© Davidson Loehr

10 June 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

PUPPET SHOW:

By Julie Irwin, Davidson Loehr, and the creative spirits of the No-Strings Puppetteers.

Characters – Whiney and Eeyore, Ted and Jessie. It’s a wide stage, the hand-puppets appear on center stage (Stage A) or the sides (Stage B).

SCENE I, STAGE A

(Whiney and Eeyore enter together. Whiny talks in a very high and whiny voice, and Eeyore talks very slowly and negatively like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh.)

Whiney: People are so STUPID!

Eeyore: Yes, tell me about it. Just like you’d expect in this stupid world.

Whiney: And most people just aren’t that cool, do you know what I mean? We never get to meet any cool people!

Eeyore: Yeah, it just figures.

Whiney: Where are the other cool people? People who are in a good mood and everything and fun.

Eeyore: Maybe they all just DIED. That’s just what you’d expect with all this air pollution and crime and everything.

(Ted and Jessie enter separately, one at each side of the stage. They’re happy, seem friendly. Very different body language than the first two. Looser, more fun somehow. Whiney and Eeyore are together in the center of the stage. One at a time, in turns, they see and approach Whiney and Eeyore)

Ted: Hi! Who are you? What are you doing?

Whiny: I’m just sitting here waiting for some cool people. There are no cool people around here or anything. This place is BORING!

Ted: Well, I don’t know if I’m cool or anything, but do you want to play this game with me? It’s the new Playstation 3.

Whiny: No. I don’t want to just play with anyone who just comes along and asks me. Do you know any cooler people to play with? We never get those here.

Ted: There is that guy way over there, sitting on the Harley Davidson and singing a rap song. I think that’s Jennifer Lopez on the back of his bike. He looks cool.

Whiny: Yeah, but he hates me. He’s never nice to me.

Ted (aside, to the audience): I wonder why!

(long pause while Whiny looks out longingly toward the phantom cool guy, maybe in the church audience)

Whiny: I wish he would want to play with me, instead of you. (pause)

Ted: Ok, well, sorry to bother you. (leaves)

SCENE II, Stage B

Jessie: Hi! What are you doing?

Eeyore: What do you think I’m doing? Sitting here by myself, alone, lonely in the dark.

Jessie: Well, seems pretty bright to me. But do you want me to turn on the light?

Eeyore: What would be the point of that? Just wastes electricity (sigh).

Jessie: Well, we could talk and stuff, or maybe I could tell you a story.

Eeyore: I doubt it would be a funny story. What’s the point?

Jessie: You haven’t even heard it! Let me tell you: Once upon a time, there was a

Eeyore: You know, I need to leave my time free in case anything really fun comes along, even though it’s probably not going to.

(pause while Eeyore mopes)

Jessie: Ok, I guess I’ll go then. (leaves)

Eeyore: I knew it. Everyone always leaves. Why do I even bother?

SCENE III, STAGE A

Ted. Are you with THEM? (pointing down to where Whiny and Eeyore exited)

Jessie. Heck no! Who ARE they?

Ted. I don’t know. I think they moved into the green house last week.

Jessie. Oh. We were on vacation, we just got back last night. I’m Jessie. (extends his hand)

Ted: (Extends his hand) Hi Jessie, it’s nice to finally MEET somebody! I’m Ted, we just moved here from New Jersey. Listen Jessie, I have this new Play Station, and the snowboarder game is for two people. Would you like to play it with me?

Jessie. Cool! I’ve heard about the game, but I’ve never played it. Afterwards, would you like to come over to our house? I just got a copy of the movie Spy Puppets (Ted’gasp, Spy puppets) that I wanted to watch with somebody. I haven’t seen it yet, maybe we could watch it and microwave some popcorn?

Ted: That’s so great! I never saw Spy Puppets when it was in the theaters.

Jessie: It would be so neat if we could be friends, Ted!

Ted. It sure would, Jessie! I miss my friends from New Jersey, and I really want to make some new friends. I’ll show you how to play the game.

Jessie: Then let’s go watch Spy Puppets.

Ted: Great let’s go!

They exit together.

SCENE IV

Eeyore and Whiny enter again, slowly and still in a bad mood.

Whiny: We still don’t have any friends to hang out with!

Eeyore: Yeah, no one ever comes around here.

Shaking their heads, they exit.

SERMON: Walking on Water

What is the power behind miracles? Is it weird science? supernatural deities with nothing better to do than poke around in our lives? Or is the power where Jesus said the Kingdom of God is: within and among us? And even if this mysterious power is within and among us, what on earth does that mean, and what kind of “miracles” are we talking about?

This isn’t a scientific question. It’s more of a poetic or biographical question. It’s about how our attitudes and our courage create our world, whether friendly or unfriendly, and our possibilities, whether pinched or expansive, as in the puppet show.

There must be a hundred different ways to preach on this, and some of the challenge is finding one you haven’t thought of before. So I’ll weave together two stories, one factual and one mythical.

For those of you who don’t know the story of walking on water, it is a Christian story about Jesus walking across the water to his disciples, who are in a boat. The only minister I’ve ever discussed this with was my friend Todd Driskill, about fifteen years ago. Todd was a minister in the Disciples of Christ church – which is much more liberal up north than it is here in Texas. It made him crazy when his parishioners took biblical stories literally, whether it was walking on water or rising from the dead. For Todd, Jesus “rose from the dead” only in the minds of his disciples; and “walking on water” was an imaginative way of saying that Jesus could go places and do things his disciples couldn’t, because he had a faith that they lacked.

A century ago, there was an Austrian writer named Karl Kraus who is among my favorites, and one of his aphorisms reminds me of this kind of power. “I hear noises which others do not hear,” he wrote, “and they reveal to me the music of the spheres – which others don’t hear either.” Something in that is true, I think: “I hear noises which reveal to me the music of the spheres.” Jesus used to tell his parables, then complain that his disciples didn’t have “the eyes to see or the ears to hear” what they were really about. Jesus heard noises others didn’t hear, and he heard a harmony in life that others seldom hear either. So did the Buddha, Confucius, Lao-Tzu, and so many others. They walked on water. They went places few others go because they were sustained by a kind of faith in the basic goodness and the positive possibilities of life.

In the stories about these and other great sages, you almost always read that they went through hard personal tests and struggles to gain that faith, to be able to hear those noises. Fifteen years ago one of the hottest religion scholars in this country was Joseph Campbell. His six-part television series with Bill Moyers on “The Power of Myth” was seen by hundreds of millions of people. Over 2,000 study groups sprang up spontaneously in this country alone, for people to meet and discuss Campbell’s ideas.

And Campbell’s central idea was that one of the most transformative opportunities in life is the chance to go on what he called the Hero’s Quest. This is the three-step process by which both mythic heroes and exceptional people gained the authenticity, the personal power, that let them become the kind of people we want to keep telling stories about.

But back to my friend Todd.

He was a good minister and a good preacher, but biblical literalism really drove him nuts. His Christianity was too important to him to become something radical like a Unitarian, but he had been a minister about twelve years, and he wasn’t happy. He felt, as many ministers do, that his people wanted him to say he believed these stories literally, and – again like most ministers – he didn’t. Todd didn’t think he could tell the truth and keep his job, and if he couldn’t say what he believed, he thought he would lose his integrity. I can still hear him saying that if only people would read the Bible intelligently, it had enough in it to ground and guide a good life. But now, Todd needed to leave the only world he had ever really lived in – the world of orthodox Christianity – and find some place that could be a home for his spirit. Joseph Campbell used to call this the quest for “the lost Atlantis of the coordinated soul,” and it’s certainly what Todd yearned for.

In the Hero’s Quest, this is the first stage, known as The Call. You are called to be something or somewhere else, and it feels like your identity, your authenticity, is at stake. If you answer the call, you will have to leave the comfort of the familiar and risk a great deal.

But this is scary. Most of us can probably remember at least one time that we took a risk, spoke up when we had been afraid to, and did something we’re still proud of. We all have heroic quests, small and large. The great myths explode these experiences into grand stories of heroes slaying dragons or wrestling with God, of Buddha sitting under the Bo Tree and resisting irresistible temptations, Jesus resisting temptations of the Devil.

In the Middle Ages, when most of the world had not yet been explored by Europeans, sailors were afraid if you went too far you’d sail off the edge of the world. And mapmakers would mark unexplored waters with the warning “There be monsters here!” Psychologically, that’s still true. There be monsters in unexplored areas. There are dangers leaving the familiar, even when it doesn’t feel like a home any more. And it takes a lot of energy! Thirty years ago, when we were sending men to the moon, I remember reading that it took more fuel to get the space ship out of the earth’s gravitational pull than it took to go the half million miles from there to the moon and back. It takes a lot of energy to escape the gravitational pull of the familiar.

In 1991, Todd finally sailed into the waters where monsters lived. He resigned from his church and he, Marsha and their son Tyler moved to Summit, New Jersey, where he enrolled in a Ph.D. program at Drew University. He studied the bible, theology and philosophy. We had a lot of long and intense conversations about these things, by telephone and e-mail. He really wanted to teach churches, and ministers, how to read the bible in more intelligent ways. But he knew there wasn’t a paying job with that description anywhere, so he hoped to go into teaching at a seminary.

His faith was challenged in graduate school. He lost the rest of his naivete, and six years later his beliefs were much deeper, better informed, and far less orthodox. He came alive in a way I had never seen him. Marsha said he had found faith and hope again, and life had become an exciting possibility.

This is the second stage of the Hero’s Quest: leaving your familiar world, trading security for adventure and risk. This is the stage when storytellers say the hero slays dragons. The dragons, of course, are not really big scaly lizards; they are internal demons, ancient and primitive fire-breathing voices inside us that shout “No!” and want to scare us back into our old ways. Marsha could allow Todd to grow far beyond the boundaries of any kind of Christianity she had ever known. But they both came from big families, and Todd lost big parts of both families when his beliefs no longer seemed to overlap with theirs. Dragons. Monsters. Forces begging you, threatening you, to go back where you were before. These are hard struggles, as many of you know from your own lives.

The final stage of the Hero’s Quest is what Joseph Campbell called The Return. It isn’t just about going off to school or meditating in a cave and getting a private revelation, feeling groovy and being finished. The full spiritual quest can not be played out only within the stage of your mind. It must open out to the world, and find its own gifted way to play there, where it counts for more. There is a necessity, a command, to bring it back to the world and share it. Campbell used to say that “an authentic person rejuvenates the world.” I think it is true. And what the Hero’s Quest is about is gaining a deeper kind of authenticity, and confidence, and power.

Few people would claim, as Karl Kraus did, to be able to hear “the music of the spheres.” But you do hear some new noises, and you do hear some music. The music is the sense of a kind of harmony about life, a kind of safety, a feeling that there really weren’t monsters there, that the dragons can be slain, and a feeling that this news must be shared with others. I felt this way after graduate school. I still do. And so did Todd.

He was teaching in small colleges as an adjunct professor, sorry that the perfect job didn’t exist. I was sorry he couldn’t be in the ministry, because he was so good at it. Then in November of 1997, he got a phone call. It was from the Society for Biblical Literacy, a worldwide organization run by the Disciples of Christ churches. Their longtime director had died, and they had been advertising for a new one. One of Todd’s former district supervisors saw the ad and called them to say he knew the man for whom this job was created. They were already at the third interview stage with two candidates, but they phoned Todd to say they would be willing to fly him to Atlanta for an interview. At the end of that interview, they offered him the job and he accepted.

If this story were being written in a Bible, it would be called a miracle. And perhaps it was. Todd called me with the news, more excited than I had ever heard him. It was the job he had been born to do, but he would never have found it if he hadn’t taken the risks he took six years earlier, because the job required a Ph.D. in theology with a solid grounding in biblical studies.

I was both happy for him and proud of him. “How does it feel?” I asked. And my friend said “It feels like I’m walking on water – and it really is a miracle!” Ten years ago, Todd wasn’t happy. The world didn’t seem friendly, he couldn’t find a home in it, his spirit was starved. He was staying within the boundaries of his family and his friends, and he was losing his soul. Four years ago, the world was a friendly place. Todd was in love with life; he saw a world filled with possibilities and felt empowered in it. Now he heard noises that most others did not hear, and those noises told him of some of the music of the spheres, which most others didn’t hear either.

How can you write about transformations like this without resorting to mythical, magical language? If you leave out the feeling of miracle, you leave out the point of the story. Knowing people who have gone on the Hero’s Quest, having done some bits of it myself, makes it much easier to read the stories in the bible or in fairy tales or other myths and understand the kind of thing the writer was struggling to express. It’s also called being “born again,” being “born of the Holy Spirit.” It happens. I’ve seen it.

I need to tell you the end of Todd’s story. In December 1997, he was preparing to move with Marsha to Atlanta. Tyler was a sophomore at the University of Michigan, so just the two of them were moving, leaving the next day. Todd lifted an air conditioner into the rented truck, fell forward and died of a heart attack. He was 46. Three days later, I delivered the eulogy at his funeral, in the church he had grown up in. He died at the same age his father had died, and is buried next to him.

It wasn’t fair. But I wonder if any of you are tempted to think that Todd lost, after all. Don’t be. He didn’t lose, and he would have been the first to say so. We all die. We win by living with integrity and courage while we’re here. He spent the last six years of his life doing what he needed to do to become authentic the way he needed to. Marsha is remarried, Tyler begins law school this fall, and they both remember Todd as a brave man who took the road less traveled, and for whom taking that road really did make all the difference – both for him and for them. Tyler isn’t afraid of life, of taking chances, or of going on his own Hero’s Quest when the time comes. He knows it must be done, and he knows it can be done, because he saw his father do it. And Marsha also gained confidence and courage, and remembers those six years as transformative for her too. Todd’s life ended in the midst of a miracle that he didn’t live to see through. Maybe Marsha will. Maybe Tyler will. Maybe you will – for Todd’s story is in you too now, and it’s not one you’re likely to forget soon. So some miracle seeds have been planted here today. Perhaps they will sprout.

We’re born into a world of both fear and hope, refusal and possibility, and are asked which we shall serve. Most of the time, we stay on the paths with everyone else. Once in awhile we hear a call, offering us – if we are willing to work at it – the chance to walk on water. One path is safe and commonplace. The other is risky and uncertain. It’s a call from something that seems to know our true name. If we never answer the call, our story may not be either heroic or even very authentic. It may be like the story of Rip Van Winkle, who just went to sleep for twenty years and had nothing to show for the time but a beard. Sometimes in our lives, we come to a place where two roads diverge in the woods. We can follow the crowd, or we can take the road less traveled. It really does make all the difference.

© Davidson Loehr

27 May 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

One way we can get to know ourselves more intimately is by understanding what our sacred stories are. These are the plots, the scripts, the “necessary fictions” through which we find ourselves in the most comforting and compelling ways. We’re probably all living out the plots of some stories. We’ll look at some, and leave you the homework of wondering about your own story, how well you’re serving it, and how well it’s serving you.

STORY: The Great Stone Face

Once there were people who lived in a valley at the foot of a large mountain. High at the top of the mountain there was a face, a great face carved in the stone. The people said it was the face of a god. And if you could see that face clearly, they said, it would show you who you were, and how you were meant to live your life.

That sounded easy enough, but it was not. For the face was in a part of the mountain impossible to climb, and so high up it was almost always obscured by clouds or fog. Furthermore, the face seemed to look differently in different light, and no two people ever saw it exactly the same. But it was important, this face, because if only it could be seen clearly – well, then you would know who you really were, and who you were meant to be. And so the people studied what they could see of the face, as best they could, and they told others what they thought they saw.

Stories even arose, stories about times that the great face had actually spoken to someone, and what the great face had said. People wrote these things down, and tried to make a list of do’s and don’ts for living, but no two lists ever completely agreed. Still the people told their stories, and listened to the stories of others, because after all there was so much at stake, if only they could get it right.

And as they believed they understood the message of the great face in the stone, they tried to live in the ways they felt they were meant to live. Usually, this just meant they tried to be kind to one another, to be good neighbors, to work hard, to make their little valley a better place and so on, as you would expect. There were always a few, of course, who did not care much about making the valley a better place. They lived to chase after power or wealth or other things like that, and they too, if pressed on it, would argue that this was the way the great face of stone had intended things to be.

From time to time, as you would also expect, there were people who said that all of this was just nonsense, that there was no face at all in the stones above, that these were just these silly myths. And it was certainly true that if there was a face up there in the rocks, it was very faint, so faint that you couldn’t even be sure you were seeing anything at all.

Yet others would then say that without the face, and the stories about the face, the people in the valley might not have been so eager to be decent to one another, and then what kind of world would they have? After all, you needed something to live for, and some kind of rules to live by.

But as any visitor or other objective person could see, if there was any face at all up there, it was too vague to be clear about, even on a sunny day. All you could be sure of was that the people had these stories, and they lived by them. Should there be an expedition to the top of the mountain to try and see once and for all what the great face of stone was trying to say? Or should they instead be paying more attention to their stories, and their lives? If they could never see the great face clearly, then all they had were their stories, and their efforts to live well together. And if someone swore that the great face had indeed spoken clearly but the way it wanted them to live made no sense, either to individuals or to the community, then who would have cared what the great stone face said, anyway?

Well, as you can tell, this is not settled, neither within that valley nor elsewhere. And yet there is something here of importance, and we cannot seem to stop thinking and talking about it.

SERMON: Sacred Stories

There is a wonderful old story about stories; it is the legend of Sheherezade. She was condemned to death by an immature, woman-hating tyrant. To save her life and the lives of others, she began telling the tyrant a story the night before he was going to have her killed, and she ended the story in mid-air, to be finished the next night. He let her live another night because he wanted to hear the ending. But she was no fool, and the story kept going on, for a thousand and one nights, until through her stories she had finally softened his heart, and opened his eyes and ears. She awakened the decent person that was inside of this tyrant. The decent person was waiting like a Sleeping Beauty, for someone who could reach his soul and break the evil spell under which his life was being lived.

