheist, Unitarian Universalist, old, young, radical, reticent, and virtually every other description of person you could think of.  We were what the United States looks like at its best – a beautiful, swirling rainbow of differences that came together to reveal an even more beautiful unity.  The acts of hate-filled violence, and the violence-tinged hate speech that is all too prevalent in our political discourse lately, may cause us to question our faith in humanity.  The vision of community made real on Monday night restored my faith, and renews my hope. 

Pax tecum,

Revwik

While at the Freedom of Speech Wall we were told that following each of the annual C'ville Pride Festivals
there have been reports of someone being fired from their job because their boss or employer had seen their photograph
in the next day's paper.  This, then, is a photo (from the back) of a small portion of the hundreds who attended the vigil
and then walked with lighted candles to the Federal Courthouse building.

What Do We Have to Let Go of When We Want to Hold Hands?

I will admit that I don’t know if this story is true, and I’ll confess that I didn’t try to find out because it’s such a good story. So let me just say that this is what I’ve heard.  There was an experiment done in which some fish were put into a small tank that was then put within a larger tank.  The fish could see the larger space around them, yet were confined to a much more limited existence.  They were left this way for a while and, as far as we can know what fish are thinking, they grew used to it.  And then the scientists removed the smaller tank so that the fish now had unlimited access to the entirety of their environment.  And yet – again, so I’ve heard – the fish never did swim beyond what had been the boundaries of their smaller tank.  They had, apparently, internalized the limitations that they had learned and simply were not able to move beyond them.

We just recognized and honored the choice of several members of our community to formalize their membership.  I, personally, struggle with the right words here, because I believe that a person can absolutely be a member of this community as soon as they walk through those doors and decide to come back again.  From this perspective, being a member (lower case “m”) has to do with involvement, engagement, connection.  From this perspective there are lots of folks who are members of TJMC even though they’ve never signed the membership book. 

At the same time, though, there is something important in taking the step to formalize that membership.  That’s the reason I generally discourage people from doing so right away.  I think it should be the response to our involvement and not the doorway to it.  And I think it’s a decision not to be made lightly, because afterward things will be different in some perhaps imperceptible yet really important ways. 

I remember my mother telling my older brother on his wedding day that there would be something different after the wedding – maybe even only subtly different – even though he’d already lived with his bride-to-be for several years.  Pat pooh poohed it, of course, but during the reception he came up to her and told her that she’d been right.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something was different now that they’d formalized their relationship in this way.

I remember, too, the phone call I got – years ago now – from a woman who’d just signed the membership book that morning.  She called because she wanted to tell me right away about something strange that she’d noticed.  This was a woman who’d been a part of that congregation for a while and who was almost evangelical in her sharing of the wonderful community she’d found.  She’d tell her friends, “at the church I go to we’re doing this …,” or, “at the church I go to we’re doing that …”  She was always telling someone something our congregation was up to.  She called me that day to say that she’d been talking with someone about the church and realized that she had said, “at my church …”.  Something subtle had shifted in her when she took the step of formalizing her membership.  It was no longer simply “the church I go to;” it had become, for her, “my church.”

So, to those we recognize today for taking this step I want to say the two things I’ve always said when people make this choice.  First, congratulations – you’re joining yourself to a really wonderful community.  And second, thank you – because your presence here makes it more wonderful still.

And that’s really what I want to reflect on this morning:  the way new members – formal or more informal – change this community.  In one of our newcomer orientation sessions someone said that at the last congregation she’d attended the ordained minister would say that as soon as someone made the choice to become a regular attendee and participant it was as if they were handed a metaphoric paintbrush so that they, too, could add their colors and shapes to the mural that was constantly being created and recreated.  That’s a lovely image, isn’t it?  Yet there’s a dimension to it that most of us most likely would rather not think about.

