I marveled though at how everyday the decision was for this minister.  He spoke about how he almost didn’t even go.  He wanted to, but the money wasn’t there to make the travel across the country.  Then one of his congregants donated the money for Clark Olsen to travel and stand for their congregation.  It gave him the opportunity to stand witness, and to be there for the last moments of his colleague and friend’s life.  But I don’t even know the name of the congregant that made that possible.

Hearing this part of the story, the part that’s not shared in the history books, helped me to see the broader and deeper connections all our actions make in the work of justice in our world.  It transformed it from a history lesson about certain heroes and martyrs, to one about the everyday work of building community.  It certainly takes both kinds of justice work, but it reminded me that we each have a part to play.  It made the impossible seem a little more probable to my mind and my heart.  It’s not about a handful of people.  Justice is the turning toward committed action with a concerted effort.  It’s the spirit of what we often call Right Relations applied to neighborhoods, and to schools, and to court systems.  And it takes all of us, in small ways and in large ways, to bring that about.  It’s not reserved for a handful of heroes, but reliant upon our very everyday strivings.

It is with this lens that I challenge you to encounter our stories this morning.  Each succession of the civil rights struggle has echoes of its predecessors.  But each turn toward justice is developed upon the efforts of countless unnamed individuals.  Look for your place in the history and future of this work, because it truly takes all of us to make this possible.  Some of us will be called to travel our country to stand witness, and others will need to stay behind to do the work in the corners of the world in which we choose to dwell – everyday.  As you hear Alex, and Sarah and Dawn and Sean (and Jeff), listen to your heart reflected back.  What corner can you inhabit?
Each movement we talk about today grew in some ways from the movements preceding them.  Inspired by what worked before and what didn’t work, they took their turn at seeing the world we dream about realized.  Each movement has it’s own struggles, and uniqueness.  The challenges Black citizens face, rooted in the horrifying history of a slave-state are not the same as the push for BGLT rights in the face of the police beatings and rapes of the mid-twentieth century Drag Kings and Drag Queens.  But it is my personal hope that our justice movements open our eyes to the connections between us and challenge us to find compassion for one another through our differences.

We gather once more around our sacred fire;

Much like the generations have since the dawn of humanity,

To share story and song,

We make holy this place through our commitment to gather.

From the light we carry in our hearts,

We kindle this flame as a beacon of liberal religious faith.

                                                                                    Jude Geiger

“I had never seen anyone use a lanyard or wear one, if that’s what you did with them, but that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy red and white lanyard for my mother…” the poet Billy Collins reflects in the poem we heard earlier this morning.  I’m not sure if I knew what a lanyard was as a kid, and to be quite honest, I’m still a little unclear.  But I get the creeping sense it wouldn’t be in my mom’s top 10 things she could use.  The ever practical child I was, (and continue to be guilty of to this day,) I would only craft something for my mother that she would rely on and … that I could easily explain what it was.  One early notion of “rely on” happened at a local neighborhood summer day camp when I was about 8 years old.  Armed with ice cream sticks, glue, and blue and white paint – I crafted the most necessary napkin holder – one that no mother could possibly be without – and gave it to my mother.

The sky blue lightweight but efficient piece of art was accented with an overabundance of puffy white clouds.  I don’t recall the exact rationale for the clouds, but I do believe it being sunny out had something to do with it.  It was kind of steepled with a vertical rise (going up and down) where one could place unused napkins – as appropriate to the intent of my creative genius.  I was really, really proud of my work.  My mom kept that holder out for years.  From time to time it would disappear, particularly around major holidays – my mother had a knack for decorating – and the blue and white would otherwise clash with the red and green or the purple and yellow or the orange and black of certain months that happen like clockwork in the Geiger household to this day.

I was shocked though, one year when I came home from college and saw my sky-blue-with-clouds-napkin-holder sitting right out in the open on the kitchen table.  Not only did it survive for at least a dozen years, but it also strategically migrated to the kitchen when it knew I might be around for a visit.  I was torn between being really touched at my mother’s thoughtfulness and having a dawning realization that the napkin holder’s habits might be remarkably similar to the migratory practices of that beige tie my mom gave me a decade ago – that tie that goes with nothing.  It might have been moments like those that I realized I was now an adult.

Our story this morning spoke about the toys we love that endure beyond breaking.  Somehow that napkin-holder I made defies logic with its ability to survive the decades kept together with just glue and paint; … and I fear that beige tie will last even longer.  But the Skin Horse in our story is ugly and worn from love.  Its tail’s been pulled out to string beads, its hair and fur is in patches leaving smooth bald spots behind.  Long lived, a bit tired for wear, and possibly one of the most precious and treasured things in our memory; the Skin Horse is a little like all of us. 

“When a child loves you for a long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real” said the Skin Horse.  I wonder if that’s how a lot of us feel.  Those of us with children get to see first hand sporadic moments of love mixed in with a whole bunch of moments best described simply as “wearing.”  They both come with the territory of family.  We often rub the wrong way the things in our lives that we care so much about.  Proximity, closeness causes friction – it causes conflict even as it brings out love.  Some of us are fortunate to have more fond memories than rough ones and some of us are not.

Some of us without children might feel a sense of loss with this story.  It speaks of the cultural draw toward parenthood.  The classic tale reminds us that there’s something awesome about having children (and there usually is,) and that in some way we might feel like it makes parents into something more Real than those of us who never get to parent – even while pointing out how exhausting a job parenting can be.  Being halfway through my 30’s with no easy path to parenthood in sight, I can relate to this drive.  For me, I’ve decided to find my way into the role of our story’s Skin Horse through other forms of parenting.  I find myself “mothering” or fathering in my case to our whole congregational religious education school.  For me, it’s a really simple metaphor since I get the joy of supporting and collaborating with eighty or so children and youth every year (not to forget about 40 teachers); but it’s a connection that I feel fits really well.  My instinct for parenting toward the future just gets to look a little different than most of yours. 

