The Unfulfilled Dream

My dear friend and mentor, David Bumbaugh, has written this article, his latest work exploring the dilemma of the lack of a clear Unitarian Universalist message -- what defines us as religious people.  As an agitator and self-proclaimed windmill tilter myself (dare I say, a "pre-curmudgeon"), I identify with much of David's frustration.  I, too, find enormously frustrating our lack of a clear answer to the simple question, "What is a Unitarian Universalist?"

David is correct when he points out that we too often let our fear of offending anybody steer us toward language loaded with ambiguity than fails to clarify or inspire.  But, as David points out, I suspect that his deep roots and prodigious contributions to our movement perhaps influence his perspective and weigh his hopes down with excessive expectations.

As a relatively new Unitarian Universalist (I've only been a UU for 25 years), I have no personal pre-merger history that influences my foundational thinking.  And, while I do fashion myself an historian, I believe this discussion depends far more on how we envision the future than the path we travelled to reach the current state.

I think one key piece missing from our equation will help define us as a religious denomination, both to ourselves and to the world.  Like other religious traditions, we interpret great truths; we help people cope with challenge and tragedy; we celebrate joys and life passages; and we educate ourselves and our children about our principles and traditions.  Specifically, however, we must declare boldly and proudly exactly what differentiates us from other religions.

For me, three things clearly separate us from most religions.. I believe that collectively they define us as a wholly distinct religious body.

• Courage -- Unitarian Universalism celebrates individual and collective acts of courage, specifically acts that challenge the authority of institutional power and dogma.  We not only elevate martyrs and people of great accomplishment to pedestals of admiration, but we encourage each and every Unitarian Universalist to do the same.  By holding no individual or congregation to creedal tests, we literally demand of everyone a commitment to crafting a unique philosophy of moral conduct.
• Reason -- Unitarian Universalism places the power of human thought above any sacred text, holy object, tradition, or vow of obedience.  The opinion of no single member of our denomination -- be they minister, administrator, or even the President of the UUA -- matters more than that of any other.  And, we promote the notion that Truth can be discerned through the application of reason.
• Universal Love -- Unitarian Universalism is not unique among religions promoting love of our neighbors.  We aspire, however, not to pick and choose which neighbor receive that love unconditionally.  This phrase also has the double meaning of portraying our love for our universe, a belief that all of existence is sacred and deserving of our caring devotion.

So, my "elevator speech" in response to the question "What is Unitarian Universalism?" is this.

Unitarian Universalism is a religion promoting the use of human courage and reason in the pursuit of universal love.

For me, that's it.  No long preambles.  No "whereas" or "be it resolved."  All of the rest can wait.  All of our principles and sources are covered.

On Memorial Day

When I was 12 years old, my brother Jon went to Vietnam.  The experience was formative for me in many ways.  Other men in my family had served in the military.  But, this was the first time that someone so close to me, someone I loved so deeply, was facing such danger on a daily basis during my lifetime.

Of course, I could have no sense of the suffering Jon experienced, or of the impact that time would have on his life after returning home.  I did know the daily anxiety, exacerbated by nightly news broadcasts of the carnage in Southeast Asia.  I felt the pang of separation with every letter I wrote.  And I felt elation the night he walked in the door, safe at home once more.

Jon brought me a copper bracelet given to him by the Montagnard natives where he was stationed.  He told me that it was a friendship bracelet, that once given should not be removed.  I wore that bracelet for many years, partly because it was the one tangible way I could share my brother's experience of war.  That bracelet helped me imagine that there were real people over there that he had helped.

On Memorial Day, I join others honoring the enormous sacrifices of our veterans.  I especially hold my brother Jon in my mind, because I know that he paid - and continues to pay - a great price for his service to his country.  I owe him and those thousands of other vets a debt of gratitude for their sacrifice.