I don’t know how many of you have ever worked with others on a free-form mural.  I know that when I’ve done this there are times when someone comes along after I’ve created some wonderful thing and they dare to change it.  My tree becomes their rocket; my sun becomes their flower.  Or I’ve got in my mind how to use a blank space over here, and someone else comes along and does their own thing in it.  And depending on my mood – especially depending on how seriously I’m taking it all – this can be really annoying.  Upsetting, even.  And, in keeping with this month’s theme, I’d have to say that it can be hard to … let go … of the plans I’d had when someone comes along with plans of their own.

This happens when we invite new members to grab a paintbrush and add their own artistic vision to our ongoing mural.  At least, it should.  It should change things if we who are already here are serious about really inviting new people to bring themselves, and be themselves, and offer themselves to this beloved community.  We who are already here are already doing the things, and doing them in the ways, that we’re already doing them.  One of the gifts, we say, of expanding our circle – as the choir so movingly sang last week – is that our common life becomes infused with the inspiration of “the new.”

And this will be especially true when we who are already here welcome in a greater diversity of people, which we say that we want to do.  Diversity speaks to difference, so the more diverse we become the more different we become.  At least, of course, if we really do mean it when we invite people to bring themselves, and be themselves, and share themselves.  Welcoming “diversity” means welcoming people who are in some way or other different than the majority of the people who are already here or, at least, the people who set the tone and establish the norms of how we behave toward one another.  And these different people will have – do have – different ways of seeing things, and doing things, and envisioning what ought to be done.

Speaking in generalities for a moment, the Eurocentric culture – which informs most of the world around us and, let’s face it, the world in here, too – tends to focus on the individual and our own personal growth.  Consciously or unconsciously, explicitly or implicitly, the question most commonly asked is, “What do I get out of this?  How will this assist me in reaching my own full potential?”  Bluntly said, “What’s in it for me?”

Communities of color – again, speaking in generalities – are more often focused on the community and the health and wellbeing of the whole.  “What do we need?  How can this build us up?  What’s in it for us?”  I’ve heard this described succinctly as the difference between an I culture and a we culture.

So as long as our community here is built around largely homogeneous Eurocentric norms, we’ll tend to focus on doing things, defining “success” by how well our own particular needs are being met, and essentially maintaining the status quo so that we, ourselves, can remain comfortable and feel “at home among like-minded people” (as is so often said). 

To the extent we’re serious about becoming a more multicultural place, to the extent we mean it when we say we’d like to see TJMC become more diverse, to the extent our talk about a wide and welcoming invitation to all people is genuine, there will be challenges to that comfort.  If this vision of a more diverse, more multicultural congregation begins to take hold, the “we” of this place will be increasingly comprised of people who come from cultures that are more interested in the being in relationship than the doing of things, who define success by how the whole community is being supported and strengthened rather than the individual, and who will want to see us being flexible and fluid so that we can readily change as the “we” of this place continues to  change.

Let’s look at another example of the potential clash of different cultures, this one more generational than racial.  We who are already here – we who have been here for a while, and know how things work because we’ve been the ones doing the work to keep things working –  we know that there is a natural progression which folks are expected to follow:   you come for a while and then get involved on one or another of our committees; you volunteer your time to a fundraiser or, as we sometimes call them, a funraiser; you eventually become a chair of a committee (or two), gradually increasing the level of your responsibility until you find yourself on the Leadership Development Committee, the Committee on the Ministry, or the Board – levels of leadership and service that have traditionally been reserved for those who have “put in their time” and have gained the respect, or are at least fairly well known by, the congregation as a whole.  And, of course, along with this is the expectation that we will support the church financially – through the weekly offering and our annual pledge – and that we will increase that support the longer we’re here and the more we get involved.

That’s the way things work.  Or at least, that’s the way things are supposed to work, and it’s darned frustrating that it doesn’t seem to be working that way anymore.  Frustrating and a little scary, because that’s the way things work and if things aren’t working that way any longer it won’t be too long until our whole church isn’t working any longer.

Yet more and more often there are people joining this community who don’t have these expectations, and not simply because they “haven’t learned how to do church yet,” as is sometimes said.  They don’t have these expectations because that isn’t the way they see the world.  I know I’m speaking in generalities again but folks who make up what’s called Generation X and the Millennial Generation usually have no interest in climbing the committee ladder like us Baby Boomers and Traditionalists. 

