Dan Harper | Sermons

Tag: Rabbi Hillel

  • Gardens, not Walls

    Sermon copyright (c) 2025 Dan Harper. As delivered to First Parish in Cohasset. The text below has not been proofread. The sermon as delivered contained substantial improvisation.

    Reading

    The reading was the poem “Set the Garden on Fire” by Chen Chen. (The poem is not reproduced here out of respect for copyright.)

    Homily for the annual Water Ritual

    Every year, when we have this water ritual, we talk about how we are all connected. Or more precisely, how all human beings are connected to each other, and how all human beings are connected with all other living beings and indeed with the non-human world as well. We are literally, physically connected by the water cycle (as Kate and I pointed out during the moment for all ages), and we are also connected by ethical concerns, concerns that may not be physical but are just as literal as the water cycle.

    In the first reading, we heard a poem by Chen Chen, a now-middle-aged poet who was born in China and grew up in Newton, Massachusetts. This is a poem about a suburban community. It could be a poem about Newton, or it could equally well be a poem about Concord, Massachusetts, where I lived and worked for the first forty years of my life, or it could just as well be a poem about Cohasset or Scituate or any South Shore suburban community. Here in the suburbs, we are both good at nurturing human community, and we are bad at nurturing human community.

    We are good at nurturing human community when we keep our communities safe so that we don’t have to fear interactions with strangers. We are good at nurturing human community when we support local organizations like parent-teacher groups, and elder affairs councils, and congregations, and scouting groups, and community aid groups like food pantries and the Cohasset Community Assistance Fund, and so on. Indeed, many of us move to the suburbs precisely because we think it will be easier to be part of human community here.

    On the other hand, suburbs can also be places that are actually destructive of human community. I’ll tell you a couple of stories to show what I mean, both taken from my home town of Concord. First story: A friend of mine had a new family move in next door, and when she saw her new neighbor getting his mail at the mailbox, she ventured to go up and say hello. He retrieved his mail from the mailbox, and then said into the air — not looking at her — “One of the things that I like about the suburbs is that you don’t have to talk to people.” Second story: When I was in my thirties, I was talking with an older friend about an affordable housing project that the town proposed building near her house. She was vehemently opposed, because, she said, “Black people might move in.” (She was so vehement I decided not to tell her that it was much more likely that I’d move in, because as a current town resident in the right income bracket, I’d get preference.) From these two stories, you can see that sometimes people in suburban towns do not nurture human connections.

    Of course this is true of people everywhere, not just in the suburbs. In the current political environment, we have two political parties whose primary vision for the future seems to be the eradication of the other political party. I have friends who are Democrats who seem to mostly want to talk about how much they hate Trump, and I have friends who are Republicans who seem to mostly want to talk about how much they hate liberals. Neither party are exemplars of nurturing human connection. Similarly, in the current ethical environment, too many of our thought leaders are people like the former CEO of Steward Health Care, who received hundreds of millions of dollars in compensation, while at the same time the hospital chain didn’t have enough money to pay for critical supplies, or to pay staff salaries. Again, this man is not an exemplar of nurturing human connection.

    I’m reminded of a story in the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sabbath 31a. A man approached the famous Rabbi Hillel. “I would like to convert to Judaism and become a Jew,” he said. “I know I have to learn the Torah, but I’m a busy man. You must teach me the Torah while I stand on one foot.”

    “Certainly,” said Rabbi Hillel. “Stand on one foot.”

    The man balanced on one foot.

    “Repeat after me,” said Rabbi Hillel. “What is hateful to you, don’t do that to someone else.”

    The man repeated after Rabbi Hillel, “What is hateful to me, I won’t do that to someone else.”

    “That is the whole law,” said Rabbi Hillel. “All the rest of the Torah, all the rest of the oral teaching, is there to help explain this simple law. Now, go and learn it so it is a part of you.”

    Of course we all know that we shouldn’t do to someone else what is hateful to ourselves; as another rabbi put it, we all know that we should love our neighbors as we love ourselves. But notice that Rabbi Hillel adds the instruction: “That is the entire Torah, the rest is its interpretation. Go study.” (1) When Rabbi Hillel tells the man to go and study, he’s not talking about some academic kind of study; he’s talking about study as a sacred act; he’s talking about knowing something so well that it becomes a central part of who you are. An implicit part of this kind of study is that it must happen in community. This isn’t the kind of studying where you sit down alone somewhere and memorize a bunch of stuff. This is the kind of study where you engage with the biggest possible moral and ethical questions by talking and arguing with other people. Indeed, I’d argue that serious moral and ethical study can only be done in community, can only be done with other people.