I also honor the sacrifices of the families and friends of veterans - the parents, brothers and sisters, spouses, children, and others - who waited, sent packages, prayed, and kept the dream of home alive.  And, while I hope for the day when we never need to take up arms again, let us always keep strong our will to support those who sacrifice for the good of others and never forget their dedication to preserving our freedoms.

One More Death for Peace

Relieved, disgusted, hopeful, anxious, confused.  I felt these and a host of other emotions Sunday night as I heard the news of the death of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan.  I felt relieved that this inglorious episode in my nation’s history might finally draw to a close.  I felt disgusted at the hordes of people publicly rejoicing at the death of another person, no matter how deserving that person may have been of stern justice.  I felt hopeful that, rid of its greatest advocate for chaos and violence, the world might begin to heal from the wounds of recent decades.  I felt anxious that the remnants of bin Laden’s machinery might react in unexpected new acts of mayhem against innocent men, women and children.  And I felt confused, not knowing exactly how I should be feeling at this moment.

Evidence would indicate that Osama bin Laden willingly established himself as an enemy of order, reason, freedom and democracy.  He advocated violence over diplomacy and chose to murder noncombatants indiscriminately in his war against the United States and its allies.  Of course, as history repeatedly teaches, the philosophies that generate such fanaticism rarely develop in a vacuum.   In ways small and large, we are all complicit in the global systems that create movements such as al-Qaida.

I read one newspaper account that labeled current efforts to oppose these transnational military organizations as asymmetrical warfare.  The pace of change in the ways humanity chooses to murder itself change faster than societies can ever hope to keep pace with them.  So, as we celebrate another death occurring in the name of peace, I pray that we look forward to a future without war by any adjective.  How can we hope for such a future?

• As individuals, identify and own the ways in which we contribute to the oppression and objectification of others, and commit wholly to the loving unconditionally.
• As communities, set aside false "us-them" dichotomies and recognize that achieving our human potential requires patience, acceptance, cooperation and understanding.
• As countries, make human welfare and happiness our highest priority over the acquisition of wealth and the use of power to impose our social, economic and political will over others.
• As humanity, respect the worth and dignity of all people, including their right to determine their own way of life, as well as our responsibility to answer others’ calls for humanitarian assistance and to sustain their basic human rights.
• As a world, explore ways to survive and thrive on this planet sustainably.
• As one mote of star stuff in a vast universe, open ourselves to experiencing the wonder and mystery of all existence, seeking out cosmic truths that rise above the boundaries of planet, species, nation, tribe, and body.

A Pre-Mothers Day Observation

I consider myself a fairly organized person.  But, I never quite know where my muse will take me when I write a sermon.  Nearly finished with my Mothers Day message, I decided to take a break and walk down by the railroad tracks.  The trees finally budded out of their winter slumber.  And birds chatted their differing songs the further I got from the road.   I watched the water in the river and soaked in the sun.

Just as you often see alongside highways, one commonly finds animals along the tracks hit by trains in the night. I came across a muskrat, another victim of a passing locomotive. The body was recently dead and I noticed a small, unborn baby muskrat in the tangled remains.   I shook my head at the grim discovery and thought, “Oddly appropriate that I find this poor animal as I write my Mothers Day sermon.”  I reflected on this fresh reminder of the emotionless process of evolution in nature weeding out the weak so that the strongest and smartest live on.

I suddenly heard the crunching of gravel and looked up to see an older man walking along the tracks behind me.  We exchanged greetings and I told him I had never run into anyone else on the rails before.  He asked, “wasn’t it terrible about that young girl?”  After a second, I realized that he was talking about a 15-year old who had been struck and killed by a train last December.  He went on to explain that we were standing where the accident had happened and, from the details he provided, I imagined that he could have actually discovered the body.

We talked a little more, and then he moved on.   I stood staring at the spot for some time, and a deep sadness came over me.  Sadness for Erika Stefan’s family and friends.  Sadness for the conductor faced with the impossible task of stopping a train or alerting the girl wearing earphones and unable to hear his warnings. Sadness for the mother and grandmother, wife or partner, the woman that Erika Stefan would never become.

