Ethical Eating as Spirtual Practice, Pt. I

This is a two part sermon offered by Lisa Nuttal and Nina Vecchi:


Friends we gather here today to reflect upon our human-ness... Our predicament as a species in which we struggle with what is coyly called the "human condition." 

To quote one of my favorite spiritual guides, wikipedia-- second only to a Google search--

The human condition can be described as the irreducible part of humanity that is inherent and not connected to gender, race, class, — a search for purpose, sense of curiosity, the inevitability of isolation, and fear of death . . . . 

In other words  we are here to reflect upon our disconnectedness with an inner purpose and the world we live in.  Our inward search for a "peace of mind." 

In the vibrance of this beautiful morning -  let us celebrate that we are not alone in this journey... we all suffer in a similar manner -  with this challenge of humanness... Yet we each carry a unique gift to help one another along the path towards feeling at home with ourselves and living in harmony with each other and nature.

***
We gather here to reflect upon ethical eating as a spiritual practice.

Again we can turn to the Great Wikipedia definition of spirituality:

As an ultimate or an alleged immaterial reality;[1] an inner path enabling a person to discover the essence of his/her being; or the “deepest values and meanings by which people live.”  Spiritual experience includes that of connectedness with a larger reality, yielding a more comprehensive self; with other individuals or community; with nature or the cosmos . . . 

We have come here today to CONNECT and to make CONNECTIONS.

Many  UUs  are avid book readers. We read books and then relish in their discussion. Our viewpoints need not be tethered to one creed or religion. I'd like to think our reflections come from our own insights and intuitions.

UUs are explorers in a most classical sense. We "Leave Home" and make the hero's journey. 

This is one of the topics that is discussed in "The World Peace Diet" - by Dr. Will Tuttle: 

In consciously contemplating and questioning the worldview and practices of our parents, family, and culture, we make leaving home a vital foundation for our spiritual growth A spiritual quest in which we leave the confines of home and culture, undertake an inner and sometimes outer journey to attain higher understanding . . . We then return to our culture with new powers to reform, vitalize, and uplift our community through the insight attained on our journey.

Tuttle is a native of Concord Massachusetts, and left his home with his brother in an exploration for the truth. He became a Zen monk and spent several years reflecting in meditation upon the messages in his book.  I am here today to share some of the observations I experienced with others in a 12 week study with Tuttle and then as a facilitator of an eight week study we offered at the Gardner UU church.

The World Peace Diet asks the reader to step outside of our culture's most fundamental defining practice... for what can be more primal or basic as the choice of our nourishment?  What we eat as a species defines our place in the web of life. This is an essential determining factor when we classify other species. Humans should not be excluded from this consideration.

The most crucial skill a parent passes to its young for survival is choosing what to eat, and how to obtain the nourishment that is necessary to live.  Therefore these choices are deeply rooted in our psyche. They lay underneath our personas as part of the building blocks of our identity.  And that is why questioning our culture’s most fundamental and defining practice, of imprisoning and butchering animals for food is often a taboo and emotionally heated topic.

The UUA was courageous and progressive in putting forth a statement of concern for the significance of our food choices. Bravo!

To paraphrase Tuttle:

We UUs have practiced leaving home and embarking on a spiritual journey that at times put us fundamentally at odds with our culture’s values, but that at the same time makes it possible for us to be heroes who can help uplift and transform our ailing culture.

How many of us have left a previous religious or cultural tradition to discover our own truths? Is it not the UU way to question the status quo? To look for avenues to uplift our communities, with justice, fairness, and compassion as our barometers, to show tolerance and acceptance of those who may be different, to offer concern for the struggles of those who are less fortunate. To be thoughtful of our presence on this planet.

This planet we call the earth is our true mother. She provides for us in every way and is our only home. Climate change, pollution, devastation to natural resources are no longer something that are concerns for the future. They are happening here and now. How we face these dilemmas and where we gain strength and insight to rise above stems from our connection to our innate wisdom which is the source of some of our greatest talents as humans... our  intuition and creativity.

In the United Nation's - 2006 report "Livestock’s Long Shadow," the Food And Agriculture Organization found animal agriculture was a major contributor to the most severe ecological stresses the earth endures. The report estimated that over 18% of man-made greenhouse gas is generated by this industry. This is more emissions then all of the transportation on the planet.  Additionally the land occupied by animal industries demands nearly 60% of our agricultural resources worldwide.

How does this level of consumption impact those brothers and sisters that are less fortunate economically and socially? What of those who are forced to work in an industry that requires they disconnect. How does it feel to perform the task of repeatedly shooting a steel rod through the head of cow, pig , goat or sheep, or to slit the throat of screaming chickens  as they struggle in shackles?

There is another book I'd like to mention; like a tasty bag of potato chips there can never be just ONE book on any topic covered by a UU.