    Actually, this is more or less what we do here each week on Sunday morning. Unlike some Christian traditions where the minister’s job is to preach from on high, telling the congregation what is right and what is wrong, our tradition is supposed to engender argument. (At least, that’s what I’d say, though it’s open to argument.) I would say that in a Unitarian Universalist congregation, oftentimes the role of the preacher is merely to articulate a problem or concern currently facing the congregational community, and to propose a preliminary resolution of that problem or concern. Then it is up to the members of the congregation to further think about and discuss the problem or concern, and to decide for themselves how this might affect their own lives.

    And when the preacher is wrong or inaccurate, it’s up to the elders of a Unitarian Universalist congregation to let the preacher know. When I was the minister at the New Bedford Unitarian church, Everett Hoagland, a poet and college professor, used to sit in the back pew in the center, and listen carefully to what I said in the sermon. He would tell me when something I said seemed particularly accurate or true; and when I got something wrong, he’d gently tell me where I went wrong. In that same congregation, Ken Peirce, a retired schoolteacher, sat in the center about a third of the way back. He would take notes during the sermon, and after the service hand me the notes as he greeted me on his way to social hour. His notes would often prompt a follow-up sermon.

    Now, not everyone is a college professor or retired schoolteacher. Most people are not going to take notes during a sermon and correct errors the way Ken and Everett did. I remember the old Universalist in one congregation who worked as the butcher at a local supermarket. What she wanted from a Sunday service, she said, was something to think about while she was at work during the week, something to turn over in her mind, something that might help her to live her life better. Or I think about Gladys, who was dying of cancer when I knew her; she had little interest in intellectual exercises, but she was facing the biggest possible human questions about life and death and mortality, and she came each Sunday to be part of a community where it normal and acceptable to talk about such big issues. Or I think about Nancy, who was in her seventies and homeless when I knew her; she came to Sunday services to have a time when she could think about something more than basic survival.

    To my mind, these people exemplify, each in their own way, what Rabbi Hillel meant when he said, “That is the entire Torah, the rest is its interpretation. Go study.” None of these people was Jewish, none of them read the actual Torah; but each of them, in their own way studied what it mean to be part of a community and a tradition that dealt with the highest moral and ethical and religious questions. For some of these people, study took the form of notes and verbal discussions. For others, study too the form of mulling over thoughts and ideas that might help one to lead a better life. Still others were confronting pressing questions of survival and life and death, and they needed a community where they could confront those questions openly and without shame.

    Because of this, I sometimes think the most important part of our Sunday services is social hour. That’s when you get a chance to have conversations with other people about life’s big issues. In our tradition, those conversations might not take the form of formal religious and theological discussion and argument; instead, those conversations are more likely to take the form of conversations about life and job and volunteer commitments and political actions and of course family (which includes both biological family and chosen family). Rabbi Hillel said that studying Torah was important, not for the sake of abstract religious and theological arguments, but rather for the sake of determining how to live by the dictum: “That which is hateful to you do not do to another.” For Rabbi Hillel, study was not merely an academic matter, but a matter of the highest ethical values and concerns; study was not something you do in your head, study is something that affects your entire life.

    Socrates said something similar when he was facing the death penalty. According to Plato, Socrates told his accusers, “I say again that daily to discourse about virtue, and of those other things about which you hear me examining myself and others, is the greatest good of [humanity], and that the unexamined life is not worth living.” (2) This, too, is what it means to study. To talk about virtue and other big questions is to lead a life that is well worth living.

    And now let me return to the suburbs, and to the poem by Chen Chen. In the poem, a Chinese family buys a house in the suburbs. At this point, the people living in the house next door have a couple of options. On the one hand, they could get to know this new family (and if they felt some resistance to getting to know the new family, they’d engage in a little self-examination to figure out why). On the other hand, they could plant a hedge of rose bushes, and begin to whisper rumors of drub money and illegals and so on. In the poem, the neighbors choose the second option. And in response, the poet says:

    “Friend, let’s really move in, let’s
    plunge our hands into the soil.
    Plant cilantro & strong tomatoes,
    watermelon & honey-hearted cantaloupe,
    good things, sweeter than any rose.
    Let’s build the community garden
    that never was. Let’s call the neighbors
    out, call for an orchard, not a wall.
    Trees with arms free, flaming
    into apple, peach, pear — every imaginable,
    edible fire.” (3)

    While the poet doesn’t talk about Torah study, I think he’s saying much the same thing as Rabbi Hillel. Both of them are teaching us the importance of nurturing human community. Whether you choose to use the metaphor of study, as Rabbi Hillel did; or the metaphor of discourse and conversation, as Socrates did; or the metaphor of planting a community garden, as Chen Chen does — the end result is the same. All these are ways of learning how to embody the dictum “That which is hateful to you do not do to another.” At the same time, all these are ways of learning how to embody the dictum “that the unexamined life is not worth living.” And finally, all these are ways to call for an orchard, rather than a wall; to nurture human community, and further to nurture human community that is also a part of a community of all living beings.

