Rational and Reverent

 I’ve written about the Nones (And Then There Were Nones), or religiously unaffiliated. With almost 20% of Americans fitting this description (and the majority of them socially liberal), is it any wonder that the Unitarian Universalists would consider how to attract these folks? Add that we’re a shrinking community (Growing Pains: 161,502 UUs), and it’s easy to see why all those unaffiliated people might seem like ready converts to Unitarian Universalism.

Can the rational and the reverent co-exist? A recent sermon about the Nones set me thinking about the relationship between the rational and the reverent, mindsets that at first glance seem to be in opposition. The sermon, Watering Down the Wine, by Rev. Alex Riegel,  focused on this population of the religiously unaffiliated and played with the idea that we could attract some of these people to our fold if we changed our language and mindset. True, we have a relevant and rational message of compassion and inclusivity that likely does appeal to many of those Nones (as well as liberals happily ensconced in their own faith traditions). But there are barriers. According to the Pew study, 88% aren’t looking for a church. Why they aren’t isn’t covered in the study, but I’d imagine it’s a mixture of feeling wounded from previous church experience, feeling no need to collect on a Sunday morning in a traditional setting, and a preference for Sunday morning in jammies with the paper and a cup of coffee.

We have coffee, and jammies would likely be fine with most congregations, but for the most part, we’re still all church, and rather traditional church at that.  And wounded? Some, but not all. Many have simply decided that they don’t believe what they were brought up to believe. They’ve embraced the rational, what can be thought and touched and turned around in the mind. Others, like me, arrive seeking, questioning the beliefs of youth or just wondering what is out there. Or wondering what isn’t. Either way, we’re theoretically in it together for “a free and responsible search for truth and meaning” (4th principle, for those keeping track).

So here we are, built around the idea that the search is the real work of life. That said, I’m not sure how many UUs are actively seeking spiritual answers. We’re a rational bunch, sometimes ruthlessly, stubbornly rational.  Rational thinkers, wounded or not, make up the majority of those in the pews of a UU church, with spirituality and spiritual language largely abandoned or faced with skepticism. In his sermon, Alex suggested relaxing that tight rationality and considering adding some reverence. And he suggested re-thinking opposition to God, or at least to the traditional God. Replace some of the rational with the reverent, seemed to be the call.

I’m deeply rational. I’m also an agnostic who readily admits that I just don’t know the answers and am okay with not knowing. There is so much unknown in the universe, after all, and truths about it we take for granted today were the stuff of fantasy just a generation (or even a decade) back. I just don’t know, and that’s okay with me. I’ve long given up the “easy God” of James Kavanaugh, scholar, poet, and once-Catholic priest. I’m not bitter about the time spent with that comfort but not drawn back to it either. That’s the rational end of me at work. It’s the same part that doesn’t refer to being blessed and will commit to holding someone in my thoughts but not to praying for them. That rationality runs deep and strong, and it’s not wont to be pushed aside.

I don’t think that my rationality gets in the way of my reverence. There’s no need to suspend the rational when staring in awe at the moon, realizing the smallness of me in the grandeur of the Universe while understanding the moon’s physical makeup and relationship to the Earth. My reverence is just as profound when I catch the profile of my younger son, still child-like but on the cusp of adolescence, and the catch in my throat that comes is from the wonder of a world that entrusts us with the lives of the helpless and trusts us to figure it out. And it’s reverence when I meet my dear friend’s eyes and am reminded that love is not limited to those who’ve never known pain or fear but is fully available again and again.

It is reverence I feel when I sit on Sunday morning in a room of other people on their own journeys. Not reverence for something outside of us but rather something among us. It is reverence for our strength together and for the power in community that should only be used to bring more love, compassion, and justice to the world. It is reverence for the freedom I have to believe or not believe in whatever God, spirit, or presence that speaks to me. It is the reverence for the individuals in that space, each coming with his or her own view of what sacred and what brings meaning. It is reverence for what makes us different and what makes us the same.

The rational may be the easy part for many of us, but the reverence is what keeps the rational from running losing our heart, reduced to reason only. The rational and the reverent balance each other, the latter reminding us that despite all we know, we don’t yet understand it all yet.  Our rational mind wonders and weighs, while our reverent mind celebrates the mystery, respecting what has been wondered and weighed and what remains unknown. It is the act of being reverent of the child, the community, the beloved, the stars, and humanity while understanding the rational underpinnings of it all that makes us more fully human than with either sentiment alone.

