Wise Doubt - Rev. Lisa Friedman

            It happened again the other night at my dining room table. Friends came for dinner and before dessert was served the topic of religion was broached. This is not unusual for a minister's home, but the questions which arise often vary. On this particular night, the conversation began like this: “I'm still not sure what Unitarian Universalism is. What does it mean to have different views of Jesus? How does this work?” As the conversation unfolded, I found myself once again trying to explain that we are a religion which, while modern in its ideas, is rooted in the earliest days of Christian communities and their most fundamental debates. That we have a vibrant, strong faith tradition, despite the fact that we claim no one creed or required declaration of belief. That we are an active movement for justice and compassion, not on the basis of one theological perspective alone, but precisely because of our commitment that “we need not think alike to love alike.” That we are a religious community which has long sought to be a religion of the mind and the heart, of reason and faith, which welcomes both doubt and belief in our quest for religious growth and knowledge.

            It was a rich conversation that covered many topics and went on long into the night. But as I think back on the many discussions like this that I have had with others about our way of religion, it seems to me that this last point, about our faith welcoming both doubt and belief, is the hardest one for people to understand. As a society, we tend to think of them as opposing forces, as though doubt exists only to undermine solidly held beliefs, and belief exists only to quench doubt once and for all. And yet, I have found that discovering who we are religiously and what we believe is rarely that simple. Unitarian Universalism affirms that both doubt and belief have important roles in our spiritual journeys. Taken alone, neither is sufficient. As a scientist once observed: “To believe everything or to doubt everything: both ways save us from thinking.” But taken together, they invite us to discover the difference between tested belief and unexamined idolatry, between doubt which invites us to go deeper and doubt which leads to despair, between having enough belief to know where we stand and enough doubt to glimpse the truths we still seek to fully comprehend.

            Growing up in this faith, I have come to think of doubt as a friend, not an enemy, of belief.       The Unitarian Universalism of my childhood taught me to value an examined faith, a faith tested by the rigor of my own reason and the truth of my own experience. And so, when I boldly asserted in my youth that I did not believe in God, I followed what I had learned in worship and Sunday School and I put that statement to equally bold examination in the days and years that followed. I asked myself, what kind of God was I doubting? What about the many different images and understandings of the Holy in our world? How did I account for the moments of my life when I have felt myself in the presence of something Sacred, of some greater connection to all that is? What then is the source of goodness and my conviction that goodness lies within us? What was my spiritual capacity for embracing mystery, or for the conclusion of science that the more we know, the more we know is yet to be discovered?

            These probing questions have helped me to refine and clarify my personal beliefs over time, so that now I am more knowledgable about where I stand. I no longer state that I don't believe in God, but I am clearer about the kinds of God I don't believe in. I do talk more often about the Spirit of Life and Love, which to me is not a personified image, but a name for the sacred force and life-giving connection that I experience in our humanity and all of creation. Call me a mystical agnostic, or a religious humanist, or an old-fashioned deist - I am comfortable with any of them. But I still check in with those bold questions from time to time, just to be sure. I still value the role of doubt in my spiritual growth and discipline. Not a defeatist doubt, but a wise doubt. A doubt that invites me to remember that there is still more to be learned, new insight to assimilate, new blinders to remove, new mysteries to encounter. A doubt that echoes Isaac Beshevis Singer's sage reminder: “Doubt is part of all religion. All the religious thinkers were doubters.” So what would it mean to welcome this wise doubt into our faith journeys?

            To begin, wise doubt invites us to go deeper into our religious experiences and beliefs. This is the same invitation that Jack Gilbert illumines in his poem “Tear It Down”: “We find out the heart only by dismantling what the heart knows. By redefining the morning, we find a morning that comes just after darkness. We can break through marriage into marriage.” Gilbert reminds us that meaning comes in layers. Like a Russian nesting doll, we break open one image or conception, to discover a new, more detailed one within. We keep opening layer after layer until we discover the solid center, the essence of the doll's being itself.

            Many religious traditions have such wisdom stories or sayings designed to help seekers take up a dilemma or issue from multiple perspectives in order to challenge their usual ways of thinking. The Buddhists have teaching kaons – paradoxes which cannot be understood by literal or rational means alone. The Sufi tradition has a rich collection of Nasruddin stories – tales of a fool who is often discovered to be wiser than his more erudite peers. One particular Nasruddin story illustrates the importance of tearing down our assumptions at times to see a larger truth.

            One day, as the story is told, Nasruddin stopped in his travels to visit his old friend Tekka, who invited him to stay in his home. It had been a long time since Nasruddin had slept in a comfortable bed, so he accepted with great joy. On the first morning, his friend shook him awake, looking greatly agitated. "Nasruddin, I am disappointed in you! You have slept with your feet toward Mecca! This is most disrespectful!" Nasruddin apologized, saying to his friend: “Tekka, it was unintentional. I am a very active sleeper." Tekka was mollified, but insisted that the next night he must do better.

            The next night resembled the first. Nasruddin slept deeply, but awoke to find his feet on his pillow and his head resting on the floor at the end of the sleeping mat. Tekka stood in the door, glaring in disapproval. "This will never do, Nasruddin. I am a good citizen and a good Muslim. You must sleep with your feet pointing the opposite way from Mecca, and your head pointing toward Mecca, out of respect for the Prophet and devotion to Allah. If you cannot sleep with your head toward God, I regret to say I cannot have you in my house."

            The third night was much like the other two, except that this time Nasruddin awoke with his nose pressed against the floor at the foot of the sleeping mat. Tekka appeared in the doorway filled with anger and sadness. "Before you speak, Tekka, answer me this," Nasruddin said, springing up. "Does Allah rule over everything, even the fate of people?"  "You know he does," replied Tekka, puzzled. "Is Allah there in every part of His creation?" "Of course he is!," came the reply. Nasruddin pointed out the window at the birds rising from the edge of the well. "Does he live in the birds of the air?" "Yes," said Tekka. "Why are you asking these questions?" "Please have patience with an old friend," Nasruddin replied. "Is Allah everywhere, even across the desert and the mountains?""Allah is the creation. Allah is in the creation, and is the lord over the creation!" exclaimed Tekka. "So, Tekka," Nasruddin said, holding out his feet. "Point my feet where God is not!" (adapted from a retelling by Richard Merrill)

            Point my feet where God is not. Tekka's devotion to Allah led him to chastise his friend for sleeping in the wrong position to honor their God. But Nasruddin's questions lead Tekka to examine his own assumptions about his God, inviting him to question whether Allah would be so small and petty as to care about the direction of Nasruddin's feet more than the devotion of Nasruddin's heart and his good intentions. Through Nasruddin's wise doubt, his friend's understanding of the wideness of God and of His compassion is expanded.