I like the Sheherezade legend because it shows some of the power of stories to change our lives. But I also like it because we are all under the spell of Sheherezade. We all tell our stories in order to live. And we tell them, as well, in order to transform both ourselves and others into the people we think we were meant to be.

We live trying to act the way we think we should, trying to conform to some image of who we are supposed to be, how those we care for want or need us to act, some picture of how life is to be. And when you watch how we live, it’s clear that we are giving those pictures, those mostly unspoken stories, immense power. We’re puppets, they’re the strings. And we move and obey as though our stories were sacred – which, to us, they usually are.

And there’s the rub! If only all our stories were sacred! But they’re not. We all live by some stories that aren’t worthy of us, that don’t cherish us or even affirm our basic worth or honor our spirit, our energy, the things we really love. The more a story can do that, the more sacred it is, and the more it serves life. The less a story does that, the more profane and unworthy it is.

I’ll give you an example of someone living out a very powerful – and famous – story without even being aware of it. About ten years ago I was the theme speaker at the weeklong Unitarian summer camp at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. There were about 600 adults and 400 kids there, from ten or twenty states, so none of us knew many of the people. But since I was more visible than the other ministers there, a lot of folks cornered me during the week to tell me their stories. I spoke with one woman who told me her problem was that she just couldn’t seem to do enough. She was working hard at everything, sacrificing herself to her husband, her children, and nearly anyone else who asked. But her life felt empty, she didn’t seem to be getting anything out of it, didn’t seem to be getting anything back from all this giving she was doing. I recognized her story, and asked her if she thought she was supposed to be getting something out of it. She got a little indignant and said yes, it’s supposed to work that way: you give and you give, but eventually, you get back, too, and that’s what makes it all worth it.

That’s what I mean by a script, a guiding fiction, a myth to live by. There is a story being lived out not only by that woman, but by millions of women and men – though that one is mostly a women’s story. But there is no way to help this woman do well enough to get what she wants, because she is living out a story that is not likely to have a happy ending unless she can change the4 behavior of the other characters in her life. She is living out the story of Cinderella, who works and slaves for others, and whose only hope is that somehow a fairy Godmother will see her pure heart, reward her with a handsome prince, and usher in a kind of Judgement Day, when all who have wronged her will be punished. Probably, the only way she can win is to get out of this story and find a different kind of role to play, because in real life – as you have noticed by now – there is a serious shortage of fairy godmothers.

Cinderella is only a fairy tale. But the best fairy tales have plots that have been told many times in many other ways. This Cinderella script, for example, has been compared to the ancient Greek story of Persephone, the obedient daughter. It’s also a lot like a traditional script for women found in many religions, that says you spend your whole life giving to men, to children, and to all others who ask, you spend your life as a Suffering Servant, and you’ll get your reward in heaven.

To be fair, you have to say that this role is not always, or even necessarily, bad. It depends on the other characters in the story, and what roles they are playing. This is often a very rewarding role for women, because their husband, children, and friends do appreciate and love them not in heaven but here and now for their hard work and their good heart.

Nor do you have to be a woman to find yourself in this story. College students living on no money in crummy apartments can identify with Cinderella too, where the role of the fairy godmother will be played by their eventual employer who makes all of this sacrifice worth it. And that usually happens. So it is not necessarily a bad story. But sometimes, a story like that Cinderella story, that “pay now, fly later” script – sometimes it only makes people perpetual victims. And then the only way out of it is to get out of the story, and find a better myth to live by – a more sacred story that treats you like a more sacred person.

Bad stories enslave us to visions that are profane because they are too small to hold our spirits and serve our destinies. Most Cinderellas are perpetual victims. Little visions demean and degrade us; expansive visions ennoble and honor us, and call us toward greater things. That’s what I mean by looking for and changing to a sacred story.

Changing from a small story to a bigger one can make a huge difference. I had a very simple revelation of this sort just yesterday morning. It isn’t dramatic, but it’s the kind of “Aha!” experience you have had before too. I was riding my new bicycle on the Hike & Bike trail that runs along both sides of Town Lake downtown. As some of you know, that’s about a ten-mile loop, going along the north side of the river, then crossing over several bridges and running back along the south side.

The trail, as the name says, is for both bicycles and people who are walking or running. It isn’t all that wide a trail though, and as I got more exhausted and dehydrated, I noticed that those walkers seemed to think they owned the whole path! They’d just spread out, two or three across, so they could talk, forgetting there were bicyclists trying to get by! While I’m riding the bike, I start thinking to myself “Well, get out of the way, will you? It’s supposed to be a bike path!” Then while I had stopped to rest (and work on this sermon), I saw a bicycle brush by some walkers pretty closely. I knew just how she felt! After she had passed them, one of the walkers turned to the others and said “Damned bicycles!”

I began fantasizing about all the bicyclists getting together, hiring a lawyer, and filing some kind of a class action suit against all the walkers, to establish bikers’ rights. Then I imagined that all the walkers and runners would do the same thing, and sue to have the bicyclists removed from the path. After just a short while I stopped that, because it began feeling too much like the world we’re already living in.

Finally, somewhere around the 6th or 7th mile, I backed off, drank a lot of water, and thought about it again. That’s when the minor revelation came, and I said “Oh wait, I get it; it’s not like a clash of bikers’ rights versus walkers’ rights. It’s supposed to be like a kind of dance, and we’re all supposed to help choreograph it so we can move together.” Suddenly, the bike ride was a lot different, and a lot more fun. I was more aware of the whole pattern of movements of bikers, runners and walkers going both ways, and of trying to blend my movements in among theirs so the dance went more gracefully.

When my story got bigger, my life got better. A bigger and more inclusive story is closer to a sacred story than a smaller one. And it pulls you into a bigger and more positive picture of life with its affirmations, rather than shutting you out with its self-centered walls, the way battles of individual rights and entitlements can. I’ll take my bike back there tonight for another round of dancing.

I’m trying to plant the idea that we have the power to change from a small story to a bigger one, and that change makes a huge difference in the quality of our life and our joy in living it.

Let me give you some more examples, from the field of psychology. I don’t think of psychology the way most psychologists do. Our fields overlap, because the word “psychology” means the structure and understanding of the soul – “psyche” is the Greek word for “sou.” I don’t think psychology is a science. I think that psychology, like religion, is an imaginative art. There are many different kinds of psychology, of course, and each school of psychology adopts a basic story, a basic set of assumptions about people, and use that to interpret the lives of their clients – or even to force life to fit theirstory. I’ll give you two vignettes to let you feel how the same life transition can be seen through several very different stories.

The first is a story about the childhood of Manuel Manoleta. He died in 1947, but many bullfight fans still regard him as the greatest and most courageous bullfighter in Spain’s history. When Manoleta was a child, however, he was neither great nor brave. He was delicate and sickly, interested only in painting and reading. He stayed indoors and clung to his mother’s apron so much that his sisters and other children used to tease him. He rarely joined other boys’ games of soccer or playing at bullfighting. But when he was eleven, all of this suddenly changed, and for the rest of his life, nothing much mattered to him except the bulls. In his first bullfight, while still a young boy, those who were there said he stood his ground without moving an inch. (from The Soul’s Code by James Hillman, pp. 15-16)

What kind of a story could we use to explain this radical transformation? Psychologists who followed Alfred Adler would recognize this as classic compensation, where his adult bravery was just to make up for feeling inadequate as a boy. Freudians would go even farther, seeing this as sublimation, and would describe his adult bravery in the bull ring as just his childhood fears trying to wear masks to fool people. He remains a damaged and frightened boy all his life in this story. It is not a sacred story. It denies both real courage and a nobility of spirit to Spain’s greatest bullfighter, by reducing him to fit a very mechanical kind of story to which some – though not all – psychologists have become addicted. I’ve always thought of Freudian psychology – and most of traditional psychology – as a kind of cousin to the field of hydraulics. They deal with pressures from one part of life that exert pressures on another part of life until they’re released or resolved. Not all Freudians agree with this interpretation, of course.

The second explanation of Manoleta’s transformation comes from the Jungian psychologist James Hillman. Hillman sees the boy hiding behind his mother’s apron as a boy called to great acts of courage for which he is not yet ready. He is scared of his calling, scared of the greater dangers he must prepare himself to face. Something in him drives him toward his personal destiny. At age eleven, he was ready. And from that time on, the “apron” behind which he hid was bright red, meant to attract the danger of thousand-pound bulls. In this story, little Manoleta had a great calling, even as a child, and his life’s destiny was to grow into that calling and become Spain’s greatest bullfighter.

The second story grants Manoleta dignity, and gives him credit for his courage, while the first brushes it all off as the false costume worn by a neurotic and frightened child. The second story is ennobling; the first is demeaning. Let’s do another one. A similar pattern occurred in the childhood of the great violinist Yehudi Menuhin. When he was only three, he heard a concert violinist play a stunning solo at a concert. He felt from that moment that he was meant to play the violin, and asked his parents if they would buy him a violin for his fourth birthday. They humored him by buying him a toy violin made of metal. He burst into sobs, threw it on the ground and would have nothing to do with it. He wanted a real violin, not a toy one. At that time, he wasn’t ready for a real violin. His hands were too small (Hillman, p. 17).

A Freudian psychologist could explain all his later success as compensation or sublimation to cover his childhood humiliation. I don’t think those are good stories because they can’t see the spirit, the calling that Yehudi Menuhin felt even at that young age. (Or, to put more of a point on it, it’s a psychology that has left out the psyche, the soul.) James Hillman suggests instead that he felt a high and noble calling as a three-year-old, and spent the rest of his distinguished life answering and serving that calling as one of the world’s greatest violinists. Hillman’s story is a sacred story because it affirms life, rather than explaining profound and creative drives away as though they were nothing but the neurotic charades of a damaged young boy.

Hillman calls this his “acorn theory” of psychology. He suggests that we carry within us the awareness of the kind of person we are called to be. We are born with a certain distinct style, and need to develop in certain ways to fulfill that style. We are called toward certain things, but not others, and we need to pursue those things toward which we are called. We are driven to certain experiences and adult paths to fulfill real and healthy callings. We’re not driven by neurotic reaction against childhood injuries, but by the sacred calling that wants to connect us with life. That’s a sacred story.

I agree with James Hillman that “We need a fresh way of looking at the importance of our lives,” (p. 33) Another psychologist I’ve always liked is Rollo May, who once defined psychotherapy as “the search for an adequate personal mythology.” That’s what I’m calling a sacred story: an adequate personal mythology, a myth worth living by.

We are the people living in that valley where we look up to see a vague but important face carved in the rock high above. We know there is something terribly significant about that face. Somehow, it calls us toward a noble, even a sacred, destiny. We are not quite sure what that is, for the face seems to change as you move through life, or as you view it from different perspectives.

Or perhaps this is just a myth. Perhaps there is no face up there in the rocks at all. There may have been long ago, but the image seems to be worn away beyond recognition now, and all we have are the stories. They are not much. Children’s stories, fables, old myths, tales and images from our sacred scriptures – these are about all that we have. And so we tell those stories, as Sheherezade did, in order to live. That is why it is so important to know these guiding fictions that shape our lives and to find better myths to live by: because we are all under the spell of Sheherezade. We all tell our stories in order to live.

What about you? What are your stories? What roles are you playing? What are you serving with your life? And is it worthy of that spark of life inside of you that is only really happy when you are being true to yourself?

What if it is true that your heart, your soul, holds the image of your destiny and calls you to it? Unpacking the image can take a lifetime, because we tend to keep forgetting what we are meant to be. But according to a Jewish legend, the evidence for this forgetting your soul’s calling is pressed right into your upper lip. That little crevice below your nose is where the angel pressed its forefinger to seal your lips. That little indentation is all that is left to remind you of the fact that your guiding angel is a part of you, trying to tell you what to do. That is why, they say, when we are trying to recall an insight or a lost thought, our fingers go up to that spot. Could it be true? Well, it is certainly loving, affirming and life-giving. And if it is that loving, affirming and life-giving, if it leads us into a bigger world and a more authentic life, isn’t that precisely the kind of truth for which you yearn?

© Davidson Loehr

20 May 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

I remember, some years ago, hearing a grand old preacher describe almost all religious literature as “love-talk.” He didn’t elaborate, so it’s been rattling around inside since then. It seems like a way of understanding religious expression that makes it easy to plant fantastic thoughts in a down-to-earth life with integrity.

SERMON: Love Talk

This sermon title comes from an 89-year-old preacher who is a friend of mine. I heard him use it during a sermon on Christmas, in which he spoke of all the miraculous and mythic stuff – the virgin birth, a Son of God, a savior – and said it wasn’t meant to be fact-talk; it was love-talk. That’s all he said about it, but those two words stuck with me. That’s the “key” I want to play this morning’s sermon in: thinking about other kinds of “love-talk,” and how they differ from the way we usually talk. You can find examples everywhere.

I hear a Christian friend say “God has led me in warm and wise paths.” At first, I may think “Well, I’m not sure you were led. You’re looking back on it and finding positive rather than negative patterns according to the stories of your faith.” Then I think, “Well, their words sound a lot more comforting and warm than mine do!” I was talking intellectual talk; they were talking love talk.

Or a young man comes in, wracked with guilt because at 32 he knows he’s a failure. He knows he’s let down everybody he cares about, and that he will never amount to anything. Apparently, there is a story I’m not aware of that says unless you have it all together by 32 you’re worthless. He needs a better story, because that one doesn’t give him many options or any respect. But he doesn’t need scientific data about his “Success Quotient.” He needs a better way of talking to himself, a way that has some warmth and acceptance about it. It can be the difference between saying, “She’s an idiot!” and saying. “She certainly sees things differently than I do!”

It’s easy for 50, 60, or 70-something folks to listen to the wild-eyed scheme of a 30-something, and to think, “Those young people think they can do anything! They haven’t lived long enough to know that life is tough.” A more honest response, though, would usually be something like, “I feel intimidated and old by their optimism and courage, because I remember, years ago, when I had it. I wonder what happened to me? I wonder if I could learn how to trust again if I paid attention to them?”

The first kind of talk is self-centered, exclusive talk that shuts others out because it restricts everyone’s possibilities to the limit of our understanding and trust. The second kind of talk assumes that the other people are our moral equals. Or, to put it poetically, that we are all children of God, all limbs on the body of humanity, that we’re all temporary vehicles of life’s precious gift to itself. There’s a warmth to the second that is not in the first. The first wants to stand on cold hard facts; the second wants to establish warm, living connections. That’s a big difference.

150 years ago, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote a few paragraphs about someone who was led from the first way of talking to the brink of the second. The story has been in my mind since I first read it maybe 15 years ago, though this is the first time I’ve ever used it. But see how it fits here:

“The monk, Friar Bernard, lamented in his cell on Mount Cenis the crimes of mankind. Rising one morning before day from his bed of moss and dry leaves, he gnawed his roots and berries, drank of the spring, and set forth to go to Rome to reform the corrupt [people there]. On his way he encountered many travelers who greeted him courteously; and the cabins of the peasants and the castles of the lords supplied his few wants. When he came at last to Rome, his piety and good will easily introduced him to many families of the rich, and on the first day he saw and talked with gentle mothers with their babes at their breasts, who told him how much love they bore their children, and how they were perplexed in their daily walk lest they should fail in their duty to them. “What!” he said, “and this on rich embroidered carpets, on marble floors, with [expensive] sculpture, and carved wood, and rich pictures, and piles of books about you? [You’re rich Roman pagans, not even Christians! How can you be good people!”]

“Look at our pictures, and books,” they said, “and we will tell you, good Father, how we spent the last evening. These are stories of godly children and holy families and sacrifices made in old or in recent times by great and not mean persons; and last evening, our family was collected, and our husbands and brothers spoke [sadly] on what we could save and give to others in the hard times.” Then the men came in, and they said, “[Greetings, good brother!] Does your monastery want gifts? [Let us share with you.]” Then the Friar Bernard went home swiftly with other thoughts than he had brought, saying, “Their way of life is wrong – [they are not even poor, and they are not Christians!] Yet these Romans, whom I prayed God to destroy, are lovers, they are lovers; what can I do?” (Emerson, “The Conservative,” in The Oxford Book of Essays, p. 181)

Friar Bernard has a couple choices. He can try to forget what he’s just seen and felt, and return to his comfortable beliefs, or he can realize that his beliefs are too small to hold life, or even to serve it in a way that isn’t a curse to others. What does it take to let go of small certainties and grow toward larger but less certain understandings? How do we learn to trust rather than doubt, to hope rather than fear? Or to put it in terms of another metaphor, how do we shift gears?

I’m thinking about shifting because I just bought a bicycle yesterday, and this thing has 24 gears. Last time I owned a bike, a ten-speed was tops, so 24 sounds like a lot. It means this image of all that gear shifting has become a metaphor that I can’t get out of my mind today. So it’s like shifting gears while bicycling up a hill, and suddenly you’re moving slower but you’re climbing the hill you could never have made it up in your original gear.

For me, that’s a little like changing my way of thinking and talking. When I have moved from an attitude of certainty like the Friar’s, an attitude that shuts out everybody not like me, into a more optimistic and trusting attitude, it’s usually come through something happening that shifts my gears. A couple years ago in Albany, I was impatient and angry with a waitress who wasn’t refilling my coffee, wasn’t around when I needed her, and didn’t pick up the money I left with the bill for five full minutes. So I paid the bill and don’t leave a tip. That felt better. Then as I left I saw her in the hallway back by the kitchen. She was crying, another waitress was holding her, and I learned that her father was dying. I snuck back to the table to leave a tip, with an anonymous note saying, “I overheard you telling the other waitress that your father is dying. I’m so sorry.” The service didn’t get any better after I heard that, but the waitress did. And the tip wasn’t for being a waitress; it was for reminding me that she was a human being.

