Re-Creation and Reconciliation – Easter Sermon 2017

Re-creation & Reconciliation (2)Reading – from Louise Erdrich’s The Painted Desert  

Sermon – Re-Creation and Reconciliation – Easter Sunday 2017

Perhaps it is predictable that my favorite part of the Jesus story is the moment that many orthodox preachers would call his “moment of temptation.”

It’s near the end of his life, when Jesus begins to realize that things are not going to end well.
He’s in the garden of Gethsemane, with his friends all around him, though they are sleeping. He is angry, and afraid, so he starts praying – a prayer of Help. He prays that something else – anything else – could happen instead of what he realized was going to happen. He prays that he won’t have to die, that there could be a different ending.
After all, he had plans, and he loved his friends, and he still had more to do to make the world right, to make right the human heart. It was too soon – please, he prayed, let my story be different.

Anyone who is attached to Jesus as God, and God as all-knowing and all-powerful would find this moment problematic, to say the least….that Jesus is praying and pleading, and
and yet is unable to effect his requested change – that’s a problem, theologically….But for those of us who focus on Jesus as a human being – then this moment simply feels right – and familiar.

After all, most of us know all too well this experience where the story we thought we were living in, or the family, or career we thought we were building, or the nation we thought we were a part of – when our sense of any of these, or of life on the whole -reveals itself as faulty, or fragile – as if our whole world has been built on a house of cards, about to come tumbling down – we all know the instinct to fall to our knees begging that everything can just BE.OK.

This is what Jesus was doing in the garden. Realizing that it wasn’t – that it wouldn’t ever BE OK. He wouldn’t survive to experience the glory he’d been fighting for, the overturning of the powers of injustice. In his helplessness, he cried out in shock and despair, and gave voice to a broken-heartedness that we all can we relate to –
expressing grief for what was, and for what never would be.  And he cried out as a plea –
that somehow his brain, and his heart could catch up to this new dawning reality he was facing, before he missed the few moments he had left.

For most of us, this reconciling and re-creating work of letting go of one way we thought life was headed, and then accepting a new reality – is slow, difficult, and often painful work. It requires the help of friends and therapists – a determined attention, and a great discipline of time and effort, and ideally a routine spiritual practice that can connect in with a greater sense of Truth (capital T) even as our personal truth (small t) has been shaken.

This process takes this kind of time, and effort, because actual brain-re-wiring must happen – new synapses and nodes must be built in order for the brain to truly make sense of this “new world.”

I find it a relentlessly reassuring to know that this neuro-biological process can take up to three years. Three years after a big loss, or other major life change – even when it’s something we think of as positive – like the addition of a new baby or a new marriage –
it can take three years for the brain to reconcile life as it previously thought it was,
with how it actually is, and will be.

By which I mean to say, be patient with yourself. You’re not just being stubborn. It’s biological. It’s ok not to have it all figured out yet. It’s ok to still feel turned upside down, inside out, still having moments where you forget that everything has changed – even though you know….It’s ok. Three years.

Of course, try telling that to the 24 Hour News Cycle, or your social media feed, I know.
In our world today it can feel like a new reality is placed in front of us to try to integrate and make sense of multiple times every day. Stuff that more readily requires multiple years to come to terms with, instead we are given multiple….hours. This is one of the reasons back in January, and as a part of our practice circles ever since, we have talked about taking up the practice of Sabbath – because in the midst of all these new stories and changed worlds, we need time to just let things process, to try to come to terms with it all, to sort everything, and ourselves out – without the constant additional input.

This Sabbath practice was exactly what Jesus’ closest friends were attempting the day after his death.  After he died, there was a long night, and then a long day,
and then another night – I imagine them all in their homes, trying to take in what had just happened – trying to reconcile their experience of the past – their teacher, his promises, their dreams – with the future that was now in front of them – all while still trying to come fully into the present.

After the Sabbath, Mary Magdalene goes first to the tomb – some accounts say she went by herself, others make her one of a few. While it was still dark she, or they, came bearing spices, that they might perform the ritual tasks – these motions of tender care
that we say are for the dead, but actually do their work on the living, helping us to accept, to create this new reality, to build these new connectors in our brains.

Mary Magdalene had loved him, her life had been changed by him; he was gone.

He was different, he could fix things, fix people, overthrow the forces of injustice, instill the ways of peace; he was gone.

They had all of these plans, to do all of this together; he was gone.

I’ve been trying to imagine, when and how Mary Magdalene first realized what Jesus knew in the garden – that he was to die. Who told her, and how did she respond? Did she bargain, or deny, or did she – see it coming? Was she strangely serene, and accepting – after all, she knew about life not going according to plan.

The others, the men, they could go back to their fishing, their lives as they were before, but what would happen to her? For her, there could be no going back. There was no starting over. She was already a new person, no matter what.

And so, she came with her spices, to tend to her friend, to try to make sense of it all….but by the time she arrived, the tomb was empty.  She thought his body had been stolen, another indignity.   So she calls the male disciples to come and see, and they do come,
but they just run away after they confirm the tomb is empty.

Mary stays – still weeping, wondering what was going on – what reality her brain should start creating connections for….and then….Jesus himself appears.

“Mary,” he says.  She goes to embrace him, but he pulls away.

Her brain must’ve been a wild mess- twisting and turning – and her heart…Filled with confusion, and joy, and disbelief, shock, fear….

Or at least, this is the way it goes in the gospel of John.  According to another version,
the Gospel of Mark, when they arrive at the empty tomb, Mary Magdalene and two other women meet a young man who tells them Jesus is no longer there, he’s been raised.  He tells them to go tell Peter and the other disciples.  Mary and the others freak out,
run away, and say nothing to anyone.  And that’s the end of the gospel of Mark.

Mark was the first gospel to be written, and even then it was about 70 years after Jesus had died. By then, lots of synapses had been formed, whole generations of them, so much so that the story has taken on a life of its own. And yet still it takes until the gospel of John, written 30 years later, to see an attempt at saying what all this might’ve meant….

I’ve heard people use the gospels’ late authorship – to dismiss these stories – saying that so much time means they must be fictional. But this suspicion misunderstands these stories and their intent.

The bible is not journalism, afterall, attempting to recall a literal truth. It’s better understood as what religious scholars call kerygma – or, proclamation.  These stories, and their authors, hope to proclaim a core truth that was passed on, across generations.
So many years later, they, and we, don’t know for sure the literal facts of what happened,
but we can listen to these stories as they are being offered, knowing there is something within them that intends to proclaim a nugget of wisdom, this good news that survived through it all – this gem of truth passed age to age, now over 2000 years later.

