The Post Modern Preacher

Isn't it romantic to think of the nineteenth century horse riding itinerants? Giving hope to the masses and spreading the Good News to all who would listen that God so loves the world that salvation exists for everyone and combating the Calvinist notion that the atonement was limited. The message was needed. In those backwater lands that had small but tidy white meeting houses, low grade liturgy but high grade faith and commitment, these itinerants evangelized so successfully that they changed the world. Most Christians now hold some belief of Universalism. The limited atonement is a small view these days.

Preaching from Barnard helped give me a sense of that history. The church has seen better days, days when more than four would find themselves present when the church bell rang. Still, if I helped touch any of those present, having driven the 320 mile trek round trip, that's a connection to something. It's fitting that as I preached there I am unordained. Most of the Universalist itinerants were unordained. I'm sure I've more theological education than most of them who went out on horse back. The Unitarians had Harvard, the Universalists had scripture, love, and God.

Ballou preached their before being called to Boston. Maybe I'll have his luck, and the itinerancy I'm doing this summer between Massachussets, Vermont, and New York will bring me the experience that will bring me to something wonderful by the time I've recieved fellowship.

Honestly, before attending BU, I knew little about Howard Thurman. I knew his name, and that he'd mentored Martin Luther King at BU, and that his works had a place in the back of the hymnal. When I moved to Boston about a year ago, I made an effort to get to know more about the first black dean of a predominatly white university. It was my first real introduction to personalism. I'm now reading his work, Jesus and the Disinherited, and its introduction challenges me. In the greeting, Thurman mentions the work of the Children of Azusa.

Most UU's will miss the reference. The start of the modern Pentacostal movement was in the Azusa Street Revival. The Azusa Revival was originally racially mixed, primarily of the holiness movement denominations. It gave way to a style that many attribute to the Black Church, but Pentacostalism grew a divide between the races with the unfortunate work of Charles Parham. Many UU churches I've been to fall in line with the "frozen chosen" where we have our quiet, our rigidity, and our sedentary worship. Yet we publish the works of a man whose sympathies were in the more charismatic/pentacostal camp. I'm a fan of the early postcolonial views I'm reading in the book, because it shows where the roots of James Cone and Cecil Cone were fertilized. It has the male only language of its age, but a start of postliberal theology rings through the pages.

Maybe we Unitarian Universalists can tone down our rhetoric at the charismatics and learn the difference between Charismatic/Pentacostal and Fundamentalist. If Beacon publishes Thurman, perhaps some already have.

The world is made up of stories, not atoms. We carry our thoughts in stories, our histories in stories, our lives in stories. Our stories tell not only who we were, but who we are, what we value, what we want others to know of us, and what we want to teach our successive generations.

Reality is often bypassed with the telling of stories. A friend of mine put it well, all stories, even all histories are fish stories. The real details of the day were put aside in the retelling to highlight items the teller wishes to emphasize. The fish was this big; back in my day we walked uphill both ways barefoot in the snow and we liked it; Davy Crockett could stare down a bear. These all are embellishments which didn’t really happen but aid in the telling of stories.

When telling, and reading stories, keeping the idea that all stories are fish stories in mind helps us interpret the story. When we take a story seriously, we look beyond the face value of the words. What is the story trying to communicate to us? What was life like in the setting of the story and how was that different from our own setting? Is the bad guy really a bad guy or is he being portrayed in a dark light by the narrator? Is the hero all she’s cracked up to be or are her deeds magnified to epic proportions and her righteousness exaggerated? What is being said? Perhaps more importantly, what is not being said?

From the Numbers reading, we see the first Unitarian Universalists in the Hebrew Scriptures. Korah, Dathan, and Abiram go before Moses and Aaron and tell them, “You have gone too far! The entire congregation is holy, every one of them, and the Lord is among them. So why then do you exalt yourselves above the assembly of the lord?” These three troublesome congregants come upon Moses and Aaron, the Israelite “ministers” if you will, and tell them the whole congregation is holy. They are accusing Moses and Aaron of taking on too much, of excluding, of not being transparent enough. Claims I’m sure you all have heard in Unitarian Universalist walls. Moses and Aaron responded with was something I’m sure many ministers through out time have done. The two of them secretly prayed for the earth to swallow up these discontented congregants. The story tells us that God answered, and swallowed these men. Moses and Aaron take the stance that these unruly congregants were sinful men, and tell the Israelites that the demise of these unruly men was God’s punishment.