I finally crossed the tracks.   Unable to reach blossoms on trees up the steep incline, I broke off a small budding twig.  Dropping it on the tracks, I said, “Little one, wherever you are, I hope the universe treats you more kindly.”  And I began the walk home.

As I walked, I thought about what I could say as a minister to a parent who loses a child, especially under such tragic circumstances.  As the conversation went through my mind, a monarch butterfly flitted towards me. And as it passed, a voice inside said, “It’s alright…everything is going to be OK.” I turned as the butterfly winged passed, and found myself asking, “Is that you, little one?”  The monarch just continued on past in the direction from which I had come.

I realized at that moment that Erika Stefan will never be the mother of her own children.  But, for one passing moment, this young girl mothered me.  She comforted me in my sadness, and reminded me that death really just represents a transition of one state to another.  The universe comprises an inconceivable amount of star stuff and we are all made up of that same material that existed four billion years ago at its very beginning.  Little 15-year-old Erika reminded me of the interdependent web of all existence of which I am a very tiny part.

There are times when I wish I could just take a walk and have it be just a walk.  But, I guess the universe just has too many stories it wants to tell me.

Cosmic Tumblers

Five years ago, I began this journey to Unitarian Universalist ministry.  This part of the trek neared its conclusion a couple of weeks ago as the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Midland invited me to candidate for their settled ministry position.  I am thrilled and share their excitement at the potential for finding a good fit after years of hard work and dedication.  I can hardly wait to drive up in a few weeks and meet the folks I hope to spend many happy years with.

Of course, the cosmos needed balance and a few days later the plumber came to fix the blocked sewer line at the house.  When the plumber tells you that he has never seen a situation before, you know it is bad news.  Apparently my property had a septic tank that no one ever knew about (including the boro), which county codes demand must be removed.  So, my ant of financial flexibility to get me through until I start my new position just got stomped by a total bill of $16,500.

As the events unfolded, the scenario morphed from the merely tragic to the existentially comic.  It is amazing how we can agonize over a $1.00 coupon at the grocery store, but then once the damages hit five figures, the amounts simply become a blur.

Driving back to Smithton after getting the news, my mood sank.  Suddenly, the traffic ahead of me on the highway ground to a halt.  A few minutes later, the three lanes of traffic inched around an accident that must have happened literally a minute before I got to it.  Pieces of a car lay splayed across the road and emergency vehicles were just starting to arrive.  I immediately called my son back at the house and left a message that we would figure out a way to get through this, and that things could always be far worse.

As I wrote this posting, I got a call from my daughter Ashley, who had just returned from her sonogram appointment.  My first grandchild, due in early September, is a girl and looks very healthy.  There is also no sign of cleft palate/lip, which was a worry since Ashley's mother was born with it.

So, all in all, I would say that the cosmic tumblers are still falling in my favor.  I may not be buying many books or records in the near future, but I have my health, two great and happy adult children, and the hope of a fantastic ministry for years to come -- and that's enough for me.

The Heart's Voice - Prayer for Theists and Atheists

My dad read voraciously.  Before I learned to read, he read books to me – books way beyond what should have been my comprehension level.  My mom signed me up for the Dr. Seuss reading club and I anxiously awaited those periodic packages containing classic picture books like Go, Dog, Go and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.  By the standards of the day, I was a quite well-read individual.

My parents enrolled me in kindergarten in a local church basement. My sole memory of the experience was a less-than-inspired finger painting of a truck.  Apparently after a few months, the teacher asked for a conference with my mother.  She suggested that my mother withdraw me because I had grown quickly bored of the program being offered.  So, I spent the remainder of that school year reading Sam and the Firefly and other gripping illustrated novels.