Which brings me back to the moment in the garden, with his friends sleeping around him, and Jesus yearning for his life to somehow be different. Because, by the time we get to John, this moment doesn’t happen.  100 years out, those few days before he is going to die, Jesus doesn’t pray for a different story – instead he wonders if he should ask for something else, but then answers himself – no. This is the reason I have come.
I have come to love, to feel, it is the reason I am on this earth. To love, to taste all I can, to offer myself extravagantly.

In the middle of our mixed-up world today, where so often we don’t know which reality to believe, or to try to integrate, where too often we long for a different ending – the story of Easter offers us this dual affirmation.

That yes, life will break you – break us. For all the many ways this story gets retold,
no one ever tries to erase this. In all the versions, Good Friday comes every year,
asking us to live out this acknowledgment, this painful truth that everything can and will fall to pieces – not even Jesus could stop it – because this is what it means to be alive.  And sometimes, for a while – we don’t know how long – three days, three hours, three years, three centuries – this is all we have.

And yet Easter doesn’t leave it there. Because what Easter also invites, is this possibility that this risk of living, this betrayal, need not take away life’s tender sweetness – that even after the worst has happened, the story can keep going, that although sometimes it’s too soon to make sense of all that has happened, to find reconciliation- it’s never too late. That even now, thousands of years and cultures away from that empty tomb there could be all of these still-struggling humans, still trying to put the pieces together, still trying to get to the Truth of it all, still longing to be a part of life’s re-creation, and even, resurrection.

So that even as we fall to our knees, wishing that we might be relieved of life’s pain, we will answer ourselves: no. I have come for this. To love, to feel, to risk my heart, to taste all the sweetness, to let none of it go to waste.LouiseErdrichQuote

Amen, Blessed Be, and Happy Easter.

 

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True Things – Sermon March 12 2017

TRUETHINGS.pngReading, from Adrienne Rich’s “Lies, Secrets, and Silence” 

Sermon, “True Things” – part 1 of 3 part series “Real Life” 

Today’s my mom’s birthday, and so I’m going to start by sharing a classic my-mom story.

She’d just come back from the doctor, and was sharing with me and my sisters. It wasn’t a huge deal, but it was kind of embarrassing, at least to her.

As she went on, she grimaced with dread.

What, mom? We asked.

She said, Well, I just hate that I have to tell Jane.

Jane was her best friend since they were both in kindergarten. Over fifty years later they still talked every day.  You know mom, I offered, gently, if you don’t want to tell Jane, you don’t have to.

And then less gently, my sisters and I burst into laughter.

But my mom didn’t really get the joke. Even if it was embarrassing, how could she not tell Jane? It was a true thing that was going on in her life.

My mom, I’ve learned over the course of my life, has a high willingness-verging-on-compulsion – to share things that others would decide to keep tucked away.  The upside of this is you never wonder what’s going on with my mom, how she feels about you, or about anything.  She is literally who she says she is – as she says most everything.

The downside, on the other hand, is that…well… the things that are true about her, when you’re her daughter, often have a lot to do with you…and it turns out I’m not quite so willing or eager to share everything.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that most people are not like my mom, and are actually more like me.  Most of us have things about ourselves that we keep hidden, sometimes very hidden, even from ourselves.  This is what psychologists call “denial,” which is a coping technique that can be helpful in surviving immediate crises, but dangerous and even deadly if clung to for too long.

Today we kick off a new sermon series, what we’re calling “Real Life.” We thought of it because we realized we have spent a number of Sundays in the recent weeks talking about courageous love and its call for justice, and the good news of our Universalist faith that proclaims we are all in this together….but we hadn’t really dealt with how all this plays out in real life in the here and now.  We wondered if we were enabling a kind of denial ourselves – one that wasn’t picking up the issues we face in the every day, the moments of living that make up our lives.

It’s such a Unitarian Universalist temptation, after all, to talk about faith in the generic sense, or about courageous love as it applies to a theoretical whole. But how does courageous love apply to how much credit card debt we’re carrying, or how often we’re visiting the liquor store – or here in Colorado, the pot store – or to the fights we have with our kids, or our partners, what does it have to do with the judging voice in our heads, or the grief everyone thinks we’re already over,
or the hurts we caused, maybe even on purpose?

How does our faith apply to the loneliness and longing we feel when things are quiet,
or even how much we try to fill that emptiness with food, or sex, or gambling….or how much we try to punish it out of ourselves through exercise, or not-eating, or overwork….?

When I think back to the UU services that I’ve been a part of, I’m kind of amazed to realize that not too many of them tackle these real life sort of questions. It is as if our own kind of denial – like, nope, not here. Here we’re fine, we’re good. We’ve got everything totally under control. Right?

It’s fascinating – but not that uncommon – in Unitarian Universalism, and in life, more generally. You may have heard about the new podcast with Nora McInerny called “Terrible, Thanks for Asking.”  McInerny has had some pretty awful things happen to her, and was frustrated by the ways that still when people asked how she was, she’d say “I’m fine.” And she realized that was what everyone did.  Denial, it turns out, is carefully taught!

And yet this deception – of ourselves, of others –keeps us isolated and disconnected in ways that prevent us from healing the exact struggles we’re trying to keep hidden.
Human nature is not always the smartest, I think.

But we do have our reasons.

In the case of our faith community, most of our these I am prepared to blame on William Ellery Channing.  Channing is considered the founder of American Unitarianism by way of his sermon in 1820, Unitarian Christianity.  His concept of “Salvation by Character” became the rallying cry for Unitarianism throughout the 19th and 20th centuries.  On the one hand, his ideas were empowering – especially in light of the prevailing Calvinism of the time – it was so hopeful to imagine that salvation could lie in our hands, that we could strive towards perfection, and be well on our way – through our own choice, our own intent, our own will.

But on the other, these same ideas left little room to talk about our struggles, doubts, and even failures – let alone our incompetence, helplessness, or surrender. Which has meant over the years, that we have created our own version of “keeping up appearances,” which mostly I find, takes the form of not being able to ask for help.

If to be a Unitarian Universalist is to be “striving towards perfection,” and well on our way, then if we are struggling, or hurting, or caught in a life we didn’t intend – then we must be the only ones, right?  We worry that if we share what’s really going on in our lives, we’d be a total bummer on the UU happy party, or worse, the juicy gossip in the otherwise perfectly perfect show.  We don’t want to be judged, or remembered always for the thing that’s going on right now.  Better just to play along, to keep these more vulnerable parts of ourselves hidden, and hopefully, forgotten.