What is the setting of the story, the wilderness journey from Egypt to Canaan, a time when the tribes needed decisive leadership. What is taking place? The priestly authority is being upheld over the general population’s leadership. Who are the players, three lay leaders and the priestly authority of Moses and Aaron. The author set up the heroes to be the golden children of Israel. Moses, the greatest of Israel’s prophets, Aaron, the first of Israel’s priests both are pitted against Korah the Levite and Dathan and Abiram the Reubenites. These three aren’t natural allies. The Levites were the priestly tribe; the Reubenites were a non priestly tribe. Something starts to look a little fishy with the storytelling. This forces us to ask the question, who wrote this story?

The editing of the first five books of the Hebrew Scriptures comes from four sources according to our best scholarship. The Jahwistic and the Eloistic traditions come from the old oral traditions of the Israelite people. These traditions were brought together by a third source which edited them to form single volumes such as Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. This source is the Priestly source which had its hand in editing the details of the story. The priestly editing places Korah the Levite in with the two Reubenites to show the hierarchy of priesthood, with the Aaronides having the greatest authority when God exonerates both Aaron and Moses while consuming Korah and the Reubenites. We know that this is a priestly edit because the story was referenced in Deuteronomy, but Korah was not included, only the Reubenites.

The trio of disgruntled congregants laid charges against Moses similar to the charges Moses laid against pharaoh. “You take too much on yourself” “God is with us all, why do you exalt yourself before the Lord?” “You brought us up out of a land flowing with milk and honey only to kill us in the wilderness.”

Moses, speaking as the voice of the priests, tells them not to test him, but to have God judge. By having God decide, he is removed from suspicion or from question. Moses and Aaron are able to receive vindication without qualification in the story when God chooses to take up Korah, Abiram, and Dathan.

This story opens up for us a glimpse of Ancient Israelite culture. The narrative offers the beliefs and convictions of a people who are our spiritual ancestors. The act of challenging authority is placed in a setting. Not all challenges are equal. When Moses went before Pharaoh, he was in one setting. When Korah, Dathan, and Abiram went before Moses and Aaron, they were in a different setting. When we vote we are in one setting challenging authority. When we engage in protests, marches, sit ins, or rallies we are in other settings. The setting gives us a context for the action.

What does this narrative teach us? People question authority. People question religious authority. In ancient Israel, it was unwise to question authority if you valued your life. The punishment for upsetting order was divinely sanctioned death. However, it also foreshadows the oppression we can feel from oppressive religious leaders. The hints at the truth of the complaints are plentiful. Imagery similar to the complaints Moses brought before Pharaoh are used, and even Moses does not know if God will respond to him or to the trio. It is only God’s will and God’s will alone which can decide who has authority and who has power. Those who falsely claim in God’s name will be struck down.

The narrative gives us a grey picture. We cannot be sure of authority other than the divine sanction of Aaron and Moses. We know that in the troubled times of the early kingdom, following authority was something that needed to be communicated. The stories of the wilderness were told which warned the Israelites about the consequences of disobeying God when they were forced to turn back from the Promised Land when they refused to invade as Moses and God ordered them.

This story is one with a context, with shape, with a time and a place that while supernatural, is very real in our world’s history. The events don’t need to have literal truth for them to have literary truth. So now what? I’m guessing you are wondering what the analysis of the story has to do with me. I’m not someone in the wilderness with the tribes of Israel sometime in the fourteenth century BCE. I’m not someone in Jerusalem in the ninth century BCE. Why do I care about interpretation?