In fact, they have no interest in sitting on a committee in the first place.  They want to be up and moving and making a difference.  Committees?  Not so much.  Active task forces focusing on doing something real?  Much better.  Especially if their work can be done largely asynchronously so it can fit into an already tremendously full life.  Maybe even most shocking, they’re not all that interested in making sure that they’re doing things in accordance with the way things have been done before.  They’d rather do things in the ways that work best for the task at hand and the people who are doing it.  In fact, they tend not to be all that devoted to “the church,” per se – the church as a concept – and are really more motivated by the real relationships they form than they are by some abstraction like a mission statement or sense of “church identity.”

A truly multicultural community – the kind we who are already here keep saying that we want – is full of all kinds of diversity.  Generational diversity.  Racial and cultural diversity.  Economic diversity and diversity of educational background.  Diversity in mental health status, and physical ability.  Gender identity and expression.  Political and theological diversity.  Each of these, and so many others we could think of, require of all of us a letting go of our own expectations of who we are and how we are so that we can listen across and through the differences to see the world – and our part in it – in new ways.

It was so easy – if you’ll forgive my anthropomorphizing – for those fish to remain content to swim within the comfortable confines of what they’d always known.  And it is easy for we who are already here to want to be comfortable in what we’ve known – the in-jokes, the shared history that goes unspoken (except through glances and knowing smiles), the assumptions we make about the new person we meet (because we expect that they’ll be more or less like we are in terms of educational background and the experiences a certain economic status provide).  It is easy – and natural –  to want to be surrounded by “like-minded” people who reinforce our own world-view and who validate our experiences as normative.

It’s easy, but our Unitarian Universalist faith calls us to be people of letting go, and that means letting go of all these things, too.  As a monocultural institution – which, let’s be honest, this is – becomes a multicultural one, people with different world-views and different experiences become part of the mix and no single one can think of itself as normative anymore.  Yet letting go of these things doesn’t mean throwing them away, but simply letting go of our death grip on them so that, as we said earlier, our hands might be truly open to receiving, our minds truly open to learning, and our hearts truly open to loving. 


I will tell you this, when I reach out my hand to welcome a newcomer, I don’t want to be holding on to anything that will get in the way of my completely clasping theirs.  And in that spirit, and with that conviction, I want to welcome again those we honored earlier for their decision to formalize their membership here and say once more:  congratulations – you’re joining yourself to a really wonderful community, and thank you – because your presence here will make it more wonderful still.  I don’t know quite how yet; I can’t know quite how yet; but I can’t tell you how excited I am to find out.  So me it be of for us all.

Pax tecum,

RevWik

This is the sermon delivered in worship with the people of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Church - Unitarian Universalist on Sunday, October 25th.  You can also listen to it, if you prefer.

To Be, Or Not To Be ...

I've recently been reading a book by Juana Bordas, Salsa, Soul, and Spirit:  Leadership for a Multicultural Age (New Approaches to Leadership from Latino, Black, and American Indian Communities).  This book as been read, and is being read, by UU congregations around the country as well as by Association leadership.  After all, we say we're serious about wanting to be a more truly multicultural community -- both at the level of the local congregation and the national movement -- yet Unitarian Universalism is steeped in Eurocentric history, assumptions, and norms ... so much so that for many of us it's hard to imagine that there's any other ("valid") way of doing things because we're so used to thinking that the way we do things is "the way things should be done."  If we -- White UUs -- want to move toward a true multiculturalism, then we're most likely going to have to open ourselves to learning some new ways of doing things.  (If only so that we can be more aware of how "our ways" don't resonate with anyone.)  Hence the interest around Ms. Bordas's book.

On FaceBook this morning I read a really insightful -- and no doubt for many a really challenging -- post.  It was written by a man named Chris Crass, and made me think of some of the things I'd read in Bordas's book.  First I'll pull out some of those quote and then, with his permission, I'm reprinting Chris' FaceBook post.