This subtle messaging of our faith came to me most clearly one evening, it was before I went to seminary, and our good friends were struggling with a likely upcoming divorce, and with some real challenges with their sometimes violent and grief-stricken 8th grader.  Their family was so fragile, and vulnerable.

They were members of their local UU church, and they invited us one night to come to an event that was about creating community around their 8th grader and recognizing them as they come of age. I remember so vividly the moment when it hit me how much this church and the program they were running –  a UU-standard program – assumed an intact family that had mostly stable parent-child relationships and a stability and health in the adults themselves.

Given that none of this was the case, my beloved friends, and their beloved child tried so hard to answer the questions, but they literally made no sense. After words, each of the other tables got up to share their answers, so perfectly conveyed. My friends gave their answers, but I knew, it was mostly make-believe.

I was so angry at that church, and at our faith that night. Because that kid, he needed that support – they needed that support – and they were promised they’d get it – a circle of community around his time of coming of age. It’s just that his coming of age didn’t look like a straight line, it had some real struggle in it. And probably he wasn’t the only one, they weren’t the only family. But that program told anyone who might be struggling – don’t tell your church – we don’t have people like you here.

What’s especially ironic to me about all of this, however, is that if you know or Channing’s biography, you know he struggled immensely with his public vs. private self, and the question of which parts of himself were acceptable, worthy, and enough.  Channing was obsessive in his work, and self-punishing in his sleeping and eating habits, mostly because he was trying to overcome “what he described as his effeminacy and his unwanted sexual fantasies.” For all the talk of human capacity and will,
from what I can tell, our Unitarian theological inheritance is also shaped by denial, and shame.

Which brings me to today’s good news. Denial, and shame, as researcher Brene Brown teaches us, can be overcome, by coming clean.  It’s counter-intuitive of course, but the way to stop feeling like we have to hide, is to stop hiding.

Taking the risk of stepping out and sharing those things we are afraid make us unlovable – this movement towards the light allows us to create a container for a new truth to emerge – in our own lives, and in our faith.

For only in sharing the broken parts of our lives are we able to engage more fully the beauty, the sacred, the real. As long as we are siphoning off parts, there remains something make-believe in all of life, a depth we can’t quite touch, a possibility left unknown.

This doesn’t mean, of course, that we must all become my mom.

But more, it invites us to unburden ourselves from the shaping and the shielding, the secret-keeping and the story-telling, these things that withhold the real healing power of our community, and our faith – this promise that there is a love, holding us, right here, as we are.

To imagine that we can take it, even if it’s hard, that the truth can make us stronger, more courageous, and more capable of being the church and the people we long to be.
“Most of the time we are eager, and longing for the possibility of telling” the truth. “These possibilities may seem frightening, but they are not destructive.”

To seek the truth in love – as the words of our covenant promise – could bring us into more life, rather than less.

With this in mind, I invite you to call to mind now whatever may be going on in your life, or in your heart, that you mostly keep shielded – whatever the reason.

Maybe it’s a question you are wondering about….Maybe it’s something you love about yourself, but you worry others won’t.

What are those true things that feel you can’t speak?

For all of these that are on your hearts now, I offer this prayer and blessing:

 

For all of these true things, we give thanks.
May we believe that every part of us is worthy of love.
May we remember that change is always possible, that life is still doing its work upon us, and through us.
Into this wide world of brokenness and beauty, we offer ourselves, as we are, knowing that the healing and truth we seek in the world starts in our own hearts.
May we be released us from shame and liberated into real life. For us all.
Amen, and blessed be.

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Charge to the Minister – for the ordination of Sean Neil-Barron April 2, 2017

First, Thank you. It is my joy and privilege to charge you in your new ministry – I think doing the charge is like every older sister’s dream.  But – really, it is my honor, so, thank you.

To begin, I need to tell a little story, from the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron. She tells about a time when she was invited to co-teach with one of Buddhism’s greatest teachers.
It was a big honor, but also, it left her kind of confused – as no one really told her who she was in relation to this great teacher – was she great, too? She says, “Sometimes I was treated like a big deal who should come through a special door, and have a special seat.
And so then she’d think – OK I’m a big deal.”

And she’d start to act in big deal ways…..But then she’d get the message – no no no no –
just sit on the floor, mix with everyone else, be a part of the crowd – be ordinary.

But then, just as she’d get used to being “ordinary,” she’d be asked to do something that only big deals did. She says this was an incredibly uncomfortable, even painful experience – because she was constantly feeling humiliated based almost entirely on her own expectations – whenever she thought she knew what to expect–  she’d get the message that it should be the opposite.  So she’d switch, and then again, the opposite.

Finally, she went to her co-teacher with some exasperation – “who am I supposed to be here? Am I big deal, or not?”

And her co-teacher responded, as if it was completely obvious – well, what you need to learn is how to be big and small at the same time.

And this – Sean –is what I charge you with, in your ministry. To be big, and small, at the same time.

Be big, because, you are a big deal. And you need to know that. You are smart, and deep, and hilarious, and dorky in all the best ways. And we – all of us – need to learn from you.
You’ve so often been the youngest one in the room – don’t worry, that will eventually change – but I’m sure that makes it hard to fully step into your role as teacher, and leader – but our people, and our faith need you to claim that space, and grow expansive, deep roots. We need you to be loud, and sometimes even obnoxious. It’s ok. Because only in boldness might you discover – as Rilke says – the limits of your longing.

The world needs you to go all out – in imagination, in relationship, in pulling from the depth of our tradition, and the depth of your connection to the holy.

The rest of us will need help to grow into this vision of course, so I also charge you with being big in patience, big in adaptive skills, and big in your compassion. Because we know – being a big deal in ministry really means making everyone else in the room feel like THEY are the big deal, needing the special seat, and entering in the special entrance.

Which is why I charge you not just with being big, but also, small, and ordinary, and regular.  I don’t mean be invisible, or insignificant, but more – be a learner, and a beginner, and relentlessly curious – even about the thing that you’ve encountered 8 million times and you’re pretty sure there’s nothing new to learn there – still, be curious.