As a Unitarian Universalist – I know that diversity has a real value to it.  I know that difference adds to this world.  Not having children of my own may not match with our traditional cultural values, but my religious values remind me that there’s a world to be learned from it.  How we embrace our human need to parent, to nurture is important – but it doesn’t need to look the same for all of us. 

For our mothers-yet-to-be who might be struggling with a sense of loss (and clearly this goes the same for our fathers,) struggling with a sense of lacking, or a sense of frustration at not fitting the norm of parenting – know that I’m not really sure there is any norm to parenting.  Our families here at First UU come in so many varieties from single parent, to dual home, to mother/father, to mother/mother, to adopted, to multi-racial, to single home, to multi-generational to husband/husband.  For some of us, the families are solely the ones we carefully weave together as adults.  While others only know the joy of being a big brother or big sister.  The norm here is that we barely have a norm.  I think many of us know this in our heads, but the truth of it in the middle of the night may be hard to reach our hearts.  Sometimes I believe our faith teaches us to embrace difference in others; sometimes I feel it’s more about embracing our own.  It seeks to meet us where we are and help us figure out how to hold each other up when we need holding.

I’ve been amazed at the Skin Horse’s wisdom.  When asked how does becoming real happen, he answers, “…It doesn’t happen all at once…you become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”  As some of you may know, I have been marrying quite a few couples of late.  Occasionally, one couple will choose this story to be one of their readings at their wedding.  When friends hear this, there’s usually a little exclamation of surprise.  It’s this quote that I lift up to explain why.  It’s not only a road map for how toys, parents and children get loved – but it’s solid advice for marriage.  Love needs to wear away sharp edges.  The snazzy, fine and sharp toys may look great, but they tend to be kinda hard to hug — and that’s sometimes true for people too.

It’s true for congregational life as well – not just blood relations – but this broader family we call First UU.  Take a moment and consider how easily you might break as the story goes?  Do you find yourself needing to be carefully kept ever?  Because maybe your holding on to how things once were?  That might be a way of protecting some really vital things – or it might be a way of trying to stay shiny and new when our kids are calling for something well worn and recklessly loved. 

In New York City, so much of the world around us, so much of our work world, so much of our struggle to get the right grade or into the right school or the best Pre-K program out there depicts a world of seeming and hoped for perfections that are so frustrating even when they’re achieved.  I wonder if many of us came here today to carve out a little home where we can store our toys, our treasures, our hopes and dreams by the nursery fender knowing that someday Nana will come by to pick us back up and return us to our resting place for the night – well worn and recklessly loved.  To stop, to feel the joy of the everyday, to be Real for ourselves and with each other.  For me, that’s the essence of religion and the hope of my faith.  To be grateful for those who have helped us get here today, and to give ourselves the time to be a mother of our own to the love before us.

On Friday evening, a slightly smaller gathering of 60 of us broke bread for a Good Friday Communion service.  This vespers was traditional, sublime and somber.  It relived a tradition of this congregation’s that goes back for about a century give or take.  Communion silver was polished and set, the altar cloth was prepared and a team of deacons gathered to lead the service with Rev. Patrick and I.

Easter morning, I was sitting on the chancel with Patrick looking out at all of the gathered’s Easter finery marveling at how many join us for this service – close to 300 this year.  I was mentally preparing for the service to begin when our latest guest walked up the aisle and sat in about the 4th row of pews in the front and center just off to the left….  Now I knew the 6 foot tall (counting ears of course) Easter Bunny was coming; but I thought she was going straight to the children’s party downstairs.  She wasn’t able to make it last year for my first Easter at First UU, so I wasn’t aware she typically chose to join us upstairs.  You see, in the first few years of ministry at a congregation, there are so many wonderful facts like this that get left unmentioned because everyone else kind of knows, so people assume I must too.  So you can imagine my … joy… at seeing her decide to worship with us for our traditional Easter service.  With my very formal Catholic upbringing, this was rather unexpected.  Yet another of the many things that I’m fond of about this congregation.  We certainly know how to keep it real, keep it family friendly…and a little bit fun.

Our guest reminded me of my childhood expectant Easters.  I more or less got the religious meaning of the holiday at the time as a kid but to be very honest I was equally focused on the candy.  I wanted the fun of the egg hunts and the sugar induced coma of the sweet-tarts.  A deeper appreciation of Holy Week would come later, but I do recall the period of “great waiting” that was the hallmark of this time.

That’s the sugar-coated stories I remember.  But both the Jewish story of Passover and the Christian story of Easter are coated in blood, not sweetness.  They culminate in hope but they are rooted in pain and sorrow.  They speak directly to an all too uncomfortable fact of the lives of so many people on this earth.  In the U.S. we are very fortunate to not have to live daily under the realized threat of military violence, so it may be difficult to imagine a justness to the repercussions detailed in scripture.  But enjoying the privilege of relative safety, with the notable and rare tragic exceptions like here in NYC 8.5 years ago, I will personally withhold judgment.  I can’t imagine living under the yoke Exodus speaks of that God brought the Jewish people out from under.  Ex 12:12-15 reads, “It is the Passover of the Lord. 12 For I will pass through the land of Egypt that night, and I will strike down every firstborn in the land of Egypt, both human beings and animals; on all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments: I am the Lord. 13 The blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt. 14 This day shall be a day of remembrance for you. You shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord; throughout your generations you shall observe it as a perpetual ordinance.”  Verse 51 goes on to conclude, “51 That very day the Lord brought the Israelites out of the land of Egypt, company by company.”  The act of sacrifice and covenant culminated with protection for those who were violently oppressed and brutal punishment for those who were guilty of their abuses.  But what then?  Years of oppression over!  Sacrifice followed by hope!  The day comes, and liberation comes, only to be followed by 40 years of wandering in the desert.  Why?!  Promises were kept, but through a series of mistakes, that some would simply call sins on the part of the people, salvation turned into trial.  Doubt arose even after miracle.  Fear of what might be, led the people to hold onto what they could touch, rather than what they carried in their hearts.  And that doubt led to the people once again needing to look toward another day when they would once more enter the promise land.  

