Christmas Stories

Davidson Loehr

December 24, 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

There are so many stories about these days at the end of December, and this morning I would like to tell you just a few of them. Each of the three main stories I’ll tell you seems to embody a certain central word, and for each of those three words I will light a candle. Then later in the service, I’ll use the candles to light something else, as you’ll see.

1. The oldest Christmas story is thousands and thousands of years old. That long ago, people noticed that every year at this time, when the days have been getting shorter and the nights longer, the cycle reverses, the sun starts coming back, and the days start getting brighter and longer again. Today, we call this the winter solstice. It’s December 21st on our modern calendars. But in the ancient calendars it came four days later. So in the world of several thousand years ago, long before the man Jesus lived, December 25th was already a symbolic and famous date, the date of the winter solstice.

People didn’t call it the winter solstice, though. They spoke of things in terms of their gods and goddesses. And December 25th was the birthday of their sun-god. When you think about it, the winter solstice is the day the sun starts being born again, so by definition it is the birthday of all sun gods. There were many sun-gods; each culture had its own. For the Greeks, tomorrow was Apollo’s birthday, and they carved pictures of Apollo driving his chariot pulled by flying horses across the sky, and pulling the sun behind him.

Another religion, which was much more important for our own history, even though most people have now forgotten its name, was the religion of Mithraism. Mithra was also a sun god, and tomorrow would be his birthday. Mithra was called the Son of God. Shepherds followed a special star in the sky to find the place of his birth, and they brought gifts to him on his birthday, and taught that he was the Son of God, sent to save the world. Since he was a sun-god, the sacred day for this religion was Sunday. They also carved bas-reliefs of Mithra in a chariot, pulled across the sky by flying horses.

If this story sounds familiar it’s because back in the year 336, the Christian church adopted Mithra’s birthday, December 25th, as the official birthday of Jesus, and also adopted Sunday as the holy day of Christianity. Until then, Jesus didn’t have an official birthday, and Christians didn’t celebrate Sunday. In fact, Christian writers of the first three centuries used to brag about the fact that they had no holy days, which they regarded as purely pagan practices. All that changed in the early fourth century.

And as a footnote to complete a theme I’ve mentioned twice, around 1865, the Civil War cartoonist Thomas Nast created an important image that brought an ancient theme full circle. Nast was the man who first gave us the Republicans’ elephant and the Democrats’ donkey. He was also the man who drew the picture showing us that Santa Claus rode in a flying chariot pulled through the sky by flying animals on the eve of the ancient winter solstice.

The story of Christmas on December 25th really goes back many centuries before either the Christians or the Jews existed. It was a religion of great faith: a faith that nature is trustworthy, faith that life and light will always begin returning at this time of the year, and a faith that their God was there and that he cared for them. They used evergreens, holly, ivy, mistletoe, and lights as symbols of their faith. And we still use all of their ancient symbols, as signs of our own faith.

So the first candle we’ll light for this season is the candle of Faith.

(LIGHT CANDLE OF “FAITH” AND TURN IT AROUND SO THE NAME “FAITH” SHOWS.)

2. If you are Jewish, or if you have Jewish friends, they tell a different story about this time of the year, though it is similar, too. It is the story of Hanukah, which begins on the 25th day of the Jewish month Chislev, which corresponds to what we call the 25th day of our month December.

(Tell Hanukah story)

It is a story of faith, and it is also a story of hope: hope that these forces that make the world so predictable and comfortable for us will continue to be friendly to us. They called these forces Lord, or God. For the Jews, it was and is a story of faith and hope in their God.

And so on Hanukah, Jews light not one but eight candles to stand for the faith and hope they felt when their oil light, which had only enough oil to burn for one night, burned for eight days, until more oil arrived. It was the hope that the God who had cared for them would continue to do so, and the hope that they would continue to serve that God with their hearts, minds and souls. And so the second candle we light for this season is the candle of HOPE.

(LIGHT CANDLE OF “HOPE” AND TURN IT AROUND)

3. The third Christmas candle will come from the third Christmas story. It may be the one you know the best, it’s the Christian story about December 25th. It was written about fifty years after Jesus had died, more than eighty years after he had been born. But those who put the story together put it together from parts of much older stories.

– Like the god Mithra and the Greek god Dionysus, Jesus was also a son of God, with the power to save his followers.

– As in the older story of Mithra’s birth, men followed a special star to find the place of Jesus’ birth, and they brought gifts fit for a savior or a king.

– Like Dionysus, Jesus’ father was the most high god and his mother was a young woman.

– Later in life, Jesus would have twelve followers, as Mithras had. He would heal the sick and raise the dead as Asclepius had, and turn water into wine like Dionysus.

– Jesus and his twelve followers would have a Last Supper at Easter time, at which they would eat bread and drink wine that had been associated with his body and blood – just as the followers of Dionysus and Mithra had done for a long time.

Religion scholars who study the stories of Jesus and other ancient religions love to point out the similarities and borrowings, and there were a lot of them.

But there was a difference, too, that brings in our third Christmas candle. Jesus had faith, he trusted his God and he was not afraid of the world, like the believers in the religion of Mithraism. And Jesus taught hope, too. He hoped and believed that his God would keep being there and keep caring for everyone.

But for Jesus, the answer to the world’s real problems didn’t rest with the return of the sun, or waiting for a God to make things better. He said that the Kingdom of God – which meant the kind of world God wants us to have — was up to us to bring about. It was within us and among us, he said. And it would be here as soon as we learned how to love one another. When we could treat everybody else as our sister or brother, as a child of God, he said, this whole world will become like a kingdom of God. Because of all the powers on earth, the most powerful is the power of Love. Love can forgive us when we make mistakes, can embrace us as we struggle, sometimes fail. Love can love even the unloveable. And if you love your enemies, as he also taught, they’re not your enemies any longer. That’s a great power.

And so the third Christmas candle we light is the candle of Love.

(LIGHT “LOVE” CANDLE AND TURN IT AROUND).

Religious people have celebrated faith, hope and love forever, and they are important parts of this winter solstice or Christmas season. But they aren’t the whole story; they’re only part of what is going on inside of you this season. Because you know as well as I do that not all of the feelings you have are feelings of faith, hope or love. Part of living is that sometimes we are afraid, or sad, or we are filled with regret, which means that we are sorry we did some of the things we did, or we wish we had done some other things instead. And those feelings can make it harder for you to enjoy Christmas, or even to enjoy yourself, you know?

So besides faith, hope and love, you have some Fears at Christmas. (PICK UP “FEAR” PAPER AND SHOW IT). What are you afraid of at Christmas? Well, you’re afraid that the people you’ve given presents to might not like them. Think of all the times that you’ve said or thought to yourself “Oh, I hope he likes it!” or “Oh, I hope she likes it!” And this doesn’t stop when you grow up, either. You are always giving people things you hope they’ll like, and are always a little afraid that they might not like them.

Or you’re afraid you won’t get the presents you want. Or you’re afraid they won’t be “cool” presents so you can impress your classmates. Or maybe you’re afraid that if Santa Claus is making a list and checking it twice, and is gonna find out who’s been naughty and nice, that maybe he will find out that you haven’t been as nice as you might have been.

These fears are awful things, even though everybody has them, and even though you will have fears of one kind of another for the rest of your life. And they can make Christmas a lot less happy for you.

And so for this Christmas, I’m going to tell you a secret about how to get rid of your fears. You think of the things that you can count on, the things that give you hope. Spring will come again; the days will begin getting longer and warmer. You can count on your family, your friends. You can count on your church community. Your parents love you; your friends love you. God loves you – all the gods love you. There are a lot of things you really have faith in, and faith cuts fear like scissors cut paper. So think about the things you can count on, the faith you have. Then take your fears (LIFT THE PAPER WITH “FEARS” ON IT) and you just take them over to your FAITH, say “Begone, fears, and let Christmas come!” and touch them to it (TOUCH THE FLASH PAPER TO THE CANDLE FLAME)

Besides fears, you might have some sadness this Christmas. (PICK UP THE “SADNESS” PAPER AND SHOW IT). Someone you love or someone who loved you may have died this year, and you may be sad about that. Or you may have lost a pet, whether it was a cat, or a dog, or a hamster or a goldfish, and that’s sad, too. Or someone you love may be sick or hurt or far away. It is hard to enjoy Christmas when you’re sad.

And so for this Christmas, I’m going to tell you how to get rid of some of your sadness. Think of all the things that you are glad for, all the things that give you hope. The presents, the toys and clothes and cool games, the fun of swapping Christmas stories with the other kids in your classes. Think of all the things you have to look forward to, and see how that makes you feel less awful. Just gather together all of your sadness and take it over to your Hope, and you just let your hopes touch your Sadness and say “Begone, sadness, and let Christmas come!” (TOUCH THE FLASH PAPER TO THE “SADNESS” CANDLE)

Besides some fears and some sadness, you might also have some Regrets. (PICK UP THE “REGRETS” PAPER AND SHOW IT). In other words, you might wish you hadn’t done some of the things you did this past year, or you wish you had done some things that you should have done but didn’t. You could have been nicer to your parents — or to your kids. You could have worked harder in school, or in sports, you could have done more around the house, you could have played more and had more fun than you did. You could have done a lot of things that you didn’t do, and you wish you had.

Don’t think these feelings only come to kids. You’ll have them for the rest of your lives. Older people also look back and wish they had done a better job in their jobs, or with you, or a hundred other things. These regrets can get you down, and make it hard to feel like celebrating Christmas, if you let them.

But this year, you don’t have to let them. Because for this Christmas, I’m going to tell you how to get rid of some of your regrets. Instead of getting all sad about the things you wish you hadn’t done, or the things you wish you had done that you didn’t do, think of somebody you love. You know, they did some things wrong this year too, and you still love them. That’s a pretty good clue that they still love you, too. So this Christmas, gather up all of your regrets (PICK UP THE “REGRETS” PAPER) and you take them over to thoughts of people you love or people who love you. Then you say “Begone regrets, and let Christmas come!” (TOUCH THE FLASH PAPER TO THE ‘LOVE” CANDLE.)

These are tricks that work on Christmas or on any other day. But don’t just think about it, do it. Oh, it’s easy to make excuses and put it off. “I’d love to get back in touch with my faith, hope and love,” you may think, “but there’s just too much to do. Maybe next year.” So you put it off, this Christmas season comes and goes, and you’ll never be blessed by its magic at all.

There’s only one time to try all these things, to let your faith, your hope and your love burn away your fears, sadness and regrets. And that time is now! (HOLD UP THE “NOW” PIECE OF FLASH PAPER.)

So have a good Christmas now. Because if you wait too long, this moment, and this Christmas, will quickly disappear. (HOLD “NOW!” FLASH PAPER OVER A CANDLE.)

Merry Christmas!

No Room at the Inn

Davidson Loehr

December 17, 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

Five months ago today I left St. Paul, Minnesota and began the two-day drive moving me to Austin. Though I’d been born in Tulsa, I had lived in the North for the past thirty years and I knew there would be some cultural adjustments here. Before I moved here, I was instructed by e-mail in the proper use of the word “y’all.” It was explained to me that “y’all” is singular, while the plural version is “all y’all.” After arriving, there were other new things to absorb, in addition to the heat. Like the armadillo races in Leukenbach, or the amazing number of pick-up trucks that aren’t hauling anything.

As Christmas decorations began going up, I was surprised – though no native Texans seem surprised – to see that Santa Claus had a Lone Star belt buckle, a cowboy hat, boots and spurs. And I don’t know whether this is a state-wide custom or not, but I was also surprised to see that some of the public Christmas decorations down in Gonzales included not only four or five Wise Men, Santa with boots and spurs and assorted farm animals, but also Popeye and Olive Oyl!

Besides the funny and fun differences, there are some other new traditions, coming mainly from the Hispanic communities. And of these, one of my favorites is this seasonal custom of La Posada.

Dawne Spinale, our interim DRE, told me about it when she came up with the idea of turning today’s coffee hour into an invitation for the adults to visit the religious education classrooms. Then I was moved, as I know many of you were, in learning of the La Posada enacted in town recently between Hispanic and black churches, where Hispanic Christians went from church to church seeking admission, only to be told there was no room for them, until the final church welcomed them in for hospitality and food. It was very moving for the participants, and for most of us who read about it.

It’s a whole different lens through which to see the Christmas season, and a profound one. I had never seen the old story of Mary and Joseph being told there was “no room at the Inn” as being more than a prelude to the tales of the stable, the animals, and the birth of Jesus in a manger.

They really weren’t asking for much. Just a place that would take them in, someplace where a child might be born. But there was no room at the Inn.

La Posada, though, brings out so much more. It takes the focus off of Christmas presents and makes us the gifts to one another, whether we choose to offer those gifts or not. We want somebody to see us as a fellow human being, just to say, “Of course there is room. After all, you’re just like me: alone, in need, vulnerable, and dependent on the compassion of others. Of course there is room.”

For me, this changes the whole Christmas story. Something sacred wants to be born. The opportunity presents itself, as it almost always does, in the plainest, simplest way. A couple anonymous people who don’t look like anything special will give birth to something holy, and the world has no room for it. Religious stories are seldom about kings and queens. The surprise is always that the highest comes out of the lowest, if that’s not too crudely put. The holy is within and among us, just as Jesus taught that the Kingdom of God was, and our abiding failure is the failure to recognize it.

Now if we could see these as sacred opportunities, there would always be room in our Inn. If these people dressed or looked like such important messengers should look, we’d be there for them. If they wore a crown, or came as movie stars or football quarterbacks or beauty queens – well then, of course there would be room at the Inn. But a couple simple-looking ragamuffins? Get away! Go sleep in the barn. This Inn isn’t for just anyone. It’s for the right kind of people, our kind of people. Go away.

This spirit of refusal has always been a part of us. It’s Scrooge, with his “Bah Humbug!” attitude. It’s the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. That’s what this spirit does, this “No-room-at-the-Inn,” Bah-Humbug spirit: it steals Christmas, turns it back into just another Monday. Something holy wants to be born and we won’t see it, so this spirit of refusal says “Sorry Mac, there’s no room at the Inn.”

It is a way of using what is or what has been to forbid what might be. That’s the sin involved here. It’s a way of keeping life small, forbidding its possibilities to grow beyond our habits. It’s ancient, much older than the Christmas story.

Something in us hates it when others might outgrow us, when they’re not like we are, not “our kind of people.” Churches do this too. In every church I have served, I’ve heard the same stories from visitors and newer members. They may not sound like they’re related to this La Posada story, but see if they don’t begin to feel familiar.

Newcomers to our churches usually arrive excited by this amazing range of possibilities, a religion for both head and heart, where no questions are forbidden. They have dozens of ideas for how we could spread this “good news” with the hundreds or thousands of others in the community that would love a place like this if only they knew about it. But when they say their ideas out loud, they feel that the old-timers just find reasons why they wouldn’t work, or want it studied by a committee for a year. New people come with excited ideas of what might be, and find them shut down by established habits of what has been. Looking at this from the outside, it feels like fear of change, fear of the new and different. Looking at it as an old-timer, it feels like protecting this institution you’ve loved and nurtured for so long. But if you’re an excited newcomer, it begins to feel like there’s no room at the Inn for the new life that is begging to be born.

So they go away: because, as they will tell you and as many of you have told me, they were never really invited in. There was no room at this Inn, so they left.

Nothing here is evil or awful; it’s just human nature. We get used to our people and our habits and we’re glad to see our people on Sunday, so we don’t notice there are lots of other people trying to find some room in this Inn, and not knowing how to get in. When they leave, they take with them the possibilities that might have been born here if they had stayed. There are starting to be more and more of them, they’re starting to wonder if there isn’t room for them here after all. It’s happening. And I think some new possibilities are beginning to be born. We’ll see, but I’m optimistic.

See how reality changes, depending on what kind of story you view it through? If you just see classic stories like the La Posada story as fables from a distant past, they’re not much help. But if you enter them, and let them enter you, they are a window onto our own lives, our own world. I just tried using the metaphor of people finding no room at the Inn to talk about the experience of many newcomers to many churches, including this one. But there are many more down-to-earth, more personal, examples of finding, or allowing, no room at the Inn. You can think of many as you let this subject settle in this week.

I’ll share just one story with you, a personal. I hadn’t thought of it as relating to the Christmas story at all until I learned about the La Posada tradition, but now I think it was a good example. It involved the last time I saw my grandfather, thirty-one years ago this month, just a few months before he died.

I hadn’t seen him in nine years. I had moved out of state, gone into the Army, gone to Germany and then Vietnam, then gone to Michigan to finish college. My brother called to say he didn’t think our grandfather would live much longer, so I decided to drive the four or five hundred miles to visit. He had always been such a sweet man.

I phoned information for Clarinda, Iowa, got his number, and called him. He was very happy to hear from me, and it would be “just fine” if I visited after Christmas. I called again a couple days before leaving, and he was still very happy to hear from me and it was still “just fine” if I visited.

A few miles outside of Clarinda, which is in the extreme southwest corner of Iowa, my car broke. I went up to the farmhouse, but the lady didn’t want to let me use her phone. Finally her husband came down, a big burly fellow, and she allowed that I might come in while he was there, but don’t go walking into other rooms.

The operator gave me the Ford garage, the only garage in town that would be open now. They towed my car in. I had a 1966 Datsun 1600 two-seater sports car, and I had some doubts that there would be a Datsun mechanic in Clarinda, Iowa. Once they got the car in the garage and popped the hood, it got better for a minute, as three big old farmer-mechanics in overalls all leaned over to look at the engine. I heard some positive, approving grunts. Then one of them looked up at me and said “Nice car. Did you make it?”

And I thought, ” I’m going to die here!” It was the alternator, they said. The alternator was broken. I know nothing about cars, and an alternator sounded like an exotic piece of equipment. My mind began replaying the worst scenes from old Alfred Hitchcock movies as I imagined how my end might come. Then they discovered that my little Japanese Datsun used a Delco alternator, which was made by Ford and which they had in stock! I accepted it as a miracle. They charged me a very fair price, gave me a donut, and told me where to find my grandfather’s house, just a few blocks away.

By the time I got there, it was about nine o’clock: cold, dark and windy, with blowing snow. I knocked at his door, and within just a few moments he came. When this dear old man opened the door, I was suddenly aware of two things, simultaneously.

The first was that he had no idea who I was. He was quite senile; his mind was almost completely gone. He didn’t even know he had grandsons, and he didn’t know me, though he thought my last name rang a bell, since it sounded like his.

I came to see my grandfather, and he opened the door to find a complete stranger, come from far away on a cold, dark, snowy night.

The second thing I noticed just as quickly was that, even while he had no idea who this strange young man on his porch was, he was opening the door as wide as he could, and welcoming me inside. There was room at this Inn, even for a strange young foreigner.

I stayed for two days, and in the few lucid moments he had, there were some warm and wonderful memories with this dear old man. His mind was mostly gone, but his heart was still working, and working well. I would have to introduce myself to him several times a day. Every time I would come out of one of his rooms and he would come out of another, he would be mildly shocked to find a stranger in his home and would say again “Well hello and welcome! And who may you be?” Every time I would tell him my name and let him know I was his grandson. And while he tried to react politely, I knew that for all but a few minutes he had absolutely no idea who I was.

I remember some of the stories he shared during his few lucid moments, stories from sixty-five years earlier, the story of how he had proposed to my grandmother, back in 1907, stories told in crisp and poignant detail, as though he were still there – which, in some ways, I guess he was.

Now when I think back on that strange visit of so long ago, I am transfixed by that image of him throwing his door wide open to invite into his home a total stranger on a cold dark night. I keep trying to remember the lines from the poem: “I was hungry and you fed me, I was alone and you took me in-” That’s not quite right, I can’t quite remember them.

But I do remember what it felt like the night I knocked at a stranger’s door and he took me in. I try to write a script for him as I replay the scene in my mind. I have him saying dramatic things like “There’s room at this Inn!” But the words aren’t right. They’re too phony, too contrived. He did it better, without any words. He just opened the door as wide as he could, welcomed me inside, saw my little suitcase, and showed me to a bedroom where I might sleep. I learned it was his bedroom; he had taken some blankets to the big sofa. But he wouldn’t hear of offering his young guest – whoever I was – anything but the best bed he had. I will remember that visit for as long as I live.

Well, that’s kind of how the Christmas story ends, too. Mary and Joseph were finally welcomed in, and something holy was born, something holy and memorable that had the power to save the world.

That part’s true. It can testify to it. Every time there is room at an Inn, every time we overcome fear with love, the stage has been set for another kind of manger scene where something holy can be born. And the attitudes, the spirits, the memories that are born of that encounter of finding that yes, there is room at the Inn and we will find you a nice bed – that attitude really can change the world. It changed mine. Even hearing about it second-hand in this story may bring a change into yours. Something happens to the one who, against all odds, was welcomed in by the stranger, something that will never be forgotten.

If only, somehow, this spirit could become contagious and others could catch it! That’s the kind of miracle that really might save the world. In fact, it’s the only miracle that could save the world.

From the Fringes to the Center?

Davidson Loehr

December 10, 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

These are remarks in response to the book The Cultural Creatives: How Fifty Million People Are Changing the World by Paul Ray and Sherry Anderson. The good news is that a thirteen-year study of American society shows a huge and growing number of people – between 25 and 50 million whose guiding values sound a lot like the basic values of most people who happen to attend UU churches – who could be the next “silent majority” with the numbers and the creative power to change the direction of our society. The bad news is that, for decades, Unitarians have developed – some would say, “reveled in” – an identity at the fringes of American society. The power offered in this new group – which has not been self-identified yet – lies near the center, as a part of the larger society, rather than apart from it, as cultural liberals have so often been. Is this a challenge, and a calling, which we can, should, or even must meet?

PUPPET SHOW: “The Lone Ranger and the Posse”

STORY: The show begins with the Lone Ranger opposed to The Posse (four puppets). It’s a point of both pride and identity with the Long Ranger that there’s only one Lone Ranger, while The Posse is (just) a group, a herd. But then a second Lone Ranger appears, and then two more. They are all still clear that they are “The Looooooone Ranger,” but as there become two and four of them, they’re confused, and look at the other “Lone Rangers.” Finally, after four of them appear and they look at each other, they begin to move together, until finally it is clear, from their unison movement, that the Lone Rangers have become The Posse. (There needs to be some hat or mask or something that is easy to slip on a hand puppet and identifies them as Lone Rangers.)

NARRATOR: This is the story of the Lone Ranger

Lone Ranger puppet appears and cries, “I’m the Looooooooone Ranger!”

NARRATOR: – and The Posse.

Four puppets appear, moving together, like they’re riding horses. They go to the left (up and down together), then turn and go back to the right, then disappear.

NARRATOR: The Posse always had some friends with them –

The four puppets appear again, quickly go in formation to the left, then back to the right, then disappear.

NARRATOR: – the Lone Ranger was always alone.

Lone Ranger appears and cries, “I”m the Looooooooooone Ranger! The heck with The Posse!” Lone Ranger stays in sight during next line, and turns toward the Narrator’s voice during the following line:

NARRATOR: And sometimes, it was pretty lonely.

Lone Ranger: “I’m the Looonely Ranger!”

NARRATOR: But not The Posse-

The Posse appears and starts going together to the left as the Narrator continues.

NARRATOR: They were never lonely.

The Posse turns and goes back to the right, then disappears.

NARRATOR: But one day, something very unexpected happened. First, the Lone Ranger appeared –

Lone Ranger: “I’m the Looooooooone Ranger! The heck with The Posse!”

NARRATOR: – and then, out of nowhere, a second Lone Ranger appeared!

Second Lone Ranger appears on the right side: “I’m the Looooooone Ranger! The heck with The Posse!”

First Lone Ranger suddenly turns at the sound of the second Lone Ranger. The second Lone Ranger moves across stage, over to the first, and snuggles up against the first Lone Ranger. As the Lone Rangers are moving together, the Narrator continues:

NARRATOR: And just as they were getting used to there being two Lone Rang-ers –

Two more Lone Rangers appear on the right side of the stage.

NARRATOR: two more Lone Rangers appeared!

Two new Lone Rangers: “We’re the Loooooooone Rangers! The heck with The Posse!”

First two Lone Rangers, from the left side: “We’re the Loooooooone Rangers! The heck with The Posse!”

This is when the most important movement happens. The two sets of Lone Rangers sort of begin moving (maybe kind of up and down, like horseback rid-ers) and begin moving towards each other. Once all four are together, they are kind of moving independently, but begin moving more and more in synchronized movement – their movement needs to show the audience that they are becom-ing The Posse.

NARRATOR: But in spite of all their yelling, something had happened, and the Lone Rangers – all four of them – hadn’t even noticed it! Have you? Have you seen what’s happened?

The four Lone Rangers, who have been moving from the left side to the right side together like synchronized horseback riders, separate – two going to each side – then reach down behind the screen and bring up a big sign between them that says

“THE END”

SERMON: From the Fringes to the Center?

Something revolutionary has begun being born in the past forty years, and it’s arriving almost unnoticed. It is the birth of a new worldview, a fundamentally new way of understanding ourselves and our world. It is dramatically different from the two American worldviews which preceded it. I think it signals a cultural revolution already in progress, and still nearly invisible.

I want to talk with you this morning about three fundamentally different worldviews. One has been with us for centuries, one has been part of us for about the last 150 years. And the third one is really just about thirty years old – still a baby.

What is a “worldview”? What does that word mean? Your worldview is the content of everything you believe is real – God, the economy, technology, the planet, being moral or smart, conformist or rebellious. It includes your view of how things work, how you should work and play, your relationships with others, everything you value. (The Cultural Creatives, p. 17) Most of us change our worldview only once in a lifetime, if at all, because it changes virtually everything in our consciousness. (pp. 17-18)

That’s also why it is useful to group people by their worldviews. If you understand a person’s worldview, you can understand a lot about them. You’ll have a good idea how they will vote on a wide variety of issues, what kind of heroes and heroines they are likely to have, what kind of a life they admire, and what they think America and the world should be like.

I’m trying to do several things this morning. I may be biting off more than I can chew. I am reflecting on a very provocative book called The Cultural Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World (Paul H. Ray & Sherry Ruth Anderson [New York: Harmony Books, 2000]). I’m also trying to back off from the book far enough to find some very broad and clear patterns, and I’m trying to present these patterns in a way that will feel relevant to your lives. Finally, I’m trying to make this into a sermon, rather than just a book review. Only a fool would try to do this in thirty minutes. Let’s begin.

The three worldviews: Traditional, Modern, and Creative.

Traditionalists

The first, and oldest, American worldview might as well be called Traditionalism, because that’s what it sounds and feels like. Traditional Americans feel that the best American values were represented by images like John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed or Doris Day. They look to global figures like Mother Theresa, Billy Graham, or Pope John Paul II as people of the right kind of moral values. Their hope for America is that it might, somehow, rediscover a romanticized, idealized version of the small-town and rural America of a hundred years ago, when life was simpler and people were, they believe, more responsible and moral. They love Rush Limbaugh and Dr. Laura, though him more than her.

They hate feminism. They hate the idea and fact of gay or lesbian rights. People are supposed to know their place. Men are supposed to be men and manly, women are supposed to be nurses, teachers, wives and mothers. Sex and passion of all kinds must be kept under control in all areas. Life isn’t complex if we’ll all just follow the rules. All the guidance you need to live by is contained in the Bible. And if people read their bibles more the world would be a much better place. Preserving civil liberties is nowhere near as important as restricting immoral or unpatriotic behavior. (pp. 31-32).

One quarter of American adults fall into this general category, about 48 million people. Those with strong religious feelings tend to be Catholics, Mormons, fundamentalists or evangelical Protestants. Many are African American or Hispanic American. About 70% of these Traditional people are religious conservatives who oppose abortion. They oppose it, however, for two main reasons that are seldom acknowledged. First, because it’s too much inappropriate independence for women. And second, because a woman’s right to an abortion is felt as a symbol of a whole immoral order that rejects the rule of men, the church, and “the way things are supposed to be.” But this group isn’t mainly about politics. It’s about beliefs, ways of living, a sense of the world’s order and their place in it.

You know these traditional-minded people. They’re in your family, as they are in mine and everyone else’s. Some of them love you dearly, as you love them, even though your beliefs drive each other crazy. We might think of them as “The Posse” – that big group that all moves together – but they’re really not. They were more numerous and powerful 150 years ago. But they have become the “moral minority,” and have no chance of being the vision of the future unless the country takes a turn toward fascism, which seems unlikely.

Modernists

The second worldview that has defined our society developed during the 19th century, and most of the 20th century. This worldview can be called the Modernism, and Modernists make up about half of the population. They believe that science, technology, and capitalism are the secrets of America’s success and the best hope of humanity.

Since they’re half the population, we all know lots of them, and know them well. We’re really living in their world. They value Success – and seem to spell it with a capital “S” – and making or having plenty of money, whether they actually have it or not. Bill Gates is the richest of them, and they think we should be in awe of rich people. They know that science, not religion, is really the answer to most of the questions we have. “Spirituality” is kind of a flaky concept. Our bodies are pretty much like machines, not temples. They don’t relate to John Wayne as much as they relate to Harrison Ford, Sean Connery, or Madonna. It’s not being traditional, obedient and moral that matters as much as being smart, aggressive and rich. These are the people who believe, and sometimes live, the American Dream. When Ronald Reagan was asked what he thought was the greatest thing about America, he said it’s a country where you can get rich. Half the population thinks that’s pretty solid.

You can see the Modernist worldview everywhere. Read Time magazine, the NY Times, the Wall Street Journal, Business Week, Forbes or USA Today, and you’ll be soaked in the official worldview of the Moderns. You know these people too, they’re part of us, they still run the country.

But see what a different world they live in than the Traditionalists! Science counts for more than religion. Being smart, independent and successful are more important than being faithful or moral. And religious notions like “the meek shall inherit the earth” or the poor will “get their reward in heaven” just seem foolish to them.

For most of us, society seems to be a battle between these two groups, the Traditionalists and Modernists. This is the battle between science and religion, or pro-life versus pro-choice. Jimmy Stewart or Jimmy Carter served proudly in the armed forces when they were called to, as Traditionalists should. Bill Clinton and George W. Bush did not, and avoiding the draft was seen as the smart thing to do. They really are two different worlds, two fundamentally different ways of understand what is good and right.