You have a long ministry ahead – which means that you’re going to have a number of years where you start to feel like you’ve already seen most everything, met most every type of person – been there/done that. But being small in your ministry means remembering that everyone, and everything, is almost always a mystery – and no one, and nothing, is ever one thing.  So remember to be enchanted, confused, surprised. Stay loose with your conclusions, and your analysis, and stay in touch with all you don’t know or don’t have under control, and let that be a visible part of your ministry too.

Because PS we know you don’t have your act together all the time.  Even though you’re a big deal, you’re also just regular, and ordinary, and struggling like the rest of us. And we love you not in spite of this, but because of it – because we like our ministers human…And so, we hope you remember, that although in many ways, your colleagues and your congregation need you – you also need us.

In all that your ministry may bring you, I charge you to manage this dance and sometimes-pain of being both big and small, at the same time. To recognize and navigate your own expectations, to keep a sense of humor, and most of all, to surrender to the mystery.

Because, to be honest this job mostly makes no sense – you’ll be thanked for stuff you think is crap, and overlooked for what you think of as your best work, you’ll be asked to be both invisible, as well as out in front, and you’ll hear the craziest stories, know things you wish you didn’t.  And yet somehow – through all of this – you will find yourself grateful, that you might faithfully be both small and big with these small and big people –
for your whole life. Or at least, we pray that you will.

We are so lucky to call you one of ours, and to say we had a part in making it so, and to keep traveling together in big and small ways. Many blessings on your ministry.

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Invisible Partners

img_0131We had been hiking straight up hill for nearly two hours.  Unlike the day before, it was sunny, not raining – but the remnants of the rain were everywhere – mud, and deep crevices along the trail, trees fallen along the path.  It was hard climbing, sometimes dangerous, and glorious.  I was hiking with a few of my colleagues – we were together for a retreat for senior ministers in large UU congregations – new friends whose words and work I had long cherished and now we were climbing a mountain together.
There was content in our week together – learning and reflecting and an official agenda. Yet, as always in these sorts of gatherings, it is the in-between times, the breath, the unplanned conversations, and the long walks to an unknown places that stay with me long after our time together.
So often in our congregations, and in our lives, we can start to feel isolated.  Like we’re facing all the struggles and challenges all on our own, and that there’s no one that quite understands, or shares the same longings or is working towards the same goals.  But then…you find yourself debating faith, and evil, and the popular misinterpretation of Universalism by way of overly-optimistic theological anthropology, all while navigating a rocky cliff and a rushing river…and you think, we’re all in this together! 
OK, I know, that’s not likely your specific example of discovering common ground.  But – we all have these stories.  Where we realize that where we thought we were going it alone, there’s actually a bunch of others out there, working alongside us – not always totally visible to us, but there nonetheless.
In these days where the work of repairing the world can feel insurmountable, let us remember the many partners who are out there who we cannot see, yet are with us nonetheless.  And let us give thanks for each of them, and for the visible ones too, and let us be faithful to our partnership, and the good work that calls all of us on.
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The Courage of Faith, and Doubt

belief-and-doubt-1Reading – from “Faith and Doubt” in Paul Tillich’s Dynamics of Faith
An act of faith is an act of a finite being who is grasped by and turned to the infinite. It is a finite act with all the limitations of a finite act, and it is an act in which the infinite participates beyond the limitations of a finite act. Faith is certain in so far as it is an experience of the holy.

But faith is uncertain in so far as the infinite to which it is related is received by a finite being. This element of uncertainty in faith cannot be removed, it must be accepted. And the element in faith which accepts this is courage.

Faith includes an element of immediate awareness which gives certainty and an element of uncertainty. To accept this is courage. In the courageous standing of uncertainty, faith shows most visibly its dynamic character.

Sermon – The Courage of Faith, and Doubt 

The first time I met the man that many had told me could fund a full time minister in the church I was then serving – if he liked the minister enough, he hadn’t even asked my name, or told me his, when he leaned in to ask: Are you a believer?

It was a trick question, I knew – or rather, it wasn’t – and that was the trick.

He was looking for a specific answer, obviously an acceptable orthodoxy you might say, and then I’d pass the test, I suppose. I knew what he wanted me to say, knew he wanted me to put myself in one category or another, affirm my fitness for the congregation in doing so– maybe for UU ministry entirely…

Are you a believer?

I paused for a small moment, contemplating how much easier it would be,
if I just gave him that simple no that he was clearly looking for.

But….it turns out I’m not often lured in by something being easy….so, I instead responded….What do you mean?

Believer. He said – Are you a believer?

I’m not sure I know what you mean. I do believe in many things.

He became obviously impatient with me at this point: I mean, are you a deist?

Showing some restraint, I did not ask if he meant that I was a time traveler from the 18th century who believed in a cold and distant supreme being.

Instead I shrugged. Hm. I’m not sure why that matters.

And I walked away.

Obviously, I did not pass his test, and they did not end up with a full time ministry position funded that year.  And thus ends the story of what brought me to Foothills…just kidding. Mostly.

Asking about belief is not, regardless of what this man, and many others might think –
the same as asking about one’s faith.

Belief indicates a sense of certainty – like he was asking me to say, for sure, where I came down – did I believe?

Lately, I have been longing for this sort of certainty, something to hang on to would be solid, clear, concrete.  To have a list of answers, and know what’s right, what’s wrong–
to have clear black and white definitives for what to do, what part to play, how to react, and why.

And as long as we’re at it, I wouldn’t mind a feeling of confidence that God – still not the deist version mind you, but one that would be watching over us, and would never give us more than we can handle, and is also is totally taking care of climate change in ways we don’t yet see or understand.

Heck, these days I’d even take being in the 77% of adults who believe in angels – or as the studies put it, believe that “ethereal beings are real.” Because, clearly, we can use all the help we can get.

But, to answer the question that man asked me a number of years ago in the direct way he was looking for, No – I am not so good at belief like that. More often, I’m not a believer.
I’m a doubter, constantly navigating waves of uncertainty, confusion, and complexity.
Like Fox Mulder, I may want to believe. But, more often than not, I’m much more like Scully, skeptically squinting, “I’m not convinced.”

Luckily, I find myself in good company. We Unitarian Universalists are not – historically – known for our belief. Many of us have – as the Rev. Christine Robinson calls it, a “wintry faith,” where we live much more in the realm of doubt than in clarity. This is somewhat ironic given that our denominational designation – that 10-syllable sometimes-source of confusion to newcomers and media alike – Unitarian. Universalist –indicates a belief statement.

As in: Unitarian – an affirmation of the oneness of God, originally specifically, anti-Trinitarian. Universalist. Describing our theological conviction that ultimately, all people are saved, or healed, and loved, no exceptions.

