Dan Harper | Sermons

  • Dads to the rescue

    This sermon was preached by Rev. Dan Harper. As usual, the sermon below is a reading text. The actual sermon as preached contained ad libs, interjections, and other improvisation. Sermon copyright (c) 2006 Daniel Harper.

    Readings

    The first reading comes from the Torah, the book of Genesis, chapter 22, verses 1-8:

    ‘After these things God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.” So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him, and his son Isaac; he cut the wood for the burnt offering, and set out and went to the place in the distance that God had shown him. On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place far away. Then Abraham said to his young men, “Stay here with the donkey; the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back to you.” Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on his son Isaac, and he himself carried the fire and the knife. So the two of them walked on together. Isaac said to his father Abraham, “Father!” And he said, “Here I am, my son.” He said, “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” Abraham said, “God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt offering, my son.” So the two of them walked on together.’

    The second reading is an excerpt from a long poem titled “Seed Catalog” by poet Robert Kroetsch:

    My father was mad at the badger: the badger was digging holes in the potato patch, threatening man and beast with broken limbs (I quote). My father took the double-barreled shotgun out into the potato patch and waited.

    Every time the badger stood up, it looked like a little man, come out of the ground. Why, my father asked himself — Why would so fine a fellow live below the ground? Just for the cool of the roots? The solace of dark tunnels? The blood of gophers?

    My father couldn’t shoot the badger. He uncocked the shotgun, came back into the house in time for breakfast. The badger dug another hole. My father got mad again. They carried on like that all summer.

    Love is an amplification
    by doing/ over and over.

    Love is a standing up
    to the loaded gun.

    Love is a burrowing.

    One morning my father actually shot at the badger. He killed a magpie that was pecking away at a horse turd about fifty feet beyond and to the right of the spot where the badger had been standing.

    A week later my father told the story again. In that version he intended to hit the magpie. Magpies, he explained, are a nuisance. They eat robin’s eggs. They’re harder to kill than snakes, jumping around the way they do, nothing but feathers.

    Just call me sure-shot,
    my father added.

    SERMON — “Dads to the Rescue”

    Our Western cultural tradition has at least two ways of talking about fathers, and these two ways are represented by our two readings this morning. One way of talking about fathers is dramatic, big, astounding, and — a little bit crazy. The other way of talking about fathers is muted, down-to-earth, not very exciting, and a lot more realistic. Both these views of fathers have religious implications, but I hope to show that for our religious community, the second way of talking about fathers is probably going to be more productive for us.

    Our Western religious traditions paint an ambiguous picture of fatherhood. Within the Christian tradition, Jesus of Nazareth tells us to think of God as an ideal father, fair and loving; but Jesus also tells his followers to abandon their human fathers to follow only their heavenly father. Within the pagan traditions as I have experienced them, men and maleness and fathers are respected, but the emphasis has been on the Goddess and motherhood, and sometimes fatherhood is pushed off to the side. In our own congregation, we see a higher attendance on the Sunday of Mother’s Day than we do on the Sunday of Father’s Day. Not that anyone is bad-mouthing fathers in any of these situations — but it does seem to me that we don’t quite know what to make of fathers; or what to make of men when you come right down to it.

    These ambiguous feelings towards fathers get summed up in the rather peculiar story of the time when God asks Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. What a dramatic story it is!– Abraham has Isaac all ready to kill on the scrificial altar, and at the last minute God steps in and says to Abaraham, No you don’t really have to kill your son, this was just a test of your loyalty to me, and you passed the test. From a modern point of view, of course our first response to God’s request is something along these lines: You say you want Abraham to sacrifice his son, but then it’s just a loyalty test? –what, are you crazy?! And then we stop ourselves and realize that perhaps Abraham felt that his relationship to God was like a father-son relationship, and what do you do when your father asks you to do something crazy? Loyalty to something big and abstract can be tricky indeed.

    I’m afraid, however, that that takes me right back to my initial reaction: You want Abraham to sacrifice his son? –God, are you crazy?! Yet somehow I do admire Abraham for upholding his loyalty to God, there’s a little piece of me that admires Abraham for having the confidence in his God to know that somehow things will turn out all right. But then I think, How can God ask this of Abraham? –how can God ask this man to kill his son? Why does God need to test his children in this way?

    If you want to engage in pop psychology, perhaps you could say that this story points up just how complicated the relationships between fathers and their children can be. It may be that this story, like so many of the old, old myths that have come down to us, carries in it a grain of truth; perhaps the grain of an uncomfortable truth: parents do test their children; parents are not as simple as the sentiments on greeting cards.

    But there’s another way of perceiving fathers that’s not so flashy, yet it really is just as pervasive in Western culture. This other way of perceiving fathers is low-key, down-to-earth, and probably closer to reality. We can see this second way of perceiving fathers at work in the second reading, the poem about the father and the badger.

    The poem starts off with a kind of cliche: father heading off to kill a marauding animal. But then he can’t stand to kill the badger. Finally, he shoots at the badger, but he still can’t stand to kill it, so he almost deliberately misses, and to his surprise he kills a magpie. In the end, though, he has to tell the story so that he meant to kill the magpie — in the end, it seems as though the father in the poem has to live up to what men in our culture are supposed to do and be.