Creatives

But since about 1970, a new worldview has emerged. If the first worldview, the one from 150 to 200 years ago, is Traditional, and if the second one – the one soaked in science, technology, and the American Way – is Modern, the new worldview might be called Creative. It’s more concerned with trying to heal and mend, trying to become whole people in a whole world, than with taking sides. That’s very different!

Now: how to persuade you there is a new worldview and that you are probably up to your eyeballs in it? It’s kind of like trying to explain “water” to fish. Let me ask you about a dozen questions, and just mentally see how many you would answer Yes to. And as we’re going through them, feel how fundamentally different they sound than anything in the Traditionalist or Modernist world-views:

1. Do you love nature, and are you deeply concerned about protecting it?

2. Are things like global warming, the destruction of the rain forests, overpopulation, ecological irresponsibility and the widespread exploitation of people in poorer countries important to you, and would you like to see us take action to act more responsibly in these areas?

3. Would you be willing to pay a little more in taxes, or for your consumer goods, if you knew the money would go to clean up the environment and stop global warming?

4. Do you give a lot of importance to developing and maintaining your personal relationships?

5. Do you think it’s important to try and help other people develop their unique gifts?

6. Do you believe in equality for women at work, and more women leaders in business and politics?

7. Are concerns about violence and the abuse of women and children around the world important to you?

8. Do you think our politics and government spending should put more emphasis on children’s education and well-being, on rebuilding our neighborhoods and communities, and on creating an ecologically sustainable future?

9. Are you unhappy with both the left and the right in politics, and do you wish we could find a new way that’s not just in the “mushy middle”?

10. Would you like to be involved in creating a new and better way of life in our country?

11. Are you uncomfortable with all the emphasis in our culture on success and “making it,” on getting and spending, on wealth and luxury goods? Do you feel that it all misses the most important things in life?

12. Do you like people and places that are exotic and foreign, and like experiencing and learning about other ways of life? (p. xiv)

Now: how many people, what percent of the American adult population, do you think shares those values? Maybe two percent? Five percent? Those are the answers that researchers get when they ask this question. Very few, maybe five percent, maybe not that many. We’re the Lone Rangers, not The Posse.

But no, it’s about 26% of the adult American population who share those values. Since the 1960s, about fifty million people have changed, or been born into, this new worldview.

These figures don’t sound believable. When researchers began publishing them, a lot of Europeans didn’t even believe them. Three years ago, officials in the European Union decided to do a survey in each of their fifteen countries. In the fall of 1997, they found an even higher percentage – and between 80 and 90 million people — in their own cultures who had, almost unnoticed, somehow changed to (or been born into) a worldview that embraced all the values in those questions I just asked.

A very important piece of this new way of looking at the world is that it is a vision that is beginning to appeal to, and that works in, business. Where political liberals have spent decades bashing business in the name of ecological and other concerns, business leaders are beginning to discover that, ideology aside, it simply makes better business and earns more money to be ecologically responsible, to hire the best people available, and to create healthy and respectful working situations. I’ll tell you just one business story.

Ray Anderson, CEO of Interface, Inc., the largest commercial carpet firm in the world, read a book several years ago called The Ecology of Commerce and he had a kind of conversion experience. He turned his company, with manufacturing sites spread across four continents, into a business that not merely recycled its waste materials but returned to the Earth more than they took out. His people (in 110 countries) are reimagining and redesigning everything they do. And it pays. In the first five years, they invested $25 million in waste reduction and saved $122 million. By 1998, Ray Anderson was giving more than 100 speeches a year to business and environmental groups around the world. He wants to create “the next industrial revolution.” (11) Other large multinational companies – like Electrolux and Mitsubishi Electronics – have also begun changing their philosophy and their ways of doing business – again, not so much out of a notion of ideological purity as out of the simple and powerful realization that it makes more money to work smart.

We know where this new worldview came from. Its origins were in the civil rights movement, the movements for women’s rights, gay rights, the environmental movements and the anti-war movements of the 1950s – 1970s.

But while these different ways of thinking about nature, women, sexual identities, animals and the rest each began in a separate movement, they have now coalesced into this new Creative worldview. If you meet with the activists at Rainforest Action Network in San Francisco, for example, you’ll hear about more than rain forests. You’ll also hear them talk about feminism, gay liberation, so-cial justice, organic foods, spirituality, and people of the third world. All these issues are in the air they breathe. They’re imagining a whole new culture that’s trying to heal what has been divided and broken for so long. (p. 166) That’s the Creative worldview.

To Traditionalists, all of this just sounds like a weird bunch of people. They see the 1960s and 1970s as the birth of the Age of Narcissism and the loss of our moral center as a society. There is a lot of narcissistic personal behavior around to support the idea. But a better case can be made that we are actually far more morally aware and responsible today than we were forty years ago. I gave you a list of questions with which nearly all of you identified. Now here’s another list that we don’t think about often enough. It is a list of moral attitudes and behaviors that were normative forty years ago, but are nearly impossible to defend today:

White supremacy.

Discrimination against women in the legal system, colleges and the work-place.

Creating a hair-trigger risk of nuclear war, in which the amazing phrase “mutually assured destruction” was the main military strategy, ignoring the fact that it would kill billions of people or even all life on Earth in a nuclear winter.

The McCarthy-era suppression of civil liberties in the name of anti-Communism.

Expecting people to stay in stultifying, dead-end, or harmful jobs in the name of security or loyalty.

Expecting people to stay in stultifying, dead, or harmful marriages in the name of security or loyalty.

Expecting people to stay in churches and religions that are stultifying, dead, and lacking in spirit. Just this morning I saw a bumper sticker coming from this sort of feeling. It said “If going to church makes you a Christian, does going to the garage make you a car?”

Treating our souls, or psyches, as steeped in Original Sin, or as a sewer of unconscious drives, rather than being full of positive human potential. What an amazing revolution the “human potential movement” was, to define us as basically healthy rather than basically evil!

Gay and lesbian bashing.

Routine mistreatment of animals in research laboratories.

And subjects like drunkenness, old age, ethnicity, race or gender as the butt of comedians’ jokes.

All of these attitudes have deep moral dimensions. And in all these ways and many others, we are far more mature and responsible today than we were fifty years ago in the days of “Ozzie and Harriet.” Furthermore, the Lone Rangers from all these movements have now become the new Posse. There are more “Cultural Creatives” today than there ever were in the Moral Majority!

It is a huge movement, with far greater intellectual, political and economic power than it has yet realized – primarily, I think, because it isn’t aware of itself. For example: In 1998 and 1999, the top-selling movie video, The Lion King, was advertised and promoted everywhere. You couldn’t turn on the TV or go to a fast-food place without seeing posters, cups and gadgets promoting that block-buster movie. But it wasn’t the top-selling video of the time. The Lion King was outsold by an instructional video for yoga, which sold more than a million copies. In fact, among Amazon.com’s ten top-selling videotapes for those two years were two other yoga videotapes as well. (p. 328)

So what does all this mean? For one thing, it means that if you hunger for a deep change in your life that moves you in the direction of less stress, more health, lower consumption, more spirituality, more respect for the earth and the diversity within and among the species that inhabit her, you are not alone!

It’s funny, how new world views are born. During the Industrial Revolution, the image of the machine became the central image of Modernism: it still is. Our new worldview also has a powerful guiding image. And just as the picture of the machine wasn’t possible before the 19th century, so our new picture wasn’t possible until the late 1960s. Interestingly, both the picture and its power were almost prophetically predicted over twenty years earlier. In 1946, astronomer Fred Hoyle said that when the first picture of the Earth taken from space was shown, it would change the world. (p. 303)

The photos of earth taken from the moon are powerful signs of a new consciousness, a new picture of our interdependence, our interrelationships, a world without borders that is an organic whole. Those photographs of the blue-green earth floating in space are the baby pictures of a new worldview. Our first baby pictures.

As we approach the Christmas season, it’s a good time to think of things like baby pictures. Christmas is about the birth of something hopeful and lifegiving, something that might even save the world. We’re not the Lone Rangers any more. There are about fifty million of us; we’re The Posse. Extending the Christmas story metaphor, I wonder: What if we are the infant in this new manger? What if our mission is indeed to save the world, and our most sacred task is to get about the business of discovering, together, how to do it?

How To Become A Butterfly

Davidson Loehr

November 26, 2000

Sermon

The story of Psyche and Eros is among the oldest stories in human history, first passed on orally for centuries before it came to be written down. It is a complex story with many layers and turns. It would be easy to do six sermons on its many layers and levels. This morning, I want to consider just a few parts of it.

Psyche is a young woman who is seduced by, and falls in love with, a mysterious man whom she can meet only at night in a magical castle. While the nights are heavenly, his rules are that she may never see his face nor know his name.

Psyche’s jealous sisters convince her that such rules can only mean that her mystery lover is a horrible monster, and that her life may even be in danger. They advise her to take an oil lantern and a dagger, to light the light after he has gone to sleep, and when he is indeed revealed as a monster to use the dagger before it is too late.

So at their next meeting, Psyche follows the script. But when she lights her oil lantern, she discovers that her lover is no monster, but is instead the handsome god Eros, the god of divine love. Startled, she jerks the lantern, a drop of hot oil is spilled on Eros’ shoulder, and he awakens. Infuriated that Psyche has broken his rules, Eros vanishes, and in the morning the magical castle is gone as well, and Psyche is alone.

She seeks for Eros and finally, after many trials and with some divine intervention, finds him. This time, they meet in the daytime; they can see and know each other, and the love is more equal. As a reward, the gods of Olympus grant Psyche immortality. Even in this quick summary, you can see some of the many levels of psychological insight in this ancient myth. The core salvation stories of both Eastern and Western religions are contained within this ancient Greek myth. I want to back off and think about religion from a distance, then sort of approach it from several directions. But all directions will come back to that old story of Psyche and Eros — or to translate their names into English, the soul’s search for divine love.

It’s a funny story to think about people believing. But we’re funny animals. We will believe almost anything. And if you look at the range of things people actually believe, it looks like we do believe almost anything. When you listen to any one of us talk about what we believe, how we think life works, what we think it’s about, the stories tend to be well-rehearsed and dramatic. We’re often so serious about it, so sure.

But we always leave out the most important part of the picture, because our stories never seem to include the picture of us telling them. In other words, religious beliefs aren’t really about gods or angels or demons. That’s too simple. They’re really pictures of some person sitting there telling us these stories about gods or angels or demons. They’re stories we tell, and the stories always seem to revolve around our needs, our fears, our wishes. When you put the thinker back into the picture of the things we think, it changes the picture. When you back off, the whole show of people telling the stories of their religious beliefs looks more like a flea market, or a storyteller’s convention.

  • I hear a full-grown woman tell me she believes in God. I have no idea what she means by that, and she probably doesn’t either. She doesn’t believe there’s a Guy in the Sky, so she’s using the word “God” in a psychological or emotional way it would be hard to understand without knowing her fairly well. Still, the belief, whatever it means, is a deep part of her, and it gives her the “center” for her life.
  • Somebody else spins a yarn about how we all have guardian angels. But they know that no video camera would show anything but the person telling the story, with no angels ever in sight. So they are using that word “angel” in a creative way, too.
  • A man tells you he’s going to heaven when he dies, and will see his wife there, and he’s sitting there in his kitchen telling this story in a world without anything “up there,” where an “up there” doesn’t even exist, where his wife was cremated after she died, just as he’s planning to be. If you enter into his imaginative world, you can see where it might comfort him. But when you back off to put him back into the picture, it’s just another old man who wishes he weren’t so alone, wishes that we didn’t all have to die and disappear from memory, and who was once taught this imaginative story about living forever that he’s now telling to you. When we talk about going to heaven, or living again after we have died, we don’t mean to examine the belief for coherence. If I saw my grandfather in heaven, would he be a senile half-blind 84-year-old man like I remember him? If so, what kind of heaven would it be for him? Or would he be in his prime, a man of about forty or so, when he was happiest, and before I was born? Would we all be in our primes? Would heaven be filled with 35-40-year-olds? How would anyone recognize their parents, grandparents, children, grandchildren? Pictures of heaven aren’t meant to be examined this closely. A belief in heaven is a different kind of statement. It’s a story we’re spinning from our imaginations, a story for us to live in.The point of religious beliefs isn’t really their meaning. It’s a kind of comfort, safety, confidence, a feeling of being at home in a world that can be trusted, or that we have at least decided to trust. We’re spinning stories to live in the way spiders spin their webs. But it isn’t science. We’re creating imaginative, comforting worlds to live in.
  • And our faiths aren’t just religious. We even spin tales about our favorite sports team, how they — and we – are “Number One.” University of Texas fans flashed the “Number One” sign during their defeat of Texas A&M Friday, even though they knew there wasn’t a chance the team would be ranked that high. Even a team that isn’t ranked in the top 1000 gets its fans waving the “Number One” sign when they score. When you’re waving a flag or caught up in the emotions of a tight football or basketball game, it all feels so convincing. Then you back off and see the whole show, where there are thousands and thousands of people all selling these stories of how they are part of something that’s Number One – and again, the stories are about us, and something we’re seeking.
  • A young woman in love tells her friends this new guy is the most loving man, the handsomest dude, in the whole world. But when you stop just listening to the story, and back off to see her sitting there telling it with that excited, hopeful look on her face, you see that she has no intention of traveling the world to see if it’s really true. The story really isn’t about this guy at all. It’s about her hopeful yearning to be part of a relationship in which she feels cherished. And all those other stories aren’t about gods or nations or sports teams either: they’re about us, and our need to feel special, to feel that we’re part of something bigger and more enduring than just ourselves.It’s always about us. The real subject is all these storytellers. The real religious question isn’t about what we’re selling, but why we need to sell it.Some faiths we just inherited, loaded our hopes and fears onto, never questioned, and have carried with us ever since, the way some people used to put those little plastic statues on the dashboards of their cars. They couldn’t explain just how that plastic statue was going to protect them, but they felt safer with it there, and would feel a lot less safe if it weren’t there.

The things we believe cover an amazing range (From “What Does America Believe?” pp. 114ff in Dec 96 issue of “George” magazine):

  • 75% of Americans believe in life after death, though probably no one has any idea just how or where this would all take place.
  • 86% believe in Heaven, and most will still point up if asked where it is. But if they believe in it, they think there might be a place for them in it.
  • Only 38% believe in evolution, which means most people can’t find a place for themselves in that story, they don’t feel like it connects them with something they want to be connected with. It may be scientifically true, but it isn’t an interesting enough story to live in for more than about 38% of the people.
  • 78% believe in angels, some swear they’ve seen them, though nobody has ever caught one on a camera, so it sounds like the angels exist in their minds, not in the public space they share with others. But I’ll bet they think that if there are angels, the angels notice them.
  • And I don’t know how many people believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Barney or the Tooth Fairy, because these polls seldom include children. But it’s easy to see that even as children, we create imaginary playmates and imaginary worlds that make us feel included and cared for.

The ancient Greeks used to say that their world was supported by the strongest of the gods, Atlas. We’ve all seen pictures of Atlas, holding up the modern earth. That’s what all of our special beliefs are like: that picture of Atlas, holding up the world. All of our deepest and most important beliefs are stories we tell ourselves because we really need to believe, as the ancient Greeks also did, that our world is being supported by something that is both strong, and friendly to us.

Psychologists say that such imaginative worlds show us projecting our own needs and thoughts outward like movie projectors, investing all these inanimate things with spirit that really all comes from us. Many scholars view our religions as successful imaginative projections of a positive spin onto an otherwise indifferent world. Then, in a “footnote” tone, they may add that these imaginative stories seem to let us live with verve and hope. There’s a line from Leonard Bernstein’s “Mass” that I’ve always liked. It comes when the priest is trying to conduct the Credo, and a street singer, sort of a hippie, comes up to argue with him. “I’ll believe in one god, I’ll believe in three,” sings the hippie: “I’ll believe in thirty, if they’ll believe in me.” He didn’t just want a God, he wanted an Atlas, something both strong and friendly.

Then religion is an act of the imagination, a creative response to life’s deepest urgings, the active attempt to make a home out of an otherwise indifferent world. We must make a home, we must make a home for us. But there is a catch to this. There is a price to pay, and it stops most people from growing up religiously. Growing up religiously is always heretical – it always involves growing beyond the boundaries of the beliefs we inherited. You can stay a child with inherited faiths, but growing up religiously means making those beliefs an integrated part of your adult worldview and your life.

Next spring, I’ll be teaching an eight-hour program here, on the Jesus Seminar, the findings of this critical scholarship, and some of the revolutionary implications of this new look at the man Jesus and the origins of the religion of Christianity. I’ll also be doing the week-end program in Wilmington, Delaware in the spring. I think it’s an important program, and have been doing it for several years. If you come to the Friday-Saturday program here, you’ll hear how the man Jesus taught that his version of the Kingdom of God simply required all people to treat one another with love and charity. There was nothing supernatural about it, no miraculous intervention by a God from above in Jesus’ notion. The Kingdom, as he said again and again, is already potentially here, it is within and among you. His disciples didn’t understand him, and Christianity, you could say, is founded on that misunderstanding.

These two levels of understanding religion, the natural and supernatural, have been with us forever. Most of you know the character of the Grand Inquisitor from Dostoevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov. That chapter shows the difference between spiritual children and spiritual grown-ups, and the terrible price that must be paid if we are to grow up religiously. As you may remember, the Grand Inquisitor is interviewing Jesus, who has returned during the Spanish Inquisition. He knows what Jesus tried to teach, but isn’t impressed. He says Jesus demanded too much of people, demanded that they grow up, and people don’t want to grow up. People just want magic, he says, and are eager to give away all their freedom to any church or charismatic leader who will promise to take care of them like children. That is the biggest single dividing line in religion, the line between the Narrow Path that prophets and sages like Jesus teach, and the Broad Path of magic and gods that too many churches offer. Finally, all “Kingdoms of God” must point beyond God.

This is the paradox of religion: growing up means letting go. Here, the Buddhists seem to see this much better than we Westerners do. “When is a man really grown up?” asks the student in one Buddhist saying. “When he no longer needs to be lied to,” is the teacher’s answer. “If you meet the Buddha on the road,” runs the title of one popular book on Buddhism from thirty years ago, “kill him.” As long as you are bowing, deferring to a teacher, a savior, or a god, you are fooling yourself. Because religion isn’ t about God, even when it seems to be. It’s about something else, something deeper, something older than the gods.

You notice that all the pictures of people telling their special stories look a lot alike. They’re all variations on a common theme, and that theme is older than the human race. Whether it’s the woman who’s found the most handsome and loving guy in the world, the man who wants to spend forever with his wife in a heaven above the sky, or even a kid wearing a football jersey with his favorite player’s number on it – these are all variations on the same story, a fundamental human story.

It is the story of life’s longing for itself, playing out once more through us. There’s a puppet show going on here, and our strings are being pulled by the same force, always invisible, always there.

Even modern science has produced a poetic myth for us to live in, and quite a nice one. According to current theory, everything in the universe, including us, was present at the Big Bang fifteen or so billion years ago. That means that each and every particle of us is made out of stardust, and that our home is in the cosmos; we are children of the universe. That’s a way of understanding that our deepest yearning has always been for a sense of reconnection with that infinite and eternal identity. That’s what religion is about.

The spirit that animates the religious search is that spirit of life’s longing for itself, trying to find a form that fits us yet is true to those deep yearnings that lie at the heart of existence. Or religion is like clothing, but it must be our clothing. What we inherit are always hand-me-downs, yesterday’s faith, second-hand religion, and we can never grow up until we have grown beyond them.

That’s one of the fundamental lessons of religion: Healthy religion is always equipping us to grow beyond it. It always begins by claiming authority, and asking us to defer to its authority, like the religion of the Grand Inquisitors. But if it’s an adequate religion, it must always end by helping us to reject its authority, find the necessary authority within ourselves, and grow toward becoming worthy of this spirit of life that, through us, is longing for itself.

It’s the story of Psyche’s search for Eros, too. Her search didn’t begin until Eros had left her. She broke the rules, and he left her, because while she needed love, she also needed to be known, and to know the one she loved. She didn’t want generic love, not even from a god. She wanted a love that knew her name, and could be known by her. It was during that search that she grew beyond her cocoon and her soul took flight. That’s part of the meaning of the end of the story: after her successful search, she was given immortality, and joined the gods. But to do that, she had to grow beyond her servile, obedient, unquestioning attitude toward the gods. And what she learned, in the end, was that she was one of them. When the soul has the courage and the vision to grow beyond its cocoon, it becomes immortal, to put it in that magical poetry of mythology. The Greek word “psyche” means “soul,” and this is the archetypal story of the soul’s search for divine love.

In ancient Greek, the word for “soul” (psyche) was also the same as the word for “butterfly.” In a way, that double meaning of the word “soul” contains the essence of the story about Psyche and Eros, the soul’s search for divine love, life’s longing for itself, the human search for our infinite and eternal home. Because butterflies can’t fly, aren’t recognizable as souls, until they’ve grown through and grown beyond their cocoon. Till then, they’re just caterpillars, and caterpillars can’t fly anywhere. The growth of our own souls also demands that we grow beyond the beliefs we were born into, and do that hard work of taking the meaning and purpose of our life into our own hands. It’s that same choice between the religion of Jesus and that of the Grand Inquisitor, between first-hand religion, which is always hard-won, and second-hand religion, which is the cocoon we are meant to outgrow when we grow up religiously.

Our goal is not a modern goal; it’s a very ancient one. All of modern society is after progress. But the religious goal isn’t progress but return, and reconnection with that infinite and eternal identity. In fact, that is the meaning of the word “religion” itself: reconnection.

We’re into poetry here. As T.S. Eliot put it, the end of all our searching is to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time. This is the highest teaching of Hinduism, too. Each of us contains a small piece of the infinite and eternal creative powers of the universe, they say. That great universal and eternal power is called Brahman, our little piece of it, like our soul, is called atman, and the goal of growing up religiously is to realize that our atman is, in fact, Brahman, the way a teeny drop of water’s real identity is as part of the ocean. The Hindus teach this by pointing to everything, everything in the universe, and saying “That – art Thou.”

All these pictures and stories point “beyond God.” Yet the “beyond” doesn’t mean something in the future, something we’ve never yet experienced or known as a species. It points in the other direction: toward the ground of our being.

Many years ago I heard one of the world’s leading Buddhist teachers interviewed on the radio. Growing up religiously, he said, involved growing beyond the boundaries of your religion’s symbols. When he was asked what Westerners needed to do to grow up spiritually, he said the answer was easy: Western Christians, Jews and Muslims had to crucify Christ and God in order to grow up. “Christ” and “God” were only training wheels, he said, and we had mistaken them for a sacred vehicle.

Another Buddhist story makes this point:

A new arrival to the monastery reported for his initial meeting with the Master. He was agitated. “Why have you come here?” asked the Master.

“Oh, Master, I must know the Buddha!”

“The Buddha,” said the old one, “is the Mind.”

For several years, the young initiate used the Master’s short statement as a focus, a center, and a mantra as he explored everything he could find inside and outside of him that seemed to shed light on “the Buddha” and “the Mind.” Then he had a second meeting with the Master.

“Years ago, you told me the Buddha was the Mind. I have followed many paths to and from that wonderful statement, and have grown in many ways. But now I need more.”

“Very well. There is no Buddha, and there is no Mind.”

“But you said-” began the young one.

“When you came here, your baby was crying. To lull your baby to sleep, I gave you the first lesson. Now that your baby has stopped crying, you can grow up.”

There was a Buddhist version of the move Jesus made when he told people the Kingdom of God was within and among them, and nowhere else. It is life’s longing for its best self, through us, and it can only be found by growing through our cocoon and learning to fly.

It’s like that Psyche and Eros story again. It’s also like the difference between Eastern and Western religions. In Western religions, we can never aspire to becoming God. That’s blasphemy. The most we can ever hope for is to establish a relationship with God, and that relationship is always mediated, by priests, creeds, or churches. But such “relationships” always keep us in the dark, as Psyche was in the dark at first. And that isn’t our real longing. We long to find our identity with the sacred, with the gods: the atman merging with Brahman. Stardust. Thou art That.

Psyche began her story in the dark, too. She was blissful, but it was a kind of ignorant bliss, meeting a stranger in the night who she couldn’t know in the daytime. She only left her cocoon, only began her spiritual quest, when she lit that light and looked for herself. At first, she thought he was completely unlike her, for he was a god. Then her illusion vanished, and she lost her childish world of obedient love that won’t bear examination. But later, when they came at last to know one another as equals, her butterfly took flight and she at last saw they both were gods.

It’s true, you know: That art Thou, and Thou art God. We have within us all that is godlike, if we will just outgrow our protective cocoon and set it free. It’s true. But to see that, we must first be willing to light the light, leave the cocoon, become a butterfly, and finally discover our true identity and our true home — an identity, and a home, that has been waiting for us to discover it since the day we were born.

Choose Life

Davidson Loehr

November 19, 2000

One sentence in the Hebrew scriptures has always seemed to me the essence of religion: “I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that you and your descendants may live” Deuteronomy 30:19. Yes, it’s from the same book filled with a whole slew of other advice on things for which mean, women and children must be stoned to death. Choosing wisdom from the Bible, as from any religious scripture, is always a matter of selective editing. But that line “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life” — it’s just superb. And, coincidentally, it’s at the heart of the Thanksgiving story.

SERMON: Choose Life

How do you know when it’s Thanksgiving? You might say that it’s Thanksgiving when the fourth Thursday of November rolls around, or when the big turkey is served, with stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. But there has to be more to it than that: the fact that turkey is served on a Thursday is hardly a reason to declare a holiday.

You could say that, since Thanksgiving began as a harvest festival, and as such is thousands of years old in one form or another, that Thanksgiving comes when the harvest is in. But harvests don’t have the same importance in our lives that they once did. No matter how the crops are locally, you can drive to Central Market, where the harvest is always in. Most of us wouldn’t even know how to harvest, let alone how to plant.

But Thanksgiving is much more than a harvest festival. It isn’t about picking corn, it’s about choosing life. Consider the first Thanksgiving, in 1621, 379 years ago. In 1620, 102 Pilgrims arrived on the Mayflower and landed in Massachusetts. They had left England because they were not free to practice their religion. They went to Holland, where there was too much freedom for them. So like the story of Goldilocks and the three bears, they first found it too hot, then too cold, and they came here to try and create a society of their own where it might be just right.

They were a brave group, those Pilgrims. Their character was strong enough and their faith was strong enough that they would not be bent to the will of the others. But even more than this, they knew the cost of this freedom, and they were willing to pay it. They left in two boats, but one was not seaworthy, and so they returned and all came over in just one boat, the Mayflower. They were greeted, after a harrowing trip across the Atlantic, by a brutal and deadly Massachusetts winter. One hundred and two of them arrived here; by the following summer, only 55 were still alive. Nearly half of these brave Pilgrims died. That was the cost of their freedom.

Imagine this! 102 people leave their homes, say farewell to families and friends, say goodbye to a whole way of life, a whole world. They arrive as strangers in a strange land, and the land knows them not. It is cold, indifferent and deadly, and they spend a lonely and fearful winter freezing, starving, and dying. They bury nearly half of their number: one half of these Pilgrims buries the other half, and in the spring they plant crops and they hunt for food.

The crops are good. There is food here after all, there can be life here, coming from the fields and forest next to the graves of their loved ones who didn’t make it through that first winter. It was like all the tragedies of life, compressed into one year. And by late summer, when they could at last celebrate a good crop, half of those with whom they had hoped to celebrate were dead.

This was the background of the first Thanksgiving. Once it arrived, Thanksgiving lasted for three days. There was much eating, drinking, and merriment between the surviving Pilgrims and Chief Massasoit and his people. It was a thoroughly secular affair, a continuation of the British Harvest Home feast; and apparently it was a thoroughly joyous affair as well. The menu for the first Thanksgiving still sounds scrumptuous: they had venison stew cooked over an outdoor fire; spit-roasted wild turkeys stuffed with corn bread; oysters baked in their shells; sweet corn baked in its husks; and pumpkin baked in a bag and flavored with maple syrup. The food was served on large wooden serving platters, and all ate their fill. After dinner, according to legend, Chief Massasoit’s brother disappeared into the woods and returned with a bushel of popped popcorn, which the Pilgrims had never tasted before.1

These are the bare bones of the story of the first Thanksgiving. We don’t know many other details. It was the story of a small group of people who seemed to have both the character and the courage necessary to transform hell into heaven. They had been dealt a mixed hand. They chose their freedom, knowing full well the cost of it. And then they chose life.

I can’t help comparing these pictures of the Pilgrims from nearly four centuries ago with some of the mood in our own society today, and the comparisons are sobering. We don’t seem to bear suffering well today. We sometimes act as if life weren’t supposed to have any suffering in it at all.

One researcher has written that if you add up all the groups that consider themselves to be oppressed minorities their number adds up to 374 percent of the population of the United States.2 And we continue to create new categories of victims. A CBS report of a few years ago breathlessly revealed the existence of what they called “the hidden homeless” – defined as people living with their relatives. As a reporter for The Washington Post pointed out, “Once we called these situations ‘families‘ …”3 Where are all these “victims” coming from?

The National Council on Compulsive Gamblers claims that 20 million Americans are addicted to gambling. Estimates for addicted shoppers and addicted debtors are not clear, though both groups have formed support networks, claiming to be the innocent victims of a disease beyond their control. Dysfunction is a growth industry, but what are we growing?

During the past decade, for instance, young people were ten times as likely to be depressed as their parents and grandparents were at their age.4 Just a couple years ago, one-eighth of the children in New York City public schools – about 119,000 children – were classified as “handicapped” at a cost of hundreds of millions of dollars to the struggling school district: one quarter of New York’s school budget was devoted to special education. Something here is being “defined down.”

Codependency is another growth industry, and sometimes it’s pronouncements are just funny. The cofounder of Minnesota’s Children Are People organization said that you do not “have to be the son or daughter of an alcoholic to be a co-dependent. Any critical parent will do.”5 So the “adult child of alcoholics” has become, simply, the “adult child,” a sweeping classification that includes everyone who was in any way traumatized by their parents’ inevitable shortcomings. One leader of the codependency movement puts the number of “adult children” at more than 230 million – higher than the nation’s actual total adult population.6

Pop psychology author and television personality John Bradshaw made this endlessly injured “inner child” a household word. He insisted, for example, that as many as 96 percent of American families were dysfunctional in one way or another.7 Ninety-six percent! At some point, you have to ask: Compared to what? When 96% of the families can be described as flawed in this way, don’t you need to stop calling it “dysfunctional” and begin calling it “normal”?