    So those are the kinds of things that arise for me when I consider the imagery of the annual water ritual; that’s what arises for me when I ask myself how it is that all of us human beings are interconnected, and how it is that all human beings are connected with the rest of the universe. This is not to say that what comes up for me is any better than what comes up for you; you and I are both fallible beings, and it is only by talking together that we have a hope of coming closer to the ultimate truth.

    Notes

    (1) The William Davidson Talmud (Koren-Steinsaltz), www.sefaria.org/Shabbat.31a
    (2) Plato, The Apology, 38a; trans. Benjamin Jowett.
    (3) Chen Chen, “Set the Garden on Fire,” Ghost Fishing: An Eco-Justice Poetry Anthology, ed. Melissa Tuckey (Univ of Georgia Press, 2018).

  • After the Election

    Sermon copyright (c) 2024 Dan Harper. As delivered to First Parish in Cohasset. The sermon as delivered contained substantial improvisation. The text below may have typographical errors, missing words, etc., because I didn’t have time to make corrections.

    Readings

    The first reading is an excerpt from the poem “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude” by Ross Gay:

    Friends, will you bear with me today,
    for I have awakened
    from a dream in which a robin
    made with its shabby wings a kind of veil
    behind which it shimmied and stomped something from the south
    of Spain, its breast aflare,
    looking me dead in the eye
    from the branch that grew into my window,
    coochie-cooing my chin,
    the bird shuffling its little talons left, then right,
    while the leaves bristled
    against the plaster wall, two of them drifting
    onto my blanket while the bird
    opened and closed its wings like a matador
    giving up on murder,
    jutting its beak, turning a circle,
    and flashing, again,
    the ruddy bombast of its breast
    by which I knew upon waking
    it was telling me
    in no uncertain terms
    to bellow forth the tubas and sousaphones,
    the whole rusty brass band of gratitude
    not quite dormant in my belly —
    it said so in a human voice,
    “Bellow forth” —
    and who among us could ignore such odd
    and precise counsel?

    The second reading was a poem titled “Over the Weather” by Naomi Shihab Nye (not available online due to copyright restrictions).

    The third reading was from the Talmud, Shabbat 31a, the William Davidson translation:

    “There was another incident involving a gentile who came before Shammai and said to Shammai: Convert me on condition that you teach me the entire Torah while I am standing on one foot. Shammai pushed him away with the builder’s cubit in his hand. This was a common measuring stick and Shammai was a builder by trade. The same gentile came before Hillel. He … said to him: That which is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, and the rest is its interpretation. Go study.”

    Sermon

    I’d like to begin this sermon by telling you a story from the Confucian tradition. If you’re my age or older and grew up as a Unitarian Universalist, you might remember this story from the old Sophia Fahs book “From Long Ago and Many Lands.” However, Fahs got some of the details of the story wrong. My version of the story closely follows the version given in “The Sacred Edict, Containing Sixteen Maxims of Emperor Kang-He [Kangxi],” which was translated in 1817 by William Milne (London: Black, Kingsbury, Parbury, and Allen, pp. 51-52).

    The story goes like this.

    The Kangxi Emperor was the fourth emperor of the Qing dynasty in China; he’s a historical figure who rules China from 1661 to 1722. Early in his reign, China had been torn apart by wars. During these internal rebellions, the people had to leave their farms to fight, and farms were destroyed in battles. Eventually the Kangxi Emperor restored peace throughout the land. The people could tend to their farms, and food once more became plentiful. By the end of his reign, the Chinese Empire was for the most part a land of peace an plenty.

    Towards the end of his reign, however, the Emperor grew concerned about what would happen to China after he died. His own children had proved to be incapable of ruling. What principles, what rules could he give to the next emperor so that China would continue to be a land of peace and plenty? As he began to write down his maxims for peaceful rule, he recalled an event from early in his reign.

    During his long reign, he had gone on many Inspection Tours, journeys through China allowed him to inspect for himself that the land was peaceful and the people were happy. On these inspection tours, he was of course accompanied by hundreds of people. Riders on horseback went out ahead on the road to let the people know that the Emperor was coming. Next came the many horses carrying the baggage, tended by more riders on horseback. Then came skilled warriors, with their bows and arrows slung over their shoulders, also riding horses. They were followed by more warriors walking just ahead of the emperor. The emperor himself rode in an open carriage drawn by magnificent white horses; a golden parasol protected the emperor from the sun. Behind him marched more warriors carrying long lances that pointed high in the air. At times, the Emperor traveled on rivers and canals, in which case all these people were on boats.

    In every village and town he passed through, the Emperor’s advisors asked questions to learn if the people were living happy and peaceful lives. In one place, the townspeople told the emperor and his advisors about a large family which was reputed to be the happiest and most peaceful family in all of China.

    Curious to see this renowned family, the Kangxi Emperor told his advisors, “We must go see this family, to find out what makes them special.”