Dr. Melanie Joy -  psychologist and professor at Umass authored a book titled Why We Love Dogs, Eat Pigs, and Wear Cows. In this book she shares the information of a study that concludes that the human brain is essentially wired for empathy. We have emitters in our brains that stimulate our physical body to echo a mirror of sensations when we view the suffering of others. How many times have you winced to see another beings injury? This phenomena is not exclusive to the perception of our fellow human's suffering.  I do need a text book study to exemplify this. For I have experienced it myself. None of us enjoys to watch the pain of another being ... regardless if it is a human, a pig, cow, duck, puppy, or fish. Our knee jerk reaction is to cringe. We feel a deep empathy whose source is authentic - from our inner most center. Yet our culture grooms us to ignore such feedback.

It can be quite unsettling to reflect upon matters at this level. I know and have experienced the voyage first hand... and at times  ... it was not easy.

The Word Peace Diet asks us to look past the veil of cultural ideology and into the inner most center of our essence.

We often use animals in our society to engage children, to teach life lessons. Stories involving animals help children to grasp concepts of morality and ethics because like humans animals have families and bonds to others. Animals exhibit feelings of care and joy towards each other and humans. Many times animals are fundamental in therapy for those who have experienced trauma or serious physical injuries or limitations. The recipient senses that animals are authenticate and joyful. The animals bring healing.

We tell our children to be kind to the animals, not to pull their hair, tails or ears. We show them how to gently offer the animals food and affection.

And then We kill them.

This is the hidden system of violence that creates a disconnect between our hearts, our minds and our souls. 

In the Spring, we gather our children and them to plant seeds and till the soil. In the Fall we rejoice in the harvest, strolling through fields of pumpkins and apples.

I have never heard of a Sunday drive for a picnic at a slaughter house. Why is it that our culture hides from sight the most basic information on a crucial survival skill?

For the most part its source is covered up and never discussed. At least this was my experience as a child. As an adult I never questioned it. I never thought of it.

***

Have you ever walked into a room and immediately sensed a tension or negativity that was present?

Often times we pick up on  vibrations without any indication. Sometimes ... we just know in our gut something is going on. We seem to have an internal barometer that detects these energies and feeds our intuition.

What might we encounter if we could view the energetic atmosphere of our planet?

What would the slaughter of 60 BILLION sentient beings a year,  look like on a vibrational level?

Tuttle depicts the following vision:

If we could look over the world we live in with the eyes of an angel we see centers (hidden in the country side)  rise gigantic, towering over the landscape.  The intensity and thunderous volume of the suffering within their walls billowing up as roiling vibrational fields of grief, terror, panic, and despair. This massive and unremitting negative energy, ripples out through the vast and intricate webs of thought, energy, and consciousness that form our human relationships with each other, with animals and nature, and with our children, our dreams, and our aspirations.

In speculation... Could it be that the vibration mentioned in this vision is so intense and widespread that our human barometers have no baseline of a world without it?

Tuttle offers us great hope an inspiration:

By recognizing and understanding the violence inherent in our culture’s meal rituals and consciously adopting a plant-based diet, becoming a voice for those who have no voice, we can attain greater compassion and happiness and live more fully the truth of our interconnectedness with ALL life.

We will naturally increase our ability to heal our divisions, nurture our creativity and joy, restore beauty and gentleness, and be role models of sensitivity and compassion for our children. As we look more deeply at our food, the healing of our children can begin, and our work can be resurrected as an instrument for blessing and bringing joy and caring to our world. We can all return home, in our hearts, our spirits and in peace to heal our beautiful planet.

The planet is calling us to evolve and to step in to harmony with her and the other beings we share it with, the other earthlings whom she also claims as her children and sustains. How we answer this call depends on our ability to adapt and change and create sustainable, harmonious means for our survival. She calls us to reach beyond the status quo, to break out of behaviors and ideologies that not no longer serve our presence here.

I have great hope and faith in the intrinsic compassion of human heart. I see this every time a duck tries to cross the road and cars line up to wait, every time a child caresses a beloved animal friend and in the friendly stranger reaching out to help those in need. 

Blessed be.

Sugarless Dreams

A testimonial about sugar addiction by Patricia Caspers:

It’s been two months since sugar has passed these lips, and nearly every night I dream of cake. Sometimes my dreams are heavenly, more often guilty, and, most recently very, very angry.

I'd always been a little bit proud of my sugar addiction. After growing up in a family of alcoholics and addicts, sugar seemed a harmless habit, and there are so many fun ways to eat it.

I don't know when it began. My mother tells me that I was three when the dentist said to lay off the candy bars because they were turning my teeth into black stumps. Her attempts were eventually foiled by my loving grandparents as they could never resist handing over anything I asked of them. I asked for candy.

I know that sugar has been my regular habit since I was old enough to pilfer from the quarter can under my parents' bed and take myself to the liquor store.  I would get one of those small brown bags one usually sees wrapped around a bottle of booze and fill it with Laffy Taffy, Neccos, candy cigarettes, Now&Laters, Zots, Root Beer Barrels, Lemon Drops, Pixie Stix, Jolly Ranchers (I loved the way the formed to the roof of my mouth as I ate them), Abba Zabbas, JuJuBees, and Sugar Daddies. If I could afford it I washed it down with a big bottle of Pepsi sipped through a Red Vine straw.