Faith and doubt are the counterpoints on the scales of liberation in the Jewish story.  It’s the human story too, I feel.  We hold onto the hopes of a way through whatever crisis, stress, or fear that plagues us.  Whether its emotional, or financial; our health, or our heart.  We wait for the news, we wait for the resolution and then the day comes.  Sometimes it’s the way through we hoped for, or the message that the promise land is out of reach, for a time or maybe it seems that it’ll be out of reach always.

I believe the Jewish story of Passover and what follows after is a reminder that how we handle what comes before us – is what determines whether we feel like we’ve found our way home, or we’re lost in the desert that is the pit of our despair.  Sometimes we may be the source of what causes our suffering, and sometimes the suffering that befalls us would be there regardless of anything that we could do differently.  That tragic health prognosis for ourselves or our loved one, is not our fault, but at some point we need to choose whether in light of it we’ll find our way or we’ll be lost.  In this story, the God of Israel seems to be saying to us that the path ahead is possible, despite it all, if we stay true to our hearts and keep our integrity.

The Christian story is similar.  The Rev. Dr. Christopher Morse of Union Theological Seminary, who joined us for our 175th Celebration, has written that, “The cross would cast no shadow were it not for the light of resurrection morn.”  Jesus, a teacher of non-violence, compassion, forgiveness and hope suffered the cruelest corporeal punishment the Roman Empire executed.  Crucifixion was reserved for insurrectionists and highwaymen.  The saving message of building that beloved community on earth; the message of turning us back to our humanity through these virtues he extolled, is tempered by the painful reminders of worldly suffering.  The way forward must ever remember the difficult truths of our world if it can ever be followed.  Transformation, and resurrection, have no meaning if they don’t honestly accept the reality of human experience and suffering.

Some say that suffering is redemptive….  I would not be one of those people.  Suffering can be crippling, or suffering can be transcended, but any redemption that occurs through suffering is only in light of that suffering, not because of it.  The moment of resurrection in our lives, in our hearts, in our relationships brilliantly reflects back like that light of Easter morning Dr. Morse once wrote of.  We do not need to suffer to be reborn, but many of us only choose rebirth when it gets too difficult not to.  Even then, it’s not too late.

What of the week after the resurrection central to the Christian story?  A woman, Mary Magdalene, was the first to witness Jesus and begin to spread his gospel.  His other apostles, the men as it happens, were huddled hidden in a room upstairs – fearful.  In the Christian lectionary, the readings that are given this Sunday of the year, John 20:19-31 begins with these first two verses“19 On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jews (which I would clarify were their own people), Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and side. The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord.”  This is the microcosm of the perennial story of liberation and imprisonment.  The greatest moment of Christian salvation has occurred and the apostles of that movement are hidden away upstairs with their doors locked.  Whether you believe this story is metaphor or fact, imagine for a moment being those apostles.  You’re terrified of your own people.  You’re scared that the government – the Roman Empire – might be coming for you next because you were part of some fringe movement that was supposed to end with his execution.  We’re supposed to be free, but we lock ourselves away scared of all those people who seemed familiar and safe a moment ago.  The story tells us that liberation and resurrection has just occurred, and for the life of us, we can’t see it.  We haven’t even gotten word yet.

That’s what we see with the apostle Thomas.  The lectionary continues on in verse 24 saying, 24 Now Thomas (called the twin), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord!” But he said to them, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it.” 26 A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” 28 Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

I’ve always found this scene in the story very curious.  It seems to be suggesting that those who require proof in order to have faith are less blessed than those who have not seen and yet still believe.  Centuries of Christian interpretation can be summed up with the critical phrase, “Doubting Thomas.”  The Agnostics and Atheists among us might have cringed at some point in their lives over this imagery.  I find this scene curious because a week later, one week after the resurrection moment, the door to the room the apostles were hiding in was still locked.  They’ve all scene their risen Lord, and claim to be overjoyed in response to Jesus’ acclamation of peace.  They are saved, and are the rock of the church to come.  And yet, a week later, the door is still locked.  

It leads me to think they’re all still scared, and they don’t yet have that sense of liberation, of redemption, of freedom we’re often led to believe.  It’s very human.  They’ve been led out of Egypt and yet can’t walk out of their bedroom.  So what does this mean for us?  We’ve gotten word that the prognosis is good, or that our kids made it home from the war, or we got into the school we really wanted to, but we can’t let go of the fear of what might have been.  I remember healing from my scary car-pedestrian accident of almost a year ago.  It would take me a while to walk on my own without a cane or splint.  But even though I got the seemingly miraculous news that nothing was broken even though I was thrown 10 feet, it would be months before I would believe I could do much with my leg.  I was fine in body, considering the seriousness of the accident and the couple of weeks where I really couldn’t walk, but I locked my room-for-maneuver away up a flight of stairs that I scarcely thought I could climb back down.  More than half of that recovery was a matter of the heart not the body.  If the prognosis had been bad, any recovery that could of occurred would have been entirely a matter of the heart, not just half of it.  What are you locking away in a room up a treacherous flight of steps you can’t seem to find a way back down from?  And the teacher and prophet reminds us, “Peace be with you!”

My childhood cravings told me this time of year were coated with sugar and sweet.  They led me with great excitement to the moment of celebration, the moment of fun, the moment of beauty in all it’s finery and splendidly colored eggs.  There were giant 6 foot tall bunnies aplenty to bring a smile to my face – and I was very glad for it.  The hard work though, begins some point after that moment.  All the information is in, the facts seem set, and we now have to do something with it.  One week after, life continues on whether or not we’re ready for it.  The news can be liberating or mesmerizing or terrifying as we huddle in the corner.  When you catch yourself putting the blood on the door in the hopes of the Angel of Death passing over, or you find yourself feeling in your body like you’re truly hanging from the cross – stop.  Take a breath.  It might be all you feel you can do, so you might as well do it with intention.  Come back to that moment.  Fill the way forward with intention as often as you can.  

