Journey toward Truth

Sermon at South Church Portsmouth- March 10, 2019

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For many Christians the observance of Lent began this past Wednesday. Lent is a time of penance and reflection marking Jesus’ 40-day fast in the desert- a journey he took at the start of his own ministry.

On the subject of Lent, the Rev. Dr. Amy Laura Hall writes:

Lent is a time for digging and sleuthing, for doing the archival work of the soul. This includes one’s own individual soul, and also the soul of a community, of a neighborhood, of a city, of a school. Lent is a time for uncovering the detailed mess of our history, and I recommend this discipline of memory right alongside the strange assurance that God means salvation for us.

I am a UU who believes in salvation as something we can find in this life we are living, not that it is some promise to come after death, and the Rev. Dr. Hall’s description resonates deeply for me.

I like this image of doing the archival work of the soul. I think I’ve been doing that kind work for some time now, and I don’t know how that work will unfold or what kind of sacrifices it will demand of me, but digging and sleuthing is as close to a description of my personal spiritual practice as any other that I have been able to articulate.

I wish I had started this archival work earlier in my life. I often feel like I’ve come late to the game. This morning I would like to talk about my growing understanding that there was a cost to the innocence of my childhood and early adulthood. I am speaking today from a place of inquiry- feeling my way around something that is still unfolding in my own understanding.

I wonder who I would be, if I had been taught a more honest version of the world when I was growing up. As it was, I am sure I was far less sheltered than many of my peers at the time, and I know I had more exposure to different people, of different ages and identities than many middle class white children in our country, then and now. Still, I was in many ways insulated from much of the truth of the world.

I did not have to grapple with experiences that many other children had no choice but to face. I had well educated parents, a wider family network with accrued wealth which allowed my parents to pursue higher education and to take risks knowing they would not fall too far if they failed. I was shielded from most violence, and hardship. I was loved and encouraged. I lived in a well-resourced school district and I was told that I could be and do anything I set my mind toward.

All of that is as it should be I think, but, I was not told enough about the responsibility that comes with being given all these things in a world where not everyone has the same leg up. I was not told enough about the dark side of all of my good fortune; About why my ancestors were lifted up, while others were kept down. And I was definitely not taught enough about our collective history, or about how to go about righting the wrongs of our collective history. Or about how to change directions on this road we have spent the past many decades fortifying- This road, which continues to sacrifice some for the benefit of others, which continues to benefit me, and my children, and to marginalize other families, other children.

I was not told enough, and so, the outward work of archiving in my community is complicated by the internal work I still need to do within myself. I wonder if any of you feel similarly?

Sometimes when I attempt to tackle injustice in the world, my approach feels clumsy, like one step forward leads to two steps back. A seemingly simple effort reveals layers and layers of complexity which requires more unpacking, more reading, more listening and learning—or unlearning. That within the work of archiving is the pain of realizing how many times I did not recognize the harm that was caused in order for me to have all that I was given. A cycle of seeing the impact of oppressive systems in the world around me and finding ignorance within me that makes me complicit with those systems.

We are not living in a world today which operates from the belief in the worth and dignity of all people, but we as a congregation- we aspire to that principle in this church. And every Sunday as we lift up that aspiration, we also commit to inspire one another to act on our faith in the larger community. I wonder, is it possible to truly recognize the worth and dignity of all people, and to act on our faith, without doing this work of uncovering the detailed mess of our history and how it has sometimes made us blind to truth?

Jeanne Theoharis is a civil rights historian, who published a book last year called A More Beautiful Terrible History. It examines the way we talk about the civil rights era, and calls out the way that our stories about that time are consistently romanticized, made more palatable and more polite. She explains how, by shifting and softening our telling of even this recent history, we “impoverish our ability to see how change happens.” She writes, “As a nation, we need fuller histories- uncomfortable, sobering histories- that hold a mirror to the nation’s past and offer far- reaching lessons for seeing the injustices of our current moment and the task of justice today.”