I took myself to my closet-- not because I was ashamed, but because I didn't want to share with my family-- and I ate until my mouth was numb, and my stomach roared in revolt. As I grew older it took more and more sugar to get to that point. But I never threw up, and I never dieted or fasted or took laxatives. I figured I was OK.

I don't hang out in my closet anymore. I do, however, spend a lot of time in my car. After a particularly challenging day, I would drive myself to the store for an Almond Joy and a bag of Sour Patch gummies. Sometimes I’d choose Snapple instead of Pepsi-- in attempt to be healthier (ha!) and gobble it down while I thought no one was looking.

But my tastes have also broadened, which means that after all that sugary bliss I’d still have room for creme brûlée after dinner because that's what grownups eat.

Two months ago, though, I read a novel called The Sugar Queen in which the main character has a sugar addiction, and when she reaches for a treat in a stressful moment, her friend says “You can love that cupcake all you want, but it’s never going to love you back.” A lightbulb went off in my head, like one of Oprah’s Ah-ha moments.

So for the last two months I’ve replaced sugar with exercise, reading, cashews, solitaire, Downton Abbey . . . and then a friend pointed out that if I want to crack the real issue, to stop feeling the craving, having the dreams, I need to stop replacing the sugar and let myself feel what I need to feel, discover  source.

Honestly, I haven’t been so good at this bit, but I have an inkling that what I’ve been after all these years is love. I’ve searched for it in many places: in men, in publishers, in Facebook, but even now that I’m married, I’ve had poems published, and 30 comments on one Facebook post, it isn’t enough. There’s nothing that can satisfy that giant craving—except me.

Many people in recovery depend on God’s love to get them through. For me, God is within, and so the answer must be to love myself more. I’m not exactly sure how to go about that, but I also believe that God is in each of us, so maybe I should start by loving all of you more, too.

Addiction & Spirituality

We hear a lot about addiction: its prevalence, the social costs: lost hours of productivity, increased incidence of homelessness, skyrocketing costs of prosecution and incarceration, the dearth of adequate treatment and misguided social policies that accelerate rather than prevent rampant substance abuse. We read about the economic and psychological costs to families, the burden addiction places on schools as they deal with the children of addicts and young addicts themselves. And after a decade of war in Iraq and Afghanistan, we have grown accustomed to the hidden toll reported Thursday in New York Times:

Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder are more likely to be prescribed opioid pain killers than other veterans with pain problems and more likely to use the opioids in risky ways, according to a study published Wednesday by the Department of Veterans Affairs.

The study, published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, also found that veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan who were prescribed opioids for pain – and particularly those with post-traumatic stress disorder — had a higher prevalence of “adverse clinical outcomes,” like overdoses, self-inflicted injuries and injuries caused by accidents or fighting.

The Department of Veterans Affairs and the Department of Defense have for years been trying to reduce the use of opioid pain therapy among active duty troops and veterans amid reports of overmedication, addiction, rampant drug abuse and accidental deaths caused by overdoses or toxic mixing of medications.[1]

Meanwhile politicians decry a national addiction to oil: a disabling and dangerous  dependency imperiling the planet while propelling many a service member into the path of those highly addictive narcotic prescriptions. Addiction plunges the addict, be it an individual or a nation, into what appears an inescapable abyss where rationality succumbs to obsession, compulsion and the inability to choose.

But for all the talk about addiction: from the pathetic exploits of celebrities to tell-all TV shows a forty year national war on drugs that has wrought no victors, we hear little about the spiritual dimensions of addiction and recovery. Statistics abound but spiritual aspects are squishy, not quantifiable therefore difficult to parse scientifically. But at the core of any addiction, be the substance alcohol or other drugs, sex, gambling, sugar, shopping or oil, is a spiritual disconnectedness from self, others, and whatever one finds sacred. That’s why the best known model of recovery, though certainly not the only one, declares itself a spiritual program.

People outside Alcoholics Anonymous and the other twelve-step programs that have spun off from it, ask why do alcoholics and addicts need God to get and stay sober? What’s religion got to do with it? Isn’t depending on a higher power just a replacement for booze or Percocet? Indeed cognitive behaviorial approaches to abstinence and recovery omit any spiritual connotations. But inherent in the twelve-step model is an understanding that addiction strips one of the ability to sustain, or some cases create, abiding connection, and thus to restore that connection, one must reckon with and recognize one’s spiritual being, not just the electro-chemical workings of the brain.

There’s a aphorism in AA: it’s always 3:00am in the heart of an alcoholic. This speaks to an existential loneliness one attempts to fill in the absence of spiritual connection—not necessarily to God but to the interdependent web of existence. When we are fully present to that connection how we consume oil matters. Whether we as a nation allocate resources for incarceration over treatment matters. Whether we as a congregation choose to serve alcohol matters. Whether we have non-sugary snacks at coffee-hour matters.  All of it matters because the willingness to grapple with what constitutes right relationship and the desire to restore individual and collective well-being lies at the heart of every religion and wisdom tradition. It lies at the heart of each addict’s journey toward wholeness as well.