            Wise doubt not only deepens and widens our spiritual perspective, it also invites us to greater openness and creativity by shifting our perspective in both subtle and bold ways. My husband, Wayne, recently attended a training on creativity and leadership. One of the first things the instructor did was to ask those people who wore watches to switch their watch to the other hand for the day. His point was that we fall into comfortable habits of doing and thinking. Sometimes, a small change can challenge us to think and act in different ways, strengthening our flexibility and bringing new perspectives to our experience. If you no longer wear a watch in this digital age, change something else up. Brush your teeth with your non-dominant hand. Drive home from work or school via a new route. Sit in a different pew or section in church. Pray or meditate or journal at a different time of day. Then take a moment to notice how it feels, what you see, what you learn.

            I thought of this exercise, while I was talking with a friend this week, who is taking a class on spiritual self-care and practice. The instructor assigns a different kind of spiritual discipline each week, which they are to follow and reflect upon. My friend was grumbling about the week in which they were assigned intercessory prayer, even while he was intrigued about the upcoming week of fasting. But as we talked about the class, I was fascinated by what he was learning, both about himself and his own inner voice and the diverse richness of prayer and devotion. Why not set aside intentional time to pray outside of our own comfortable box? Who knows what answers and insights may come from new and unexpected corners?

            This openness to creative religiosity echoes the strength of our multi-theological faith tradition. I am often surprised by the assumption that the many diverse spiritual and theological viewpoints of our membership might lead to confusion. In my experience, they lead instead to greater clarity, both as individuals and as a community. The fact that each Sunday in our worship, we experience something new, as well as something familiar; that we might hear from biblical texts one week, or Sufi wisdom the next; that we might invoke the Holy by many names, or by none, is not indecision, but rather a deliberate invitation to look at truth from all perspectives in order to see its unity more clearly. Only when we are open to learning from all sources, can we examine our own truth as creatively and boldly as we can. Only then can we fully trust our own personal beliefs that have passed the tests of our reason and experience.   

            Last, but not least, wise doubt invites us to value the wisdom of community and the teachers we find along the way. From time to time in our lives, it is not just new ideas or new perspectives which challenge us to grow, but it is other people, whose lives become entwined in our own. Sometimes other people challenge our most comfortable assumptions, simply by being who they are. I think of another enduring lesson from our faith tradition – the Universalist conviction of the essential goodness of our humanity and the mirror of the goodness of Creation in our souls. I have always felt at home in sharing this belief, but there have been countless times in my life where it has been challenged, or when I have been pushed to claim it in a deeper way. When I clashed with a classmate in Sunday School, I had to wrestle with an understanding of our shared worth and dignity that did not require always seeing eye-to-eye on important issues. When I worked in communities which did not value women as leaders, I had to figure out how to build bridges to what we held in common, instead of giving up. When I have been disappointed by others, or let others down myself, I have had to struggle to accept that having that spark of goodness within us does not spare us from missteps and the humility which comes with them, but rather teaches us greater compassion and stretches our hearts to a wider embrace of a more diverse humanity.

            And yet, that very same Universalist foundation of the original blessing of our being, while challenging me to a greater acceptance of others, has also saved me from more destructive forms of doubt. In my days of despair, when I feel that the goodness of our common humanity is buried too deep to see, another voice questions my hopelessness and calls me back into relationship to those around me, who have taught me about life and love. On those mornings, I am invited to see my family at the breakfast table with fresh eyes. I am warmed by the welcome of a friend or neighbor, or the smile of the greeter when I walk into church. I take new notice of the patience and goodwill of the shoppers in line at the grocery store at the end of a long day. I read with interest the mention of a good samaritan in the local news. My son, Sam, came home from church the other week with a small book to record his acts of goodness. He had carefully decorated it and showed it to our family with great excitement. And then, for several days, it sat forgotten on a table. Suddenly, one evening, he sprang up from the couch and proudly exclaimed, “I have to write down the good deed I did at school today!” In such moments,  I am called back by a wiser doubt, which knows that despair will not have the last word, that some foundations of hope and truth cannot be hidden for long.

            Theologian Paul Tillich once proposed that: “Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is one element of faith.” This is the gift of a faith tradition that welcomes questions and that expects us to grow in knowledge and understanding, in love and compassion throughout our whole lives. To see doubt as an element of faith is to dedicate ourselves to the deepest understanding of truth; to the most creative exploration of our lives' and their meaning; and to the fullest embrace of our shared humanity and all that we have to learn from each other. Doubt and belief; challenge and trust; change and comfort; let us welcome all that they have to teach us and let them lead us more deeply into the wisdom already present in our lives. So may it be.

Tenacity of Hope - Carrie Rice

“There might be no fish, but then again, there might.  Cause you never can tell what goes on down below.”

Growing up in Minnesota, I was fortunate enough to live in an environment where it was possible that at some point you would find yourself on a dock, a shore, or a boat, with a fishing pole in your hand.  When I was younger and my grandparents were still alive, they would drive their silver Airstream trailer up to a spot on Lake Winnibigoshish for the summer.  One year when I was a young girl, I joined them for two weeks.  Nearly every morning, my grandpa and I would awake about 5:00, go meet his friend Clarence and with our tackle boxes, brown sacks of food, a thermos of coffee and of course, fishing poles, would head out to the 16 foot lund.  I can still recall the smell of the water, the chill breeze in the morning, the putt-putt of that little engine and the gentle rocking of the boat as we cast our lines in over and over.  I recall the feeling of hope that propelled us out onto that lake each morning.

I know that fishing can’t possibly capture all that is contained in our human experience when we contemplate the nature of hope.  It is simply a metaphor for that which compels us to action, that feeling of maybe, and perhaps.  That compulsion to wake up in the morning even if you’re tired and head out.  For all its simplicity, I think that the simple act of casting your line out over and over again in the chilly morning does embody the spirit of hope.

At times, hope can be as hard to keep in our sights as the nearly invisible fishing line in the water. It disappears into the dark depths.  Our day to day personal struggles, the challenges our nation is facing and the many crises around the world can be overwhelming.  Hope can disappear in the face of so much.

 

UU Columnist Doug Muder helps us to understand these trying times in the context of hope:

At times like these it is important to remember the difference between hope and optimism. Optimism is an expectation of the future, but hope is a way of experiencing the present. Optimism assures us that the oasis we see in the distance is not a mirage, but hope simply inspires us to keep going. Optimism promises specific outcomes, but hope just says that striving is worthwhile, that whether or not good things will happen, creating opportunity is a good thing in itself."

As I begin to explore with you the nature of hope and where it is found in our faith life, I’d like to share a story with you.