Despite our name, however, our tradition has had a pretty complicated relationship with belief – I’d say for two main reasons -first, because both of our founding theological claims were in reaction to the orthodoxy of the time, which meant that the seeds of our religion were sown in the context of stating what we didn’t believe, rather than what we did – so that here we are hundreds of years later, and still sometimes we struggle to articulate a positive affirmation and construction of our individual beliefs, let alone those things “commonly believed among us.”

But secondly, and more importantly, our relationship with the idea of belief is clouded by the fact that all along, even in times when our churches have had creeds – which sometimes they did –there was always a clause in the church by-laws that said that ultimately all members were encouraged to follow their conscience, that “we need not think alike to love alike,” and that there was no helpful way to require someone to believe what their heart could not believe.

And therefore, membership in one of our churches could not be predicated on assent to a list of beliefs. This clause was what was known as the “liberty clause.”

In our covenantal tradition, belief has never been understood as our critically binding element. Instead, religious practice has been oriented towards faith as something much riskier, less controllable, and more dynamic than belief and its static, fixed, certainty –
something grounded in our actual experiences of being human, and what we discover as we come together in relationship with others.

Writer Sharon Salzberg – who was raised Jewish and is now a Buddhist – captures our idea of faith so well when she says – “Faith – in contrast to belief, is not a definition of reality, not a received answer, but an active, open state, that makes us willing to explore. While beliefs come to us from outside – from another person or tradition or heritage – faith comes from within, from our alive participation in the process of discovery.”

As the 19th century German theologian Friederich Schleiermacher would have it –faith is a feeling we each have, an experience of absolute dependence – an experience of life, of be-ing, an awareness of – everything – and the way we fit into all of thisand a surrender into this experience.

This feeling of absolute dependence is what Tillich means by the certainty of faith- (rereading the text)

This feeling is, however, pre-lingual; which is to say, words to describe it come later –
as are any attempts to attach meaning or ascribe beliefs to these experiences – and all of these are inevitably inadequate approximations attempting to capture what is unexplainable. And here is where we come to an uncertainty (read it).

My colleague the Rev. Jan Christian – who serves as staff for our Unitarian Universalist Pacific Western Region – tells a story about when she was about 10 years old. She was out on Lake Mead with her family, when her dad stopped their boat and asked Jan if she’d like to swim. She looked out at the water, unsure.

“How deep is it here?”, she asked.

“Oh, about 500 feet, I think.” her father responded.

She was alarmed. “I can’t swim in water than deep!”

“You swim in the deep end of the pool. Your feet don’t touch there and they don’t touch here.”

Her dad responded, quite reasonably.

“But, here I can’t see the bottom.”

Faith is the leap into the deep waters, where we cannot see the bottom – the willingness to trust, to relax, and to swim in the same ways we would have if we could see, if we did know exactly what is there, and to live with the unknowing.

Unlike belief, faith does not try to resolve the unresolvable tensions of existence, or attempt to make solid what is always dynamic and mysterious, changing and sometimes scary, or terrible.

Instead, it incorporates into itself our inevitable doubt, acknowledging all that we cannot see, all that we don’t know – all the ways we could be wrong, and how little control we have over how most anything will turn out. It takes all of this in and says, ok. Yep. That’s how it is. Let’s get on with the living anyway.

This understanding helps differentiate faith from hope, as hope is not so detached as this – hope is often oriented towards specific outcomes. In the quote on the front of the order of service, Vaclav Havel offers a definition of hope, but it seems to me, that instead this definition gives us a vision for what it means to release hope, to move into a steadfastness of living and loving, a loyalty to values and vision, regardless of how it will turn out. I’d call this not hope, but faith. And as Tillich asserts, its practice requires courage, particularly as the waters and the waves around us grow more active.

I’ve never been to Lake Mead. But I’ve been to other lakes that seem similar. And in most cases, the water is relatively calm. Even if it’s especially windy, or if the lake is particularly crowded – there’s no undertow, and even if the waves are especially big, if you have a life jacket on, and you know how to swim, you should be fine. You can trust that the water will hold you.

But this is not when faith is most needed, or tested. Faith is not only about leaping into the calm waters where you can’t see the bottom, but just as often, it is the practice of as diving into the open sea – where surrender to the waves might just take you under – take us all under. What does faith mean, in times such as this – which is to say, times like these.

The temptation in these moments of life’s greatest uncertainty, as I shared earlier about my own longings, is to lean into our own versions of faith as belief –to strengthen these beliefs into certainty, squelching all doubt within, or around us, hoping our sense of the truth might offer us a source of stability in the turmoil.

So that we are drawn to assert – not the existence of angels, necessarily – but to harden into whatever our own beliefs really are – even if they are unbeliefs. To lock into a story about what is happening – to us, around us, in our world – and who’s to blame. To harden the categories between those of us who believe as we do, and those who do not. To turn to our neighbors and ask, Are you a believer? And to use the answer as an indicator if they are the sort of person we can know, or that we can love.

Sharon Salzberg acknowledges that “Beliefs can provide a thread of continuity and perspective as we undergo the tumultuous changes and storms of everyday life. It’s not the existence of beliefs that’s the problem, but” – she says, “what happens to us when we hold them rigidly, when we presume the absolute centrality of our views and those who don’t share our views remain the ‘other,’ and we don’t really need to listen to them. Our story becomes the story.”

Even we who – at least in theory – appreciate a diversity of views – and who honor the many and sometimes-contradictory pieces of truth we all hold as valid – can be drawn into what philosopher Richard Bernstein called “Cartesian anxiety,” wherein – ever since Descartes – humans have been longing to claim a degree of ontological certainty – a singular and unchanging narrative that explains our lives, and life itself – mostly through the use of science, but also, through scripture, or even politics, or maybe today, political parties, and their rhetoric.

Unfortunately, or fortunately – ontological certainty, would be what some might call an alternative fact, or more simply, a lie. Because there is no way to know for certain – what it all means, what’s going to happen, how to make things better, as there is no way to reconcile our finite understanding with an infinite reality.

So instead of growing our orientation to belief, times like these invite us to take that courageous leap into faith – a faith that as Paul Tillich says – understands doubt not as its opposite, but as its elemental partner.