This morning, three people in our congregation have generously and courageously agreed to offer a testimonial about the intersections of addiction and spirituality in their lives . . . 

If I were to ask for a show of hands who has not in some way, directly or tangentially, been affected by addiction: your own or someone else’s, I suspect the air would be filled. Fortunately, not everyone has first-hand experience; but we all suffer the effects of the spiritual bankruptcy addiction perpetuates. And such spiritual disruption is of course, not the exclusive domain of addiction. The self-seeking and self-centeredness, the ungrounded fear, the compensatory pride and ego that mask insecurity and a lack of self-worth, the propensity to rationalize or deny—anyone can grow spiritually isolated on a steady diet of these, and so too, anyone can find spiritual nourishment by consciously adopting a practice of humility, honesty, openmindedness, continuous self-inventory, the making of amends, along with some form of intentional connection with whatever we deem sacred and sustaining.

In the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, of the twelve steps laid out, eleven make no mention of alcohol. Instead they offer evidence “the spiritual life is not a theory. We have to live it,” and thus provide tools. The book tells the alcoholic or addict: “We are not cured…What we have is a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition.”

The same could be said of being human: the inherent foibles and limitations are not subject to a cure though they invite us into deeper connection with all: with a God of our understanding or misunderstanding, or no God at all if we prefer it. A connection then to the microorganisms that hitch a ride on us, the stars that spawn our elemental matter, the trees that give us oxygen, the earth that sustains our being and the people, plants, animals who companion us, feed us, love us and prevent us from succumbing to the arrogance that we are ever truly alone.

Thus, the plight and the reprieve, the failure and the flourishing matter, if not belong, to us all.

Closing words:

We close with the promises of Alcoholics Anonymous. Good spiritual fodder for everyone:

We should be sensible, tactful, considerate and humble without being servile or scraping… If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.

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[1] http://atwar.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/07/for-veterans-with-post-traumatic-stress-pain-killers-carry-risks/?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20120308

What Are We Waiting For?

I have two readings this morning. The first is from an address by the Reverend Victoria Safford entitled “Open Wide the Windows”:

The challenge for our movement on the threshold of the 21st century, is for us to stay open, to remain “unsealed,” available, but also to be absolutely grounded, clear in our convictions, our principles, our history, to know who we are and what it is we stand for… as a gathered people, bound by covenant in congregations and in our Association. “Unsealed” does not mean “unglued.”

…Can a religion defined not only by pluralism but by an evolving, open pluralism really hold together? Can it, can we, speak with relevance to a world that has traveled light- years away from the one we were born into (even if you were born only 20 years ago)? Can our religious way be relevant and reverent moving forward?

[Can we] find the fulcrum of integrity, and practice a religion that’s alive, not calcified and dead?

This from Daniel Berrigan, the Catholic priest and activist Safford quotes in a recent sermon:

“A fairly modest urging – Don’t kill, whatever the pretext. Leave the world un-befouled. Don’t hoard. Stand somewhere.”

Last week, Marcia read a story about a little girl named Irene, the daughter of a dressmaker, who braves a ferocious storm to deliver a ball gown to the duchess. As in many children’s books, where elements and animals have voice, the howling wind admonishes Irene to turn back and go home. “No!” she declares, “I’m on a mission.”

Are we? That is the question. For the last year and a half, the church has engaged in a process of strategic planning. Last year, three teams: rural, urban, and umbrella, studied the possibilities. We considered purchasing land in North Fitchburg. We investigated community partners who might want to use our building. We decided to hire an architect to conduct a feasibility study and draw up preliminary plans to make our building accessible: not only in terms of mobility impairments, but civically too. What might we do to make this building more user-friendly and attractive to the community partners we hope to attract?

In two weeks, the Strategic Planning Committee will present a report and the architect will display his drawings. Over the last several months, the folks directly involved in this effort have done yeoman’s service to the church. Many intriguing ideas have been put forth with input from a range of knowledgeable people including the mayor. But the question before us remains: what are we strategically planning for?

Are we planning so that we “practice a religion that’s alive”? Are we planning in an effort to achieve “a fulcrum of integrity”? Are we planning so that we can “speak with relevance to a world that has traveled light-years away from the one we were born into”?

Which raises the question: what makes us relevant and to whom?

Church historian Diane Butler Bass in an interview with Tom Ashbrook “On Point” this week cited an interesting statistic: Thirty percent of Americans polled identify as “spiritual not religious” while 48% identify as “spiritual and religious.” She extrapolates:

Large numbers of Americans are hankering for experiential faith whereby they can connect with God, the divine, or wonder as well as with their neighbors and [leading] to a more profound sense of meaning in the world. Americans are searching for churches—and temples, synagogues, and mosques—that are not caught up in political intrigue, rigid rules and prohibitions, institutional maintenance, unresponsive authorities, and inflexible dogma but instead offer pathways of life-giving spiritual experience, connection, meaning, vocation, and doing justice in the world. 