It seems that stories are the best way to talk about the difference between closed attitudes or open caring, between judgment talk and love talk. Here’s another one:

A preacher is riding the city bus on a Saturday, thinking about his sermon, trying to concentrate. The bus stops in front of a big hospital and several people get on. Among them is a man with two young boys. The man sits down, and the boys begin running up and down the bus, screaming and yelling. The father just sits there, doesn’t even lift a finger to control his bratty kids. The preacher tries to be patient, but my God the kids are brats, their father won’t act like a responsible parent, this is a city bus, the preacher has this sermon to write, and enough is enough! So he walks across the aisle and leans down near the man, then says quietly but with a distinct edge, “Sir, I wish you would control your children!” The man looks up at him, kind of dazed, and says, “Oh yes, yes, I should. My wife, their mother, has just died and I guess they don’t know how to handle it either.”

Suddenly, you can hear the sound of about twelve gears shifting at once. The preacher’s first reaction was fair. It was a public space, the kids were out of control, and it is fair to expect parents to teach their children to act respectfully toward others. He wasn’t wrong. But he forgot that in this world sometimes people die and those who loved them don’t know what to do with it. Now he suddenly recognizes that man and his sons as people just like him, who bleed when they’re cut and cry or come unglued when they’re devastated. It can happen as quickly as that, the shift from rejecting to accepting, from judging to empathy and caring. It can happen as quickly as that.

“Love-talk” is a clumsy title for a sermon, I know. I mean by it a warmer and more accepting way of seeing ourselves and others, a way that moves us from being against others to feeling among them, a way that replaces cold hard facts with warm living ones.

To put it in the terms of children’s stories, it’s like shifting from Chicken Little, who lived his life sure that the sky was falling, to The Little Engine That Could, who dissolved his doubt and fear by deciding that he thought he could, he thought he could, and he did.

And the point I am trying to make is that we get caught up in our cold hard factual views so easily and so often that we can completely miss out on the chance to be part of something bigger and warmer. Like Friar Bernard and those noble Romans, or the preacher and the grieving, shattered kids and their dad. It isn’t just that we owe this kinder self to others, it’s that without that genuine regard for others we lose out too.

This reminded me of another story that has been in my head since I read it over a decade ago, but which I had also never seen a way to use in a sermon before. It’s a short piece with a surprise ending, by the science fiction writer Ursula Le Guin. See if it sticks to you the way it’s stuck to me:

In the humid New England summer the small cooling plant ran all day, making a deep, loud noise. Around the throbbing machinery was a frame of coarse wire net. I thought the bird was outside that wire net, then I hoped it was, then I wished it was. It was moving back and forth with the regularity of the trapped: the zoo animal that paces twelve feet east and twelve feet west, hour after hour; the heartbeat of the prisoner in the cell before the torture; the unending recurrence; the silent, steady panic. Back and forth, steadily fluttering between two wooden uprights just above a beam that supported the wire screen: a sparrow, ordinary, dusty, scrappy. I’ve seen sparrows fighting over territory till the feathers fly, and [flocking] cheerfully on telephone wires, and in winter gathering in trees in crowds like dirty little Christmas ornaments and talking all together like noisy children – chirp, chirp, chirp chirp! But this sparrow was alone, trapped in wire and fear. What could I do? There was a door to the wire cage, but it was padlocked. I went on. I tell you I felt that bird beat its wings right here, here under my breastbone in the hollow of my heart. I said in my mind, Is it my fault? Did I build the cage? Just because I happened to see it, is it my sparrow? But my heart was low already, and I knew now that I would be down, down like a bird whose wings won’t bear it up, a starving bird.

Then on the path I saw the man, one of the campus managers. The bird’s fear gave me courage to speak. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m just visiting here at the librarians” conference – we met the other day in the office. I didn’t know what to do, because there’s a bird that got into the cooling plant there, inside the screen, and it can’t get out. The noise of the machinery, I think the noise confuses it, and I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll have a look,” he said, not smiling, not frowning.

He turned and came with me. He saw the bird beating back and forth, back and forth in silence. He unlocked the padlock. He had the key.

I watched the open door, “I saw the bird fly out and fly away.”

The man and I closed the door. He locked it. “Be getting on,” he said, not smiling, not frowning, and went on his way, a man with a lot on his mind, a hard-working man. But did he have no joy in it? That’s what I think about now. Did he have the key, the power to set free, the will to do it, but no joy in doing it? It is his soul I think about now, if that is the word for it: the spirit: that sparrow. (“The Sparrow” by Ursula K. LeGuin)

That’s a story almost guaranteed to trouble ministers! We try to do what we can to be of service to others. We have to keep checking to make sure that we aren’t doing it mechanically, that it is still giving meaning and joy to us. But of course it isn’t true only for ministers, it’s something we can all fall into. It’s an old commandment; you’ve all heard it, to “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” That love needs to go both ways: to the neighbor, and to yourself. Why is that so easy to forget?

At the beginning of all our services, I speak of “questions more profound than answers.” I think that life’s most enduring questions are more profound than answers. They can pry open a door of our awareness, or shift gears for us, so we leave here seeing things a little differently, perhaps asking different questions of ourselves. Today, I’m going to leave you with questions, because I can’t tell you what kind of love-talk you need to hear, what picture of the world you need to live in that brings you life rather than just adding time.

But I do have one more story, to set up the questions. It comes from my favorite philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein. He was trying to respond to someone who thought what was most important was knowing the truth. Wittgenstein gave him this story to think about. Imagine there was this man who lived at a certain time. He was a very religious man, and believed all the teachings of his particular faith. They gave him a sense of living in a blessed world, and through these beliefs, he lived and died at peace, a happy man who loved others and was loved by everyone who met him. Then, just two weeks after he died, one of the sciences suddenly discovered that everything he believed had been false. Very well, his beliefs were false. But could you say his life was false? And if not, then just what is the role of truth in the task of living fully, lovingly and well?

© Davidson Loehr

13 May 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

READING: A Mother’s Day Proclamation

In this country, the Unitarian Julia Ward Howe was the first to try and start a Mother’s Day, back in 1870 – though it would have been a very different kind of Mother’s Day than we now have. She had lived through the Civil War. She even wrote the words for “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” But she saw some of the worst effects of the war: not only the death and disease, which killed and maimed the soldiers. She worked with the widows and orphans of soldiers on both sides of the war, and realized the effects of war go beyond the killing of soldiers in battle. She also saw the economic devastation of the Civil War, the economic crises that followed the war. In 1870, she was distressed at the rise of the Franco-Prussian War, distressed that war seemed to be part of the human condition rather than a one-time slip. So she called for women to rise up and oppose war in all its forms. She wanted to organize a Mother’s Day for Peace, and for that she wrote the declaration which appears as responsive reading #573 in our hymnals:

Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts, whether your baptism be that of water or of fears! Say firmly: “We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies, our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy, and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own. It says, “Disarm, Disarm!” The sword of murder is not the balance of justice! Blood does not wipe out dishonor nor violence indicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel. Let them meet firs, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead. Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, and each bearing after her own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.

CENTERING:

Mother’s Day has been a national observance in this country on the second Sunday of May since 1914. And so it is Mothers’ Day:

– For mothers, whether they gave birth to the children or adopted them;

– For mothers who have lost a child, through miscarriage, abortion, adoption, or death, and who still feel the loss.

– For those who have never had children but who miss being mothers, and who are mothers in their hearts who express their nurture in other ways;

– For our own mothers, and theirs, as far back as our living memory will carry us;

– And for all who have lost their mothers, and still feel that loss.

It is Mothers’ Day. Let us remember all the varieties of mothers in all of our lives in gratitude and prayer.

And let us remember in prayer those other names, which we now speak aloud or in the silence of our hearts.

SERMON: Our War On Drugs: A Mothers’ Day Sermon

When President Woodrow Wilson declared the first national Mother’s Day in 1914, it was a very different day than Julia Ward Howe had intended.

Today, Mother’s Day is largely celebrated with trips to a special restaurant, gifts and flowers. That’s not a bad thing; it’s a good thing. Mothers — and fathers — deserve all the recognition and all the pampering they can get.

But something was lost when we lost the roots of this day in its gutsy opposition to wars that killed the children of mothers. And it is that spirit I want to honor today, by spending a little time on a war that is doing more violence, creating more crime and draining the economy faster than any other war we have going. This is our war on drugs.

On April 25th, I was invited to attend a luncheon for and speech by Judge James Gray, a Superior Court judge from California with over 20 years on the bench, who has been crusading for a fundamental overhaul of our drug laws for the past nine years. I bought his book, and also read a magazine filled with articles from others with long stints in law enforcement who also argue that, in every way imaginable, our war on drugs is even more ill-conceived and harmful than we can imagine.

America’s widespread use of cocaine began at least 115 years ago, when cocaine was an ingredient in Coca-Cola from 1886 to 1900, and Bayer Pharmaceutical Products introduced heroin in 1898, and sold it over the counter for a year before Bayer offered aspirin. Those are just interesting little facts you may not have known.

But our most famous mistakes – before the mistakes we are making in today’s war against drugs — came with the prohibition of alcohol, from 1920 to 1933. During this fourteen-year period, our country saw a huge increase in crime, violence, police and political corruption, and death from poisoned liquor. It also saw a high consumption per capita of stronger beverages like whiskey instead of weaker beverages like beer, in accordance with a cardinal rule of prohibition: there is always more money to be made in pushing the more concentrated substances. It’s cheaper and easier to transport a fifth of whiskey than a case of beer. We spent a lot of money to make strong alcohol more plentiful, more expensive, and more deadly. It wasn’t the last time we would employ this remarkable tactic.

Federal funding for law enforcement efforts against alcohol was increased over five times in the 1920s; the prison population quadrupled, with two-thirds of inmates incarcerated for alcohol and other drug offenses. However, the national murder rate increased steadily throughout alcohol prohibition. Then it decreased for eleven consecutive years after Prohibition was ended. The only phase of Prohibition that worked was when we ended it, took the federal government out of it, and let each state decide how to handle its local problems.

Marijuana was our next failure, in the 1930s. We treated it in exactly the same way, with exactly the same results, only more devastating.

We now know that one lasting effect of prohibiting marijuana was the growth of drug cartels in countries like Colombia to process and distribute not marijuana but cocaine in this country. The reason was the same as selling whiskey rather than beer: the more concentrated form was easier to conceal and transport, and far more profitable.

In 1970, President Richard Nixon formally declared that America was at war against drugs. A 1984 law increased bail and lengths of sentences for drug offenders, and also increased federal power.

In 1986 we added mandatory minimum sentences for simple possession of drugs. The Crime Bill of 1994 provided for capital punishment for some types of drug selling and for mandatory sentences of 20 years to life.

Every time we have tightened up our drug laws with all of this “get tough” stuff, the harms inflicted on society by the presence of these drugs have just increased. The laws have been successful in filling our prisons with the less organized, less violent, less brilliant offenders, leaving this lucrative market to be filled by those who were more organized, more violent, and smarter. (Judge James P. Gray, Why Our Drug Laws Have Failed and What We Can Do About It: A Judicial Indictment of the War on Drugs [Temple University Press, 2001], p. 31)

Two things are really driving this failed drug policy today: our political system, which rewards (by electing) the politicians who posture as being the “toughest on drugs” – like our newly-appointed Drug Czar – and the “runaway freight train” of federal money. The annual budget for our War on Drugs is now about $20 billion, which does not even begin to take into account all of the additional state and federal budgets for the hundreds of other programs.

What has it bought us? Some dramatic statistics, for one thing. Between 1973 and 1983, the number of state and federal prisoners in the US doubled to about 660,800; and then that number more than doubled again by 1993 to 1,408,685. We had 668 inmates for every 100,000 residents. That gave the US a higher rate of incarceration than any other country in the world except Russia, which reported a rate of 685. (Gray, p. 29)

There are six times more people behind bars in this country than in all twelve of the countries that make up the European Union combined, even though they have 100 million more citizens. More people are behind bars for drug offenses in the US than are incarcerated in England, France, Germany, and Japan for all crimes combined. The state of California has more people incarcerated than France, Great Britain, Germany, Japan, Singapore, and the Netherlands combined, even though California has only about one-tenth of their combined populations. In fact, the US, with less than five percent of the world’s population, has one-quarter of the world’s prisoners. (p. 30)

Let’s put the danger posed by illegal drugs in perspective. Over 500,000 people die in the US each year as a result of the use of legal drugs – tobacco and alcohol – while less than 10,000 die per year from the combined use of all illegal drugs. Yet someone is arrested for a marijuana offense somewhere in the US every forty-five seconds. That number is almost as high as the number of total arrests for all murders, rapes, robberies, and aggravated assaults combined (695,201 to 717,720). (p. 30)

We have made lifetime prisoners out of a nonviolent underclass of drug-using and addicted people. The average prison term for drug offenders in state prisons has increased – up 22 percent since 1986. But in the same period, average prison terms in state prisons for violent offenders have decreased by 30 percent. (p. 32)

Another result of prison overcrowding is that wardens throughout the country are routinely forced to grant an early release to violent offenders so that nonviolent drug offenders can serve their sentences in full. This is because, for the most part, federal law requires that even nonviolent drug offenders must serve their entire sentences; however, there is no such law for bank robbers, kidnappers, or other violent offenders.

Texas is number one in prison incarceration. Louisiana and Oklahoma are second and third, but we don’t have to worry about losing our Number One status for awhile. It costs taxpayers between $20,000 and $30,000 to keep just one inmate confined for a year. The average cost for a state inmate over the age of fifty-five increases to about $69,000 per year because of increased health costs. (37)

And here’s a statistic that might be interesting. After six years on the job the yearly salary of a California prison guard with a high school diploma was $45,000 in 1994. At the same time, the starting salary of a tenured University of California associate professor with a Ph.D. was $43,100. For prison guards, stiff mandatory sentences mean job security. So you won’t be surprised to learn that in the 1998 election, the association of prison guards (California Correctional Peace Officers Association [CPOA]) was the state’s number one donor to legislative races, with donations to all campaigns totaling $5.3 million. These contributions included a $100,000 donation to a group working for the passage of a tough three-strikes sentencing ballot measure. This $5 million wasn’t spent for the good of the state; it was spent to insure jobs for prison guards. The money we are spending on our drug war – while it has only made the drug problem a thousand times worse – has infected many federal and state agencies, many professions and unions, whose jobs are fueled by this money, and who therefore find reasons to support it. But they are not supporting it for the health of the country. They are supporting it for the security of their jobs and their purpose. They aren’t evil people; they’re just people, with the full helping of self-interest that most of us have.

Police are even better at catching women for drug offenses. Between 1986 and 1996, the number of women imprisoned for drug offenses increased by 888 percent, compared to an increase of 129 percent for non-drug offenses. Typically the women involved are low-level lookouts or “mules” who transport drugs for short distances either as favors for their husbands or boyfriends or for a small fee. (p. 43)

About 75% of these women prisoners are also the single parents of young children; this is Mother’s Day for them, too. But legally, these mothers have abandoned their children, who are sent to child dependency court. Even setting aside the enormous human costs, the expense to the taxpayer of keeping one child in a group home can be $5,000 per month, above and beyond the costs of incarcerating the mother. For a mother with two children, this means that about $145,000 per year of taxpayer money is spent to keep a mother separated from her children. (p. 44)

Then there is the impact of our massive prison program on ethnic minorities. In 1995, 33% of young black men in this country were either in prison, on parole or probation, a total of about 827,440 young black men in one year. The figures for Hispanic males was 12.3 percent, and for white males it was just under 7 percent. (p. 44)

What do they do in prison, besides learn how to be better criminals? Well, a lot of them take drugs. In 1998, 9% of the 1.6 million men and women behind bars tested positive for illegal drugs – drugs they obtained in prison. Even high security prisoners like Charles Manson are testing positive in prison for illicit drugs – in fact, Manson was transferred from one high security prison to another for being caught selling drugs to other inmates. (49)

We can’t keep drugs out of our maximum-security prisons. How would we ever keep them off the streets? It is easier for our children to get illegal drugs than it is for them to get alcohol. (p. 50)

Our drug laws have turned illegal drug pushing into such a high-profit industry that there will always be people willing to take the risks.

For instance, if you bring $100 worth of cocaine from Colombia to any city in the US, it will be worth between $5,000 and $10,000. That’s a return of fifty to one hundred times your investment. Where in the world could you find a cash cow like that? Police and military forces are helpless to counteract economic forces that huge. (p. 57)

According to a United Nations International Drug Council Program report, world trafficking in illegal drugs made up about 8 percent of all world trade as of 1995 – it must be higher today. That was about $440 billion of international drug transactions. Illegal drugs are a bigger business than all exports of automobiles. (p. 80)

Our drug wars guarantee there will be hundreds of millions of dollars to be made selling drugs. When there’s that much money to be made, every time we imprison another drug dealer, all we do is create a new job opportunity.

You don’t have to look to national statistics to see the complete failure of the war on drugs. You can go down to Sixth Street and see it first-hand. Or look on the front page of yesterday’s Metro & State section of the Austin American-Statesman in the story titled “Drug problem loiters near police headquarters.” Since January, our police have arrested 66 people for dealing narcotics in the area and 143 for possession. It’s the area where the 15-year-old boy was stabbed in the throat last week.

Police Commander Harold Platt, who is in charge of the officers paid to patrol the area, says crack dealers have been there as long as he can remember. But with profits like these, you can’t get the dealers off the streets. Even if you do arrest and imprison a dealer, he says, “there are six people waiting in line, trying to take over his business. You arrest somebody, you finally get them put away, and the next day, somebody else shows up.” (Austin American-Statesman, Metro & State, Saturday May 12, 2001, pp. B-1 and B-3) With 30,000 people going into the Sixth Street entertainment district each weekend, there’s just too much money to be made selling drugs that are expensive because they are illegal, are illegal because we made them illegal, because we have still not learned the lessons we had learned 70 years ago when the prohibition of alcohol ended because of exactly the same failures.