The answer to this question of interpretation is critical to understand where we come from. A classmate of mine made the claim if everyone read scripture with an open heart, we’d all come to the same conclusions. Not only is this idea naive, it is dangerous. The way we treat stories is the way we perceive the world and the means we have to decipher our past and discern what is “Truth.” If we allow ourselves to see only one answer in a text, in a story, we blind ourselves with the notion that there is only one right truth, one right way. What we take from the text will be different from the person next to us because we come in with different experiences, different attitudes, and these shape which way we will respond to the words.

In a way, this story in Numbers foreshadows the events of Jesus’ life. He challenged the authority of the time, the Pharisees, he sent away the money changers and the casters of lots from the temple. His reward for challenging authority was a death as mythical as the death of Korah, of Dathan, and of Abiram. Nailed to a tree atop a mount after scourging with a whip for fifty lashes crowned with thorns sounds as literary and poignant as the ground opening up and fire erupting to claim only those who supported Korah, Dathan, and Abiram. When you speak truth to power, prepare to pay greatly with your safety and your life.

The narrative of Jesus was threatening to the moral order because it claimed a retelling of the truth to power story. Here, dieing was not an end punishment for rising up against authority. The cost of mortal life was the payment for a new way of living where the covenant of God no longer was only for the chosen few. God was for the many. God’s love extended to all. Our Universalist ancestors read this story to find the truth that any salvation existant must be for all.

Again, why do we care? Because truth finds its way in these stories to our hearts and minds. We learn from them because they are our folk lore. We learn from them because our culture is steeped in them. We learn from them because if we don’t learn to interpret them literarily and honestly we lose the battle of faith to those who interpret them literally. Stories impart wisdom in ways direct statements cannot. They provide warnings and wisdom and lore and beauty in settings of ages past, giving links to our ancestry, to our history, to our roots. Stories should be taken seriously

Delivered to May Memorial (my home congregation) so there are some inside references.

Stephen Schwartz’ song, By My Side, is a duet about two spiritual journeyers. Really, the song is about Jesus leaving the adulterer whom he saved from stoning. However, let us use the image of two spiritual journeyers. One leaves the other. The song begins almost mournfully by the journeyer who is being left behind, “Where are you going? Where are you going? Can you take me with you? For my hand is cold and needs warmth. Where are you going?” When the song is sung well, the sadness is tangible. The mourning of separation is very real and visceral.

As many of you know, last summer I left my job, sold or gave away most of my belongings, and moved to Boston. What I kept with me were memories and stories of my time here at May Memorial. In my first weekend at Boston, I saw the plaque to Sam May’s father in King’s Chapel. I met Gene Navias, the minister emeritus of Arlington Street Church and relative of our MRE Jennifer. For that weekend, it indeed felt like a small world. I hope that I can tell the story in this time together how May Memorial has remained by my side.

“By My Side” continues with a response by the journeyer who is departing. In response to the question, “where are you going?” The lyric answers, “Far beyond where the horizon lies, where the horizon lies, and the land sinks into mellow blueness.” The spiritual road that each must be walked is long; the journey goes farther than we can see. This journey takes us; this journey took me past anything I could envision. The journey is vocation. Living life as it is meant to be lived is a struggle, a challenge. Finding the way far beyond where the horizon lies takes time, takes ambition, takes courage, and begins with a step.

The lyrics continue, “Oh, please, take me with you. Let me skip the roads with you. I can dare myself, dare myself. I can dare myself. I’ll put a pebble in my shoe, and watch me walk, watch me walk. I can walk, I can walk. I shall call the pebble dare.” This response to the length of the journey is one of hope. The journeyer has no idea how long this journey will take but the journeyer resolved to follow. When I first heard the song, I wondered what did it mean that the journeyer put a pebble in her shoe. Walking a far journey with the burden of a pebble in your shoe is pain most of us can imagine. The needling of a pebble between the soul of your foot and the shoe is something you are unable to miss. The pebble, called dare, is the reminder that your guide has left you, but the guide’s presence is with you.