A friend of mine, who is an avid canoe-ist and very capable wilderness camper, once told me a story that I find riveting.  He was in the Boundary Waters with one other camper.  They came to a lake and were faced with the challenge of either turning back or braving a waterfall to reach the next lake.  It was obvious that the waterfall was not going to be an option as it was too steep.  My friend was alone in a canoe meant for two.  His front end was too light and before he knew it, without meaning to, he was pulled towards the waterfall.  He described for me the sensation of the moment when he and the canoe separated.  Of having the disconnected feeling of at once observing something and experiencing it.  He knew the canoe had traversed the falls, but somehow he had not.  In a split second, he realized that his ankle was lodged in the rocks at the top of the waterfall.  Hanging there, head down with water rushing over him, he was almost certain that this would be the end.  He was going to die there, hanging from a waterfall in the wilderness.  But something arose in John right then and he determined to try, he had HOPE that he could survive this predicament.  Slowly, against many odds, he curled his way up against the crushing power of the water to his foot that was lodged, and yanked his foot free.  He fell.  Released.  At the bottom of the falls, he discovered his canoe and shortly thereafter, he fellow adventurer found him, astonished that he was alive.

Because I have been attuned to this theme of hope and of people sharing stories, I have been listening more closely the past few weeks to those around me.  In addition to the story of my wilderness camper, I would like to tell you about an amazing story I heard just this week.  I had a meeting with a co-worker, who had been out on medical leave.  I remarked that he looked like he’d lost weight.  “Yes,” he replied, “I lost quite a bit of weight during my illness.”  Given that this was during a work session, I couldn’t ask for more information, but gradually he revealed to me that in early September he’d had a stroke.  This was his second one.  Three years prior, he’d had a small stroke, and it was discovered that he had a small heart defect.  Unfortunately, for reasons I cannot comprehend and certainly won’t go into here, he wasn’t “eligible” for a non-invasive fix to his problem until he’d had a second stroke.  So, his options were:  open-heart surgery – which carried high percentages of serious risk, or waiting for the next stroke so he could be eligible for a solution.  This sweet, gentle, conscientious man, has been living each moment of the last three years not knowing when the next stroke will manifest, or how serious it will be.  The depth of that man’s hope is inspiring to me.

Each one of us has such a story.  Every one here has faced their own waterfall, that moment when we felt overwhelmed, hanging on the brink.  Each one of us, to whatever degree, is living with a challenge.  Hope is created out of these stories.  The stories that help us to make meaning of our lives.  Stories that restore our sense of purpose and worth, that renew the desire for life.  Stories that give us hope.  This place, this holy space, is where we come to share, to cherish, to honor those stories.  It is our religion that binds us, the beckons us, that bids us to gather, to share, to nurture, to celebrate and to heal.  The current president of the UUA, Rev. Peter Morales, has set as one of his goals the vision of his flock “getting religion.”  In his monthly column, he writes:

“religion concerns that which links us to one another. Religion is relational because we are relational beings. In a culture that erodes enduring relationships and isolates people, individualism is a prison. I believe it is the spiritual disease of our time. Religion is something we practice together. My religion isn’t about me; it is about us. It is through the practice of our religion that we create community, that we strengthen the bonds that sustain us, and that we build compassionate connection to the wider world.”

It is not enough for me to stand up here and say, “Be Hopeful, Have Hope.”  I can’t project that out from the pulpit onto you.  Nor can you will it to happen; hope is not something that is generated by an individual’s will.  The former senior minister of All Soul’s Unitarian in Washington, DC once said, “The church is that institution whose primary purpose is to help people….maintain hope in their lives.  When people have no hope, they discover hope together.  When they can’t discover hope, they create hope together.” 

The UU Fellowship of Mankato finds itself as a liberal religious community in a global environment desperately looking for hope, in a nation which creates communities by occupying public spaces and demanding change.  In this context, we are uniquely positioned to not only as individuals “find religion,” as Rev. Morales urges us to, but I believe we can model for the world a way of being – a modality in which people of diverse backgrounds and beliefs come together to share, discover, and create hope.  Where people of diverse beliefs, who honor spiritual inquiry and the dignity of all, can come to agreement and discover and great hope together.  Hope, not optimism, is the fuel which will nourish us, and which will generate change.  I believe that.

Why do I believe that UUs are uniquely positioned to utilize the hope contained in our faith community to show the world how to get along?  We come together each week, here in Mankato, around Minnesota, around the nation and around the world, and as Buddhists, Christians, Atheists, Pagans, Muslims, Deists, Humanists, as all that we are, we gather to affirm seven principles, and those principles draw upon traditions.  Our traditions state that we draw upon:

  Words and deeds of prophetic women and men

  Wisdom

  Jewish and Christian teachings

  Humanist teachings

  Spiritual teachings of earth-centered traditions

These teachings reflect the collected stories throughout the ages, from the people gathering wood and wondering if there’s more to life, to the stories each of us bring here this morning.  We are a people rich with our own traditions, who seek and share.  We can help to show the world that it’s possible for human beings to live together justly and peacefully.  As Rev. Hansen reminds us in the reading this morning, “we have a tremendous contribution to offer our frightened world.”

“There might be no fish, but then again, there might.  Cause you never can tell what goes on down below.”

I reflect back on those mornings as a young person, fishing with my grandfather, and I realize that it wasn’t all about catching the fish.  It was about something greater, something wider, something so inexpressable that it was just easier to say, “Let’s go fishing.”  Sunday mornings and all the ways in which we come together in community, either by committee work, leading worship, by participating in the book club .  may not be just about “church.”  They may be about connecting to something deeper, wider, about giving as much as receiving.  Of hearing stories, of telling stories – of creating hope.   It may be about something so good and wonderful that it’s just easier to say, “I’m going to church.” 

Friends, we come here each week, or maybe just visit this fishing hole once in awhile, but we come to be reminded that in our darkest times, when the possibility of catching a fish is next to nothing, we come to understand, through our common stories, that there is a pond to which we can go – and maybe it’s deeper than we know.  Who can tell what wonders await us there?  You might catch a thin fish, a stout fish, you might catch a short or a long, long drawn out fish!  Any kind!  Any color or size!  You might catch a fish that could open your eyes!

The Heart's Courage - Rev. Lisa Friedman

            On Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, there is a story told about the power of forgiveness. One bright morning, Rabbi Abba was sitting outside the gates of his town. A traveler came by and sat down on a pile of rocks at the edge of the cliff overlooking a deep ravine. Resting in the warm sun, the exhausted traveler fell asleep. Suddenly, Rabbi Abba spied a deadly snake slithering from out of the rocks, making its way towards the sleeping man. Before he could cry out in warning, a giant lizard leapt out between the rocks and killed the serpent.

            Rabbi Abba continued to watch in amazement as the man awoke and discovered the beheaded snake lying in front of him. The traveler quickly gathered his possessions and began to continue his journey. As soon as he walked away, the pile of rocks he had been resting upon collapsed into the ravine below. The Rabbi ran after the traveler, before he could disappear down the road, and told him everything he had seen. “My friend,” he asked, “to what do you attribute all these miracles that just transpired?