Sometimes, it seems like “the National Anthem has become The Whine.”8

This past summer at our annual General Assembly there was an instance of this that is still memorable. Several Unitarian Universalist ministers were sitting in a restaurant complaining about — well, nearly everything. A waiter kept walking past their table, and each time he noticed the whining was getting worse. Finally he stopped and said “Say, folks: is anything all right?”

It’s easy to find things in life to complain about. But when we let it become a habit, it cripples our spirit. Every time I catch myself whining about how something in life doesn’t please me, I try to remember that life isn’t supposed to please me. That isn’t the deal. The deal is, we have been given this gift of life, and our fundamental spiritual challenge is to learn how to see that it is a gift, and to respond appropriately. And the appropriate response to a great gift is gratitude. A medieval theologian named Meister Eckhart once said that if the only prayer we ever said was “Thank You,” it would be enough. I think he was right.

Thanksgiving isn’t as much a holiday as it is an achievement — an achievement of character and of spirit.

This isn’t to say there aren’t some real victims in the world, or that they don’t need our compassion and help. There are, and they do. But ironically, they are likely to become the real victims of this “victim culture” mentality. For when the society gets burned out or angered over all the bogus “victims” vying for attention and funding, the backlash will cut off both compassion and funding for the real victims. I think that’s already happening, and it is tragic.

But it’s tragic at another level, too. It’s a failure of spirit, and of character. If life were always fair, if bad things never happened to good people, life would be no more nuanced than a cartoon and we wouldn’t need churches for much more than ice cream socials.

Sometimes, life is hard. Suffering is an inevitable part of it, as the great religious figures have been saying for thousands of years. Your stepdaughter and your daughter-in-law are both battling cancer. It isn’t fair, and it hurts. A friend and colleague, a chaplain who has given so much to so many, is killed at the age of 53 when an oncoming driver crosses over the line and hits him. It isn’t fair. It hurts.9

We can’t control that. What we can control, however, are our reactions to life’s suffering, and the quality of the causes for which we suffer. We are often being taught to whine for the slightest reason, to whimper and look for someone to blame at life’s tiniest inconvenience, as though the only life we would accept would be a perfect one, in which we were healthy, beautiful, popular, powerful and rich. In that scene, “thanksgiving” would be little more than an untextured narcissism. There’s more to us. And the depth of our religion, and our spirit, is often measured not by putting on a happy face, but by looking at life in its depth and complexity, its eternal mixture of the good and bad, luck and misfortune, and still finding compelling reason to give thanks.

So as a background and preparation for Thanksgiving this week, I want to suggest that you make a list of your losses this year, the shadows in your life. What have you lost? What has hurt that you haven’t known how to deal with?

  • Perhaps you lost a parent, a partner, a child, a friend, or even a beloved pet.
  • Or maybe love turned sour. You fell in love with the wrong person, or fell out of love with someone you thought you’d be with forever.
  • Your job isn’t satisfying, you think it may not be where you belong after all.
  • Or maybe an illusion died this year. Some comfortable old hope or faith faltered, and you felt disillusioned. The Buddhists may be right when they say it’s better to be disillusioned than to be illusioned — but it seldom feels that way when it happens.

Make your list of the shadows in your life. They aren’t evil, the shadows give your life much of its texture, like shadows show the texture in a photograph, a landscape, or a face.

Then, against this list, look at what still remains. There is still this amazing gift of life, unearned and there for the living. The sun comes up, a new day begins, and with it new possibilities. There is the bad, and there’s the good, and there is us, needing to choose.

An ancient writer who believed he was speaking for God once wrote lines that have been quoted a million times since: “I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that you and your descendants may live.” (Deuteronomy 30:19, RSV)

“Choose life, that you and your descendants may live.” That’s how Thanksgiving started: with some Pilgrims who were thrown into the midst of life and death, blessing and curse, and who chose life.

The first Thanksgiving in this country was for people who had suffered horrible losses thousands of miles away from homes they would never see again. Then after just one year in their new home, 47 of them had died, and 55 had lived. The first Thanksgiving was for the faithful remnant of a faithful few. They were the American patron saints, in a way, of all who have suffered deep and tragic losses but refused to be beaten by them; of all who have been crippled by life but who still found a way to hold their heads high.

By all rights, all 102 of them should have been dead by spring. But they were not dead, and they proved it in a way that still beckons us by its courage, its audacity, and its sheer magnificence of spirit. After the harvest, in the midst of a field dotted with the markers of forty-seven graves, graves of forty-seven wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters — in the midst of this field, they invited over some new friends, they put on a feast, they shared their food, they said some prayers to honor the still-warm memory of those they had lost, and then they did a simple thing so powerful that it freed them from despair. They gave thanks. They gave thanks.

And so how do you know when it’s Thanksgiving time? Perhaps you know it’s time for Thanksgiving when you are finally able to give thanks for a terribly imperfect life in a terribly imperfect world because it is, after all, life, and life is still the greatest miracle we know. Maybe Thanksgiving is a holiday most appreciated by those who have been through a hell of a year, who have lost something of great value during the past year, and have somehow survived, and are at last able to rise above their losses and go on — and go on in a spirit of hope, of some tempered optimism, and of gratitude.

Thanksgiving, then, would be a kind of spiritual victory over life; a decision that, as the Pilgrims might have counted it, even though there may be 47 good reasons to give up on life, there are at least 55 equally good reasons not to give up on it, and to count our blessings as greater than our woes. And it would be a spiritual victory because the only way really to feel the fullness of life is to greet it as a wondrous gift, and to greet it with joy.

The ability to give thanks for this mixed bag of blessings and woes that we call life is the mark of people who have risen to a considerable spiritual height.

May we all, this Thanksgiving, strive to find again that more adequate and more honest attitude toward life: that attitude that overwhelms us with the sheer miracle of it all. May we lay aside our habits of complaining that the gift is not perfect long enough to recognize that the gift is miraculous, and short, and passing. And may we not let this gift pass us by this year without stopping to give thanks.

Ā 


Endnotes

Ā 

  1. The People’s Almanac #2 (New York: William Morrow & Co., Inc., 1978, p. 947)
  2. Christopher Sykes, A Nation of Victims: The Decay of American Character, pp. 12-13.
  3. Sykes, 13.
  4. Sykes, 13.
  5. Sykes, 140.
  6. Sykes, 141.
  7. Sykes, 142.
  8. Sykes, 15.
  9. During the segment of the worship service called “We Remember in Prayer” this morning, I mentioned a church member whose stepdaughter had just had mastectomy surgery and would soon be starting chemotherapy, and whose daughter-in-law had been receiving treatment for pancreatic cancer for several months. I also mentioned a local Episcopal priest and chaplain who had been killed in a head-on car accident this week.

Why do Soldier's Die?

Davidson Loehr

November 11, 2000

Whenever war breaks out, the media treats it as an unexpected tragedy. When we look for the causes of a war, we tend to look at superficial things — as though each new war is a unique problem rather than an enduring and predictable part of who we are. As a veteran of our most unpopular war (so far anyway), it’s always been important to me to help us recognize the causes of war as lying in a place much closer to home.

Ā 

(PLOT: Set a scene, maybe on a playground. The kids have played a game during a field trip. They visited a zoo, and two groups were taken into an elephant’s cage, blindfolded. The first group was taken to feel the elephant’s ear. The second group was taken to feel the elephant’s tail. That’s all that either group got to touch of the elephant: the first group touched the ear, and the second group touched the tail. And they weren’t told what kind of animal it was. When they returned to school, the two groups got into an argument about what this thing was that they had all felt. The first group said, “It was broad and flat, like a giant leaf.” The second group said “No it wasn’t! It was long and thin, like a rope. It was nothing like a leaf at all!” Then the kids in the first group started saying that the kids in the second group must all be stupid if they thought a broad flat leaf felt like a long thin rope, and the kids in the second group said the first kids must be stupid, if they thought a long thin rope felt like a big leaf. Before they knew what was happening, a fight broke out. Meanwhile, the adult playground supervisors are standing by watching, but do nothing to stop it. They weren’t at the zoo, and have no idea what on earth the two groups of kids are talking about. But they say that the kids obviously feel strongly, and kids who feel strongly about something should be able to act on it. So the two groups are beating each other silly. Now the Smart Patrol — the kids in church — have arrived, and it is up to them to figure out what caused this fight, and how it should be stopped.)

RESPONSIVE READING: #518

Grandfather, Look at our brokenness.

We know that in all creation

Only the human family

Has strayed from the sacred Way.

We know that we are the ones

Who are divided.

And we are the ones

Who must come back together

To walk in the Sacred Way.

Grandfather, Sacred One,

Teach us love, compassion, and honor.

That we may heal the earth

And heal each other.

— from the Ojibway Indians

SERMON: Why Do Soldiers Die?

This is an awkward Sunday to be preaching. I began with a sermon on Veterans’ Day. It’s an important day to me, and I wanted to ask what there is in us that keeps leading to social, political and military fighting. I wanted to explore why our soldiers die.

Then the presidential election began to unfold last Tuesday, and five days later it is still not unfolded. Here too we are dividing into warring camps, often very self-righteous about our candidate and that other idiot.

People are confused and restless. We are such a deeply hierarchical species that the lack of a clear leader drives us to the borders of our rationality. But this dividing into social and political camps looks a lot like enlisting soldiers for a battle.

So I will try the unlikely, by combining thoughts on Veterans’ Day, why we fight, our current post-election confusion, who we are, and what we are called to do in the coming years.

It’s so ambitious; I count on your forgiveness when I fail. I’ll start and end with stories.

There was a poignant story about a WWII veteran on the front page of yesterday’s “Life & Arts” section of the Austin American-Statesman. It was about a Texas man, now 80, who had to leave the one true love of his life in France in 1941, never to see her again. It was many years before he learned that she had died a few months later. He served in the war, came home, had some marriages but no lasting loves, and still dwells in memories of 59 years ago. He’s written a script about it which he’s trying to get turned into a movie, and it would probably make a good one. We love stories of thwarted love set in wartime — it’s the plot of “Casablanca,” maybe the greatest of all romantic war films.

The combination of war and love is the most powerful in our history. In Greek mythology Ares, the god of war, was the favorite consort of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, and their liaisons produced three children, named Fear, Terror and Harmony. Neither of these gods was ever considered wise by the Greeks, though they were powerful. But Aphrodite’s loves were too local, too limited, and Ares was all rage, no reason.

They were like the “ear” and “tail” people in this morning’s children’s story. Like the other gods, Love and War represented partial passions, too incomplete to be enough. The Greeks had such good insight here. For when incomplete but passionate visions clash, they might produce Harmony. But it is far more likely they will yield Terror and Fear.

War is a kind of mirror held up to let us see some turbulent parts of ourselves. Or it is those turbulences, projected outward from our psyches onto the stage of the world. But every clash of partial visions and half-truths seems to be an example of the same rule, a rule so deeply a part of us we have probably never been without it. The rule is simple:

We must enlarge either the size of our visions or the size of our armies.

Like the playground fight in this morning’s Children’s Moment, wars mostly occur between ear-people and tail-people. Wars happen because we are trying to defend what is right and good against those who stand up for what is wrong and bad. And on the other side, wars exist because those others are trying to defend what is right and good against we people who stand for what is wrong and bad.

There are those few precious times when we are convinced a war was really about right vs. wrong. WWII was probably the only such war in the last century, though. Since then, our wars haven’t been such proud affairs.

When I say “war” I don’t mean only the fights between armies with guns. I mean all of the fierce confrontations between people who see different little pieces of reality, and fight in their name.

There’s an old story about this. One day the Devil’s messengers — who must be very busy — reported to him that some people on earth had discovered pieces of Truth. They wondered if the Devil didn’t see this as a threat. “No,” he laughed, “they’re only tiny pieces of the truth, too small for wisdom. They’ll turn those little pieces into orthodoxies, dogmas, and ideologies. Then they’ll form armies to fight for their little pieces of truth. That’s how I will take over the world!”

Why do we fight? If this is a scientific question, it’s an easy one. Like a million other species, we are territorial animals. We identify with our territory and defend it against all outside threats. We wave our flags and parade our armies like other animals bare their fangs and arch their backs. Remember that a dog barks at you from behind its fence for the same reason that its owner built the fence.

We have expanded our notion of territory to include conceptual territory. We defend our ideas with the same kinds of attack and defense strategies that we and other animals use to defend physical territory. A lion may kill another lion for infringing on his hunting territory or putting the moves on his mate, but he won’t kill another lion for holding the wrong religious or political beliefs. That extension of territory to include intellectual territory seems to be ours alone. That’s what I mean by calling most of our fights a game of ear-people against tail-people. But there’s a catch. When we are willing to fight and kill for our notions of right and truth, then unless we really know what’s right and true, we become foolish and dangerous. And history shows us that we always seem to identify the Truth with what we happen to believe. It would be amazingly lucky for us if we were right. So, since we can’t enlarge our understanding, our vision, we have to enlarge our armies.

It seems the world has always been run by the outcomes of wars between one set of special interests against another set of special interests, won b y the side with the largest army. Then the strong demand what they will and the weak grant what they must, and time rolls on to the next act, which is much like the last act.

One reason that the religious teachings of thousands of years ago still survive while almost all the scientific teachings from ancient times have been forgotten is that we have solved most of the scientific problems. But the problems addressed by the great religions — these problems are as much with us today as they ever were.

And the religious answers have a striking similarity. They often speak of seeking a “God’s-eye view” of the world, kind of like that photograph of the earth taken from the surface of the moon, where all the boundaries vanish and the world is whole again:

Live in harmony with the Tao, said Lao-Tzu twenty-five centuries ago. The Way is a balance of light and dark, aggressive and receptive, sunlight and shadow, everything is part of the whole, live in a way that honors the whole rather than the isolated parts.

Seek first the Kingdom of God, Jesus taught two thousand years ago. And that Kingdom of God, he was clear, was not something magical or supernatural, no matter what the religion that followed him has taught. Jesus’ Kingdom of God was simply a world in which we treated each other as brothers and sisters, children of God, and refused to accept any smaller or more local identity.

“We are all limbs of the body of humanity,” said the Roman Seneca. And the task of trying to grow into our fullest humanity is the task of trying to identify with the whole body, rather than just our parts of it.

Perhaps the oldest of these teachings is still the ancient Hindu story of the blind people and the elephant, from which I adapted this morning’s children’s story. The “elephant” is life, and none of us can ever see the whole of it. We just see the parts we can touch or experience: an ear, a tail, a leg or a trunk, and we think it must be the whole thing.

But religious teachings often get a kind of glassy-eyed unreality about them. We listen to them as part of the Sunday ritual, but there’s a disconnect from the real world. So rather than milking these religious teachings further, I want to share an example of this same kind of thinking that solves problems by transcending and including their different aspects, taken from the real world.

This isn’t just abstract or irrelevant. If our current election is resolved as it seems it will be, with Governor Bush becoming our next president, we will almost certainly have several very important and very emotionally loaded social issues to examine or re-examine, from abortion, affirmative action and individual rights to restructuring of our environmental and tax laws. We could use a model that has actually worked somewhere.

To find this model, I’ll move from the contentious subject of war to the equally complex issue of abortion. About fourteen years ago, a Harvard law professor named Mary Ann Glendon did a comparative study of around twenty industrialized cultures, including ours and about nineteen European cultures, comparing their policies on, among other things, abortion. Our country came out worst. We had done the least to resolve these issues, for reasons she found easy to show.

Her argument is a simple one. Thirty five years ago, all over the world, industrialized cultures began discussing some of the variables involved in this issue of unwanted pregnancies. The discussions came about because, all over the world, birth control pills and condoms became more widely available, and abortions became more openly discussed as options. These discussions were going on across societies, in many social circles, at many levels. Religious beliefs, beliefs in individual rights, in a woman’s responsibility to the unborn life she carried, in a society’s responsibility to care for unwanted children, in the things that a child needs in order to have a shot at the kind of life we want to give our newborns. All of these issues and more were being discussed in the countries of Europe, as they were just beginning to be discussed here in the early 1960s.

Yet in Europe, abortion issues have never reached the intensity and hatred that they have here, because Europeans continued the public discussion until they reached a consensus. In this country, our Supreme Court short-circuited the process of public discussion with its Roe v. Wade decision. It created a law before the society had finished debating the issues, and so the law never settled the deep differences and angers that still torment women at abortion clinics or help murder physicians who provide abortions. Because we wrote our law before we had found common ground, our society has often been divided into the rigid ideological clans of “pro-life” or “pro-choice” platforms. This is the structure of ear-people against tail-people that leads to wars. And this has been the American path.

In European countries, on the other hand, people continued the open discussions until much more substantial compromises were reached. Now, most European societies have laws stating that the most important single consideration must always be the sanctity of life. But that concern for the sanctity of life, they say, must be placed in a realistic understanding of the conditions of life: the social, economic and psychological situation of the pregnant woman, the probabilities of that unborn child’s finding the quality of life that we in society want for the future of our species, and so on.

The result has been that women in many European countries have access to abortion at least as liberal as ours. In Catholic Spain, for example, the government pays for legal abortions. Yet we don’t hear of “right-to-life” people declaring war, barring the doors of abortion clinics, or murdering Spanish doctors who are providing abortions, because they got what they wanted: the admission that life really is sacred, and that the sensitivity to the sacrality of life comes first, before a woman’s right to choose. It hasn’t restricted the choices much, it’s mostly dissolved them within a larger moral and ethical picture.

It has avoided wars and murders in many European countries, has resulted in lower rates of unwanted pregnancies, fewer abortions, higher adoption rates, and greater roles for societies in caring for unwanted children. So you think they must be doing something right!

I’ll take only one case to make the point, though there are many. The case happened in Catholic Spain. It involved a single women who wanted an abortion during her eighth month of pregnancy. Under Spanish law, as also under American law, this woman had to get the court’s permission for such an abortion. Initially, she had wanted to keep the baby. Though she was a single woman, was not planning to marry the baby’s father or receive any support from him, and though she only worked at about minimum wage, she felt that she had no right to deny life to this baby just because it was inconvenient for her.

However, late in her pregnancy she had amniocentesis performed, and discovered that the baby she was carrying was severely deformed, both physically and mentally. It would cost a lot of money and take a lot of energy to care for such a baby, and she told the court that she wasn’t capable of caring for such a child. Therefore, she wanted the court’s permission to have the abortion.

The court agreed. She obtained the abortion, and the government of Spain paid for it, as they pay for all legal abortions in Spain. But the court’s reasoning showed a deeper and broader vision of life, pregnancy, and responsibility than we hardly ever hear in this country. The court noted that even though Spanish law insisted on the sanctity of life, Spanish society had not put its money where its mouth was. Spanish society did not have the ability to provide care for such a baby. They lacked the social services, the financial support, and the educational and nursing services to provide any decent quality of life for such a child. And if the government was unable or unwilling to commit the money and the resources to caring for such a child, they said, then it would be brutally unfair for them expect a single woman to do so. Therefore, they granted the abortion. They hoped, however, that some day Spain would be able to provide services for such children so that they could grow to live useful and happy lives.

What I want to suggest to you is that Spain, like most European countries, has avoided the wars we fight over abortions here in our country, because they were able to develop a more mature and responsible understanding of the many issues involved in unwanted pregnancies.

Instead of building armies, they increased the size of their vision. And this borrowing from Spain points to the kind of solution that could also help avoid social incivility in many areas here at home.

I don’t think that liberals have enough wisdom to guide our society adequately today. Nor do conservatives. The view of an ear plus the view of a tail still don’t do much justice to an elephant.

If we react ideologically during the coming social changes, liberal and conservative camps will just circle their wagons and try to keep short-circuiting the process by getting our kinds of laws passed.

Our instincts will push us to react like territorial animals, to defend our position harder and help create the conditions of social hatred and violence. But we have a chance, during the coming social changes, to try a different path. It is a path I want to recommend, especially to liberals, and most especially to religious liberals.

Soldiers die for our failures of vision. They die mostly because we are like the ear- and tail-people, who make big armies because we don’t know how to make bigger visions. We don’t want to see that those on the other side of almost all complex and powerful issues are our moral equals, our intellectual equals, our brothers and sisters. We think we’re right, they’re wrong, and that the important problems of life can somehow really be as simple as that kind of cartoon. And as long as our visions remain too small, we will have to create bigger armies. And then it starts all over, the next act looking much like all the last acts. And in every generation, people will find all the old religious teachings about peace rather than war, and wonder why they are still so apt. I went through a few of those visions earlier, in their Taoist, Hindu, Christian and Stoic versions. You may know of more.

But whether it is the Kingdom of God, the Way, the whole elephant or the body of humanity, the same message comes to us through all the ages of humanity, and it is a message we need now as much as at any time in memory.

We are still coming through a frustrating presidential election. By almost all accounts, these two men were not exciting candidates; half of our citizens didn’t even bother to vote. We were frustrated with the choices, and no matter how it turns out, at least half the country will be frustrated with the results. If governor Bush is finally elected, there may be some significant changes in our society, and in many areas.

We will be sorely tempted to circle the wagons around our own ideology as we feel it assaulted by its opposite. We are primed to play, once again, the parts of ear-people and tail-people, gearing up for warfare against those others who, we feel, must be wrong if they disagree so strongly with us.

I hope you and I will resist the downward pull of stunted visions, and seek instead to expand the horizons of discussion and debate:

  • On the subject of abortion rights versus rights to life, I hope we can work to frame the issue, instead, under the larger umbrella of how we can treat all these questions as moral issues whose roots go into the sanctity of life, as several European countries already have.
  • On the important issue of individual rights versus individual responsibilities, I hope we can insist that the two concerns be linked together, for neither one alone is sufficient.
  • On economic issues, I hope we can also find and articulate the bigger umbrella. There will always be inequalities in income and opportunity because there will always be inequalities between people. Greater gifts deserve, and will anyway get, greater rewards. But our laws and economic structures must be used to encourage and reward gifts and character wherever they are found, not merely wealth and privilege.
  • On issues of religion and education, I hope we can see past the separation of church and state far enough to realize that we must find a place in public education for the deeper questions of ethics, morality, and responsible living which have always been held as primary by the best religions.

And in all the other divisive issues which beg us to become small soldiers for limited visions, I hope we will resist. We come to, and from, the First Unitarian Universalist Church of Austin. We are the bearers of a proud, bright, deep religious tradition that has inspired the likes of Thomas Jefferson, Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson and others, including you.

We are meant to be among the intellectual and moral leaders of our community and our world. It is our gift and our calling. I believe it is our duty. In all these areas and more, rather than enlarging our armies let us enlarge our visions. We can serve our exclusive territories or our inclusive humanity. We can define ourselves by our divisive differences, or by our inclusive commonalities. Let it be the latter.

There is an old Buddhist story that is on point here. A fierce soldier approached the Buddha, brandishing his long sharp sword. “I am a mighty warrior and I am going to kill you!” he shouted. “Well then,” replied the Buddha, “with that much power, you ought to grant me two final wishes.” “Very well,” bellowed the warrior, “but make it quick!” The Buddha pointed to a sapling tree nearby and said “Cut off a small branch from that tree.” With one stroke of his sword, the deed was done, and the warrior handed the severed branch to the Buddha. “And now?” he roared. The Buddha handed the little branch to the warrior and pointed to the tree: “Now make it whole again.”

It is reported that the warrior experienced enlightenment at that moment, and spent the remainder of his days working to heal rather than destroy, to make whole rather than cutting apart.

My friends, let us aspire to the same.

Spooks from the Depths

Davidson Loehr

October 29, 2000

Halloween is a holiday that comes to us in costume. It wears a mask, covering a much older, and much different, message. That older message is also deeper, and more valuable. But to find it, we must first unmask Halloween. And after we unmask Halloween, we will find some ancient symbols, parts of a very old myth, and some parts of ourselves.

Ā 

SERMON: Spooks from the Depths

Halloween comes to us in costume. It wears a mask, covering a much older, and much different, mask. Under that mask, still another mask. And after we unmask Halloween, we will find some spooks from the depths of ourselves and our world. Since you have a lay service next Sunday that will also be dealing with symbols and myths connected to the concept of the Goddess, I’ve decided to take a slightly different approach here, using less myth and more history and social commentary, so you don’t get over-mythed.

Let’s start with recent history. In 1967, by Lyndon Johnson’s presidential decree, Halloween officially became UNICEF day, when little children, dressed as make-believe goblins, frighten you into making the sacrifice of some spare change.

Going back another century, Halloween first became a national event here after more than a million people from Ireland emigrated to the US after the Irish potato famine of 1848. At that time it was the adults rather than the children who dressed up in costumes, pretending to be all kinds of evil spirits and other supernatural beings. They visited homes where friends made offerings of food and drink to them. So it was partly a creative way to party. But that too was a caricature, a cartoon. Halloween itself is a kind of mask put on over something much older, more primitive, more powerful, and perhaps more healing.

The Christian church invented Halloween and All Saints Day in the 9th century, then added All Souls Day a century later. They were invented to “cover” an ancient Celtic festival known as Samhain (“Sow-en”), just as Christmas was moved to December 25th in the year 336 to “cover” the birthday of the solar deity Mithra, and Easter is a Christian “cover” over older festivals celebrating the vernal equinox. Our November first was the Celtic first day of winter, and first day of their new year. So Samhain was to the Celts something like Rosh Hashanah is to the Jews-a day of reckoning, a day of atonement.

Above all, Samhain was a time when the barriers between the human and supernatural worlds were broken – or as we might put it today, the barriers between the conscious and unconscious levels of our awareness. They believed that the whole spectrum of nonhuman forces roamed the earth to take revenge for human violations of sacred duties. To bribe the gods – always our first impulse, it seems – they offered animal and sometimes human sacrifices. So this beginning of the new year was a terrifying time of year in the old days. It is not surprising that they needed some relief from it. I would not be surprised if the custom of dressing up like goblins and bad spirits went back to the beginning.

This is such fantastic talk! Gods, demons, goblins. When we hear things put in such otherworldly, supernatural ways, we can be pretty sure we’re talking about something terribly primitive, something that has probably been part of our human psyches since we’ve had human psyches.

This business of supernatural powers and unseen forces sounds a little spooky nowadays. Most of us don’t like to think of invisible forces that direct our lives. But they are still present, still pulling our strings, and are often still fearful, though there isn’t anything otherworldly about them.

Let’s go to a different level of history to find a metaphor for exploring this subject of Halloween. Five or six centuries ago, before the Spanish and the English began sailing around the world, world maps looked very different than they do today. One of the most interesting things about those old maps is that in the unexplored areas, the mapmakers used to print “There be monsters here.” Once we had explored and incorporated the rest of the world into our maps, the monsters disappeared. But when those spaces were still unknown, we thought they must be filled with monsters, because we tend to think that everything unknown to us might be filled with monsters — as most of our science fiction movies still show.

Like unfinished maps, incomplete selves and uninformed worldviews are havens for the monsters of our imaginations. The unknown is usually fearful. To defend against it, we create tyrannies of partial visions, walls of our comfortable biases, to protect us from the monsters that always seem to lie just beyond the limits of the familiar. In that way, we’re still like the medieval mapmakers and sailors.

And Halloween, or Samhaim, is one of those special times of the year that open the door, that offer us another chance to incorporate the unknown, to dig deeper into ourselves and make our worlds bigger. When we can assimilate the unknown into ourselves, the monsters disappear. What we cannot assimilate haunts us like goblins and demons.

Another way of saying this is that life’s deepest problems can’t be solved; they have to be dissolved, by enlarging our maps, by incorporating the things that we fear. The solution of the world can’t be found on the surface. It’s not simple. It has to be complexified before it has enough nuance, enough room, to spread out the full-sized map and begin filling it in.

But we don’t tend to do this, do we? We tend to stick to a kind of comic-book simplicity. Our heroes are big bulky physical characters: big bodies, thin characters. Rambo was an angry adolescent who never did grow up. Professional boxing matches get millions of viewers at $50 each on pay-per-view television to watch a few exciting minutes of two guys beating each other senseless. Wrestling matches also earn big bucks, and feature cartoon-like characters with huge bodies and cave-man actions.

Preachers often seem to describe God as though he were just like a bigger version of Arnold Schwarzenneger, powerful and fearful, interested in obedience rather than in our ability to make subtle grown-up distinctions about morality and ethics. That does poor service to the concept of God! Movie superheroes, wrestling champions and even the sense of the heroic have become like brute versions of a social Darwinism, a kind of survival of the biggest and meanest.

Our heroes have become as simplistic as masked Halloween characters, and this simpleness does not serve us well. Religions have not helped this picture much, too often defining people’s refusal to believe in unbelievable gods as faithlessness. But that’s wrong. For the worst form of faithlessness is the fear that the truth will be bad. The worst kind of faithlessness is the belief that there be monsters here, when what there is instead is our failure to see, to understand, to assimilate the nuances of difference into ourselves and our world.

Sometimes I look at our world as a kind of masked ball. Or like playing ostrich, refusing to see beyond very simplistic terms, shrinking our world, and turning it into a fantastic video game between heroes and monsters, winners and losers.

Ostriches hide their heads in the sand, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of denial. But when they do, they are vulnerable to everything they can’t see, and so are we. The “trick or treat” game of Halloween is like this too. The game was played most directly, perhaps by the Irish adults of 150 years ago. Their trick-or-treating was saying “Reward our masked, phony role or we’ll do terrible things.” This is the message of hate-groups, too, who are also playing masked roles. When a group like the KKK throws its costumed tantrums, it is saying “Support our rage, our non-integrated rage, or we’ll strike out at you.”

When we’re wearing the masks, we easily become the roles, and think that our simple certainties are letting us see more clearly. Really the masks are blinders, narrowing our field of vision, burying our heads deeper in the sand. And then everywhere we cast shadows by blocking the light, something deep inside of us whispers “There be monsters here!” But the monsters are the parts of ourselves and our world that we haven’t learned how to incorporate, how to include on our map. The monsters are not external dangers, but internal failures of integration.

There is a rule in religion, and the rule seems to be that either our world must get bigger, or our defenses must, to protect against the imagined monsters.

I’ll give you some examples of how we draw lines and create monsters to defend a world that is too small.

A few weeks ago I spoke about what I have called “the dark god of capitalism.” I tried to persuade you that putting profits ahead of people has unavoidable, and terrible, consequences. If we are measured by our financial success, if that’s a measure of our worth as people, then financial failure is a personal and moral failure. The poor people, the losers, are no longer our brothers and sisters, but failures, almost like India’s caste of Untouchables. Then we draw lines on our maps to keep them away. They vanish from TV commercials; they’ve almost vanished from TV and media coverage completely.