My first semester, I had a class on conflict transformation that seemed to echo the experience of May Memorial. We went over listening circles, peace making circles, church covenants, and my papers for the class ended up being related to the life at May during my stay here. The feelings of pain and anxiety of uncertainty came back to me with story after story of congregations that self destructed over what seemed to be small issues. The guide and the memory sat between my soul and my foot as I traveled. It was a way I could dialogue with May from afar. In my mind, I was able to replay events and see other outcomes and develop moral imagination for what better ways of being in community would be. The pebble showed memory and possibility. The pebble showed hope in healing.

The song lyrics continue, “and when we both have had enough I will take him from my shoe and say, ‘Meet your new road.’ Then I’ll take your hand finally glad, finally glad that you are here.” The journeyer understands now that being physically departed from her companion does not preclude the presence of the companion in her life. This concept is one of spiritual importance. After much travel with the pain of the pebble in her shoe, she feels the real presence of the companion with her. The companion was there all the time, but the pain of the pebble needed to remind her again and again with step after step the presence of the companion and through the journey, she understands that her partner has not left and can not leave her.
The notion that one is in union with something other than oneself is a theological concept with a lot of mileage. Kant wrote of the synthetic union of identity and difference. The self was in union through relation with the other while at once being separated or different from the other. At once we are one and we are different. At once, the world is one, and the world is different. Amongst the existentialists, Tillich and Rahner specifically, this notion of the union of self and difference describes the relationship that humanity has with the Divine. The limited self is in relation with the unlimited nonself. Further, because we are aware of our limited self, we can find comfort in this union because in our relation to it gives us a taste of the immortal while living our mortal lives. The relationship at once is supportive and challenging. This concept, it seems esoteric. I’ll try language that is clearer than what Kant, Hegel, Cusa, Bonaventure, Augustine, or my beloved existentialists used. We are objects that see, but we are objects of a world of seeing. Without this world, and without seeing the “I” in this world, we have nothing.

This word, of which we are a subject, exists because we experience it, and we exist because we experience. This relationship, the union of the self and difference, of one being for and with another is fundamental and hold my understanding of God and our ancestors. Tillich explained, “God stands against the world in so far as the world stands against him, and he stands for the world, thereby causing it to stand for him. This mutual freedom from each other and for each other is the only meaningful sense in which the “supra” in “supranaturalism” can be used.” Relationality between the human and the divine can support as we stand for one another but the weight of each is on one another, moving one another, changing one another. Sam May continues to work in the world in this way, inspiring, pushing, and changing us to be more inclusive, more accepting of children, better at race relations. This congregation in the embodiment of Sam May’s spirit challenges me to learn more, to grow faster and larger as I understand the scope of faith. The weight and the presence of this church, this congregation is one that cannot and will not leave from me nor I from it. In the synthetic union, we are one.

This is the very heart of religion. Religion eludes mission statements, creeds, and doctrines. Religion only exists within people. Religion only exists within people who turn from base preliminary concerns to relationship and togetherness. Religion exists when we work to end the estrangement we have from one another and convert toward community. Turning to us instead of just I, converting to community instead of selfish individualism is the holy act of conversion. That is the moment when we can take the pebble out of our shoe and finally be glad that we are here. We then can talk about walking, and we can talk about talking.

In this space, where we can talk about our walks and we can talk about our talks we can discover our spiritual selves. Last Christmas Eve, John Marsh spoke of finding home for ourselves in the dark. While the dark lets us be more of ourselves than the often times blinding light of societal norms, in the dark we still need one another. We need the presence and the relationship to build on what is inside of us, to unleash the potential inside of us. The union of ourselves as a whole, the world as a whole, and each as an individual gives us the power to let our lives speak. Letting our lives speak empowers each of us to find our vocation and live our life as it is meant to be lived. As Parker Palmer wrote, the dark inside lets us shed the masks that we hide behind. If we accept the gift of ourself, we need the empowerment of the community, of the relationship with the other, of being with the other to survive as our true self we have no choice but to empower others and to support them as they become their true selves with whom we relate.