Rational and reverent. The Unitarian Universalist church appreciates both. This may not be obvious in our services and social time, with the rational language for more comfortable for most of us. So perhaps Alex is right. Perhaps we need to find the language of reverence to temper the rational. While that may be spiritual language, I don’t think it has to be. Perhaps more regular talk about awe and amazement, respect and appreciation, will bring us closer to expressing what we are more likely to note in the quiet of our hearts. Rational and relevant. Truth and meaning. This is the stuff of Unitarian Universalism.

Namaste.

Gratitude

A special thanks to Ministerial Intern/Intern of Ministry Michael Brown for an inspiring sermon on gratitude on November 18, 2012, available at uusermons.com. I’m grateful to you, Mike.

Throughout the month of November, kind people on Facebook with more focus than I are noting for what they are grateful. Starting the first of each November, a few of my friends take time each day to consider all the wonders in their lives and make note of them online. It’s a fine practice, but I’ll not join in since I’m nearly three weeks late and would likely start repeating myself after three days, given my short memory. Instead, I’ll take some time here to consider a framework for gratitude and the Unitarian Universalist while giving thanks along the way.

While Unitarian Universalists lack agreement on the deity question, I’d bet most of us could agree that gratitude, freely given from the heart, is a valuable practice. And while we also don’t all agree on the seven principles, I think these can serve as a template for our gratitude. Here’s an attempt at framing my gratitude in terms of those principles

Principle 1: We affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person. This principle strikes me as the core UU principle, with the others springing from it. Christians are instructed to love one another as they have been loved by God. Unitarian Universalists are encouraged to continually and consistently respect the worth of everyone, not just the folks we agree with or like. In the light of gratitude, this mean appreciating the presence of the people in our lives, and not just the ones who touch it in a loving, compassionate way. Those are the easy folks for whom to be grateful. I’m also thankful for the driver who cut in front me in line at on Telegraph Rd., the tired and crabby postal worker who accepted my package, and the nasty-spirited commenters who belittle most of what I believe in. Why? Because these are the people who make me put this principle into action. They are the ones that make me breathe deeply and pause, perhaps then to remain silent or to slather with kindness. I’m thankful for these opportunities to practice my beliefs.

Principle 2: We affirm and promote justice, equity, and compassion in human relations. Principle two is the practice of principle one. It’s how we demonstrate that we believe that people have worth and dignity. I’m grateful for the compassion others have shown me, for sticking with me when I’m less than charming or helping out when I’m just worn out and need some care. These acts of kindness remind me that I have worth and dignity often when I feel the least worthy or dignified. On a larger level, I’m thankful that as a nation, we’re finally moving toward offering equity to those who love another of their same gender. Finally, albeit slowly, the worth and dignity of this part of our population is being realized, and equity and justice are being achieved.

Principle 3: We affirm and promote acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations.  I am deeply grateful for the freedom I have within my Unitarian Universalist congregation to explore what spirituality means to me. I feel a sense of privilege to be surrounded by deep thinkers who take none of the wonder of the universe or live in it for granted. Between people and programs, there are plenty of opportunities to consider spiritual matters and plenty of conversation to share. Thank you, UUCF.

Principle 4: We affirm and promote a free and responsible search for truth and meaning. This one is easy for me to take for granted. Raised in liberal religion by spiritual seekers who were not afraid to look beyond the faith of their youth, I was taught by example the importance and value of a free and responsible search for truth and meaning. I’m grateful for family (Jewish and Christian) who afford me the same acceptance. I know I’m lucky in that. I’ve never had to defend my beliefs to family nor have I been told my path is wrong or invalid. For all of that freedom and support, I’m thankful.

Principle 5: We affirm and promote the right of conscience and the use of democratic process within our congregations and society at large. I’m grateful to have a voice in my church and in my nation. After years in Catholic churches where I felt like I had no say, being part of a congregation that supports democracy in religion restores my sense of ownership of my spiritual home. On the national level, I’m grateful to live in a country where, messy and polarized as it all may be, there is choice. I can vote for whom I want, and I’m thankful for that right.

Principle 6: We affirm and promote the goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all. I’m grateful that there are efforts made in this direction, by individuals, groups, and, at times, our government. I’m often discouraged by how deeply inequity, violence, injustice, and bondage continue to plague our world community, with discouragement turning to despair at points. I’m discouraged by my own lack of action, although I don’t even know where to begin. I’m thankful others have more courage and conviction on these issues, giving their time and talents to working for world peace.