From Salsa, Soul, and Spirit: 

When you answer the call to become a multicultural leader, you commit to honoring the unique experiences and background of each person you encounter while connecting with the core human essence we all share.  (p. 199)

[T]he limitations of hierarchical pluralism:  "Dominant cultural values are at the top and are impermeable.  Everyone has to conform to them.  People who are different can come in and be included, but they must understand their traditions don't mean anything.  Their values are subservient and they must adapt."  (p. 203) 

Because Whites are often blind to their own existence as a group, as well as their advantages and privileges, they don't understand that business as usual is really doing business our way.  (p. 203)

Egalitarian pluralism is representative of all people in an organization, not just those who have traditionally held power.  Organizations must be willing to reinvent themselves by altering their language, structure, and methods of operation by welcoming diverse leaders to the table to share their perspectives and experiences. ... Changing structures, norms, and values, is the key to egalitarian pluralism and the foundation for multicultural leadership. (p. 204)

And here's the post that got me thinking:

To become an anti-racist church, the key question, for a white/white majority church, is not "how to get people of color to join the church", it is making a prolonged, spiritually-rooted, engaged commitment to uprooting white supremacy within the church and taking collective action to eradicate it in society.

Our goal is not to have white people sit alongside a person of color so as to affirm that those white people aren't racist. Our goal is to build and be part of beloved community united to end structural oppression and unleash collective liberation in our congregations, schools, neighborhoods, workplaces and society.

Our goal is to join hands across the divisions of racism in our faith and in our communities, find and affirm our humanity in each other, and join our hearts and minds to the task of destroying white supremacy in every worldview, policy, law, institution and governing body of our society. 

For our churches to be places of healing for people of color and white people from the nightmare of racism. For our churches to be places of nourishment for people of color and white people about the multiracial struggles of our people to advance economic, racial, and gender justice and the continual process of overcoming oppression within the movement on the journey to end oppression in society. For our churches to raise our children, of all backgrounds, to be freedom fighters and practitioners of liberation values. 

For our churches to be spiritually alive communities of worship, learning from and contributing to liberation cultures and legacies. For our churches to be welcoming homes for people of all colors, sexualities, classes, ages, genders, citizenship statuses, and abilities. For our churches to regularly be inviting us into and preparing us for courageous action for collective liberation, held in loving community for the long haul. Let our theology and our churches be active agents in the world, to help us all get free, together.

Being the kind of community Chris is describing will take those of us who are used to -- have grown up in, find comfortable and "sensible" -- the mores and norms of the dominant Eurocentric culture to become uncomfortable.  The new, the unfamiliar is usually uncomfortable and we want folks to learn our ways so that they can fit in.  Re-read the second quotation form Salsa:  

"Dominant cultural values are at the top and are impermeable.  Everyone has to conform to them.  People who are different can come in and be included, but they must understand their traditions don't mean anything.  Their values are subservient and they must adapt." [italics added]

This is all true, of course, not just in the context of race.  If "we" want to be truly welcoming to young adults then we need to make peace with the fact that for many of them their phones and tablets are an integrated part of how they think and act in the world.  (This isn't true for all, of course.  No group is a monolith, but it is true for many.)  So "we" want to welcome "them," yet look askance when they assume that that welcome includes them being themselves.

(I keep writing"we" because I am aware that not all UUs are a part of the dominant culture and so it isn't actually true to talk about Unitarian Universalists as if we're all the same.  Yet there is a dominant culture within our movement and a majority demographic, so when speaking of and for that dominant perspective I'm putting quotation marks around "we" so as to remind us all that that "we" doesn't include us all.)

"We" say "we" want to be truly welcoming to people of all economic classes and yet, as one example, "we" still expect everyone to participate in the annual pledge drive as if everyone had the financial means to do so.  "We" say we want to welcome "them," yet in a myriad of ways most of "us" never even see "we" reiterate the message that "they" not as good -- useful, productive, valuable and valued -- as "us."

"We" want to be welcoming to people with a wide variety of abilities, yet don't see making our buidlings accessible as a priority.  

