Something unusual has occurred these last few days, due to the combination of snow and cold, that has presented its own kind of wonder and beauty even with the icy danger. The other morning, while walking our dog, I noticed that were we not making tracks. The crust of ice over the snow had created a kind of sheet of luminescent linoleum over the field. I looked back and saw that I could not detect which way I had come.
What would that be like (I asked myself) . . . to have nothing trailing behind me? What would it be like to take every step forward, fresh and free, with none of the baggage and "used to be" behind me? What would it be to just come to the next moment in life, knowing that I may not make an impact, knowing that I may not leave a trace, but simply come upon what I come upon, walk in the rhythm of the moment, built on what comes with me, the flow of consequence, the growth of wisdom.
Would I misbehave (I asked myself)? Would I take advantage of leaving no trail and wreak havoc, take what I wanted to take without thinking of consequence, let go of responsibility and indulge? No. It didn't make sense; it didn't fit the beauty before me. The shimmering icycles on the ground and trees, the cleansing wind, the wakeful cold, the expanse of sky and flight of birds—why would I respond to this with such ugliness, with such disdain for the gift of the moment?
It reminded me of the anecdote about Hosea Ballou, Universalist forebear of the 18th and 19th centuries who preached of universal salvation, rejecting the concept of hell, which he believed made no sense in a world created by a loving God.
Ballou was riding the circuit in the New Hampshire hills with a Baptist minister one day, arguing theology as they traveled. At one point, the Baptist looked over and said, "Brother Ballou, if I were a Universalist and feared not the fires of hell, I could hit you over the head, steal your horse and saddle, and ride away, and I'd still go to heaven." Hosea Ballou looked over at him and said, "If you were a Universalist, the idea would never occur to you."1
Well, I wouldn't go as far as to say that the idea would not occur to us. Many ideas occur to us, all the time. It's how we choose to navigate our busy minds that gives us a way of being.
This is an important distinction, though; one that informs our Unitarian Universalist faith. For it has to do with deep and abiding trust in creation and a confidence in our own true nature, our inherent dignity, our basic goodness. We do not need the fear-based merit system of a future heaven and hell to come to the fullness of life (which is heaven) and transcend our distorted, sin-sick souls (which is hell). We do this when we discipline ourselves toward justice, equity and compassion in human relations and nurture a reverence for the larger unity of all things.
Unitarian Universalism is a faith that claims the healing power of truth: that it relates to our salvation (our coming to wholeness), and that it pervades this life, not some future testing ground. The force of Creation has the wisdom within it to teach, guide, inspire and challenge our journey toward truth and sacred knowing. The bit of the universe that is us can come into harmony with the Source of all Being and manifest its wisdom in our lives. There is a natural creativity within us that sparks the courage to love life and recover its wonder.
So as I continued to walk our dog, leaving no visible trail behind me, except, of course, my shadow—which comes with me—I pondered a life without baggage, without looking back, without proof that I had been there . . . what would that be like? I felt a hint of freedom rise within me, a lightness of being, and I realized this is the closest I will come to walking on water, walking on a surface that you expect to cave under your weight. Ice is merely a seasonal state of water that you can walk on, but snow rarely upholds you without a trace.
The freedom that I felt was a freedom to love and embrace beauty. It triggered an impulse within me to harmonize that love in my choices. With this feeling came the understanding that we have to give up the weight of our impact, not deny it, for we all impact the life we are in, but to realize that as we journey on in life we have the moment to experience, which brings us to the next thing to do.
Creating an attitude of walking freely, each step brings the opportunity for gratitude and new knowledge to our being. We are not weighted down by the heaviness of relevance, the lure of purposefulness or the weight of judgment. This calls for a great deal of trust in ourselves and in the unknown, trust beyond clinging, trust beyond controlling, trust beyond self claiming. It is giving ourselves over to on-going creation and finding ourselves in it. It is practicing the art of being.
This takes courage, but with the courage comes joy. Paul Tillich, in his book, The Courage to Be writes:
The affirmation of one's essential being in spite of desires and anxieties creates joy . . . Joy accompanies the self-affirmation of our essential being in spite of the inhibitions coming from the accidental elements in us. Joy is the emotional expression of the courageous Yes to one's own true being.2
When we say Yes to our true being, we enter the world of possibility. We see ourselves as active partners, co-creators in the world in which we live. We realize our power to harm and to heal. We realize we work with the greater life by tapping into the creative energies that generate its life.
