Facing What Is Larger Than We Are

We are always surrounded by what is larger than we are. Sometimes it is beauty: the unfolding of the plant world in spring, the generosity of strangers, the soft feeling of petting a cat, all these natural phenomena that we can barely begin to explain. Sometimes it is tragedy: the illness of those we love, violence that makes no sense, the destruction of the natural world, hatred between peoples. How do we live with so much that is beyond our control?

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote:

Even as the farmer labors

there where the seed turns into summer,

it is not his work.  It is Earth who gives.

Our attitude toward the larger beauty and tragedy is strengthened when we first acknowledge our limits—amazingly we sometimes think we are in charge of something! No—we are not in charge. But we also have much more power than we know. We can influence our surroundings by how we live within our larger reality. One of the most important questions to ask ourselves is “Am I acting now from fear, or from love?”

Margaret Marcuson writes: “It takes a lot of energy to be afraid. I find that usually when I'm afraid, I'm living in an imaginary future. My mind has traveled down a path to a situation which does not actually exist. I'm only afraid it might exist, and I can imagine it so fully that adrenaline floods my body. Living in the non-existent future, especially when it's negative, saps my energy and limits my resourcefulness in the present.”  (See her website for other great tips for congregational leaders http://margaretmarcuson.com/)

She referred me to a book that identifies some strategies for moving from fear to love. It is called 8 Habits of Love, by Ed Bacon, an Episcopal minister in California. When we act from love, the ripples affect all those around us. Here is a summary I adapted from Margaret:

When we are generous, others are more inclined to be so.

When we make time for stillness, those around us can calm down.

When we know our own truth, we can challenge others to think for themselves.

When we are candid, communication by all becomes cleaner.

When we play, we and others will be more creative.

When we forgive, we can release energy for our work in the world.

When we are compassionate, the energy we would use to judge others is available for more creative giving.

When we understand community, we can both set boundaries and give support.

So whether we are facing beauty or tragedy from that larger world, let us cultivate these habits of love. That is something we have the power to do, and something that ultimately is healing for our world.  

Thoughts after the Marathon Bombings

The day after the bombings at the Boston marathon, I went to my yoga class. Our teacher invited us to hold the people of Boston in the peacefulness of our breathing. I thought about the vulnerability of breath—how quickly it can be extinguished, and how quickly life can be no more. We so often take it for granted, but in that moment, I did not. When we breathe we are a part of a great rhythm and flow of life. The air invisibly connects us all. Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh has said, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.”

This week I have been thinking about a poem he wrote many years ago, “Call Me By My True Names.” He wrote it after hearing a tragic and horrible story of a young girl, one of the boat people trying to escape from Vietnam. She had been raped by a sea pirate, and jumped in the ocean and drowned. He felt very angry at the pirate. But looking more deeply, he realized that if he had been born in the village of the pirate, and raised in the same way, he too might have become a pirate. He tells us we are all responsible for the circumstances that create the pirate.

I have been thinking about the bombings in Boston, and about two boys. First of all, my heart broke when I saw the picture of the eight year old who was killed, Martin Richard. I think all of our hearts broke. In the picture, he was smiling and holding a poster—“No More Hurting People—Peace.” How do we take in the horrible tragedy of his young life cut short?

A couple days later, other pictures appeared, of two young men who were suspects in the bombing. We learned that they were brothers, originally from Chechnya and Dagestan, but living in Massachusetts for the past decade. People who knew the younger brother talked about their surprise that Dzhokhar could have done such a thing: he was only nineteen, a normal kid, friendly, a good student, he had been involved in sports at Cambridge Rindge and Latin. As the cities around Boston were locked down in the search to find him, I felt a sense of bewildered compassion for this teenager, now alone, wounded, who for some inexplicable reason had thrown his life away into violence. As President Obama asked on Friday, “Why did young men who grew up and studied here as part of our communities and country resort to such violence?”

We don't know the answer to that question. So many young men in our country have exploded into senseless killing. Columbine, Sandy Hook, Virginia Tech. But I also thought about Chechnya and Dagestan and the violence and war of that region in which they spent their early childhood. The people there tried to form an independent state after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, but were violently repressed by the Russian government.