The archival work we are called to do then, includes digging into the history we have been taught with a critical eye, and looking for the parts of history that have been hidden or distorted or untold. The work, is not work any one of us can do alone, it demands inclusiveness- so that each of us are able to discover what we did not realize we were missing through the wisdom of other people’s life experiences and histories.

So, to begin this soul work we each must examine the ways we hold privilege, the unique set of advantages we have had in our life. Then we must seek wisdom from teachers, leaders, writers and friends who were not given that same privilege, and then, we must listen and build our understanding. Again and again and again. Men cannot dig up the experience that women know in this world without listening and learning from women. White people must seek out the wisdom that is so generously, and at such risk, written and recorded by black and indigenous people of color. Cis gendered folk must acknowledge that they have no fluency in the experience of being transgender or genderqueer. Those with wealth must confer with those who have learned from poverty first hand. The list is long, but we each have truths to teach one another, and things to learn from each other. Privilege must be counter-balanced with the responsibility of a journey toward truth and understanding, which is what will lead us to reconciliation and salvation. That journey is a journey that we must do together.

In Silent Spring, Rachel Carson wrote: “We stand now where two roads diverge. But unlike the roads in Robert Frost’s familiar poem, they are not equally fair. The road we have long been traveling is deceptively easy, a smooth superhighway on which we progress with great speed, but at its end lies disaster. The other fork of the road — the one less traveled by — offers our last, our only chance to reach a destination that assures the preservation of the earth.”

I agree that we need to switch roads, but if you listen closely, Carson’s not speaking to everyone—because she says the road we have been traveling is deceptively easy- that we have progressed with great speed. I wonder how that reads to someone who was left behind by what has been called progress? I wonder how that reads to the people who have been on that other road all along? I love Rachel Carson’s writing. I reel when I think about the fact that she wrote those words in 1962, and some of us we are still travelling that superhighway at devastating cost to our planet and it’s people, but play this out with me. Because I think the beautiful is here with the terrible.

We haven’t all been on the superhighway, so the other road is already built. Has already been traveled. This journey toward truth is not new, even if today is the first day that you start digging. That is a sign of the salvation that is here for us, I think. I am awakening to the idea that even if I am late to this journey, I’m not blazing the trail, I am just joining the trailblazers. We just need to show up, and ask the people who have been waiting for us what we can do to help?

And so, I come to this final piece of my inquiry today. Mary Oliver says, “Teach the children. We don’t matter so much but the children do.” Many of the children in our community are also growing up in a world that caters to their success, and my experience is teaching me that in that circumstance it makes us believe we can keep them sheltered and safe, and wait to talk about the hard stuff, (which we are still figuring out for ourselves). Too often, when we finally start having those conversations, we have to tip toe to try to soften the news, because it can come as a shock.

Here at South Church, our comprehensive sexuality education program, OWL, begins in 5th grade, and each new round involves a gentle conversation with parents, many of whom are worried that it’s too soon to start talking about some of the program topics with their pre-teens. Together we grapple with the deeply rooted desire to protect our children from difficult topics, to protect their innocence and we compare that urge with the powerful research that says the sooner you begin having age-appropriate conversations about sexuality with children, the more healthy and resilient they will be as they grow into adulthood. That program we begin in 5th grade is actually a late start, as there is K-1 curriculum that we haven’t yet built into our church offerings.

I wonder what would our world look like if all children were raised with comprehensive sexuality education? What if we also invested in creating comprehensive anti-racism anti-oppression curricula? What if we collectively decided that the consequences of innocence are worth examination? That leaving the most privileged children in our country unaware of the challenges faced by those with the least privilege is detrimental to the all of our collective liberation?

In raising my two sons, I think I’ve gotten better at tackling all this over time; I’m sure they both still have a fair amount of sleuthing ahead of them, and I am also fairly confident that they are ahead of where I was at 12 or 18. We’ve talked, for example, about privilege and guilt. That getting comfortable with that feeling of guilt is a necessary step to looking at the world with honest eyes. That working on it now, will help them be allies when they are older, that I wish I’d learned about that when I was young- because the discomfort eventually unfolds into something like fluency.

My sons and I went on a backpacking trip recently and I asked them what it was like to be growing up at a time when most everyone acknowledges we are facing an imminent environmental disaster?