            At first the traveler did not answer, but he felt the sincerity of the teacher's question and confided in him. “"Throughout my life, whenever a person harmed me, I tried to make peace with them. I never went to sleep without forgiving someone for hurting me in any way. If I had a conflict with another, I tried to resolve whatever animosity was between us. And lastly, I would respond to acts of hate by doing acts of kindness for the person involved in the misunderstanding."

            When Rabbi Abba heard this he burst into tears. In his mind, this person's actions were greater than the much revered Joseph. For Joseph had to deal with his brothers; of course he was going to forgive his family. But this man forgave anyone and everyone who harmed him. To the Rabbi, it was no surprise that God performed miracles on a daily basis for this compassionate person.

            In the Jewish tradition, Yom Kippur, celebrated just a week ago, is a day set aside at the start of a new year for making amends, for righting our missteps, for accepting our human imperfections, for forgiving ourselves and forgiving others who have hurt us. It is a day to begin anew in our relationships. It is day to turn the book of our lives to fresh page. It is a day for lifting up the pain and the courage and the love found in our hearts, and choosing how we will live forward.

            Every great religious tradition tries to speak to the challenge of forgiveness, and, beyond the  quest for forgiveness itself, to the challenge of continuing to live with an open heart in a world filled with too much disappointment, hurt, and brokenness. The challenge is real. When life is unfair, or cruel, or heart-breaking, it is all too easy to isolate ourselves from others to avoid further harm. When the world seems filled with uncertainty and confusion, it is all too easy to grow cautious about whom and what we will trust. When people have failed us too many times, it is all too easy to conclude that no one will ever come through. In many ways, given the imperfections of our human nature, the image of the traveler divinely rewarded for his unfailing faith in the power of forgiveness can be more discouraging than inspiring.

            For most of us are not that traveler. We are neither untouched by life's brokenness, nor are we always able to forgive or to trust others as we once did. As May Sarton reminds us, it does not lie within our power to touch one another with the magic to become unbroken. At the same time, forgiveness is not always possible or appropriate, if both sides have not yet done the hard work of mutual apology, repair, and reconciliation. Still, there is something powerful and inspiring about the spirited heart which remains open to life, which has not given up on the causes of compassion and love, nor on the possibilities of joy and peace. The story of the traveler invites us to reflect upon the values that guide us in our own travels through this world. It invites us to take up the task of keeping our hearts open to whatever good fortune may come along and of helping one another survive our hurts and disappointments to live and love anew.  

            If I had been the Rabbi in the story, I might have asked the traveler a different question altogether. Instead of enquiring as to the reason for his favor in the eyes of God, I would have asked about the source of his courage. We often think of skepticism and doubt as a journey of the mind, but in my experience is a journey of the heart, too. In the course of my life, I have witnessed countless unsung examples of the courage of the human spirit and the courage of our hearts to keep open, to keep traveling on, despite the risks. This morning's moving dedication and adoption ceremony is a celebration of the love it takes to create and choose a new family and the courage it takes to commit to standing with one another through all the joys and sorrows of our days. I have seen the same courage in people who have worked through the pain of divorce or the grief of the death of a spouse and discovered love again. I have seen it among friends and neighbors as they have reached past differences and tensions to build a stronger community, despite the obstacles. I have seen it in the daily acts of dignity, peace, and justice that people still find the courage to do, even when they are no longer sure that the world will ever fully change for the better. What is the source of our heart's courage in such moments? Is it faith? Hope? Freedom from fear? Or something else?

            Poet and writer Ambrose Redmoon might have glimpsed the answer, when he observed: "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear." I was reminded of this truth recently, as I was visiting the Standing on the Side of Love website. Dedicated to “harnessing Love's power to stop oppression” in whatever form it appears, there is a section of the website where people are invited to submit stories about people who have inspired them. The screen shows a golden map, filled with small hearts, scattered everywhere.

            By placing the cursor over each heart, a story pops open. Jeff Liebmann writes about his grandmother, who was born in Hungary and given away in an arranged marriage to a man who beat her. In an age when it was unthinkable, she divorced him, was excommunicated, and set sail to America completely on her own. There she met Jeff's grandfather, started a new family, lost a farm during the Great Depression, survived the second world war, and inspired her grandson years later with the strength found in her tiny frame. Larry Love writes an update on his wife, who had been in deported in 2009, and expressed his gratitude for the many people who supported them through compiling over 10,000 pages of documentation and 29 applications, before their marriage was finally recognized as legal and her Visa was granted. Jennifer Feinberg writes about her friend Eve Friedli, who wanted to help others who shared her own diagnosis of a rare cancer called Myeloma. She started the first Myeloma support group in Rochester MN and a charitable organization to raise money for research in hematologic diseases, and continued to be an active wife, mother, volunteer, and friend through the 6 years of her treatment, before the disease claimed her. These are only a few of the tributes to be found there.

            Each tribute is unique. Each person who is honored on this page faced a different kind of challenge in their life – an abusive husband in days when women had fewer rights, an impersonal system and unjust deportation, a life-threatening disease in their prime. But something propels them past their fear of what they face into action. The call of one's own dignity and survival, and the dream of a fresh beginning, in the midst of despair. The call of one's own marriage vows and shared humanity, across the separation of miles and borders and governments. The call of life and friendship and care for those who come after us, even in the face of illness and death. What these stories share is not just courage alone, not just love alone, but courageous love. A courageous love which helps us to reach beyond our limits to say yes to a larger truth and life. The heart's courage comes with the judgement that standing on the side of love for ourselves and others is more important than the risk of inaction and the fear of the consequences our actions will bring.

            And yet, it is not easy to begin anew in love or life, no matter whether our experiences have been good or bad or mixed. Sometimes our aloneness seems easier. The poet Susanna Styve writes about her mother's doubt and indecision about falling in love again later in life, at sixty: “Reason number one it can't work: his name is Bill. For god's sake, he hunts. He has no pets, other than two doting daughters, and his ex-wife is still alive. He's simply not my type. Who wants to get married again, anyway? I'm too old. I go South at first frost. Plus, he's messy... He could die. Then where would I be?”

            Courageous love is about saying yes to a larger truth, but also about saying yes to a deeper connection to all of the love that is possible in our lives. And it is a profound paradox that the deeper we dare to love, the more we have at risk to lose and to discover. Which can make our daring, and our resilience, all the more remarkable. I found myself reflecting on this, as the news story of Sebastian Cross unfolded this past September. The 11 year-old Lakeville boy was abandoned in the middle of the night by his father, who left a note about the impending foreclosure on their home, the news that the boy's mother was actually alive, and instructions to walk to the house of a neighbor. Much of the news that followed focussed on the father and the factors that had driven him to such a desperate act, and the mother's attempts to reenter his life. But I kept thinking about Sebastian. Whom or what would he trust again, when the person who was supposed to care from him had fled? Who would hold him in their circle of care, until he could answer that question for himself?