And because the greater life is far more encompassing than we can imagine, the Yes we are affirming is also a step into the unknown. Living with the tension of unknown answers and the risk of an open future is much of what creativity is about. It also happens to be an important quality in Unitarian Universalism. Creativity is that which allows diversity of possibility and opinion to gel, with the help of time, input and experience into a sense of truth. It demands relevance to daily life.
Unitarian Universalism calls us to engage a creative spirituality, applying our innate affirmation of life to the living of our lives. It enters the sometimes chaotic diversity of individual response and works toward a collective creation of a just and compassionate society. Guided by our own sense of integrity, we must engage the choices we make. It does not confine spirituality to a certain ritual or dogma, nor necessarily to the day of gathering. It acknowledges that the in breaking of spirit can happen anytime. Anywhere. Any how. And because of the interdependent nature of creation, we must risk connection to come to our fullest selves.
That's a risk that can feel very dangerous, welcoming a vulnerability and loss of control of outcome that causes many of us to avoid or shut down through the varied distractions that we can convince ourselves are more important than the work of opening our spirit.
William James, American philosopher, wrote in a letter some 100 years ago:
Most people live, whether physically, intellectually or morally, in a very restricted circle of their potential being. They make use of a very small portion of their possible consciousness, and of their soul's resources in general, much like a man who, out of his whole bodily organism, should get into a habit of using and moving only his little finger. Great emergencies and crises show us how much greater our vital resources are than we had supposed.3
In one of her lectures, Buddhist nun Pema Chodron tells the story of a Native American man called Ishi, who lived in northern California around the turn of the 20th century. Everyone in his tribe had been killed, so he lived alone for some time until he was discovered one dawn, standing naked. He was quickly clothed and thrown in Jail until the Bureau of Indian Affairs arranged for him to live in San Francisco with Alfred Kroeber, an anthropologist. Ishi seemed to be living life fully. Having been alone and in hiding to avoid being killed, he was then in the company of suits and ties and formal dinner parties. He adapted instantly, watching and then adapting to the manners around him. He was full of wonder, Pema writes, completely curious about everything, and seemingly not afraid or resentful, just totally open.
When Ishi was first taken to San Francisco by train, he had hesitated before boarding and stood close to a pillar. When the others called him to board, he got on the train. Later, Ishi told Krober that folk in his tribe thought trains were demons that ate people because of how it snaked along and bellowed smoke and fire. Kroeber asked him how it was, then, that he was willing to get on the train. Where did he find the courage? Ishi said simply, "Well, my life has taught me to be more curious than afraid."4
Pema has a phrase that she uses to encourage this kind of journey. She says simply that we can see the unknown future as thrilling rather than threat.
German political thinker, Rudolph Bahro, once said: "When an old culture is dying, the new culture is created by those people who are not afraid to be insecure."5
When we pay attention to our innate creative spirit, we find a way for our lives to respond, in fact, more often than not, that response becomes the priority. It is then that we begin to fill the emptiness, heal the brokenness, create new avenues for growth, and engage ourselves in something beyond the simple business of our lives.
There is always something more to connect with. That is why many people come to a religious community: they know there is something more, something which speaks to the yearning—whether it is a collective consciousness, a force of nature, or God. There is something more. And I would venture to say, that that "something more" broke into each of your lives and asked for response, else you wouldn't be giving of yourselves here, in your courageous effort to find meaning.
Church, when filled with the collective experience of past and present lives, can provide a form, a spring board or safety net, for that search. It can provide resources, inspiration, strength and training to apply our lives, individually and collectively with a sense of deeper meaning and follow through.
We all know that our answers are not complete, that no one expression says it all. That is what brings life to our gathering, as we struggle through questions, draft solutions and see if they withstand time and social change. We honor a discipline of meeting and engagement till inspiration from within unfolds a moment of truth. When we bring our selves to our Unitarian Universalist gatherings, we risk arousing a connection with joy or sorrow, challenge or comfort, surprising awareness or sobering recognition. And we generate trust that it all brings us to full experiences of our lives, which bring us a little more wisdom for the next moment.
And yes, as we carry out our lives, we do leave a trace. It is hoped that that trace ennobles our having been there. But that is not what is most urgent in our days. Who we were and what we have done is not as relevant as what is here now. What can we do with what we have experienced? What is our next step from the knowing of this moment? That's the vibrant work we can find, here, with one another. That's the opportunity we have to give to each other. To find ourselves vibrant and learning, wise and growing because of what we share, because of what we praise, because of what we let come into our lives. We can help each other see the next moment more as thrill than threat. We can do this because we can rely on our innate ability to discover that which is good and true and beautiful.
So may it be. Amen.