"We" want to be welcoming to transgender people, yet want to make sure that "they" use the bathroom that makes "us" feel most comfortable.

"We" want to be welcoming to families with young children, yet are unwilling to share space with little ones who are age-appropriately squirmy and noisy.  And while we're on the subject of families with young children -- "we" say that "we" want there to be greater integration of these families with the rest of the church community, yet prevent that very integration when "we" insist that "they" volunteer in "our" Religious Education program because none of "us" want to do so.

I could, of course, continue.  In each of these examples, though, the thing to see is that the dominant "we" want the more marginal "they" to conform to "our" expectations and example, and to ensure that "we" are not at all put out or discomforted by "their" presence.  "We" claim as a desire a more multicultural community -- something that's a change from what's true now -- yet "we" are not willing to be changed in order to make it come true.  To put it simply, though:  until "we" are, it won't.

Hear Juana Bordas again:  "Organizations must be willing to reinvent themselves by altering their language, structure, and methods of operation by welcoming diverse leaders to the table to share their perspectives and experiences."  A question for those who so blithely name "diversity" as a value -- are you willing to reinvent yourself?

Pax tecum,

RevWik

Words Matter

In Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, the couple discovers that each is a member of the family that is their own family's sworn enemy.  Juliet opines, "What's in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."  

She's one to listen to, that Juliet.  In words that could well be applied to nearly every case of enmity between peoples, she says, "'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;  Thou art thyself, though, not a Montague.  What's Montague?  It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man."  We could ask:  What's Palestinian?  What's Israeli?  What's conservative or liberal?  Oh if only we could remember that it is most often our names -- and the histories that go with them -- that are the real heart of our divisions.  This one particular Montague -- Romeo Montague -- is so much easier to love than the idea, the label, of "Montague."  "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."  In other words, don't let the label -- the mere name, the word -- get in the way of engaging with the thing itself.  Don't get hung up on the words.

As with most ideas, of course, this is both true in some ways and quite untrue in others.  It is true that we far too often get hung up on words and so are unable to fully attend to the specific person/moment/experience before us because of all the baggage we've attached to the words we use to describe it.  That is all true.  At the same time, though, words matter.

For those of us in the dominant culture -- in which I must count myself as a straight, white, cis-gender male in the United States of the 21st century -- it may seem as though the language is changing rapidly and radically around us.  It seems as though every day brings a declaration of some new word that is now "off limits."  It can seem as though the dictionary has become a minefield ... except that using military metaphors may cause offense.  

"Political correctness" is the term most often used to describe this expectation of increasing linguistic sensitivity, and it's usually used derisively and dismissively.  The implication is that the extra care being asked of us -- again, dominant-culture "us" -- is part of some (liberal) political agenda; that it's an effort to unnaturally and unnecessarily change the perfectly natural and acceptable status quo for "political" reasons.  Why does it matter what we call things?  Aren't these words that are now "forbidden" really just racist or homophobic or whatever they're accused of being because some people have chosen to declare them so?  And haven't those people and groups chosen to do so in order to make their own "cause" seem important?

In other words, again, what's in a name?  Well .. quite a lot, as it turns out -- centuries of oppression, violence, and both cultural exploitation and extermination to name just a few things.  Perhaps an example would be helpful, and here's one that should be, by now, fairly widely understood.  In the 60s and 70s, women argued that when people -- usually men -- used the word "man" to describe humanity as a whole they were leaving out about half of the population.  No matter how inclusive the intent, women asserted, when someone said "all men are created equal" they were effectively not talking about women.  Mankind is simply not the same as humankind.

To be sure, folks enmeshed in the dominant culture -- mostly straight, white, cis-gender males (then as now) -- didn't see what all the hoopla was about.  What's in a name?  Of course women were included in "mankind."  Who could possibly think otherwise?  Well ... women, as it turns out -- women who could point to a history of being dismissed and derided as being less than men; a lived experience of being treated as property and being intentionally excluded from nearly every category open to men.  In other words, women were telling men that the only reason men thought that women were included in this male-gendered language was because, quite honestly, men weren't really thinking about women at all. Their male experience is what informed their understanding of the way things are in the world, and women argued that they would always continue to be excluded as long as they were excluded from the language being used to describe reality.  (So, in other words, both cause and effect going on here.) 