Principle 7: We affirm and promote respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. I’m grateful for my sons, my family of origin, my family of choice, my friends, and my community, all who are integral strands of the web of my life. I’m thankful for the spot of garden I nurture (often poorly) in my yard and the bit of sustenance I receive from it. I’m grateful for those who farm the earth gently, remembering that we must take care of this fragile planet. I’m thankful for those who work to make sustainable energy sources more accessible and practical and grateful, helping to assure my sons and my sons’ sons and daughters will have futures full of light and heat.  I’m grateful for our tiny spot in the universe, the one that is Goldilocks-comfortable, and either the chance or choice that made this place possible.

Gratitude, structured over the days or within religious principles, is a valuable practice. It’s worth taking some time to take note, aloud or on paper or pixel, what brings us closer to truth, love, and meaning. It’s worth the effort and exposure to thank those who bring us those elements that make our lives even just a bit better. As I composed those last 1000 words, only a small fraction of what makes me grateful made it to the page. But it’s a start. And the time to be thankful extends beyond this Thursday or the end of November. For that — and so much more — I am grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pride and Humility (Vice and Virtue Series, Part 7)

Part 7 of a series of posts reflecting on the Vice and Virtue series of sermons at UUCF.

Tried this, and it really doesn't work. (www.savagechickens.com)

Lust and innocence.  Gluttony and temperance.  Greed and charity. Sloth and diligence.  Wrath and patience.  Envy and kindness.  Six vices with their six virtues down.  One set to go. Whew.  I’ve reverted to some rather slothful ways, given the last of the Vice and Virtue sermons, Pride and Humility, was given mid-May.  Perhaps I’m just wearing out on systematically exploring more of my shortcomings.  I do so much of that without a prompt, although reflecting on this series has guided that self-exploration.

“Pride is the mask of one’s own faults.”  This Jewish proverb began Rev. Alex Riegel’s sermon on pride and humility.  Using a mix of audience participation and teachings sprinkled with musings, Alex explored pride, individuality, and the separation from the divine that comes along with those.  He discusses healthy pride, which is pride in things one does well.  (I think it’s a fairly slippery slope from healthy pride to malignant pride, but I can appreciate his distinction.)

Pride is the mask of one’s own faults.  I like that.  So often,that in which I pridefully delight are the traits of mine that are most tenuous or underdeveloped.  I’ll hear a friend relate a frustration with a child and leap in with advice.  How is this pride?  It’s a way to look confident and sure of this messy business we call parenting that’s fraught with complications.  But how easy it is to lean back and say what someone else should do.  How reassuring to me, in all my parental insecurity, it is to confidently reassure another.

That action smacks of egotism, I know.  And as the words slip out of my mouth, I cringe.  After all, I’ve hardly mastered parenting.  My kids hardly behave ideally in every situation. We have as many hiccups as most in our day-to-day lives, often it feels like more.  I’d love to say my behavior as a parent was beyond reproach, but I have my ugly moments far too often.  I can yell, rant, and altogether behave in ways that would make Dr. Sears, Martha Sears, Elizabeth Pantley and a host of other connected parenting folks gasp in collective alarm.  I wasn’t raised by ranters and yellers.  Far from it.  I was actually, if my parents are to be believed, easy to parent.  I was eager to please, risk-averse, and altogether quite different from my boys.  Yeah, I was mouthy (and I still am), but that’s sometimes an asset.  Really.

Anyway, I don’t want to end up yelling.  I’m hardly PROUD of my irrational rants. Over 90% of the time, I can manage to pull out my good parenting skills (thanks to Sears, Pantley, good friends, and decent instincts) and parent knowing with healthy pride that I’m doing okay.  I’m respecting their personhood while maintaining authority.  Most of the other 10% of the time consists of a few “do it because I told you to” choruses alternating with verses about loss of computer privileges and the woes of poor planning/lying/food in one’s bedroom in a house that has ants.

Awareness it the key.  Awareness that in those areas where we feel most unsure are the same areas where we may find pride enter in.  Not false pride — just pride in what we have managed, sometimes with a struggle and always with massive imperfection.  Not healthy pride, which generally just causes us to smile in the mirror occasionally.  Pride as vice.  The kind of pride that messes with our relationships with others.  After all, most of our friendships, if healthy, are built on compassion, common interests, and respect all with a fair amount of reciprocity.  Pulling out the, “This works for me and will undoubtedly work for you no matter how different you and your children are from me and my children” card puts a monkey wrench in that mix.