Americans are not rejecting faith—they are, however, rejecting self-serving religious institutions.[1]

Our church situates itself in a city that boasts a fantastic art museum, a dynamic drumming circle, and visionary young mayor. About a quarter of the population speaks a language other than English in the home. About twenty percent of residents live in poverty and the crime rate is slightly higher than the state average. 57.4 percent of the population affiliates with a religious congregation. As of March 2011, the unemployment rate in the city was twelve percent.

If we think about the population and conditions of Fitchburg, what do we offer that folks can’t get anywhere else? Are we doing all we can to “offer pathways of life-giving spiritual experience, connection, meaning, vocation, and doing justice in the world”?

During the course of our strategic planning, our architect, Chip Greenberg, sent me a link to a colleague’s blog. Chip notes with interest the Rev. Dan Harper’s thoughts on Unitarian Universalist mission statements. Dan read literally hundreds of them from congregations large and small, urban and rural, historic New England congregations and youthful fellowships founded in recent decades. Out of them all he found two effective. Folks who study mission for all manner of non-profits note that in order to be effective a mission must be short, concrete and clear. It expresses the purpose and pulse of an organization.

Too often, especially in our congregations where we dearly love our words, our lofty thoughts and cherished ideals, we wax eloquent and verbose. But think of travelers in an unfamiliar land. Imagine yourself in a place you’ve never been searching for a sign that indicates the location of a building you need, be it a hospital, the subway terminal, a grocery. You don’t want a paragraph description of the architectural highlights or a philosophical treatise on the moral underpinnings of the builder—especially in a language you don’t know. You want the universally understood graphic that takes a fraction of a second to register so you can feel assured and get on your way.

If a mission statement is analogue to the blue road sign with an H, the mission itself is analogous to the hospital. When we see that sign we know if we follow it we will end up in a venue for health care. We know what to expect, what we can find, and what we won’t. There may be a gift shop but not groceries. There may be a heliport for life flights, but there won’t be a train. That’s the beauty of a clear mission and a succinct summary of it.

At the end of the month, a Unitarian Universalist minister and church consultant named Jane Dwinell will facilitate a leadership session with the board and staff. The purpose is to help church leadership sharpen our focus, retool our efforts and put all our good strategic planning to use. In her book called Big Ideas for Small Congregations she writes:

Having a mission is the difference between being a congregation and a social club. Most clubs focus inward, enjoying the activities members do together with little or no thought about anything outside the group. Our congregations, however, have a larger purpose in this world. Unitarian Universalist congregations are hereto help people develop their own spirituality and then move their faith out into the larger world. Your congregational mission is about taking your faith community beyond your walls to live out what every faith professes in some words—making the world a better place.

She poses two questions to help a congregation determine its mission: 1) What are the strengths and passions of the congregation (considering the energy of the current members) and 2) what needs are most pressing in our community? I would add a third question: what is the most feasible, achievable intersection between the two?

Before I go further I want to say why church consultants of all stripes speak of mission as an imperative. St. Francis sums up the Christian imperative: “Preach the gospel everywhere; use words only when necessary.” Historically our denomination descends or arises, depending on your sense of direction, from two liberal Protestant faiths; so while our present incarnation of Unitarian Universalism has expanded beyond classic theism, it remains rooted in a wisdom tradition that began with monotheistic faith. Long before Ferenc David, a Unitarian in 16^th century Transylvania uttered “God is one,” Jews were reciting the shema, or watchword of the faith: Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”

What’s significant here is that we belong to a religious lineage thousand of years old founded in covenant—which is to say relationship. The origin of Judaism is the recognition of a God who creates so as to be in relationship. In the 1930s when modern humanism found expression and a home within Unitarian thought, the understanding of relationship remained even without the notion of divinity. What makes religious humanism religious, in contrast to secular humanism, is a focus on relationship, and covenant. The pulse of modern humanism beats in the fervent belief that humankind bends toward progress, toward the enhancement of life for all. And the pulse of modern theism is found in keen awareness that all beings connect: that the self emerges only in relationship to other beings, and the physical elements that give life a material realm. Thus we are one.

So it isn’t just a few ministers opining about the importance of having a purpose beyond common interests or shared activities. It’s not even the historians and pollsters documenting the shift from the religious practices of yesteryear to a new generation of Americans seeking spiritual relevance. It’s the soul of monotheistic and humanistic faith. We congregate to rejuvenate; we celebrate to invigorate and bear witness; we console as an act of tikkun olam, mending the torn fabric, not only of Creation at large, but our lives—so that we can better channel our resources, energies, and strengths toward the needs of the world to which we belong.

We gather to notice and affirm the sacred in everyday life, to acknowledge the true nature and worth of all the beings. We gather to improve our spiritual practice of holding ourselves and each other accountable. We gather to stretch together into fuller postures of generosity, humility, and compassion. We gather to recharge our batteries so we can continue to spread our light and our gifts, our passion and our love into the wider world.