    Actually, I prefer to think that the father in the poem knows perfectly well what he’s done. He felt he should shoot at the badger, but he didn’t want to hit the badger; in that sense, his aim was perfect, perfect because he missed the badger. Now by chance, he happened to hit a magpie, but that doesn’t make his aim any less perfect, so when he says, “Just call me sure-shot,” he’s only telling the truth.

    And this portrait of a father is far closer to reality;– at least far closer to the real world as I’ve experienced it. Fathers, like all human beings, are complex, fallible, wonderful beings, mixtures of good and less-good motivations, complex mixtures of highest ideals and random happenings. Waht we see in this anecdote is that the poet’s father influences him so very strongly, strongly enough that he writes a poem about it, through a series of small actions. For, as the poet says, “Love is an amplification/ by doing over and over.”

    There is a theological point in all this. But it’s not the stereotypical kind of theological point. We get no insights into deep metaphysics; we get no revelations into the ultimate nature of God or the universe; we do not receive ultimate instruction in the meaning of life. Rather, this raises a theological point in my favorite area of theology, ecclesiology. Ecclesiology is the study of how congregations work in real life, and also of the ideals to which congregations should aspire. I happen to be particularly fascinated by ecclesiology because it is a study of how human beings can be in practical community together while trying to uphold our highest ideals; and therefore I believe ecclesiology has implications for the wider society, as we try to figure out how to live out our highest ideals without making an utter mess out of life.

    So let’s get back to fathers, and from there we’ll see how fathers fit into ecclesiology.

    Fathers can have a huge influence in the lives of their children. Indeed, any man, even men like me without any children of my own, can have an influence in the lives of the young people in their immediately surrounding community. The real problem is that too many men choose not to influence the lives of young people. I see this in congregational life all too often: usually, only a few men step forward to teach Sunday school. One of the things I like about our congregation is that half our Sunday school teachers this year were men.

    One of the primary purposes of human life is to raise up the next generation. While parents have special responsibilities, we’re all charged with that task. In our Western culture, women have been pretty good at nurturing young people; but it does seem to me that we men don’t have such a well-defined role. Maybe it’s the influence of stories like God and Abraham and Isaac — who wants to be that kind of father-figure? I’d rather be like the father who doesn’t shoot at the badger, even if I wish he didn’t brag about killing the magpie.

    Recently I’ve been looking around, and it seems to me that there are large numbers of young men who are adrift in the world, young men in their teens and early twenties. They’re just floating along, nobody has taught them how to use a compass, in fact nobody has so much as given them a compass, so they’re directionless; so they live their lives with no other purpose than playing video games, or getting drunk, or some other essentially pointless task. Some of these young men founder: they join gangs and get killed, or they wind up killing someone else; or they drift from job to job and never really get anywhere. If these young men were literally adrift — if they were literally drifting in small boats on the ocean — the Coast Guard would come out and rescue them. But no one is coming to rescue these young men.

    I don’t know about the other men here this morning, but I know I did my share of drifting when I was in my teens. But mostly, I was fortunate in having a father and lots of other men around me who took me seriously, and helped give me direction. Mostly, they helped give me direction by showing me how to work. You may want to tell me that there are better ways to give a young man direction than by just showing him how to work, and you’re probably right; but at least knowing how to work kept me from sliding into too many video games, or too much drink, or something equally pointless and time-wasting, like joining a gang.

    I’d like to think it would be better if my religion could have given me some direction, but just as Western religion is a little too ambiguous on what it means to be a father, it’s a little too ambiguous on what it means to be a man. Jesus is a fine role model in a limited way, but nothing in our religious tradition religion tells us whether or not Jesus had children, and if he did what kind of father he was; nothing in our religious tradition tells us what Jesus was like when he was working in his father’s carpentry shop, whether he was good with the tools or not; nothing in our religious tradition tells us if Jesus was married, and if he was what kind of marriage he had and how he treated his spouse. It’s very fine that we are told how Jesus preached and taught; but preaching and teaching about religion is the center of most men’s lives. Sure, we are concerned about the ultimate questions in life, and we appreciate Jesus’s responses to those questions. But as a man, I would feel better about Western religion if Jesus could be a role model for the concerns that I face every day.

    I do a little better with Moses, although his marriage doesn’t seem to have been anything particularly good. Moses as a role model is more helpful to me, on a day-to-day basis, than Jesus. But even Moses isn’t quite good enough. I look for good male role models, and I just don’t seem to find them in the religious scriptures of our Western tradition.

    Where I have found good male role models has been in local congregations. One of the things I liked about going to church when I was in my teens was that there were plenty of men who took me seriously. I remember lots of men who would speak to me, not as an equal, maybe, but as someone worthy of respect; for example, when we were ushering together, one man once told me why he still thought of himself as a Universalist, fifteen years after the merger with the Unitarians; that he would talk to me about serious topics, treating me as full human being, meant a lot to me. Other men talked to me about their careers, even about their disappointments. And the men at church held me to high standards, mostly by the examples they set with their own lives. By taking me seriously, they showed me that I too could follow their example and become a man who lived a life worth living, that I could accomplish something, that I could learn the self-control to become one of them.