No one's taking his jammies or meow.

With pride, you think you’re it.  The cat’s pajamas and meow all rolled into one fantastic package.  That’s a quite a trip down that slippery slope from healthy pride, where you recognize a strength but know you don’t have the market cornered on that strength.  In healthy pride, humility keeps that pride from being a vice.  It also keeps one from being a pain in the butt.  And when talking with a friend, humility is what makes one lead a piece of advice or anecdote with something similar to, “Well this worked for me, at least this time it did.”

Humility keeps one grounded.  Knowing you don’t know it all, that you don’t have all the answers, even about those fields that are your domain.  Twenty years ago — heck, even 10 years ago, I spoke and thought in more absolutes.  I confused my opinion or experience with ultimate truth.  As the decades have passed, I’m increasingly aware of how much I don’t know.  I’m also increasingly able to admit that there is much I don’t know.  Much of the humility I’ve developed is thanks to my kids.  First, they know a bunch of stuff I don’t.  One can read the sky with uncanny accuracy.  The other can ID swords and ancient weaponry with disturbing precision.  I can’t do either, but they’ve taught me a ton.  Second, they ask a bunch about things I don’t know.  In fact, “I don’t know,” may be my most often voiced phrase.  (No danger of pride in humility, here.  I really don’t like not knowing or being wrong, and my mouth tends to get me into pickles regularly.)

And that bit about pride causing separation from the divine?  I’m still foggy on what exactly I see as the divine, but whether it is the whole-bigger-than the parts community,the energy of the workings of the universe, or something else entirely, making this part tricky for me.  Pride certainly separate us from each other.  Pride is inwardly focused, leaving no room to look beyond the self.  Feeling sufficient in the self (something we’re encouraged to do in this society) lessens the sense of self as a part of a greater whole.  Call that whole Life, call it God, call it community — pride leads us to look in rather than out.  That view won’t lead to connection and interdependency.  With a healthy dose of humility, we see how we need each other, see how bigger community is than the sum of its parts.

So back to the key of awareness.  Simply being aware of times where pride separates us from others is a step toward better relations with others.  Being aware that we’ve not evolved to be self-sufficient islands leads us to better relations to our better selves.  Being aware of all our vices can lead to greater virtue and better relationships, human and divine, especially as we cultivate the virtues.   Innocence, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, and kindness.  All with a good dose of humility.

Namaste.

 

Envy and Kindness (Vice and Virtue Series, Part 6)

Part 6 of a series of posts reflecting on the Vice and Virtue series of sermons at UUCF.

I keep hoping I’ll find a vice that doesn’t resonate.  It’s not that I mind examining myself and finding spots for improvements.  It’s quite the opposite.  I’m an accomplished self critic, and these sermons have served as find fodder for my fault-finding mind.

Sermon #6 of the Vice and Virtue series, Envy and Kindness, were no exception.  Before I enumerate my envious ways, I’ll clarify terms.  Jealousy and envy seem to be synonyms, on first look.  The focus of jealousy is fear of loss.  The jealous lover’s energy goes toward concern that the beloved will be lost to another.  It’s not the having of the other that preoccupies the lover, but the thoughts of losing what one has to another

The focus of envy is not on loss but instead on wanting what the other has.  Material possessions and money are likely objects of envy, and one could envy another’s possession of a computer, car, or shoes.  Envy, at least for this discussion, goes a bit further.  Not only does the envious person desire the item the other has, envious one feels he or she compares poorly to the other person because he or she doesn’t own the item.  It’s a matter of having a hole in the self:  a hole that seems like it can only be filled by the stuff someone else possesses.

I’m generally not envious of other folk’s stuff.   Not that a new laptop, larger TV, or more fuel-efficient car wouldn’t be nice, but I don’t have my identity tied up with any of that.  Nope, I save my envy for life situations.  Why go for the obvious material things when you can envy whole lifestyles?

I envy intact, healthy families.  The kind with two parents under the same roof, working through the inevitable surprises that come with life, especially in a life with children.  Adults dedicated to personal growth and strengthening the family, with all its often-messy and unpredictable relationships it contains.  Not perfect families — they don’t exist.  Just adults that persist in adjusting again and again, weathering and even thriving in the storms all families face.  My heart hurts and my eyes fill just thinking about that.