            I caught glimpses of the answers in the news articles. The neighbor to whom his father had sent him welcomed him with open arms. Friends kept calling. An aunt in Minneapolis invited him to live with her at the start of the school year. The judge assigned to the case commented with surprise that the boy was thriving. He noted with gratitude the importance of this extended village of care: "In this particular case, it's almost refreshing to see that he's not only a nice kid, but everyone wants to be with him." And it would seem that he wanted to be with them as well. We cannot always choose the sources of the love which nourishes us. We cannot always predict who will stand with us in our hour of need. But if we are willing to widen our view beyond the obvious, and to risk new connections, despite past betrayals, we can feel love's embrace reaching us, little by little, from a wider circle than we might ever have imagined. The heart's courage comes with the judgement that trusting love's healing power is more important than the fear of loss.

            Last, but not least, courageous love is saying yes to the blessings which come to us unbidden. When Rabbi Abba asked the traveler what he had done to be so favored, it is interesting that the traveler answered him with a list of reasons. In my experience, at least, such gifts of grace, such acts of forgiveness, love, and friendship rarely follow such a measurable exchange. Sometimes the compassion and care we offer to the world comes back to us ten-fold. But sometimes it simply comes to us, whether or not we have done anything to deserve it.

            My friend, Amy,  sat on the front steps of her office building, mourning her second divorce and her arrival to mid-life without the children she so deeply desired. It was noon, in the middle of a busy, downtown business lunch hour. Amy looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching. Out of the sun walked a small, three year-old girl, whom Amy had never seen before, with a handful of hand-picked daisies. She had noticed Amy's tears, and with a child's confidence, walked up and presented her with her treasured bouquet. It was not exactly a rose in the wintertime, as the hymn goes, but it was a gift of joy and hope that brought a song to her heart. The heart's courage comes with the judgement that knowing ourselves worthy of giving and receiving love is more important than the fear of failure.

            Whence comes our courage to love, despite our brokenness? My friends, it comes from the love we have given and received throughout our journeys. It comes from the love of our family, the family  with whom we are born and the family we have joyfully chosen and who have chosen us. It comes from the loving embrace of the wider circle of our humanity who stand with us. It comes from the blessings which come to us unbidden, reminding us that we are still loved in the eyes of the Holy. The 14thcentury Persian writer, Hafiz, reminds us: “We are
People who need to love, because Love is the soul's life, Love is simply creation's greatest joy.” Courageous love is also the bridge to a fuller, deeper, and richer life. Let us celebrate wherever that courage may be found, and help one another to love and live anew.

Spoken Meditation from 10/2/11

Spirit of Life and Love,
We live in a fragmented world,
filled with bright fragments of light,
random glimpses of insight,
precious pieces of our hearts and dreams.

So many treasures lie around us,
waiting for us to discover them,
to see their promise,
waiting for us to make them whole again.

We live in a fragmented world,
which we would glue back together,
piece by piece, if it was ours to choose.

But help us to remember
that sometimes the fragments are enough
to save us from despair.
In a world of cruelty,
there is still power in every act of kindness.

In a time of doubt,
there is still power in every act of hope.

In an age of division,
there is still power in every dream of unity.

Help us to remember that sometimes
The fragments of meaning we find
Are just the right size to hold in our hand.

 

Why It Matters - Rev. Lisa Friedman

            What does it mean to make a difference? Can we make a difference, given the immensity and complexity of the problems we face in the world today? These questions come to each of us as we wrestle with choices about how we will live and where we will dedicate our best energy. Sometimes they come to us writ large, like when we prepare to vote in a critical national election or to join with a larger movement to challenge unjust practices in our society. At other times, they come to us in the daily doses of everyday decisions, like whether or not we will make the extra effort to recycle, or which groceries or products we will buy.

            Recently, they came to me again, as I have regularly visited several animal rescue websites, pondering a new addition to our household. We have lived almost one full year as a pet-less home and I have felt the absence of that special kind of furry companionship. But I have also felt the tug of a responsibility and an opportunity to do something useful. Economic times are hitting everyone hard, and as people lose their jobs and their mortgages and apartments, they often find themselves losing their pets as well. And so I have been following the stories of the 131 cats and the 60 plus dogs at the Twin Cities Humane Society. I have clicked on the links at Midwest Animal Rescue to help support medicine for Penny, the sick, but recovering Great Dane, or to cover treatment expenses for Toby, who broke his leg after being thrown from a moving car. I have celebrated the long-awaited adoptions of those cats and dogs, who were labelled with the forget-me-not flower for having been in the shelter too long. Yet, as intimately as I have come to know their funny faces and endearing names, the truth is that we don't have a new pet yet.

            In part it is a question of timing, of being ready, of finding the right match. But I also know, with a kind of grim confidence, that if it is not taken now, the opportunity will still be there tomorrow. I might save Goldy the gentle Tabby or Matilda the elegant hound today, but even in that moment of action, there will be another cat or dog in need who will arrive to take their place. I check in on these animals each day, deeply aware of a paradoxical truth – that the help I have to offer can, on the one hand, make an enormous difference to one life, and, on the other, it will barely make a dent in the greater problem at all.

            Does it matter? What is it within me that longs to make a difference anyway? What propels me to act – the certainty of outward results, or some more inward satisfaction? Although some have debated the exact nature of the connection between religion and ethics, I believe that our spiritual and ethical lives are fundamentally intertwined. Viewed from the perspective of many faith traditions and cultures, the spiritual quest is a quest for wholeness, a search for acceptance and understanding of our own human nature and our place in the universe. Ethics, the field of philosophy concerned with our choices and standards of human conduct, is also in its own distinct way centered on discovering “the good life”, or the life worth living, the life which satisfies. One scholar defines the connection between the two realms as “a quest for personal integration in the face of forces of fragmentation, and depersonalization."

            Put more simply, our spiritual grounding matters to our ability to act humanely with purpose and conviction in the world. Conversely, our ability to act both boldly and justly is influenced by our trust that our actions will help to fulfill a larger, more noble purpose. Our ethics are strengthened by the spirit of hope that resides within us, while our inner lives are strengthened by ethics which offer a clear vision of goodness in a troubled world. And it is when we begin to doubt the relevance of either, when we become skeptical about the state of our souls or the progress of our justice-seeking efforts, we are often led into seasons of indifference and despair.