Mission is the expression of that—the needle of the compass that tells us we are moving in the direction of justice and generosity. It’s the pole star that indicates where we stand and for what and for whom.

So before we receive the strategic planning report and review the architect’s drawings, let’s take the time today, after this service, to consider again the mission of our church. What obtainable, sustainable effort will we consistently make in service to the larger community?

Church consultants suggest a mission statement concise enough to fit on every surface: the order of service, letterhead, website, brochure, banner and blog. If it’s too cumbersome to memorize or fit in a sentence comfortably, it is too big or vague to fulfill. As a starting point for our discussion I propose this: “We congregate, rejuvenate, celebrate and console to better commit ourselves and our resources to serving the community and the world.“ We could shorten to simply, “We congregate to rejuvenate and serve the world” but I wanted to give you enough to get to par down. The mission belongs to the congregation, and any mission driven by the minister is not a mission; it’s a vanity. I offer words to work with because that’s my gift, working with words. Our mission however is to collectively embody the covenant we have as Unitarian Universalists: to inhabit the world and enrich it with our inquisitive spirits and expansive hearts.

The purpose of a clear concise mission is to be that fulcrum of integrity by which we balance what we do and how we choose to do it. That’s why I’ve asked that the congregation as a whole to revisit how we raise the money we count on from an annual fundraiser, which for years, maybe decades, has been an auction. Last year we took a straw poll to decide the format but that is no substitute for conversation and discernment. There will always be room for—and a need for—divergent perspectives and methods. People will disagree on what constitutes appropriate means to achieve a particular end. That’s healthy. What covenant requires is that we all uphold the fiber that fastens us to each other. It’s easy in a democracy to think a simple vote is the answer. Voting insures that each person has a say; but if the say is nothing more than a sequence of monologues we don’t foster community; we foment individualism. And let’s face it, as Fred so eloquently read last week from our hymnal, “The way is often hard, the path is never clear, and the stakes are very high. Take courage. For deep down there is another truth: [we] are not alone.” (Wayne Arnason, # 698)

There is comfort in knowing this and a key way we know is by gathering here. In large measure it is why people congregate in religious community: to feel connected: to know that no matter how ornery or desperate, giddy or foolish, brilliant or promising we are, we will be held in a the circle of belonging. Church is our embrace. It restores us and challenges us, reconnects us and pushes us out the door to make a difference, to say to the howling wind, “We will not turn back. We are on a mission.” May it always be so.

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[1] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/the-end-of-church_b_1284954.html

On Anger: A Shared Meditation

Leaf

The late poet essayist Audre Lorde wrote that “anger is loaded with information and energy…We cannot allow our fear of anger to deflect us nor seduce us into settling for anything less than the hard work of excavating honesty.” This morning Tricia and I offer a meditation on anger with the hope it is useful to others in the process of excavating honesty. 

Tricia

My daughter and I recently read To Kill a Mockingbird together. In case, like me, you haven’t read it since eighth grade, here’s a quick refresher: Jean Louise (Scout) and Jem Finch are two kids growing up in Alabama in the 1930s. They are raised by their single father, Atticus, a lawyer who is defending Tom Robinson, a black man on trial for rape.

In what I think is one of the most moving scenes in the novel, a mob of angry white men arrives at the jailhouse seeking retribution as they are convinced Robinson is guilty before the trial has begun Atticus is waiting for them armed with only his wits. They will not hear reason and begin to close in on him. It is, in the end, eight-year-old Scout who breaks up the mob by unwittingly singling out among the men the familiar face of someone who is desperately trying to ignore her. She says:

“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Cunningham? I’m Jean Louise Finch. You brought us some hickory nuts one time, remember?”… “I go to school with Walter,” …“He’s your boy ain’t he?”

"Mr. Cunningham was moved to a faint nod. He did know me after all."

Scout continues to chat, and finally her friendliness reminds Cunningham, the reader must assume, that Atticus is a friend to him, they share the common bond of fatherhood, that they are both human, and with that knowledge Cunningham turns home and takes the gang with him.

Later Scout says to Atticus,

“I thought Mr. Cunningham was our friend . . . "

“He still is.”

“But last night he wanted to hurt you . . . "

“Mr. Cunningham was part of a mob last night, but he was still a man.”

Atticus goes on to say, “I don’t want either of you bearing a grudge about this thing, no matter what happens.”

I think of that jail scene and the following conversation often, especially as my anger flares when I see littered hiking trails, inflammatory bumper stickers, or when I hear hate speech on the radio. I envy Atticus’s gift for seeing the good in people, even when he fundamentally disagrees with them, when they spew hatred at him and his family, when they threaten his life. Atticus does not raise his voice in opposition; he rarely quarrels (except with his sister) but instead lives his beliefs quietly and does not back down.

As I discussed the book with my friends who have kids, we agreed that Atticus is the best lesson in good parenting.  When Scout—who would “just as soon jump on someone as look at them if her pride’s at stake”—complains that kids at school are badmouthing Atticus, he tells her, “You just hold your head high and keep those fists down…Try fighting with your head for a change.”