Not all the lines we draw are invisible. Some are built of reinforced concrete. In Austin, I-35 is one of those lines. We all know what it means to refer to “east of I-35” or “west of I-35.” There be monsters east of I-35 because we don’t know how to incorporate them into our world.

The more people there are without a realistic chance of making a decent living, the more people make indecent livings, and the more people we put into our growing number of prisons. There be monsters there, too: growing numbers of them.

Other unassimilated people may not be considered monsters, but they rarely appear on our maps. The more than 16% of children in Austin living below the poverty line; the roughly 40 million Americans without health insurance, the child mortality rate, the highest in the developed world, the so-called “working poor” who have jobs but are homeless because they can’t afford houses.

These are among the areas of our society that don’t make it onto our maps, that we don’t know how to incorporate into the body politic. We don’t know how to think of them, or treat them, as brothers and sisters, children of God, so we call them other things: the poor, the disadvantaged, the homeless, prisoners, outcasts, and sometimes monsters. And still the number of people from whom we distance ourselves, and of whom we are afraid, continues to grow, and we don’t see that our whole society is playing a masked role that is not worthy of us. Ostriches.

Our masks, are our blinders. They reduce the size of our world, draw the lines between our kind of people and those other kinds of people. Once the map is complete, it’s like a vicious circle of self-fulfilling prophecies.

Could it be different? Is it naive and foolish to hope for a change as fundamental as enlarging our world? Am I just spouting ignorant and childish preacher-talk? I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s either naive or foolish. We have done it many times in many ways, we just don’t seem to be doing it as well lately. 135 years ago black people were freed from slavery. Just over eighty years ago women were given the right to vote. Less than fifty years ago our public schools were ordered integrated, and less than forty years ago it happened in Texas, the last state to integrate its public schools. During the past thirty or forty years we have seen huge increases in the numbers of women graduating from colleges, law schools, medical schools. Women have gone into space, been nominated for Vice President, become presidents of prestigious schools. I think that the University of Chicago was the first such school to hire a woman as president. She had wanted the job at Yale, the university where she taught, but they would not hire a woman president. I served on a committee with president Hanna Gray at Chicago, and remember thinking on several occasions how foolish Yale University had been to lose such a woman.

The range of acceptable sexual identities has expanded within our memories, in ways no one would have imagined possible fifty years ago. And while some church leaders may still try to restrict options, the fact is that we are now beginning to accept as natural an immense range of religious options and styles. I will be offering one of the prayers at an ecumenical Thanksgiving service next month in which at least eight major religions are represented. This couldn’t have happened during the good old days of Ozzie and Harriet.

In all these ways — and in more ways that you can think of as well — we have enlarged ourselves, our maps, and our world. And with each enlargement, each new incorporation, more monsters vanish, and are replaced by fellow citizens, brothers and sisters. Don’t think we can’t change, don’t think we can’t become more whole, more inclusive, more noble. It’s a realistic hope. We’ve been doing it, and while we still have far to go, some of the strides we have taken seem gigantic.

Each time, in order to grow, we have to confront some more of our individual and societal biases, fears, bigotries. Each time, we must take off another mask. Each step of growth involves incorporating more former outsiders into the organism of the body politic, and expanding the membership of the human family. Each time we do it, we are reaching out to another group of people and saying “We welcome you. You are one of us.” Powerful, magical words.

It’s not hard to make monsters vanish. Sunlight kills mildew, and it does a good job on our demons and goblins too. But first, it takes being aware of them, and it takes the courage to confront them.

In the movie “The Wizard of Oz,” the monster is dissolved in an unusual way. The wicked witch of the West is finally destroyed — dissolved — when a determined girl throws water on her, and she melts. You know, I don’t think it was water that did it. I think the water was just stage business. What dissolved the witch was a girl having the courage to confront her face to face, without blinking. It took a girl who was not afraid of anything. The trick looks like outward magic. But it isn’t magic, it’s growing up.

Ambrose Pierce, in his Devil’s Dictionary, defines a ghost as “The outward and visible sign of an inward fear.” One lesson of Halloween is that all of our ghosts are outward and visible signs of our inward fears. Other lessons of Halloween are that ghosts vanish when enough light is shined upon them, and that fears, once faced, can be transformed into possibilities. On second thought, maybe that’s magic after all.

Religion for Atheists

Davidson Loehr

October 22, 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

This is an old sermon that seems more relevant each year. It is not a defense of atheism; I think “atheism” only makes sense at the level of fundamentalism. The “God” atheists don’t believe in is one only a fundamentalist would care to defend (and not many of them, at that). It’s a deeper question arising here, the question of whether there is something built in us as humans that is deeply and irreducibly religious–older than the gods–or whether “religion” is just a bag of beliefs picked up at a church. If we are profoundly religious people, there’s hope for our dreams of peace and justice. Otherwise, I’m not as sure. Still, I think the real religion of atheists–assuming that I have it right–may surprise you.

STORY: “The Raft”

The Buddha said, “A man walking along a highroad sees a great river, its near bank dangerous and frightening, its far bank safe. He collects sticks and foliage, makes a raft, paddles across the river, and safely reaches the other shore. Now suppose that, after he reaches the other shore, he takes the raft and puts it on his head and walks with it on his head wherever he goes because of the important role that raft once played in his life. Would he be using the raft in an appropriate way? No; a reasonable man will realize that the raft has been very useful to him in crossing the river and arriving safely on the other shore, but that once he has arrived, it is proper to leave the raft behind and walk on without it. This is using the raft appropriately.

“In the same way, all truths should be used to cross over; they should not be held on to once you have arrived. You should let go of even the most profound insight or the most wholesome teaching; all the more so, unwholesome teachings.” (Stephen Mitchell, The Gospel According to Jesus, pp. 135-6.)

SERMON: Religion for Atheists

No matter how intelligent or sophisticated we think we are, it has always been the case that good stories teach us better than a slew of philosophical footnotes. And the more important an insight is, the more likely we have learned it from a story.

During my very first year of graduate studies in religion over twenty years ago, I had an experience that came wrapped in such a story. It came at the end of a course on constructing worship services that was taught for both University of Chicago Divinity School students and students from Meadville-Lombard, the small Unitarian seminary a few blocks away. The Divinity School students were all getting ministry degrees rather than academic degrees, and preparing for some brand of Christian ministry. Meadville’s students were also getting ministry degrees and preparing for the Unitarian ministry. Since I was a Divinity School student getting a Ph.D. rather than a ministry degree, and preparing for the Unitarian ministry, I usually found myself between or outside both those camps.

Our teacher was a gifted pastor and preacher, with a remarkable ability to bring others to a quick and powerful appreciation for what religion is really about. For our final assignment, he told us to plan and conduct a worship service together. Then he left us to our task, eavesdropping from the other side of the large room as we proceeded to make fools of ourselves.

The fights were about language, and they began when the Christians wanted to put in an intercessory prayer to Christ. Whereupon the Unitarians threw a fit, insisting that this “Christ” character wasn’t a part of their religion, and wasn’t welcome as a part of this joint worship service, either.

The Christians put up some struggle, but did agree that for this particular service they could leave Christ out. After all, one of them said, the purpose of Christ was really to point to God, anyway.

Whereupon some of the Unitarians again complained. “Let’s not call it God,” said one woman. “That’s so archaic and patriarchal and all. Couldn’t we just call it “the sacred”?

This time, the Christians fought quite a bit longer and harder. Some said that a worship service that left out God was a contradiction in terms. After all, this was to be a worship service, not a discussion group. But the Unitarians dug in too, and after one woman suggested that we might bring God in as long as we also had a prayer to the Goddess, the Christians relented, and agreed that in this increasingly strange service we were planning, there would be neither Christ nor God. One of them, trying to lighten things up a bit, quipped that we had just wiped out two-thirds of the Trinity. “At least,” she said hopefully, “we’ve still got the Holy Spirit.”

Whereupon – yes, one of the Unitarians objected to that word “Holy.” “It sounds so pre-modern,” he said. “Why don’t we just call it “The Spirit,” or maybe “Spirit of Life”?

This time, however, the Christians would not give in. One shouted something about flaky New Age Unitarians who were frightened of anything remotely religious. Another wondered why the Unitarians were even bothering to go into the ministry, rather than just joining a book club somewhere. And one passive-aggressive woman sweetly suggested that we all needed psychological help.

The Unitarians, for their part, tried to say that they liked the idea of having the “spirit” in the service in some way, they just didn’t want to call it “Holy.” This time, the Christians would not yield.

Finally, when the harangue had reached a completely embarrassing level, the professor, who had been listening in from across the large room, made his dramatic entrance. He got up slowly, walked toward us very deliberately, sat on the corner of a table in the middle of our space, gave us that “Father-is-displeased” look, and said sternly “What is your problem?”

Immediately, we all began acting like six-year-olds trying to shift the blame, pointing to the other side and complaining about their unfair demands.

He glared at us: “And the only thing you have been able to agree on is that you would like the Spirit to be a part of your worship service?”

Yes, we all stammered: “But we don’t know what to call it.”

Still the stern father, he shot us a punishing glance and said three words: “Call it forth!”

“Call it forth.” Unless you can call forth the quality of spirit that is rightfully called holy, you don’t have a chance of staging a worship service anyway.

For me, that story is about the very soul of religion, and the core of what it means to be a human being. For all of human history, we have tried to call forth more in life: deeper and more enduring meanings, causes and ideals to serve that can survive us, and grant us a feeling of immortality. We have tried to “call forth” a larger and more encompassing context for our lives, and to claim that we are intrinsic parts of this larger reality. We’ve always done this.

We have discovered Neanderthal burial sites in China, for example, from 100,000 to 200,000 years ago, in which the dead were buried in fetal positions, in womb-shaped graves, facing east, toward the direction of the rising sun. It looks like they were trying to call forth the invisible powers of the sun and the earth to give their dead people a kind of rebirth. So some of the oldest evidence of human activity we have found shows these early two-legged animals treating the ground as Mother Earth, and burying their people in styles and positions suggesting that they believed they were parts of a benevolent cosmic whole that might, somehow and somewhere, let them be “born again.”

More than thirty thousand years ago, primitive hunters painted hundreds of pictures on the walls of an underground cave at Lascaux, France. This cavern system was used for nearly fifteen thousand years, and has been called the world’s largest and oldest religious shrine. The pictures still exist, and were only rediscovered during this past century. They show the animals that tribe hunted, but among those ancient colored drawings was the drawing of one of their shamans. In hunting cultures, a shaman was a highly intuitive man who had a kind of sixth sense about successfully hunting the animals on which they relied for food. The picture of this shaman showed him to be composed of the parts of a dozen different game animals. Here was one of our most ancient efforts to claim a transcendent kind of relationship with the other animals on earth. Here were our ancestors, trying to call forth those unpronounceable spirits that seemed to guide both themselves and the animals they hunted for food.

Also around thirty thousand years ago or more, others among our ancestors made a lot of small “Venus” statues that our modern archaeologists have unearthed. They were small stylized figures of women without heads or arms, but with large breasts and hips. We’re not sure how they used these symbolic figures — though one woman scholar told me a dozen years ago that we are sure than men controlled both the societies and the symbols then, because only men would reduce the visualization of women to faceless, armless breeders! But the statues imply that they had already identified human females as possessing the same kind of generative powers they found throughout their world. Here were our earliest statues showing that some more of our ancestors had conceived of “Mother Earth.” And to do this, they had to assume that they were somehow part of a cosmic style of communication that included not only animals, but even the plant kingdom — indeed, all the creative life forces on earth.

And the human animal hasn’t changed much since then. Back in 1972-3, we sent the Pioneer 10 and Pioneer 11 rockets up, the first spacecraft intended to go beyond our solar system, our first such attempt to communicate with whatever other intelligent life there might be in this corner of the universe. And on these spacecraft, we included small gold plaques with crude drawings of a human male and female. The male has his right hand raised in what we must assume all life in the universe might recognize as a peaceful gesture. We still assume that we are, somehow, small parts of a great and wondrous reality that beggars our imaginations, and yet with which we can somehow, intuitively, communicate.

We have called these unseen dimensions of life by many names, and depicted them in many ways. But always, those who were the most religiously musical or imaginative have tried to call them forth, to make the greater context of our lives visible and memorable.

We have created gods in human form or in animal form, and invented a thousand rituals — from lighting a fire to reciting the same words in the same ways to begin and end ceremonies. It may look like we are worshiping those gods, whether drawn as an ancient shaman made of animal parts or created in our own image, like the gods of the Greeks, Jews, and Hindus. But we are not necessarily worshiping those gods or enslaved by the rituals. Instead, the gods are among the vehicles we have created along the way to carry this great burden of ours.

That “great burden” is the unending quest that lies at the heart of religion. In our society, where fundamentalists have taught most of us our basic understanding of religion (even atheists are atheists in a game invented by fundamentalists), we’re used to hearing this quest called the longing for salvation. But even the two words “religion” and “salvation” give the game away. “Religion” comes from a Latin word meaning “reconnection,” as though we were once connected but have somehow come loose. And “salvation” comes from the same Latin root as the word “salve”: it means to make healthy, to make whole. That is the quest that has defined our magnificently flawed species since before we could even formulate the question: how to get reconnected to a larger kind of reality than our daily lives usually show us.

And we come to churches, including this church, still hoping that somehow something might happen this Sunday to help us find the path between who we are and all that we are meant to be. We come hoping that greater set of possibilities and connections might somehow be called forth.

Unfortunately, we also have an equally deep and ancient flaw. And that flaw is our inability to tell the difference between the sacred quest, and the temporary vehicles we have used in pursuit of it. The quest, the continual human search for greater connections or enlightenment, is sacred. The vehicles are not. Yet we generally exalt the vehicles — and forget the search. Religious wars are the most violent and comic examples of this. We kill one another in the name of our peculiar gods, the same gods whose primary purpose is to help us see that we are all brothers and sisters.

We worship the doorways rather than going through them. Symbols and metaphors seem to confuse us completely, and we are forever mixing up dreams and reality, imagination and fact. In some ways, we are a terribly primitive and unformed species.

When you look at human history, from the caves in Lascaux, France to the Greek gods and goddesses, one of the loudest lessons we learn is that eventually all gods die, all religions pass into other religions, or pass away. Finally, all the vehicles fail, and we are left to go on alone — sometimes, comically, still carrying the dead vehicles on our backs, like lucky charms, or for old times’ sake. Then the spirit has gone out of the religion, and what’s left is little more than a potentially dangerous social club.

Maybe we shouldn’t call it the “spirit.” We tend to be such literalists that we might try to imagine some kind of a ghost, or a cosmic consciousness sort of hovering about, and that isn’t what it is about at all.

So I’ll put it a different way. The ancient Chinese sage Lao-Tzu spoke of “the Way,” which is usually called the Tao, as in the religion of “Taoism.” But he was writing about this same deep quest, this same journey, that has identified the religious dimensions of humans since the beginning. This “Way” is the way of living that we’ve always sought, a way of living that reconnects us with that Spirit, makes us whole, makes us one with the way things really are. Here is how Lao-Tzu put it 2500 years ago:

The Way is like a well:

used but never used up.

It is like the eternal void:

filled with infinite possibilities.

It is hidden but always present.

I don’t know who gave birth to it.

It is older than God.

Lao-Tzu might have added that it gave birth to God, or that it created all the gods as temporary vehicles to carry us on our searches for this Way. But it is that Way of living and being that we have always been trying to call forth, through all the religious and poetic and ritual languages humans have known. And the way you can tell when someone has found that Way, or is nearing it, is through the quality of their character. Martin Luther King Jr. used to say he dreamed of the time when we would all be known by the content of our character rather than the color of our skin. The content of our character is the clearest measure of whether or not someone has found the Way, or is still lost. And there is something terribly deep within all human beings that knows this instinctively.

A few years ago, people the world over were willing to overlook Princess Diana’s adultery and other nude chicanery, because of her many humanitarian activities on behalf of the poor and disadvantaged. People saw her as a vehicle for a sacred kind of concern for others. And they were willing to accept imperfections in the vehicle because it was a vehicle that seemed to have found the Way.

Mother Teresa was recognized by many as a saint, and it had nothing to do with her religion, only with her actions. Gandhi the Hindu was revered by Christians, Jews, Muslims and others all over the world because there was something sacred about him, too. He had “found it,” and we recognized it. He had found that reconnection, that wholeness, that “Way,” that we all recognize as the most sacred of all human quests. Tibetan Buddhism’s Dali Lama is likewise recognized by people of all faiths as one who has that special dimension, one who has called forth that elusive Spirit, found the Way.

This isn’t limited to religious figures. Muhammad Ali is still revered all over the world, and only partly because of his once-great gifts as a boxer. He’s more revered for his great gifts of integrity and moral courage, because those show us that he too had found the Way. How we adore and chase after those who seem to have found it! And we all know that the secret of Mother Teresa’s character, or Gandhi’s, the Dali Lama’s or Muhammad Ali’s had nothing to do with their official religions of Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism or Islam. The secret of their character came from a place far deeper. It came from that place in us that preceded the gods, that identified us before any of the world’s religions were ever born. That’s why people all over the world can so easily recognize people who have found that Way, whose lives have that deep spiritual dimension, regardless of their religion: because what all religions are after is something older than religion itself: older than God, as Lao-tzu put it. And what we are after is that same quality of spirit, wherever it is found.

But do you see what has happened here? There is a rich irony here, an irony worth trying to put into words. It means that within us, within each of us and all of us, are the yearnings that gave birth to the gods. And salvation, or wholeness, or finding what Lao-tzu called the Way, happens only when we are reconnected with that level of ourselves, responding to that level in others, anchored in that level of life itself. All salvation, in other words, is salvation by character. And we know it instinctively. We admire Muhammad Ali and are repulsed by Mike Tyson because the first had a quality of character that the second did not. We neither know nor care what Princess Diana believed, because that deeper quality of character showed so brightly in her crusades against land mines and for the disadvantaged.

Some of you may have heard about, or seen televised clips from, Mike Tyson’s fight with Andrew Golota Friday night (20 October 2000). Golota was taking a beating, and after the second round he simply refused to fight any more, and left the ring — still guaranteed the three million dollars or more he received for the fight. What was most interesting about the sportscasters’ comments afterwards is that they never mentioned his boxing — only his character.

If you doubt that we know what is and is not sacred about people, go to funerals or memorial services. Imagine a eulogy saying the best thing about this person was that they faithfully recited all of their religion’s prescribed creeds. What a thunderously damning eulogy that would be! No, if we are to speak highly and warmly and honestly of people, we must speak of the quality and content of their character. They cared, they tried to serve noble ideals. They tried to be constructive parts of a world not made in their image. They showed moral courage when it counted, and so they were a blessing to the world as they passed through it. That is where salvation dwells, and we all know it. People may pass through the doors offered by their particular religions or philosophies to find that deeper level of life. But the doors are not holy, only the passage through them.

When we reach the foundations of the religious quest, we find, like Lao-tzu did twenty five centuries ago, that we are standing in a place older than the gods, older than religion. We are standing in that place from which we came, and to which we have sought a reconnection all of our lives and for all of our history.

Then we aren’t asking questions about orthodoxy. We’re asking much simpler and more eternal questions. We are asking “Who am I, and who am I called to be? What do I owe to others, even to strangers? What do I owe to my species, and to history? Where is the path I can travel to fulfill these questions? Where is the Way that can make me whole again, by reconnecting me with all others who live, all who have ever lived, and all life that ever was or ever will be? How can I live in proud and noble ways, rather than selfish ones? How can I live my life under the gaze of eternity and still hold my head up high?” Now we are looking for the Way, and calling forth the Spirit called “Holy.”

How this changes everything!

Ā Now when we ask where the sacred dimension of life, the Spirit, the Way, is to be made manifest, the answer comes back “Perhaps here.”

Now when we ask when this sacred dimension of life is to be called forth, the answer comes back “Perhaps now.”

When we ask whose task is it to call forth this saving spirit that can make us feel more whole, the answer comes back “Perhaps it is our task.”

When we look around our world with a thousand different religions and cultures, and ask how on earth we are to accomplish such a sacred and eternal task here and now, the answer comes back “Perhaps together.”

One of the greatest ironies in all of human history is the fact that when we arrive at the very foundation of all our religious questions, we have moved beyond religion, to a place older than the gods. It is the religion of salvation by character and wholeness. It is the religion of atheists — and, ironically, it is the deepest religion of everyone else, too.

(TraducciĆ³n al espaƱol, Francisco Javier Lagunes GaitĆ”n)

Este es un viejo sermĆ³n que parece mĆ”s relevante cada aƱo. No es una defensa del ateĆ­smo; pienso que el “ateĆ­smo” sĆ³lo tiene sentido en relaciĆ³n con el fundamentalismo. El “Dios” en el que no creen los ateos es uno que solo a un fundamentalista le interesarĆ­a defender (y no a muchos de ellos, por cierto). Se trata de una cuestiĆ³n mĆ”s profunda que surge aquĆ­, la cuestiĆ³n de si hay algo construido en nosotros, en tanto que humanos, que sea profunda e irreductiblemente religioso ?mĆ”s antiguo que los dioses?, o de si la “religiĆ³n” es solo un saco de creencias reunidas en una iglesia. Si somos gente profundamente religiosa, existe esperanza para nuestros sueƱos de justicia y libertad. De otra forma, no estoy tan seguro. Sin embargo, creo que la religiĆ³n real de los ateos ?si asumimos que entiendo bien? podrĆ­a sorprenderte.

RELATO: “La balsa”

El Buddha dijo, “Un hombre que caminaba por una carretera ve un rĆ­o grande, su orilla cercana es peligrosa y atemorizadora, su orilla lejana es segura. Ɖl reĆŗne varas y follaje, hace una balsa, atraviesa el rĆ­o a remo, y alcanza a salvo la otra orilla. Ahora supĆ³n que, luego de que alcanza la otra orilla, Ć©l toma la balsa, se la pone sobre la cabeza y camina con esta carga sobre la cabeza dondequiera que va, debido al importante papel que la balsa jugĆ³ en su vida una vez. ĀæEstarĆ­a el hombre usando la balsa de una manera apropiada? No; un hombre razonable se darĆ­a cuenta de que la balsa le fue muy Ćŗtil para cruzar el rĆ­o y llegar a salvo al otro lado, pero que una vez que cruzĆ³, lo apropiado es deshacerse de la balsa y caminar sin ella. Esto es usar apropiadamente la balsa.

“De la misma forma, todas las verdades que deben usarse para cruzar; no deben creerse una vez que llegaste. Debes liberarte incluso de las nociones mĆ”s profundas o de la mĆ”s saludable enseƱanza; y mucho mĆ”s, de las enseƱanzas no saludables”. (Stephen Mitchell, The Gospel According to Jesus, pp. 135-6.)

SERMƓN: ReligiĆ³n para ateos

No importa cuan inteligentes o sofisticados pensemos que somos, siempre ha sido el caso que los buenos relatos nos enseƱan mĆ”s que un montĆ³n de notas filosĆ³ficas a pie de pĆ”gina. Y entre mĆ”s importante es una nociĆ³n, es mĆ”s posible que la hayamos aprendido de una historia.

Durante mi primer aƱo de estudios de postgrado en religiĆ³n, hace mĆ”s de veinte aƱos, tuve una experiencia que me llegĆ³ envuelta en un relato semejante. Vino al final de un curso sobre construcciĆ³n de servicios de adoraciĆ³n que se enseƱaba simultĆ”neamente para estudiantes de la Escuela de Divinidad de la Universidad de Chicago y para los de la Escuela TeolĆ³gica Meadville-Lombard, el pequeƱo seminario Unitario a unas cuadras de distancia. Los estudiantes de la Escuela de Divinidad pertenecĆ­an a programas de ministerio ?mĆ”s que de postgrado acadĆ©mico? y se preparaban para alguna clase de ministerio cristiano. Los estudiantes de la escuela Meadville tambiĆ©n provenĆ­an de programas de que los preparaban para el ministerio Unitario. Yo era un estudiante de la Escuela de Divinidad, de un programa de doctorado (Ph.D.), en vez de un programa de ministerio, aunque paralelamente me preparaba para el ministerio Unitario, asĆ­ que generalmente me encontraba en medio, o por fuera, de ambos campos.

Nuestro maestro era un pastor y predicador talentoso, con una seƱalada habilidad para llevar a otros a una rĆ”pida y poderosa valoraciĆ³n de lo que trata la religiĆ³n realmente. Para nuestro trabajo final, Ć©l nos dijo que planeĆ”ramos y condujĆ©ramos un servicio de adoraciĆ³n juntos. Entonces nos dejĆ³ para realizarlo, mientras nos observaba discretamente desde el otro lado del gran salĆ³n, mientras la hacĆ­amos de tontos.

Los pleitos fueron sobre el lenguaje, y empezaron cuando los cristianos quisieron meter una plegaria de intercesiĆ³n a Cristo. Los Unitarios replicaron resaltando el hecho de que ese personaje de “Cristo” no era parte de su religiĆ³n, y que no era aceptable como parte de un servicio conjunto tampoco. Los cristianos lucharon un poco, pero aceptaron que por este servicio particular podĆ­an dejar a Cristo fuera. DespuĆ©s de todo, uno de ellos dijo que el propĆ³sito del Cristo era realmente seƱalar hacia Dios, de cualquier manera.

En respuesta los Unitarios se quejaron de nuevo. “No lo llamemos dios”, dijo una mujer. “Eso es demasiado arcaico y patriarcal y todo eso. ĀæNo podrĆ­amos simplemente llamarlo “lo sagrado”?”

Esta vez, los cristianos pelearon bastante mĆ”s tiempo y mĆ”s duro. Algunos dijeron que un servicio de adoraciĆ³n que deja fuera a Dios era una contradicciĆ³n en sus tĆ©rminos. DespuĆ©s de todo, se suponĆ­a que Ć©ste serĆ­a un servicio de adoraciĆ³n, no un grupo de discusiĆ³n. Pero los Unitarios se atrincheraron tambiĆ©n, y luego de que una mujer sugiriĆ³ que podrĆ­amos incluir a Dios, en la medida en la que tambiĆ©n incluyĆ©ramos una plegaria a la Diosa, los cristianos cedieron, y aceptaron que, en este cada vez mĆ”s extraƱo servicio que planeĆ”bamos, no habrĆ­a ni Cristo ni Dios. Uno de ellos, con la intenciĆ³n de iluminar las cosas un poco, hizo notar certeramente que acabĆ”bamos de borrar dos tercios de la Trinidad. “Al menos”, dijo esperanzado, “todavĆ­a nos queda el EspĆ­ritu Santo”.

Como rĆ©plica? sĆ­, uno de los Unitarios objetĆ³ esa palabra “Santo”. “Suena tan premoderna”, dijo Ć©l. “ĀæPor quĆ© no solo lo llamamos “El EspĆ­ritu”, o podrĆ­a ser “EspĆ­ritu de la Vida”?”

Esta vez, en cambio, los cristianos no se rendirĆ­an. Uno grito algo sobre los chiflados Unitarios de la Nueva Era que sentirĆ­an temor de cualquier cosa remotamente religiosa. Otro se preguntaba por quĆ© los Unitarios se molestaban en prepararse para el ministerio, en vez de simplemente unirse a un club de lectura en alguna parte. Y una mujer pasiva-agresiva dulcemente sugiriĆ³ que todos necesitĆ”bamos ayuda psicolĆ³gica.

Los Unitarios, por su parte, intentaban decir que les gustaba la idea de tener al “espĆ­ritu” en el servicio, de alguna forma, que solamente no les gustaba la idea de llamarlo “Santo”. Esta vez, los cristianos no cederĆ­an.

Finalmente, cuando las arengas habĆ­an alcanzado un nivel completamente embarazoso, el profesor, que habĆ­a estado escuchando discretamente al otro lado del salĆ³n, hizo su entrada sĆŗbita. SubiĆ³ lentamente, caminĆ³ hacia nosotros muy decididamente, se sentĆ³ en la orilla de una mesa en medio de nuestro espacio, nos prodigĆ³ esa mirada de “PapĆ” estĆ” enfadado”, y dijo severamente “ĀæCuĆ”l es su problema?”

Inmediatamente, todos comenzamos a actuar como niƱos de seis aƱos, tratƔbamos de echar la culpa al otro, seƱalƔbamos al otro lado y nos quejƔbamos sobre sus injustas demandas.

Mientras nos lanzaba una mirada fiera, nos dijo: “ĀæY la Ćŗnica cosa que pudieron acordar es que les gustarĆ­a incluir al EspĆ­ritu como parte de su servicio?”

SĆ­, dijimos tartamudeantes: “Pero no sabemos cĆ³mo nombrarlo”.

AĆŗn con tono severo paternal, nos lanzĆ³ una mirada castigadora y nos contestĆ³ con una sola palabra: “Ā”EvĆ³quenlo!”.

“Ā”EvĆ³quenlo!” A menos que puedas evocar la cualidad del espĆ­ritu que es justamente llamado santo, no tienes ninguna oportunidad de escenificar un servicio de adoraciĆ³n de cualquier manera.

Para mĆ­, ese relato trata del alma misma de la religiĆ³n, y del nĆŗcleo de lo que significa ser un ser humano. Por toda la historia humana, hemos tratado de evocar algo mĆ”s en la vida: significados mĆ”s profundos y duraderos, causas e ideales que servir que puedan sobrevivirnos, y otorgarnos una sensaciĆ³n de inmortalidad. Hemos tratado de “evocar” una mayor y mĆ”s abarcante trama para nuestras vidas, y de proclamar que somos partes esenciales de esta realidad mayor. Siempre lo hemos hecho.

Hemos descubierto los sitios de entierros Neanderthal en China, de hace 100,000 a 200,000 aƱos, en ellos los muertos fueron enterrados en posiciĆ³n fetal, en tumbas con forma de vientre materno, mirando al este, en direcciĆ³n de la salida del sol. Parece como si ellos intentaran evocar los poderes invisibles del sol y la tierra para dar a su gente alguna clase de renacimiento. AsĆ­ que alguna de la mĆ”s antigua evidencia de actividad humana que hemos encontrado muestra que estos tempranos animales de dos piernas trataban al suelo como a la Madre Tierra, y enterraban a su gente en posiciones y con estilos que sugieren que creĆ­an que eran parte de un todo cĆ³smico benevolente que podrĆ­a, de alguna manera y en alguna parte, hacerlos “renacer”.