    And so the Emperor’s entire retinue went to this family’s compound. A man named Chang-kung greeted them, bowing low, and asking them to partake of what humble food and drink he could offer such distinguished guests.

    “My dear Master Chang-kung,” said one of the advisors, “we do not need refreshments, but we would like to know about your family.”

    “There are nine generations of our family living here,” said Chang-kung. He pointed to an old woman sitting nearby, who was attended by two young men, and said, “This revered elder is of my great-grandmother’s generation.” He next pointed to a woman carrying a new-born baby. “That child is my brother’s great grandchild. That makes nine generations.

    The emperor’s advisor said, “We have been told that yours is the happiest and most peaceful family in all the land.”

    “I cannot say if ours is the happiest and most peaceful family anywhere,” said Chang-kung. “Yet we do live in peace and happiness.”

    Indeed, the advisors saw that everyone they could see appeared to be happy. The children played together, but there were no tears, no arguments, no shouting. The adults worked at various tasks, and again there were no arguments or raised voices.

    “The emperor would like to ask you this question,” said the advisor: “How it is that so many people live together so peacefully?”

    Chang-kung turned to a young man who stood near by, and asked him politely to go and fetch ink, paper, and a brush. The young man returned in an instant with the paper and brush, and a young woman followed him carrying a small table.

    On the paper, Chang-kung wrote the same word over and over again, the Chinese word rén.(1) This word can be translated into English by several different words, including benevolence, forbearance, patience, kindness, humanity, and humaneness. The Chinese character for this word is made up of two radicals: first, the character for “person,” and second the character for “two.” Thus, the character itself shows that rén is what is required whenever there are two or more people together.

    Chang-kung pointed to the word he had written. “This is why we live in peace and harmony,” he said.

    “But this is exactly what Master Kong said,” said one of the Emperor’s advisors. (English speakers say “Confucius,” but he is known in Chinese as Kongzi.) Quoting Kongzi, the advisor said, “‘To behave to every one as if you were receiving a great guest; …[and] not to do to others as you would not wish done to yourself’ [Analects 12.2] — this is ren.”

    A second advisor said, “Kongzi also said: ‘when alone, to be sedately grave; in the management of business, to be reverently attentive; in intercourse with others, to be strictly sincere’ [Analects 13.19] — this too is ren.”

    A third advisor said, “Kongzi also said, ‘Kindness is not far off; the person who seeks for kindness has already found it.’ This, too, is ren.”

    “As to all that, I cannot say,” said Chang-kung, bowing low. “I do not know the classics as you do. I can only say that in our family we respect the humanity of each other.”

    The Kangxi Emperor heard all this, and saw how Chang-king’s family lived in peace and harmony. And this he remembered when, late in his life, he wrote down his maxims for maintaining peace and harmony in society.(2)

    So why do I tell you this story?

    First of all, I’m telling you this story as a reminder that through most of history, human society has been neither kind nor fair nor humane. Chang-kung’s family was remarkable precisely becuase it was so unusual to have so many people living in harmony with one another. We may have complaints about the United States — and there are many valid complaints to be made — but the many armed rebellions in southern China in the early years of the Kangxi Emperor’s rule made life far, far worse. Yes, it is true that the United States has seen brutal and vicious behavior, such as the epidemic of lynchings in the twentieth century, but from what I’ve read, those Chinese rebellions were even worse.

    A second reason I tell you this story is because we’ve just gone through a bruising election cycle. During this election cycle, I feel as though the best word to describe many Americans is “frantic.” Confucius understood that to be spiritually centered is to have some measure of calmness. When we are frantic, it often means we have drifted away from our spiritual center. I feel as though many of us in the United States have drifted from our spiritual centers. It has been my observation that when we human beings become frantic, when we drift from our spiritual centers, it is too easy to forget our ideals of human equality and liberty.

    If you are uncomfortable using the concept of spirituality, we can also describe this tendency using the model of the triune brain. We human beings all have the “lizard brain,” what some psychologist call the “reptilian brain,” that part of us which is in charge of more basic impulses such as fear, hunger, territoriality, and so on. We humans also have the “paleomammalian brain,” that is, the “old mammal brain,” which controls our emotions and motivations, as well as many everyday behaviors like parenting. The third part of the triune brain is the “neomammalian brain,” or “new mammal brain,” which is the seat of language, reasoning, planning ahead, and abstract thinking. By using the model of the triune brain, it’s easy to understand that when we are frantic, we are not using our neocortex, our neomammalian brain; we are probably using our reptilian brain. Thus when we are frantic, we can actually become incapable of reasoning and planning and higher thought. Andrew E. Budson, a cognitive behavioral neurologist, puts it this way:

    “Given that there have been 10 million years of evolution developing our neocortex — our neomammalian brain — why does it seem to fail so often in normal individuals? Why do we so often hear about politicians and celebrities acting on their primitive drives and urges and committing horrendous acts? The answer is one that any small child can give you: We all can make a choice, a choice as to whether we are going to give in to the primitive urges and desires of our reptilian brain or, instead, use our neocortex to control them.” (3)

    This lies behind the secret of Chang-kung’s family. Indeed, this lies behind the spiritual path of Confucianism. There is much to criticize about Confucianism (just as there is much to criticize about any human institution), but over and over again the teachings of Confucianism emphasize both that we can use our higher selves to control our actions; and also that remaining spiritually centered helps us to use our higher selves.