Getting “tough” on drugs also inevitably translates into getting “soft” on all other crimes, including the more violent ones. With drugs taking a priority on police, court and prison time, there just aren’t the officers, the prosecutors, the courts, or the prison cells to hold the really violent offenders.

Our drug policy has been increasing crime in our country for decades, to the extent that, according to conservative author William F. Buckley, Jr., “More people die every year as a result of the war against drugs than die from [drug overdoses].” The cure is worse than the disease. (p. 73)

This gives insanity a bad name!

Law enforcement corruption, sparked mostly by illicit drugs, has become so chronic that the number of federal, state, and local police and law enforcement officials serving terms in federal prisons increased fivefold in four years, from 107 in 1994 to 548 in 1998 (p. 74). By now, it’s probably tenfold.  (http://www.uudpr.org)

Today, when Mother’s Day is celebrated with feasts and flowers, it feels out of place to talk about wars, even wars on drugs. But think of these awful facts about our unwise, our disastrous, our murderous drug war, and then listen again to some of the words from Julia Ward Howe’s declaration written in 1870, and see how well they go together:

“Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts, whether your baptism be that of water or of fears! Say firmly: “We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies – Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy, and patience.”

“As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons of war, let women – meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead. Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, and each bearing after her own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.”

Today, she speaks to women, men, and children, and I say Amen, Julia Ward Howe,

Amen!

© Davidson Loehr

April 29, 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

Prayer

We pray not to something, but from something, to which we must give voice;

not to escape from our life, but to focus it;

not to relinquish our mind, but to replenish our soul.

We pray that we may live with honesty:

that we can accept who we are,

and admit who we are not;

that we don’t become so deafened by pride and fear

that we ignore the still small voices within us,

that could lead us out of darkness.

We pray that we can live with trust and openness:

to those people, those experiences, and those transformations

that can save us from narrowness and despair.

And we pray on behalf of these hopes

with an open heart, an honest soul,

and a grateful reverence for the life which has been given to us.

AMEN.

SERMON: “The Four Faces of Jesus”

It was a time of terrible fighting. Everywhere people were divided into separate groups, like little clubs. And everywhere they fought against all the people who weren’t in their little club.

They all said they hated the fighting, of course. But they all knew that only the people in their little club were really right – and it is so important, being right. And as long as so many others were wrong – well, they all prayed that God would give them victory so the fighting could stop. But in the meantime, it was a time of terrible fighting.

One day a young magician came to the area. He didn’t belong to any of their clubs, but he was a wonderful magician who did some amazing tricks. And he had that kind of “star quality” about him that drew people to him. Many people loved watching him, though they didn’t much care for listening to him, because of the things he said to them.

What he said to them was that if they weren’t divided into so many little clubs, there wouldn’t be so much fighting. Their clubs, he told them, were the cause of their wars.

To the people, this was about the dumbest thing they had ever heard. Their little clubs gave them a tiny area of peace and friendship among people like themselves, in an otherwise hostile world. They liked their clubs. So they almost never listened when the magician tried to teach them. But they loved his magic, and so kept coming to watch him, and they started telling stories about what a great magician he was.

Years later, after the young magician died, a funny thing happened, though it wouldn’t have seemed funny to the magician. People formed a new club. And to be in this new club, you had to believe all the stories they told about the young magician. They even made pictures and statues of him, and put them up in their meeting-places, so people could remember how great he had been.

The club became very popular, and soon had thousands of members. Before long, they even had an army.

That’s when they finally decided that they could use their army to end the fighting once and for all. Their priests and generals went to their meeting-places – which had become churches – and sort of talked to the pictures and statues of the dead magician, as if to ask his blessing. After all, hadn’t the young magician always talked about bringing peace?

Then they went to war. It was a long war, and many people were killed or wounded. But their army was bigger, so they won. And they forced many, many people to come into their club, because they wanted them to be right – it is just so important to be right.

After the battles, their priests and generals went to church to give thanks. They stood before the pictures and statues of the dead magician, and told him their proud story of the victorious battle.

That’s when the miracle happened. Just as all the priests and all the generals were looking up at the statues telling them about their successful wars, it happened: all the pictures and all the statues began to cry.

The young magician, of course, was Jesus.

There are risks in stripping a man like Jesus of his halo and asking what kind of man he was, and how wise his teachings really were. It offends the popular romantic picture of Jesus as the Son of God and supernatural savior of humankind. Yet for over two centuries, scholars have known that those were mythic attributes invented by his followers long after he died, and that the real Jesus was 100% human – since that’s the only category there is for us. Calling him a “son of God” was poetry, not biology or genetics. We don’t like in a world constructed in such a way that people can receive half their chromosomes from a human and the other half from a sky-god – and neither did they.

I want to respect the truth without worshiping the myth this morning, by suggesting that this man Jesus had at least four different aspects, or “faces.” One aspect was useless, a second – the most “magical” – was real, but not supernatural. A third was just wrong. Then there is that fourth face of Jesus, which still seems to look into our souls with uncomfortable accuracy.

1. Jesus as an Itinerant Cynic Sage

The first face of Jesus concerns his life style, his personal values, the kind of role model he would have been. This is the dimension of Jesus that has hardly even been discussed, because it is so bizarre. For instance, see how many sermons you’ve ever heard preached on these quotations attributed to Jesus:

“Whoever does not hate father and mother cannot be a follower of me, and whoever does not hate brothers and sisters – will not be worthy of me.” (Gospel of Thomas 55) – Not the text for a “family values” sermon!

On another occasion, a woman from the crowd spoke up and said to Jesus, “How fortunate is the womb that bore you, and the breasts that you sucked!” It was a conventional way of handing a compliment to the mother through the son, like saying “your mother must be very proud of you.” But Jesus replied, “How fortunate, rather, are those who listen to God’s teaching and observe it!” (the Q Gospel, in Luke 11:27-28). – This one would be a bad Mother’s Day text!

And the last quotation is the most extreme and the most famous. It comes from the gospel of Luke, where Jesus says “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.” (Q Gospel in Luke 12: 51-53) – You seldom hear the Christian Right preaching on this one, either!

These sayings don’t fit the traditional picture of a sweet Jesus who preached family values. They show us some of Jesus’ personal values and lifestyle, and make him seem very strange and foreign, not to mention unappealing. For most of the styles of living that Jesus exemplified have never had many takers.

This is the profile of someone on the fringe of any culture at any time. Scholars recognize this profile, however. It was a marginal but well-known style of living in the ancient world. From about the fourth century BCE until the sixth century CE, there was a name for this style of living exemplified by Jesus. These were the people called cynics.

Some scholars describe Jesus as an “itinerant cynic sage.” The name itself is derogatory, given to the “cynics” by their detractors (the way most such names originate). It came from the Greek word for “dog,” and was meant to imply that cynics lived like dogs. They had no home, no property, no spouses, no fixed circle of friends, no jobs, and no love for the society in which they lived. Cynics didn’t offer a correction of society so much as they offered an alternative to society.

The best of the cynics were astute social critics: they were like secular versions of the Old Testament prophets, standing outside the accepted order of things, trying to subvert it.

Someone who could live a life in this manner had to be, among other things, extremely focused and dedicated to his particular vision. For history’s most famous cynic, Diogenes of Sinope, the vision was one of personal autonomy, freedom from the unnecessary demands of society. An old story makes the point:

The king’s messenger came to find Diogenes, who was squatting in the street, eating his simple meal of lentils. “The king invites you to come live in his castle,” said the messenger, “and be one of his court advisors.”

“Why should I?” asked Diogenes.

“Well for one thing,” said the messenger, “if you’d learn to curry favor with the king you wouldn’t have to eat lentils.”

“And if you would learn to like lentils,” replied Diogenes, “you wouldn’t have to curry favor with the king.”

The message of cynics was always extreme, and they were willing to sacrifice everything for it. Furthermore, they generally thought that everyone else would also be better off abandoning the society’s vision of life and adopting their cynic vision. Their message was to individuals. They didn’t belong to or care about a real community. They weren’t social reformers. They thought society was fundamentally wrong, and people should “tune in, turn on and drop out,” to recapture that slogan from the Hippie years.

Jesus fits very neatly into this conception of a cynic sage. He had no home, property or job. He didn’t respect the accepted images of “the good life” or the normal expectations made upon people in a civilized society – the religious and cultural rules that gave people their social identities, for example. His vision of the “Kingdom of God” was, for Jesus, the only thing worth living for. His parables presented the “Kingdom” in this extreme way over and over again: it was a “pearl of great price,” a “treasure buried in a field” for which the lucky finder would sell everything.

What must be noted about cynics, including Jesus, is that their message is never likely to be heard or followed except for the extremely marginal person – another cynic. Husbands, wives, children, the joy of working at a job, making a contribution to society, nationalism, ethnic or religious pride of identity – all these counted as nothing for cynics compared with their singular vision. In Jesus’ case, his entire family was treated as though they counted for nothing compared with his vision of the “Kingdom of God.” This doesn’t make Jesus exceptionally cold or uncaring, it just identifies him as one of history’s great cynics – and a sage whose vision was sometimes too extreme to be either useful or wise to the overwhelming majority of people who have ever lived, then or now.

And so the first face of Jesus was his cynic lifestyle. It was a huge part of who he was and what he valued. For nearly everyone in history except other cynics, however, it was not a wise road to follow, but a useless aberration.

2. Jesus the Faith-Healer

Virtually all biblical scholars agree that Jesus was a man with great charisma, and a remarkable ability for what we today call “faith healing.” While almost all scholars agree that the stories have been greatly exaggerated, and that scenes like”walking on water,” raising Lazarus from the dead or feeding 5,000 people from a few fish are all Christian mythmaking, the core fact remains that Jesus was primarily known in his time and in the early centuries as a gifted healer. It was this almost magical power that really attracted people to him, even if they didn’t understand, or didn’t want to hear, the things he wanted to teach. His followers also shared this healing power, though not to quite the same extent as did Jesus.

There is nothing here to debunk, except to note that this kind of charismatic power doesn’t necessarily imply that the healer is wise or good. There are still lots of faith healers today, from Oral Roberts to Bennie Han. Furthermore, the principle of faith healing is behind placebos — those sugar pills that can often make your symptoms disappear if you think they can. It is easy to think of other historical figures who also had immense charisma and personal power over other people, who were unwise or evil: Rasputin, Hitler, Jim Jones, Matthew Applewhite, and David Koresh come quickly to mind. Not all wise people are magicians, and not all magicians are wise. Still, Jesus was one of history’s gifted faith healers.

3. Young Idealist Without a Concept of the “Sangha”

The third face of Jesus shows a severe limit to his vision, one that would have almost undoubtedly relegated him to the dustbin of history without the contributions of St. Paul. That statement alone is enough to upset or enrage many who love Jesus and can’t stand Paul.

The ethical teaching most associated with Jesus is the Golden Rule. While he is reported to have said it means to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” it has also been equated for twenty centuries with another of Jesus’ sayings: “turn the other cheek.” Some radical Christian sects, like the 14th Century Cathari group in France or the 16th century Mennonites in Germany, took this literally and refused to resist the violence of others altogether. This led to the slaughter of thousands or tens of thousands of Cathari, and the slaughter of most of the first generation of Mennonites.

It wasn’t a new teaching. It had been around at least five hundred years before Jesus came along. We know this because we have the story of one of Confucius’ followers asking him five centuries earlier what he thought of the idea of repaying evil with forgiveness. Confucius thought it was a dumb idea. “With what, then,” he asked, “will you repay goodness?” Instead, Confucius taught that we should repay evil with justice and repay good with good. Confucius lived to be much older than Jesus did; perhaps this just shows the greater wisdom of a much older man.

Others have said that if you want to see a place where people have lived by the rule of turning the other cheek, go to a battered women’s shelter. It was a very idealistic teaching, but not a wise one, unless you are in a community where all are treated with respect.

And that’s the second and more important limitation on the teachings of Jesus. All of his teachings were directed to individuals. He did not come to reform Judaism; he didn’t come to start a new religion or found a new church. He had no home, no job, no community, and he never addressed the necessity for a healthy community in his teachings.

A quick look at Buddhism can help understand what Jesus omitted. Buddhists say you must have three things to become awake, enlightened. You must have Buddha, dharma, and sangha. Buddha means a center, a source of authority and inspiration. Dharma means the personal work that you must do. Jesus, you could say, taught that you must have God and dharma: you must live as God wants you to live. But he had nothing at all to say about the sangha. The sangha is the supportive community devoted to serving these high ideals, like a good church. And the Buddhists are right: we’re not likely to do the growth and awakening we need alone. We need a supportive community, a faith community, a church. Jesus never mentioned this.

It’s ironic Ð especially for people who like Jesus but dislike Paul Ð but the concern for community was what Paul contributed, making it possible to create a religion out of the memories, myths and teachings of Jesus. Without Paul, Jesus was just another teacher who stressed individual duties but neglected to address the necessity of being part of a community of faith.

4. Subverter of Artificial Identities

It’s hard to know what to call the fourth face of Jesus. As all biblical scholars know, Jesus’ primary concern was for what he called the Kingdom of God. What Jesus meant by this Kingdom of God was fundamentally different from what most Christians have meant by the phrase. Properly understood, it was Jesus’ most radical teaching. It was also his most profound and timeless, and his fourth “face.”

The phrase “the kingdom of God” wasn’t unique to Jesus. It was a popular phrase in the first two centuries, used by many people. It meant the ideal world, the kind of world that could have the most compassion and justice. John the Baptist, who had been Jesus’ teacher, said the world was too far gone to save, that we should wait for God to destroy it all and start over with the right kind of people — those who believed as John the Baptist did.

After John the Baptist was killed and the end of the world didn’t come, Jesus emerged as a charismatic leader, and many of John’s followers began following him. But Jesus’ message was very different. John’s “kingdom” was to be supernatural; for Jesus, the kingdom of God was existential, here and now, not in a world to come.

For Jesus, the Kingdom of God wasn’t coming. It was already here, at least potentially, within and among us. Or as he said in another place, the kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don’t see it.

How do you rejuvenate a hostile world? That has almost always been the question to which our greatest sages have offered their different prescriptions. For John the Baptist, as for many apocalyptic preachers today, we have to wait for God to act. For Jesus, God was waiting for us to act. And we act, we create the kingdom of God, or the best possible world, simply by treating all others as our brothers and sisters, as children of God. What Jesus was doing was attacking and subverting exclusive identities, identities that make us feel special or “chosen” at the price of casting others into a second-class status.

This sounds sweet and nice, but it’s a dangerous thing to teach. For instance, the food laws of the Jews set them apart from their neighbors. So Jesus’ instructions to his followers were to eat whatever was set before them: pork, shellfish, goat, whatever the host was serving. The Jews hated the Samaritans, who bordered them to the north, more than they hated almost anyone. So Jesus told a story about a beaten Jew lying by the side of the road, when priests passed him by and the only person who helped him was a Samaritan. During their high holy days, the Jews ate only unleavened bread. So Jesus said the kingdom of God is like leaven that you put in dough to make it rise. Over and over, he spurned the artificial identities that set us apart from others. There was only one identity possible for us in the Kingdom of God: to treat one another as brothers and sisters.

Do you see how subversive this is? This is a message that could threaten any form of government, all ideologies, and all religious or racial identities. The world is in chaos, we’ve lost a shared center, so we create a hundred little artificial centers, or “clubs,” from which we get our identities. The problem is, they’re all too small, all exclude those who believe or live differently than we do, and so they’re precisely the structures that keep the world hostile.

Today, his message might be Stop joining clubs! Stop identifying yourselves with your nation, your race, your religion, your political party or your sex. All of these are ultimately divisive identities that make a peaceful world impossible. You want the Kingdom of God? You want a world of peace and justice? It’s in your hands, and only in your hands. You’ve been given everything you need, now it’s time to act.

This is a message that would still get the messenger killed almost anywhere in the world. Imagine going into Northern Ireland a few years back, telling the fighters that neither side is Christian, both are agents of evil, and they need to stop thinking of themselves as Protestants and Catholics, because those identities are themselves the problem. The only thing the two sides would agree on would be lynching you from the nearest tree.

Imagine trying to sell that message to the Jews and Palestinians, telling them the only way to stop the murderous fighting is to grow beyond thinking of themselves as merely Jews or Palestinians, and begin seeing each other as brothers and sisters, the children of God. You’d be shot!

I don’t want to imply that Jesus was the only person in history to see this vision of a world kept small and hostile by our artificial identities and our territorial impulses. You can find this idea that we are all brothers and sisters in many religions, many cultures. You also find it in cultures that never had contact with any Western civilization. Remember these lines from this morning’s responsive reading by the Lakota Sioux Medicine Man Black Elk:

And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that make one circle, wide as daylight and starlight. And in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy.

These things aren’t true just because Jesus or Black Elk or the others said them. They are true because they have seen to the essence of what it means to be human, with a clarity few people in history have ever had. I don’t know of any way to argue against that insight. It seems deeply, profoundly, eternally correct. Our human or animal tendencies to create artificial identities for ourselves are the original sin of our species. We feel bigger and more worthwhile as parts of a family, a nation, a race, a culture. So naturally we join the little clubs and wave their flags, and we wait for Jesus’ second coming so there might be peace in the world.

The real tragedy of a man like Jesus isn’t that he has had so much silly hokum dumped on him through the ages – though God knows he has. The tragedy is that we elevated him into a man-God, then joined the religion of John the Baptist who expected this man-God to come save the world for us, as we sat silently by reciting whatever creeds our little religious or political or social cult has declared to be the current orthodoxy. We took the man who lived and died preaching against divisive identities, and created a club around his name. It is a cruel and ironic fate for the simple Jew from Galilee.

