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THE EARTH CHARTER
(III).
UNITARIAN FAITH: Core
Values in which We Trust.
INTRODUCTION:
One of my favorite quotations comes from Lewis
Carroll's, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Alice says to the
queen, "There's no use trying: One simply can't believe impossible things." To
which the queen replies, "I dare say you haven't had much practice. Why when I
was your age, I always did it for half an hour every day. Why sometimes I
believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Emil Salzberger gave me a book by Michio Kaku,
The Physics of the Impossible.
Kaku reduces impossibilities into three classes: Those that are technologically
impossible today, but do not violate the laws of physics. The second is those
impossibilities that are at the edge of our understanding, and will require
millennia to millions of years to develop, realizing that our technological
civilization is only a few hundred years old. The third is those that violate
the known laws of physics.
Can you imagine how impossible it would have been
to convince someone in the 19th century that it would one day be
possible to send photographs taken only seconds ago, through the air on a little
telephone?
How difficult it is for us to believe
impossible things. How long since we gave ourselves the benefit of the doubt and
believed the impossible, despite every evidence to the contrary? But not for only
the technological. How easy would it be for us this morning really to believe
that impossible things could happen in our lives? How much faith do we have for
the good, the great, and the wonderful?
I. We all have faith.
Jorge Santayana, the Spanish born philosopher who
taught at Harvard, once wrote, "Every species is born with animal faith. Every
species is born with an innate confidence that its environment is supportive of
its will to survive and to reproduce."
In other words, innate to existence,
innate to being alive, is a sense of trust in the created order. You have it. I
have it. The animals, the insects, the birds, the fish, whatever is alive, has
built in to it that innate sense of confidence. When they first pop into the
world, there is written into their DNA this principle: "World, here I am." The
challenge then is, will reality, will the world, sustain that
self-confidence?
That's why the first 18 months of a
child's life is so critically important. For it's during that time that the
affirmation of that inner confidence is confirmed
by outer events. Let me say that again: During the first 18 months
of a baby's life is the time when they either do or don't experience a
confirmation of the inner faith they were born with.
Every time parents, grandparents, and
caregivers interact with a little baby in that time frame, our positive actions
are part of confirming its own innate sense of self-confidence, that this world
wants her or him, that she or he can survive, can make it.
Life at its most basic level gives us
an innate sense of place in the universe. We belong. Along with all the other
species, we inwardly know that. We don't have to have it explained or analyzed:
It just is. That’s a core value of Unitarian faith.
II. Sometimes faith is assaulted.
But somewhere along life's pathway, that innate
sense of self-confidence gets skewed by the in's and out's, the up's and down's
of life, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Last Friday night, a
friend and I went to see the movie,
Revolutionary Road. It’s a very
intense movie, but one that has a powerful message. It’s the story of a dream
that a couple shared about their life and future. But an opportunity for
promotion and money was offered. Little by little, the dream was denied, and the
consequences were heart-breaking.
Soren Kierkegaard, the great Danish
philosopher, explains how that happens in his parable of the flock of geese in
flight south for the winter. During the trip, one of its members suffers an
injury and drops down into the barnyard of a farm and joins the domesticated
gaggle of geese there. There were water and food available, but more
importantly, the injured goose could rest have time to recuperate.
On the third day of his recuperation,
he flapped his wings and the pain was gone. He bent over to eat the feed that
was so abundant in the barnyard when he heard a flock of his cousins flying
overhead, honking for him to join them. With a joyous honk, he flapped his wings
and started up. Then he thought he felt a slight twinge where he had been
injured and decided to wait one more day, and then go.
The next day came and he was feeling
fit as could be. As he was filling his craw, another flock of his cousins flew
over, honking for him to join them on their flight to the south. He flapped his
wings and started up, and as he did, he realized that he hadn't finished eating:
there would probably be another flock by later in the day. So he dropped down
and began eating again from the feed in the barnyard.
Next day, the same thing occurred,
only this time he didn't flap quite so hard or rise quite so high. This pattern
repeated itself for several days, until one day, a giant flock flew over
honking, inviting him to ascend to the skies and to join them in their flight to
the south. But their once wild cousin in the barnyard didn't even raise his
head, content as it were to remain with the gaggle of geese in the barnyard. The
call to be what he once had been was no longer recognizable. His vision of
flying high was reduced to bending low. He was no longer a member of a flying
flock of high borne geese soaring through the heavens: he was one of a gaggle of
geese content to live in the barnyard. He was no longer a goose free to fly
wherever he wished; he had accepted the security of the barnyard to replace the
freedom of the skies.
The loss of faith that soars, the
loss of faith to believe the impossible, doesn't happen over night: it happens
while we were living the day. And sometimes we don't even know it.
Several years ago, I contracted to do
a series of training videos for the U.S. Post Office's National Technical
Training Institute in Norman, Oklahoma. I remember one day walking in, saying hi
and asking one of the technical consultants I worked with how he was doing? He
said, “I’m just waiting for retirement.”
I responded very positively, and offered
congratulations. I thought it meant his retirement was imminent. But when I
asked how long, he said, "Only eight more years."
I was stunned. Eight years can be a
lifetime. But he meant it. He was committed to remaining at a job for eight more
years where he was counting the days until retirement.