According to the definition of envy, I have a hole that I think could be filled with this sort of family.  I can buy that.  I don’t spend much time thinking about the what ifs anymore.  My boys and I are a tight family of our own, and I’m accustomed to 24/5.5 parenting punctuated by two nights and one day off each week.  (One of the best parts of divorced parenting is the solitude of an empty house.  Shh.  Don’t tell.)  But I don’t think it’s ideal.  I still feel a gap.  Not every day.  Not as often as I used to feel one.  But it’s still there.  And I’m envious of those families I see with dedication to family, warts and all, and work to strengthen that primary unit. I’m envious of the tandem parenting these families can do.

I envy the ease at which many parent their children.  I know, all kids present challenges.  But I just want to plan a vacation or outing without wondering how many times my younger will melt down, overwhelmed by too many people, too much heat, or too much of something else.  I’d like to go to an art fair, a state park, or even run a series of errands without watching him constantly for overload, knowing if he crashes, we’ve stayed out too long. I’m envious of those who plan a trip for a week or a day without wondering how their nine-year-old will manage, whether it’s too much, whether it’s better just to do without.   Now,  I’d not trade my younger son nor his Asperger’s in for any sum.  He’s a bundle of strengths and weaknesses, like each of us, and I’m madly in love with the bundle.  But it’s an explosive package that requires contingency planning that sometimes wears me out.

Perhaps this envy illustrates a lack of acceptance of my son’s quirks.  I think the hole here is in expectations on my part.  I’d generally expect a nine-year old to weather the ups and downs that come with a series of errands, an unexpected place we have to go, or a vacation to a new place. Heck, others figure a kid his age (who looks “normal”, whatever that means) can roll with changes without much more than a brief whine.  But my son can’t, at least not yet.

The antidote to envy is kindness.  Primarily, I see this as patience with and kindness for ourselves.  When I feel my envy surge, it takes a good deal of patience with myself to bring me back to equilibrium.  Often, letting the feeling come and, generally within a few minutes, pass, is far more effective than fighting the envy.  I’d like to say I then reflect on what a loving, full family my boys and I are unto ourselves, but I’m not that centered.  However, I generally don’t proceed by berating myself for failing to maintain that ideal or anything truly ineffective than that.  I think part of the kindness to myself includes offering myself the chance to let the envy come and go rather than holding it tightly while pondering all my shortcomings and losses.

And the envy of families not struggling with a very challenging child?  Again, it generally passes with patience.  Kindness toward him, kindness from deep within me, helps, too.  He doesn’t mean to be so difficult to parent.  He’s not trying to be prickly and angry so much of the time.   He’s truly uncomfortable and anxious when these episodes occur, likely more so than I’ve ever personally experienced.  Much of this world is entirely unpredictable for him, and a good part is hard to interpret.  When I can extend kindness to him (even when he’s screaming at me), some of the envy and anger drop away.  I’m far from perfect at this, but I keep trying.

Six vices down, one to go.  I could envy those that live a vice-free life (or at least don’t need 1000 words to discuss each vice in his or her life), or I could extend kindness to myself.  I’ll take the latter, sure I’ll find more to contemplate number seven:  pride.

Responding to Osama bin Laden’s Death/Wrath and Patience (Vice and Virtue Series, Part 5)

Having retired early Sunday evening, I met the news of Osama bin Laden’s death on Monday morning.  A day late, I scanned the online edition of the New York Times, skimming for details, before clicking through to the video of Obama’s Sunday night announcement.

I’m sure he said what he was supposed to say.  I’m sure ending by invoking God’s protection of our human-created country is the politically correct way for the president of our country to respond.  Whatever one calls what is beyond the individual (God, Allah, Jehovah, Goddess, Ground of Being, or humanity), I don’t think that being blesses any one transient, human-created, humanity-dividing nation.  Especially when that nation is rejoicing the death of other humans.  Even when the target committed atrocious acts.

All that came to mind at that moment was Sunday’s sermon:  Wrath and Patience.  Wrath isn’t anger.  Anger is a feeling, a passing feeling, as is sadness, happiness, disappointment, worry, and a host of others.  If we pay attention to it or egg it on, it stays and grows.  Anger is a normal human response.  We all experience it, some of us more than others.  Anger, on its own, hurts no one.  It’s all in what we do with it.  Breathe through it, acknowledging the feeling and addressing appropriate internal and external triggers, and it goes away on its own.  Really.