Hace mĆ”s de treinta mil aƱos, cazadores primitivos pintaron cientos de pinturas en las paredes de la cueva subterrĆ”nea de Lascaux, en Francia. Este sistema de cavernas fue usado por cerca de quince mil aƱos, y ha sido llamado el mayor y mĆ”s antiguo santuario religioso del mundo. Las pinturas aĆŗn existen, y solo fueron redescubiertas durante el siglo pasado. Muestran los animales que la tribu cazaba, pero entre esos antiguos dibujos coloridos estĆ” el dibujo de uno de sus shamanes. En las culturas cazadoras, un shamĆ”n era un hombre altamente intuitivo que tenĆ­a una especie de sexto sentido sobre la cacerĆ­a exitosa de los animales de los que dependĆ­an para alimentarse. La imagen de este shamĆ”n lo mostraba como compuesto de partes de una docena de diferentes animales de presa. He aquĆ­ uno de nuestros mĆ”s antiguos esfuerzos para proclamar alguna clase de relaciĆ³n trascendente con los otros animales sobre la tierra. AquĆ­ estuvieron nuestros antepasados, intentaron evocar a aquellos espĆ­ritus impronunciables que parecĆ­an guiarlos, tanto a ellos mismos, como a los animales que cazaban para comer.

TambiĆ©n hace alrededor de treinta mil aƱos o mĆ”s, otros entre nuestros antepasados hicieron muchas figurillas de “Venus”, que nuestros arqueĆ³logos modernos han desenterrado. Eran pequeƱas figuras estilizadas de mujeres sin cabeza ni brazos, pero con grandes senos y caderas. No estamos seguros de cĆ³mo usaron estas figuras simbĆ³licas ?aunque una acadĆ©mica me dijo hace una docena de aƱos que los especialistas estĆ”n seguros de que los hombres controlaban por igual la sociedad, y los sĆ­mbolos, Ā”esto porque sĆ³lo los hombres reducirĆ­an la visualizaciĆ³n de las mujeres a reproductoras sin rostro ni brazos! Pero las figuras implican que ellos ya identificaban a las hembras humanas como poseedoras de la misma clase de poderes generadores que ellos habĆ­an encontrado por todo su mundo. He aquĆ­ a nuestras figurillas tempranas que mostraban que algunos mĆ”s de nuestros antepasados ya concebĆ­an a la “Madre Tierra”. Y para hacer esto, ellos tuvieron que asumir que, de alguna manera, eran parte de un estilo cĆ³smico de comunicaciĆ³n que incluyĆ³ no solo a los animales, sino tambiĆ©n al reino de las plantas ?y desde luego, a todas las fuerzas vitales creadoras sobre la tierra.

Y el animal humano no ha cambiado mucho desde entonces. Apenas en 1972-1973, lanzamos las sondas Pionero 10 y Pionero 11, las primeras naves espaciales concebidas para ir mĆ”s allĆ” de nuestro sistema solar, nuestro primer intento de comunicarnos con cualesquier otra vida inteligente que pudiera haber en este rincĆ³n del universo. Y en estas naves espaciales, incluimos pequeƱas placas de oro con dibujos burdos de un macho y una hembra humanos. El macho tiene la mano derecha levantada en lo que asumimos que toda la vida en el universo podrĆ­a reconocer como un gesto de paz. TodavĆ­a asumimos que somos, de alguna manera, pequeƱas partes de una grandiosa y sorprendente realidad que desafĆ­a nuestra imaginaciĆ³n, y con la que podemos, de alguna manera, comunicarnos intuitivamente.

Hemos llamado a estas dimensiones ocultas de nuestra vida con muchos nombres, y las hemos plasmado de muchas maneras. Pero siempre, aquellos quienes han sido los mƔs religiosamente musicales o imaginativos han intentado evocarlas, para hacer visible y memorable la trama mƔs amplia de la que nuestras vidas son parte.

Hemos creado a los dioses de forma humana y animal, e inventado mil rituales ?desde encender un fuego a recitar las mismas palabras de las mismas formas para iniciar y terminar las ceremonias. Puede parecer que adoramos a estos dioses, ya sea dibujados, como un antiguo shamĆ”n hecho de partes de animales, o creados a nuestra propia imagen, como esos dioses de los griegos, judĆ­os e hindĆŗes. Pero no necesariamente adoramos a aquellos dioses, ni estamos esclavizados por los rituales. En cambio, los dioses se cuentan entre los vehĆ­culos que hemos creado a lo largo del camino para llevar esta gran carga nuestra.

La “gran carga” es la interminable bĆŗsqueda que yace en el corazĆ³n de la religiĆ³n. En nuestra sociedad, donde los fundamentalistas nos han enseƱado a la mayorĆ­a de nosotros nuestro entendimiento bĆ”sico de la religiĆ³n (incluso los ateos son ateos en un juego inventado por los fundamentalistas), estamos acostumbrados a escuchar que llaman a esta bĆŗsqueda el anhelo de salvaciĆ³n. Pero incluso las dos palabras “religiĆ³n” y “salvaciĆ³n” lo ponen al descubierto. “ReligiĆ³n” viene de una raĆ­z latina que significa “reconexiĆ³n”, como que alguna vez estuvimos conectados, pero de alguna forma nos soltamos. Y “salvaciĆ³n” proviene de la misma raĆ­z latina que la palabra “salve”: que significa estar sano, o indemne. Es esta bĆŗsqueda la que ha definido a nuestra especie magnĆ­ficamente imperfecta, incluso desde antes de que pudiĆ©semos siquiera formular la cuestiĆ³n: cĆ³mo reconectarnos a una clase de realidad mayor que la que nuestras vidas diarias nos muestran.

Y venimos a nuestras iglesias, incluso a esta iglesia, aĆŗn esperanzados en que algo podrĆ­a suceder este domingo que nos ayude a encontrar el camino que va de quienes somos, hacia todo lo que debemos ser. Venimos con la esperanza de que un mayor conjunto de posibilidades y de conexiones podrĆ­a, de alguna manera, ser evocado.

Desdichadamente, tenemos una deficiencia igualmente profunda y antigua. Y esa deficiencia es nuestra incapacidad para encontrar la diferencia entre la bĆŗsqueda sagrada y los vehĆ­culos temporales que hemos usado para ir en su busca. La bĆŗsqueda, la continua indagaciĆ³n de mayores conexiones o iluminaciĆ³n, es sagrada. Los vehĆ­culos no lo son. Aunque generalmente alabamos encarecidamente a los vehĆ­culos ?y nos olvidamos de la indagaciĆ³n. Las guerras religiosas son el mĆ”s violento y cĆ³mico ejemplo de esto. Nos matamos mutuamente en el nombre de nuestros dioses peculiares, los mismos dioses cuyo propĆ³sito esencial es ayudarnos a ver que todos somos hermanos y hermanas.

Adoramos a los zaguanes en vez de pasar a travĆ©s de ellos. Los sĆ­mbolos y metĆ”foras parecen confundirnos completamente, y nos dedicamos permanentemente a mezclar sueƱos y realidad, imaginaciĆ³n y hechos. De alguna manera, somos una especie terriblemente primitiva e inmadura.

Cuando miramos a la historia humana, desde las cuevas de Lascaux, Francia, hasta las diosas y dioses griegos, una de las mĆ”s estruendosas lecciones que aprendemos es que, en Ćŗltima instancia, todos los dioses mueren, todas las religiones se convierten en otras religiones, o desaparecen. Al final, todos los vehĆ­culos fallan, y somos dejados para proseguir por nosotros mismos ?a veces, cĆ³micamente, seguimos llevando los vehĆ­culos muertos sobre nuestras espaldas, como amuletos de la suerte, por los viejos tiempos. Entonces el espĆ­ritu se ha ido de la religiĆ³n, y lo que queda es poco mĆ”s que un club social potencialmente peligroso.

Tal vez no deberĆ­amos llamarlo el “espĆ­ritu”. Tendemos a ser tan literalistas que podrĆ­amos tratar de imaginar alguna clase de fantasma, o una conciencia cĆ³smica que rondarĆ­a por ahĆ­, y eso no es de lo que se trata.

AsĆ­ que lo pondrĆ© de un modo diferente. El antiguo sabio chino Lao-tsĆ© hablĆ³ de “el Camino”, que usualmente es llamado el Tao, como en la religiĆ³n del “taoĆ­smo”. Pero Ć©l escribĆ­a sobre esta misma bĆŗsqueda profunda, esta misma jornada, que ha identificado las dimensiones religiosas de los humanos desde el principio. Este “Camino” es el modo de vida que siempre hemos buscado, una forma de vivir que nos reconecte con el EspĆ­ritu, que nos haga Ć­ntegros, que nos haga uno con la manera en que las cosas son en realidad. He aquĆ­ como lo puso Lao-tsĆ© hace 2500 aƱos:

El Camino es como un pozo:
Usado pero nunca agotado
Es como el hueco eterno:
Lleno de infinitas posibilidades.
EstĆ” escondido pero siempre presente.
No sƩ quiƩn le dio nacimiento.
Es mƔs viejo que Dios.

Lao-tsĆ© podrĆ­a haber aƱadido que le dio nacimiento a Dios, o que creĆ³ a todos los dioses como vehĆ­culos temporales para llevarnos en nuestras bĆŗsquedas de este Camino. Pero se trata de este Camino ?de esta forma de vivir y de ser? que es lo que siempre hemos intentado evocar, a travĆ©s de todos los lenguajes religiosos y poĆ©ticos que los humanos han conocido. Y la manera en que puedes decir si alguien encontrĆ³ ese Camino, o que estĆ” cerca, es a travĆ©s de la cualidad de su carĆ”cter. Martin Luther King Jr. solĆ­a decir que soĆ±Ć³ con un tiempo en el que todos serĆ­amos conocidos por el contenido de nuestro carĆ”cter mĆ”s que por el color de nuestra piel. El contenido de nuestro carĆ”cter es la mĆ”s clara medida de si alguien ha encontrado, o no, el Camino, o si todavĆ­a estĆ” perdido. Y hay algo terriblemente profundo dentro de todos los seres humanos que saben esto instintivamente.

Hace unos pocos aƱos, gente de todo el mundo estaba dispuesta a pasar por alto el adulterio de la Princesa Diana y otras artimaƱas puestas en evidencia, debido a sus muchas actividades humanitarias a favor de los pobres y desfavorecidos. La gente la vio a ella como un vehĆ­culo para una clase sagrada de preocupaciĆ³n por los otros. Y estuvieron dispuestos a aceptar imperfecciones en el vehĆ­culo, porque era un vehĆ­culo que parecĆ­a haber encontrado el Camino.

La Madre Teresa fue reconocida por muchos como una santa, y esto no tuvo nada que ver con su religiĆ³n, solo con sus acciones. Gandhi, el hinduista, fue reverenciado por cristianos, judĆ­os, musulmanes, y otros por todo el mundo, porque habĆ­a algo sagrado en Ć©l tambiĆ©n. Ɖl lo habĆ­a “encontrado”, y nosotros lo reconocĆ­amos. Ɖl habĆ­a encontrado esa reconexiĆ³n, esa integridad, ese “Camino”, que todos reconocemos como la mĆ”s sagrada de todas las bĆŗsquedas humanas. El Dalai Lama del Budismo Tibetano es, asimismo, reconocido por gente de todas las fes como alguien que tiene esta dimensiĆ³n especial, alguien que ha evocado a ese EspĆ­ritu esquivo, alguien que encontrĆ³ el Camino.

Esto no se limita a figuras religiosas. Mohamed AlĆ­ todavĆ­a es reverenciado alrededor del mundo, y solo parcialmente debido a sus una vez grandes dotes como boxeador. Es mĆ”s reverenciado por sus grandes dotes de integridad y coraje moral, porque nos muestran que Ć©l tambiĆ©n encontrĆ³ el Camino. Ā”CĆ³mo adoramos y perseguimos a aquellos que parecen haberlo encontrado! Y todos sabemos que el secreto del carĆ”cter de la Madre Teresa, o de Gandhi, el Dalai Lama, o de Mohamed AlĆ­, no tiene nada que ver con las religiones oficiales del cristianismo, hinduismo, budismo o el islam. El secreto de su carĆ”cter vino de un lugar mucho mĆ”s profundo. Vino de aquel lugar en nosotros que precediĆ³ a los dioses, que nos identificaba antes de que naciera siquiera cualquiera de las religiones mundiales. Por eso es que gente de todo el mundo puede reconocer tan fĆ”cilmente a la gente que ha encontrado ese Camino, cuyas vidas tienen esa dimensiĆ³n espiritual profunda, sin importar su religiĆ³n: porque toda religiĆ³n va en pos de algo mĆ”s antiguo que la religiĆ³n en sĆ­ misma: mĆ”s viejo que Dios, como lo describiĆ³ Lao-tsĆ©. Y tras de lo que nosotros vamos es de esa misma cualidad del espĆ­ritu, dondequiera que se encuentre.

ĀæPero ves lo que ha sucedido aquĆ­? Hay una rica ironĆ­a aquĆ­ y vale la pena de tratar de ponerla en palabras. Significa que dentro de nosotros, dentro de cada uno y de todos nosotros, estĆ”n los anhelos que dieron nacimiento a los dioses. Y la salvaciĆ³n, o integridad, o encontrar lo que Lao-tsĆ© llamĆ³ el Camino, ocurre solamente cuando estamos reconectados con ese nivel de nosotros mismos, y respondemos a ese nivel en los otros, anclados en ese nivel de la vida misma. Toda salvaciĆ³n, en otras palabras, es salvaciĆ³n por el carĆ”cter. Y lo sabemos instintivamente. Admiramos a Mohamed AlĆ­ y sentimos rechazo por Mike Tyson porque el primero tuvo una cualidad de carĆ”cter que el segundo no tuvo. No sabemos ni nos interesa lo que la Princesa Diana creĆ­a, porque esa cualidad profunda del carĆ”cter se mostrĆ³ brillantemente en sus cruzadas contra las minas terrestres y por los desfavorecidos.

Puede que algunos de ustedes hayan escuchado o visto escenas televisadas de la pelea de Mike Tyson contra Andrew Golota el viernes en la noche (20 de octubre de 2000). Golota recibĆ­a una golpiza, y luego del segundo tiempo simplemente se rehusĆ³ a pelear mĆ”s, y dejĆ³ el cuadrilĆ”tero ?aĆŗn con los tres millones de dĆ³lares, o mĆ”s, garantizados que Ć©l recibiĆ³ por la pelea. Lo que resultĆ³ mĆ”s interesante sobre las opiniones de los comentaristas deportivos despuĆ©s es que nunca mencionaron su boxeo ?solo su carĆ”cter.

Sin duda sabemos quĆ© es y quĆ© no es sagrado sobre la gente, ve a funerales o a servicios fĆŗnebres conmemorativos. Imagina un elogio que diga que la mejor cosa de una persona era que recitaba fielmente todos los credos prescritos por su religiĆ³n. Ā”Vaya elogio estruendosamente acusador que serĆ­a ese! No, si hemos de hablar de manera encomiosa, cĆ”lida y honesta de la gente, debemos hablar de la cualidad y contenido de su carĆ”cter. A ellos les importĆ³, trataron de servir ideales nobles. Trataron de ser una parte constructiva de un mundo que no estaba hecho a su imagen. Mostraron el valor moral cuando fue necesario, asĆ­ que fueron una bendiciĆ³n para el mundo durante su trĆ”nsito por Ć©l. AhĆ­ reside la salvaciĆ³n, y todos lo sabemos. La gente puede pasar a travĆ©s de las puertas que ofrecen sus religiones o filosofĆ­as particulares para encontrar ese nivel mĆ”s profundo de la vida. Pero las puertas y zaguanes no son santos, solo el trĆ”nsito a travĆ©s de ellos lo es.

Cuando alcanzamos los fundamentos de la bĆŗsqueda religiosa, nos damos cuenta, como Lao-tsĆ© lo hizo hace veinticinco siglos, que nos encontramos en un lugar mĆ”s antiguo que los dioses, mĆ”s antiguo que la religiĆ³n. Estamos en ese lugar del que provenimos, y con el que hemos buscado una reconexiĆ³n todas nuestras vidas, y por toda nuestra historia.

Entonces no nos hacemos preguntas sobre la ortodoxia. Nos hacemos preguntas mĆ”s simples y eternas. Nos preguntamos “ĀæQuiĆ©n soy, y quiĆ©n estoy llamado a ser? ĀæQuĆ© les debo a los otros, incluso a los extraƱos? ĀæQuĆ© le debo a mi especie, y a la historia? ĀæDĆ³nde estĆ” el camino por el que puedo viajar para responder estas preguntas? ĀæDĆ³nde estĆ” el camino que puede hacerme Ć­ntegro otra vez, al reconectarme con todos los que viven, todos los que han vivido, y toda la vida que ha vivido o que habrĆ” jamĆ”s? ĀæCĆ³mo puedo vivir con orgullo y de manera noble, mĆ”s que egoĆ­sta? ĀæCĆ³mo puedo vivir bajo la mirada de la eternidad y todavĆ­a mantener la cabeza en alto?” Ahora estamos buscando el Camino, y evocamos al EspĆ­ritu llamado “Santo”.

Ā”De quĆ© manera esto lo cambia todo!

Ahora preguntamos si es que la dimensiĆ³n sagrada de la vida, el EspĆ­ritu, el Camino, habrĆ” de hacerse manifiesto, la respuesta que obtenemos: “Tal vez aquĆ­”.

Ahora, cuando preguntamos cuĆ”ndo esta dimensiĆ³n sagrada de la vida habrĆ” de ser evocada, la respuesta llega: “Tal vez ahora”.

Cuando preguntamos a quiĆ©n corresponde la tarea de evocar a este espĆ­ritu salvĆ­fico que puede hacernos mĆ”s Ć­ntegros, la respuesta que viene: “Tal vez es nuestra tarea”.

Cuando miramos alrededor de nuestro mundo con mil diferentes religiones y culturas, y preguntamos cĆ³mo carambas vamos a cumplir tan sagrada y eterna tarea aquĆ­ y ahora, viene la respuesta. “Tal vez juntos”

Una de las mayores ironĆ­as de toda la historia humana es el hecho de que cuando llegamos al fundamento mismo de todas nuestras preguntas religiosas, nos hemos movido ya mĆ”s allĆ” de la religiĆ³n, hacia un lugar mĆ”s viejo que los dioses. Es la religiĆ³n de la salvaciĆ³n por el carĆ”cter y la integridad. Es la religiĆ³n de los ateos ?e, irĆ³nicamente, es la religiĆ³n mĆ”s profunda de todas las demĆ”s, tambiĆ©n.

Not Fit to Live?

Davidson Loehr

October 15, 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

Before moving to Texas, I never gave much thought to the death penalty. Here, in a state that executes more criminals than almost all countries, it’s hard not to think about it. As I read and listen to the standard religious arguments against the death penalty, I’m not convinced that there are any problems as simple as those religious prescriptions. The best I’ll be able to do in this sermon is to expand the horizons of thinking, and explore a variety of arguments of varying persuasiveness. But for now, I’ll confess that my guiding thought is that the quality of human lives follows a bell curve, with saints at one end, most of us in the middle, and some truly evil people at the other. Perhaps this will give us all the chance to re-examine our feelings and values on this complex and emotionally loaded issue of the death penalty.

PRAYER:

We pray to the angels of our better nature as we approach the subject of capital punishment, a subject on which we do not, and will not, agree. In our disagreements, we would seek to engage each other as moral equals. Moral equals. If we can know that much about each other, even our disagreements may be ennobling. We ask this depth of compassion from ourselves. Realistically, we can probably ask no more. As a people of faith, we can ask no less. Amen.

SERMON: “Not Fit To Live?”

Honest religion is supposed to develop our souls and expand our understanding of the world. The result is almost never a clear and unambiguous answer that all good people must follow like marching orders. Instead, it is a broadening and deepening of our understanding of the world so that our differences may be enriching and fertile, rather than divisive. That’s a noble goal, seldom achieved. It is my goal here this morning.

Those of us here today represent almost the entire range of opinions about capital punishment. Some here are deeply against it, considering it too barbaric to be defended. Some are strongly in favor of it and consider it a just and appropriate end for those who have committed the most heinous crimes. Most are somewhere in between. It is a complex, emotionally loaded issue on which intelligent people of good will can and do disagree.

Most religions, though not all, are against the death penalty. Their arguments are almost all variations on the same theme, which is that life is sacred, period. Western religions have this in spades; the creation story in the book of Genesis makes it clear that we were just dirt until God breathed life into us. So life, in Western religions, has been seen as a gift of God, not a byproduct of nature.

Of course, this idea that life is sacred has seldom been honored in the real world. Judaism, Christianity and Islam have never had much trouble killing others of God’s children, as all religious wars have witnessed to, and as we’re still seeing today in the Middle East. And the Christians have had a long list of scapegoats: Jews, Muslims, witches, native Americans, and anyone else who got in the way of their “Manifest Destiny” to rule the world have always been fair game for killing. So the reality has never matched the rhetoric. Still, the notion that life is a kind of sacred gift is in almost every religious argument against capital punishment. Also, it’s an emotionally appealing notion, even if it’s not historically common.

The most coherent — and my favorite — form of this argument is what the Roman Catholic Church calls its “seamless garment” argument for the sanctity of life. Catholics are officially opposed to killing life at any stage, whether in an abortion or a state-sanctioned execution. The reason, again, is that all life is a sacred gift from God, so beyond our authority to destroy.

We’re so used to hearing this that we tend to forget how ancient it is, this idea that all human life is sacred — and that it had historical origins. The reasons life was considered so sacred — especially the lives of males, we should add — are easy to discover. Children represented more workers for the farming or herding through which the family fed itself. Children were the “pension plan” for their parents, expected to take care of them in their old age. Infant and child mortality rates were higher, so more children increased the chances that some would live to adulthood. And we can’t forget how important it seems always to have been for men to have a boy to carry on their name. This was true in the ancient story of Abraham. It drove the English King Henry VIII, and many, many fathers today. I’m not demeaning this, just observing it as a persistent part of our human nature. And of course we think life is sacred because we want to think that something about us is deeply sacred, worthy of respect and protection.

All along, it seems that the sanctity of human life has been driven, in part, by a feeling of scarcity — the fact that life always seemed fragile, and we needed more people. The feeling made sense when the population of the world was less that 1/60th of the population today. Just a look at the population figures from the last three millennia can show us how much has changed.

In 1400 BCE, about the time traditionally assigned to Moses, the total population of the world is estimated to have been about a hundred million, a little over a third the size of the United States. (Daniel Quinn, The Story of B, p. 264. I hope and assume that Quinn did his homework on figures so easy to check, since I didn’t do my homework.) By the time of Jesus, the world’s population had doubled, to about two-thirds the population of the United States today. (Quinn, p. 267)

By 1200, in the Middle Ages, it had doubled again. So 800 years ago, the total population of the world was about the same as today’s population of the United States plus Canada. Wars, plagues, high infant mortality and early deaths still made life seem fragile, and high birth rates were still defenses against all kinds of both real and imagined extinctions. (Quinn, 269)

In just five hundred more years, by 1700, the population had again doubled, to about eight hundred million people — less that the present population of China. (Quinn, p. 270) The next doubling took only two centuries. And then, from 1900-1960, the population doubled again, in only sixty years, to three billion humans. (273) And in the thirty-six years from 1960-1996, the population doubled again, to more than six billion people. (Quinn, 274)

Human life, which must once have seemed as rare as diamonds, is now as common as pebbles. And today all over our country and all over the world, in ways both large and small, our behaviors show that in fact we do not think of life as sacred, or as something that automatically trumps all other considerations:

— Abortions. Whether or not life is regarded as even desirable, let alone sacred, depends on whether we are willing to support it, to give it the time, energy and money it would cost. I think these are the real arguments most women would make for abortions, and I think they are valid arguments. Furthermore, our society and the societies of almost all industrialized countries also treat life as something we can choose or not. Not only birth control, but also abortions, and now the growing availability of the RU-486 pill, the “abortion pill,” have let our actions speak for us. Life is natural, not supernatural, and it’s a choice, not a demand.

— Our wars, most of which have been for economic advantage, show that we regard money as more important than life.

— While many religious conservatives still argue that birth control and abortions are sins against God, Even Roman Catholic women have abortions at the same rate as non-Catholic women. Life isn’t that rare, and we say No to life every day. Like it or not, we have higher priorities.

— Nicotine causes nearly a half million deaths a year. If you’ve ever smoked, you know as I do that the alleged sanctity of life can’t hold a candle to a good smoke.

— We could even mention that we know every year about 50,000 Americans will be killed in traffic accidents. We also know that we could probably save 49,500 of those lives every year by reducing the national speed limit to 10 mph. Almost nobody would vote for it. We’ve got places to go and things to do that are a lot more important to us than 50,000 lives.

So the ancient religious insistence that the mere quantity of life, even the possibility of life is sacred, is no longer held by many people at all. We have shifted to valuing quality over quantity of life.

But a few romantic preachers aside, life has never been regarded as the ultimate value, sacred beyond compromise or cancellation. We have always believed that certain social behaviors are required of human beings, and that if you are dangerous to others, you may lose the right to live. Not just to live in society, but even to live. One of the costs of living in any society is that we must give up some control to the society. It sets the rules, and when we go over the line, all societies have the right to deprive us of our money, our freedom, our property, even our lives.

This idea that some anti-social behaviors make us unfit to live also has roots in one of the most misunderstood and mistaught stories in the Bible, the story of God’s destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The famous part of the story, which you probably know, is that a group of local men wanted to sodomize — as it’s now called — a visitor to town, and that his host (after offering his daughter to the mob) finally gave the man over to be sodomized and murdered.

When religious literalists say that God’s destruction of the city was because of homosexuality, they are mis-teaching the story, and every good biblical scholar knows it. The crime for which the city was destroyed was the crime of giving over a visitor to be murdered. The crime was uncivil and murderous behavior, not sodomy. The visitor wasn’t a heretic, wasn’t an enemy of the faith, he was just a human being with a right to expect civility and protection from other human beings.

This failure to provide the most basic of human protection and kindness, the ancient Hebrews taught, was so hated by God that those who transgressed it were no longer fit to live. You don’t have to agree with the story, but it does help make the point that for all of recorded history we have found some people unfit to live because of their behaviors — whether you choose to call those behaviors anti-social, psychopathic or evil.

There seems to be something deep inside of us that sees certain criminal or psychopathic behaviors as putting us beyond the pale, making us unfit to live.

When it’s said this way, the idea sounds so foreign it’s hard for me to relate to, and I imagine many of you also find it foreign. For some of you, the idea that someone can do something so heinous that they are not fit to live will never be an acceptable idea. For others — and apparently for quite a majority of Americans — it is a very acceptable idea.

I want to see if I can help us relate to this idea, even if we will never find it attractive. If we can’t relate to the idea, we will not be able to understand the position of a majority in our society. So I’ll use two stories, one strong but fictional, the other true but weak.

I suspect that many of you watched the award-winning television miniseries named “Lonesome Dove” a few years ago. I think it was one of the finest and most powerful dramas ever aired on television, partly because the actors were so powerful. Tommy Lee Jones, Robert Duvall and Robert Urich are the three I’m thinking of, and they were involved in a very powerful scene that I want to remind you of.

Robert Urich’s character seemed to lack something essential — a moral center, a sense of right and wrong. He fell in with two psychopathic murderers, who tortured, killed and then burned a farmer. Urich didn’t help with the killing, he was just there with them, watching, and not stopping them — kind of like the host in the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

When Robert Duvall’s and Tommy Lee Jones’s characters found the murdered and burned farmer, they became agents of retribution. They tracked down and caught the three men. They were surprised and saddened to find the Robert Urich character among them, for he was their friend. Urich’s character didn’t seem to understand what he had done wrong. As I remember it, Duvall said “You crossed over the line.” “I didn’t see the line,” said Urich. “I’m sorry,” was the answer, and the three men were hanged.

That scene has seemed to me very profound, with an insight into the nature of human nature and of justice that I can’t shake. There is a line, I believe, that we cannot cross, and when we do we are beyond the protection of society. We’re even beyond the love of God, according to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. I think almost all of us know this line intuitively. What we do with people who cross that line is a political and legal decision. Is it worth spending money to keep murderers, rapists and other psychopaths alive for twenty to fifty years? We know prisons will not rehabilitate them. Is that how a society wants to spend its resources? I don’t think this is a question to which there is an obvious answer.

Still, it is so hard to put ourselves in the place of the two cowboys in “Lonesome Dove” who hanged the three men. This is where this whole subject feels most likely to slip away from my ability to grasp it, and perhaps from yours.

So I offer you a second story, from my own past. You may decide it is a weak analogy, and it is a weak analogy. But it’s all I have. Twenty five years ago my wife and I raised purebred dogs. It was a fairly rare breed called Briards, a French sheepdog. The males could stand 28″ at the shoulders and weigh over 110 lbs. My wife was obsessive about the breeding, and matched our females with the best-bred stud dogs in the country. Many of the puppies we sold later became champions. They were just wonderful dogs. But over a period of four years, two of the puppies we sold grew to become dangerous. One female was so protective that when her owner’s two-year-old daughter ran into the room in the middle of the night because she had had a nightmare, the dog attacked her. The animal shelter called us the next day when the recognized the breed, and we picked up the dog and brought it home. A couple years later, a big male dog simply had something wrong, he was like a dog version of a psychopath. My wife and I both felt completely safe around this 110 lb. dog. But he chased and bit two children, and then without any warning attacked a friend of ours during a bridge game in our home, tearing open his face so badly it required over thirty stitches. He was a professional photographer, and nearly lost an eye.

I don’t have to tell you these dogs crossed over that line. You know they did. And you probably know what happened next. Both times, I took the dogs to the vet and had them killed. I had to feed these dogs tranquilizer pills so they would not be a danger to the vets or the teenagers working in the clinics. I will tell you without shame that both times I cried all the way to the veterinarian’s office, and all the way home again.

We had had such high hopes for these animals! They had the best breeding, the best food, excellent obedience training. Anyone here who has owned a pet knows how much we can love animals, and both my wife and I loved all the dogs, even these two, named Mairzy Doats and George. We could have chosen to build on to the kennel, to keep them separate from our other dogs and from our friends, and kept them alive for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t worth it. We didn’t have that much money or space, which is to say there were many other ways we preferred to use what money and energy we had.