            The danger of such despair is real. Our quest for inward wholeness and outward justice can feel like an uphill climb, or an impossible battle to wage. Trying to lift our hearts and hands above the daily demands of life to effect change for a better world often feels like we are swimming against too strong a tide, no matter how much courage and determination we bring to the task. The image that I often carry with me, from Greek Mythology, of the dead King Sisyphus who is given an unusual punishment by the gods. He is charged to push a large boulder up a steep hill, only to reach the top and watch it roll back down. He then must walk back down and begin the process again. It is a tragic, heart-breaking image. Yet, the existentialist philosopher, Albert Camus, offered a different perspective in his 1942 essay “The Myth of Sisyphus”. Camus saw Sisyphus as personifying the absurdity of human life, but he concluded that "one must imagine Sisyphus happy [since] the struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a person's heart." We can debate with Camus whether or not it is truly enough, but his point is that the journey of reaching for the heights, giving something our all, struggling to embody a vision that remains slightly beyond our reach, has worth in and of itself. For one, we grow in strength, wisdom, and self-knowledge from the struggle itself. For another, the vision, the truth, the goal to which we strive is no less worthy or true, just because we may not be the one who is fated to reach it.

            This delicate relationship between hope and action, struggle and success, is why I find Audre Lorde's “A Litany of Survival” so provocative and challenging. She does not shy away from our real despair that life holds any guarantees for goodness, meaning, or anything else: “And when the sun rises we are afraid/ it might not remain/ when the sun sets we are afraid/ it might not rise in the morning.... when we are loved we are afraid/ love will vanish / when we are alone we are afraid/ love will never return / and when we speak we are afraid/ our words will not be heard/ not welcomed.”  Sometimes love does vanish. Sometimes our words are not heard. Sometimes we are afraid for good reason. Sometimes our good and well-intentioned actions fail. Sometimes injustice wins the upper-hand. Sometimes our suffering is without end. But does it really matter that we will not always succeed? Is it not worse somehow, to allow our fears and hopelessness to paralyze us, when we know where our inaction will lead us? She concludes with the observation:“but when we are silent/ we are still afraid. So it is better to speak/ remembering/ we were never meant to survive.”           

            Her point is clear.  If we give into troubles and fears that surround us, if we cease to struggle against the fragmentation and depersonalization of our world, then the forces of chaos and despair will automatically win. If we choose to speak up out of the silence, if we choose to act upon greater principles of compassion and order, if we choose to still proclaim our dignity against all that would defile us, then we still may not win the whole fight, but we will have won the inner struggle for our own integrity. We will have written our own example of courage and determination into the larger story of our humanity. We will have taken a stand for what we believe to be just and true, whether or not we stand alone, or in the company of like-minded and like-hearted souls.

            There is a BBC mystery series which has captured me with its commentary on the relevance of personal morality and integrity in challenging, immoral times. Set in England in a sea-side town during World War II, and based upon historical situations, “Foyle's War” details the struggle of Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle to uphold law and order and human decency in the midst of war and society's upheaval. As the pain and suffering of war drives people past their limits, he is challenged by those who would tell him that the rules have changed or been suspended. Does a murder investigation still matter, when its victim is a German national? Should a crime be overlooked, if its perpetrator has something important to offer the war effort? Are the scientists experimenting with new chemical warfare accountable to the communities which have endured their mistakes? Foyle repeatedly answers “yes”, and, as the war goes on, stands more and more alone.

            In one episode, set just as the war has been won, Foyle finds himself in a meeting of local military and town officials, who are considering a request from the American army base to establish racially segregated bars to relieve tension in the ranks, before the soldiers are sent home. Most of the people at the time find practical reasons to support the request. But when Foyle is asked to weigh in with his opinion, he gives an eloquent speech about the principle of democracy for which the war was fought and gratitude for the service of all the soldiers who endured this fight together. He concludes that since England does not believe in the principles of segregation and that it would be a poor thank you to the African American soldiers who fought for the cause, that the request should not be granted. The vote is called and it passes 8 to 1. Foyle is not surprised, but neither does he change his view. He remains firm in his belief that if the law matters in times of peace, it matters no less in times of war. If decency, dignity, and fairness matter in times of harmony, they matter no less in times of struggle and strife. His straightforward, personal example becomes an oasis of sanity for many of the townspeople in an insane, horrific time.

            We cannot know what complex situations or ethical dilemmas time will bring to us, nor can we control the powerful forces of history and chance which swirl around us. But we can choose how we will live in such an ever-changing, ever-growing world. We can, as Lorde reminds us, choose how we will speak, despite all that would silence us. Dr. Kent M. Keith once expressed this approach to the spiritual and ethical life in his poem: “Anyway: The Paradoxical Commandments: Finding Personal Meaning in a Crazy World.” The words are sometimes mistakenly attributed to Mother Teresa, who, while she did not pen them, did hang them on the wall of her children's home in Calcutta, India, for inspiration:

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self centered;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;


Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;


It was never between you and them anyway.

 

It is a powerful message. Do good anyway, no matter what others say or do. The quest for personal integration in the face of fragmentation and depersonalization is a sacred journey of the soul. Ultimately, we need only answer to ourselves and our own conscience, and our own vision of the holy.

            Yet, I still wonder if it is completely true that it isn't also between us, in part, after all. In her call to committed action, activist Dorothy Day points out: “A pebble cast into a pond causes ripples that spread in all directions.” We may choose our own individual acts for the good for the sake of themselves and the change we seek, but those examples still stand out in the open for others to witness and to feel their rippling reach. The animals who have food and housing at the Humane Society will be saved not just by the one person or family who comes to take them home, but by the many whose participation and support make the shelters possible. The people who are victims of prejudice and hatred in their community, in times of war and of peace, will not just be saved by the one person who defends their dignity and worth, but by the neighbors and community members who are recalled to their humanity and compassion by that one person's courageous example. The earth, whose environment is feeling the strain of our demands upon it, will not just be saved by the one person who strives to live upon it with a light footprint, but by the many who join with them to create new habits of walking upon it. The people whose hope has been beaten down by despair and indifference will not just be saved by the encouragement of their friends, but by the example of those around them who give the world the best they have anyway.

            The large, collective successful effort of many small, individual actions has been called a tipping point, a moment when the tides turn and change is irreversible. While we cannot know whether or not our small actions will ensure all that we seek, no large dream has ever been realized, no great difference has ever been made, without the actions of ordinary, committed individuals behind it. The paradox remains. Our own ethical actions make a difference, even when we cannot guarantee their results. Our own search for personal integrity matters for its own sake, even as it offers an invitation to others to act with us. As individuals, we may not be fated to survive, but our examples and our stories of our highest aspirations and our greatest struggles will live on to remind us of the meaning and possibilities of our days.

            Whenever I find myself wondering whether or not we can make a difference, I am reminded of Loren Eisley's story of what happened to him one day, while he was trying to escape from a case of writer's block. He is walking along the beach, when he sees a young man in the distance, waving and flailing his arms. As he draws closer, he sees that the man is sifting through the debris on the beach, and occasionally throwing something back into the water. He stops to watch and the thrower offers him an explanation: “The tide has washed the starfish onto the beach and they cannot return to the sea by themselves. When the sun rises, they will die, unless I throw them back to the sea.” Eisley looks at the sand and the number of starfish which lie in danger. “But there are so many,” he protests. “Surely you cannot hope to make a difference.” The man just shrugs, picks up another starfish, and throws it into the water. Turning back to Eisley, he observes: “I made a difference to that one.”