Last week I spoke about the practice of courage in our courageous love as taking action out of a sense of duty, regardless of fear – duty specifically connected to the value and vision of agape love. Tillich defines courage as “the daring self-affirmation of one’s own being in spite of the powers of ‘nonbeing’ which are the heritage of everything finite.” To translate a bit – he’s saying courage is the act of continuing to live, as if your life matters, as if it has a purpose – in a truly ultimate sense – even in the face of fear, and risk, and the realities of this ocean and its mad waves – even in the presence of doubt. Courage, he says, is an essential aspect of faith, because it is always a risk to live with such a willing awareness of all that we can’t know, to take doubt into one’s self, and yet persist in love, nonetheless.

Faith is the capacity to remain unresolved – to love the questions – as Rilke would have it – yet still remain confident – to acknowledge the mystery, the confusion, the pain at the center of life– and to love courageously anyway.

Margaret Wheatley reminds us, both Moses and Abraham were charged with great tasks, yet “had to abandon hope that they would complete these tasks in their lifetime.” Still, they persisted….Leading not from certainty, or even optimism, but from faith, and “from a relationship to” a vision “beyond their full comprehension.”

Courageous love calls to us with this vision, though so much remains out of our view –
beyond our knowing –  and calls us to have the faith that we might allow it to lead us on.

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Courageous Love

courageous-loveIn my life, the earliest example I remember of what I would call courageous love was from Archbishop Raymond Hunthausen. Archbishop Hunthausen was the Archbishop of Seattle from when I was born until I was 15. Since I grew up, Catholic, in a small town about 2 hours outside of Seattle, he was my Archbishop for the first 15 years of my life. I am told he was a constant advocate for the poor and for peace, which didn’t always make him the most popular.

But it’s a memory from when I was about seven that has stuck with me. My mom – a lifelong catholic was wearing this button one day, it said “I support the Archbishop.”

What’s that? I asked her.

She responded simply, “He held mass for the homosexuals, and people were very upset.”
It was 1983. “Very upset” was surely an understatement.

But in that moment, I didn’t hear the “upset” part. I only heard my mom saying the word “homosexuals,” and that my Archbishop had held mass for them. And she was good with that.

Fifteen years later when I was terrified to come out to my parents, that button flashed in my mind, and gave me hope, and courage; and surely that button had something to do with their eventual love and acceptance.

I am so grateful for that man, still, and for his sense of call, and duty.

He must have been so brave, received so much hateful criticism, it’s astounding he held his ground. The Cardinal even came in to investigate. How was he able to keep that clear about the call – the requirements of courageous love – it’s inspiring.

“Courageous Love” as an idea has been integral to my formation as a Unitarian Universalist, and as a minister.

Still, when we picked up this phrase in our mission statement last year, it was with a certain leap of faith – as in, we generally think we know what “courageous love” means,
and we even believe it’s what we are meant for in these times.

But also, in some ways, we knew we didn’t know, and it’s the unknowing that is the leap of faith– because you can’t really know – what courageous love is, until it’s asked of you,
and by then, well, we’ve already printed it on the t-shirts.

This leap of faith reminds me of that in the first book in the Lord of the Rings when our hero, Frodo, confesses that he isn’t feeling all that heroic.  So much has already happened,
and yet there’s still so much ahead,  pain, and loss he knows will come – he’d really just rather not. Why couldn’t he forget this grand adventure, this hero’s quest, and go back to the shire where he could enjoy a good second breakfast.

As he tells his teacher, Gandalf, ‘I wish it need not have happened in my time.’

Gandalf responds simply – “So do I. And so do all who live to see such times.”

I used to read the stories about Martin Luther King Jr, and Rosa Parks – or Galileo and Charles Darwin – or hear about Archbishop Hunthausen – all these heroes who worked to call forth the truth in a world invested in its opposite – and feel inspired, and eager to do what needed to be done to bring about the necessary change on behalf of justice, and righteousness, and compassion.

In the last few weeks, however, I’ve started to feel a little less eager – as I have come to understand that answering the call of courageous love requires a capacity to live with a lot of pain, a commitment that persists through great sacrifice, and a willingness not to turn away, but to move towards what in regular times we might call, danger.

Whatever romantic notions I’ve had about the call of courageous love have, in recent days, fallen away.

This past week, I started an online class on strategic non-violent resistance led by Unitarian Universalist theologian and ethicist Sharon Welch – you may recognize her name as the leading thinker on what she calls, a feminist ethic of risk. She thought she’d have 40 or so clergy sign up, but over 60 were there. “I guess you’re all ready to take in a little theory to go along with your practice,” she observed as we started.

This is what I’ll try to offer today – a little theory around this idea of Courageous Love that we’ve been practicing, and that we’ve said we will unleash.

Let me start by dispelling any worries you may have that I’m about to get too heady
by asking you to repeat after me:

Going on a bear hunt
I’m not afraid
Oh look! It’s some wavy grass
Can’t go over it
Can’t go under it
Can’t go around it
Gotta go through it

OK. This campfire chant is a great summary of courageous love.  Seriously.

We say what we’re going to do (going on a bear hunt.)

This is like I said last week – we take a stand. And then, we give ourselves a pep talk to deal with our fear – I’m not afraid – like, “keep cool.” Then, we pay attention to what is right in front of us – stay connected – and go through it.

As Gandalf also says to Frodo, We do not get to decide which times we are born into. “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

To make such a decision, we must begin with the love in courageous love.

This love is not squishy, romantic love, not even a love that’s about “liking” the other.

King reminds us that the English language limits our understanding of love – we have just one word to describe what took the Greeks three. They spoke about eros – that is the squishy, romantic sort of love; and also philia, which is like the way you love your friends –
and does have to do with liking them (at least most of the time).

But courageous love is neither of these – it is instead the sort of love captured by the word agape. As King wrote, “Agape is understanding, creative, redemptive good will for all. It is the love of God working in the [human mind]. It is an overflowing love which seeks nothing in return. And when you come to love on this level you begin to love people not because they are likeable, not because they do things that attract us, but because God loves them.”

Agape is the sort of love that formed our Universalist tradition – that grace that is holding us all, and transforming us, but in courageous love this receptivity to grace meets our activity, as it calls us to become its active agents in the world.

Courageous love pursues – to use another Greek word – Eudaimonia – which is, the highest human good – that flourishing of all of life, in wholeness and health – that Sean spoke about a few weeks ago, what in the Jewish tradition we would call Shalom. Courageous love lives in the place where love of self, love of other, and love of the whole world come together into a love for all.