Slowly men have come to understand this argument, and changes have been made.  Not universally, unfortunately.  Within this decade, during an interview with a congregation I was interested in serving, I was asked what I thought about the current "fad" of using gender-neutral language in worship.  (True story.)  Thankfully, this kind of thing would no longer happen in most mainstream settings.  A sensitivity to gender inclusion in what we say has become a cultural norm.

This kind of thing does continue to happen however, and often, with regard to a variety of other historically marginalized groups.  One of the attributes of a dominant culture is that it doesn't think of itself as "a dominant culture" but, rather, simply as "the culture."  And when you're part of the dominant culture you get to think that the way things are for you is the way things are.  And that means, of course, the largely unconscious assumption that the way things are for you is the way they are for everybody.

Except that they're not.  The lived experiences of an African American transgender woman, an undocumented Mexican immigrant, and a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant man whose family has lived in the Hamptons for generations are ... well ... different.  And these differences are real.  The anthropologist Wade Davis named this succinctly:  "Other cultures are not failed attempts at being you ..."  The lived experiences of traditionally marginalized people are not some kind of substandard version of the experiences of straight, white, cis-gender men (and those who identify with them).  They are full and fully "real" in and of themselves without the need for any comparison to anything and anyone else.  As we become more aware of this truth, things of necessity will need to change.

It is, perhaps, important to note once again that the "we" I am addressing -- as in "As we become more aware of this truth ..." -- is the "we" of the dominant culture.  People of color, women, transgender persons, and others who have long been relegated to the margins have always known this.  They have always needed to be at least bi-culturally aware, knowing that their own distinct culture and the dominant culture exist side-by-side.  Now, though, many of us who have never really had to think about these things before are finally beginning to recognize these truths also.  We are beginning to recognize that our culture, the culture we've long taken for granted as being normative for all, is not the only culture there is.  Just as (most) men have learned that gendered language does, in point of fact, extend and exacerbate the historic exclusion of women, so too an insistence on preferencing the dominant culture maintains and magnifies the history of dominance and domination that is the long unspoken dimension of our heritage.

I will confess that at times I am overwhelmed with the demands of trying to listen to so many long-unheard voices as they cry out for recognition.  At times I want to say, "Really?  Is that word so important?"  I'll admit that I'm personally currently wrestling with the challenges of recognizing that even apparently gender-neutral language still often reflects a binary understanding of gender which can be experienced as dismissive and damaging to people whose experience of gender is more fluid than that.  The structure of the language itself, though, and not just word choice reinforces this older understanding.  Yet always new awareness has led to the use of new language.  

It isn't some kind of "political correctness" that demands change from those of us who as a group, have called the shots (or have had the shots called in our favor) for so long that we no longer even recognize that that's what's been happening.  It's really more a matter of "empathic engagement" -- caring enough about other people to recognize that they are not "failed attempts" at being like us but are people who have their own experiences of life.  When men who really wanted to be inclusive came to understand that the language they were using was in actuality exclusive, they changed their language to better reflect their really intentions.  We -- one last time, dominant-culture "we" -- say that we value all people.  So when we learn that the language we use (among other things) actually devalues huge swaths of humanity, what can we do but try to respond?  

Our response should not be to decry some words as now "forbidden."  Rather, it should be to listen carefully, closely, to the people who rarely have a say to learn how different words sound to them.  How do they hear these words that are so commonplace today?  If we learn that there are words that carry meanings that we do not intend -- even if only for some -- doesn't it make sense to look for alternative words that will more fully and accurately convey the whole of our meaning?  "Political Correctness," then, is really empathic engagement with others -- listening to their stories of their experiences -- and making changes in our language so as to respond to what we've heard and to make sure that our words do not get in the way.

Pax tecum,

RevWik