            Whenever I first heard this story, it always ended with this piece of wisdom. Only later did I learned that Eisley's story included another chapter. After the conversation, he went back home to his writing, but was still unable to concentrate. He decided to return to the beach, to see if the young man was still there. He was. Eisley walked up to him and simply said: “I understand. Call me another thrower.” He joined the young man in his at once hopeful and hopeless task. He recalls: Only then I allowed myself to think. He is not alone any longer. After us, there will be others.”

            So may it be.

 

September 25 Meditation

Spirit of Life and Love,
help us to enter the stillness of this time,
to settle our minds and our hearts.

How we long to know our place in the universe,
to know the name and nature of the Holy,
to know the places we can call home,
to know the people we can trust,
to know the work we are called to do,
to know the person we are meant to be.

So much seems uncertain.
So easily we can become lost.

But help us to remember that sometimes the place we seek
is a place within ourselves -
a hunch, a footing, a foundation -
a still, small voice to remind us
we already have all that we need to know for the journey.

We have our humanness.
Our hearts. Our hands.
Our minds. Our souls.
Our longing to love.
Our courage to speak out.
Our desire to be more whole.

We have our humanness, together.
We have the mystery which embraces us all.
Perhaps that is all the belonging we need.
 

"Whose Are We?" -- Rev. Lisa Friedman

 I was sitting in the small living room of a run-down trailer, on a retreat, when the question was asked: “Whose are you?” I immediately answered, “I am my husband Wayne's. I am my sons Ben's and Sam's.” The question was asked again: “Whose are you?” I continued my litany of kinship, “I am my parent's, my sister's, my grandmother's” and so on down the list. Still it came: “Whose are you?” I cast my circle wider: “I am my congregation's, my neighbors, my friends, my colleagues...” This ritual went on for several more minutes, as I named the countless strands of connection to which I am called, the relationships which help me to understand who I am and to whom I am bound. Finally, when the question was asked one last time, and I had exhausted every name I could think of, I concluded with the one thing I could find left to say: “I am the earth's. I am all of creation's.”

            Afterwards, our small group observed a moment of silence, as we did at the conclusion of each member's sharing. In the quiet pause, I reflected on the immensity of all that I had named. Whose am I? It was not so simple to answer. It was not quite enough to say that I am a daughter, wife, and mother. Or that I am a minister. Or that I am a neighbor. The question was not just probing what I am or what I do, but to whom I belong. My colleague, Victoria Safford, once quoted a Quaker teacher on this important distinction: “Douglas Steere says that the ancient question, "What am I?” inevitably leads to a deeper one, "Whose am I?” – because there is no identity outside of relationships. You can’t be a person by yourself. To ask "Whose Am I?” is to extend the questions far beyond the little self-absorbed self, and wonder: Who needs you? Who loves you? To whom are you accountable? To whom do you answer? Whose life is altered by your choices? With whose life, whose lives, is your own all bound up, inextricably, in obvious or invisible ways?”

            This small shift in how we think about who we are is a powerful one. For we are not isolated individuals shaping our destinies alone, but rather unique persons living in specific circles of love and commitment. We are not families rooted only in this time and this place, but rather members of a generation who draw our identity and strength from legacies of the past and the many branches of humanity's family tree. We are not merely home dwellers, but beings who know kinship with the grass, the flowers, the birds, and the companions of creation who share our residence on this earth. Nor are we even just religionists, who claim an identity and a house of worship on the Sabbath day, but we are people who can hear the Oneness of the holy calling to us from many places, whether it be from the eyes of another soul, from the light of the sun and stars, and even from the wind-swept beauty of the prairie grass. Whose are we? We belong both to the many, and to the One. 

            I invite you to take moment to reflect on how you would answer the question for yourself. Whose are you? Notice the first answers that come, then ask the question again. Whose are you? Cast your circle of relationships wider and deeper than what lies on the everyday surface of your awareness. Repeat the question, until you no longer can think of any more answers. (Pause briefly to let them do this). Now center yourself in the answers which came to you in this short time. Perhaps, as you recited their names, you felt the blessing of the people and communities who are gifts to your life. Perhaps you felt the immense weight, the honor and the responsibility, of the many to whom you are accountable. Perhaps you felt glad for the clarity and sense of purpose that comes from being needed. Perhaps you felt the joy and awe of the Sacred's presence in your life. Yet, amid whatever came to you, I hope you felt a tug, a pull, a gentle grip somewhere deep inside your being from somewhere outside of you. I hope you heard at least a whisper of something out there which is calling to you, reaching for you, inviting you to a larger adventure.

            For to ask, whose are we?, is to ask us to name our calling. If Steere is right that we have no identity outside of our relationships, then naming those relationships helps us to discover the foundation of love, support, and mutuality upon which we stand. This, in and of itself is a good thing, but what embracing that foundation allows us to do is to stand up tall and to open ourselves up to the world. We will hear many voices, many demands calling to us out of the mystery. But by understanding whose we are, we can have more intention and choice about which tugs we will follow and which calls we will answer.

            What do I mean by a calling? In traditional religious terms, a calling is a sense that one is being called by one's God to a religious vocation and service. But I see it as something that is broader than that. For I believe that each of us has a calling of some kind, a unique path that lies before us which, if we choose it, will call out our best selves in service to the world. Jeff Golliher, a cultural anthropologist and Episcopal priest, describes it best in his book, A Deeper Faith: “You have a journey to make, a sacred journey, that I hope you’ll eventually come to understand as a path to follow. This will be the most important thing you’ve ever done. Call it the “call of God,” call it the “call of the Spirit,” call it the “call of the Great Mystery,” call it a “catastrophe,” call it whatever you like, but a “call” of some kind is hidden within the troubles. The purpose of this call may be to draw out something hidden and wonderful within you, ... to bring about your awakening from a kind of spiritual slumber. I should tell you now: the journey ahead may not follow a very straightforward path, with clear- cut steps to take and easily identifiable problems to solve... At the same time, all those doubts about yourself and questions about God are evidence of a Great Mystery at work within you.”

            I can remember quite clearly the time in my life that was filled with doubts and questions, when I was fervently trying to figure out who I was and what my purpose in life should be. I spent a lot of time studying, working, and spending time in the areas that I thought should be most important to me, or that were important to those whose opinions I valued. But it took me a while to see the pattern of what tugged at me the most. I took a part-time job in a lawyer's office, but set my calendar priorities around my 1-2 hours a week of hospice volunteering. I walked into the campus library with the intention of tackling economic theory, but was constantly distracted by the people around me, wondering instead about the young woman looking so sad in the cubicle next to me, or the two friends arguing heatedly as they walked past.