Some of us will doubt no matter what; others will say they are overjoyed with their lips but remain trapped in their hearts; and others will find a way to keep ourselves imprisoned in action when all signs pointed to liberation.  But like these scriptural stories, there is always another opportunity to let go, to get out, to accept or to heal if only in the heart and not the body.  Beyond or despite the facts of whatever situation we find ourselves in, what is most crucial is how we deal with the moment, and not what the moment told us.  One week after is when the difficult work begins.

I remember one crazy week when I was serving the UU congregation of Shelter Rock.  I was still living up at Riverside Church in Manhattan, which is right next to Grant’s Tomb – the civil-war General for the North.  It was a day or so after New Year’s.  I had been borrowing a small car from a congregant who was gracious enough to help ease my commute from the border of Harlem all the way out to Manhasset, Long Island.  It was the choice between a 40 minute car ride or close to a 2 hour mass transit trip.  It was a really great gift she gave me.

Well, one morning, I went out to that car.  It was parked right outside my apartment window.  In fact, my bed was right at the window, so I was literally sleeping 10 feet from the car.  And I’m living beneath Riverside Church – the great Protestant “Cathedral” (as some call it) of NYC — so the neighborhood has to be safe.  The window was all smashed in, and someone had stolen the $10 radio inside.  But instead of carefully extracting the cheap radio, they simply ripped it loose from the dashboard.  Well, the dashboard decided it would go along with the radio.  So the ten dollars the robber would get for selling it on the street, was going to cost me $800 in repairs for someone else’s car which wasn’t even worth $800 itself.  On my 60 hour a week internship salary – that was almost 3 weeks of work.  Happy New Year!

So I have this unusual personality trait.  The more absurd a thing gets, the calmer I become.  Let me tell you, I was very … calm.  This high level of calmness lasted all the way till the police finally showed… 4 hours later; when one detective asked, “Did you lock the car?”  I innocently responded, “Yes.”  The police officers laughed and shook their heads while jotting down notes.  “You really shouldn’t lock your car.  It’ll only cost you more in the end.”  …. That wasn’t the thing to say, to me.  Even though they’re right.  “Oh, now it’s my fault.”  Fortunately, in a rare moment of editing brilliance, I managed not to say that out loud.

So for the next two weeks, I didn’t overly fret over the cost of the repairs, or the sense of violation by some stranger, or dwell on any sense that my neighborhood was somehow less safe.  I took the longer commute in stride, and had the difficult chat with the congregant who was loaning the car.  All of these chores were unpleasant, but I handled them well enough considering.  But that cop, who told me I shouldn’t have locked my door – O M G.  Strap that backpack on, write me some grudges, and fill it up please sir.  I will gladly increase my burden, to stay angry at you.

Anyone else ever do that before?  Or is it just me?  Find someone to be angry at, and hold on tight to that anger?  There’s a certain sense of rightness … maybe righteousness… that we gain when we do this?  “The way I see the world is correct; I’ve been wronged somehow, and as long as I maintain that strict position, I get to stay right. Yay!”  Sound familiar?  That’s the fundamental story for most world literature, movies, after TV specials (they still have those right?) and our daily living.  It’s the central thing that religion strives to undo.  Well, pluralistic religion – in any of its many forms.  Because it’s pretty clear every religion out there has some form that says it’s got the right answer and everyone else is wrong.  But there’s a challenging tenet at the core of religion that values the virtue of forgiveness.

The Jewish teacher and the Christian Saviour, Jesus, made this a central focus of his ministry.  When someone “wrongs” you, “turn the other cheek.”  We could leave it just at that.  Forgiveness is tough to do, but we should do it.  But why?  In a recent sermon our Senior Minister, Patrick, to paraphrase, said that if God exists, God does so within our human relations.  And if God doesn’t exist, it’s all we have.  This reminds me of  Luke 17:21 that tells us that Jesus taught that the Kingdom of Heaven is in our midst.  Different translations will call it the Kingdom of God, others will say that it’s “among us” or “within us.”  Whether it’s in our midst, or among us, or within us – it implies it’s here right now.  Not some other worldly location that’ll happen at the end of time.  Right here, right now.  It’s the difference between living in Grudgeville and renaming it Joytown.  Seriously, I think that’s it.

It’s more than being “nice.”  Forgiveness is a religious discipline.  It’s practice not only makes our individual weight less burdensome; it not only reconnects us with our “wrong-doer” whoever or whatever they might be this time; it also rebuilds community.  Without it, we are condemned to a life where we fixate on that past moment.  As this morning’s story goes, we carry the burden of the grudge of our grandfather who was called a horse-thief some decades past when he was running for mayor; rather than enjoy our life in it’s renewing newness.  It’s the choice between remaining unhappy with a work-place slight, and being free to enjoy the next day as you otherwise make or accomplish something.  It’s remaining unhappy by the thing you were told you were not able to do by a parent or teacher, and forgetting that there’s so many other things you can still do.  It’s not letting go of the way things were 30 years ago, in your family or in this church — if we don’t let go of how things were, we can’t really see the people around us for who they are now.  Look around you right now — these are some pretty awesome people that are harder to meet with our backpacks stooping our shoulders since it fixates our eyes on the ground.

With a show of hands — how many people have ever felt wronged?  How many people thought at some point in their life that the thing that wronged them was the biggest thing in the world at the time – that it was the end of the world?  How many of those of us who have felt that way are still here right now?  Forgiveness is about this perspective.  It helps us to recognize this truth in life.  Life will go on beyond that thing, whatever it was.  We just get to choose whether we’ll keep up, or stay back. But it will go on.

Now, this doesn’t mean we need to stay in abusive situations.  It doesn’t mean we can’t identify when we’re being taken advantage of, or being mistreated.  It doesn’t mean that we can’t look for healthier or more balanced relationships or life situations.  Forgiveness means that when we realize we need to move on or through something, that we do just that.  We don’t hold onto a sense of guilt, or shame, or condemnation for ourselves or others.  While we work to remedy whatever is genuinely ailing us, forgiveness means that we commit our focus to that end; not using most of it to remain in anger.