Of course, I felt relief and gratitude when Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was captured. People could rest easy now. It is natural to feel compassion for the victims of violence. But I don't think we can end terrorism without beginning the difficult process of opening to compassion for its perpetrators as well. Violence is a cycle that we are all caught inside. We must move beyond dividing the world into us and them. We must move beyond the practices of empire, where nations force other peoples to do their bidding through the use of war and weapons. The only real way to fight terrorism is to recognize our common humanity.

Thich Nhat Hahn wrote his poem Call Me By My True Names, after a long meditation on the unity of all beings. He says, “In the poem there are three people: the twelve year old girl, the pirate, and me. Can we look at one another and recognize ourselves in each other.” In my heart today there are three people: eight year old Martin, nineteen year old Dzhokhar and me. Can we recognize ourselves in each other?

Call Me By My True Names

A New Idea for Connecting with Our Kids

 You never know when a new idea will emerge. I was talking to a retired colleague about how hard it is to find a way to connect with our children in religious education, because I am leading worship while they are down the hall in their groups. She made a suggestion that sounded a bit crazy, but just maybe might work—and when I talked about it with our Director of Religious Education and some members of the Religious Education committee, they liked the idea too. So we are going to try it out in April.

Here is how it will work. On the 7^th and the 21^st, after the Lesson for all Ages at the 9 a.m. service, I will go out with the children, and go to one of the RE groups. I will stay with them for about ten minutes, during their time for joys and concerns in their group. Meanwhile, back in the sanctuary, one of our Worship Associates will lead the time for Joys and Concerns and the Offering, as well as share the reading for the day. I will come back to the sanctuary for the anthem and be ready to preach the sermon. I have emailed our Worship Associates and gotten several volunteers and a lot of enthusiasm. I hope it will work.

The plus side is that I will be able to hear what is going on for our young ones. The minus side is that I might feel a bit scattered going out and coming back in to worship. (Someone suggested roller skates.) So we'll give it a try in April, and if it works, I will try to visit the other groups in May and June. Stay tuned...

Joy and Sorrow

“Joy and sorrow woven fine”...so said the poet Blake. I have been thinking about joy and sorrow this month. I think with joy about the new infants who have joined our community recently. It is such a delight to hear their sweet voices during the service. It is a joy to see the young ones getting older and learning to talk and walk and turning into amazing little people.

I also think about so many in our congregation who are dealing with serious illness, or caring for a loved one who is facing such trouble. I think about those who have lost family members to death. None of it is easy. I wish I could wrap a blanket of kindness around each person who is hurting. And maybe that is what church is all about—not that any of us can do it individually, but that all together, we can offer kindness and caring to those who hurt.

I just want to mention that so many of you hesitate to ask for help for yourselves! We are a congregation of giving people, but remember, receiving is also a blessing—please reach out if you need a listening ear, or a little help. I am always happy to get your call, or find a time to meet over tea. And our Pastoral Care Team and Caring Connection feel the same way too. 

And to take my own advice, I want to let you know that my partner Margy has been diagnosed with granulosa cell tumor, a rare kind of ovarian cancer. It generally has a good prognosis, though one never knows for sure. She will be having surgery on March 12^th, and be in the hospital for a few days. I will be taking a few days off to be with her and take care of her when she comes home. And likely, we'll be calling the Caring Connection for help with a few meals when she comes home. I am feeling joyful that the prognosis is good, but sad that she has to go through the ordeal of surgery. I love her very much.

Life is full of joy and sorrow, and we all deal with it. I am reminded of Louise Erdrich's words, in her novel The Painted Drum:

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.

Bafflement

What a precious thing we all hold in our hands—this community in which we can share the deep questions of our lives. We share the perennial questions that people have wondered about for generations—What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning of death? How can we live with integrity? And we share the timely questions of our own day—What is a humane solution for immigrant families without documentation? How can we adapt to a changing economy so everyone is able to participate? How can we survive climate change?