You can imagine my disappointment, then, upon entering First Grade and being introduced to basal readers and the middle class whitebread world of Dick and Jane.  Every day we read the exciting exploits of this little boy and girl, Mother, Father, Spot the dog, Puff the cat, and Tim the teddy bear.  The books relied on the whole word reading method (in contrast to phonics) and repetition, using phrases like, "Oh, see. Oh, see Jane. Funny, funny Jane."  The turgid plots and cardboard characterizations scarcely inspired awe.

Little did I know that these primary grades readers were a centuries old tradition in education.  Primers date back to the earliest days of the republic.  Book aficionados may be familiar with McGuffey readers, which sold 120 million copies between 1836 and 1960 – easily the biggest selling textbook of its kind.  But, primers go further back to the late 1600’s, and have clearly influenced dozens of generations of school children in countless ways.

One such influence impacted my home life.  When I was very young, my parents taught me to pray.  I vaguely remember grace before the occasional meal (although that practice died away at an early age).  But, every night for many years I knelt at the side of my bed and said:

     Now I lay me down to sleep

     I pray the Lord my soul to keep

     If I should die before I wake

     I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Who would write such a prayer?  I mean, seriously, looking back on it now, this seems like some twisted stuff.  No wonder I had nightmares sometimes as a child – the last thing I considered before drifting off to sleep was my own death.

The prayer first appeared in the New England Primer in the 1700’s, clearly showing our Calvinist roots.  A child, even a baptized child, couldn’t be expected to know whether he or she belonged to the chosen or not. So, prudence would warrant a request for divine intersession if needed.  The New England Primer was the first and most widely used textbook in the American colonies.

The day finally dawned when I realized for myself how messed up this petition really was and I stopped praying. To this day I struggle to pray, perhaps subliminally recalling my own infant mortality.

Sadly, my education could have been different, for there are actually many different versions of this prayer.

     Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

     If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

     If I should live for other days, I pray the Lord to guide my ways.

This version, while still somewhat morbid, at least ends on the hopeful note that God direct one’s potential future, however long that may last.

     Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep;

     Guard me Jesus through the night,

     And wake me with the morning light.

In this version, the threat of nocturnal casualty remains. But, now our prayer pre-empts the menace with Jesus, the ultimate ward against boogeymen.

     Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep;

     When in the morning light I wake

     Teach me the path of love to take.

Now we’re getting closer.   Gone is the threat of imminent demise and remaining is the promise of divine guidance at the dawn.

But, it wasn’t just the semantics and gloomy theology I found troubling. I found that the expectation that I pray every night before going to sleep removed all of the motivation.  I felt that prayer should somehow involve my own determination regarding not only content, but choice on the time and place of my petitions for holy intervention.  We prayed at church every Sunday morning, and the adults prayed at Wednesday night congregational meetings in our homes.  But, no one taught me to pray at other times.

Of course, kids figure out other good times to pray: before a test in school; on the eve of the expected run-in with the playground bully; certainly preceding the gift-giving Bacchanalia of Christmas; and whenever an older sibling deserved a fresh meting out of justice.  My prayers were all intercessionary in nature, asking God to give me something, prevent something, or to somehow step in and change the course of events.  Prayer seemed less religious and more negotiation.

That’s exactly what my childhood prayers were – negotiations with God.   Please give me this and I’ll do that.  Of course, I did some of the obligatory “I love you, God” prayers.  And at least on turkey day, I thanked God for my mother’s stuffing and a carb-loaded, sleep inducing meal.  But, I never talked with God…I only talked at God.

In part, my one-sided conversation probably made my gradual shift away from a belief in God easier.  If the other end of the phone offers only silence, I can easily believe that you simply put the receiver down in favor of other diversions.  Only a small step remains to imagine that no one ever picked up the call at all.

So, how can I find prayer meaningful in my life now?   I might explain that my view of the cosmos can, in a way, encompass others’ vision of “god.”  Nature, the universe, mystery…if calling those “god” makes someone happy, great.  But, I cannot see myself praying to Nature, or to the universe, and certainly not to the mystery of existence.