I said before that we get to choose whether we’ll keep up, or stay back.  What is staying back mean though?  It’s losing our way.  Jesus spoke a lot about his school being “the followers of the way.”  It’s a way into right relationship.  It’s a way into living into community with love.  It’s a way home.  Whether you believe Jesus was a teacher, or the Son of God, the core message in his prophetic teaches, I believe, is the same.  It’s not just about ethics and morals, though they are certainly there as well.  It’s about showing up.  It’s about recognizing that whatever you name or see or feel about the details of the sacredness of life, it’s only going to be found in our midst, within, between all of us.  It‘s recognizing that we realize the world’s sacredness when we allow ourselves to be open to the people around us.  Without learning to forgive all the things we think we can’t, we’re lost.  Without forgiveness, we only cut ourselves off from the connectedness with being, with living, with our classmates, with each other. Forgiving is a way home to our birthright.

I just said a very odd thing.  Forgiveness is about showing up.  Usually people say that forgiveness is about letting go; and that’s definitely part of it as well.  I don’t feel we’re the same when we hold grudges.  I believe that part of us that really matters isn’t present.  I believe that although we might be standing in the room, when we hold onto something we think wronged us, we’re just holding onto a vision of how things might have been rather than how things are.  Not only do we not accept the world as it is, but we keep ourselves back in that moment we didn’t particularly like.  Frankly, grudges are kind of pointless.  They don’t change anything.  And that’s key — they don’t change anything.  They keep us right back in the moment of pain, or disappointment, or frustration.  “I didn’t get to stay up that extra hour to play,” or “your salary just got cut,” or “that shelf hasn’t been dusted in weeks.”  Some of these are serious and some of them are not.  But holding onto all of them keeps us from coming home.  They each, in their own ways, keeps us from showing up to the world that is. They keep us from engaging our community in healthy, loving, full ways.

At the beginning of this homily I asked whether we really wanted the grudges we hold onto or not.  We know they don’t do anything to make us feel any better or solve anything, and yet, every one of us – including myself – holds onto them from time to time.  Some of us, even have our specialties.  We excel at identifying certain types of offenses.  And look!…we find them everywhere we turn!  I think the problem is simply that we forget ourselves.  We forget that birthright I spoke of.  We forget that community and fellowship is more important than being right, as if being right ever changed anything – if you’re unsure about this last bit, take a look at politics or any dinner table conversation at home to know that being right is of little importance.  So, next time we find ourselves being seduced by being right, let’s commit to letting that go and maybe we’ll find more forgiveness coming our way home.

So 240 years later a few friends invite me to leave the barracks-like retreat center to go for a hike to the spot where Murray’s boat got stranded.  I’m thinking, “sure… an easy walk through some forest and farmland to the ocean sounds lovely.”  It’s sunny out, and a balmy 40 degrees.  I run back to my room to put on better shoes – well sneakers without holes in them really, and my nice hand-crocheted scarf.  I decide not to change out of my good jeans… and we’re off.  The start of the walk is lovely, an easy trail through light woods.  You couldn’t tell there’s a strip mall just off the road from where we started.  The (first) time my running shoes break through the patch of snow hiding a thin veneer of frozen ice covering ankle deep water I vaguely recall the retreat director saying something about “everything should still be frozen over.”  And I think, “oh, that’s what she meant.”  Good thing those sneakers, the ones I had just bought that day, were black – or they’d really clash with the new shade of mud coating my good jeans.

This is the first teaching or challenge of the Universalist retreat center for my urban-self. Can a city-boy keep his heart and mind on the beauty and indwelling-presence of the natural world caked in mud and baptized in frozen water?  Can I push aside the thoughts of my colleague next to me giving me a lesson in how to treat tough to get out stains, while focusing on the “now” I traveled 3 hours to get to encounter?  Can I stop berating myself for packing so insensibly?  Twenty minutes in, I realize after my crocheted scarf starts getting caught on thorns and 5 foot tall grass, that the “everything should still be frozen over” comment of the retreat director was a reference not to patches of ice, but to the frozen swamp that was the doorway to the ocean.  I could hear Thomas Potter laughing as I realized that a century of untended farm-lands means that they’re probably not farmlands any longer.  In New Jersey, most of the area surrounding the ocean eventually turns back to marshland when humans stop fighting it.  And that was the trigger that woke me up – the absolute absurdity of unexpectedly trekking through an icy swamp in sneakers dressed as what another colleague labeled – “fashionista.”  The mind turned off, and I could see the world around me again.

We heard from Emerson in our reading this morning that, “I do not wonder at a snow-flake, a shell, a summer landscape, or the glory of the stars; but at the necessity of beauty under which the universe lies; that all is and must be pictorial; that the rainbow, and the curve of the horizon, and the arch of the blue vault are only results from the organism of the eye.”  What we encounter we glimpse at through our world of perception.  What we see, or hear, or feel.  It’s also what gets conveyed more subtly or more insidiously.  The beauty of the surrounding is modified in our minds by our company of friends or family, or our perception of those loved ones, at the time.  It’s altered by our concern for the stuff we bring with us – whether that stuff be our designer jeans or attachment to our opinions.  We forget the present with thoughts of homework, deadlines, debts and other fears.  Or it could be innocuous like my one friend who can never simply say that the day is rainy – it always has to be “awful and miserable” as well.  Or more troublesome prejudices – the kind where one gets distracted by two men or two women holding hands in the park, or those of us who may need to cross the street when someone of a different race comes our way.

I usually preach against bias as a justice issue, going through all the ways that it separates us from our common humanity, or fails to honor our first principle where we covenant to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person – and some would say every being.  This morning, I’d like to remind us that it also is a spiritual crisis.  The biases of the mind – whether they be the awful miserable titles to our rainy days or the more serious slurs we label anyone who’s different than ourselves, makes it distinctly more difficult to experience Emerson’s “necessity of beauty under which the universe lies.”  They cut us off from our religion’s first source — that transcendent mystery that affirms life and defies description.  They garb us as fashionistas in a landscape that’s better suited to more practical attire.  They may build us up, and make us think we look better than those around us, but in truth it just serves to slow us down; to complicate the snags along the way; and to leave our hands and feet icy and cold for the road ahead.