    One reason to stay spiritually centered is that it keeps us from being frantic. Imagine living with nine generations of your family in one family compound — this could be enough to make anyone frantic! Yet when we keep ourselves centered, keep ourselves from being frantic, then our higher brain — the neocortex, our neomammalian brain — can function.

    Remember, this is a choice we get to make. This is the choice that Chang-kung’s family made. When dealing with the needs of a couple of generations of elders, and also the needs of families with young children, it would have been easy for Chang-kung to let his reptilian brain take over. But he didn’t. He stayed focused on the teaching of Confucianism — we might say, he stayed spiritually centered — and so he was able to retain his higher brain functions.

    I suspect the reptilian brain lay behind behind the internal rebellions in the early years of the Kangxi Emperor’s reign. When we let the reptilian brain take over, we become frantic, we become susceptible to engaging in stupid actions. And there will always be those, like the unscrupulous leaders of the internal rebellions in the Kangxi Emperor’s rule, who want to tempt us into engaging in stupid actions so that they can take advantage of us.

    Indeed, we are seeing this right now in the United States in all the negative talk you can find on social media. Social media generally bypasses the neocortex, and goes straight for the lower brain functions. Social media directly engages our reptilian brains and our paleomammalian brains. We get frantic, we lose our spiritual centers, and we do stupid things. This benefits the owners of the social media companies, who are just like the leaders of the Qing dynasty rebellions.

    It’s not just social media, of course. Our society has so many ways to bypass our higher brain functions, and activate our reptilian brains and our paleomammalian brains. We even do this in our face-to-face interactions. When you hear someone demonizing a political opponent, that person is trying to bypass your higher brain functions. They may be doing it unwittingly, but the effect is the same.

    Now, it may seem wrong when I say that religion and spirituality can help us keep us from bypassing our higher brain functions. After all, isn’t religion nothing but superstition and false belief? Well, first of all, this is where we can learn from certain progressive Buddhists, who tell us that practices like meditation are simply technologies that we can choose to use for the highest purposes. Confucians adopted this technology for their own purposes, removing the Buddhist theology and calling it “quiet-sitting.” So religion and spirituality can provide us with technologies for calming ourselves, and keeping our neocortex engaged.

    Equally importantly, it depends on how you use religion and spirituality. Just about anything we humans do is capable of being misused, so that we bypass our higher brain functions. I’m a big supporter of education, but education can (and has) been misused to indoctrinate rather than to educate. I’m a big supporter of democracy, but demagogues can (and do) misuse democratic processes and institutions for their own manipulative purposes. Similarly, religion and spirituality can be misused to manipulate us, rather than to help us use our higher brain functions. But just because bad actors can misuse them doesn’t mean these human institutions are irredeemably broken. We can make a choice about how we use them.

    I have come to believe that the most useful technology that religion offers us is a values-based community. This may not sound like a technology, but it is. Religion and spirituality offers us the technology of intentional communities in which we come together specifically to keep from being frantic, to keep us engaged with our higher selves. (That’s one of the primary purposes of our First Parish community.) We know that human beings are susceptible to being sucked in to groups that appeal to our reptilian brains. We humans are social being, and we need to be in communities. So joining an intentional community designed to engage our higher selves can be a useful tool to keep us out of other communities that deliberately engage our destructive reptilian brains.

    We live in a time and place where we are incredibly divided. I’m watching otherwise good and kind people say things like, “I can no longer talk to anyone from the opposite political party.” That is the reptilian brain talking. That is not the higher brain talking. And this is an incredibly destructive trend. It erodes civil discourse. It leads to violence.

    Faced with this trend, it’s all too easy to say, “Well, everyone else is doing it, so I’m going to do it too!” But a little thought shows us this is illogical; this is in fact a case of bypassing our higher brain functions. Just because our political leaders and other celebrities are bypassing their higher brain functions doesn’t mean we should bypass our higher brain functions. On the contrary, we really want to keep our higher brain functions engaged. In times like these, we really want to be our best selves. Having spent twenty-five years in education, I think about it this way: somebody has to be the grown-ups in the room; it might as well be us.

    And the thing is, if we manage to stay engaged with our higher selves, if we manage to keep our higher brain functions engaged, we will be calmer and happier. Remember the nine generations of Chang-kung’s family living together in one family compound. They ordered their lives with the Confucian value of rén — benevolence, forbearance, patience, kindness, humanity, humaneness, however you want to translate it. And perhaps the best way to translate it is in that phrase from the Confucian Analects: Do not to do to others as you would not wish done to yourself. This is almost identical to the wisdom of the rabbis in the Torah, who taught us: “That which is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, and the rest is its interpretation. Go study.”