But we shed many tears, even over these animals that had done terrible things, had crossed over that line, and who we chose to — well, we use the euphemism “to put down,” but it means we chose to execute them. I don’t want to imply for even a second that I equate dogs with people. It is a different order of being. I tell you the story partly to say that I know what it is like to decide to kill a dangerous animal, even one I loved. Our reasons for killing the dogs were reasons of money, space and priorities.

The subject of executing human psychopaths, murderers, dangerous people who have crossed over that line is not this simple. And there are several dimensions of the capital punishment debate on which we would probably all agree. I need to mention some of these.

— First, the legal system that sentences and executes our prisoners is imperfect. Blacks and other minorities, but especially blacks, are both imprisoned and executed in disproportionate numbers. I don’t know if this is race or economics. I suspect that much of it reflects the fact that poor people die in disproportionate numbers both in and out of prisons. They can’t afford the best lawyers, the best doctors, the best education, the best health care. American children raised in poverty are up to five times more likely to die of various causes than the children of more privileged families, regardless of their race. The system isn’t adequate and we all know it.

— Some prisoners who are executed are innocent. In Illinois, in Texas, everywhere. The legal system is a human institution, so it will never be perfect. We don’t like to admit it, but innocent people die in almost every human endeavor. In war, some soldiers are killed by what we call “friendly fire,” meaning that our own troops mistakenly killed their comrades. Even when we do the best we can, some innocent people die. However, even if we can’t make the system perfect, it can and should be continually monitored and improved.

— It is also clear, I think, that capital punishment is no more a deterrent than prison time is a rehabilitation. It is retribution, punishment, the vengeance of society. If there is a persuasive argument that either imprisonment or capital punishment are any more than that, I haven’t heard it.

There are more areas besides these three that we could probably all agree need to be addressed and improved, no matter what our position is on the death penalty.

However, they don’t change the basic issue of whether the most proper and desirable punishment for those who have crossed over that line is life imprisonment or execution. And I don’t think many people on either side of this argument are likely to have their minds changed.

But in a society where so many of our laws and behaviors show that we do not consider the mere fact of life to be sacred, or even to trump all other considerations, I don’t think the “seamless garment” argument of the Catholic Church is adequate. It’s a seamless garment built on an assumption that doesn’t fit any enduring human society.

I do like the idea of a “seamless garment” argument, a consistent attitude toward life that we can use both for abortion and for the subject of capital punishment. I don’t find it a black-and-white picture, however. I find it filled with grays. The quality of human lives seems to be like a bell curve. Most are precious. Some few are exquisite, even saintly. We can all think of some people in that category. And some, at the other end, have crossed over a line that even some of our most ancient religious teachers have believed make us unfit to live. As ugly as that sounds to say, and perhaps to hear, I believe it is true.

And my personal opinion, I am somewhat surprised to discover, is that I can’t find any persuasive arguments against capital punishment, especially from religious writers. Yet the logic isn’t enough. It isn’t enough for me, and I hope it isn’t enough for you. The intellectual arguments, the mere logic, aren’t enough. At least two more things are needed.

First, since we will probably never agree on whether or not capital punishment is just, ethical or moral, we must strive to broaden and deepen our understanding of the issues involved so that our disagreements can be insightful rather than spiteful, informative and enlightening rather than merely divisive. We need to understand that intelligent people of good will — people just as intelligent and just as moral as we know we are — can and do disagree on all complex issues, from abortion at the beginning of life to capital punishment as an end of life.

But something is still missing. There is sometimes what seems like a hardness, even a smugness from some people on both sides of the capital punishment debate. I have heard Governor Bush’s attitude during the recent presidential debates described as smug, even taunting, when he bragged that in Texas murderers are killed. I hope he doesn’t feel that way, because that attitude will make us miss what I believe is the most important of all attitudes toward these prisoners who are condemned either to die or to rot away in hellish, inhumane prisons.

What’s missing are the tears.

Even with the two dogs I had executed, I cried like a baby. God, there were so many hopes and dreams that died with those two dogs.

Where are the tears for the failed humans? Where are the tears for all the hopes and dreams that die, die, every time we slam shut forever another prison door or kill another prisoner?

I believe it is possible for good and moral people to decide that capital punishment is appropriate and just. The voting majorities in 38 of our 50 states, and both of our major presidential candidates, apparently feel this way. But I do not believe that it should be possible for us to accept either the growing prison population or the growing number of prisoners we choose to execute, without hurting so badly that we have to cry. Unless we feel, and live with, the terrible sense of loss of dreams and hopes and all that we have always wished were sacred — unless we have the tears, I think we will lose more of our own humanity than we can afford to lose. And to lose that degree of humanity is finally to suffer the irony of having capital punishment execute a piece of our own soul, and the soul of our nation.

The Dark God of Capitalism

Davidson Loehr

October 8, 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

I want to talk with you about capitalism and economics – not as an economist, but as a theologian.

I know very little about economics. I’m not a CPA either, and couldn’t begin to analyze complicated financial pictures. But I am a theologian, and I do know about gods. I know how they work, how powerful they are, how invisible they usually are, and know that beneath nearly every human endeavor with any passion or commitment about it, there will be a god operating, doing the things gods do.

Gods aren’t “Critters in the sky,” like big cartoon characters, even though it’s common to speak of them that way. Gods are those central concerns that our behaviors show we take very seriously. We commit our lives to them, we are driven by them, and in return they promise us something we want, or think we want. Whether what they promise us is good or bad is a measure of whether the god involved is an adequate or an inadequate one. Good gods really have the power to bestow a greater and nobler quality of life. Bad gods pretend to, but in the end it turns out that we serve them. They get their power, we learn too late, by sucking the life out of us. In return, we get very little that was worth the sacrifice of our lives. The Greeks have a wonderful picture of the seduction, and the consequence of following, idols. It’s in Homer’s Odyssey, on Odysseus’s return home. Just before he comes to the Straits of Messina (where he is given another choice with profound psychological and existential echoes today), he has his famous encounter with the Sirens. Sirens were powerfully seductive goddesses whose sweet talk lured any sailors who heard them to their deaths. The sweet voices promised a life of love, ecstasy, ease, and all-round wonderfulness that was just too good to be true. When you looked on the beaches of their island, you saw nothing but the bleached bones of the fools who had followed them: they were too good to be true. Odysseus, you may remember, wanted to have the experience and feel the temptation, but was wise enough to know that no mortal can long resist the sweet voices of Sirens. So he had his men tie him to the mast, making them swear they would not untie him no matter what he may say. Then they put beeswax in their own ears, and sailed past the Sirens. The Sirens were so persuasive that Odysseus screamed at his men to untie him, that he might sail toward them. But they couldn’t hear him. So-in spite of his momentary wishes, you might say-Odysseus lived to serve nobler causes.

As a theologian, I’d say that the most important fact we can know about ourselves is to know the gods we’re serving in our lives and in our societies, and whether they are really worth our lives.

And in this age of skepticism and disbelief, one of the biggest misunderstandings about us is the thought that we have no gods, that we’re not a religious people. In general, we serve our gods well, even when they’re not worth serving at all.

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Gods and Idols: Serving People or Profits

I’m interested in this battle between gods and idols, and how that is being played out in our economy today. It isn’t a simple thing, the contrast between people and profits. Its roots go all the way back to comments made by the Founding Fathers, over 200 years ago. Our founding fathers had very mixed opinions of “we the people”–many of them pretty insulting.

Alexander Hamilton declared that the people are “a great beast” that must be tamed. Rebellious and independent farmers had to be taught, sometimes by force, that the ideals of the revolutionary pamphlets were not to be taken too seriously. (Noam Chomsky, Profits Over People, p. 46).

Or as John Jay, the first Chief Justice of the Supreme court, put it, “The people who own the country ought to govern it.” (Chomsky, 46) Others among the founding fathers agreed wholeheartedly. The primary responsibility of government is “to protect the minority of the opulent against the majority,” said James Madison. (Chomsky, 47) Those “without property, or the hope of acquiring it, cannot be expected to sympathize sufficiently with its rights,” Madison explained. His solution was to keep political power in the hands of those who “come from and represent the wealth of the nation,” the “more capable set of men.” (Chomsky, 48)

This sounds like today’s cynical capitalism, but it was not. Like Adam Smith and the other founders of classical liberalism, Madison was precapitalist, and anticapitalist in spirit. But education, philosophical understanding and gentility were associated with money (I don’t think they would see that connection between money and character to be as strong today).

Still, Madison hoped that the rulers in this “opulent minority” would be “enlightened Statesmen” and “benevolent philosophers,” “whose wisdom may best discern the true interests of their country.” Such men would, he believed, “refine” and “enlarge” the “public views,” guarding the true interests of the country against the “mischiefs” of democratic majorities, but with enlightenment and benevolence. (Chomsky, 51-52).

For a man of James Madison’s depth and brilliance, that’s quite a naive hope!

He soon learned differently, as the “opulent minority” proceeded to use their power much as Adam Smith had predicted they would a few years earlier. They were living by the motto “All for ourselves, and nothing for other people.” By 1792, Madison warned that the rising developing capitalist state was “substituting the motive of private interest in place of public duty,” leading to “a real domination by the few under [a merely] apparent liberty of the many.” (Chomsky, 52)

Thomas Jefferson also distrusted the emerging class of capitalists: “The selfish spirit of commerce knows no country, and feels no passion or principle but that of gain.” (Jim Hightower, If the Gods Had Meant for Us To Vote, They Would Have Given Us Candidates, p. 283). Sounds surprisingly modern.

The battle between democracy and private profit-making has been a continuous thread in our history since the country began. A century ago, the American philosopher John Dewey was still writing, in the same key as Jefferson and Madison had, that democracy has little content when big business rules the life of the country through its control of “the means of production, exchange, publicity, transportation and communication, reinforced by command of the press, press agents and other means of publicity and propaganda.” John Dewey wrote this in the days before radio, television, or mass media. He also wrote that in a free and democratic society, workers must be “the masters of their own industrial fate,” not tools rented by employers. (Chomsky, 52)

It is a little eerie how much John Dewey sounds like James Madison, when Madison wrote more than 200 years ago that “a popular Government, without popular information, or the means of acquiring it, is but a Prologue to a Farce or a Tragedy; or perhaps both.” (Chomsky, 53)

So there are these two powerful and opposite ideas in our society, both with roots going all the way back to our founding. Both centers of thinking are still battling to be the gods (or idols) that define us, our hopes and possibilities, our society. Will the people rule the country, or will big businesses rule the country and the people, while bamboozling the masses to keep them from understanding how badly they are being manipulated?

We live in the time when the scales have tipped heavily toward capitalism and away from democracy.

How did they get tipped so badly this time? One obvious culprit–or hero, depending on your perspective here–is the great economist Milton Friedman, who said, in his influential book Capitalism and Freedom, that profit-making is the essence of democracy, so any government that pursues antimarket policies is being antidemocratic, no matter how much informed popular support they might enjoy. (Chomsky, 9) That’s a powerful, terrifying, revolutionary redefinition of democracy. It’s amazing to me any anyone would ever have let it pass, let alone enshrined it.

But once you decide that the goal is profits over the wishes of people (“no matter how much informed popular support they might enjoy”), the manipulation of us masses is a constant part of the scheme. Because of course people don’t want to do more work for less money, to lose their power, their possibilities, even their chance of realistic hope. So the art of deceiving us has been with us a long time, too.

The art of bamboozling us is not a secret art. Until recently, it was talked about quite openly, going all the way back to at least the 1920s. The name from that time, one of the most important names in the art of bamboozling the masses, was Edward Bernays. Bernays had worked in Woodrow Wilson’s Committee on Public Information, the first U.S. state propaganda agency. Bernays wrote that “It was the astounding success of propaganda during the [First World] war that opened the eyes of the intelligent few in all departments of life to the possibilities of regimenting the public mind.” (Chomsky, 54)

Here are more words from this most influential American: “The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society.” To carry out this essential task, “the intelligent minorities must make use of propaganda continuously and systematically,” because of course they alone “understand the mental processes and social patterns of the masses” and can “pull the wires which control the public mind.” This process of “engineering consent”–a phrase Bernays coined–is the very “essence of the democratic process,” he wrote shortly before he was honored for his contributions by the American Psychological Association in 1949. (Chomsky, 53)

Another member of Woodrow Wilson’s propaganda committee was Walter Lippman, one of the most influential and respected journalists in America for about fifty years, and a brilliant, articulate, man. The intelligent minority, Lippman explained in essays on democracy, are a “specialized class” who are responsible for setting policy and for “the formation of a sound public opinion.” They must be free from interference by the general public, who are “ignorant and meddlesome outsiders.” The public must “be put in its place”; their function is to be “spectators of action,” not participants–apart from periodic electoral exercises when they choose among the specialized class. (Chomsky, 54)

About a trillion dollars a year are now spent on marketing. Much of that money is tax-deductible, producing the irony that we are paying many of the costs of the manipulation of our attitudes and behavior. (Chomsky, 58)

But that’s just local news. And capitalism, like all gods, is a jealous god, and knows no boundaries. Eventually, most gods and idols seem to want to rule the world.

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Enter NAFTA

When the North Atlantic Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) legislation for Canada, The United States and Mexico was rushed through–over about a 60% public opinion against it–contradictory studies were suppressed or ignored. The Office of Technology Assessment, for instance, which is the research bureau of our Congress, published a report saying that NAFTA would harm most of the population of North America. That report was suppressed. (Chomsky, 102)

The defenders of NAFTA sometimes slip up in their public acknowledgements of how it is producing such record profits for corporations at the expense of workers. Testifying before the Senate Banking Committee in February 1997, for example, Federal Reserve Board Chair Alan Greenspan saw “sustainable economic expansion” thanks to “atypical restraint on compensation increases [which] appears to be mainly the consequence of greater worker insecurity.”

What NAFTA made possible on an international scale was the ability of corporations to serve profit for the owners and shareholders by disempowering and dismissing the masses who worked for them. Workers were and are terrified that the owners will take the business to Mexico, Saipan, Burma, Vietnam and other cheap labor and forced-labor markets, which is what they are doing. We have become a little numb to the fact that whenever the stock market rises it almost always means that tens of thousands of our neighbors have been fired, their benefits or insurance cut or eliminated, and work is being done by dollar-a-day workers in other countries, often in conditions of inhumane forced labor. This is capitalism working perfectly, and it is an unmitigated disaster for almost every economy it touches.

After all the hype to push the passage of NAFTA through in spite of public objection, we don’t hear much about the post-NAFTA collapse of the Mexican economy, exempting only the very rich and US investors (protected by US government bailouts). Mexico was successfully transformed into a cheap labor market with wages only 1/10th of US wages, as the people, the masses, have been driven down farther into poverty, and their American counterparts lost their jobs. In the past decade, the number of Mexicans living in extreme pov-erty in rural areas increased by almost a third. Half the total population lacks resources to meet basic needs, a dramatic increase since 1980. The list goes on, it is quite a long and sad one. You don’t have to ask who won. This is capitalism. The people who control the capital won. Nobody else.

We seldom read about many of the effects of NAFTA in this country, either. Shortly after the NAFTA vote in Congress, workers were fired from Honeywell and GE plants for attempting to organize independent unions. The Ford Motor Company had fired its entire work force, eliminating the union contract and rehiring workers at far lower salaries. (Chomsky, 125)

Wages here have fallen to the level of the 1960s for production and non-supervisory workers. The Congressional Office of Technology Assessment predicted that NAFTA “could further lock the United States into a low-wage, low-productivity future.” (Chomsky, 126-127) But that report, like the others, was suppressed.

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The Almighty Stock Market?

The quality of our economy, according to the pundits on television, is determined by the stock market. Yet again, we must ask what small part of the economy we’re talking about. Half the stocks in 1997 were owned by the wealthiest one percent of households, and almost ninety percent were owned by the wealthiest ten percent. Concentration is still higher for bonds and trusts. (Chomsky, 147) Today’s upper-class prosperity is built almost entirely on the bloated prices of corporate stocks. (Hightower, 149)

While the number of Americans getting college degrees is increasing, there are some who feel that this is a cynical ploy to make the degrees more worthless, because the real growing job market looks to be low-tech and low-paid. Between now and 2006, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the thirty fastest-growing job categories include only seven that require even a bachelor’s degree. More than half of them pay under $18,000 a year. (Hightower, 152-153) And these are the thirty fastest-growing jobs coming up, the immediate hope for desperate people.

Times like this make me think of the great American philosopher Yogi Berra, when he said, “Half the lies they tell me aren’t true.”

Let’s bring it closer to home. Here in Austin, there are some 350 developers putting up some ten thousand homes a year. Less than five percent of these houses are priced below $100,000. Apartment construction here is also up. But of the 4,312 units built in 1998, only five percent were moderately priced. A bitter irony for the construction crews building these apartments is that they’re averaging about ten bucks an hour, and can’t find any place they can afford to live here. (Hightower, 157) Across the US, seventy percent of renters now pay more than a third of their monthly income on rent. (Hightower, 163) Indeed, some in this church are paying more than half their monthly income on rent. It isn’t because they can’t handle money well, it’s because prices are going up while wages and benefits are going down.

Twenty-five percent of the jobs in today’s celebrated economy pay a poverty wage. That’s 32 million people. (Hightower, 165)

Farmers today get only 20′ of the food dollar you and I spend, a nickel less than just a decade ago. That’s a 20% drop in income, in just one decade. (Hightower, 240)

If you back off to think of this battle of the rights of profits versus people, you could imagine, at least theoretically, an extreme kind of world in which the rights of corporations–which, incidentally, have no rights at all, only the privilege of existing as long as the public believes the corporations are serving the public’s general good–could actually trump the rights of people, states, even nations. Imagine a world in which corporations could sue nations if those nations took actions that cost the corporations revenues. In other words, imagine that a nation decided a gasoline additive was toxic to the environment, and banned gasolines containing it, and that nation was then sued by the corporation for loss of revenues. Or imagine a case where a corporation went into another country, used its power to create an illegal monopoly driving local firms out of business. Let’s say the locals caught on, took the corporation to court, ruled against it and even fined it for illegal business practices. It could happen. But in this most bizarre of imaginary worlds, imagine the corporation could then sue the entire nation for loss of profits. And imagine, since we’ve already crossed over into the insane, that the corporation could bypass all the courts in the nation it was suing, and win a multi-million dollar judgment against a country decided by a three-person team of financial advisors, of which the corporation got to pick one

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Welcome to Chapter Eleven of the NAFTA agreement, for that world is already here, and so are the lawsuits.

First is a case reported on Jim Hightower’s radio show by a staunch, even rabid, Republican from Mississippi, a man named Mike Allred. Allred got involved when a funeral parlor owner from Biloxi, Mississippi came to him for help. A massive funeral home conglomerate from Canada named the Loewen Group had come into Biloxi, as it had come into many other cities in the United States, and used a variety of unlawful practices to force other funeral parlor operators out of business, then jack up the prices. One man sued them. In 1995, a Mississippi jury agreed that the Loewen Group was unscrupulous. The local man was awarded $100 million in damages by the jurors, and they added another $160 million in punitive damages. Loewen’s lawyers got the judge to force the jury to reconsider the punitive award, and the jury increased punitive damages to $400 million. The Loewen Group tried a couple other legal end-runs to avoid payments, but were unsuccessful.

Then one of their lawyers discovered Chapter Eleven in the new NAFTA agreeement. In 1998, Loewen suddenly sued the U.S. government, claiming the Mississippi court system expropriated the assets of its investors and harmed their future profits. The fact that Loewen was guilty of illegal and un-scrupulous practices was irrelevant. The Mississippi court took money from the corporation, in violation of the investor rights granted them in the NAFTA agreement. In other words, NAFTA had bestowed a legal right on foreign corpo-rations that allows them to avoid the punishment our state courts impose on them when they break our laws, allowing them to demand that our national government pay for any fines and financial losses the corporation incurred as a result of the guilty verdict. Loewen is now demanding $725 million from the US taxpayers.

There’s more. The case bypasses all US courts. It goes before a special “corporate court” of three trade arbiters, one of which is chosen by Loewen. The results are imposed on our nation, our taxpayers, and are not subject to review by any of our courts. The people from Mississippi were not allowed to appear, since their testimony that the Loewen Group’s behavior was illegal, monopolistic, unethical was irrelevant.

There is also no requirement that either the corporation or the government has to make the case public. Some feel that a victory for Loewen would completely undermine the American civil justice system, putting the profits of foreign corporations above any and all interests of all of our citizens and all of our laws. But even if Loewen loses this case, the rights are still there, guaranteed to investors but not to nations, for other corporations to try.

At least two other such cases have been filed, I’ll talk about only the shorter one. The Ethyl Corporation, based in Virginia, has already sued the Canadian government for banning their leaded gasoline and labeling its additive toxic (our own EPA is working to ban the same toxic additive). Canada was sued for $251 million, the little panel of trade arbiters met with government officials, and settled for having the government pay them $13 million and apologize for implying that their gasoline additive is dangerous, even though they, and our own EPA, know it is dangerous. By doing this, they have set a precedent for corporations being able to sue governments for loss of profit, and by denying people and whole nations the right to protect their people and their environment from poisonous chemicals added to their fuel or food, as long as some corporation is making a profit from it.

Remember Thomas Jefferson’s prescient statement from two centuries ago: “The selfish spirit of commerce knows no country, and feels no passion or principle but that of gain.” The spirit of capitalism is a lot like the spirits of the Sirens, promising what they can not deliver, but doing with so very seductively. What is happening is what Thomas Jefferson and many of the other founders of this country feared would happen. The power has shifted from the people to the corporations, and laws are being enacted and enforced that let profits trump people and international corporations trump nations. This is the logic under which the media and politicians of both major parties can define ours as a “strong” economy while wages for the majority of Americans are lower in constant dollars than they were thirty years ago, personal bankruptcy rates set new records every year, we have the highest child poverty rate in the developed world, the highest mortality rate for children under five in all the industrial nations, our nation’s companies are eliminating about 64,000 of the better-paying jobs each month, and Americans in their 20s are the first generation who can not expect to do better financially than their parents. If this is a “strong” economy, we need to ask “for whom, and at whose expense?”

To me, this story is about the only story worth writing about, it is a betrayal of democracy barely short of treason. I think it will become a “cause” for me, something I’ll devote some time and energy to in the wider community. I’ve called Jim Hightower’s office and the Austin Metropolitan Ministries, suggesting that clergy should become involved in sponsoring public lectures and panel discussions on the subject of the systematic selling out of people for profits, and I’ve offered to serve as either lecturer or moderator for public panels.

If you think I’m wrong, I challenge you to produce some data and arguments that can account for these facts in another way, and suggest that this church could provide an important service to itself and the greater community by sponsoring public discussions of what, exactly, is happening in our country in this age old battle between profits and people.

Perhaps I’ve made some mistakes here. I’m not an economist. I’m not a CPA, I don’t even balance my checkbook. But I am a good theologian. I know the difference between gods and idols, and I know how deadly the worship of idols is and has always been.

Capitalism is doing very well. It is serving the needs of those who control the capital above all other needs, as it is supposed to do. Our economy, despite the raving stories, is not doing well. It is doing poorly. It’s bad housekeeping, it’s making a bad home for us as a nation.

But our problems are not primarily economic. They’re religious. We’re worshiping false gods. For the past generation in this society, our social and political policies have been increasingly dictated by the overriding concerns of capitalism, of bottom-line profits for the few who control capital, at the price of dismantling and disempowering the middle class.

You see, it’s all happened before. We’ve always been so seduced by the glitter of gold that we’re on the verge of making it into a god. There’s nothing new here. And there’s nothing new about the results, either.

Once money is turned into a god, it is–like all deities–a jealous god, and will not permit any other consideration to come before it. So we sell the righteous for silver, and Vietnamese girls for a pair of Nike tennis shoes. We transfer wealth, power, and possibilities from the common people to the very few who have gotten enough money to be players in the game of capitalism.

When we exalt capitalism as we have, when we change tax structures and income distribution to create, as we have, the greatest disparity between rich and poor since the Middle Ages–I can see, and feel, that our problems aren’t about money. They’re theological. We’re worshiping false gods again.

And unless we stop it, everything else will follow inexorably from that–as it always has.

Ā 

Afterthoughts:

In many ways, this was a very frustrating sermon to write. It touches so many areas, it should have been a five- or six-sermon series. In final drafts, I cut more than half the material from the sermon–which was still too long.

I notice that I’ve also referred to only two books here–Noam Chomsky’s Profits Over People and Jim Hightower’s If The Gods Had Meant for Us To Vote, They Would Have Given Us Candidates. Some of the other books I read to pre-pare for this ‘ obviously a list far too short to “prepare for” any topic this vast ‘ included the following:

Arianna Huffington, How to Overthrow the Government

Robert McChesney, Rich Media, Poor Democracy

Michael Janeway, Republic of Denial

Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death, How to Watch TV News

While this is a partial list, it’s obviously not long enough to give me an “expert” understanding of the disciplines touched on. One of the thrills and frustrations of the liberal ministry resides in the fact that every subject has religious implications if taken deeply enough. This makes us, by definition, generalists rather than specialists.

However, I’ve always been blessed with very bright and informed congregants, who seem forever eager to help me learn more about whatever discipline they think I’ve slighted–especially when it’s their discipline! Perhaps you’ll be among them?

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Addendum:

Since this sermon has appeared here, been sent to several other servers and gained a small life of its own, I have received several letters insisting that it contains some important factual errors, especially concerning the case involving the Ethyl Corp. and Canada. I don’t have time or resources to check, but want to include some of these points (and invite other critiques of fact or argument). Here are some of the points I have received. Again, I don’t know if they hold up, but want to share them:

That the MMT additive is NOT toxic to the environment. It harms the exhaust system of cars, but not (directly, anyway) the environment.

One respondent said the ‘horrible toxin’ (MMT) is methyl tertiary-butyl ether, which is used undiluted in the human body to dissolve gallstones. Check this out in Merck Manual. Far from getting rich in the manufacture of this lead replacement the stock has dropped to less than $2.00, and all dividends have been discontinued.

Others have insisted that the real culprit is not merely capitalism, but our whole social structure of priorities that endorse and strengthen the more greedy and individualistic varieties of capitalism. Among these larger social trends, they include the ‘winner-take-all’ mentality (which sanctions big winners and ignores the vast majority of other players), and the superhero (and super wealthy) status of top sports stars and celebrities.

I appreciate and agree with this larger framing.

Davidson Loehr, 11-27-00

Talk is Not Cheap

Davidson Loehr

September 24, 2000

UNISON READING: #488

Hold fast to dreams

for if dreams die

life is a broken-winged bird

that cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

for when dreams go

life is a barren field

frozen with snow.

OFFERING:

Not long ago, Old man Robertson, who had lived a rather ordinary life, died. He had always dreamed of giving his life amidst some heroic feat, saving a life or averting disaster. One morning while eating his oatmeal, however, he quietly died without any such heroism.

He was explaining his confusion and dismay to an angel carrying a clip-board when the angel reminded him that he must have done something right because he was in the part of heaven where only heroes were admitted. He protested in disbelief, “But these people all look so ordinary. Where are the knights in shining armor and the quarterbacks?” The other angels shook their head and one explained, “Real heroes aren’t famous. They’re people who make the impossible happen. They keep hope alive. Mrs. Thompson, for example, taught the underprivileged how to read and Mr. Franks was a music teacher.”

“What did I do that was so heroic?” asked Mr. Robertson.

“Let’s see- Robertson- Robertson-” The angel checked her clipboard. “Ah yes: It says here that just before you died, your final pledge check cleared at the bank.”

CENTERING:

About 800 years ago, a visitor entered the town of Chartres, France, where the great cathedral of Chartres was under construction. It was a huge project- it took over a century to complete- and nearly everyone in town seemed busy with an activity in some way related to the giant cathedral.

The visitor went up to a man who was busy with some large stones. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m cutting stones,” came the reply, “I am a stonemason.”

Not far from the stonemason was a man carving some wood. “What are you doing?” he asked this second person. “I’m carving wood,” came the answer, “I’m a carpenter.”

Several more people from several more occupations brought similar answers: the glassblower was blowing glass, the solicitor was soliciting donations, and the architect was planning pillars.

Off in the distance was a peasant woman with a large broom, sweeping up the sawdust, stone chips, glass fragments and other debris, tidying up after the workers had finished with their fragmented tasks. To her, the question was the same: “What are you doing?” The woman stopped sweeping, stood up straight and turned toward the visitor with a broad and proud smile. “Me?” she said, “Why I am building a magnificent cathedral to the glory of God!”

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SERMON: “Talk Is Not Cheap”

The expectations we have for our churches are part of a special kind of relationship. We bring ourselves, our energy, our money, and vulnerability and curiosity to church. We deposit them here, invest them here. But what we expect in return is a kind of miracle – moreover, a miracle that really can and does happen.

In the ancient churches, they had a word for this process. They said the church consecrated the energies, gifts and money brought. It put them in the service of sacred causes and callings. This transformed the meaning of the money and energy, and the quality of what believers got in return. Their gifts were put into the service of higher values, they believed: something sacred. This was the church’s part of the bargain. When it worked, the people got, as a return on their investment, gifts of life back from the church – gifts of the spirit, of a greater appreciation for life, an eagerness, a deeper feeling of its sacred nature and of their sacred nature. That’s the miracle

We have, as it’s been said, “gifts differing,” and each of our gifts is a gift of life to our churches. Those who can make music fill the air with the sound of the Holy Spirit in one of its purest forms. Those who are over with our children now sharing their gifts as teachers bring the children who are our future the lessons of the spirit which we have to share with them, and an intelligent understanding that can – we hope and believe – take the place of prejudice.

Our money is a gift too. The gifts of our money represent gifts of potential to a church. Money lets us dream bigger dreams, and gives us the funds to pursue those dreams, as individuals and as a religious institution. Without the ability to dream, a church loses a lot of its spirit. But unless a church can keep that ability to consecrate money, to maintain that vulnerable and magical kind of atmosphere that lets people feel that here the Spirit is alive and well, is not fenced, then people will rightly feel that the church is failing at its chief task as a religious institution. And then, with the magic gone and the spirit fenced, people will cut back their pledges, or withhold their money altogether, because somehow it no longer feels like the church is keeping up its part of the bargain.