Nurture it, feed it with thoughts and energy, call it righteous  and let it rule you, and anger can turn to wrath.  Wrath is the vice, not anger.  According Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, wrath is :

1

: strong vengeful anger or indignation

2

: retributory punishment for an offense or a crime : divine chastisement

Wrath is rage, often turned outward.  Wrath takes the feeling of anger and gives it the power to destroy ourselves and others, psychologically or physically.

I’ve experience wrath more times than I can remember.  Generally, the pattern is thus:  I sense a threat to my security from someone close to me, feel anger rising out of fear (of loss of control of a situation, of being misunderstood, or whatever.  I’m mad.).  I have a choice.  Either count to 10 or 100, breathing, letting the strong feeling pass into the ether with all other feelings or let it build.  Let’s say I take the latter.  I’m excessively verbal by nature, but when angry, my words can become more prolific and more biting.  The more I go on, well, the more I go on.  And on.  Ask my ex.  Ask my family.  They know all too well.

Somewhere along the line, anger morphs into wrath.  I’m indignant and everyone is going to get an earful.  My victims would say that my tirade is retribution enough to count as wrath, and they’d likely be right.  Caught up in my own selfish righteousness, I ride my own hot air.  It’s not pleasant.

The aftermath, for me, is remorse.  In particularly challenging situations (the ones that threaten my sense of self and security the most)are the ones where that wrath may cool and return at the least provocation, followed again by remorse.  It’s rather embarrassing to admit that pattern, but I’m fairly certain I’m not the only one to whom this occurs.  (An “amen” here would be quite comforting.)

Back to the killing of Osama bin Laden (and plenty of others along the way to him).  I’ll not debate the right or wrong of killing a killer here.  I’m a pacifist by nature and upbringing, but that’s not the point.  It’s not his death that shook me.  It was the response of the people, Americans, to that death.  The cheers and celebrations on the news in the restaurant we patronized last night.  The language used by reporter and our president himself:  ”Indeed, al Qaeda slaughtered scores of Muslims in many countries including our own. So his demise should be welcomed by all who believe in peace and human dignity.”

That’s wrath.  Welcoming the death of another, regardless of his or her crimes, is an expression of wrath.  Wrath is a vice.  It doesn’t bring us closer to unconditional love.  It doesn’t bind us together, not out of love, anyway.

I knew no one who died on September 11, 2001.  I mourned with the nation while I held my infant in my arms, wondering what kind of world would there be for my son and his older brother.  As I rocked and nursed my small one, I watched the news as we bombed Afghanistan and sought out bin Laden.  I felt sorrow, fear, and uncertainty.  I felt confusion and despair.  And I felt angry.  Some of that anger was directed at the organizations that shape young people into killers and veil it in the name of any deity.  Some was reserved for my own country and the destruction we wrought upon an already poor and suffering nation in the name of justice and retribution.   But wrath?  No.

Wrath’s corresponding virtue is patience.  Patience with ourselves, that the anger we feel welling within us and threatening to boil over is transient, if we ride the wave and let it pass.  Patience with nonviolent responses on violent actions, reminding ourselves that nonviolence has a powerful history of making change.  Patience with the wrath of others, knowing how quickly we all can travel from feeling of anger to the irreversible and damaging actions of wrath.

So that’s where I am.  I’ve allowed my initial anger with the enthusiasm so many Americans expressed upon the announcement of bin Laden’s death.   So, too, has passed my anger with Obama’s response.   All that remains is patience for peace.

Sloth and Diligence (Vice and Virtue Series, Part 4)

Part 4 in a series of posts reflecting on the vice and virtue sermons at UUCF.

Sloth is easy:  easy to write about, easy to identify in my life, easy to see in the world.   Heck, it’s easy to be slothful.  I do it every day.   Sloth as vice is not, as the sermon states, about being generally lazy.  I’m sometimes good at that, too.  Sloth as vice is, instead “falling asleep; being lazy about one’s spiritual agenda.”   Ouch.  Slothfulness, per the sermon, moves one in a direction away from the self and is a resistance to getting on with spiritual work.  Yow.