Sharon Welch calls this overlapping place, generative interdependence. Meaning, the creative, dynamic, energy born of all of us being in this together.  Courageous love doesn’t get stuck on just one way for us to “get through this,” but keeps discovering new ways –
like dressing up as clowns to disarm white supremacists, or resurrecting Frederick Douglass on social media to protest Presidential ignorance. Courageous love uses all the tools of art, and dance, spiritual practices, that we might keep finding that new way where there seems to be no way.

This is one of the repeated phrases in the Hebrew Bible, and one that is central to the theology of the black church – that God will make a way out of no way.

Or as the prophet Isaiah puts it, “Behold, I am doing a new thing! Do you not perceive it?”

So often the answer to this question when it comes to courageous love is – sort of.

hunthausen_portrait

Archbishop Hunthausen

Remember my Archbishop, he surely felt a sense that he was making a way where there was no way – but also, he couldn’t have known all the many ways that was true, the ripple effects, how a second grader in a little logging town would’ve carried his ministry in her heart for the next few decades until she herself would be telling the story of his courageous love to the congregation she serves.

 

All of that, he could not have perceived, but could only trust, and have faith.

Which brings us to the courage in courageous love.

There is a misunderstanding about courage. That it is a matter of fearlessness – that in order to act with courage you must have no fear.

But in these days, I’m pretty sure that would mean not acting at all.

Anxiety is a normal response to living in abnormal times, that is, to times such as these. Studies have shown that we act courageously – not when we have squelched all fear –
but when we are able to remain connected to some deeper sense of purpose, values, or vision – when we feel a sense of duty, in our core.

As poet-activist Audre Lorde said, “When I dare to use my strength in the service of my vision, it becomes less and less and important whether I am afraid.”

Courage looks fear in the eyes and says, so what. Courage says, something matters to me more than this fear, something motivates me to see beyond flight or fight, to persist with creativity, and humor, and life-giving generativity – to claim a life of joy, even in the midst of heartache.

At our workshop on Courageous Love last weekend, when we asked for definitions,
the first word that came up was risk. Courageous love embraces risk. Which is not something people go around advertising when they want you to join their group…
like, join us, we’ll make your life less safe…..

But…Courageous love confesses there is no moral life that guarantees safety. Courageous love knows that the only way to make everyone “safe” is through an ethic of domination and control, where one or more controls and dominates one or more others….and ultimately, if you want total safety, you’ll have to cut off life entirely.

It reminds me of the story of the Buddha – before he became the Buddha – his parents kept him all locked up in the palace when he was younger so he wouldn’t know suffering. But eventually he wanted to actually live –so he left the palace – and guess what – suffering, everywhere.  Which became the main teaching of Buddhism – life is suffering.  OK, it’s a little more nuanced than that, but you get the idea. There is no way to allow – let alone unleash – human flourishing and ensure total safety. To imagine total safety is privilege, and likely indicates that our safety is predicated on another’s risk.

Coming to understand this – our privilege, and another’s risk – takes stepping out of our bubbles – and stepping in to the grace of an intentionally diverse community – like this one, in all of its messy imperfections.

When courageous love and following the call of courageous love feels impossible –
too much to bear – community reminds us, we don’t have to do it alone.

When the weight of courageous love feels like too much to carry, Sunday comes around once again, and we remember, it’s not just on us – it’s a shared task, this repairing the world. And there’s all these partners, walking together – so much so we had to add a third service!

We hold the babies in the social hall, and we hear about the new hearing aids, or the new job, we meet each other at the latest protest line and hug, and we watch each other picking up a piece, our own parts, and then we realize, we can keep going. Together, we can do hard things – with love. Courageous love.

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Making Space for Grace

 

Audio podcast available here.

Reading: X by Wendell Berry 

making space for grace (1).pngSermon: Making Space for Grace 

How am I going to live through this?

This is the question people ask when they are in the middle of a crisis, a trauma, or in grief that won’t seem to find its bottom.

It’s a question I’ve heard more than a few times in recent days.

It’s not always about the actions of the US President, but almost always, those things are in there somewhere.

There is a collective anxiety and dread washing over our country – and even, over much of the world – as the campaign promises to turn our backs on desperate people seeking refuge, or to end an imperfect but better-than-nothing health care law, or to erect a $15 billion wall across mountains and rivers to keep people out…or maybe, in – as all of these and more start to move from theory to reality….fear is growing, as is a sense of helplessness.

Meanwhile, it’s not like all the regular parts of life got themselves figured out– life continues to be filled in big and small ways with struggle – broken relationships, illness, money troubles, job stress and strain. The work of simply trying to make a life, to become the person you are meant to be. Put all of this together and you come to that question: How are we are going to live through this?

Collectively and historically, as a faith tradition, we have answered this question in one primary way – which is, to get busy. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, busiER.

In our Unitarian Universalist faith, as theologian Rebecca Parker says it, “WE are the agents of history, we are the creators.” We will build a land where we bind up the broken. We will.

And this feels good, necessary, and justified….until….we find ourselves in moments like the one we’re are currently in. Moments where we’ve been working hard and efforting, and marching and doing ALL THE THINGS, yet still the outlook for justice feels bleak, and even science is considered just somebody’s “opinion,” and we’re tired.

As Parker says, “We come up against our helplessness, the inability to stop loved ones from dying, or turn our children from paths of self-destruction, or from those we love from breaking our hearts. And we find ourselves asking, ‘Is there any source of help beyond my own strength? Is there anything I can trust beyond our power to make it right?’”

Today marks the fourth and last official service in our sermon series that we’ve been calling “We all go together,” which is exploring Universalism for the 21st century, although as we turn next to Courageous Love, we’ll keep coming back to this theology that can be summed up so well in the song that we’ve sung each of these Sundays:

There is a love holding us. There is a love holding all that we love. There is a love holding all. We rest in this love.

While the Unitarian strand of our faith would tell us that we better get busy, it’s all on us, the good news of our Universalist theology is that there is something bigger than us that we can trust, something that is holding us and healing us, that has nothing to do with our effort. As Parker puts it, “There is a gift, already given, to all people, a gift that does not have to be earned, that will never be lost, that cannot be taken away.”

This is grace. And in these times, it feels like exactly the good news we need.

Which is why we decided to step back from our usual monthly themes, and instead dig into Universalism, because we knew we would need to remember – there IS a love holding us – there is a GIFT already given – we are already blessed – already healed – and it is by resting in this love that we have any hope of remaining awake to all that’s broken in our world – and NOT becoming ourselves broken.