So often, in the midst of this pondering, the predominant feeling in my heart is bafflement. So many questions do not have easy answers. I am glad we don't push easy answers on the questions. I am so thankful for this community in which we can ponder together, to face these questions with kindness, with compassion, with creativity, with joy at life's mystery and beauty, and sorrow at its grief and suffering. It is good to ponder together and to be baffled together and then perhaps smile a little and have fun.

I am so thankful for all of you who care enough about this community to give of your love and time, your extraordinary talents and hard earned money, even your crankiness and impatience! The world is changing and it is good to be able to sort it out together.

Experts say that churches as we have known them are dying—that they might not exist by the end of the century. I am not sure if that is a good or a bad thing. But it reminds me that we can never take our community for granted. Allen Avenue UU Church has a lot of life in it. We hold a new kind of religion in an old form. Our vision of an inclusive gathering of spiritual searchers without dogma is a new kind of idea. But the form our church takes is the form of the old Protestant church with Sunday services and children's religious education and a building in which we gather and lots of volunteer time. Maybe the forms will have to change. It give us more questions to ponder, and bafflement to feel.

But I hope this spark of light and love will endure, this beacon of hope and kindness will keep shining brightly, in whatever forms we inherit or create together! I hope we can be open to the creativity and dedication that are needed in a time of change.

Diversity?

Part of our mission statement says, “We celebrate diversity.” Sometimes people feel that is the hardest goal of all. We have a lot of some kinds of diversity in our congregation—diversity of age, income, sexual orientation, belief, temperament. But we don't have a lot of racial diversity. We live in a very white state, though Portland itself is rich with multiple colors, cultures and languages. What might it look like, realistically, for us to celebrate racial diversity?

I believe we must go outside of our own doors to do it. When folks are working to help African immigrants get settled in a new home, that is one way. When folks teach English to those who speak other languages, that is another way. Today I want to call our attention to another vital thing we can do: join and support the work of the Portland Branch, NAACP (The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People).

The NAACP was founded in 1909 to respond to the horrors of the lynching of African Americans. There were early branches of the NAACP in Maine in response to an active KKK presence in Maine in the 1920s. The current Portland Branch was activated in 1964 by Gerald Talbot. The Portland Branch has always been an interracial interfaith organization. The mission of the NAACP is to ensure the political, educational, social, and economic equality of rights for all, and to eliminate racial hatred and racial discrimination. It is our premier organization fighting for racial equality, and has also been on the front lines against all forms of discrimination.

In November, I was voted a member of the Executive Committee of the Portland Branch, and will begin in that role in January. I am looking forward to having a closer involvement in its work, including sharing with you opportunities that arise for participation.   Check out the website for more information!

NAACP Portland

Silent Night?

What a funny paradox we live in now—the dark of the year is upon us, and yet the hustle and bustle has multiplied. While all of nature in our northern world is resting and quiet, human beings are adding more activity and stress to our lives. (And our lives often are already holding a lot of stress.) So I wanted to tell you to make some time for quiet, for the dark, for rest and stillness. But then I thought it might risk adding a layer of guilt to the whole mess. You might be thinking, “How can I find time for that, on top of everything else I have to do?”

So I won't tell you the make time for quiet. But, perhaps, you might notice the moments of quiet that accidentally cross your path. Notice the bright stars in a dark sky as you get out of your car coming home in the evening. Notice the quiet of snow over the fields on the side of the road. (Yes, snow might be coming sooner than we think.) Notice the children tucked snug in their beds. Notice the orange sunrise as you step outside for the morning paper. Notice any moment of stillness, pause, and take a breath right then and there. It's a holy moment.

Of course, there are some times in all of our lives when we, like nature in winter, feel dormant, feel like we've lost our pizzazz or creativity or energy. If you are facing such a time, rest within it—don't look at what everyone else is doing and think you're missing out. Explore the gifts within the shadows. Explore the stillness and the darkness. Nature teaches us that without dormancy, many plants can't grow at all. Human creativity is like that too. The dormancy is the gift that hides a gift. It is a holy season.