This morning’s Centering story was about this kind of magic, this ability to consecrate, that a good church has. For the carpenter, stone mason, and the other workers, putting in time at the cathedral had just become a job. The horizons of what they felt they were doing there had been reduced to merely cutting wood and piling stones together. Only that woman with the broom really knew what she was doing there. For her, the magic of the place was alive and well. It may have looked like she was just pushing a broom, but she knew better. She was doing her part in building a magnificent cathedral to the glory of God. Her work had become consecrated, dedicated to a higher kind of calling. And consecrating her work had consecrated her life, as well.

This is magical, but it isn’t supernatural. We are measured by the size of what we serve with our lives, and the bigger and more noble the cause, the bigger our own lives feel. There is that same bargain.

This magic doesn’t happen only in churches. During the last Olympics, I watched a couple interviews with professional basketball players who repre-sented the United States. Here were world-class athletes who had already “made it”: they were making millions of dollars a year playing pro basketball, had fan clubs and talk shows and the rest of it. What’s left for them? Yet in these interviews, they had that open-eyed look that little kids get when they have been transformed by magic from a bigger world. This was the first time, they said, that they had ever represented something as big and as magnificent as the entire United States. This wasn’t just for the Chicago Bulls or the Houston Rockets. This time when they played, they knew they were a part of the spirit and the pride of the whole United States of America. It trans-formed them. It was the highest and most satisfying activity of their life, they said.

That’s the kind of magic I’m talking about, and the kind that churches, at their healthiest, are supposed to be offering. That’s what consecration looks like up close. It is a power to transform lives by letting us live within larger visions and more inspiring dreams.

We’re offered the chance to worship within vast horizons, and we become changed by the size of what we worship. It’s magic. Consecration. When the Spirit isn’t fenced in, it can work the kind of magic that told that woman she wasn’t just sweeping up dirt, but building a magnificent cathedral. Her work, her gifts, her energy and her life were consecrated and transformed. Then all things are possible, and the gifts of life we give to our churches are returned threefold as gifts of life back from the churches, as our own spirits are given wings. Consecration. Magic.

It’s ironic: the sacred is invisible, yet people usually count it for more than the visible. This is why I’ve always liked the Jewish habit of refusing to give their god a name or make a picture or statue of him. In a revealing way, the Greeks did this, too. They drew, painted or sculpted most of their gods – except one. That one had no image at all, she was invisible. This was the goddess Hestia, whom the Romans called Vesta: that invisible spirit whose presence made a house feel like a home, and a church service feel like a worship service. That invisible spirit that could transform ordinary time and space into sacred time and space. When we speak of not fencing the Spirit, that is the Spirit that we must not fence: the Holy Spirit, Hestia. It is at the same time the most life-giving and the most fragile thing about any good church.

For all of human history, this quality of time and space we call sacred has been worth more than money could measure. The Jews built great temples to their unnamed and unseen God. The Greeks built magnificent temples to many of their gods and goddesses, including the invisible Hestia. So did the Romans, then the Christians. The one billion Muslims in the world have built gorgeous mosques all over the planet, where they can go to seek the presence of the invisible spirit of Allah, and be transformed by that presence. Compared to the homes of the average Jew, Greek, Roman, Christian or Muslim, these temples were often magnificent and lavish, with marble, gold, and exquisite art and music.

Even here, in this less ostentatious sanctuary, even without the marble and gold, pains were taken to give this room its special feel, with a high ceiling to allow dreams and spirits to soar, and the wonderful expansive feel of the room. And this custom-made pulpit in the shape of our chalice is a joy to behold and to preach from. The whole atmosphere of this sanctuary was designed to provide a space for worship and a home for the invisible, but holy, spirit. Sacred places have always seemed worth it to create and maintain. It’s a bunch of ordinary people, pooling their resources and gifts to create a sacred niche within an ordinary world.

We use the ordinary currency of money to create a temple to serve the ex-traordinary currency of sacred time and space. Yet we hardly ever talk about money.

Money

One reason it’s hard to talk about money in a temple or church is because that’s the kind of currency we come to get away from, so we can focus on more spiritual matters.

Another reason is that Western religion has always made such a point of making the love of money the root of all evil, it’s hard to turn around and ask for it. We remember how the ancient Jews hated it when people worshiped the golden calf; or how Jesus said it was easier to get a rope through a needle than a rich man into heaven.

So we go to churches without much of an idea about what the cost is of keeping a church financially healthy. A lot of people think that if they put $10 in the collection plate they’re being generous. And it’s true that for some people, that is indeed generous. Yet if you came all 40 weeks of the church year and put in $10 each time, your annual pledge would be only $400. You couldn’t maintain a church on that today. The air-conditioning alone cost the church over $16,000 last year, and it will be more this year.

What does it cost to maintain a healthy church that can afford to dream? It isn’t an exact science. It varies in different cities, depending on the cost of living, housing costs, salaries and the rest. When we brought in a consultant who has worked with over 250 UU churches, he estimated that it would cost us about as much as we could raise if our average pledge was $35/week. That’s $1820 a year. Ten years ago I read the figure was about $1000, in cities with much lower housing costs. So whether the actual figure for this church is closer to $1600 or $2000, $35/week is in the right ball-park. It is what I am pledging.

Let’s take some more figures that might inform and surprise you. The wealthiest members of churches don’t pledge according to averages or percent-ages, but more according to a kind of noblesse oblige, to their own sense of commitment and duty and a feeling that they need to share their gifts of wealth with the causes that are important to them. Last year in St. Paul, the top pledges were around $22,000 a year. At All Souls Unitarian Church in New York City where everything costs more, I know of some pledges in the range of $50,000 a year. At the First Unitarian Church in Dallas, the top pledge is about $30,000 a year, with the rest of the top tier in the high teens and 20s. It’s the old adage that we expect and need more from those to whom much has been given, and it is as true in churches as it is in any other nonprofit or-ganization. If your gifts are musical, we need for you to share those gifts with the church. If you have gifts of organization or leadership, we need you to volunteer for leadership positions. And if your gifts are of money – whether you inherited the money or have the gift of being able to do something that happens to pay very well in our society today – we need you to share those gifts so the church can thrive.

I’ve come here as an outsider, having served four churches in the past three years as an interim minister. And while I have now signed the membership book and am becoming part of this church, I still keep some of the out-sider’s perspective, which is probably helpful for all of us. I’ve noticed, for instance, that there’s a transformation that happens as churches move from small to large. In small churches, people wonder if they should really spend that much; after all, the church is too small to do much or to be very viable. When people give to small churches, they are usually giving to support a small community where they have found a home, rather than supporting a religion with a mission to the “outside” world. In large churches, people know it’s worth the money, it’s money well spent and they’re glad they did it. There is a kind of healthy pride in large churches, as people come to realize that they are integral parts of the larger community and of their religion’s history. It’s a change in mindset, a fundamentally different way of understanding what a church is for and about.

I don’t know how that transformation happens. There’s some magic to it. But I do know that this church has crossed over that line, and most here don’t yet realize it. It’s easy for outsiders to see, however, because your actions show it. This is one of the only UU churches in the country that holds two Sunday services all year long, and has good attendance during summer services. I attended services here this July where there were over 300 adults. The average Sunday attendance here this fall (over 450) is more than half again as high as the average Sunday attendance at All Souls Unitarian Church in Tulsa – a church of about 800-850 members with a posted average Sunday attendance of only 296.

You’re not a little church any more. You’re a big church. And a proud one, with gifts to offer that many, many people in the Austin area need and would dearly love to find. The transition has already happened. You’ve al-ready crossed over the line from little to big, and I don’t think you yet realize it. You reach out into the community, from marches for causes to bring-ing the homeless into the church for Freeze Nights. These are among the actions here that show a big heart and a pride in your presence and role within the larger community and society.

I am telling you these things because I think you probably didn’t know them. I have been here long enough to know that you are generous people with generous hearts who care about this sacred place and want to know how to do your part. So I hope that by being very candid with you I have helped you get some of the information you need to get a more realistic feel for where you would be most proud to be within this church’s culture of generosity. You know how much money you have, how high the church is on your list of important priorities, and I trust you to find a level of financial support of which you can be proud.

You know they had talks like this a couple thousand years ago when the Jewish, Greek or Roman temples needed to be built and maintained. Our sacred places have always cost us, and the cost has always been worth it. And while we are talking about money, that isn’t the only currency in which those who came before us have paid to keep the spirit of religion alive, especially the spirit of liberal religion. Every Sunday, I say things from this pulpit, and you say things during your discussions, for which we would have been burned at the stake if it hadn’t been for the courage and the sacrifice of those religious liberals who have come before us, who have understood the cost of providing sacred places in the world, and who have now passed the baton to us. If you want to know what kind of a race I think the human race is, I think it’s a relay race. Our dreams and achievements are the baton that we pass to those who will carry it beyond us.

In most UU churches, which are quite small, those who attend, if asked what it’s about, would say things like a freedom to believe whatever they like, a nice group of people, and it’s kind of cool lighting a flame at the beginning of the service, because “light” is such a religious symbol and all.

While those things are mostly true, it’s such an incomplete, even shallow, understanding of the real sacred treasure with which we have been entrusted. It has been my experience that in larger churches, people are ready for a much larger understanding of what we are about.

The real story of who we are is as simple, and as powerful, as this flaming chalice. This is a symbol of the story that is at the soul of our way of the spirit. So while a few of you will know this story, I think most of you won’t, and tell you the real secret gift we have been given. It has nothing to do with Unitarians or Universalists. It has to do with something much older, deeper, and more eternal.

A century before Martin Luther began the Protestant Reformation, there was an obscure Catholic priest in Czechoslovakia names Jan Hus. Unlike the officials in the church, Hus believed that religion was to be shared with all the people. He preached in Czech rather than Latin so the people could understand and think and talk about the sermons. This was not allowed. And he said that the chalice, containing the symbolic blood of Christ, was not meant to be drunk only by the priest – the practice the Roman Catholic Church followed until after Vatican II – but was meant to be shared with all the people. Hus wanted an open Communion, to open religion to the people in both words and rituals. He knew talk wasn’t cheap, and he said some of the most expensive, and courageous, words in the history of religion. For this heresy, Jan Hus was burned at the stake. The chalice, which holds the flame we light each Sunday, was chosen as a symbol of the open communion championed by Jan Hus nearly six hundred years ago. And the flame we light each week is a symbolic reminder of the flame in which he was burned at the stake for his courageous liberal vision. That symbol of an open religion and that reminder of the costs of such bold dreams are the real heritage of this church, and of us who serve it. In all of religious history, there can hardly be a more sacred or life-giving treasure than the treasure which has been passed to us, entrusted to us, by people like that medieval Catholic priest of whom you may never ever have heard until now.

It is time for us to dream together, and pool our resources to fund those dreams so that together we may continue building this magnificent cathedral to the glory of God, and can pass on the sacred baton we have received in an im-proved condition. Talk isn’t cheap. Neither is freedom of belief. It’s our turn to pay for it, and I think it is an honor to do so. Some who came before us have paid a great deal more.

Salvation, American Style

Davidson Loehr

17 September 2000

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

Ā 

PUPPET SHOW

A. (Head hung down, looking sad)

B. What’s wrong?

A. I’m lonesome

B. Lonesome? I can help you! You know what you need?

A. A friend?

B. You need Crest Toothpaste!

A. Toothpaste? I need a friend!

B. Well, the reason you don’t have a friend might be because your breath stinks! If you buy this Crest toothpaste and brush your teeth with it, your breath won’t stink and maybe you’ll get some friends. Here, give me a dollar.

A. (Gives a dollar to B, who gives toothpaste to A. Both disappear.)

A. (Head hung down, looking sad when A. reappears.)

C.What’s wrong?

A. I’m lonesome.

C. Hey, that’s because you need some new Nike tennis shoes!

A. Tennis Shoes? I’m lonesome, not barefoot!

C. Well, you’re lonesome because you don’t have cool Nike tennis shoes, that’s why? Here, just give me a hundred bucks and I’ll give you some cool Nike tennis shoes, then you’ll be set!

A. (A gives C money, C gives A shoes. Both disappear.)

A. (Head hung down, looking sad when A. reappears.)

D. What’s wrong?

A. Oh, I don’t want to talk about it.

D. You know what you need?

A. Go away.

D. You need fifty bucks’ worth of Pokemon toys!

A. Yeah, right. (A gives fifty dollars to D, who hands A the toys. Both disappear.)

A. (Head hung down, looking sad when A. reappears.)

E. You look lonesome.

A. I need a friend.

E. Me too.

A. (Brightens up) You want to be friends?

E. Oh, yes! (They hug.)

A. This is what I’ve needed!

E. Me too! You wouldn’t believe all the junk I’ve bought when what I’ve really wanted was just a friend!

A. Tell me about it!

Exit.

Ā 

‘THE VOICES’

A. (A sweet feminine voice.) Looking good isn’t a matter of luck. It’s a decision. Call us, we can save you. Smith and Roberts, Austin’s most caring plastic surgeons.

B. (A gruff, macho male voice) Get it. Today. Pit Stop. Tough enough for famous race drivers. Because it doesn’t matter how smart you are, how good looking, even how successful. If you stink, you stink. So listen to me. We can save you. Get it today. Pit Stop. Famous race drivers’ favorite deodorant.

A. (Woman’s voice) Oh no, Jane’s great date turned into a disaster ‘ again! She’ll never find anyone to love her as long as she has those yellow teeth! If only she would buy SparklyWhite Toothpaste and Bleach. Then she could find a man who would love her, buy her things, and she’d be saved. Otherwise, she’ll probably just be alone forever.

B. (Gruff macho voice). Hey Jack! Yeah, you ‘ the loser in that dinky little compact car. When are you gonna get it? The kind of woman you’re looking for doesn’t like guys in dinky little cars. Size matters, Jack. Wanna be saved from more years as a loser? See this Ford F-150 V-8 pick-up truck? It can save ya, Jack. Buy it today, before we run out of ’em.

A. (This is a ‘straight-from-the-heart’ kind of pitch. She’s selling, but trying to seem genuine, like the listener’s friend. If it were TV, she’d be looking directly into the camera, acting sincere.) You want to be saved? We’ve got your salvation right here. But it isn’t free, you’ve got to buy it. And there’s a lot to buy, if you want to look good, smell good, feel good, and impress your friends and boss with how cool you are. The right clothes, shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant, perfume, diamonds to get and keep the lady, beauty and sexiness to keep the guy. There’s a lot to buy. You’ll probably be in debt forever, at 21% interest rates on your VISA card. And there’s always more to buy. It never ends. (Minister gets up and walks to podium.) But if you really want to be saved, we can save you. We can ‘ hey, who’s the guy up there in the robe?

B. He’s the preacher.

A. What’s he doing? He messed up my pitch.

B. He’s going to try to get them to ignore us.

A. Fat chance!

B. Shhhh! It’s his turn now.

Ā 

SERMON: Salvation, American Style

Those voices are everywhere. They are the priests and priestesses of the religion of salvation, American style. I want to convince you this morning that it really is a religion, that it’s a very bad religion, and that the alternatives are not hard to find.

Now you’re a very bright group, and I doubt that any of you are convinced yet. You think I’m exagerrating for effect, or to set up something in a few minutes. You don’t think I really mean that commercials represent a real religion in America. But I do. And by the end of the morning, you may too.

I’m not just picking on television programs, though most of them are silly, too full of sex, violence and vacuousness. But picking on sit-coms is too easy. I want to argue that all of television exists primarily to serve The Voices that are selling us this religion of salvation, American style. I even want to argue that news programs aren’t really about news that matters, or that we need to know for any reason. Instead, they are entertainment shows, and their primary purpose is to attract an audience through their sensationalist stories of blood, violence, sex and gossip, so The Voices can make their pitch to this crowd. I want to argue that television programs, and television news, both exist almost entirely to serve the real God behind the television industry. And that God’s name is Our Sponsor, Who Art in Heaven.

Why are there so many news programs on? Thirty years ago, there was only about fifteen minutes of national news a night, and it seemed to be enough. Why is there now an entire CNN network with news 24 hours a day? Is there that much that we need to know, or about which our knowledge could make any difference at all?

We could spend hours dissecting news programs, as many authors have. The best known of these media critics, and the best writer among them, is probably Neil Postman. I’ve read several of his books, including one called Amusing Ourselves to Death and How to Watch TV News.

Basically, the problem is controlled by economics, as so much else is. It costs about half as much to produce a news show as to produce a comedy or drama. And people who watch the news are good attentive audiences. That’s attractive to advertisers, and during the past twenty years or so, news programs have eliminated most of their in-depth investigative journalism and concentrated instead on more exciting and titillating stories that can be produced more quickly ‘ as newspapers also have. Violence, sex, intrigue, gossip and blood dominate the news programs because, like car crashes, they attract audiences. And the job of news producers is to keep putting new and exciting stories in front of us every day, then dropping them when something more titillating comes along tomorrow. The news casters are like carnival barkers, and their main purpose is not to educate us, but to draw us into the tent so the sponsors can make their pitches to us.

Perhaps you won’t agree. Perhaps you think that at least the national news must be important, must be relevant to our lives, must be something we need to know. If you believe this, if you think the news is important, rather than just a carnival barker’s show to get you inside the tent so you can see the commercials, I have some questions to consider. How much of the news from two weeks ago can you still remember? If it was important, if it was worth all the shouting and hype the news producers wrapped it in two weeks ago, why isn’t it still news? Have all the problems of last month’s news been solved? And if they were important but haven’t been solved, why aren’t we still being told about them? How many people are starving in Biafra or Rwanda today? Where are they getting their food? What has changed since the news stories of a few years ago got the whole country excited about these terrible human tragedies?

Questions like these ‘ and you can think of dozens more ‘ help show us what should be obvious: The news isn’t important. We’re really not supposed to care about it. At least not for long. It isn’t put on to educate us, it’s put on to draw us into the tents on the carnival midway so the snake-oil sellers can preach their story of salvation, American style.

Whenever I get into this subject, whenever I spend much time reading or talking about it, I am reminded of that great American philosopher Lily Tomlin, who once observed that ‘No matter how cynical I get, I just can’t keep up!’

But none of this is news to advertising firms or television executives. They know that the purpose of all television programs is to draw a crowd for the commercials to play to. That, plus the highly competitive market, are the reasons the news has become dominated by car-crash journalism, why there is so much violence, sex, terror and blood on the news.

Some years ago the media critic Marshall MacLuhan was asked if there was any good news on television. Yes, he said, the commercials are the good news. The commercials take your mind off the bad things happening, and show you in just thirty seconds how you can improve yourself, become lovable, popular, and successful.

The phrase ‘Good News’ is a religious phrase. That’s what churches are supposed to be offering: the Good News that can save us. And like religious teachings, most commercials take the form of parables, teaching viewers what the Good Life looks like and what we need in order to have it.

Let’s do a commercial to show this. You’ll recognize it as being like most other commercials you’ve seen. Like most commercials, it’s a thirty-second drama done in three acts.

Act One shows a man and woman saying goodnight at her door after an evening out. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, expecting a kiss. He steps back in a state of polite revulsion and says ‘Well Joan, it was nice meeting you. I’ll call sometime soon.’ That ends Act One, which took ten seconds.

Act Two shows Joan whining to her roommate. ‘This happens to me every time, Betty! What’s wrong with me?’ ‘Your problem,’ Betty says, ‘is your mouthwash. It’s all mediciny and it doesn’t protect you from bad breath. You should try Minty Fresh.’ Then Betty holds out a new bottle of Minty Fresh, very nicely lit. That ends Act Two, also ten seconds.

The final scene, Act Three, shows Joan and her formerly-revolted date getting off the plane in Hawaii for their honeymoon. Joan is deliriously happy, he adores her. Minty Fresh mouthwash has done it again!

You have seen tens of thousands of commercials with this plot. It is the plot of salvation, American style.

But now let’s go back to that commercial and make a slight change, to make it a little more real, to make it sell a different kind of religion.

Act One is the same. But in Act Two, when Joan asks her roommate what’s wrong with her, Betty says: ‘What wrong with you? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you. You are boring! You are dull, dull, dull. You haven’t read a book in years, couldn’t tell Beethoven from the Beastie Boys, and have no idea what’s going on in the world outside of your boring little life! It’s a wonder any man wants to spend more than ten minutes with you!’

‘You are right,’ says Joan, ‘but what can I do?’

‘Read a book! See a movie! Listen to some good music! Take up a hobby that excites you!’ screams Betty. Joan looks forlorn: ‘But that will take forever: months, maybe even years!’ ‘That’s right,’ replies Betty, ‘so you better get started!’ The commercial ends with Betty handing dull Joan a copy of Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West. Joan looks sad, but begins to finger the pages.

Now this is also a parable. And its message is more like the messages of real life, where there no problems as simple as the answers provided by The Voices speaking in commercials. But you’re never likely to see this parable on television. It could break the spell that commercials need in order to work, the illusion that all our problems can be solved by a chemical.

The advertisers know something that enables them to ignore criticisms like this. They know that the average television viewer will see about 30,000 commercials in the next twelve months. They know our kids will spend about 19,000 hours in front of a television set by the time they graduate from high school, compared with only 13,000 hours in school. They know those children will see, in that time, about 650,000 commercials. And they know that repetition is an effective teaching method, and that eventually, most of us learn what we are taught.

Whether you call commercials religious, anti-religious or something else, they are the most constant source of value propaganda in our culture. Don’t underestimate them. Commercials are never about anything trivial. They address our deepest needs and fears. Mouthwash commercials are not about bad breath, and commercials for clothing and hair products aren’t about clothes or shampoo. They are about the need for social acceptance, the need to feel attractive, to be lovable and loved. Automobile commercials are about our need for autonomy or social status. Behind every successful commercial there is a very real human need and fear, the same kind of needs for which other religions give very different prescriptions.

Boredom, anxiety, rejection, fear, envy, sloth and the rest ‘ in TV commercials there are easy remedies for each of these. The remedies are things like Scope, Comet, Toyota, Bufferin, Alka-Seltzer, and Budweiser. In the religion of salvation, American style, they take the place of good works, restraint, piety, awe, humility, character, and transcendence. On TV commercials, The Voices try to convince us that moral deficiencies as we usually think of them do not really exist. A commercial for Alka-Seltzer does not teach you to avoid overeating. Gluttony is perfectly acceptable ‘ maybe even cool. Your gluttony is no problem: Alka-Seltzer will handle it.

The Seven Deadly Sins, in other words, are superficial problems to be solved through chemistry and technology. Make no mistake. Commercials are trying to convert us to a new religion, and the religion is almost always the same one. My academic training was in religion, and I know one when I see one. Here are some of the parts of the religion of salvation, American style. See if you don’t recognize them too:

1. We begin in a state of Original Sin. And our original sin is that we are ignorant of the products that we need to buy in order to be saved.

2. The Priests and Priestesses of the American salvation story are The Voices who come at us through the ether, to show us what our problem is and tell us the products we must buy in order to solve our problem. They serve the God of this salvation scheme, Our Sponsor, Who Art in Heaven. And their mission is to make it on earth, as it is in the commercials.

3. Like great religious teachers, the Priests and Priestesses teach us primarily through stories and parables. Almost every commercial is a story or parable, showing us what’s wrong with us, what awful things might happen unless we get saved, then showing us the product that can save us, and giving us a glimpse of heaven ‘ like the Hawaiian honeymoon.

4. But just as in religious fundamentalism, we must believe in order to be saved. A voice from above has given us the facts we need, and we must believe. Unless we believe, we are among the unsaved, the damned. We won’t have friends, no one will ever love us, no one will think we are cool, we’ll spend our lives alone and being laughed at.

5. One of the great advantages of this American salvation scheme is that it is so very easy. Think of all the things that are not parts of this religion. There is no introspection, no soul-searching. We don’t need to be good people, to care about anybody but ourselves, there are no good deeds involved, no notion of needing to develop a full and healthy character, no concerns for our character at all. We just simply watch, listen, obey and buy, and we will be saved. Then it will be on earth as it is in the commercials, and we will be honeymooning in Hawaii because once we started using the right mouth wash we were cleansed of our sin, we were lovable, and we will spend the rest of our lives in a heaven on earth, happy beyond our wildest desires ‘ all because of Minty Fresh mouthwash.

The picture painted by the American salvation story is a lot like the portrait of Dorian Gray. You probably know this story, written a century ago by Oscar Wilde and made into a powerful movie. Dorian Gray was an attractive, even seductive, young man. He was also cold and selfish, and often quite nasty. He wished he might never change, that he might forever look like the portrait which has just been painted of him. In a bizarre kind of devil’s bargain, he got his wish. He never aged, never looked a day older or a bit different. He remained attractive and seductive ‘ and cold and selfish and often quite nasty. But while neither time nor the effects of his nasty character ever showed up in Dorian Gray, they all showed up in his portrait. Hung in a secret place in the attic, the portrait showed a man becoming older, uglier, and more vile.

Our lives, and our illusions, aren’t this dramatic. But it’s a reminder that when something looks too good to be true, it probably is. Andbehind the pretty, wrinkle-free, stain-free, forever-young images with which commercials bombard us, there are some ugly truths, some details of the aging portrait in the attic. Like the fact that credit card debt and personal bankruptcy filings are at an all-time high. All commercials act like the last problem we would have is coming up with the money to buy the products they want to sell us. And both politicians and newscasters talk incessantly about our strong economy. But we can’t afford to buy our way to salvation. And behind the high employment figures is the fact that unemployment is low because couples can’t make it on one salary.

Most of the new jobs the politicians and newscasters are bragging about are low-paying, without insurance or other benefits. Job insecurity keeps workers from fighting for living wages, as well as competition from lower-wage workers abroad. In nearly 30% of American families, both husband and wife now work. But the actual earnings of these families are now 12% less than they were in 1973 in constant dollars. The men’s paychecks have fallen by 30% during the past 27 years, and even with women working, the family income ‘ now with two workers ‘ is still 12% less than it was in 1973. Also since 1973, the number of workers with at least a four-year college degree has doubled, as their pay has shrunk by about 16%.

The money has been systematically diverted from the workers to those who own and control the capital. I heard Al Gore brag this week that our economy is the strongest in this country’s history. That is cynically misleading. The gap between the richest and the poorest in our society is the greatest it has been in this country’s history ‘ some have written that it is the greatest gap between rich and poor in the past thousand years of Western history.

It’s hard to get our minds around a gap this big, but here are a few figures that might help. Bill Gates’ personal wealth is now about double the Gross National Product of Central America. While the top 1 percent of American households doubled their share of national wealth since the 1970s, the percentage of American children living in extreme poverty has also doubled. If the poorest member of the Forbes 400 list gives away a million dollars to charity, that’s equivalent to the median American household ‘ which makes about $35,500 a year ‘ giving less than $75. That’s not the strongest economy in our nation’s history.

Nor is it true that ‘a rising tide floats all ships.’ The average incomes of families with children in the bottom 20 percent of the U.S. income distribution fell by 21% between 1980 and 1996 (from $11,759 in 1978-80 to $9,254 in 1994-96). The top 20 percent, by contrast, rose by over 23% during the same period (from $94,158 to $116,200). During the period of 1977-1994, the bottom 20 percent of families in our country lost 16 percent of their after-tax income; the top 20 percent of families gained 25 percent and the top 1 percent saw their after-tax income go up 72 percent. A rising tide floats the yachts, while many of those who can’t afford boats are paddling for their lives.

These are among the features on the portrait in the attic of the American salvation story. And so salvation, American style is a lot like the story of the portrait of Dorian Gray.

It’s also like a puppet show. When we back off and admire the manipulative genius of the advertising industry, it’s easy to marvel at the brilliance with which they have learned to pull our strings. I use Crest toothpaste, Scope mouthwash, and Right Guard deodorant, and I don’t know why. But the advertising industry probably does. Over the past generation or two, the very best research into human motivation and understanding why we do the things we do has been done by, or used by, the advertising industry. These folks are very, very smart. In some ways, they know more about us than we know about ourselves.

We walk through a world of strings held by invisible puppeteers, voices from somewhere above us, pulling us this way and that, promising salvation so sweet, cool and sexy we jump like fish toward baited hooks, or like puppets pulled by strings we can’t even see.

The strings are there, and they are real. But they are not the only strings connected to us. There are also other strings, of a better kind, that might help fill the emptiness so abundant in our culture, and that hardly cost a thing:

We have strings tying us to our families, and our friends. People who love us for who we are instead of for what they can get out of us. Those are also strings to which we could respond.

We have strings ‘ no, whole webs ‘ that could connect us with neighbors, our community, our world and the future if only we would attend to them. They take energy and compassion and time, but no VISA charges.

And we have our heart-strings, to tie us to what we really love. We have those tugs from the angels of our better nature, pulling us toward deeper affections and more meaningful allegiances in place of the passing fancies, passing before us in thirty-second commercials, more than thirty thousand of them a year for most of us.

Life has a lot of strings attached. What a tragedy it will be if we settle for shallow bit parts in someone else’s designs on us, and lose ourselves in the process. It was Jesus who asked ‘What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?’ ‘ the question’s still relevant.

It is our show, our life. We are children of God, precious bits of the universe, made entirely of stardust. We don’t need to buy our salvation. We are already worthy, and real. In all the ways that matter, that’s enough, if only we could see and believe that good news. And that good news comes without any strings attached.

Ā 

‘THE VOICES’

A. (As minister sits down.) Well I didn’t like that at all!

B. It was unAmerican.

A. I didn’t like that silly puppet show, either!

B. It was unAmerican.

A. If anybody actually listened to stuff like that, we’d be in serious trouble!

B. Don’t worry.

A. Don’t worry? Why not?

B. He only gets an hour. The rest of the week, they’re ours.

A. Ah! Then it’s ok!

B. It’s time to leave.

A. Yes, let’s get out of here. This place gives me the willies!

The ABCs of Religion

Ā© Davidson Loehr

10 September 2000

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button.

STORY: On the ABCs of Music

A. A girl walked down a sidewalk she had walked down many times before, when she suddenly noticed a new building she had not seen before. Looking in the window, she was stopped by an odd sight. There was another girl, about her age, standing in a far room of the building, doing what looked like a kind of dance, or at least a dance done from the waist up, for her feet hardly moved at all. She seemed to be biting the end of a metal rod. She was holding the rod in her hands, out to her right side, and she seemed to have the other end of the rod in her mouth, biting it, or at least chewing on it. As she bit it, she moved a little, a kind of gentle swaying motion.

The girl could not see clearly, for the window was dirty, or cloudy. Still, it was the strangest sight! She began stopping by this building each day to watch the strange dance, always about the same, and soon found herself wondering whether perhaps she wasn’t looking into the window of some kind of a hospital where they put people who did these slow little dances while biting metal rods.