    Our religious scriptures tend towards the dramatic exciting stories that don’t seem to apply to daily life; but our congregations can be places where men can learn practical living from each other by example. And one of the things we can learn from each other, here in our congregations, is how to reach out to and mentor younger men out in the wider world: fathers with young sons can learn this from older men who have been through it already; and the rest of us can learn how to reach out to young men in the workplace or in the community, to nephews and other relations.

    Our congregation should be a place where we figure out how to lives the best life possible, where we figure out how to become the best human beings we can become. Our own congregation is, in large part, that kind of place. And we have to figure out how to reach out to each other; how to extend that helping hand to someone else if that’s called for; or how to be a role model, when that’s called for. That’s true for all of us, men and women, of all ages. Our congregation is supposed to be a place where you can come if you’re feeling adrift, and where someone will at least hand you a metaphorical compass so you know what direction you’re headed in.

    And I want to propose this as a good religious model for fatherhood: that a father is someone who can help us find direction when we’re feeling a little adrift. In extreme cases, a father can be like the Coast Guard coming in to rescue someone from a life raft after the ship went down, to rescue and get that person back to shore.

    I also want to suggest that father-figures don’t have to be your actual father. As we know from the story of Abraham and Isaac, sometimes fathers can do some pretty stupid things. Sometimes you need a father-figure to rescue you from your actual father. That’s an extreme situation, but I also want to suggest that it doesn’t hurt for young men to have more than one father-figure in their lives. All fathers are going to be limited, fallible human beings, just like the father in the poem who misses the badger and hits the magpie, and later claims he meant to hit the magpie when we know he meant no such thing. So it’s not a bad idea for young men to have lots of men whom they can turn to if need be. We also know from the example of the Coast Guard that when they take on a rescue at sea, they don’t send in just one person, they send in a rescue team. Rather than just having one dad come to the rescue, we want to have multiple dads who are able to come to the rescue, if need be.

    I keep telling you why this congregation is important, and here I am, giving you another reason why we need to have a strong, healthy congregation. But I feel an especial urgency about this reason. Young people are not treated well by our culture; too many young people lack meaning and direction in their lives; too many young people are allowed to go adrift. I can see this happening around me; and at the same time, I know from my own observation and from sociological studies that congregations like ours are quite good at providing support and direction for young people. Thus, there is a moral urgency to this task of keeping our congregation strong and healthy, so that we can support young people. We can make a difference in this area by committing ourselves to a steady course of small actions; for, as the poet says, “Love is an amplification/ by doing over and over.”

    So this is yet another sermon where I exhort you to live up to our highest religious ideals; to live up, not to the dramatic stories in religious scriptures, but to live up to the ideals of a supportive, mentoring community. But of all the sermons I’ve preached this year, I think perhaps I feel most strongly about this topic: we need to look after our children and teens and young adults; in extreme instances, we need to be in a position to rescue young people who are adrift. And as this is my last sermon for you until August, that means you get to chew on this topic all summer long….

  • Question and response sermon

    Story for all ages — The Quail and the Bird Called P’eng

    Many years ago in ancient China, the Emperor T’ang was speaking with a wise man named Ch’i.

    Ch’i was telling the Emperor about the wonders of far off and distant places. Ch’i said:

    “If you go far, far to the north, beyond the middle kingdom of China, beyond the lands where our laughing black-haired people live, you will come to the lands where the snow lies on the ground for nine months a year, and where the people speak a barbaric language and eat strange foods.

    “And if you travel even farther to the north, you will come to a land where the snow and ice never melts, not even in the summer. In that land, night never comes in the summer time, but in the winter, the sun never appears and the night lasts for months at a time.

    “And if you go still farther to the north, beyond the barren land of ice and snow, you will come to a vast, dark sea. This sea is called the Lake of Heaven. Many marvelous things live in the Lake of Heaven. They say there is a fish called K’un. The fish K’un is thousands of miles wide, and who knows how many miles long.”

    “A fish that is thousands of miles long?” said the Emperor. “How amazing!”

    “It is even more amazing than it seems at first,” said Ch’i. “For this giant fish can change shape and become a bird called P’eng. This bird is enormous. When it spreads its wings, it is as if clouds cover the sky. Its back is like a huge mountain. When it flaps its wings, typhoons spread out across the vast face of the Lake of Heaven for thousands of miles. The wind from P’eng’s wings lasts for six months. P’eng rises up off the surface of the water, sweeping up into the blue sky. The giant bird wonders, ‘Is blue the real color of the sky, or is the sky blue because it goes on forever?’ And when P’eng looks down, all it sees is blue sky below, with the wind piled beneath him.”

    ***

    A little gray dove and a little insect, a cicada, sat on the tree and listened to Ch’i tell the Emperor about the bird P’eng. They looked at each other and laughed quietly. The cicada said quietly to the dove, “If we’re lucky, sometimes we can fly up to the top of that tall tree over there. But lots of times, we don’t even make it that high up.”