The tragedy is that this strange man, this marginal Jew without family, friends, property or job, really did have something to offer us, and nobody wants it. It’s too hard. It asks too much of us. So we found a simpler route. We made thousands of mental and physical pictures and statues of this man Jesus, whom we turned into a Son of God. And we pray that he, through his infinite power, will bring peace to this world in which we’re making war by identifying with our tiny religion, nation, party, race or territory. Then we say Amen, go outside, and prepare for the day’s battle against the infidels in the next church, next town, next nation.

And then I imagine the rest of the story. I imagine that all over the world, as people leave their churches, they turn their backs on the pictures and statues of Jesus they’ve made. And after they’ve gone, all over the world, in the cold darkness of the empty churches, all of the pictures and all of the statues begin to cry.

Davidson Loehr

April 21, 2001 

OPENING

Under the cover of war, stories circulate that all is not well with our nation, that serious things are amiss:

• hundreds of billions of dollars siphoned from our economy and given to selected corporations
• civil liberties being curtailed and threatened – some say dangerously
• growing evidence that our government knew of the September 11th attacks in advance, and may even have known specific details, including the targets.

As people of faith who are also proud Americans, these things must both concern and disturb us. If true, they have profound implications for our lives and for the soul of America. This morning and next Sunday, we gather to ask some hard and necessary questions. Our gathering is sanctified by the high and serious purposes that collect us.

And so once more, it is a sacred time, this and a sacred place, this:

a place for questions more profound than answers,

vulnerability more powerful than strength,

and a peace that can pass all understanding.

It is a sacred time, this:

Let us begin it together in song.

PUPPET SHOW:

CHARACTERS:

Two raccoons

Dragon

Baby Dragon (same voice as the 2nd raccoon)

– So only three voices for this one, though four characters.

All three characters appear at the beginning. The dragon is in the middle, with one raccoon on each side of him/her. The sex of the dragon doesn’t matter, whoever you have who’d like to be a good dragon here.

RACOON 1: (Doing a double-take at the dragon, looking around it to the 2nd raccoon, who’s also doing a double-take at the dragon and looking around it to the 1st raccoon). Hey! Like, uh, like you look a lot like a dragon!

DRAGON: (Dragon is always very cool, very in control.) Like, uh, that’s because I am a dragon – dude.

RACCOON 2: Wow! A dragon! I’ve never seen a real dragon before!

DRAGON: Most raccoons haven’t. Say, you’re a really good-looking raccoon!

(RAC2 kind of sashays, blushes, is really flattered.)

RAC1: Hey! Like what about me over here?

DRAGON: You wouldn’t think a dragon would be able to tell the difference between raccoons, would you? You’d think that to a dragon, you’d all look alike. But dragons can see some things very clearly, even though we don’t have good eyesight for big pictures.

RAC1: Well (grumbling) you sure are different from us, that’s for sure!

RAC2: Yes, you’re so very different from raccoons!

DRAGON: (To RAC2) Very different, very different. Tell me, what do raccoons do all day?

RAC1: Well, we work mostly at night.

(Dragon can upstage, turning his head when RAC1 answered his question to RAC2 with kind of condescending body language, then turning avidly, almost warmly, back to pay attention to RAC2 when RAC2 speaks.)

RAC2: Yes. We hunt for food.

DRAGON: Food? You mean like a nice medium-rare steak dinner with asparagus?

RAC1: Hah! No man, more like canned food. You know, like garbage canned food.

(Dragon can again turn his head toward RAC1 to kind of put him down or dismiss him through body language, before turning back to RAC2.)

DRAGON: (To RAC2) Oh, that’s not right, you should be eating steaks.

RAC2: (The flattery is working). Hey, you’re really nice, for a dragon. But what do you do all day?

DRAGON: Well, we guard the gold, mostly.

RAC1: The gold? Hey, gold’s so cool, ya know? Like what gold?

DRAGON: Oh, a whole mountain full of gold. Tons and tons of it. And diamonds and rubies and other jewels, too. (Looking at RAC2) Tons of the stuff. Here, like this. (Hands RAC2 either some gold, or a necklace, or jewels – whatever is easiest to handle that comes under the heading of “loot”).

RAC2: Oh, wow! Is this stuff real?

DRAGON: Is it real? Why, it’s as real as you are, you gorgeous little raccoon.

RAC2: Ooooooh! (Putting it on or looking at it, adoring the loot, whatever works.)

RAC1: (caustically mocking) “Your gorgeous little raccoon.” Argh! Like man, make me barf, why don’t you? Like whose gold is this you’re guarding?

RAC2: Oh, it’s probably the people’s gold, right? And you’re keeping it safe for them, huh?

DRAGON: (The dragon is much too powerful ever to need to lie). The gold belongs to the rich masters who own the people. They own the mountain, too. We work for them. And we get special things for doing it. (Dragon looks over to RAC2 with this last remark, as it’s intended to make RAC2 ask what special things.)

RAC1: What, you guard gold some rich finks have stolen from the workers? Karl Marx wouldn’t like that.

DRAGON: No, neither would Adam Smith or Thomas Jefferson. But Milton Friedman does.

RAC2: What special things do you get for guarding all that gold? (RAC2 is getting interested, and starting to take the dragon’s side).

DRAGON: (Dragon turns full toward RAC2, ignoring RAC1) Well, we get to fly, and we can breathe fire whenever we feel like it, and everybody is afraid of us. Here, would you like some more gold/jewels? (Gives more to RAC2).

RAC1: Fly? Hey, I wish I could fly! Can you teach me to fly?

DRAGON: (Slowly, and barely, turning to acknowledge RAC1) Sorry, fuzzbutt. That’s for dragons. (To RAC2) But you might be able to fly!

RAC2: Me? Really? Me fly? Oh like wow, that’s so cool!

RAC1: Hey, how come he might fly but not me? Like, that’s not right, man!

DRAGON: (Ignoring RAC1, talking to RAC2). Here, you need some more gold/jewels. Aren’t they nice?

RAC2: (Loaded down with jewels/gold). Oh, these are just beautiful. And they must be worth a fortune!

DRAGON: They are. Several fortunes. And there’s a lot more where they came from, believe me.

RAC2: Oh, I’d love to see it!

DRAGON: Would you? Then here, have some more (gives a big pile of loot to RAC2. RAC2 starts SINKING under the weight, and as he sinks below the stage, the dragon speaks down to him.) – There you go, there you go! See how easy this was? And look at you! You look marvelous!

RAC1: (Feeling – and being – very ignored and left out). Hey, like I don’t know why we’re bothering with you at all, you scaley old lizard. Come on, you gorgeous little raccoon, let’s go. (Looking over around the dragon, sees that the other raccoon is gone.) Hey! Hey, lizard-face! Where’s my friend? Bring back my friend right now!

DRAGON: (Looks down below stage level.) Ah. Yes. Wonderful. (Turning to RAC1) OK, fuzzbutt. See how beautiful your old friend looks now!

BABY DRAGON: (But with the same voice that RAC2 had – the voice needs to be characteristic enough to be easily identifiable.) Oh my gosh! Look what’s happened to me! Why, I’m not a raccoon at all any more! I’m a ? a?

DRAGON: You’re a baby dragon! Congratulations! Now you really are gorgeous!

RAC1: Hey, hey! This isn’t right! This is all wrong!

BABY DRAGON: Watch your lip, fuzzbutt.

RAC1: Hey, he called me Fuzzbutt! What is this?

DRAGON: This, my dull-witted friend, is what this story was about.

RAC1: What? What? I thought this was a story about how different raccoons are from dragons! DRAGON: Nope. This was a story about how to turn a raccoon into a dragon. (Turning to baby dragon) Let’s fly away, baby, we’ve got a date with a big mountain of gold and jewels! (They start flying away, out of sight.)

RAC1: Hey, that’s not right! That’s not right! The story can’t end this way! I don’t like this! This isn’t the end!

BABY DRAGON: (Either just the voice, or the baby dragon comes back up) Sure it is, Duuude. It’s all over. We win and you lose. (Beats raccoon on the head with the THE END sign, though nobody can read the sign because it’s horizontal while he’s beating raccoon with it. Raccoon disappears from sight, saying “I don’t like this, I don’t like this!”)

After RAC1 disappears, Baby Dragon holds the sign up for the audience to see:

THE END

CENTERING:

500 years ago, Martin Luther said “War is the greatest plague that can afflict humanity; it destroys religion, it destroys states, it destroys families.

35 years ago, Martin Luther King Jr. said “Wars are poor chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrows.”

I want to talk with you about our nation’s body and soul this morning. Yet I know there are some here who have come with other needs, needs unrelated to this war.

Some come bearing the pain of private, personal wars: hurts and fears that are much with you this morning. Some come needing comfort, or quiet moments, or the hope of finding someone, somehow, with whom you can share your story. Some come for the first time, wondering what kind of church this is, hoping the service will be typical, and an informative introduction to this style of liberal religion, of being human religiously.

Whoever you are, however you have come to us this morning, I welcome you, and am glad you are with us today. If you have a personal matter or would just like someone to listen, please phone the church office and leave a confidential message in the appropriate mail box. We have a listening ministry of trained church members who can meet with you. And I am available to talk or meet with you. Ask and you shall receive, seek and you shall find, knock, and the doors shall be opened.

For now, let us take some quiet moments to center ourselves. If you like, you can light a candle of memory or hope during the quiet music.

SERMON

How do you turn a raccoon into a dragon? According to the puppet show, you do it by giving them wealth and privilege until they get used to it. In real life, the question and answers are more complex.

The real question is more like “How do you command and control others, to get them to serve your agenda rather than their own? How do you colonize people?”

This sounds like a political coup, so we think of things like armies, guns, loud noises and the smell of gunpowder. But these loud and rude acts only give you the opportunity to win the people’s mind and heart. Really to win them, or to colonize them, takes more subtle means. Still, it can be put simply: To control people, you need to write their story. You need to write the rules of the game that assign them supporting roles in a story that benefits you – and get them to want to do this.

Most religious teaching teaches us that we live in stories. We don’t live in “facts,” but within the stories that assign those “facts” their meanings. These are our life stories, our myths, our necessary fictions. On a personal level, there are many such stories: be pure, be reliable, be hard-working, witty, popular, prove that daddy was right about us, or prove that daddy wasn’t right about us. We have, between us, hundreds of such personal life scripts that assign us some of our life roles.

But I want to talk about larger stories today. I want to back off and look at the stories we live out, and live out of, as a society. This too could get complex, but I want to keep it simple, by looking at our “official” story – that we are a democracy – and the “real” story that has usually controlled our society – that we are some kind of an aristocracy. Democracy, while a high and noble-sounding ideal, is such an unlikely form of government! Even back when our colonies still belonged to England, there were skeptics. Here are some lines from an 18th century English historian that sound very modern. I haven’t been able to shake them, maybe they’ll stick with you too:

A democracy cannot exist as a permanent form of government. It can only exist until the voters discover that they can vote themselves money from the public treasure. From that moment on the majority always voters for the candidates promising the most money from the public treasury, with the result that a democracy always collapses over loose fiscal policy followed by a dictatorship. The average of the world’s great civilizations has been two hundred years. (Alexander Tyler)

Let’s not pretend that this is easy, or that all good people are naturally and solely on the side of democracy here. If you could get the government to give you money that came from other people’s taxes, wouldn’t you take it? If it were legal, if you could actually get other people to pay your way, how long would it take you to rationalize it? I could do it in ten seconds. The problem is how to do it. How can you get other people to support you?

You do it, again, by getting others to play roles in your preferred story. So let’s go back to America’s stories. Since the 17th century, there have been two primary stories that have vied with each other for control of our society. Their descendents still do.

In the language of those writers, it was the choice between rule by the “masters of mankind” and “the majority of mankind.” It is the rule of the many by the few, or of all by the many. Or, in just single words, it is the choice between an aristocracy and a democracy.

Which is better? We have all been trained to answer “democracy, of course!” But opinions have always been divided on this, as they are today, and even in this room. John Locke, the English philosopher who influenced many of our own Founding Fathers, thought it must be an aristocracy because he didn’t trust the masses. He said that “day-laborers and tradesmen, the spinsters and dairymaids” must be told what to believe: “The greatest part cannot know and therefore they must believe,” he said. Many still agree with him.

Thomas Jefferson took the other side. He said aristocrats are “those who fear and distrust the people, and wish to draw all powers from them into the hands of the higher classes.” Jefferson’s “democrats,” on the other hand, “identify with the people, have confidence in them, cherish and consider them as honest and safe?.”

Those who excel, after all, want excellence to rule. The vast majority want the needs of the vast majority to write the laws, so that all citizens can live rich, empowered lives that allow them to become the most that they can become, whatever that is.

The one story seeks government through command and control; the other, through empowerment and trust. You can already hear which one is more vulnerable and less likely to win, can’t you?

Still, there’s a tactical problem. How will the more powerful and wealthy (for example) pull this off, when they are the distinct minority? For all of our history, this battle between aristocrats and democrats has continued. For the first 150 years of our history, it sometimes seemed like a battle between those who had money and power, and everybody else. The courts (sometimes) kept regulating them through laws and statutes that limited their ability to earn profits at the expense of turning the rest of the country into subsistence-level workers or beggars.

The country, when it had a choice, wasn’t buying the story the aristocrats were trying to sell, and people weren’t willing to spend their lives as servants of the few. Here is the long story of labor disputes, monopoly and anti-trust laws, and other rulings designed to protect the rights of the majority from the extra power and skill of those who would be their rulers. If you know much American history, you already know all of this. There’s nothing new here.

But in the 20th century, something new did come along. It was a new invention that could become a tool powerful enough to let a smart few rule an unaware many. It came with mass communication, and was first noticed over 80 years ago, in WWI. It was the invention of propaganda. “Propaganda has only one object,” wrote one of its early masters: “to conquer the masses.” Propaganda is the tool used by a small minority to sell their story to a large majority. With enough slick spin, emotional power, and appeal to elemental yearnings and powerful symbols (as in “God bless America”), a few brilliant visionaries can convert and control an entire nation.

After WWI, people on both sides of the Atlantic wrote about this new invention. Adolph Hitler praised the British, and said the main reason that Germany lost the war was because its propaganda was so inferior to the British. He vowed to learn from the British.

And in this country too, President Woodrow Wilson formed a new group to adapt techniques of using propaganda to influence the American people in desired directions. This was in the 1920s. Let me read you a few quotes from that decade:

The great American journalist Walter Lippman was in President Wilson’s propaganda organization, along with Edward Bernays, who could be called the father of American propaganda. Bernays led the transfer of wartime propaganda skills to business’s peacetime problems of coping with democracy. When the war ended, he wrote, business “realized that the great public could now be harnessed to their cause as it had been harnessed during the war to the national cause, and the same methods could do the job.”

And the payoff? In the words of one of these early propagandists: “If the others let a minority conquer the state, then they must also accept the fact that we will establish a dictatorship.” There is the end of democracy that the 18th century English historian warned about. Once a group learns how to manipulate the masses to its own ends, democracy ends, replaced by a dictatorship, a rule of the few, an aristocracy. This last quote came from Joseph Goebbles, Hitler’s minister of propaganda. It was also Goebbles who said that propaganda’s one object was to conquer the masses, just as he described the masses as “the weak, cowardly, lazy majority of people.”

But the masses – and you realize, I hope, that this means us. We are the masses over whom sly leaders vie for control – the masses weren’t thought of any more highly on this side of the Atlantic. Walter Lippman wrote of the “ignorance and stupidity of the masses.” The general public, he said, were mere “ignorant and meddlesome outsiders,” who must not intrude in the management of public affairs, though they may be permitted to select periodically among the “responsible men” whose task it is to rule them.

Do you see that this is the tool the aristocracy had needed since our country began, a tool to let them write the story for the masses, to put a command and control government in place of a government of empowerment and trust. The invention of propaganda and its immediate use after WWI is one of the most important stories of the 20th century.

Propaganda was talked about pretty openly during its early years, before people realized that wasn’t a very smart thing to do. In 1934, the new president of the American Political Science Association said in his presidential address that government should be in the hands of “an aristocracy of intellect and power,” not directed by “the ignorant, the uninformed.” “The public must be put in its place,” added Walter Lippman, so that the “responsible men” may “live free of the trampling and the roar of a bewildered herd” as they rule them.

That “bewildered herd” – that’s us too, you know.

This is a chapter of American history we must know if we are to understand who is running our country and how they run it. But we don’t know it, do we? Why do you suppose that is?

This is a lot of new and probably strange information. Let me try to sum it up in a clear and simple way, borrowing from the writings of Alex Carey (Taking the Risk Out of Democracy):

There were three key developments in the 20th century which have shaped the world we’re living in today: the growth of democracy, the growth of corporate power, and the growth of corporate propaganda as a means of protecting corporate power against democracy.

Corporate propaganda directed outwards toward the public has two main goals: to identify the free-enterprise system in popular consciousness with every cherished value, and to identify interventionist governments and strong unions – the only forces capable of checking the complete domination of society by corporations – with tyranny, oppression and subversion. The techniques used to do this are variously called “public relations,” “corporate communications” and “economic education.”

Corporate propaganda directed inwards to employees has the purpose of weakening the links between union members and their unions. From about 1920 through the present, US business made great progress towards the ideal of a democracy managed through corporate propaganda.

Those who run the best corporations didn’t get where they are by being stupid. They are among the most savvy and quick people in our society; few Ph.D.s would stand a chance against them in their court. Those who were entrusted with corporate power realized that one of the best investments they can make with their money is to invest in buying the politicians who make the laws.