I spend a good amount of time thinking and writing about my spiritual life and matters of the cave of the heart.  I enjoy reading about spirituality, although little of that reading is of sacred writings.  I seek and appreciate time to discuss my musings in blog posts and with a few friends.  I consider myself a spiritual seeker.

I don’t spend much time in formal spiritual practice.  I don’t take time to shut down my brain and just be.  My meditation times are brief, and sloth is part of the equation.  I could set an alarm and start the day with yoga, chant, and meditation rather than waiting for my younger to wake me when he greets the day, sometime between 7 and 7:30 each morning.  I could seek refuge in my room midday, taking just fifteen minutes just be.  I could take a few minutes before bed for stillness in the dark, letting the day wash away before I drop into sleep and prepare to start all over again the next day.

Is that sloth?  Perhaps.  But as I’ve noodled on this for the last several weeks, I’m not so sure it’s the serious lack of attention to my spiritual self that I initially thought it was.  My spiritual practice extends (or should extend) to every encounter I have with self, other, and world.  My spiritual practice includes the way I respond to a crabby child, the time I take to listen to the birds outside my window, and the kindness I afford myself after I’ve done the previous two with less-than-ideal attention and compassion.  Lack of attention to my relationships is sloth as well, and, if sloth can be graded on a scale, I’d put sloth in right relations as a more serious voice than sloth in personal spiritual practice.

However, there’s a persuasive argument to be made that if you’re not in a healthy spiritual place that you’re unlikely to be able to be in right relations with others.  I can maintain my recycling and earth-friendly gardening practices even when I’m totally out of balance spiritually.  When I’ve neglected my spiritual practice for too long, I’m still a polite driver, pleasant customer, and diplomatic meeting participant.  It’s the closer relationships that suffer the most.  It’s the matters closest to the heart that are out of sorts.  My children and my beloved take the biggest hits.  And I’m not as peaceful inside, either.  Not that I’m a screaming lunatic when I haven’t meditated in a while, but I’m more likely to slip into a snarky or angry response just when love and compassion are for what the situation truly calls.

There is a connection, although how one reaches that place of balance is up to one’s choosing.  A good kirtan session carries me quite awhile, and chant on my own works nicely as well.  Maintaining a meditation practice still eludes me, but I know I’ve reaped the benefits of the practice those times I’ve put the time onto the cushion.  For others, prayer is the answer, while some silent the mind by running or biking. Writing is part of my spiritual practice, although it’s too “in my head” to be truly transcendent.  It’s a big player, however.  When I’m writing regularly, I’m more at peace and better able to maintain healthy, loving relationships with others.  It may not silent my mind, but it focuses my mind to a single point — the words on the page.  For me, that’s restorative and centering.

The antidote to and corresponding virtue of sloth is diligence:  sticking to the path of mindfulness.  Mindfulness, or focusing attention one thing at a time, is the essence of spiritual practice.  Whether the mind is on the breath or the step,  the dishes or the crying child, the mind has only one focus.  That’s hard to achieve, especially in a world of chirping cell phones, tinkling email boxes, flashing TV sets, and even black and white e-book readers.    By diligently monitoring our minds and our hearts, watching the rabbit trails that lead us away from the person in front of us or the task at hand, we takes steps away from sloth and toward a compassionate, attentive life.

Greed and Charity (Vice and Virtue Series, Part 3)

Part 3 of a series of posts reflecting on the Vice and Virtue series of sermons at UUCF.

Nobody expresses unconditional love better than the Sufi poets. (Image by Mara from Flicker)

The third in a series of sermons on Vice and Virtue explored greed. While, as Rev. Alex Riegel pointed out, the root of lust and gluttony is pleasure-seeking, the root of greed is different. Over the last third of his sermon, Alex builds an argument I’d summarize as follows. Greed, the need to accumulate things, money, and even approval, stems from fear that one’s needs will not be met another way. It is “a compensation for a sense of scarcity in (one’s)self.” Secondly, charity, or unconditional love, the balancing virtue to greed, is the state of not needing, not having conditions on love. This virtue occurs when others are not a means to our ends and when our attachment to getting from another isn’t present.