Atticus’s point is that our anger isn’t going to change another person’s beliefs. As much as we’d like to try it sometimes, it’s really not possible to knock the sense into someone. But for some of us Atticus’s peaceful path is a long, strenuous, trail where we try to lead our children, but often find ourselves lost in fury’s forest. 

“Benevolence” by Tony Hoagland:

When my father dies and comes back as a dog,

I already know what his favorite sound will be:

the soft, almost inaudible gasp

as the rubber lips of the refrigerator door

unstick, followed by that arctic

exhalation of cold air;

then the cracking of the ice-cube tray above the sink

and the quiet ching the cubes make

when dropped into a glass.

Unable to pronounce the name of his favorite drink, or to express

his preference for single malt,

he will utter one sharp bark

and point the wet black arrow of his nose

imperatively up

at the bottle on the shelf,

then seat himself before me,

trembling, expectant, water pouring

down the long pink dangle of his tongue

as the memory of pleasure from his former life

shakes him like a tail.

What I’ll remember as I tower over him,

holding a dripping, whiskey-flavored cube

above his open mouth,

relishing the power rushing through my veins

the way it rushed through his,

what I’ll remember as I stand there

is the hundred clever tricks

I taught myself to please him,

and for how long I mistakenly believed

that it was love he held concealed in his closed hand.

Leaf

None of us like anger directed at us. Few of us relish being angry, though sometimes it can energize or distract us from an even deeper pain. I used to fantasize building a Rage-O-Rama for all the mild-mannered folks like me afraid to unleash our anger for fear like Yahweh, we would leave a decimated village behind. I imagined an airplane hangar full of indestructible material to ignite or wallop, with the assurance nothing and no one would get hurt. Before seeking venture capital to build it, I read Thich Nhat Hanh, the wise, gentle, Buddhist monk who counsels instead:


Just like our organs, our anger is part of us. When we are angry, we have to go back to ourselves and take good care of our anger. We cannot say, “Go away, anger, I don’t want you.” When you have a stomachache, you don’t say, “I don’t want you stomach, go away.” No, you take care of it. In the same way, we have to embrace and take good care of our anger. When we embrace anger and take good care of our anger, we obtain relief. We can look deeply into it and gain many insights. One of the first insights may be that the seed of anger in us has grown too big, and is the main cause of our misery. As we begin to see this reality, we realize that the other person, whom our anger is directed at, is only a secondary cause. The other person is not the real cause of our anger.”

So what is? This morning, in conversation with Tricia, I offer a theological response.

Anger is a response to anything that threatens our integrity, our wholeness as human beings. In the Bible, especially the Hebrew Scriptures, God is quick to anger. So are humans. Moses liberates the enslaved Hebrew people and marches them into the desert where they angrily complain. But God demonstrates by far the greatest wrath. In the Genesis flood narrative God furiously destroys almost the entire earth. When I look at the source of God's anger, God is broken-hearted with disappointment that human creatures have gone so wrong so God basically says (and I am paraphrasing here,) “to hell with all of you. I will destroy the world,” until somehow Noah finds favor with God so God instructs Noah to build and ark and gather two of every species so that the flood-ravaged world will not be utterly annihilated.

The source of God's wrath is also the source of God's mercy: God so loves the world that God can’t tolerate how humans have mucked it up so God sees the brokenness of creation and like the angry artist who works for years on the painting and then botches it—or maybe the dog comes in, wags its tail and overturns the bucket of paint onto the drying canvas thus damaging the integrity of the work so God infuriated, shreds the canvas into tiny pieces.

In the gospels, Jesus overturns the moneychanger’s tables in the temple and he has harsh words for the Pharisees in Matthew: 

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for you tithe mint and dill and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law, justice and mercy and faith; these you ought to have done, without neglecting the others. You blind guides, straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel! ... Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for you clean the outside of the cup and plate but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. (23:23-5)

Jesus’ anger stems from the fact that humans have failed to fulfill the potentiality of the moment. Anger arises out of disappointment.

 We get angry at parents who abuse us or drink and abuse themselves, at spouses who violate marriage vows or fail to understand us and our needs. We can spend a lifetime consumed with anger toward the abusive adult: the one who shatters a childhood with his or her drinking; the one who breaks a child's spirit, bones, hymen, with force of body.  Anger arises in response to what violates our totality, what diminishes our fullness, or keeps us from achieving it.

If we, like God, carry an image of what can be, we rail against what prevents the "can" from being.

Tricia

Last Sunday R and I went on an early Valentine’s date. As we were driving home I turned on “This American Life” and as we listened to reporter Jack Hitt describe the impact of Alabama’s “self-deportation” law (HB 56) on its residents, I felt my heartbeat quicken, and my throat fill with the heat of tears. The law, passed last fall, is intended to make life so wretched for illegal immigrants that they’ll choose to leave the state, and many people have compared the new Alabama to the early days of Nazi Germany.