Current struggles to pass meaningful campaign finance reform are attempts to undo this powerful structure of command and control by corporations. But for the past couple decades, many or most of our major political candidates are, like used BMWs, “pre-owned vehicles.” In order to get the money they need to compete in American elections, they must get large investments from large business interests. And for those investments, they owe something once they’re in office. They owe their investors the effort to slant the laws of the land in ways that let their investors “vote themselves money from the public treasure,” as that 18th century historian put it.

What does this mean? It means weakening or eliminating controls on environmental pollution or toxic emissions or burial of radioactive waste, letting chemical companies like Monsanto infect the entire continent’s wheat and corn crops with genetically modified organisms that have not, and can not be, tested.

It means reducing the taxes corporations pay, and shifting that tax burden to the citizens those of us in the bewildered herd, so that they can vote themselves money out of our personal treasuries. It means breaking unions, and redefining the economy as one that revolves around the price of stocks rather than the ability of regular citizens to earn good livings through an honest day’s work.

You can see how corporate investments in political candidates work by looking at NAFTA. NAFTA was carefully crafted as an investor rights agreement. It can’t be considered a worker’s rights agreement. Opening the borders means that America’s higher-paid workers must now compete with the far cheaper labor in Mexico. This threat has been used routinely to break American union demands for decent wages and benefits. If they refuse, the manufacturing is simply moved to northern Mexico, to workers who have low pay and few benefits, but see it as an improvement over abject poverty. NAFTA is an investor rights agreement. It is paying dividends on the financial investment that corporations and wealthy individuals made in our elections. They helped elect their candidate, and they want payback. It is only fair.

Or you can see how the paybacks from investing in elections work by looking at Texas’ own, Enron’s former CEO Kenneth Lay. Lay was the biggest single investor in George W. Bush’s campaign for president. In return for this investment, Lay was able to appoint White House regulators, shape energy policies and block the regulation of offshore tax havens, Enron had “intimate contact with Taliban officials” and the energy giant’s much-reviled Dabhol project in India was set to benefit from a hook-up with the oil pipeline we planned to run through Afghanistan.

These negotiations collapsed in August 2001 – a date that should begin making our ears stick up – when the Taliban asked the US to help reconstruct Afghanistan’s infrastructure and provide a portion of the oil supply for local needs. The US response was reportedly succinct: “We will either carpet you in gold or carpet you in bombs.” The notes of this meeting, which took place only weeks before September 11th, are now the subject of a lawsuit between Congress and the White House. Was the Taliban really destroyed for harboring terrorists? Or was it destroyed for failing to further the ambitions of Texas millionaires?

The London paper The Guardian also reports that US State Department officials in early July of 2001 informed their Russian and Pakistani counterparts of possible plans to invade Afghanistan in the fall.

To put this in the form of a question made famous during the Watergate investigation 30 years ago, we now need to ask “What did the President know, and when did he know it?”

Once we began our new war, it provided a cover for other agendas that the administration had been trying to do since the election, to fulfill their promises to their corporate investors.

I read in early March that over $212 billion was transferred from our economy to our larger corporations in the form of retroactive tax refunds sometimes going back fifteen years. Democracy can only exist “until [some] voters discover that they can vote themselves money from the public treasure.”

Huge tax refunds were voted in, from which well over 90% went to the richest 1% of Americans. These are some of the returns on their investments in the president’s campaign.

And do you recall Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld’s recent statement? While requesting an additional $48 billion for defense, much of which will go to corporations closely related to this administration, he casually mentioned that the Pentagon had somehow misplaced $2.3 trillion. This makes me want Lewis Black to do an angry rant! It’s the wrong verb! Nobody “misplaces” $2.3 trillion. Someone took it, moved it to somewhere else, and others else got it. Who? Was it done without the President’s knowledge? If not, again, what did the President know, and when did he know it?

News reports from Der Spiegel to the London Observer, from the Los Angeles Times to MSNBC to CNN indicate that many different warnings were received by the Administration before the 9-11 attacks. It has even been reported that the US government broke bin Laden’s secure communications before September 11. The US government is being sued today by survivors of the Embassy bombings because, from court reports, it appears clear that the US had received prior warnings then too, but did nothing to protect the staffs at our embassies. Did the same thing happen again?

And does it get even worse? Could there be an even darker side to the events of 9-11? Maybe. I read an article in the March/April issue of The Humanist magazine that’s worth sharing. (I’ve since been told by several people at the three services on Sunday 21 April that these things were widely known and discussed back in September. But I don’t have independent verification.)

In the days leading up to 9-11, thousands of “put” options were purchased on companies whose stocks tanked after September 11. “Put” options are bought by investors when they are willing to gamble that a company’s stock prices will go down in the near future. Most prominent among these companies are American and United Airlines, whose planes hit the twin towers, and the investment firms of Morgan Stanley and Merril Lynch, whose offices were destroyed in the towers.

Between September 6 and 7, investors purchased 4,744 “put” options in United Airlines at the Chicago Board Options Exchange. At the same time, only 396 “call” options – where an investor bets on a stock price increasing – were purchased.On September 10, investors bought 4,516 “put” options in American Airlines versus 748 call options. In the three days prior to September 11, investors bought 2,157 “put” options in Morgan Stanley, a company which occupied fifty floors of office at the WTC. Volume during the previous week was a mere 27 “put” options per day. Likewise, investors bought another 12,215 “put” options for WTC tenant Merril Lynch.

Most embarrassing to the government, however, is the fact that many of the mysterious “put” options were purchased through an investment firm that was formally headed by Buzzy Krongard, the current executive director of the CIA.

Next week I want to keep exploring some of these issues. I want to look into propaganda more deeply, and to look at some disturbing developments indicating a new political ideology beginning to take over the religious right in this country – much to the dismay of some of their own Christian ministers. I’ll also want to look at much that is right and promising, and suggest some actions we might take.

But I have asked a lot of you today. I have tried to put some clear patterns to a tremendous amount of what will be new information for most of you. I may be wrong. My patterns and understanding may be wrong. The patterns I see suggest that the aristocracy controlling our election processes and much of our government is not serving, and can not serve, the interests or needs of the vast majority of the American people.

Under the cover of war, I believe there is a good chance that we are losing our American way of life, our civil freedoms, our economy, and the remaining vestiges of our democracy, just as that cynical historian predicted 250 years ago.

Where does this leave us? It reconnects me with some of my strongest and most basic convictions:

• We cannot lose faith. We must continue to appeal to the better angels of our nature, and the better angels of our leaders.
• We cannot lose hope. The future is not yet written, its options are still open.
• And we must try not to become self-righteous or mean-spirited, or attempt to harm our nation. We may and must criticize and chastise its errant ways. But we must struggle to do it in a spirit of love. I struggle mightily with this one, and often lose here.

I hope and I pray that we may indeed add our critical and caring voices to the dialogue. And even though we are few and our efforts may seem meager, they are essential – for us, for our nation, and for the world.

Let us go forth in faith, in hope, and in love.

Amen.

© Davidson Loehr

15 April 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

(This was the Easter service, which is also this church’s annual celebration of the Flower Communion created by Dr. Norbert Capek in 1923. While it doesn’t read like a straight sermon, all the words are reproduced here for those who would like to know more about this unique “communion” and how this particular church celebrates it.)

FLOWER PROCESSIONAL AND STORY OF THE FLOWERS

As the flowers are brought forward, I want to tell you a little about the story of the flowers. This ceremony was created by a Czechoslovakian Unitarian minister named Dr. Norbert Capek in 1923. His church in Prague had 3200 members, and was the largest Unitarian church there has ever been. Today, Unitarians hardly even know how to dream of such numbers and such influence.

Capek had felt the need for some symbolic ritual that could recognize people’s unique gifts, but also bind them more closely together – the idea of diversity within unity with which we still struggle today. The traditional Christian communion service with bread and wine was unacceptable to the members of his congregation, so he turned to the native beauty of the Czech countryside for the elements of a new kind of communion that might speak to them. The Flower Communion we will celebrate today was the result. It was an immediate success, and was held annually. His wife brought it to this country in 1940, and it is now celebrated annually in most Unitarian or Unitarian Universalist churches here.

Dr. Capek was arrested by the Nazis in 1941 because of his liberal religious beliefs, and taken to Dachau. He died in a concentration camp in 1942, so he is also seen as a martyr for the cause of more honest and open religion.

In his service, as in this one, he asked each member to bring a flower to church. This signified that it was by their own free will they joined with the others. And, as we also do here, his church provided a lot of extra flowers, to make sure that everybody would get one. The flowers were arranged in a vase, as we have arranged them in baskets. The baskets represent the united fellowship of the whole church. After the service, as people left the church, they each took a flower other than the one they had brought. The significance of the flower communion is that as no two flowers are alike, so no two people are alike, yet each has a contribution to make. Together the flowers form a beautiful bouquet. Our common bouquet would not be the same without the unique addition of each individual flower, just as our growing church community would not be the same without each of us.

By exchanging flowers, we show our willingness to walk together in our search for truth, rising above all that might divide us. Each person takes home a flower brought by someone else – thus symbolizing our shared celebration in community. This communion of voluntary sharing is essential to a free people in a free religion.

CENTERING: (Adapted from “Prayer Before Birth” by Louis MacNeice)

I am not yet born; O hear me. I am your tomorrows, but I am not yet born.

I am not yet born, console me. Protect me from the doubts that strangle, the fears that stifle, the friends who drain and demean.

I am not yet born; give me dreams of what we may yet become, and nourish me, that I do not starve before I gain the strength to walk, and to fly, and perhaps even to soar with the eagles.

I am not yet born; O hear me, Let not the woman who is a beast or the man who thinks he is God come near me. And those who can remain big only by keeping those around them small – guard me from them, for I am yet a fragile thing.

I am not yet born; O fill me with strength against those who would freeze my humanity, who would make me into a thing, a mere thing, who would dissuade and dissipate me until I lose my spirit, and then my soul, and then my hope, and your hope as well.

For I am the greater you who is not yet born, And together we must strive, must strive with the gods if necessary, for so much is at stake, there is so much to be gained. I am the you who is yet to become, and I am not yet born. Help me.

SERMON: New Life for Old

This morning I want to take this sermon title in two directions. The first is to talk a little about the very ancient Easter tradition. It’s message, both in pre-Christian and in Christian cultures, was the message of “new life for old.” Literal religions took it literally, liberal religions took it symbolically, and it always takes some work to relate the old Easter stories to the world as we know it today, and to life as we are living it today.

I have a confession to make that will sound very un-Unitarian to nearly everybody who has been here for a few years or more: this is the first time I have ever been involved in a Flower Communion. I didn’t even know the story, except in the barest outline. It is almost always celebrated in Unitarian churches on the second Sunday in June, which is when Dr. Capek celebrated it, as the last regular church service until fall. We are a full-service church that meets every Sunday of the year, so we don’t have a “last regular church service until fall,” and in this church, the Flower Communion has been celebrated on Easter Sunday.

So the second thing we’ll be doing this morning is becoming acquainted with Dr. Norbert Capek’s invention of the Flower Communion as another kind of “new life for old” – inventing new stories and rituals that may communicate a little more easily with us today, while still connecting us with what Dr. Capek called the “Infinite Spirit of Life.”

But first, let’s begin with Easter. There are several things about our culture’s two favorite holidays – Christmas and Easter – that are very ironic.

One is that both of them are ancient pagan celebrations, with no necessary connection to Christianity or any other modern religion whatever. The symbols for the winter solstice festival, which most of us have learned to call Christmas, are all from the ancient days of nature religions: evergreens, the holly and ivy, mistletoe, and of course light. Whether a Yule log is burned, or Christmas bonfires are lit, or just candles, there is always light. This is also clear in the festival the Jews created for the same time, Chanuka, which is also called the festival of lights.

And the symbols for the vernal equinox, or Easter, are also completely pagan, from nature religions and ancient agricultural societies. Easter is about new life. The two prime symbols of Easter are that timeless symbol of fecundity, the rabbit, and those numberless symbols of fertility, eggs – this isn’t subtle. The other symbols of Easter are signs of spring: bright colors and Easter bonnets.

The name “Easter” probably came from an ancient goddess of spring named Eostre, who also had a special rabbit [hare] who laid eggs for good children to eat. And “Easter lilies” probably began as Eostre’s flower. It was said they were “lily white” because they grew from Eostre’s milk. Later, the Romans said the lilies were Juno’s and were white because they grew from her milk. And still later, the Christians identified “Easter lilies” with the Virgin Mary, and said they were white because they grew from her milk. It’s a story people liked, and told in many cultures.

Another ironic thing about these two holidays is that they are really celebrating the same thing, the power of life over death, or of new life for old. They are our two most optimistic holidays. Many thousands of years ago, people noticed several examples of this. They used the cycles of the moon as a symbol of death and rebirth. Each month there is about a three-day period between the shrinking moon and the expanding moon when it is almost gone. They saw this as a three-day period of death followed by the rebirth of the new moon. Then the moon grows larger into a full moon, then grows smaller again, “dies” again, and is reborn again. This plot of dying for three days then returning to life was woven into many religious stories, including the Christian Easter story, where the man Jesus is said to have died, then three days later risen as God. There is a similar cycle in plants. Seeds look dead, we bury them in the ground, and then new life springs forth through the ground – like all these flowers. So when people were buried in the ground, many hoped they too would rise again into a new kind of life. These are ancient hopes, myths arising from deep in our souls and our past.

I like these stories, but they are so fantastic that it’s hard for us to know just what to do with them. We live in an age of science, but these ancient stories aren’t written in the language of science. They are written in the language of hope, the language of faith.

A friend of mine, a colleague from the Jesus Seminar, retired about six years ago after a forty-year career as a minister in the United Church of Christ. He founded the Church of the Beatitudes in Phoenix, Arizona in 1955 with about fifty people, and when he retired in 1995, it had 2500 members. He made a point of telling people who attended the Jesus Seminar — and wondered how you could ever preach the truth from a pulpit — that he had never lied from his pulpit. He began every Easter sermon, he said, by saying that Easter isn’t about corpses walking, it’s about the chance for our lives to be reborn, rejuvenated, here and now, in ways that might seem magical, but were not supernatural. This man, Culver Nelson, had a lot of charisma, and I think he could get away with saying that where thousands of other Christian ministers could not get away with it. Usually, it’s hard work to relate these old stories of death and resurrection to the world as we know it and life as we actually live it. I’ve done an Easter sermon every year of my career, and a lot of times I’ve wished we could just use different stories, stories and symbols that communicated more directly.

Now I want to make a transition to the second part of this short sermon. I couldn’t find a smooth and classy way to do it, because the two halves aren’t very closely related. So I decided to do it in a light-hearted way, maybe even a silly way. This week an e-mail made the rounds of some ministers’ groups where we exchange some ideas and materials. It was a list called “All I need to know about life I learned from the Easter Bunny.” It’s a play on the book title All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, by Unitarian Minister Robert Fulghum. It’s kind of like some Easter sermons you may have heard, taking an old story and loading it with some funny modern messages. I don’t know who wrote it, but here are some of the life lessons you can learn from the Easter Bunny:

Don’t put all of your eggs in one basket

Walk softly and carry a big carrot

Everyone needs a friend who is all ears

There’s no such thing as too much candy

All work and no play can make you a basket case

Everyone is entitled to a bad hare day

Let happy thoughts multiply like rabbits

Keep your paws off other people’s jellybeans

Good things sometimes come in small sugarcoated packages

The grass is always greener in someone else’s basket

An Easter bonnet can tame even the wildest hare

To show your true colors you have to come out of your shell

And – The best things in life are still sweet and gooey

The Flower Communion

That’s one way to give new life to old symbols. But there is another way that is distinctly liberal. And that is to introduce new stories that open us up to some of life’s gifts in more direct ways, so we don’t have to keep working so hard to translate ancient symbols like the symbols of rabbits, eggs, death and resurrection so they don’t mislead people into confusing religion with superstition.

It’s a pretty bold move, inventing a new ritual. Most of the time it will probably bomb, because it’s hard to find new rituals that speak to people easily. But that’s what Dr. Capek (Chah-Peck) did with his Flower Communion when he invented it in 1923. I already told you the story earlier, but it’s worth going into a little more detail about some of Capek’s religious beliefs, which were inspiring both then and now.

He thought that all people were inherently religious, and inherently good, and he taught that religion should, above all, provide that “inner harmony which is the precondition of strong character, good health, joyful moods and victorious creative life. It is my ideal,” he wrote, “that unitarian religion in our country should mean a higher culture – new attitudes toward life. In short, unitarian religion should mean the next advanced cultural level of our people.” The church’s task “must be to place truth above any tradition, spirit above any scripture, freedom above authority, and progress above all reaction.”

He defined religious education as “an endeavor to awaken the inner forces of children and teach them how to organize, harmonize and adapt them to the ever-changing influences which come to them from outside.” He identified a list of feelings and abilities which a modern religious education should elicit from a child. They included, in his terms, the ability to have faith and confidence, the ability to hope, the feeling of worship (like Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life), charity or selfless love, and conscientiousness. In the 1920s and 1930s, he thought that a person with these qualities was a truly religious person. In 2001, I think so too. You could say it was a very optimistic faith that Capek had, just before the dark days of the Nazi occupation of Czeckoslovakia from 1939 – 1945.

When the Nazis took control of Prague in 1940, they found Dr. Capek’s gospel of the inherent worth and beauty of every human being to be – in the words of the Nazi court records – “too dangerous to the Reich [for him] to be allowed to live.” Think about that: believing that people were good made him too dangerous to be allowed to live; what a complete failure of the human spirit that was! Dr. Capek was arrested in 1941 and sent to Dachau. He died in a concentration camp the next year. This gentle man suffered a cruel death, but his message of human hope and decency lives on through his Flower Communion, which is celebrated in many of our churches today.