            It wasn't until one early winter morning, when I walked into class to plead my case with my professor that I was late because I had been up all night with a friend in crisis that the lightbulb turned on. The professor didn't care why I was late. But I did. I, and I alone, had chosen my friend's call for help over the demands of study and sleep. It dawned on me then: I was not meant for a career in politics or journalism or economics. What I cared about was people – in all of their mystery, in all of their hope and despair, struggle and spirit. And any path that I chose for my life, if it was to receive my best efforts, deepest caring, and fullest energy, would need to have service to others at it's center. Whose was I? The people with whom I shared my community and my days, whose call I was always willing to drop everything to answer, even when I was inadequate to the task.

            Yet, I could feel comfortable choosing this path, knowing that for someone else, the call they chose to answer would lead them down another road. Someone else would answer the call of science with a passion for discovery. Someone else would answer the call of civic duty with a passion for governance and law. Someone else would answer the call of art with a passion for beauty and meaning. Someone else would answer the call of engineering and mechanics, with a passion for creating and building things that work. But it is not just in these vocations where we find our commitments in life. In our choices to answer the calls of love, of family, of spirit, and much more, we each choose our place in the Great Mystery at work without us and within us. The question of whose we are invites us to claim with joy and intention the people, the work, and the values of our lives which will receive our best selves, no matter how hard or meandering the journey.

            But what about answering the call of whose we are, of whose we yet might be, brings us into the presence of the Sacred? What happens when the voice that calls to us, when the force which tugs at us, remains without face or sight or name? Nancy Shaffer speaks to this struggle as she describes her efforts to include everyone in her prayer by invoking every name for and every embodiment of the sacred she can think of, until the congregation joins in. Together they call out words, until they arrive into the silent presence of the unnameable mystery itself. It is another, more prayerful approach to the  question of whose we are. For when all that grounds us in the earthy humanity and life of our days is stripped away, to what do we belong then? Whose call do we answer, when we stand alone before the vastness of Creation and the Spirit of Life itself?

            For me, the question of whose I am in such moments is grounded in what I trust in the face of the unknown and unknowable. There are times in our lives when we know we stand in sacred time. When we sit by the bedside of a loved one who is dying, or answer the cry of a newborn baby. When we look into another eyes and yearn to speak powerful words for the first time, such as “I love you” or “Please forgive me” or “I believe in you.” When we wrestle with the consequence of speaking truth to power, or challenging the status quo with the demands of justice, we answer the question of whose we are with the beliefs and values we hold most dear. Whose are we? We are Love's, Compassion's, Mercy's, Truth's, Justice's. We belong to that greater force, larger than ourselves, which stands us on a foundation of eternal principles and profound meaning, which we call by many names, including God, Life, Spirit and Mystery, and which eludes all attempts to name it. In the end, the naming is not as important, as the trust that by answering the call of a larger truth and a greater love, we have the opportunity to be co-creators of the meaning and goodness of our days.

            This deep sense of connection to the people, the institutions, and the values we hold dear, combined with a sense of trust and hope in the Sacred dimensions in which we have our being, come together to call us to a life of shared action and larger purpose. The question of whose we are brings together our own individual sense of calling, with the calling of our greater humanity. This is why it is not just ministers or priests or rabbis or monks who get to claim they have a vocation. So long as we believe that each of us is capable of spiritual discovery and religious depth, that each of us is answerable to the ethical struggle and triumph of our own souls, that each of us is capable of intentional and thoughtful choice in our lives, then each of us has a calling, each of us is already living our vocation. And living with such thought, such love, such conviction, matters more than we can imagine. As Thomas Merton observes: “Our real journey in life. . . is a matter of growth, deepening, and of an ever greater surrender to the creative action of love and grace in our hearts. Never was it more necessary for us to respond to that action. I pray that we may all do so.”

            I was reminded of his words this past week, when Jean Lovett and I represented our congregation at an interfaith gathering at Hennepin Ave United Methodist Church in Minneapolis. The event was sponsored by the People of Faith Alliance of Outfront Minnesota and its purpose was to bring the faith community together to oppose the November 2012 ballot initiative which, if passed, would limit the definition of marriage as only between a man and a woman in our state's Constitution. This large downtown church sanctuary was filled to capacity by Jews, Catholics, Baptists, Quakers, Lutherans, Unitarian Universalists, Buddhists, Pagans, and many more, whose diverse theological viewpoints brought them together united in their conviction that this ballot amendment would harm our state and that the blessings, benefits, and rights of marriage matter and should belong to us all.

            The sanctuary was a-buzz with the crowd that filled it. Then, just before the evening program was to begin, something unexpected happened: the power went out. In a room filled with windows, this would not have been a challenge at 6:30 p.m. on an early Fall evening. But in the stunning stone, wood, and stained-glass sanctuary, the loss of power left us literally in the dark. Yet, no one moved. No one left. We had come to create this unique congregation for a purpose, and we would not be turned away by the whims of fate or the accidents of electric companies. After being assured that help was on its way, the program began and the speakers forged bravely ahead, without microphones and with only their cell phone lights to illumine their notes.

            One of the speakers, the Rev. Ron Smith of Unity Baptist Church in St. Paul, walked up and down the aisle of the shadowed space and invoked the words of the prophet Jeremiah: “Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!”He went on to speak of the tears that we weep for those who suffer at the hands of injustice, sharing personal stories of challenges faced by those in his congregation and his life who have struggled with prejudice because of their sexual orientation and gender identity. But then he raised two questions, which were at the heart of his message. “Who am I?”, he asked. “I am an African-American. I am a native Minnesotan. I am a Baptist Pastor. I am a straight man.”He paused, then he asked us, drawing upon the Prophet's words of compassion, “Who is my neighbor?”He gazed around  and we knew the answer, the vision to which he was calling us. We are all each other's neighbor, no matter the color of our skins or the gender of the people whom we love. As I sat in the pew, savoring the sermon, I realized that what he was really asking was “whose are we?”And in the act of naming our neighbor, our brothers and sisters in humanity, he was calling upon us to act upon the kinship that we could see in each other's eyes, and to find purpose in answering the call of love and freedom with one clear voice.

            There were many beautiful and inspiring moments that night, but there was one which has stayed with me in the days that have followed. Early in the evening, before the speeches even began, the pianist had been playing as the people slowly came in to fill the pews. After the lights went out, plunging us into the dark, he kept playing. Most of us were talking and moving and shifting around, allowing the music to create an atmospheric background. But then a melody began to grow clearer. One voice started to sing, then others began to join in. Soon we were all singing, Christian and Jew, Pagan and Buddhist, old and young, Mung, African-American, and Euro-American, lbgt and allied, “This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.”The darkness persisted, but we kept singing, many voices from many peoples, many faiths and many lands, united in one song, one determination, one hope. In that moment, I knew whose I was and whose we were –one humanity's, one spirit's, one great love's, one bright light's to shine upon all the world.