    May we study benevolence, forbearance, patience, kindness, humanity, and humaneness. May this spirit fill our hearts and minds, and fill us with a sense of peace. Then may that peace within spread outwards to our families, even unto nine generations. When our selves and our families are regulated by humaneness, patience, and kindness, then too will our nation be so regulated. And then perhaps peace will spread throughout our land.

    Notes

    (1) This word is also transliterated as “jen.”

    (2) For a brief summary of the story, see entry on Chang-kung in Herbert Giles, A Chinese Biographical Dictionary (London, 1898). Lin Yutang tells the story differently in his essay “The Chinese People” (The China Critic, vol. IV, no. 15 [9 April 1931], 343-347): “There was once a Prime Minister, Chang Kung-ni, who was much envied for his earthly blessedness of having nine generations living together in one household. Once the Emperor, Tang Kao-chung, asked him the secret of his success, and the minister asked for pen and paper, on which he wrote over a hundred characters of the word ‘patience’ or ‘endurance’. Instead of taking that as a sad commentary on the family system, the Chinese people have ever after envied his example, and the phrase ‘hundred patience’ (po jen) has passed into current phraseology.”

    (3) Andrew E Budson, “Don’t Listen to Your Lizard Brain,” Psychology Today “Managing Your Memory” blog, 3 Dec. 2107, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/managing-your-memory/201712/don-t-listen-your-lizard-brain accessed 6 Nov. 2024.

  • What the World Needs Now

    Sermon copyright (c) 2023 Dan Harper. As delivered to First Parish in Cohasset. As usual, the sermon as delivered contained substantial improvisation.

    Readings

    The first reading was the poem “Perhaps the World Ends Here,” by Joy Harjo.

    The second reading was from the essay “Friendship” by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

    Gender-specific language has NOT been changed, since it may be central to Emerson’s argument.

    Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person, hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-man by compliments, by gossip, by amusements, by affairs. We cover up our thought from him under a hundred folds. I knew a man, who, under a certain religious frenzy, cast off this drapery, and, omitting all compliment and commonplace, spoke to the conscience of every person he encountered, and that with great insight and beauty. At first he was resisted, and all men agreed he was mad. But persisting, as indeed he could not help doing, for some time in this course, he attained to the advantage of bringing every man of his acquaintance into true relations with him. No man would think of speaking falsely with him, or of putting him off with any chat of markets or reading-rooms. But every man was constrained by so much sincerity to the like plaindealing, and what love of nature, what poetry, what symbol of truth he had, he did certainly show him. But to most of us society shows not its face and eye, but its side and its back. To stand in true relations with men in a false age is worth a fit of insanity…. Almost every man we meet requires some civility, — requires to be humored; he has some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is not to be questioned, and which spoils all conversation with him.

    Sermon: “What the World Needs Now”

    Back in the 1960s, lyricist Hal David was working regularly with pop composer Burt Bachrach. One day, while commuting in to New York City to work with Bachrach, Hal David came up with the line, “What the world needs now is love, sweet love / It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of.” Then for more than a year, he couldn’t make any progress with the lyrics. He knew the song was talking to God, but he wasn’t quite sure what the song wanted to say to God.

    Now it would be easy to jump to conclusions about what Hal David meant by the word “God.” In this decade of the 2020s, it seems like the only people who talk about God are the right-wing Christians; as a result, when we hear the word “God,” we often think of their god, the stereotypical old white guy sitting on a cloud wearing long white robes and advocating for school prayer and the Ten Commandments displayed in every classroom. Hal David was most definitely not a right wing Christian. He was the child of Jewish immigrants who left Austria in the 1920s and settled in New York City, where they ran a delicatessen. On his website, when discussing this song, he left the interpretation of God wide open; it could, he said, be the “someone or something we call God.” In other words, not the narrow, sectarian notion of God so beloved by right-wing Christians, but an open expansive understanding that could include a range of ideas from a traditional Jewish God, all the way to “God” as a humanistic or even atheistic metaphor.

    In any case, Hal David finally figured out what he wanted to say to God: we don’t need some transcendent all-powerful God to create any more mountains, we don’t need any more oceans, we don’t even need any more rivers or meadows; what we really need is enough love to go around. Once the lyrics were done, Burt Bachrach wrote music for it, they both looked at the song, and decided it was “a flop.” (1) Burt Bachrach had hoped that Dionne Warwick, whom they felt was the singer who was best at performing their songs, would record it. But, as he later recalled, “Dionne rejected that song. She might have thought it was too preachy and I thought Dionne was probably right.” (2)

    Well, Dionne Warwick was right. The song is indeed too preachy. It begins with the chorus: “What the world needs now is love, sweet love / It’s the only thing there’s too little of.” How very mid-1960s. Not only is it too preachy, but it’s hard not to make fun of the lyrics. If we all had just a little more love, then all those 1960s problems would just go away — the racial prejudice, the Vietnam War, the assassinations — just a little more love, and they’d go away. Just another pop song about love, and the problems will all go away.