    “Yes,” said the little dove. “If we can’t even make it to the top of the tree, how on earth can that bird P’eng fly that high up in the sky? No one can fly that high.”

    ***

    Ch’i continued to describe the giant bird P’eng to the Emperor. “Flapping its wings, the bird wheels in flight,” said Ch’i, “and it turns south, flying across the thousands of miles of the vastness of the Lake of Heaven, across the oceans of the Middle Kingdom, heading many thousands of miles towards the great Darkness of the South.”

    ***

    A quail sat quietly in a bush beside the Emperor and Ch’i. “The bird P’eng can fly all those thousands of miles from the Lake of Heaven in the north across the Middle Kingdom, and into the vast ocean in the south?” said the quail to himself. “Well, I burst up out of the bushes into flight, fly a dozen yards, I set back down into the bushes again. That’s the best kind of flying. Who cares if some big bird flies ninety thousand miles?”

    ***

    The Emperor listened to Ch’i, and said, “Do up and down ever have an end? Do the four directions ever come to an end?”

    “Up and down never come to an end,” said Ch’i. “The four directions never come to an end.

    “That is the difference between a small understanding and a great understanding,” Ch’i continued. “If you have a small understanding, you might think the top of that tree is as high up as you can go. If you have a small understanding, you might think that flying to that bush over there is as far as you can go in that direction. But even beyond the point where up and down and the four directions are without end, there is no end.”

    ***

    But the quail did not hear, for she had flown a dozen yards away in the bushes. The cicada did not hear because it was trying to fly to the top of a tree. And the little dove did not hear because he had tucked his head under his wing and fallen asleep.

    Readings

    I have one reading, on the importance of asking questions, but first I’ll start with a few words about what a “Question and Response Sermon” might be.

    In our religious tradition, what holds us together is not a creed, but a covenant, a set of promises that we make to one another. In other words, our religious tradition emphasizes relationship, not belief.

    This state of affairs is confusing to some people — How, they ask, can you have a religion if you don’t believe in anything? Well, we think it’s better to concentrate on the promises that hold us together, rather than some abstract beliefs. More to the point, of course we do believe in things — life and love and the power of truth. But I’d also say we believe in the power of questions. And when the glue that holds us together is relationships, we are freed to ask difficult and interesting questions; and the responses to those questions often lead us to engage in further questioning together.

    My sermons are usually written in response to something someone in this congregation has said to me. But in a question-and-response sermon, the relationship is a little more direct. You ask the questions, and I respond to them right here and now; I won’t say I answer your questions, I respond to them. And then I file all these questions away, and they’ll influence my sermons for the next year — even if I don’t get to respond to all your questions this morning, you can bet I’ll refer to them over the next twelve months as I plan out and write sermons.

    Now for the reading on the importance of questions. This is from one of Mark Twain’s speeches, given at a 1909 banquet honoring one of his friends, Mr. H. H. Rogers. I should tell you that at the time of this speech, a half crown would have been worth about sixty cents. Mark Twain said:

    “[Others have said] Mr. Rogers is full of practical wisdom, and he is. It is intimated here that he is a very ingenious man, and he is a very competent financier. Maybe he is now, but it was not always so. I know lots of private things in his life which people don’t know, and I know how he started; and it was not a very good start. I could have done better myself. The first time he crossed the Atlantic he had just made the first little strike in oil, and he was so young he did not like to ask questions. He did not like to appear ignorant…. On board the ship they were betting on the run of the ship, betting a couple of shillings, or half a crown, and they proposed that this youth from the oil regions should bet on the run of the ship. He did not like to ask what a half-crown was, and he didn’t know; but rather than be ashamed of himself he did bet half a crown on the run of the ship, and in bed he could not sleep. He wondered if he could afford that outlay in case he lost. He kept wondering over it, and said to himself: ‘A king’s crown must be worth $20,000, so half a crown would cost $10,000.’ He could not afford to bet away $10,000 on the run of the ship, so he went up to the stakeholder and gave him $150 to let him off.”

    Thus ends Mark Twain’s thoughts on the importance of asking questions.

    *****

    From the First Unitarian newsletter — The “Question and Response Sermon”

    On June 4, I gave a “question and response sermon.” Everyone who was in church that Sunday had a chance to write a question on a piece of paper, and during the sermon time, I responded to as many of the questions as we had time for. But I only had time to respond to less than half the questions. The questions were so thoughtful and interesting that I thought I’d give written responses to the rest of them in the newsletter…. –Dan Harper

    *****

    Question: Is the Unitarian Universalist denomination changing so that more Unitarian Universalists believe in God and are seeking spiritual fulfillment?

    My response: According to a recent survey by the Commission on Appraisal of the Unitarian Universalist Association, “there has been a shift in Unitarian Universalism away from a humanist center to a more eclectic mix of philosophies or theologies.” Does that mean that more Unitarian Universalists believe in God? Well, it all depends on what you mean when you say “God.” If you mean a traditional conception of God, then I don’t believe that any more Unitarian Universalists believe in God now as compared to twenty years ago; if you mean “God” in the broadest possible sense as something transcending humanity, then yes I think more Unitarian Universalists believe in God now.