Then it occurred to me.  Maybe I’m just using the wrong preposition.  Could it be that prayer isn’t about praying to anything?  Perhaps prayer is about talking with something or someone.  When I minister to you, the action goes in a single direction.  But, when I minister with you, then we are in conversation, whether that conversation includes spoken words, exchanged glances, the touch of hands, or simply a shared silence.

For several decades, Dr. Larry Dossey has studied the impact of prayer on the recovery of patients with severe illnesses. His research follows meticulous standards and is regarded by many as convincing evidence that people who are th  object of prayer have a statistically better chance of surviving disease than those who do not.

I find scientific research into the effects of prayer on healing fascinating. If I believe in prayer with, then the potential for the collected prayers of a group of people to help someone with an illness exists. As such, prayers could actually infuse some form of energy, a spiritual sustenance, into one’s life force.

Imagine a time in your life when you faced enormous adversity, perhaps a decision with the power to alter your life.  You might have gone for a walk to “clear your head” and consider your options without life’s distractions interfering.  One might call this prayer about.   Prayer about represents spiritual contemplation about actions and consequences with the goal of making a “right” choice – not necessarily the statistically correct choice, but the one most consistent with your morals, your philosophy, your inner essence.

Can you remember a time when someone close to you experienced a great trauma, or the potential for pain from loss or despair?  Nothing you could “do” would help, but you still wanted to “be” with that person in their time of emotional need.  Perhaps you thought about them, sent them messages of encouragement, or helped them in other ways so they could focus their energies on the big problem.   To pray beside someone is to target a specific person, opening a spiritual conduit between you to allow your positive energies to flow into them, and for their negative influences to escape their mind or soul.  We pray beside those we want to help for whom we can offer little tangible assistance.

Do you ever do something outside your normal or expected routine – something that would surprise others about you, but that you feel compelled to do?  For me, as well as for many of my ministerial colleague, a call to ministry provides one example of such otherwise often inexplicable behavior and massive shifts in life directions.  You might agonize over your motivation, or your inability to control irresistible impulses.

You may search within yourself for guidance, for understanding, for reconciliation.   I think we pray despite ourselves when we contemplate the unexpected, when we search for spiritual knowledge to explain our actions.  We pray despite the burden of expectations when we search for empathy, to comprehend how the pieces of our lives come together to form a greater picture.

Sometimes, we don’t want to pray to anything or with anybody.   Imagine yourself at the symphony.  You close your eyes and allow yourself to leave your body and just become with the music.  Normal space and time go away and you dissolve into a disembodied spirit exploring a transcendent place and moment.   Your mind’s boundaries drop away, leaving you open to that wonderful flush of epiphany.  When we open ourselves that fully, unafraid of consequences or limitations, we pray during. Perhaps we pray during while walking wooded paths listening to the chirping cicadas, resting quietly on a beach watching the circling gulls, or driving long and empty highways.

What about those times when life becomes unbearable?  Ups and downs call on our reservoirs of resilience throughout our lives, often when most consumed with the pain of grief, betrayal, hurt, and anger.  At times of inner strife, perhaps we pray from.  We may ask for deliverance, but know that nothing will extract us from our difficulties but our own strength and resolve.  So we pray from our pain in order to relieve its burden, and perhaps to weaken its grip on our souls.

And then we all face times of uncertainty, when the future holds a vast unknown of potential for good and bad.   We examine choices and weigh our options.  But, we face paralysis by analysis, locked like deer on the headlight of the oncoming future – a future that can be anything from the dawn of a new day to the lamp of a speeding train.  At these times, we pray upon our futures, clearing our thought of data and argument, of rational weights and logic.   Prayer upon lies in the sphere of intuition, that marvelous and unique gift of our humanity.  When we pray upon, we trust our natures to point the way, to signal the path.