    In 1965, Jackie DeShannon finally recorded the song, and to the surprise of the songwriters, it became a top ten hit. Since then, it has been recorded and performed over and over again — by singers, by jazz groups, by hardcore punk rockers, by high school bands. It even got performed at the Democratic National Convention in 2016. The song still sounds preachy. It still sounds too much like a willfully naive and saccharine 1960s pop song. Most performances of it wind up sounding schlocky. But somehow the song has managed to strike a chord in our popular unconscious.

    There’s a good reason for that. Hal David was actually correct. The world actually does need more love. Maybe it wouldn’t solve all the world’s problems, but with all the hatred and violence in the world — yes, we do in fact need more love.

    Though we need to be careful what kind of love we’re talking about here. The English language uses the single word “love” to smush together several different concepts: romantic love, love between family members, love of oneself, love among good friends, love extended to strangers, a kind of selfless love that includes all beings, and so on. Even though this was a 1960s pop song, Hal David’s lyrics are not talking specifically about romantic love. Nor are Hal David’s lyrics talking specifically about love between family members, or love of oneself, though these might be a part of what the world needs now. The song is talking about a love that is “not just for some, but for everyone.” This is a love that is inclusive, that includes all of humankind.

    Back in the 1960s, there was an ol-fashioned term for this kind of love. They called it “brotherhood.” Brotherhood meant that people should extend idealized feelings of sibling love to all of humanity. Political conservatives like Hubert Humphrey referred to “brotherhood” in their speeches. Progressives like Martin Luther King, Jr., spoke of lifting “our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to solid rock of brotherhood.” Indeed, some Unitarian Universalists in the 1960s, when asked what they believed, might have responded with the words of Unitarian minister James Freeman Clarke: the fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man, the leadership of Jesus, salvation by character, and progress of mankind onward and upward forever. Brotherhood, the brotherhood of man — those old words and phrases aimed to capture the kind of love that the world needs now. If all men are truly my brothers, how could I do anything hateful to them? — brotherly love would prevent me from acting with hate.

    Of course, we now know the big problem with the word “brotherhood” — it ignores women. The second wave feminists pointed out this uncomfortable fact in the late 1960s. At first, some people pushed back against the second wave feminists saying that of course the word “brotherhood” included women and girls. In response, there were a great many women and girls who bluntly replied that they did in fact feel left out; oh, and by the way, if that’s the way things worked, then they were going to start using the word “sisterhood” to include all people. The men who liked the word “brotherhood” decided they didn’t want to substitute the word “sisterhood.” By the 1980s, we Unitarian Universalists had stopped using the term “brotherhood.”

    We really haven’t come up with another word to put in its place. I’ve been thinking about this recently. We know what we want to say: that all human beings are interdependent, we are all connected, we are all part of the same human race. What single word or short phrase might we use that communicates this rather complex idea? And it is a complex idea. Rabbi Hillel said: “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the entire Torah, and the rest is commentary. Now go and study.” (3) Here is a very simple statement that gets at the same basic idea — If you wouldn’t do it to yourself, don’t do it to someone else — but then Rabbi Hillel ends by telling us to go study the Torah. It looks like a simple idea on the surface; then we need to study the rest of the Torah to help us fully understand this seemingly simple idea.

    It is this same seemingly simple idea that Emerson was getting at in his essay on friendship. Friendship, in Emerson’s essay, is the meeting of souls. Friendship is when we can be utterly genuine with another person, speaking directly to each other’s consciences; not speaking falsely, not falling into gossip or chit-chat, but a meeting of souls that is entirely honest and lacking in pretense. If we could be this genuine with others, if we could know another’s soul in this way, then we would naturally follow Rabbi Hillel’s maxim; if I fully encounter another’s soul, how could I possibly do anything hateful to them?

    But I’ve finally decided that Emerson is missing something in this essay in this essay. Yes, there are those intense friendships where you feel like your soul is directly meeting another person’s soul. Emerson writes, “to most of us, society shows not its face and eye, but its side and its back.” But I realized that many of my best and strongest relationships with other people have taken place, not face to face and eye to eye, but side by side.