    However, I would not connect a belief in God and the search for spiritual fulfillment. I know plenty of atheists and humanists who seek spiritual fulfillment without any need for belief in God.

    Question: Do Unitarian Universalists have any belief in an afterlife? i.e., heaven? reincarnation? Is it left up to us to decide what we believe?

    My response: Yes, many Unitarian Universalists do believe in an afterlife, and a smaller number believe in reincarnation. Many Unitarian Universalists don’t believe in an afterlife. And there are a fair number of Unitarian Universalists like me who just don’t worry about the whole issue one way or another. Generally speaking, the question of an afterlife is less important to us than the question of how we can bring about justice and peace in the present world.

    Yes, it is left up to each individual to decide what he or she believes on this point. Yet there are limits to what you can believe about an afterlife, and still feel comfortable within Unitarian Universalism. I don’t know any Unitarian Universalists who believe in the idea of eternal punishment, probably because our Universalist tradition was founded around the notion that since God is love, God would not condemn anyone to an eternity of suffering.

    Question: Connection between the local, national, and international Unitarian Universalist church organizations.

    My response: Our local church is our ultimate religious authority. We have the power to make all significant decisions regarding our religious life together. However, we are in a covenanted relationship with a thousand other Unitarian Universalist congregations across the United States, meaning that our congregations promise to provide mutual support and guidance to each other. Each year, representatives from local congregations gather in late June at General Assembly to set policy for the national organization (I’ll be the voting representative for our church at General Assembly this year, although we could have had two other delegates as well).

    Internationally, Unitarian, Universalist, and Unitarian Universalist churches in various countries around the world are loosely organized through the International Council of Unitarians and Universalists (www.icuu.net/). The various national organizations are all organized quite differently: Unitarians in Hungary and Romania have bishops; Universalists in the Philippines are organized as one big congregation with outposts scattered here and there; Unitarian Universalists in South America are just beginning to get organized.

    Question: Spark of life — divine or chemical reaction?

    My response: Both, in my opinion. But we could have a long discussion about what we mean by “divine” in this context. I mean it in the sense that it is something that is not quite comprehensible to us (and I’d argue on the basis of Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem that there’s a good chance that the “spark of life” must always remain an unexplained axiom from within the context of our consciousness).

    Question: If Unitarian Universalism accepts all, regardless of beliefs, then why call it a religion at all? Similarly, Unitarian Universalism stresses acceptance of all people and beliefs, but to what extent? Critical thinking has its role in living a productive life, i.e. making good choices. If we don’t accept all beliefs/lifestyles, does this make us less “evolved”?

    My response: First of all, I don’t believe we accept all, regardless of belief. For example, I would find it difficult to accept someone who believes it is good to exploit other human beings; I would find it difficult to believe in the necessity of live animal sacrifices; and I would find it difficult to accept someone who believes in a vengeful God who gives us permission to hurt other human beings. I’m sure you could come up with your own examples.

    So we don’t accept all beliefs, but I don’t believe this makes us any more or less “evolved.” I’m not sure I would apply the concept of evolution to religious beliefs. When someone starts claiming that their religion is more evolved than another religion, that can lead to things like religious persecution and religious wars.

    Probably the most important thing to remember in this context is that we Unitarian Universalists are not organized around beliefs. We are organized around our covenant with one another. A covenant is a set of promises that we make to each other. These promises set forth our ideal of what it means to live in human community. One of our fundamental assumptions is that no one person can figure out how to live a good and moral and productive life alone. That only happens within the context of a community.

    Question: What is CUUPS?

    My response: CUUPS is an affiliate organization of our church, and it stands for Covenant of Unitarian Universalist Pagans. Learn more from their Web site at www.cuups.org. If you want to know about our affiliated CUUPS chapter, talk with Niko Tarini, who is a member of First Unitarian and a member of the CUUPS chapter.

    There are also nation-wide groups for Unitarian Universalists who identify with the following spiritual paths: humanism, Christianity, Universalism, Judaism, and Buddhism. If you have an interest in any of these other groups, let me know, and I’ll get you contact information.

    Question: Do fish know they’re in water?

    My response: In the book One Hand Clapping: Zen Stories for All Ages, Rafe Martin recounts the following Zen Story:

    “Once upon a time a baby fish asked an older, larger fish about the sea.

    ” ‘What is the sea,’ he asked. ‘I keep hearing about it, but I don’t know what it is.’

    ” ‘Why the sea is all around you, little one,’ said the grown-up fish.

    ” ‘If that’s so, why can’t I se it?’ asked the young fish.

    ” ‘Because it is everywhere. It surrounds you. It’s inside and outside you. You were born in the sea and you will die in the sea. What’s more, you yourself are the life of the sea…. It’s just because it’s so close to you that it’s very hard to see.’”

    Question: Could you do a pagan ritual at one of your services?

    My response: I do not feel I personally am qualified to lead a pagan ritual — I know how to lead Unitarian Universalist worship, but I just don’t enough to be able to worship in any other religious tradition. However, I will pass this suggestion on to the Religious Services Committee, and see if they would like to find someone to take this on.