Even Emerson is guilty of this dressing-up.  We heard him write, “…There is no need for foolish amateurs to fetch me to admire a garden of flowers, or a sun-gilt cloud, or a waterfall, when I cannot look without seeing splendor and grace.”  I do hope that Emerson could only see splendor and grace in all things – he’d be a truly remarkable soul if he could.  I know that’s something that’s very hard for me to keep in the forefront of my experience.  I guess I prefer to be in the company of foolish amateurs — I sure need them to remind me of what I’m seeing.

Our poem by Neil Gaiman laughingly prods at this human condition – our capacity to get so tunnel visioned that we miss the world for the problem.  He takes us along a different road to absurdity with mythic alien invasions, walking dead, and robotic dominance that are readily missed for the much awaited phone call.  The extreme is not seen for the mundane thing that we can’t let go of since we long to have it.  This mirrors my parable of the frozen swamp.  The extreme wonder of the living world can be missed by a cost-benefit analysis of mundane dry-cleaning prices.  The beauty and indwelling spirit of our fellow human beings gets cloaked by our bias, or fear, or simple discomfiture.  And that cloak is sooo easy to see, when the sublime “rose of beauty on the brow of chaos” is sooo easy to miss.

What are we waiting for?  When we’re sitting in our living rooms staring at the phone for whomever to call, with a world falling apart around us in one hand, and extravagantly awe-inspiring on the other, what exactly is it that we need?  When we’re checking emails or text messages every 3-5 minutes – what do we not have in the spaces between?  Do we need to be reminded that we’re ok, just as we are?  That we’re loved?  That we’re human and beautiful despite what the magazine or billboards may otherwise depict?  Have we convinced ourselves that those products of air brushes and photo-shopping Frankenstein creations are real and we are not? Is it that we’ve forgotten that the natural world is a resource and the anchor of being, and not a commodity?  That we’re foremost and first citizens – not consumers?

All of these subtle shifts turn us toward or away from our living, breathing selves and world.  We are barraged by an overload of information that constantly informs and misinforms.  Some of it is useful data that allows us to navigate our daily lives.  Some of it false.  Some of it obscures with it’s addictive voracity.  The correct or incorrect bits are useful or discarded for a time.  It’s those bits that create a fog of hazy dreaming that I want to help dispel.  When the phone rings, will he or she still love me?  Will I lose my job? Did I make the right decision?  Will she pull through?  All those questions may really matter; they may all point to something truly serious.  But do they also sometimes cause us to miss the transcendent mystery that is living?  We’ve got a long road ahead of us, but regardless of that, we’re still on the road.  The view’s worth looking at – always.  I promise you, it’s a better sight than the silent phone.

One source of the barrage of information is the T.V.  I’m beginning to wonder if some contemporary news sources are more like the mind that’s sitting waiting for the phone to ring than the investigative news of, say for example, the Nixon era.  When a tragedy hits the world, we get cycles of information that seem to repeat themselves without adding anything new of substance.  Getting the word out about Toyota’s recent recall is important.  But I’m not sure that repeating the same clip of news about the disastrous threat of uncontrolled acceleration is the best application of cutting edge reporting or my precious viewing time for that matter.  I could tell you everything about the delay in reporting, apologies, legal obligation of drivers to bring in their cars, etc.  I can do this because I heard the story at least 6 times in one hour – the same story.  It’s much like the utility of replaying that disastrous argument you had with your loved one.  Some of it is valuable in recognizing how to move forward, but five sixths of it is wasted space that could be better filled.  I’d rather hear more about the nuances of the health care debate, or comparative views on the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”  But I suppose we’ve relegated that to episodes on comedy channels, like the Daily Show.  That’s the only T.V. news source that I’ve seen consistently do comparisons between politicians promises or views of 2 years ago with their stance dances of today.  It sets an odd tone where we label  intelligent investigations as comical, and name serious, reporting which fixates on repetitive fears.

I used to blame the conglomerate that we call news for its own failings.  Well, to an extent, I still do.  But a greater part of me begins to wonder whether prime time news is simply reflecting our human condition.  Are we so used to fixating on the moment of disaster in our lives, that we can’t let ourselves move on to the stuff that matters, or the life that continues on, or the complexity of what brought us all to and through that moment?  Maybe the news is structured as it is, because it better matches our own minds.

Considering it in this light, I suggest that paying attention to the disease of that news medium, the repetitive kind of news that fails to add more substance to data, can prove helpful to our own capacity to more fully engage life.  Attend to the feelings that arise from the repetition.  Take note of how it affects you bodily.  Do you feel more anxious?  Do we feel frustrated?  Does our breathing change? Do we feel more connected to our global community or feel more isolated?  Do we feel more connected to our humanity, or less so?

These questions are valuable in regards to our own often repetitive minds as well.  The negative iteration of some contemporary news sources can be seen as a useful mirror to how our over-thinking minds impact our lives and our humanity.  Holding onto the moment that was, or will be, or might be – over and over – affects our feelings, our breathing, our anxiety and our human connectedness.  Allowing the barrage of information to echo in our heads, rather than inform us, actually serves to diminish our awareness of the world rather than better inform it.

I’m not sure simply being aware of this will change how our news sources communicate, although it’s probably advisable to frequent the less common but genuinely investigative reporting than the more common type I’ve been speaking about.  But we can change how we are affected by the medium.  We can change how we are conscious of echoed talking points.  We can be aware of the over-thinking mind that’s reflected in the cultural-consciousness we call the news.  I feel it’s a metaphor for our own selves and a useful tool to awaken to the reality that we often do this to ourselves within our own heads.  For myself, one clue that this is true is that I find it much simpler to point toward the noise on T.V. than I am to the noise in my head.  Easy target.  And yet, it does map the pattern.  Just like people, the only ones we really have any power to change are ourselves, so we might as well seek to start there.