Yet even as I was working on this sermon, and then hearing the latest crazy news, I started to think – this isn’t the message we need! We need to take action. We need to do more, call more, read more articles, create more outrage, wake ourselves and our world UP to this tragedy, …this…pain….it’s up to US.

The early Christian monk, Augustine of Hippo – a great proponent of the idea of grace – once said, that God is always trying to give good things to us, but our hands are too full to receive them.

This is one of those sayings I should write on post its and place everywhere as a reminder…..because grace is the gift that life keeps trying to give to us, but if we’re so busy doing ALL THE THINGS, and our hands, which is to say our HEARTS and our LIVES are FILLED UP.  We cannot find our way to grace. There’s just NO ROOM.

In place of grace, we just see US, and WORK, and ALL THERE IS TO DO, and ALL THE NEWS ARTICLES and the LATEST thing to be OUTRAGED ABOUT.

But when we pause. When we slow down. When we imagine ourselves not in charge of everything, responsible for everything – but rather, as partners with something greater than us all.

Then, things like – the National Park Service going rogue – appear.

Or, spontaneous mass-gatherings happening at airports across the country with chants saying over and over, let them in, let them in, let them in.  And there too, lawyers working pro-bono on behalf of those detained. And taxi drivers rising up.  And then suddenly, a judge in New York City agrees, and there’s hope, again. All while most of us were resting.

This is grace.

Grace breaks through, and we breathe, and we notice how the sun came up once again – none of us did that – yet here it is.

“No leaf or grain is filled By work of ours; the field is tilled And left to grace. That we may reap, Great work is done while we’re asleep.”

To our great surprise and delight, we arrive in a room filled with these others who have come to sing, even to surround us in song – these souls who come still to hope, to figure it out, still not pulling the covers over our heads afterall, but feeling called by this possibility of peace, this righteous sense that Love still connects us, heals us, holds us. That we could rest in this love.

If the first week of this Presidency is any indication, it’s a long road ahead, my friends.

We don’t know which way the universe is going to toss us, what ups or downs – and sometimes this is daily, hourly.

If we are going to make it through – we need to make space for grace – that is – we need to make space between ourselves, and everything, and everyone else, so that love can break through. We know to know what part of the work is ours, and which is not.  We need to know where we stand, what we’re willing to do.  And we need to do this all from a deep connection to our center, to that peace within, that grounding. To live from this place, even as we are engaged with openness towards all that comes our way.

In our courageous love workshop yesterday, we called this the practice of compassion, with boundaries, although you might just as easily name it using the concept from family systems theory called “self-differentiation.”

Our colleague the Rev. Jake Morrill, he’s a UU minister in Tennessee, and a guru when it comes to systems thinking describes self-differentiation as a matter of three puzzle pieces. They go like this:

1. Take a stand.
2. Keep in touch.
3. Keep cool.

Taking a stand is the part of knowing where you are, what’s ok with you, what isn’t, and sticking with it. It’s the piece of the world, and the work that is yours. And it is discerning and maintaining a great clarity of self, no matter what.

Keeping in touch on the other hand is about connecting openly with others- individuals, and also, the news, and all that’s happening. It is observing, and staying awake, with a great curiosity and care, including a willingness to consider how or if this information could or should alter your “stand.”

The trick is not to let this second piece destabilize the first. Which is where we come to the third practice – keeping cool. Maintaining both 1 and 2 is anxiety-producing, for everyone. There’s no getting around it – if you’re human, trying to figure out how to be a differentiated in relationship with others– you’re going to be anxious. So keeping cool isn’t about no anxiety. Just about regulating that anxiety.

I encourage the use of the word “fascinating” to help with this. As in, that is so fascinating that humans behave like that. It reminds you that YOU are NOT them, and yet keeps you connected without being toppled over.

Especially in a highly anxious time such as today, this can be a great challenge. We may find ourselves being touchy about stuff that isn’t that big of a deal – being stubborn or over-reactive about something we can usually let go of, or trying to solve the whole world by way of adding to our personal to-do lists….these are great indicators that anxiety is trying to derail us – even for ourselves we can say “isn’t that fascinating that I’m reacting like that.”

There are many things to help when anxiety gets the best of us. Breathing deeply. Singing. Taking a walk.

Still, none of these in-the-moment things will help as much those practices we take up outside-of-the-moment, those regular habits that help us know where we stand, who we are, whose we are, and by what, and to what we are called.

There are many sorts of practices that help with this, but I want to end my sermon today by focusing in on one in particular that I believe would be transformative and sustaining for all of us individuals, and as a congregation, and would be a radical act of faith – Universalist faith – for we who still often seek salvation by way of the to-do list.

It is the ancient spiritual practice of “Sabbath.” Anyone who knows me even a bit will realize that here we reach the part of the sermon that is aimed almost entirely at myself. It’s ok, it happens sometimes.

Over the past few weeks, my family has been trying out a mini-version of Sabbath. We call it “Family Fun Night.” It starts whenever I get home on Sunday, and it is completely tech free – that means no TV, no phones, no screens at all, and all four of us are together, and we do something that we think is fun. One time we played charades, and laughed hysterically. Another we made paper airplanes and had flight competitions all around the house. Most recently we played basketball and went swimming.

I confess that we all are terrible whiners as we attempt to begin – we’re too tired – or too worried about the text we might miss – or too lazy to come up with something that doesn’t involve a screen. But without fail, every time, once we’ve given in, it’s the best. It reminds us who we are, and what really matters. And guess what, the world keeps on going on without us….

Next up in my Sabbath practice, I want to let these Family Fun Nights move right into Monday rest day. It’s something I’ve tried with partial success over the years, emphasis on partial. But like with everything else these days, it’s time to get serious. It’s time to lean in to this major premise of our faith – the promise of grace.

So I wonder if you would you like to try this out with me – one day a week – no tech, or at the least, no social media….one day a week for rest, for remembering, for reclaiming who you are, whose you are, and what really matters. Don’t get too stuck on the particular day – I’ve heard that Sunday is a popular choice….but like I said, I’m on Mondays. All that matters is that you choose one day – every week where

As Wayne Muller says – “there is no rush to get to the end, because we are never finished.” Sabbath, he says, “reminds us to be still. Stop. Take time to rest, and eat, and drink. Listen to the sound the heart makes as it speaks the quiet truth of what is needed.”

Every other day, we can be the ones doing, marching, writing, reading, calling….just one day, we make space for grace to show up and do its healing work on our hearts, and in the world.

In this turbulent world, and in these trying times, let us rest in this faith – our faith, and in this love.

May it be so.

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