    You should also know that our CUUPS chapter has regular pagan rituals — see the church calendar for dates.

    Question: Could you speak on grief and using our spirituality to help us through our loss?

    My response: This is a big topic, and I will plan to do at least one sermon next year on this topic. I also try to address the topic of grief each year on the Sunday just before Memorial Day.

    But here’s a brief response: Yes, I feel that religion and spirituality can help us in times of grief and loss. For me, the difference between religion and spirituality is that religion always takes place in community, whereas spirituality tends to be more personal and private. Religious communities can help us deal with grief by offering a supportive community of caring people. Personal spirituality can help in a different way. Whatever personal spiritual practice you follow — meditation, prayer, etc. — can calm and heal you from the inside.

    Of course, you can always make an appointment with me to come into the office and talk about issues around grief and loss.

    Question: Do you believe in life after death? Please don’t say we live on in people’s minds. True, but not true enough for me.

    My response: I have to say this is not something I think about much one way or another. I find that I am so focused on bringing about a heaven on earth here and now, that I don’t have any much energy left over to worry about what happens after death. I suspect that this won’t be a satisfactory answer for many of you, but I’m being as honest as I can.

    Going beyond my personal beliefs, the question of life after death is a very big question indeed. I’ll try to work this question into a number of sermons in the coming year.

    Question: What is your belief in karmic retribution?

    My response: In my own life, I have not found karmic retribution to hold true. Sometimes bad things happen for no apparent reason. Perhaps if I could see a bigger picture somehow, I would see that that karmic retribution does hold true. And I certainly have the greatest respect for those world religions like Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, and Jainism, that set forth doctrines of karma. It’s just that I haven’t found it to be true in my own life.

    Question:What is the relationship between Unitarian Universalism and the Baha’i faith?

    My response: It is a relationship of mutual respect, and I think there’s a mutual recognition that each is a liberal religion. However, there are substantial differences. The Baha’i faith does claim to have ultimate answers in a way that Unitarian Universalism does not, and the Baha’i faith came out of Islam whereas we have come out of Christianity.

    Question: How can we use religion as a means to inclusion and unity among people, instead of using faith to divide us?

    My response: Good question. I wish I had an answer to this problem. Instead of an answer, I have a possible response.

    Carole Fontaine, a professor at Andover Newton Theological School and a Unitarian Universalist, has proposed that we Unitarian Universalists are well-placed to further human rights work in the world. As it stand right now, there are two main camps of human rights workers: there are those who support human rights on the basis of religious belief, and there are those who support human rights on the basis of natural law that has nothing to do with religion. At present, these two groups don’t work much together because of their differing attitudes towards religion. Yet if they combined their efforts, it seems obvious that there would be much more progress made towards human rights. Carole Fontaine proposes that Unitarian Universalists already know how to facilitate dialogue between atheists and theists (after all, we do it all the time in our local churches). So we could make a major contribution to human rights work by helping these two different groups talk to one another, and learn how to work with one another.

    This might serve as a model for how Unitarian Universalists could promote inclusion and unity among people, by facilitating inter-religious dialogue, and dialogue between religious and non-religious groups.

    Question: Is there any guilt involved with Unitarian Universalist beliefs (other than not coming to church)?

    My response: Since beliefs are not particularly important to us, I don’t see how there can be any guilt involved with our beliefs. Unitarian Universalist guilt comes about when we violate the terms of our covenants with one another. Covenants are the promises we make to one another about how we promise to be in relationship, and how we promise to maintain our religious community. That’s why there’s Unitarian Universalist guilt when you don’t come to church — the guilt arise, not because you’ve violated some belief, but because in a very small way you have broken the covenant you have made with this religious community.

    I should add that when you miss church because of health problems or family obligations, there’s no violation of the covenant and therefore no guilt. In fact, if you miss church because of health problems or family obligations, and no one from church calls you to find out where you’ve been, then it’s the church community who has broken (in a small way) the covenant with you. The obvious conclusion is that if you don’t see someone at church for a few weeks, you should call them and make sure they’re OK.

    Question: Prayer — why? I can’t visualize that there is any one hearing or any reason to think that the words go anywhere.

    My response: I probably represent a minority viewpoint within Unitarian Universalism — I have no personal prayer life, and prayer has never worked for me personally. I’ve tried it, but it doesn’t do anything for me. However, I have seen that public prayer is an effective way to give voice to concerns of a community, so I am happy to do public prayer.

    Many Unitarian Universalists do pray. People for whom I have the highest respect tell me that they believe there is a God who listens to their prayers. Other Unitarian Universalists think of prayer in a wider, more metaphorical sense — for example, I know Unitarian Universalists who think of social justice work as a kind of prayer. I think a big part of this depends on how you define the word “prayer.”

    For more on this topic, check out the pamphlet “Unitarian Universalist Views on Prayer,” which you’ll find in a rack by the bulletin board in the Parish House.

  • Remembering at Memorial Day

    This sermon was preached by Rev. Dan Harper. As usual, the sermon below is a reading text. The actual sermon as preached contained ad libs, interjections, and other improvisation. Sermon copyright (c) 2006 Daniel Harper.