These are namaste moments, moments when the divinity that is inside of me sees and honors the divinity that is inside of you. Moments when that spark of something special rises up from the dark, not shining light which restrains and confines, but light that empowers others to shine with their own lights until a great flash of colors springs out all singing we are one. We are together. We make the rainbow when we let ourselves exist in union with one another because we are so much more together than we can be alone. This is the interdependent web of life. More than token words to appease environmentalists, it is a vast rainbow of you and me and they and he and she and ze and us all distinct but all one in a glorious mystery of community.
From the lyrics Bruce Springsteen used for Hold On, covering Pete Seeger,
“Now only thing I did was wrong
Stayin' in the wilderness too long
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on
The only thing we did was right
Was the day we started to fight
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on.”
The pebble is our wilderness. The pain of separation, the anxiety of separation, that is our struggle in the wilderness. We are looking for our horizon, our prize. As we walk, we hold on. We put the pebble in our shoe. We walk to this place, knowing we have far more to walk in our lives and we hold on. We all are walking far beyond where the horizon lies but we hold on. So much is in store for each of us still to come, so much in store for our youngest and for our oldest on the journey of our lives and we hold on. So much further to go with the pebble Dare in our shoe reminding us of this community, this space, each other, one another, this family, this community, this love and we hold on. But when we walk we can take the pebble from our shoe and realize we have been together the whole time. We do not need a painful reminder that we are together, that we have not really parted ways. We cannot ever really leave one another because by giving our love, by being in community, we are one and that is why we hold on.

Yes, I am having a posting surge tonight. The travel to and from New York for the weekend of the 7th and 8th along with last week's journey to Vermont on the 15th has really put me behind in time to edit the electronic texts of the sermons so they would match what I preached.

Without further ado, my sermon for Sunday

Music, some say it is the universal language. Out of nothing, music, beauty, the vibrating air makes beauty. Music. Music, something we argue about back and forth. Contemporary, traditional, meaningful, inspired, void of meaning, void of spirit, void of soul, alive, plugged in, music. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing. Music. From soothing the savage beast to singing awake the light to mourning our blues, there is something sacred about music. Many of us will not profess certain religious beliefs, or say certain religious phrases but in the moment of song we will sing them.

Through history, creativity and artistry were used as devotion in religion. Our opening hymn, Come Come Whoever You Are comes from a poem by Rumi. Rumi was the greatest poet of the Sufi tradition, Sufis being mystical Muslims. The poem, as translated into English reads:
Come, Come, Whoever You Are
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.

Put to music, this sing-able song goes on and on and tells of a greeting, an invitation, a welcome. Whoever you are, you are welcome here. In the midst of the words, an emotion comes across. Warmth. Loose yourself in the words as you repeat them again and again. Come, come whoever you are, wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving. Come, yet again come. Come, come, whoever you are. The song sings the core of Universalism. Whoever you are, what ever you have done, come. Your past actions, your past deeds, they do not bar your entrance to our caravan. Ours is one of hope, we have no despair here. We will not reject you here. We do not judge you here. Come, yet again come.

Singing the Man Down

Singing has often served as a form of resistance and a form of community building. Our hymnal contains songs which brought people from the margins together to rise up against oppression. From the psalm reading, we find an ancient protest song from the days when our spiritual forebears were held in Babylonian Captivity. Our hymnal holds many such song which were used to protest and rally people on the margins, including the Quaker hymn How Can I Keep From Singing and De Colores.

From the Psalmist’s words in Psalm 137, what would it feel like to have your homeland ravaged by a foreign nation? How could you live your life in captivity in a foreign land? Would you be able to touch your harps in exile? If you were a captive, could you sing a song of America for your captor’s mirth? Would you be able to sing your most beloved, most sacred hymns for your captor’s mirth?

The Babylonians maintained control over their conquered lands by forcibly moving the governing populations to other parts of their empire, fragmenting families, breaking wills, and separating those who could lead internal rebellions. In this scenario, far from your home, your temple destroyed, how could we sing, sing the Lord’s song, in a foreign land? Yet the Israelites did sing. They kept their music. The exiles wrote this psalm of lament, and the psalms were the hymns of the ancient Israelite people.