Before his life was taken from him, he gave new life for old by creating this beautiful ritual celebrating the interweaving of diversity and community. You will each judge for yourselves this morning where you found more new life for old – in revisiting the Easter stories, or in visiting the Unitarian Flower Communion. But as we prepare for our celebration of Dr. Capek’s Flower Communion, I want to suggest that the Nazi court records, as they often did, had it completely backwards. Because people who believe in, and who teach, the inherent worth and beauty of all people are the only ones whose beliefs equip them to live, and to share in the gifts of life that others bring.

BENEDICTION:

For our benediction this morning, I have adapted some words which Dr. Capek used in his Flower Communions:

Infinite Spirit of Life, we ask thy blessing on these fragile flowers, which are thy messengers of fellowship and love. May they remind us, amid diversities of knowledge and of gifts, to be one in desire and affection, and devotion to our most sacred callings. May they also remind us of the value of comradeship, of doing and sharing with each other. May we cherish friendship as one of the most sacred and precious manifestations of the Infinite Spirit of Life. May we realize that, [as these flowers each contribute their different styles of beauty, every one of us is an embodiment of the gods, and in every one of us the gods struggle for higher expression.

FLOWER COMMUNION:

It is time now for us to share in the Flower Communion. I ask that as you each in turn approach the communion baskets you do so quietly – reverently – with a sense of how important it is for each of us to address our world and one another with gentleness, justice, and love. I ask that you select a flower – different from the one you brought – that particularly appeals to you. If you didn’t bring a flower, don’t worry about it, we have provided plenty of extras for you so that everybody can have one. As you take your chosen flower – noting its particular shape and beauty – please remember to handle it carefully. It is a gift that someone else has brought to you. It represents that person’s unique humanity, and therefore deserves your kindest touch. Let us share quietly in this beautiful ritual of unity, diversity, and love.

As you come up to get your flower, please start with the back row and move row by row from the side aisles to the front. After taking a flower, please exit by the center aisles. We will then leave to recreate this bouquet of harmonized gifts in the world outside these walls, where our diverse gifts are as desperately needed as our ability to blend them into a bouquet. Accompanied by our flowers, let us leave this place of worship with peace, with hope, and with beauty.

© Davidson Loehr

March 18, 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

SERMON: The Return of Lilith

In the musical “My Fair Lady,” Professor Henry Higgins asks his famous question “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” In Western religions of the past 40 years, a lot of male priests and theologians have been asking the same question.

I want to review some of the reasons with you this morning, because they aren’t hard to find, and they’re too important to forget.

In the Hebrew scriptures, there are more cases than you want to count where Moses or another commander tells his soldiers, after another battle, to kill all the enemy men and children, but that they can keep all the virgins for themselves, as spoils of war. (Numbers 31:15-18, e.g.)

In the book of Leviticus (27:2-4) the worth of women was 3/5 that of a man. Two hundred years ago in the Constitution of our own country, slaves were also valued at 3/5 of a free man – using, I assume, the same biblical proof-text. And I don’t know the current figures, but a few years ago I read that a woman in this country was still being paid about 60%, or 3/5, of what a man was paid in our country for doing comparable work.

In the Bible, the penalty for adultery was death for both the woman and her lover, because of their insult to the husband and defilement of his property. The notion of adultery by men, however, does not appear, unless the woman involved is married (and the man wasn’t a king – remember that King David sent his field General Uriah into the front of a dangerous battle to be killed, because David lusted after Uriah’s wife Bathsheba). Women may not commit adultery because they are the property of men; men, as the property owners, can do pretty much as they like.

It didn’t get much better in Christianity where men, but not women, were still considered the spitting image of God. For example – in a writer almost no feminist ever quotes – Saint Paul wrote, “A man shouldn’t cover his head, because he is the image and glory of God: but the woman is the glory of the man. For the man was not born of the woman; but the woman born of the man. Neither was the man created for the woman; but the woman for the man.” (I Corinthians 11:3-8, emphasis added) You may wonder where Paul learned about human birth. He learned it in the book of Genesis in the Bible.

Paul also wrote, “Women should keep silence in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be subordinate, as even the law says. If there is anything they want to know, let them ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church.” (I Corinthians 14:34-36)

-In the bible, as in soap operas, women’s concerns center almost exclusively on childbearing and on her relationships with men.- (Roslyn Lacks, Women and Judaism, Doubleday & Co., 1980, p. 88)

-Biblical women appear only when they enter men’s perception – as mothers, wives, or harlots. . . The birth and childhood of daughters [in the Bible] goes unrecorded.- (Lacks, 89)

Or, for some trivia you might not have known, compare the vows taken by Catholic nuns and priests. Did you know that they take different vows? The nuns take vows of chastity; the priests take vows of celibacy. You may think those words mean the same thing, but they do not. Vows of chastity mean the nuns will not have sex; vows of celibacy mean the priests will not marry.

This isn’t just about Judaism and Christianity, unfortunately. About a decade ago I attended annual three-day reports from a sexier study called The Fundamentalism Project, undertaken by the University of Chicago Divinity School through a huge Mac Arthur grant. Over 150 scholars wrote papers on fundamentalisms from all over the world, and presented abstracts of their work in these annual public reports. The sobering, depressing, revelatory (pick your adjective) news was that the social, political and behavioral agendas of all fundamentalists are almost identical, regardless of religion or culture. It is fundamentally about patriarchal rule, and the place of women.

Sometimes the bias comes out more brutally than others. In Islam, for example, the woman sells the unlimited right to her sexual services to her husband as part of the wedding ceremony. As an Islamic anthropologist from Harvard (Shahla Haeri) put it, the moment the woman agrees to a marriage she relinquishes all autonomy within the marriage. He gets her for sex, any time and any way he wishes. Technically, she may not even leave the house without her husband’s permission. An autonomous woman is seen as a threat to both religion and society, and a blasphemy against Allah; and there are, of course, many passages from scripture to support this.

At their most literal and militaristic level in the religions that grew out of the Bible – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – it is always about the rule of men, no matter how disingenuously it may be worded. Women’s rights to work and to be educated are eroded in all Western fundamentalist cultures. As a social anthropologist from Harvard (Andrea Rugh) put it, -religious piety can replace education for women, as a cheaper form of hope.- (Personal notes.)

This isn’t just about Western religions, either. The Buddha fought against allowing women into the religion. And when he was finally convinced to allow orders of nuns to begin, he made it clear that the most senior nun would always be inferior to the most junior monk. And some Hindu men still burn their wives alive because their dowry wasn’t big enough. You never hear of these things happening the other way around, do you?

Why can’t a woman be more like a man? Because most religions are primarily men’s clubs in which women are second-class humans. (Think about it. When you read a story in any religious scripture about a male God ordering women to be obedient, who do you think wrote that story?)

There are many sad corollaries to this. I’ve been using the old Hindu picture of the human condition as a bunch of blind people around an elephant, where each one can only know what they can touch. From women’s perspectives, this has made much of history seem like the elephant was mostly sharp tusks and stomping feet.

This is why a feminist theologian writes that the character of Vito Corleone in “The Godfather” is a vivid illustration of the marriage of tenderness and violence woven together in the Biblical picture of God. (Daly, Beyond God the Father, p. 16) And “if God is male,- as Catholic theologian Mary Daly put it, – then the male is God.” (Daly, p. 19) It may be the biggest single reason that few major feminists have much interest in institutional religion. (Daly, p. 18)

Some of the other sad corollaries to the political and behavioral agendas of all fundamentalisms open into the subject of women as scapegoats, the long history of the persecution of women as witches, which arose directly from the bible and with direct support from the churches, both Catholic and Protestant.

I won’t go into all of these bloody chapters this morning, except to remind us that in eight of the 13 original colonies witchcraft was a capital offense, and that poor or helpless women are still vulnerable to the charge. In 1976, for example, a woman named Elizabeth Hahn was assaulted in Germany. She was described as “a poor old spinster” who was suspected of being a witch and keeping familiars in the form of dogs. Her neighbors shunned her, threw rocks at her, threatened to beat her to death, and eventually set fire to her house, badly burning her and killing all of her pets because they thought she was casting hexes on them. And in 1981 a Mexican mob stoned a woman to death after her husband accused her of using witchcraft to incite the attack that took place on the life of Pope John Paul II. (Brian P. Levack, The Witch Hunt in Early Modern Europe, [London: Longman Group UK Limited, 1987], p. 229) These are isolated examples of a deadly kind of scapegoating that has been present in Christianity for over 500 years.

I keep asking, “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” because in Western religions the question is so obviously ridiculous. If the churches, synagogues and mosques had singled out men for the kind of mindless hatred it has vented on women, there would not be a single church, synagogue or mosque left standing today. The men would have destroyed them.

One of the most revealing ironies in the history of religions is that almost all of the great sages of our history have taught what are easy to recognize as feminine values:

— Confucius taught that social harmony comes through learning the art of living graciously and generously with others.

— Lao Tzu said The Way was one of an interlocking balance of the masculine and feminine forces of the universe.

— The Buddha taught people not to seek their comfort in the illusion of supernatural beliefs, but to wake up, trust life and relax into it.

— Socrates taught that honest ignorance is nobler than arrogant ignorance.

— Jesus said the kingdom of God doesn’t come with swords, but through loving your neighbor.

In any chart of masculine and feminine values, the values of the great sages of religion and philosophy have been decidedly on the “feminine” side. They are where we look when we need wisdom. They are the perspectives on life that define wisdom.

I can’t think of a government or an army that has ever taught these values. But most women have, from ancient Greeks like Sappho; medieval Christian nuns like Hildegard of Bingen and Theresa of Avila to the symbols and rituals of inclusion in modern Wiccan ceremonies. They are also the values of virtually every peace movement and every environmental movement.

Of the different styles of women’s spirituality that have grown up in the past few decades, the Wiccan movement is probably the best known. The Wiccan group in Texas, known as the Tejas Web, is the second largest in the country, with over three thousand people involved. It is mostly women, though not only women.

The first Wiccan service I attended, nearly twenty years ago, reminded me of a Roman Catholic service, with the robes, candles and heavy use of rituals. And in the few Wiccan groups I’ve known or known of, the overwhelming majority of the women come from Roman Catholic backgrounds. In one small Unitarian church in Indiana, there were 31 women in the Wiccan group, and all 31 had been raised Roman Catholic, leaving the church because they couldn’t find a place for themselves in it.

Some have compared the women of the past century who have protested against the deep holes in Christianity as the “canaries in the coal mines” – the birds that reacted to poison in the air before the miners could sense it. I’m sure some women identify with that.

I think of the women who broke away from Christian, Jewish or Islamic orthodoxy more like the sailors of the 15th and 16th centuries who sailed off the maps of the known world because they thought there had to be more to the world than that. The women I’ve read or known who are actively involved in spiritual quests are searching for what Joseph Campbell once called “The Lost Atlantis of the coordinated soul.” And orthodox Western religions have left out too many parts of life, too many of the dynamic and sacred forces, for us to find coordinated souls within the narrow boundaries of prescribed beliefs.

Imagine being a woman! Well ok, most of you don’t have to imagine being a woman! But some of us do. So men, imagine being a woman growing up in the dominant religions of Western civilization.

You grow up in a religion whose scriptures teach that women were born from the side of men, rather than everyone being born from, and only from, women, and you have to wonder what kind of world they are describing, and where on earth they learned their biology. You hear a pope say that women can’t be priests because Jesus had no women disciples, and you think, “Well, Jesus didn’t have any Polish disciples either!” Nor did he have any Italian disciples. For that matter, Jesus didn’t have any Christian disciples. He was a Jew, and so were all those who followed him around. But so far, we’ve never had a Jewish pope! What Jesus might have wanted is obviously irrelevant. Eventually you say to yourself that both life and religion have to make more sense than that, or it’s not worth your time.

So if you’re brave, or perhaps just terribly hungry for spiritual food, you set sail, in search of that Lost Atlantis of the coordinated soul.

What the different women’s spirituality movements have found have a lot of family resemblances. They looked for sacred images that honored rather than dishonored women, and found them in the study of ancient nature religions, where the giver of all life was Mother Earth. They looked for a natural reality with cycles, and they found it all around us. I suspect that women are more aware of and sensitive to the cycles of the seasons than men are because they have lived the rhythm of monthly cycles most of their adult lives.

But it’s clear to me that a woman can’t be more like a man because most women I know see both life and religion differently than most men I know do. As women have been entering the ministry during the past thirty years, they have brought very different metaphors than men do. I think men tend to see things logically or functionally, where women tend to see them organically and in relationship.

I have attended a few Wiccan services. They acknowledge the four directions, cast an invisible circle to mark our sacred space. They notice and rejoice in the rhythms of the seasons. The equinoxes and the solstices are celebrated. And when I am there, I know I am at a worship service that came from a different kind of consciousness than mine. It came from a spiritual awareness far more sensitive to nature and our place in it, to the rhythms of nature and the corresponding rhythms of our own lives, and to the never-ending cycles of birth and death of which we are all parts. In many ways, the styles of women’s spirituality are the mirror images, or shadow sides, of most of Western religion. Women theologians, Wiccan leaders like Margot Adler or Starhawk look for and find images of inclusion rather than exclusion. They teach inclusive rituals rather than exclusive creeds, and feature dancing rather than orthodoxies. And when they use arms, they don’t mean weapons. It’s hard for a lot of guys to relate to.

A few months ago I attended a Winter Solstice celebration at this church. It’s an annual event, very popular; it felt like there were 150 people sitting in a great circle in our social hall. People of all ages were there. I saw some very old women dressed up with lights in their hair, evergreens dangling from them. You never see that in church on Sunday. It was fun, but it didn’t feel like a show. It felt like what it was: people participating in a sacred rite of passage, as people have done it for uncounted thousands of years, to move to the slow rhythm of the earth’s changing seasons. We were gathered on the longest night of the year by some women, who led us through the gentle and power filled cycle of death and rebirth. We were mirroring Nature’s death and rebirth at the winter solstice, knowing the sun will return again as it has always returned.

It was one of the loveliest and most genuine religious services I have attended. And as I sat with others in the darkness and silence, dwelling in the death before the gradual return of the light, one of the things I realized was that I could not have led that service. It wouldn’t have worked; I couldn’t have done it. It took a different kind of sensitivity than I have, a different kind of rhythm.

Young girls who were coming of age were recognized and honored. Old women were honored as “Crones” – an old term of respect for the wisdom of the aged – something we have virtually forgotten today. There wasn’t any theology. Just a gentle bringing us all together as children of life, children of the earth, gathered as though we were around an ancient campfire to hear the old story told again, then to stand together, hold hands, and move together – in circles, around and through each other, into the center then back out again, then through another ritual of rebirth, in which we took turns being born and giving birth, being born and giving birth.

This isn’t wisdom that comes from a man’s way of understanding the world. It’s a different, and a feminine, style of spirituality. It’s something both women and men have been missing for a very long time.

Long ago there was a Jewish myth that Eve wasn’t really the first woman. The first woman created for Adam, this story said, was Lilith. She was created as Adam’s equal, and she took it seriously. She wouldn’t defer to him, wouldn’t let him be on top, and when God tried to play marriage counselor, Lilith wouldn’t listen to him either. So she was banished to the footnotes of mythic history, and a slightly more obedient mythic wife was created.

Now Lilith is back. This time, she and Adam have the chance to write the story together, both their parts and the part assigned to God. May we pray that this time we will have both love and luck on our side, so that we may wholeheartedly finish what was once halfheartedly begun.

—————

Endnotes

First and most importantly, they agree that there must be only one law for all life, both public and private, and that individual rights or the separation of church and state cannot be used to let people stray from the one true religion which, coincidentally, happens to be theirs.

Second, all fundamentalisms are ruled by men, and the roles of women are narrowly defined and strictly controlled. The basic structure of patriarchal authority is paramount, and the dissolution of traditional patriarchal structures is the most important factor in mobilizing fundamentalist movements.

Third, there is a strong family resemblance between fundamentalism and fascism. As one scholar pointed out, the phrase “the overcoming of the modern” was a popular fascist slogan dating back to at least 1941, and which is now resurfacing in most of the fundamentalist movements.

Fourth, history is denied in a radical way. While they are all aware that the modern world, its writings, and its ideals, are strongly influenced by the biases of our culture, they deny that the same was true when their own sacred scriptures were written, and deny any deep historical conditioning of those scriptures at all. Their scriptures are the word of God, pure and uncompromised.

Fifth, fundamentalists want to control the education of children and adults, to insure that the next generation grows up with their view of the world, of religion, and of what is expected of them. They are doing this through setting up their own schools, through influencing textbook publishers and state legislatures to mirror their own agendas, and through some other methods of influencing not only their own educational programs but the general public educational platforms of the general culture.

For copious detail and over a hundred essays on fundamentalisms from all over the world, see The Fundamentalism Project published in five or six large volumes by the University of Chicago Press in the mid-1990s.

© Davidson Loehr

11 March 2001

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

Each part of this series on beliefs could, should, and has given birth to a million sermons, and deserves that kind of coverage. That’s even more true of mysticism. It’s the most intuitive and deeply persuasive of all spiritual paths. It isn’t about “knowing” as much as it is about being. It sloughs off all orthodoxies, and makes the boldest of claims – as when the great medieval Christian mystic Meister Eckhart (1260-1327) wrote about the Incarnation of God in Christ (the center of Christian theology) by saying “God became man so that man might become God.” In traditional Christianity, that’s Heresy 666. In traditional mysticism, it’s Religion 101.

Puppet Show – for a parrot and two raccoons

“You’re so already there, dude.”

Davidson Loehr, Ryan Hill, Toby Heidel, David Smith

Parrot/David (Nervous, Self-Pity)

Oh oh oh oh woe is me!

Raccoon/Ryan

Hey! Hey! Hey bird, what’s with you huh?

Parrot/David

Oh oh oh oh woe is me!

Raccoon/Toby

Hey, bird, bird, you’re making me nuts!