    Readings

    The first reading this morning is a poem by the English poet Seigfried Sassoon, who fought in the trenches in the First World War. The poem is titled, “Suicide in the Trenches”:

    I knew a simple soldier boy
    Who grinned at life in empty joy,
    Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
    And whistled early with the lark.

    In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
    With crumps and lice and lack of run,
    He put a bullet through his brain.
    No one spoke of him again….

    The second reading was a poem by Elizabeth Bishop titled “One Art.” Unfortunately, copyright laws do not permit us to reproduce complete poems that are still protected under copyright.

    SERMON — “Remembering”

    Religions are pretty good at remembering. You might say that the central act of religion is to keep memories alive. In the Western tradition, Christianity has, for the past two thousand years, managed to keep the memory of a certain rabbi from Nazareth named Jesus; and for perhaps three thousand years Judaism has managed to keep alive the memory of the exodus from Egypt, when Moses led his people out of bondage and into the Promised Land. In Persia, the Parsees or Zoroastrians have kept alive the memory of the prophet Zarathustra for three thousand years. In India and the Far East, Buddhists have kept alive the memory of Siddhartha Gotama for some twenty-five hundred years. So religions are adept at keeping ancient memories alive.

    Religions are also good at helping us keep more recent memories alive. I don’t mean just remembering our own narrow religious tradition, or the ways we remember the tiny little histories of our local congregations. I’m thinking more of the ways in which our religious communities help us to remember our own lives; to remember what is past and done but still lives on in our hearts.

    We keep alive the memories of people whom we loved, whom we still love, but who are now dead; or who have otherwise passed out of our lives. I will say from my own experience that such memories are rarely without pain: it is only human to feel pain when you remember someone who has died. Our religious communities can give us a way to deal with that pain, perhaps even to make sense out of that pain. Most obviously, when someone dies, you hold a memorial service for that person. I know when my mother died several years ago, her memorial service helped me to deal with the pain and the grief. Not that such a religious service lessens the pain and the grief, but we human beings seem to welcome such ritual actions. Belonging to a religious community doesn’t necessarily lessen the pain and the grief either. But there is something about being part of a group of people who are willing to talk about death and pain and loss, especially where some or most of the people in that group have gone through their own pain and grief and loss. Being part of such a group helps you make sense out of death; not because the tenets of that religious community can adequately explain death; but because you are with a group of people who are willing to face death together.

    One result of all this is that the buildings which house religious communities can wind up holding lots of memories. This church building in which we sit this morning has seen four memorial services in the past year, and hundreds of others in the 168 years during which it has stood here. These walls hold so many memories. In fact, these walls quite literally hold memories: the Tiffany mosaic behind me was given in 1911 as a memorial to Judge and Mrs. Oliver Prescott, by their three children, Oliver Prescott, Jr., Mrs. Frederick Stetson and Miss Mary R. Prescott. On the back wall of this room is a memorial, where families have put up plaques with the names of members and friends of this church who have died. We are literally and metaphorically the repository of memories; the memories of the generations.

    I cannot help but add that one of the best reasons for supporting this church is to keep it as a repository for such memories. Obviously, a church building is far more than a repository of memories; it is first and foremost a home for a living community. But the members of that living community have their memories, and there is almost nowhere else in our society where we have a physical space where we can remember; the only other place I can think of would be cemeteries, but cemeteries lack the vitality that churches get from also housing a living community. In churches memories can remain as living memories; churches look backwards in memory, but also forwards to the next generations; and of course churches remain above concerned with the present.

    I’ll say something else about this church. Here in this place, we make an effort to come face-to-face with the truth, even if that truth is less than comfortable. When it comes to memories, we remember, yes; but we don’t feel we have to sugar-coat our memories. Thus when we look back at our Christian heritage, we remember what is good about that heritage; but we also try to look unflinchingly on what it less than good about that heritage; we are willing to acknowledge that our Christian heritage has some unsavory episodes in its long history. This same attitude guides us when we look back at the past of our own church: we remember what is good about our church’s past, but we acknowledge that both good and bad things have happened here. And if you choose to do so, this church will support you if you choose to apply this same attitude when you look back at your own past: because we know that no human being is wholly good, we know that it’s acceptable to remember both the good and the bad things about the dead. In our faith tradition, we try to remain open to the whole truth of the world around us.

    By remaining open in this way to the whole of truth, by accepting the wholeness of our memories, we are performing something of a counter-cultural act. One of the things I’ve noticed is that the society around us sometimes tries to mold the past into a more comfortable image. I see this tendency in people’s personal lives; when, for example, people blame a personal weakness on their parents instead of taking personal responsibility for their own actions. Or when, for example, rather than apologizing and saying “I’m sorry,” we see people hiding behind lawyers and law suits. We see this tendency at a national level as well; when, for example, any critical statement about United States foreign policy in Iraq and the Middle East is said to be unpatriotic and even treasonous. And we see this in our own religious institutions; when, for example, people refuse to acknowledge past problems and misdeeds in religious institutions, preferring instead to remain silent or to deny that anything bad ever happens in a church.