It reminded me of the passage in the book,
Wind, Sand and Stars, when the French poet-aviator Antoine de St. Exupery
describes some of the people who no longer cared about life, their jobs, or
their future. They simply were counting the days to go by. He said,
"No one grasped you by the shoulder while there
was still time. Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened,
and nothing will ever awaken the sleeping musician, the poet, the astronomer
that possibly inhabited you in the beginning."
No wonder it's said that more people have heart
attacks at 9 a.m. on Monday morning than any other time.
A rather famous piece of American art is of "The
man with a hoe." I'm sure most of you remember it. It depicts a man in a field,
with a hoe, looking blankly at nothing. There's a haunting, primitive character
to it.
Poet Edwin Markam, who attended the Unitarian
Universalist church in New York and Brooklyn wrote a
poem entitled, "The man with a hoe." In the last line of the first stanza, he
asks, "Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?"
How is it we give up on ourselves?
How is we cease to believe the impossible about ourselves. How is it we no
longer dream the impossible dream, about ourselves, about humanity?
APPLICATION.
How do we recover our sense of wonder in Nature,
our sense of awe, our appreciation of mystery, our sense of divinity?
We may need to go on a journey in search of
our inner divinity. You know, some 40 years or so ago, there was a
theological phenomenon we called the “death of God.” And in the sense of the
supernatural God on a throne ruling the world, that god is dead as a dodo bird.
But you know rather than God’s being dead, up there or out there, I think we
have lost the sense of divinity in our lives. What would it look like, if we
were to find it?
1. First, it would mean we would
be self-consciously grateful for the gift of life. To me, one of the
first steps in recapturing a sense of divinity in life is no longer to take life
for granted. When we realize that our life is a giant-sized gift, then our
attitude towards life becomes one of thanksgiving: Thanks Life! Thanks for the
air we breathe, the rain that falls, the earth that grows our food. Thanks for
the clothes we wear, the health we have at this moment.
I don’t know if you read the story of those who
were killed Thursday evening in Continental Connection’s flight 3407 from Newark
to Buffalo. Among them was a decorated Marine who had survived two helicopter
crashes in Iraq; another was a family member of one of those who was killed in
9-11. Beverly Eckert had taken a huge lead in forcing the government to
investigate so much of what had gone wrong in that tragedy. Another had led the
charge in seeking to hold the world accountable for the genocide in Rwanda.
Another had been a jazz guitarist, another the cantor at the temple in
Buffalo, who had just released
an album of songs on “Hope and Healing.” One of the safest planes in the air
went down only five miles from Buffalo International, killing all 49 on board,
and one in the home they crashed into.
Friday afternoon, as I was traveling south to
Coconut Point, the traffic on 41 became intolerable, inching along at a snail’s
pace. Upon arriving at the turn-in to Coconut Point, I discovered the reason:
There were police diverting traffic, but I couldn’t tell why. Then in the
newspaper yesterday, I read: Someone turning in to Coconut Point had been
involved in an auto accident and killed. That’s where I was going…what I was
going to do: Turn off 41 into Coconut Point!
Life is a gift…not tomorrow…not when we
retire…not when we get a new job…not a great return on investment. It’s a gift
now…this moment.
2. Second, if we recovered a sense
of divinity in our lives, we would be grateful for the gift of others.
As only one example, think of how many gifts went into enabling us to sit here
and share in this celebration of life. The number of volunteers who make things
happen in this congregation is staggering. The generosity of this congregation
is wondrous to behold. Those are all the gifts of others to the rest of us.
A renewed sense of divinity
recognizes that we are so utterly dependent, one upon the other. But it's not
just at our services. It's all of life.
That principle is present in every
facet of life: from the paper for this order of service, to the chairs in which
we sit, and the electricity that fuels the air conditioners that keep us cool.
We have been gifted by the gift and gifts of others. When we recognize a sense
of divinity within, we carry within us respect and appreciation for others:
little people, big people, all colors, sizes, ages and shapes.
CONCLUSION
Years ago, my then wife and I provided a home
for my parents on a farm we owned south of Waco, Texas. One day we were visiting
them and I learned my father had purchased a 4-10 shotgun to shoot varmints. For
no reason at all, I took it outside to try it out. There was a bird sitting on
the fence. I shot it. I still can’t believe I did it.
In Kazantzakis' novel, Zorba the Greek, he
describes a similar experience and how he felt about it. He writes: "I
remembered one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree, just as
a butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited a
while, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and
breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle
began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened, the butterfly
started slowly crawling out and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how
its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its
whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my
breath. In vain. It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the
wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had
forced the butterfly to appear, all crumpled, before its time. It struggled
desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.
"That little body is, I do believe, the greatest
weight I have on my conscience. For I realize today that it is a mortal sin to
violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be
impatient, but we should confidently obey the eternal rhythm."
Neither should we wantonly kill birds.
It’s Earth Charter Week. I invite you
to take seriously the opportunities it presents to us.
Shalom. Salaam Aleikum. Amen. And
Blessed Be.
We will pause for 7½ minutes of brief
questions as a part of our Conversation Café. The Service and Support Council
will provide microphones for you to speak into.
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