“How Can I Keep From Singing” is an old Quaker hymn. Honestly, until recently I had no idea it was in our hymn book. A little more than a year ago I had the pleasure of leading worship with traveling folk musician Joe Jencks. In one service, he lead the song on his guitar and afterward gave the assembled worshippers a lesson in the song. Its history dates the song back to the middle of the nineteenth century, and it was used to protest the Vietnam War, as well as the ethnic cleansing in the former Yugoslavian republics through translation. This song gave inspiration from those facing genocide, because hearing that far off song, the one that can be faintly heard above the worst strife and horror of the human condition gives us the hope which allows us to keep on singing. In the darkest hours of our lives, the song leads us to believe that tyrants will fall, that our friends are with us in spirit, that truth lives. How can I keep from singing?

“De Colores” is a Mexican folk song which was used by the migrant farm workers as a rallying hymn. Under the efforts of Cesar Chavez, the song rallied the immigrant laborers together to gain solidarity. De Colores speaks of colors we see in flowers during springtime or when the sunlight shines through a rift in the cloud during rain. The light hearted, inclusive song helped rally workers on the very fringes of economic sustenance pull together and earn more equity in their wages. The song, along with the nonviolent resistance tactics championed by Cesar Chavez helped sing down the economic injustice of the poor. The universal call, of all the colors makes me proud that the song is included in our hymnal. It is a song of worship and of praise.

Blue Like Jazz

These songs with their revolutionary message only touch at the ways music has had an effect on our lives. The songs make up more than we can express with words. In his book, Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller wrote the following about music:
"I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolves. But I was outside the Baghdad Theatre one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes and he never opened his eyes.
After that I liked jazz music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.
I used to not like God because God didn’t resolve. But that was before any of this happened.
I was watching BET one night, and they were interviewing a man about jazz music. He said jazz music was invented by the first generation out of slavery. I thought that was beautiful because, while it is music, it is very hard to put on paper; it is so much more a language of the soul … The first generation out of slavery invented jazz music. It is a music birthed out of freedom. And that is the closest thing I know to Christian spirituality. A music birthed out of freedom. Everybody sings their song the way they feel it, everybody closes their eyes and lifts up their hand."

Think about Miller’s words. He didn’t like jazz because it didn’t resolve. Something about those seventh chords just don’t resolve. The music doesn’t sound complete. There is hesitation. The music itself lets you feel unfinished, kind of like God. Thinking like the Divine, in the process of ex nihilo creation, coming through like jazz, maybe an improv. Playing what sounds good, feeling through the creation, not knowing where it is going to go but letting the journey take its course. Telling the story of the song at the pace the song wants to take and ending in beauty even with a few blue notes here and there seems a lot more like any notion of Divine creation I can follow than any other I have heard.

Coda

Something exists in that place where creation is happening. In the air when those sounds are being formed from nothing we are in the presence of something divine where alienation, tribulation, sorrow all are worked through to a place where any can come. Music places us in a sacred space.

This brings us full circle to Plato’s idea in the James Luther Adams excerpt. Music transcends cultures. Music is more than a game or a set of rules. Music is a dance of life. Artistry and creativity do not escape us from reality, they ground us in creation. As Adams said It is not escape from reality; it is rather the rediscovery of a center of meaning and power, of a center that is a symptom and sign of faith – ultimately not a human achievement but a gift of grace. Music was Adams’ connection to God, from playing violin for his father’s worship services as a boy to the song and the music coming from the churches he served or worshiped, to the only elements of his funeral which he selected, being the time of Sunday afternoon and which music would play. Music was the prelude and postlude of his spiritual life.

From the hymn leading to us, may your life be as a song, resounding with the dawn to sing awake the light. Then softly serenade the stars ever dancing circles in the night. Let the music break you from the now and connect you with those who have sung the song before your birth and those who will sing the song long after we are gone. Let the music move you from the desperate individuality and isolation of disconnection and bend your voice to the harmony of community. Bend your voice together with those around you in a communion of the spirit. Bend your voice in worship of this time together, of the greater presence we find in this space and with one another.