If awareness of considerate reporting that remains conscious of nuance and complexity is the goal for a healthy news medium, what is the path toward healing in our own consciousness?  If we accept that the news can reflect our own mental states at times, what does it point toward?  In my heart, I believe we as a species are struggling deeply with learning to be able to disagree with one another without holding onto our sense of rightness; without maintaining a stance that demands our take on the information we see to be 100% truth.  There’s another verse from Emerson’s writing that talks about that indwelling spirit, that sense of presence, being likened to a bird flitting amongst the trees.  It lands on this branch then the next, popping up from different locations and directions.  No one tree masters it.  Conscious awareness is like this.  Truth is like this bird.  Once we try to grasp firmly, the bird is no longer free to be itself.  A certain beauty is lost or mangled, and the capacity for flight is grounded.  The lessons of Emerson’s flitting creature is in the awe it inspires, not teaches.  It’s in whatever wondrous moment that finally pulls the person, waiting for the phone to ring, away from their stupor and schools them back to life.  It laughs at a world view that suggests we can sift through all the data pouring through our well-informed minds and separate things neatly into a sense of right and wrong that just so happens to cleanly align with our way of doing things.  …Whatever that might be this week, or year, or century.  We are awash with another type of information in our lives; one that gets lost beneath our thinking distractions.  Our first source as Unitarian Universalists points toward that direct experience of wonder that leads us to a renewal of the spirit – one that affirms and upholds life.  I would marvel at an education that used this litmus test on truth.  How does what I’m learning right now affirm and uphold life?

It completely felt fantastical down to the state of the art utilization of new filming techniques to transform human actors into alien CGI with remarkably emotive facial range.  Stunning landscape visuals elicited an alternating sense of realism and other-worldliness.  Ultimately, we went away feeling like we saw something completely other that was none-the-less readily relatable. 

Upon reflection, I’m no longer sure that magical setting is all that different than our world.  I grant you that on the whole, our world is less so vividly colorful, it’s no longer as pristine as this alien landscape’s forests and jungles were, and most notably, none of us have “upload” plugs coming out of our hair – please correct me if I’m wrong – particularly on this last point.  What I believe is similar is the sense of memory and awareness.  Maybe we do sense in the air the needs of one another.  Call it mindfulness, synchronicity or actions of the Holy Spirit; I continue to be amazed at how fluidly needs, pains, joys and other “stuff of the heart and spirit” get communicated in human communities without words, and sometimes with barely a glance.

I frequently hear congregants and newcomers comment how a particular sermon or small group ministry topic hit home.  Words and phrases like “right on the mark” or “timely” often come up.  Or I watch the ebb and flow of conversation and recognize how despite our often seemingly endless capacity to feel “uniquely  indisposed,” so many of us are going through the very same sorts of life experiences and challenges.  Originating from radically different places, we all end up in this religious home at a time and a place where we have similar needs and common intention. 

We could explore the how’s and why’s ad nauseam to identify the cause and effect of this very human phenomenon.  I’ve had similar discussions with a close staunchly and avowedly non-religious and non-spiritual friend of mine who leans clearly on the side of the brains’ capacity to make intuitive connections from seemingly disparate information.  I tend to lean more toward the Jungian notion of a collective unconscious.  Millennia of humanity has endowed us with a substantial and subtle awareness of the world and psyches around us that’s not straight-forward.  We’ve been doing this “human-thing” for a long time, and our connections run deep.  Simply put, sometimes we just know. 

However it is, I’m more concerned with “that it is.”  I’m more interested in reflecting on our very human experience of that alien fey landscape’s magical intuitiveness.  In the movie Avatar, I saw a glimpse of a powerful world of relation that I wished were here on this earth as well.  I’m coming to realize that – it is.  We see the fantasy as other and fey because we close ourselves off to the reality of it in the present.  If it remains fantasy, we get to hold onto our sense of isolation, of loneliness, of the ego as an island amidst a crazy world.

There’s a Native North American word that doesn’t have an easy English spelling pronounced (Oh-tauk-we-ah-sen.)  It translates as “all our relations.”  It’s a sacred word that points to our interconnectedness.  It reminds us that we are part of something more expansive than our lonely selves.  It understands humanity in terms of relation.  I find our 7th principle to echo this; where we covenant to affirm and promote the interdependent web of life of which we are  a part.

Where our 1st principle begins the archetypal journey with the self — “we covenant to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person” (and I would add every being) the 7th principle integrates this valuing of the self in light of the truth of the world around us.  If each person or being has inherent worth and dignity, and it is our religious promise with one another to strive toward making that expression a lived reality, then the 7th principle brings the saga of our principles back home.  The world is full of meaning and value.  We find a mirror of ourselves in the faces and lives of one another.  We only truly live out our 1st principle by living into our 7th.  We reflect the dignity of all around us by recognizing our places of connection.  The relations matter.

Something is lost when we isolate ourselves.  In the cinema of Avatar something was lost when the trees and stones were seen as commodities or obstacles.  Even if you haven’t seen the movie – imagine any human story where we devalue the world around us while elevating money and power.  The same is true for us living in this world.  We replicate this in a million ways in our daily lives with less violence or extreme.  It happens when the annoying co-worker is seen as simply the barrier between you and an otherwise good day.  It happens when you hate your classmate because you believe them to be smarter, or prettier, or more athletic.  It happens when we relate to our family or congregation as having obligations rather than having commitments.

The crux of the fantasy dilemma was the rare ore hidden beneath a rich world of interlaying connections.  The rare metal worth millions an ounce was called “unobtanium.”  A bit cliché a descriptor for that which we forever covet; but it’s aptness makes the sledge-hammer like title forgivable.  If we’ve stopped wincing from the naming by now, I’d ask how that relates to our interdependent web of life?  In your own lives, what is the thing or dream that lies out of reach?  What is the object of discontent that keeps you from recognizing satisfaction?  If you think back over your life, what were past things that fit this bill?  Did they last?