    For example, I think about the times when I helped prepare a meal for a certain homeless shelter that aimed to provide not just food and warm housing, but human interaction as well. While we were cooking dinner at this homeless shelter, we spend quite a lot of time seeing the sides and backs of other people, because everyone was working; not just the volunteers, but some of the guests would also come help prepare the meal. Then, before COVID hit, an essential part of this homeless shelter was that the people cooking the meal would sit down with the guests and everyone would eat dinner together. When you’re eating a meal with other people, you don’t spend all your time staring at their faces and eyes. When you’re sitting at a table with half a dozen others, you’re going to see the faces of some people and the sides of others — and maybe the backs of other people who are sitting at other tables. And then when everyone joins in cleaning up together, once again, more often you’d be side-by-side than face to face. Emerson would say, this was society showing its side and back. But it seems to me that there was just as much real connection happening in that setting as in some intense one-on-one face-to-face conversation with a Transcendental friend.

    Emerson levels another criticism at society: “We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-man by compliments, by gossip, by amusements….” And in every homeless shelter I’ve volunteered at, in every communal living situation, in every family — there are always the little dramas going on, just as Emerson pointed out: people who are temporarily angry with each other, people who have stopped being angry with each other, and so on. But I think Emerson got it exactly wrong. Gossip, compliments, amusements: these are how we hold our fellow human beings at arm’s length; these are all ways that human communities can become more closely interwoven. When you think about it this way, Emerson’s use of gender-specific male language actually makes sense. In nineteenth century America, middle class and upper class men were able to have time to have intense face-to-face, one-on-one conversations with other men, because women took on much of the burden of housework. Since women were considered inferior to men, the kind of social interaction associated with women — small talk, exchanging news with others, keeping each other entertained while working around the kitchen table — these kinds of social interactions would also be considered inferior. Yet it is in these daily mundane tasks that the complex love of human communities becomes apparent.

    Which brings me to the first reading, the excerpt from the poem by Joy Harjo. “The world begins at a kitchen table,” she tells us, and then she lists all the other things that happen at kitchen tables: food is prepared and served; babies teethe; children are instructed in how to be human; we gossip; we dream; we laugh when we fall down; we pull ourselves back together again. Births happen next to the kitchen table, bodies are prepared for burial there. We sing there, we pray, we give thanks, we laugh, we cry, we eat “the last sweet bite.” Joy Harjo says the world begins and ends at the kitchen table.

    Emersonian friendship is a lovely ideal, especially for those who have the time for it. But I think it is the kitchen table kind of love that the world needs much more of. It begins with the love that comes when preparing food and eating it together. This love includes gossip too: not hateful hurtful gossip, not the mean gossip of junior high school, but gossip that is actually the exchange of everyday life-and-death matters: who is ill, who is caring for whom, who is well, who is falling in love with whom, all the little bits of news that come with the ordinary life of a human community. It is through this kind of talk around the kitchen table, this talk of ordinary life — who is dying; who just gave birth, who has grown up, who has become a wise elder — this is how children learn to become human. It is through these ordinary conversations that adults are reminded how to remain human, to remain humane. And sometimes the deepest conversations on becoming human happen when we are working side by side with our elders, with our children.

    Maybe this is what we should mean if we want to talk about the kind of love the world needs more of. I would not call this brotherhood, nor would I call this sisterhood; but it is a way of being human together. Like Emerson, I want to be genuine and to stand in true relation with other people; but in my own life I’ve found that is most likely to happen when human beings are cooking a meal together, when we are cleaning up together, when we are gossiping (in the best sense), when we are helping one other.

    Not that sitting around a kitchen table is going solve all the world’s problems. No more did “brotherhood” solve the problems of racism and war in the 1960s. No more did “sisterhood” solve the problems of sexism in the 1970s. But in a era when we spend more time staring at screens than we spend sitting around a kitchen table, I would say that it would be worth our while to spend more time sitting around kitchen tables than staring at screens. It is more difficult to do something hateful to another person if you have sat down with that person at a kitchen table. Once someone sits down to dinner with a homeless person, they have to see that person as just another human being. We also saw this phenomenon during the fight for marriage equality: acceptance for same-sex marriage increased as more and more heterosexual people had friends who were same sex couples. These experiences are even changing the right-wing Christians: younger conservative Christians are more likely to be tolerant of same sex marriage than older conservative Christians. We are slowly seeing this phenomenon play out in the struggle against racism: as our society becomes more and more racially diverse, racial attitudes are being changed; when you sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with your cousin or in-law who is of a different race than you are, it’s harder for you to be racist.

    This is where it begins, and this is where it ends: seeing ourselves in the other, and seeing the other in ourselves. For some, this might happen in great Emersonian moments of Transcendental friendship. But for most of us, it happens in day-to-day life. It happens around the kitchen table, if we would just notice it. This is the love, sweet love, that the world needs more of.

    Notes:

    (1) Hal David, “Words: What the World Needs Now,” Hal David: Official Website, https://www.haldavid.com/words.htm accessed 28 April 2023.
    (2) Burt Bachrach in an interview with Ken Sharp, “Burt Bachrach: What the World Needs Now,” Record Collector [UK magazine], May, 2006, issue 323.
    (3) Talmud Shabbat 31 a