When Hitt interviewed the law’s author, Kris Kobach, who continues to support the law despite a plethora of unintended consequences, I found myself spewing hatred at his voice through the car’s speaker. I dare not share the vile things I shouted at him in my mind. 

I wish I could say that was the first time I’ve had those thoughts about someone I’d never met, but it happens all too often. Every day I urge my four-year-old son to use his words instead of his fists, speak kindly, use his big boy voice, find a word other than hate to explain how he feels. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and I dread the day he discovers that I am the tree from which he has fallen.

It’s easy to despise a stranger in one moment’s interaction, more difficult to imagine the faceless person in the car that cut me off as somebody’s son or daughter, or a defender of HB 56 as someone with a keen sense of humor who makes a rockin’ cherry pie.

And then there’s the anger that’s harder to let go, the kind that haunts me when a friend or family member has not lived up to my expectations. The people I love seem to suffer the most from unchecked temper, especially as I have been known to carry that anger for decades.

I’m trying to change that. Psychologist Steven Stosny, who works with domestic violence offenders, posits that anger is a mask for another, deeper emotion, and once we are able to recognize and express that other emotion, whether it’s shame, guilt, or pain, from past hurts, the easier it will be to stay calm, to make rational choices. I’m working on it.

My date with R wasn’t ruined, but I’m frustrated with myself for allowing all of that internal negativity into what was an otherwise romantic evening. Next time I’d like to be able to say, “I don’t agree with Kobach’s argument at all, and tomorrow I’m going to sign every petition that I can find to help repeal this law”—which, after my mini-tantrum ended, is exactly what I did. 

The world famous muppeteer, Jim Henson, said, “Kids don't remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are,” and unfortunately my 15-year-old daughter sees me as someone who is angry and unyielding toward people with whom I disagree. Fortunately, she finds this tendency endlessly frustrating instead of seeing it as something to emulate.

Still, I don’t want to risk passing my spitfire-ish nature on to my son, so I try to examine my anger, seek the deeper, truer, emotion, and let it go quickly. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes it doesn’t work at all, but I think back on Atticus Finch saying of Scout’s pugilistic transgressions, “She doesn’t come up to scratch half the time, but she tries…She knows I know she tries, and that makes all the difference.”   

Leaf

If we think about who and what angers us, much of it relates a) to disappointment, to dashed expectations, and b) behavior that fails to recognize the lattice of connection. Like Tricia, I get angry at right-wing hate mongers who ignore reason, people who gun down doctors to protest abortion or shoot people in a church for being liberal. I rail on a regular basis at the long-gone litterers who have trashed my street. I scream at the woman on the radio who says “owning” a wild animal is a property right. What fractures the integrity of a being, what diminishes the totality of our beingness together elicits anger, which functions as a mechanism of self-protection. But because the self is not a separate entity, and that knowing is encoded in us, we, like the divine ones rendered biblically, try to protect the integrity of Creation. 

Anger operates on the micro level when we feel slighted, insulted, or react to disappointment—and the macro-level of ecocide and genocide: the wholesale destruction of the planet and its creatures. Anger refastens us to our connection with the divine, the core creative energy of the universe. If we, like God, know the potentiality for wholeness, if it is infused in our being, it follows that our human renderings of God in Scripture and poetic imagining will project our anger at defilement. And reflect God’s. 


So two millennia later we read depictions of God angry like a disappointed parent who has expended so much energy to lovingly create and raise humans who turn into ungrateful selfish little brats or worse, violent, homicidal maniacs. We recognize in God the pain-soaked rage of a child now grown who knows parents in the fullness of potentiality should be present, attentive, loving—and yet sometimes they fail due to their own brokenness.

And here's the paradox. Anger functions as a protective membrane—activated as a system of alarm when integrity and wholeness are breached, like skin that keeps life-threatening infection from entering the bloodstream. But if the anger is so inflammatory that we are consumed by it, the skin once charred loses its ability to “breathe” so the tissue blackens and dies. Anger is like that; if it becomes all-consuming, it defiles our integrity—because we are no longer able to function at our full potential. Consumed by anger, we lose our capacity to reason and feel compassion.

Thus anger involves balance. It indicates imbalance and yet too much of it, or too prolonged a period of it causes imbalance. Which is what makes anger holy: like God who creates and destroys: who imbues Creation with such grand potential and then gets so frustrated when the potential is unfulfilled. Amen.

We close with the words of the late poet Jane Kenyon:  

Portrait of a Figure near Water

Rebuked, she turned and ran

uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner   

arsonist, held a match to her brain.   

She observed her life: against her will   

it survived the unwavering flame.

The barn was empty of animals.   

Only a swallow tilted

near the beams, and bats

hung from the rafters

the roof sagged between.

Her breath became steady

where, years past, the farmer cooled   

the big tin amphoræ of milk.

The stone trough was still

filled with water: she watched it   

and received its calm.

So it is when we retreat in anger:   

we think we burn alone

and there is no balm.

Then water enters, though it makes no sound.