    Our society seems to encourage an attitude of refusing to accept responsiblity for oneself; and I see this in part as a failure of memory. When I carefully search my own memory of my own actions, I find many examples of times when I was less than a good person; and I find that the society around me offers me too many ways to excuse myself. When I look back at the history of my beloved Unitarian Universalist religion, I find instances of racially segregated churches, instances of sexism, instances of misconduct on the part of ministers, and — my personal pet peeve — instances of bias on the basis of socio-economic status. And when I look back at the history of my country, a country in which I have pride, a country which I love, I find less-than-savory episodes: I could start with killing native Americans, work my way up through the slavery of Africans, and so on up to the present day. All these things represent in part a failure of memory: if you forget that 95% of the Indians in New England died within 20 years of the arrival of European settlers, you can forget about any possible problem.

    I don’t mean to imply that we each have to take all the burdens of the world on our shoulders; nor do I mean to imply that any one person has to bear the full burden of responsibility for, let us say, slavery. Nor am I saying that I want you to go out and remember only the worst things about yourself, or to remember only the worst things about someone you love who is now dead. But what I am saying is that we need to remember as honestly as we possibly can.

    The first reading this morning gives an example of what I mean. The poet Siegfried Sassoon served with the English military in the trench warfare in the First World War, and he writes of a young soldier who, while initially carefree, gets worn down by the trench warfare and commits suicide. Sassoon writes: “He put a bullet through his brain. / No one spoke of him again.” That, my friends, is a failure of memory.

    Which brings us to our second reading, the poem by Elizabeth Bishop, which says:

    The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
    Then practice losing farther, faster:
    places, names, and where it was you meant
    to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

    None of these will bring disaster. And what Elizabeth Bishop is telling us is quite simple: you can’t cling tightly to everything. Indeed, in this life of ours, we had better master the art of losing, for there is much to lose, as Elizabeth Bishop says at the end of the poem:

    –Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
    I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
    the art of losing’s not too hard to master
    though it may look like (Say it!) like disaster.

    The art of remembering is an art of holding on; and it has to be coupled with the art of losing, or the art of letting go. We need them both. We need to be able to hold on to memories; but at times in our lives, we need to be able to let go again.

    There is a difference between the failure of memory, of which I spoke a moment ago, and the art of letting go. The failure of memory in the way I’m talking about it is really a refusal to remember things correctly; it’s an attempt to create a past that never was.

    The trick is to learn how to balance the art of remembering, of holding on; over against the art of losing, or of letting go. You can watch this happen inside yourself when someone you love dies. Elizabeth Bishop tells us that even when you lose someone you love, “the art of losing’s not to hard to master”; for when someone you love dies, you may feel at first as if you can’t possibly let go, and yet somehow you do, for you don’t really have a choice. And when you love is dying, or has just died, it surely does feel like disaster. And then you have to be careful to find the right balance: by not succumbing to that sense of disaster on the one hand, and by continuing to remember on the other hand.

    I started out by saying that religions are pretty good at remembering, and I said that perhaps the central act of religion is keeping memory alive. A religious community gives each person in that community a context in which to hold memories; and a healthy religious community gives each person in that community assistance in letting go of memories when the time is right. To say this is merely to affirm a great human truth. When we human beings lose some person, or even some thing like an ideal or a place, when we lose that which we care for deeply, we are struck with grief. Yet we manage to move on, we manage to keep on living; and that means that some measure of grief has to slip away. Being part of a religious community is a way to help that very human process move forward in its course; because a religious community has seen this process happen over and over again, always with starkly individual differences, but always in the same grand human pattern.

    And a religious community can help us keep that balance between holding on and letting go. The reason we want to keep that balance is so that we can move forward in our lives — so that we can move forward together in our communal life as a church, as a community, and a country. We don’t want to get stuck. When someone you love dies, it’s easy to get stuck in grieving; and while perhaps we never stop grieving, we must also find a way to live out our lives, to live out what was best in the life of whomever it was who died. I’d say that’s the truest expression of grief.

    So, too we must keep the balance between remembering, and letting go; so that we might move forward in our communal life, in our political life. On Memorial Day, we remember all those who died in military service of our great country; we remember them, and we recall the ideals they fought and died for. And by remembering, we can commit ourselves to work for the highest of those ideals — some of the old ideals may no longer apply in today’s world, and those we can let go of — but we remember the highest ideals.

    In the Unitarian Universalist church of my childhood, I learned early on what those highest ideals were, and I learned them as religious ideals. Those ideals were, and are:– the ideal of humankind learning to live together as one interconnected, interdependent community;– the ideal of each and every human being having a voice in how he or she is governed;– the ideal of a world where a person’s essential humanity means more than their race or creed or national origin.

    Our religion exists in part to keep those highest ideals of humanity alive. Our liberal faith has long upheld the ideal of democratic process, and the ideal that all persons are important and of worth, and most importantly the ideal that each and every human being is worthy of respect, and of love. We have not always lived up to our ideals, both in our own religious community, and in our lives in the wider world. But we hold on to those ideals, and we remain open to new and deeper understandings of those ideals. And on this Memorial Day, we commit ourselves once again to a world where all persons shall be known as our brothers and sisters.

    May it be so.