My 12 year old responded, “You know, it’s not awful because, no matter what, we know it’s going to be really bad.”

And my older son nodded in agreement.

And that might make you feel sad, but I will tell you that in that moment I felt peace from their response, because it reinforced this suspicion I have that hard truth is still truth, it is still far less destructive than not being told. It is fortifying, because when you have the information you need to make informed decisions, you make informed decisions. When you know truth, it optimizes the potential that you will make choices that point in the right direction, it minimizes the chances that you will do harm or be harmed.

So, even if we are stumbling through the work of archiving our souls, and uncovering the mess of our history, even if, like me, you feel like you’ve started late to the game, the other road is ready for our arrival, and it is ready for our children too.

A more beautiful terrible.
It’s not awful, because we’ll know what’s really bad, and we’ll know also the beauty of our collective truth.
Because our collective wisdom will make us all wise, and it will make us all strong, and it help us to be ready for what is yet to come.

May it be so. 

A glimpse of a movement

I had a great opportunity to sneak down to New York this week with a neighbor who lives down the road.  Two days without kids, in the company of smart, successful women, art, and culture.  It was really nice.  One of my trip highlights was heading down to Zuccotti park to check out the Occupy Wall Street protest.  Having been there for only a few hours, I am certainly not an expert on the workings of this incredible little community, but the following are my observations.

Heading down to the park from the Fulton St subway station takes you past glimpses of the freedom tower-- nearing completion now-- it is half encased in sparkling glass panes, half still scaffolding- but every bit of it is grand and heavy with meaning.  I knew I would be passing it, but still found myself grappling with it's presence.  Last time I was here, there was a massive hole in the ground where the tower now stands, It was strange to be so close to this monstrous monument and so distracted by the gathering ahead.

You know you are nearing the OWS site by the noticeable increase in police presence on the street.  They seem to be everywhere as you get within site of the park, and ahead of the fence surrounding OWS, there was a line of no less than 25 police vehicles- backed in so they were facing the protesters.  It was intimidating-- creepy even.

The row of flags pictured above marked the break between metal barricades and police vehicles and the park itself, and once you made it into the wall of the park, the police presence faded.  In it's place, a small community unfolds before your eyes.  I had heard it was very clean and orderly, but seeing it in person was still incredibly impressive.  I hadn't realized how small the park was, but even in this confined space, there were ample paths winding through, and a very intentional layout.  The kitchen was set up in the center of the park, complete with a long buffet table as well as an area for prep and clean up.  To the west of the kitchen there was a group of people working on a grey water filtration system, which included multiple beds/bays that utilized plant life, rocks, soil and sand to filter bacteria out of the water with the goal of reusable water as an output.  I'm not clear on exactly how long the process takes, but it was really cool to see such a project being taken on.

Continuing on, at the west end of the park, there was a designated sacred space set up around a park tree.  People were gathered in a circle, each taking some time to sit quietly, to think, pray or meditate.  This area was the only part of the park bathed in direct sunlight, which found a way through the towering concrete.  It seemed almost excessive to have the light illuminating this impromptu shrine, and it made me smile.

I headed back toward the east end of the park past sleeping areas, and a line of food trucks parked along the road for anyone who might have a few dollars to buy a snack in place of the kitchen fare.  There is a man laying in his sleeping bag with a sign explaining that he is on a hunger strike.  He looks tired, pale, and I am anxious for him.

I am struck, throughout the park, at the cooperation and shared resources.  They keep a weekly schedule of planned events, educational opportunities, forums and such posted on a large chalkboard near the central kitchen.  They have a 'people's library' where books, newspapers, and magazines are loaned and returned.  All stored in plastic bins which clearly function as waterproof containers on rainy days.  In one area, a man is 'tagging' shirts for people that read 'Happy Occu-party', 'Eat the Rich', and 'I am the 99%'.  A bulletin board is kept with the day's press about the OWS protest, allowing people to keep up with what is being published about the cause.  Conversations about change spring up like popcorn across the gathering.  At one point, I passed as a man who claimed to be "part of the 1%" as he approached a few of the protesters and started a conversation.  They didn't seem to be reaching any deep understanding of each other as I listened in, but just the fact that those kinds of conversations are happening is a small win in my opinion- an improvement from how things have been up until this point. A breaking down of walls.