I remember back when I was 2 years old, I left my stuffed animal lamb – who was aptly named Lamby, at the mall.  (I know, I missed my calling as a Hollywood screen-writer)  My mom and I scoured the department store for what felt like forever.  He was never found.  I was a wreck.  It mattered acutely.  My mom could do no right since Lamby was gone.  The world didn’t care about me.  I couldn’t see my family as “good” any longer.  Feel free to heap on any other great tragedy and my two year old mind probably thought it up.  My mom made her best effort by eventually finding another Lamby that was blue instead of beige.  It sort of worked.  Over 30 years later, it doesn’t even matter to me; except to recall that it was my oldest memory.

I’d guess that we all have our unobtanium’s and our Lamby’s of various stripes and sizes.  They ever distract us from the beautifully woven networks of human and natural mutuality that are deeply rooted in our lived experience.  We uproot our homes in search of what is not.  We give up the most precious stuff we have – our realization of our place in this living world – in the hopes of grabbing the precious rock of the hour; whatever it might be this time.

I sometimes find our beliefs or thoughts about things to be similarly divisive; certainly when they’re centered on us.  Our Muslim story of Nasrudden is like this. His belief that the pumpkin ought to grow from the strong branched tree and the walnut ought to grow from the weak thinly vines, makes a certain sense to the human eye.  For a time, Nasrudden denigrated these plants for making less sense than they should.  As if the world centered around our sensibilities or predilections; and yet we so often act in exactly this fashion.  Even the humorous resolution to the story, of the walnut landing on his head and Nasrudden now being very glad that pumpkins didn’t grow on trees, is very human centered. 

We see a glimpse in the tale that the world is not about our singular perceptions or preference; while it’s humor makes light of that very assumption.  The “way things are” has a pattern that’s not always obvious and reminds us that we may not always notice.  The connections and meanings we make or find rely in part upon our awareness; but the connections are there, regardless of our acceptance.  When we metaphorically place ourselves under the walnut tree with a commitment to wonder and humor; when we remind ourselves that we are part of the tale and have a role to play, we come closer to the Ah-Ha! moment that hits us on the head because we’re finally paying attention to our own real story; then we rejoin our sacred covenant.  The promise we made to affirm and promote the interdependent web of life of which we are a part.

Although I’ve spoken a bit about trees, nature and the natural world, I’ve skirted around the environmental aspects of our 7th principle for a reason.  The 7th principle, I believe, does call us to act for the well-being of our earth.  But I’m not convinced that we’ll ever learn to treat this world with a life-saving and life-affirming spirit until we learn to apply those teachings to our world of human relations.  The Native North American precept of (Oh-tauk-we-ah-sen) or All Our Relations is as environmental as it is sociological.  We replicate in the natural world how we interact in human society.  The two are intrinsically connected.  I believe that transforming our environmental stewardship, something implicit to the call of our 7th principle, can only be done by first living with this intention in mind when interacting with all our relations; beginning with our classmates, and siblings, and co-workers and parents.  Why would we live more perfectly with the natural world than with our own human world?  Why would we be able to get it right there, if we can’t get it right here? 

We minimize and objectify the human world around us.  How many of us living and studying in NYC have heard, “You should really go to that benefit, or that talk; you’ll get to meet the movers and shakers. It might get you a job, or help you into that school!” I remember so many times in studying at the graduate school for public service (of all schools) this very statement regarding why a function was worth attending.  Even, or especially, in the not-for-profit world — who you know matters more than what you do.  Human connections serve the utility of personal advancement.  …But it’s for a good cause…

Even in the more classically noble professions, it’s the mode of doing things.  How do we transform our human relations to reflect our higher aspirations?  Yesterday, I was up in Boston for a executive staff planning meeting for Star Island’s annual Religious Education retreat week.  I was asked to implement a Small Group Ministries that integrates people of all ages.  The theme talks for the lifespan faith development retreat are centered around “Ministries across the generations.”  One person on the team mentioned in passing how it’s sometimes best to go to Star to learn how to be in an intentional religious community.  You see, at a retreat week like this, you spend about 6 days in a cloistered community of about 200 people of all ages that seeks to live out our principles and purposes every step of the way.  We don’t always succeed, like all things in life, but there’s an accuracy to the aim there that I don’t always notice elsewhere.  I mention this because everyone around the table easily nodded to the assessment of the intentional religious community on an island 6 miles off the coast of New Hampshire for 1 week a year.  My own head was nodding too. 

As I was reflecting upon it on my train ride back to NYC last night, I realized that I readily believed that it’s easier to do this sort of thing far away from our normal day to day.  Being intentionally religious in community – building that “sense of here” – is easier when we’re not distracted by the creep of normalcy.  It’s why fantasy and sci-fi writing like Avatar are so successful in transforming human perception. We go away (either to a retreat in the woods or a retreat into our imagination) to remind ourselves of how to be human, and to be closer to the natural world.  It’s telling that these two things are connected and seen often as far from home — being human in community and being back in the living world.  In fact, our respect for the living world does improve.  So many of these retreat centers are on the cutting edge of water treatment and recycling, composting, waste management, energy efficiency and the list goes on.  You see it at so many summer camps too – places where kids finally get to be kids in what’s often viewed as safer environments than where they otherwise might live.

Earlier, I suggested that healing the earth must begin with our own human ties.  I do believe this to be the core challenge.  I should give space that in all likelihood, it will take a little bit of both, to move either forward.  Environmental stewardship mirrors stewardship of our own humanity.  All are related.  And we need both to heal either.

Our second reading this morning ended with the words, “For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.”  The promise of our 7th principle is fulfilled when we make space for the nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.  When we clear away the fumbling perceptions and projections of our maddened discontent with whatever human relation seems to be ailing us this hour.  When we stop turning our connections solely into advancements that are “worth our time.”  When we carve out room for substance rather than merely stuff to do; we may come to see the breathing world as worthy of encounter.  The “nothing that is” is an openness to experiencing this living world as receptive members with intention rather than competitors acting from reaction.  We are connected; we are reliant; we are dependent through and with.  The religious promise reminds us that this is so; and calls us to seek to make it a realized presence in our lives and of those lives around us.  And it begins at home.

The Promise of Voice

The Promise of a Questing Spirit