Raccoon/Ryan

Heh, he said nevermind.

Raccoon/Toby 

Stop yer whining. What the heck is the matter with you anyway?

Parrot/David 

(Notices the Raccoons who have rudely interrupted the self-pity party.) Well if you have to know, and in case you couldn’t tell. I’m NOT HAPPY!

Raccoon/Toby 

Of course you’re not happy. You’re a miserable green parrot!

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan (Laugh)

Heh heh heh heh!

Parrot/David (Taken by surprise by this comment)

Oh that’s cruel, that’s so cruel! If only I could be a parrot! If only I were a parrot, my troubles would be over, and I would be so happy!!

Raccoon/Ryan (To Toby) 

What a birdbrain!

Raccoon/Toby 

Yeah, heh heh, yeah, a birdbrain, that’s good.

Raccoon/Ryan 

Heh heh, yeah, that’s good.

Raccoon/Toby (To parrot) 

OK bird, we’ll play your stupid game. Even if you could be a parrot, how would that do you any good?

Raccoon/Ryan 

Yeah, and why would anybody want to be a parrot anyway?

Raccoon/Toby 

Whatever that is!

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan (Laugh) 

Heh heh heh heh!

Parrot/David 

IDIOTS! IDIOTS! (Looking back and forth at them, shaking its head incredulously.) All right, I’ll tell you, though I don’t know what good it can do since you’re just a couple of’well never mind, I’ll tell you.

I have been unhappy for a long time. I’ve just never felt like I was who I was supposed to be. It’s a very deep feeling, one you two couldn’t understand. But you know that wise old owl who sits in the tree at the center of town?

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan 

(They quickly look at each other a little nervously. They DO know, because they’ve talked to the owl too, but would never admit that to the parrot.)

Raccoon/Toby 

The owl?

Raccoon/Ryan 

The owl?

Raccoon/Toby 

Oh, yeah, that bird in the tree at the center of town.

Raccoon/Ryan 

So what?

Parrot/David 

Well I took my troubles to the wise old owl and the owl just made it worse!

Raccoon/Ryan 

Worse?

Raccoon/Toby 

Yeah, worse? How?

Parrot 

The owl said the answer was right under my beak and I wouldn’t see it! She said that to be truly happy I would have to become a parrot! A parrot, for goodness’ sake! How on earth can I become a parrot? I don’t even know what a parrot is!!! Oh, why am I wasting my time telling a couple of stupid raccoons? Oh, I am so unhappy! (Parrot flies away squawking.)

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan 

(Look at each other nervously. This has upset them.)

Raccoon/Ryan 

Dude, that was messed up right there.

Raccoon/Toby 

Yeah, weird. That owl told the birdbrain parrot about our visit.

Raccoon/Ryan 

Yeah, but why wouldn’t the owl help us?

Raccoon/Toby 

Yeah, that’s not right. That birdbrain went to the owl, and the owl told it the truth. And the bird’s too dumb to realize that it’s already a parrot!

Raccoon/Ryan 

That’s pretty funny.

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan (Laugh) 

Heh heh heh heh!

Raccoon/Ryan 

But we went to see the old owl too.

Raccoon/Toby 

Yeah, we said “Hey owl, how come we never feel so good about ourselves, huh?”

Raccoon/Ryan 

“How come we keep lookin’ and never findin’, huh?”

Raccoon/Toby 

There’s like this empty feelin’ inside. I mean, I know we’re cool and everything.

Raccoon/Ryan 

Yeah, we’re really cool, no doubt about that.

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan (Strut around acting cool.)

Raccoon/Toby 

But something’s missing. There’s gotta be more, ya know?

Raccoon/Ryan 

Yeah, yeah, what did the owl tell us anyway?

Raccoon/Toby 

She said we would never become truly happy until we had become raccoons! Raccoons!!

Raccoon/Ryan 

Right! How does that help?

Raccoon/Toby 

How should I know? What the heck is a raccoon?

Raccoon/Ryan 

I dunno, I dunno, I dunno! Oh, just thinking about it makes me all mad again!

Raccoon/Toby 

Me too! Darn that owl! How on earth are we ever gonna become raccoons?

Raccoon/Ryan 

Don’t ask me. I think we’re history. Doomed! There is no such thing as a raccoon!

Raccoons/Toby and Ryan 

Oh! Oh! Oh! Woe is us! Woe is us!

Exit

SERMON: “That Art Thou”

This series on religious beliefs is really a kind of survey of some of the ways we make sense of ourselves and our world. The German poet Goethe once said that the person who doesn’t know two languages doesn’t really even know one. Because if we only know one language we think it’s the way to think and speak, rather than just a way.

This is even more true in religion. When I was a boy, religion was a pretty simple thing. I’d never heard of a Muslim; Hindus and Buddhists were people in the World Book Encyclopedia who dressed funny. As a kid from Tulsa, I don’t think I knew any Jews, and while I’d probably heard of Catholics, I had no idea what they were. As far as I knew, everyone in the world who really mattered was Presbyterian, and I wasn’t even too sure about some of them.

A few years later, one of my ministers explained to me, in his soft and kindly voice, that everybody but Presbyterians was probably going to hell anyway. Later, I had some Catholic friends who said I was going to hell. It was a funny world I grew up in; hell seemed to be everywhere.

Perhaps the worlds you were raised in weren’t much bigger than mine was. But this kind of provincialism just won’t do any more. The world’s a lot larger now. We look at the people we live and work with, the people we see in classes, on the streets, in our neighborhoods, and there is diversity we couldn’t have imagined a generation or two ago. The races are beginning to blend together in the workplace, through friendships and marriages.

Tiger Woods may be the most famous illustration of why the old “race” categories have just become incoherent. If I remember the math, he is half Thai, three eighths black, and one eighth Native American. It may be that the only category into which he really fits is “the world’s greatest golfer.”

And the whole spectrum of sexual identities and orientations is becoming apparent. It’s always been here, of course, though we were as blind to it as I was to the existence of Muslims when I was a child. But now, as almost all of us know from our own families, friends, colleagues and church members, we’re all here together, and we’re not always sure what to do with it. The world is a lot bigger than our pictures of it.

I think it’s easy to understand why our pictures of the world are too small, and why we have such trouble dealing with differences. And when we remind ourselves of how we are put together, and how we put together our pictures of the world, we will – this is the “magic” in the sermon today – suddenly be in a position to understand what religious mysticism is, and why it is so powerful. I don’t expect you to believe that. But it’s what I hope to persuade you of this morning. You know that only a fool would try to do this in thirty minutes, so I’ve already forgiven myself for failing. Now let’s begin.

Think about it: How did you come by your understanding of who you are and what the world is like? We can at least sketch an answer that is pretty close:

Some of it is biology, heredity. Babies seem to come into the world with their own distinct styles. Some are happy, some are fearful, some are calm, some whiney. Even the studies of identical twins raised in different families show that as adults the twins have some amazing similarities in style and taste – even to preferring the same brands of beer or cigarettes, the same make and color of car, and the same hobbies. So our unique hereditary package is part of the answer.

But most of it is nurture rather than nature. We were raised in our family with its weird little idiosyncrasies, rather than among the weird idiosyncrasies of the family across the street. That makes our worlds and us a little different. Religion plays a role, too. Our childhood religion trained us to think of important questions in terms of God, or several gods, or no gods at all. While I knew all regular people were Presbyterians, there were people on the other side of the world who thought all regular people were Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, or a thousand other flavors. So our religions help create our picture of ourselves and our world.

And our culture makes us different. If you were raised in the United States, you were soaked in a very different set of cultural expectations than you would have been if you had been raised in China, Vietnam, central Africa, Denmark or Greece. Last fall, I read a book on The Gods of Greece by political commentator Arianna Huffington, who grew up in Greece. The ancient Greek polytheism is still deeply embedded in the culture, and she was raised to see psychological dynamics like rage, lust, industriousness or independence as the presence within her of a whole pantheon of gods. She was taught that all of these powerful urges are sacred, but they’re not all wise, and that the wise person must find ways to blend the influence of all the thirteen gods and goddesses into an integrated personality. Imagine how differently she must see the world than someone raised in the fundamentalism of west Texas!

This list could be extended, but it’s already clear that who we think we are and what we think the world is like are largely shaped by our differences from other people raised in other places and ways. We each see the world in slightly different ways. And even when we begin meeting people who differ from us in significant ways, it’s hard not to think of them as abnormal. Our most obvious worlds are determined by our differences from one another in belief, race, sexual identity and orientation, culture, heredity and a dozen other variables.

This also means that people who are very different are a threat. Because if our beliefs are true, how can others live well without them? And if they can live happily without believing what we believe, then how could our beliefs be true? Can we really say that our deepest beliefs might be “true but irrelevant”? It’s not likely. The need to exalt and protect our little pictures of the world lie behind almost every family feud, war, and religious persecution in history. Unless we can force the world into our small understanding of it, we’re no longer sure what’s right, who we are, or how we fit into things. So we blithely condemn the others to hell. But that glib condemnation is accompanied by the unspoken fear that if we are wrong and they are right, then maybe we’re the ones going to hell. Frankly, it’s a hell of a way to live.

So far, I don’t think any of this is news. This isn’t one you want to write home about and say “Boy, I’m glad I went to church this morning! I learned something that will just amaze you: we each see things differently!”

The point is that the reason for it is because we’ve each seen, experienced, and understood only a tiny piece of the world. We can’t see the whole thing. We can’t experience the whole of life. We can’t understand it all. Not now, not ever. And this isn’t a problem to be solved by tomorrow’s sciences; it’s an abiding part of the human condition.

This is the human situation pictured so well in the ancient Hindu story of the blind men and the elephant. The “elephant” is a symbol for Life, the Universe, the biggest possible picture. We will never see the whole elephant. We can only see little pieces of the whole, and we think the whole is like the little pieces we’ve seen or touched. If one blind person has got hold of a leg, she thinks the elephant is like a leg. If another has the trunk, he thinks the beast is like a big rubbery snake. Religious wars are between people who think the elephant is a leg and those who think it’s a trunk.

And now we can understand religion, and we’re almost ready to understand mysticism.

When you begin studying almost any religion, you learn that the first word spoken in religion is usually “No.” The first lesson is to pry you loose from the certainties you entered with, because they are too small to capture life or to sustain you. It’s as though the greatest sages and religious writers think of us all as a bunch of two-year-olds. And in many ways – few of them flattering – we do act like two-year-olds in our beliefs.

In Christian theology, Paul Tillich taught this. I think that Tillich was the best Christian theologian of the 20th century, because the 20th century was the century of psychology, and Tillich defined theology as depth psychology. (I think theology is depth psychology.) Tillich said the first word in religion must always be “No!” because we can’t grow bigger until we let go of the provincial understandings that keep us small.

This notion that you have to begin religion with a “No” isn’t just modern liberal hogwash. It isn’t modern at all. In Hinduism, the first teaching, the first lesson taught to religious seekers, is a simple lesson that translates into English as “Not this, not that.” Whatever you begin clinging to, whatever you want to identify as the nature of the gods, the sacred truth, you will be told “No.” It’s not this; it’s not that. It’s not what you’re grabbing at or clinging to, because we have almost all grabbed something too small. So it’s “Not this, not that” – it’s bigger.

This is also like Jesus’ saying that the Kingdom of God is not something you can point to, not something that’s coming, not there, not there. In the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus said the kingdom is already spread out on the earth, and people don’t see it. In another gospel, he said the Kingdom of God is within you. Jesus was very clear about this, though Christianity has often forgotten it: the Kingdom of God is not something that’s coming in the future. It’s already here, if only we would see it. So, in order to snap us out of our trance, the first word spoken in religion must always be “No.”

The Buddha also taught that human suffering comes from our tiny pictures, our delusions, which are grounded in our ignorance of the way things really are.

We can’t see the bigger picture until we can let go of the little ones. Most of the lessons in most religions are trying to lead us toward a bigger picture of the world, the gods, reality, and ourselves. The goal of these religions is to try and tell us that it is safe to let go of our smaller understandings, because the larger picture is both more true and more comforting, as well as being our best hope toward a world of understanding rather than prejudice, peace rather than war.

Mysticism – the mystical experience – is the sudden, enveloping, realization that the world is far bigger than we had thought, and that our true home lies only within that bigger picture.

Here are a few statements from mystics of three different traditions. See if they don’t sound like the same message:

An 11th century Islamic mystic wrote “If men wish to draw near to God, they must seek Him in the hearts of men.”

A 17th century Sikh said “God is in your heart, yet you seek Him in the wilderness.”

Fifty years ago a man named Sri Aurobindo wrote, “The divine Nature, free and perfect and blissful, must be manifested in the individual in order that it may manifest in the world.” That’s not very poetic, but it’s the same message.

When we read religious writings like these, we need to remember that these statements are not eyewitness accounts from reporters. They are all created to try and describe a way of seeing that these people have found, or that has found them, and which felt so important they needed to tell others about it. These writers came from a whole array of religions, yet what they experienced sounds much the same.

You don’t have to come to this view through religion, either. Many have found this transcendent view through science. Some years ago, Carl Sagan said in his television series Cosmos that every atom of every one of us is stardust, because everything in the universe was once united before the Big Bang. He made quite a passionate point that our essence is one with the heart of the universe. That’s very close to a mystical vision, even though it came from the late High Priest of Science.

For instance, see how close it sounds to this statement from Hinduism’s Chandogya Upanishad, written more than 2400 years ago: “Brahman is supreme; he is self luminous, he is beyond all thought. Subtler than the subtlest is he, farther than the farthest, nearer than the nearest. He resides in the heart of every being.” Like a universe made of stardust: farther than the farthest, nearer than the nearest, residing in the heart of every being.

Carl Sagan nearly glowed when he spoke this way, and he was trying to spread his “good news” to others, that they might feel the glow as well – he was not only a mystic, he was also an evangelical! This certainly isn’t a modern yearning. Two thousand years ago the Roman poet Ovid wrote “There is a God within us, and we glow when He stirs us.” What a lovely line! Ovid saw his vision by looking within. Sagan found it by looking through telescopes to galaxies formed billions and billions of years ago, from the creative explosion that gave birth to the universe.

But what these pictures have in common is a kind of cosmic wholeness, a lovely picture of everything that ever was or ever will be, with us right there in the very heart of it, and it right there in the very heart of us. There is no Hell in these pictures. There is no vicious judgment day that damns those who are different from us. It is a picture of wholeness, and the message is always the same: that it is our true identity, our true home, our true destiny, to recognize ourselves as a part of everything and everything as a part of us. To know that we are indeed made of stardust, as is everyone else, and our true home is here with each other, on this amazing blue-green planet floating in the infinite space of a universe containing all that ever was or ever will be. And then the boundary, the illusory boundary between you and me and them and the world and the universe vanishes, and we become at home in, and at one with, everything that is or will be. The great Hindu Mohandas Gandhi said, “I know God is neither in heaven nor down below, but in everyone.” Stardust!

Two and a half millennia ago, another Hindu mystic wrote, “A knower of Brahman becomes Brahman.” This sounds like the “salvation through understanding” of modern liberalism (or classic Buddhism).

Mysticism may sound like it’s just letting yourself be drowned in powerful feelings – a kind of emotional epistemology. And a lot of pop mysticism and New Age hoopla is that flimsy. But the best mysticism is not just about feelings. It is seeing yourself as an essential part of an immense creation that is whole and good – and then, of course, acting out of that vision.

It’s no wonder that mystical experiences are described in such dramatic terms:

“There is a God within us, and we glow when He stirs us.”

“A knower of Brahman becomes Brahman.”

Or in the lines of the Danish Poet Piet Hein that accompany his drawing on the cover of your order of service, “Who am I to deny that maybe God is me?”

It’s ironic, but in both Christianity and Hinduism, the introductory religious lessons are the opposite of the “advanced” lessons. Christians learn to worship and perhaps fear God as the creator of the universe, infinitely greater than anything that we can imagine. After all, He created us out of dirt! He’s God, we’re dirt – you hardly get further apart than that! — And then Jesus says the kingdom of God is within you!

Likewise, the Hindus begin by slapping your hands and saying “No, No! Not this, not that!” But the ultimate teaching of Hinduism is the opposite. Once you can let go of little pictures, stop believing the elephant is a leg or a trunk, you can see the bigger picture. Now the teacher points out in a grand sweeping motion that includes everything, everything in the universe, then looks at you and says “That art Thou.” Brahman – the lord of the universe – is atman, the soul of each individual. God is hiding in the human heart. Carl Sagan looks out through a telescope at a universe so vast it can’t even be imagined, and concludes that everything is made of stardust.

Then suddenly – and this is the truly magical gift of the mystical experience – it’s almost impossible to think of other people as being different from us. It’s hard to think that any of our beliefs are worth declaring war over. It’s suddenly hard to find any excuse, or any place in our heart, for prejudice or hatred. Who are we to deny that maybe God is us? For that matter, who are we to deny that maybe God is a raccoon? – and that all raccoons have to do is to become really good raccoons, and know that it is sufficient?

Thinking this way can be revolutionary. It is a kind of conversion experience, and it’s shocking. The good news is that it can scare the hell out of you. The better news is that after the hell has been scared out of you, what’s left is heavenly. The best news – as every mystic of history has said – is that it’s true. And it really is the truth that can absolutely set us free.

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Endnotes

1 Abu Said ibn Abi Khayr (d. 1049) 

2 Arjan (d. 1606) 

3 Sri Aurobindo, Synthesis of Yoga, 1950 

4 Mohandas K. Gandi (1869-1948), The Essential Ghandi. 

5 Mundaka Upanishad, prior to 400 BC 

6 Though Piet Hein is not well known, he’s one of my favorite quirky and wise poets. He drew, wrote, sculpted and invented, and was the author of five volumes of Grooks – the word he coined for his witty little poems.