Occupiers spend the day knitting, reading, napping, and talking-- there is a LOT of talking.  On the east end of the park (which seems to have the most onlookers) there is a speaker talking about how the stock market operates.  She describes what derivatives are, talks about hedge funds, the mortgage crisis, deregulation (perhaps not in that order), she speaks for well over an hour, and all the while, it is with the eery call and response method that has become standard at the OWS site.  She speaks in short phrases and then the crowd around her repeats the phrase, thus allowing people further away to hear what is being said.  This is the strategy that has been employed because, apparently, it is illegal to use a bullhorn in the park.  It gives a strange droning rhythm to everything else that is going on-- always, in the background, a steady call and response.

And, as if inspired by the steady beat of the speaker and crowd, a jazz band has begun to play.  Trombone and Trumpet twisting out brassy melodies, sexy upright bass keeping beat, a drum, a clarinet... the crowd is full of smiles, the music is rich and lovely.  Hope floats by, and everyone present seems to know it's there.

Standing Up

This past weekend, my son Kelan and I participated with our UU church in a protest for social justice.  We gathered on Friday night and made signs, and then early (really early) Saturday morning came back to take a bus to a church in Auburn, NH that was hosting a conference for Exodus International.  If you are not aware, Exodus is a group of conservative religious people who believe that being homosexual is a sin, and further believe that you can be 'deprogrammed' if you think you are gay.  This may sound familiar- Presidential candidate Michelle Bachmann has endorsed them. The conference we were protesting was a gathering to which people, adults and youth, were being taken to be "deprogrammed".   Our church had been contacted by a gay rights group in Boston who were looking to build their presence, and we arrived with more than 60 people to add to their numbers, about 20 adults and more than 40 teens from our church and surrounding areas.

I cannot say enough about what an amazing experience this was.  As a parent, sharing the power of speaking out with my 11 year old son was so fulfilling.  As a person, remembering what it feels like to affect change was rejuvenating.  I hadn't realized how helpless I had begun to feel as I've grown from a teenager myself- who was quick to pick up a sign and speak out for what is right- to an adult who is distracted by work and kids and day to day life.  In high school and college, marches and rallies, and campaigns for change were frequent.  I don't know exactly when that faded, but it did, and what I am realizing, is that without those moments where we can vent our frustration and look into the eyes of others who are also shouting for change-- without those moments, change feels impossible.  Shaking my head as I read from the newspaper does nothing to alter the message I'm reading.  Neither does listening to the hatred that our politicians spew, or the propaganda they spread. Standing on that road with signs aimed at the victims in the backseats of the cars driving past made a difference.  Our messages told them that they are whole, that they are loved, that there is nothing that needs to be fixed in them.  Our presence mattered.

When the conference attendees had all passed, we gathered and listened as some of the organizers shared experiences from their own lives growing up with hatred and bigotry.  The kids from our group hung on every word.  We returned to the church after the protest and gathered to reflect on our experience, and as the kids shared their reactions, and the pureness of their hearts, a whole new realization came to me.  I could hear myself in their words- my 16-year-old self.  Their surprise at the reactions they saw on faces in the passing cars.  Feeling grateful for a glimpse of a smile from a back seat as a driver scowled and sped by.  There confusion as to why, when an exodus representative came out to try to scare us off, he approached the young people rather than seeking out the adults.  "Why would he talk to us?  We're kids. Doesn't he see that?", they asked.  They learned so many lessons that morning, about power, about intimidation, and about how to stand up to it. They saw first hand that hate is cowardly, and that when people are confronted for their bigotry, they lash out, speed past, curse and yell and scowl, but ultimately, they look foolish.  And I remembered those lessons anew.  I realized that my original reasons for coming, to teach something to my child, to share an experience with him, were only a part of the gift from that day.  And I am grateful for all of it.