When we speak to each other, we don’t just listen to our words.  We look for that slight smile or twitch of frown; we sense emotions underlying the conversation; and we listen for variances in tone and pitch.  Our mouths speak with many voices.  So, why should our hearts not also speak with many voices?              “Prayer” is one of those words that some Unitarian Universalists find difficult; loaded words with trunks of baggage from discarded theologies and outmoded social constructs.  But, we can resurrect prayer if we allow the chorus of our heart voices to sing.  Maybe you already pray with.  Perhaps you regularly pray about and beside, despite and during, from and upon, but simply lacked the acceptable label.  Consider prayer as spiritual practice and listen to your heart singing.

A Saturday Saunter - Part Two

Even the best spiritual practice ill prepares one for the stomach kick of major disappointment.  So, after a brief stop at my usual perch overlooking the river, off I went today – this time on the southbound railroad track out of Smithton.

Another unseasonably warm March day for Western Pennsylvania left me carrying my jacket once again.  I will get a sunburned bald spot if I keep this up.  But, I will take sunny and 65 over snow any day.

Just past the Second Street crossing, the tracks were covered with splinters and twigs, the fragmentary remains of a wayward tree that must have fallen in harm’s way.  Ahead I saw what looked like the remains of another muskrat.  Approaching nearer, however, I realized that the body was far too big and I worried briefly that a local dog may have wandered into the path of a train.  Upon reaching the carcass, I saw a tell tale hoof in the wreckage.  A dozen feet away on the other side of the rails lay the young deer’s decapitated head, confirming my identification.

I couldn’t help but think of the unimaginable power of a 100+ car train plowing into an obstacle.  Companies probably don’t bother clearing the tracks of much because these mammoth engines likely pulverize anything standing in their way.  When I stand near passing trains, especially from a vantage point below the tracks, the metal bulk hurtling past makes me feel insignificant in comparison.

Moving on, I heard before I saw a stream rushing down an embankment, forming a quite beautiful little waterfall over the stones. In the middle had popped up a bunch of yellow wildflowers.  I couldn’t get close enough to identify them (poppies or yellowfields?), but they added a wonderful shock of color to the still early spring scene.

With the rushing brook in front of me and the river behind, the force of all that water moving, changing course, eroding, covering and uncovering earth impressed upon me the power of this change agent.  This is an area capable of flooding, although it has been several decades since the water level rose to seriously threatening conditions.  But, nature never lets us forget for long the devastation possible from water given the circumstances.

I again felt small and somewhat weak against such elemental power.  I felt…vulnerable, an unpleasant sensation – one that only makes me want to walk along railroad tracks even more.  So I did.

Up ahead on the hillside sits a long row of coke ovens, unused for more than a century.  Many of the brick domes lie crumbling, with gaps in their ceilings and walls.  But others remain remarkably intact, given that nothing has disturbed their rest except weather and plant for years.  Looking at these holes in the hillside heartened me.  Here were human creations, many decades old and discarded, still intact in spite of exposure and being ignored. The sudden impact of a train and the gradual fluid force of water’s movement dwarfed my own power.  But, here in the hillside exhibited humankind’s power – endurance and persistence.  Structures built to adapt earthen products into metals for construction, transportation, equipment still survived, a sign of our industrial heritage.

I thought back over the events of recent days.  I remembered how results of my work left me fragile despite all my preparations and all my cautions.  Then, I remembered (as I often do) one of my favorite movie scenes.  In The Outlaw Josie Wales, Chief Dan George provided a marvelous performance as Lone Watie. He tells Clint Eastwood of visiting Washington D.C., where he and other tribal leaders were shown in the newspaper with a caption explaining how they would “endeavor to persevere.”  He adds, “We thought about it for a long time, ‘Endeavor to persevere.’  And when we had thought about it long enough, we declared war on the Union.”

Well, I’ve had a couple days to think about it.  And I plan to endeavor to persevere, as well.