B. One day when she walked by, the window was open. And now, when the girl looked in, she heard the sound of a flute playing. It was a flute player, not a dancer, and the point of it all had not been the movement, but the music, which the girl had never heard before. “Aha,” said the girl, “now I understand!” Then, no longer interested by the spectacle, she turned to leave.

C. But the flute player saw her, and called out to her. Surprised, the girl stayed by the open window as the other girl approached. “Here,” said the flute player when she reached the open window, “wouldn’t you like to play? This is yours, after all, and it is your turn now.” With that, she handed the flute through the open window to the girl who had, until then, been only a spectator.

And then the flute player disappeared, the whole building disappeared, and the little girl found herself standing there with her whole life still ahead of her, holding a flute – and trying to remember the movements, and the music.

READING: On Reading Scripture

This morning’s reading is taken from the writings of an early 3rd century Christian writer known as Origen. Late in his life, he was declared a heretic by the Church for his belief that there was no everlasting hell, and that all souls would eventually be redeemed, making him the first “Universalist” theologian in western religion. He was a powerful thinker, however: some of his writings are still taught in graduate religion programs, and his influence on western religion has been significant.

Since Origen is not well known today, few realize what an intellectual giant he was. When he died, he left behind a massive body of writings numbering close to a thousand titles. Saint Jerome called him “The greatest teacher of the Church after the apostles.” He was born about 185, probably at Alexandria. He died, after imprisonment and extended torture, in 253. These remarks are taken from his book called On First Principles:

“Divine things are communicated to men somewhat obscurely and are the more hidden in proportion to the unbelief or unworthiness of the inquirer.”

Moreover, some of the simpler folk believe such things about God that not even the most unjust and savage of men would believe. And the reason why they have a false apprehension of these things is that they don’t understand scripture in its spiritual sense, but only in its literal sense.

There are three layers of meaning in scripture, each suited to different degrees of intellectual development and spiritual maturity:

A. The simplest folk may be edified by what we may call the body of the scriptures (for such is the name we may give to the common and literal interpretation);

B. Those who have begun to make a little progress and are able to perceive something more than that may be edified by the soul of scripture;

C. Finally, those who are most advanced in both mind and spirit may be edified by the spiritual dimension of scripture: by those parts that may be said to have been written under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. These are the believers who are led to live sacred lives, rather than merely understanding sacred words.

How then should you understand sacred scriptures? You should understand them by knowing that these mysteries were portrayed figuratively through the narration of what seemed to be human deeds and the handing down of certain legal ordinances and precepts. The aim was that not everyone who wished should have these mysteries laid before his feet to trample upon, but that they should be for the ones who had devoted themselves to studies of this kind with the utmost purity and sobriety and through nights of watching, by which means perchance they might be able to trace out the deeply hidden meaning of the Spirit of God, concealed under the language of an ordinary narrative which points in a different direction.

In other words, we should try to discover in the scriptures which we believe to be inspired by God a meaning that is worthy of God. And here the Holy Spirit can guide us, for the Spirit calls the attention of the reader, by the impossibility of the literal sense, to an examination of the inner meanings.

In summary, all our reading of sacred scriptures must be guided by two considerations. We are seeking, with honest minds and pure hearts, for those things which are both useful to us, and worthy of God. If we keep these things in mind, we will not easily be misled.

(From Origen’s On First Principles, Book IV, adapted)

CENTERING:

By Rachel Naomi Remen

I bought a little, falling-down cabin on the top of a mountain. It was so bad that when [a friend] came to see it, he said, “Oh, Rachel, you bought this?” But with two carpenters, an electrician, and a plumber, in three years we have remodeled the whole thing. We started by just throwing things away – bathtubs, light fixtures, windows. I kept hearing my father’s voice saying, “That’s a perfectly good light fixture, why are you throwing it away?” We kept throwing away more and more things, and with everything we threw away, the building became more whole. It had more integrity. Finally, we had thrown away everything that didn’t belong. You know, we may think we need to be more in order to be whole. But in some ways, we need to be less. We need to let go, to throw away everything that isn’t us in order to be more whole.

Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you – all the expectations, all of the beliefs – and becoming who you are. Not a better you, but a more real you.

SERMON: The ABCs of Religion

It’s surprising, the number of times the study of religion seems to have three levels, three stages of understanding – like the little story of the flute-player. You could call those three levels A B and C.

A. The literal or “factual” level; like standing outside a closed window thinking that the meaning of the sight must be in going through the motions because that’s all you can see.

B. The metaphorical or intellectual level; like opening the window and discovering the motions were just by-products of the music, which was the real point of it all.

C. The existential or personal level; when someone hands you the flute, and you realize that you are not just a “spectator” in life, that it is your turn.

When I began studying religion in graduate school, I began the way most of you would have – with no previous education in religion at all. I had no undergraduate courses, very little knowledge of the Bible or any other religious text. I didn’t have much of a notion of what religion was about, beyond the general understanding that on the surface religion usually seems to be concerned with gods or goddesses, and then on a deeper level, it’s concerned with some of the important questions about life. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

What I didn’t expect was to read things like you heard in this morning’s reading from the 3rd century writer Origen, which we were exposed to almost immediately. I knew that modern liberals looked on the Bible and other sacred scriptures as symbols, metaphors and myths that depicted life in poetic imagery and stories, but I never expected that the better religious thinkers had been saying this for over two thousand years. So the first time I read some of the writings of people like Origen, I could hardly believe it.

Here was a voice from almost 1800 years ago saying that reading scriptures literally is the unimaginative or uneducated sort of thing that children do. If you’re serious about understanding this subject, he was saying, the literal level isn’t even worth bothering with, because it has missed the whole point of religion. The real concerns of religion can only be understood if you grow beyond that literal level, and realize that scriptures are speaking in poetic images about a different level entirely “concealed under the language of an ordinary narrative which points in a different direction,” as Origen put it.

It was almost as though the real meanings had been protected from casual observers by being written in code – although it is the same code that most great literature and poetry have used, too. Religious scriptures are written in the code of symbols and metaphors, allegories and myths. We learned, over and over and over again during the early parts of graduate school, that a literal reading of any religious scripture, like a literal reading of good poetry or fiction, is unacceptable: it is useless to us, and unworthy of the subject of religion. It is like watching a flute player through a closed window, wondering what all the strange movements are for. This was the first level, the “A” level, of approaching any great literature, including religious literature.

It is hard to overemphasize the effect that reading thousands of pages like this from dozens of writers throughout the history of religion had on doctoral students, at least those of us with no previous education in religion. The 22-year-olds who came with an undergraduate degree in religion were already past this, but for the rest of us, it was quite a surprise.

Here you’ve come to graduate school to join the fairly small group of those for whom religion is a serious and life-long subject of study, and the first thing you realize is that most of the things you have ever heard about religion – and most of the things you’ve ever said about religion – now feel like silly children’s games. For many of us, it was a little humiliating, and a lot intimidating.

The second level, the “B” level, which Origen had called the “soul” of scriptures, showed us that the great religious writings are really concerned with existential insights into the nature of life itself. Even Origen’s notion that treasures this important aren’t meant for literalists or people unwilling to work at them was an appealing idea. After all, the same is true of music, poetry, and all the rest of the arts. It was true of most subjects covered in the humanities.

But all of a sudden, when you move from level “A” to level “B” and then look at the history and writings of religion again, simply everything changes. Because if religious writings were only meant to be taken on a literal level, then they were easy to dismiss – as though they were a simple True/False test – and we could feel smart and smug without any effort at all, imagining that all those old writers were just shallow fools compared to us! But now here they are, nearly two thousand years ago, describing the whole literal approach to scriptures as childish, and unfit for adults or other serious students of religion. Again, you can hardly overstate the impact that this has on students of religion, especially religious liberals, who pride themselves on being well-educated, at least in their own field of religion.

Nor was this man Origen alone: He was not the exception, but the rule. Nearly all of the great thinkers were that dismissive of literal readings of scripture. Many of you probably never heard of Origen. But think of Saint Augustine, whom you probably have heard of. Here was this remarkable man, writing in the 5th century, who was such a powerful and influential writer that he nearly defined Roman Catholicism for a thousand years. He has also been called the grandfather of the Protestant Reformation, because Martin Luther was an Augustinian monk, strongly influenced by his works, and nearly a third of John Calvin’s major theological work was adapted from Augustine’s writings. You might expect the person who nearly invented Roman Catholic theology to be busy cranking out creeds, but it is not what you find when you read him. Instead, you find things like this:

“Some people imagine God as a kind of man or as a vast bodily substance endowed with power, who by some new and sudden decision created heaven and earth. “When these people hear that God said “Let such and such be made”, and accordingly it was made, they think – that once the words had been pronounced, whatever was ordered to come into existence immediately did so. Any other thoughts which occur to them are limited in the same way by their attachment to the familiar material world around them. These people are still like children. But the very simplicity of the language of Scripture sustains them in their weakness as a mother cradles an infant in her lap. But there are others for whom the words of Scripture are no longer a nest but a leafy orchard, where they see the hidden fruit. They fly about it in joy, breaking into song as they gaze at the fruit and feed upon it (Confessions, p. 304).”

If you are a student of the arts, if you love the humanities, this kind of writing and this kind of insight has an immediate appeal to you. It is like the window has opened, and you hear the music, and suddenly you know what the instrument has been for all along. The “instruments” here are religious scriptures, in all traditions, and one of the most important things you learn in a good religious education is that the symbols, stories, legends and myths of religion are meant to make music, not dogma. They are about life, not belief. And if you just stay on the surface, you miss all of that: you miss nearly everything that sacred scriptures are about and have always been about, because you miss the “spirit” that inspired those scriptures.

Annie Dillard tells a story toward the same point, in which she describes how she learned to split wood. At first, she said that she aimed at the tops of the logs, but all she produced were useless slivers of wood. Later she learned to aim for the block – past the target – to get the job done. Understanding religion is like that. While there are some things that have merely literal meanings lying just on the surface, there aren’t many, and those that do aren’t very important. You have to aim beyond the words, to the more fundamental truths lying beneath them.

You could wonder why writers don’t just say what they mean – not just in religious literature but in all literature. Take a book like John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, for instance. Many people have taught that Steinbeck was saying through this book that the American Dream was only a dream for the rich few, carried on the backs of the poor, and that the only nourishment most of us will find is what little milk of human kindness we can give to one another. Well then, why didn’t he just say so, instead of writing a whole book? He could have said that in a letter to the editor!

Or take F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby, the book some have called the greatest American novel: Why didn’t he simply say “The American Dream isn’t enough to sustain a life, even for the rich”? Why did he have to invent all those characters, and all those happenings that never happened?

Or for that matter, why can’t movies just get to the point and tell you what they’re about, and save everyone a lot of time and money? Why don’t they just make their points about good, evil, integrity and courage in a straightforward way, instead of inventing all those unlikely characters?

These are all questions from “Level A.” And the answer, which can only come from “Level B,” is that the kind of truth that literature, including religious literature, is about, is not a truth about the characters in the stories, but about life. And truths about life are most clear and most useful when told in stories that recreate a living context for them: stories that put the insights into life situations that we can identify with, and can feel. It is like Origen wrote 1800 years ago: they are a kind of truth “concealed under the language of an ordinary narrative which points in a different direction.”

And so once you get it, you think “Aha, now I understand!” like the girl watching the flute player. And you go out to teach or preach religion as great literature, written in symbols and metaphors as all great literature is, and you think you’ve got it now. This religion business took some mental gear-shifting, but it wasn’t so hard after all. You can do it all in your head.

But then you think of things like Origen wrote in his third level, about “the believers who are led to live sacred lives, rather than merely understanding sacred words.” This third level, this “Level C,” means that religion is, at bottom, not an intellectual issue at all, but an existential one: it is our lives that are at stake here. If we live only once, if all the heavens and hells in all the world’s religions are metaphors for qualities of life here and now, and if this really is all there is, then we’re not talking about mind-games. We’re talking about the fact that life is short, it matters a lot how we live it, and there aren’t many clear guidebooks.

I remember how St. Paul’s statement that “we work out our salvation in fear and trembling” took on entirely different meanings in a seminar where we were asked how we were working out our salvation. There was not a person in the room who believed in a literal or supernatural religion. You hardly ever find that in a good graduate school of religion. We all knew that both life and religion are about the here and now. But then whatever salvation there is to be is also here and now: and how are we to work it out? With our whole life at stake, how are we to live it?

You give your life over to the demands of education, and think that whatever your life was worth must then be measured, somehow, in the field of education. But what there is worth a life? Only if you are serving not just education, but the noblest demands of education: those far horizons and challenging depths of understanding that undergird the very best sorts of education. Only, in other words, if you are serving a transcendent ideal, a transcendent spirit, that spirit that gives life and significance to education.

We were mostly concerned with education, whether we were going into college teaching or into the ministry. But the questions of what makes life worth living are powerful questions in any area, because so much is at stake: your whole life!

There was a 19th Century Danish existentialist named Kierkegaard who was immensely important in my education, and in my understanding of religion and of life. He once wrote about the kind of games we play with religious beliefs when we keep them as merely intellectual pursuits unrelated to our real lives. We are like passengers on a cruise ship, he said, who spend their time arranging the deck chairs in neat little rows. And this, said Kierkegaard, is supremely funny: not because neat little rows are bad, but because the ship is sinking.

Every day, 24 hours at a time, the ship is sinking. We move each day of our lives toward that moment when we shall not move at all. Life isn’t a snapshot, it’s a motion picture, moving toward its ending. We stand there with the flute in our hands, our life before us, and we’re not sure just what the movements were supposed to be, or just how the music is supposed to sound.

Until there is that sense of anxiety, until there is that sense of “fear and trembling,” the flute hasn’t been placed in our hands, and we haven’t really felt the full impact of what this religion business is about.

This is why the language of religion is so often filled with gods and goddesses, with images of eternal reward or punishment, with such exaggerations of speech: like heaven, hell, God, creation, suffering, crucifixion, resurrection, and salvation. The language is extreme because, since we only live once, there is so much at stake – every day, the ship is sinking.

This is the third level of religion, the “Level C,” the level where it finally dawns on us that there is a sense in which every religious scripture has been written from the yearnings of the human soul, yearnings we have too.

We have a funny way of thinking about religion, especially among the educated sorts of folks who find their way to Unitarian churches. We usually think of a religion as a collection of pseudo-intellectual propositions. We judge the acceptability of those propositions, then accept or reject the parts of the religion that fit our understanding of what is intellectually coherent and defensible.

In other words – and this is quite ironic – religious liberals often tend to operate at about the same level as Christian fundamentalists do. By thinking that religion is about belief, we tend to take it at the same literal level that fundamentalists do, though we oppose them. They take their religion at the literal level. They say God is some sort of a critter somewhere up there, heaven is a literal place we go after we die, and so on. In other words, they say it is all literal and it is all true.

Often, we also take our religion at the same literal level. Yes, we say, the terms of traditional religion are talking about a God who is some sort of a critter somewhere up there, and yes heaven is referring to a literal place we’re supposed to go after we die. But they’re wrong. In other words, it is all literal and it is all false. Like the fundamentalists, most of those who attack fundamentalists operate at the same literal level, level A.

If you think about it, concepts like atheism and agnosticism and questions about whether or not you “believe in” God, are only coherent at the literalist, fundamentalist level. Once you understand that the key terms of religion aren’t literal at all, but are symbolic, allegorical, and metaphorical, then words like atheism simply become incoherent, don’t they? After all: if God is Love, then what would it mean to be an atheist? Or an agnostic?

Perhaps religion is really as easy, and as hard, as ABC:

A. Have we grown past the literal level? That is the question posed to us at level A. Have we understood that all the talk of gods and angels, heavens and hells, deaths and resurrections and the rest of it, doesn’t really have anything to do with actual gods, angels, heavens, hells, deaths or resurrections? If not, then we fail before we can even begin. We fail to understand what religion is about, and are left facing a locked door. We stand outside the closed window, watching the odd movements inside, and having no way of knowing what they are really about.

B. At Level B, we are asked a second question. We’re asked if we can now begin to hear religion in a new way. Can we listen to its teachings as messages about life expressed in the poetic code language of symbols, myths, allegories and metaphors? If so, we can gain entrance to this second level of religion. Once the window is opened and we can hear the music, then we need to reframe our earlier understanding of those strange movements with the flute we had been watching from the outside. If the point of it all isn’t “going through the motions” but “making music,” then what is religion about? How now do we understand it?

C. And at Level C, it all changes again. For just when we begin to think that once we’ve got it in our heads we’ve mastered this religion business, then suddenly the flute is handed to us. Now we are faced with our own life, and the things we have been serving with our life. What are the gods we’ve served with our lives, and what kind of a life have they led us to? Is it useful to us? Is it worthy of God? There is so much on the line, and so little to stand on that is absolutely certain.

So here we are. We stand here with that flute in our hands. Ahead of us lies our whole life. We finally understand that it is our turn to make the music. So we stand here, holding the flute we thought belonged to someone else. Holding that flute, trying to remember the movements. And one reason we come to church is to listen for the music.

In a Restaurant, Choose A Table Near A Waiter

Davidson Loehr

August 27, 2000

Readings: Three Stories From Restaurants

1. A family settled down for dinner at a restaurant. The waitress first took the order of the adults, then turned to the seven-year-old boy.

“What will you have?” she asked.

The boy looked around the table timidly and said, “I would like to have a hot dog.”

Before the waitress could write down the order, the mother interrupted. “No hot dogs,” she said. “Get him a steak with mashed potatoes and carrots.”

The waitress ignored her. “Do you want ketchup or mustard on your hot dog?” she asked the boy.

“Ketchup.”

“Coming up in a minute,” said the waitress as she started for the kitchen.

There was a stunned silence when she left. Finally the boy looked at everyone present and said, “Know what? She thinks I’m real.” (Anthony de Mello, The Heart of the Enlightened [Doubleday, 1989], p. 45)

2. A man was a regular customer at a restaurant, and the management did its best to please him. So when he complained one day that only one piece of bread was being given him with his meal, the waiter promptly brought him four slices.

“That’s good,” he said, “but not good enough I like bread- plenty of it.”

So the next night he was given a dozen slices. “Good,” he said. “But you’re still being frugal, aren’t you?”

Even a basketful of slices on the table next day did not stop his complaints.

So the manager decided to fix him. He had a colossal loaf of bread baked specially for him. It was six feet long and three feet wide. The manager himself, with the help of two waiters, brought it in and laid it on an adjoining table, then waited for his reaction.

The man glared at the gigantic loaf, then looked at the manager, and said, “So: we’re back to one piece again!” (Ibid., p. 107)

3. An American preacher in Beijing asked the waiter in a restaurant what religion was for the Chinese.

The waiter took him out to the balcony and asked, “What do you see, sir?”

“I see a street and houses and people walking and buses and taxis driving by.”

“What else?”

“Trees.”

“What else?”

“The wind is blowing.”

The Chinese extended his arms and exclaimed “That, sir, is religion.”

(Ibid., p. 38)

Sermon: “In a Restaurant, Choose a Table Near a Waiter”

This is a sermon framed in stories, so I will begin with yet another one. A man is walking down the sidewalk at night when he sees a friend of his on all fours under a streetlight, crawling around and looking for something.

“What did you lose?” he asked. “A key,” came the answer: “a very important key, and I simply must find it.”

The first man offered to help him look, and for the next fifteen minutes the two of them crawled over every square inch of ground under the streetlight, but found no key. Finally he asked his friend “do you remember where you lost the key?”

“Yes,” came the answer, “I lost it at home.”

The first man stood up. “Then why are you looking for it out here?”

“Because it’s brighter here.”

There is a man with his table a long way away from a waiter. His key was lost back home in a darker place, and that is where he will have to look for it.

The story would be funnier if we hadn’t all done the same thing so many times. Where are your hungers and needs; what are the questions your heart or soul is pressing on you? Never mind the roles, the pretenses: who are you, who do you need to be, where are the gaps?

Or: who are you, what do you need to offer, to give to others, how do you want or need to be a part of a larger community- a family, a church, a world? These are the questions that can lead you to your most important hungers.

And it all begins when you own those questions and needs, whether they are the questions of anyone else or not, and whether they fit the answers that other people are offering you or not. For these deep questions and needs are the “still small voice” within you that theologians and poets speak of; that spark of the divine fire that you were born with.

These questions- what do you want, what do you need, what do you need to give- these are the questions that sketch the outline of who you really are and need to be. These are the hungers that need to be filled.

That’s the point of the “lost key” story: look for what you’ve lost where you lost it, not where someone else has put up a light. All the creeds and professions of faith ever written, all the religious answers ever proposed, can not help you one bit if they don’t answer your questions. And learning to have the courage to ask our own questions is one of the most important steps any of us ever takes.

This morning’s first reading about the little story of the boy and the hot dog is a parable. What was most real for him was just what the world would not see. If the point were only nutritional in a purely physical sense, then the more balanced meal his mother had tried to order would have been what he really needed.

But he didn’t need a steak: he needed to be heard, to be acknowledged as a real person with tastes that differentiated him from his mother and father. He didn’t need to eat as much as he needed to be.

The other side to this is that you must own your own needs and questions. So many people come here and ask where our answers are: “what do you people believe? Where is the neat list of creeds or worked-out beliefs that I can memorize and feel safe?” And the only answer to such questions is to ask what they need.

After you have been here awhile, you find that it wasn’t answers you needed. What you often need instead is, for once in your life, to listen to your own questions. What an awakening that can be! The first time you feel bold enough to look at old creeds or Sunday School teachings you have been reciting forever and finally to say “good lord, I haven’t really believed those things for years!” Then and only then is there room for the more troubling but more fruitful questions about what you really do believe, and what you hunger for.

But how often we can catch ourselves crawling around under a streetlight looking for a key we have lost somewhere else! I’ll tell you a story of my own about this. It is a story I have told to several people here at one time or another, about one of my former careers as a professional photographer.

I began as a combat photographer in Vietnam, where I discovered quite by accident that I had a natural gift for photography. I had a good eye for subjects and composition, and a good sense of timing. While many of my war pictures were picked up by AP, UPI, and several major newspapers and published in this country, it was clear early on that my real gifts were for photographing people.

When I returned, I worked as a wedding photographer during the summers while finishing my degree in music theory at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. Then in 1972 I went around the country to study with the eight or ten best people-photographers I could find, and opened a studio that fall.

Artistically, the studio was a success, and by 1975 I was averaging $1,100 per wedding and $450 per portrait, so it was a pretty ritzy operation selling some very expensive pictures. Also in 1975, I won first place in the professional division of the Detroit Photo Show in Cobo Hall, in a field of more than 900 entries. I would not say that I was happy, and I don’t think I would ever have been a great photographer- but I was a very good one.

Then one Saturday morning in 1976 a good friend of mine called. Fred was a commercial photographer whose studio was a block from mine. I had a gift for photographing people, and Fred’s gift was for photographing things. Since neither of us was much good at what the other did well, there was no competition between us, and we had developed a pretty good friendship.

Anyway, Fred called one Saturday morning and asked me to take a camera and macro lens and meet him at the arboretum. He wanted to take some nature pictures, at which he was very good, and wanted some company. Since he called me, he apparently wanted the company of someone who was not very good at nature photography, but I figured that Fred needed his ego boosted, so I played the part.

We walked for over two hours that morning, during which time Fred took some very nice pictures of mushrooms and things, and I took some very mediocre pictures that I threw out shortly after we had developed the slides.

But the moment that makes this story significant came near the end of the walk. It was one of those watershed moments for me, though I doubt that Fred would even remember it.

We were walking down a path in the woods when Fred suddenly stopped and turned toward me, with a look of puzzled surprise on his face. “You know,” he said, “I’ve known you for six years. And in six years, this is the first time I have ever seen you pick up a camera when you weren’t being paid to. Don’t you like photography?”

I had never thought of that. I was so good at it that it had never occurred to me to wonder whether I liked it. Once he asked the question, the answer came like a lightning bolt. “No,” I said, “I never have.”

I had spent three or four full years serving a gift which gave to others, but which gave me almost nothing at all. I had never liked photography, and hadn’t even known it! Within months, I sold the studio, sold all of my camera equipment, and never missed it. A few years later I was offered a short job that paid for a whole new set of cameras and lenses, but I hardly ever use them, even on trips.

I had looked under the streetlight and found all sorts of things, but I never found a meaningful job there because I never thought to ask myself what I liked to do. And I can tell you from some experience that a gift that gives nothing to you, no matter how much it may give to others, is no gift at all. It is a trap.

Now you don’t have to love everything about your job in order to stay in it, but you do have to love something about it, and what you love about it needs to be very important to you, or your table is a long way from the nearest waiter.

So you have to know yourself a little bit: you need to know what you love, what can help fulfill you, and have to try putting your energies into an orbit around things that you cherish.

And this business of keeping your head in touch with your heart is an ongoing process. Your needs, and your spiritual needs, may change. As the poet James Russell Lowell put it, “New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth.”

The boy won’t always want hot dogs. His needs and his diet will change, and the only way to keep him growing is to keep listening to his questions and his yearnings, and to keep knowing that he is real- even when he begins to question your beliefs. That is the task of religion and of churches, as well.

There are so many people going spiritually hungry today, in a world that has all the riches they need if only they would look in the right places. I learned this week that Bill Moyers said that the six-part series he did with Joseph Campbell, the series that we offered here last year, has been seen by more than fifty million people so far, and that there are over two thousand study groups meeting to discuss the programs.

That is a lot of hungry people: hungry people trying to move their table closer to where there might be some nourishment for them, closer to a waiter. But it all begins there, with giving voice to your own questions and needs, and then in trying to change tables so you can get closer to the food.

And then comes the second step in this process. When you begin, it is often hard to know just what your own questions and needs are, as I had gone on for several years without ever finding my own.

But at the next step is the equally hard task of being able to recognize true gifts when you find them. That is part of what the second reading was about, about the man who thought he could never get enough bread. Here was a man who was being offered a gift and he didn’t even recognize it.

The gift was not the bread, but the kindness which offered the bread. And too often when we reject someone because they haven’t done anything for us lately, we forget what a gift it is that they ever wanted to do anything for us at all.

There is a story about this too, of course, as there is a story about everything really important. It is the tale of the old Zen monk who found a raw diamond nearly a foot in diameter. It was a good size for a footrest, so he took it back to his cave.

The word spread through the town that the world’s largest diamond, a jewel of inestimable worth, rested unguarded in the old monk’s cave. Then a man thought “If I could get that diamond from the old monk, I would have treasure beyond my wildest hopes!”

So he went to the cave, to try and find a way to trick the old man out of the diamond. But the old monk saw him staring at the diamond. “Do you like this rock?” asked the monk. “Oh yes, oh yes, I like it very much!” the young man replied.

“Then please take it, as a gift,” said the monk, and handed the priceless diamond over to the young man. “I can always find another footrest.”

Overjoyed, the man ran down the mountain with the diamond, and stayed awake that night guarding the jewel and thinking of all the things he could do with his newfound wealth. But the next morning something began troubling him. And after spending a second sleepless night, this time because of the troubling feeling within him, he arose early on the third morning and carried the huge diamond back up the mountain to the old monk’s cave.

“I have taken the wrong gift,” he said, setting the diamond back in its place. “I would have you teach me instead how you could let go of this so easily.”

Or the story of a young man who was blind from birth and fell in love with a woman. All went well until a friend told him the girl wasn’t too good-looking. At that minute he lost all interest in her. Too bad! He had been “seeing” her very well. It was his friend who was blind because he was unable to see her through the eyes of love.

Sometimes the hardest thing in life is to recognize the look and feel of real nourishment, and to tell it apart from spiritual junk food.

And that brings me to the third reading. And the point of that is much like the point of the first reading, which is that what we seek was really there all the time, right under our nose, because the primary search is inside of us, not outside of us.

How many stories there are that make this point! “The Wizard of Oz” says it: it was all in Kansas, it just took looking at it in a new way. The story of the blind man who learned to see through the eyes of love and then forgot how and became really blind is like a negative version of “Beauty and the Beast.”

Or the old Hasidic tale of the Rabbi from Cracow, who travelled to a distant city in search of a great treasure he had dreamed about, only to learn that the treasure was really buried beneath the hearth in his own home. You travel out to learn of the treasures you have always had but had never learned to see before.

It is the same story that Joseph Campbell tells of the Hero’s journey. The hero goes out into the world and goes through many adventures in which he grows and developes a deeper and surer self, and then returns back home again and is for the first time able to fully live in the riches that were always there, awaiting his return.

Or as the poet T.S. Eliot put it:

“We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started- and know the place for the first time.”

And to know the place for the first time is to know that always, at all times on your journey, you are sitting in a restaurant where there is nourishment if only you will seek it. For this restaurant is nestled in a world that is filled with so many simple miracles and treasures: like streets and houses and people walking and buses and taxis and trees, and the wind is blowing. And when you can find your life in this world, and your peace, when your soul has found itself and found its world, and you have reached out with your mind, heart, and actions to connect the two, that is religion, and you are home at last.

Well, this has been a lot of poems and stories, so I will try to end it very factually by condensing it into a list of advice, sort of a traveler’s guide on how to choose a table near a waiter:

1. First, find your hungers. What is most real about you? Where do your deepest and most noble yearnings live? What gifts do you need to offer? Who, in other words, are you? Everything begins there.

2. Second, feed those hungers, not lesser ones. Or, as Joseph Campbell has put it, “follow your bliss.” Go where you and your world are richer for your having been there.

3. Third, don’t be afraid to change tables or even restaurants. Don’t linger where nourishment isn’t. Stop eating spiritual junk food, and know that all the creeds and rituals in the world can’t make you whole if they don’t help to connect your mind, body, and spirit with the riches of life abundant.

4. Fourth, know that in order to find treasure, you must look for it. The real and enduring treasures in life will energize you and bring you more life, not just more money. At the level where these hungers lie, all the diamonds in the world aren’t worth a good night’s sleep.

5. Fifth, know that you too are a waiter, and that without the nourishment that you can offer, this world would be a much, much poorer place.

6. And finally, don’t forget to leave a tip. When someone brings you joy or nourishment, for goodness’ sake, let them know it! Leave them something extra, something they can take home with them: a kind word, a kiss or a touch, even a silent look, if it is a look of thanks. For you know: this gift of life that we have been given is really quite a scrumptious feast!

Bon appetit!