As I’ve explored the part greed place in my life, I’ve felt a bit embarrassed, which is likely why it’s taken me a few weeks to get this post completed. As way of partial explanation but not at all as excuse, I’m a worrier. I’m a free-range worrier, shifting my focus of concern as life proceeds. As a student, I worried about getting good grades to the point of avoiding classes that I wasn’t certain in which I’d earn an A. As an adult, my worries shifted to money, and I worried about having enough in the bank to survive some disaster I couldn’t even imagine, such as disability making my then-husband and I unable to work; then about disease or special needs of a child that would require deep pockets; and more recently about taking care of myself and my children after divorce. Now I worry about retirement and my later years, although at 41 those are ages. I will stand by fiscal planning as prudent and responsible, but it is small step from careful to greed, and I am not certain I know where that line lies.

Charity may be that line, however fuzzy, between responsibly planning for the family and hoarding. Giving to others in time, goods, or money, without expecting anything in return:  that’s charity.  It’s a short bridge from charity to another way to look at this virtue — unconditional love.  Soon into Alex’s discussion of greed, he moves his focus to unconditional love, love without conditions.  Love of a child that doesn’t rely on needing the child to behave in a certain way or of a spouse that doesn’t rely on specific feedback from that spouse are two examples.

I interrupt these musings to supply some context.  I missed the live delivery of this sermon and was grateful to have a pair of 20 minute car trips during which to listen to this sermon in relative peace.  Both boys read the drive away, but then we came close to their Dad’s house.  It was dusk, and my younger needed to pick up his piano books at his Dad’s so he could practice at home.  Only he didn’t see why he should get out of the car to get them (his shoes were off, for reasons I don’t understand).  He thought either his brother or I should get out.  For his books.  That he left.

I blew up.

I blew up right in the middle of blissfully listening about the virtue of unconditional love. I was there, listening and nodding away.  Then I was gone, yelling at my younger guy who (it turned out) was afraid to walk outside in the dark alone, even just the 15 feet from the well-lit car to the well-lit door.  All I wanted was to listen about love and lack of need from others, and he had to ruin it with his big stink, darn it.  How dare reality intrude upon my mind like that.

It’s not like I recovered right away.  As he finally made his way up the walkway (his dad came to the door of the house, likely drawn by the noise of my yelling, so my younger felt safe to scurry up and get his books), my older said something that irked me the wrong way.  Honestly, he could have told me he loved me at that moment, and I’d have likely bitten off his head.   I recall what I took as a criticism of my parenting and snapped away at him, too.  Nice job, Mom.  Way to unconditionally love.

Okay, so I have some work to do here.  I know most of my rants at the kids have to do with me not feeling they’ve met my expectations, and a few are overflow from leftover emotion that has nothing to do with them.  I don’t have a goal to be all sugar to my kids all the time.  I’m their mom, not their best friends.  Sometimes the best way to love them is to tell them what isn’t helping them live in community with me and each other.  After all, unconditional love isn’t meant to be exhausting, and it’s not about folks walking all over you.  But I’d like to keep a better watch on the way I remind them of their responsibilities, leaning toward more charitable language and less, well, of the other stuff.  Even when it means missing part of a great sermon.

A Step away from Gluttony (Vice and Virtue Series, Part 2)

Part 2 of a series of posts reflecting on the Vice and Virtue series of sermons at UUCF.

Gluttony is not a regular word in my vocabulary. Aside from the phrase, “glutton for punishment” this word rarely enters my speech, and even then I use it facetiously. The second sermon in Alex Riegel’s series on Vice and Virtue, Gluttony and Temperance, led me to think beyond that pithy phrase and about the gluttony of my own life. Just as lust refers more than a desire for sexual pleasure, so gluttony refers to more than an excessive intake of food and drink. Certainly anything one lusts for can then lead to gluttony. One can overindulge in food, drink, sex, possessions, sports, TV, or (gasp) yarn. Basically, gluttony is the acquisition of more than one needs.

During the sermon, the congregation was asked to give examples of gluttony in the world. Congregants mentioned Dubai’s massive physical structures, big businesses’ feast on money,Wall Street, McMansions, and the auto industry, all places that certainly embody gluttony for power and money. My first thought was my own home. I live in a 70-year-old cape cod of about 1800 square feet. Its three bedrooms and four baths more than accommodate the boys and I, and there are far more places to comfortably sit than our three backsides can use at a time. Bookshelves in every room reveal a gluttony for books, despite a fine public library system in our area. Closets hold more clothes than we can possibly wear; cabinets, more games than we can ever play — you get the idea.

I doubt I’m alone in this form of gluttony. It’s little comfort to know that most of you reading this post own more than you need to be comfortable. In fact, it’s downright disturbing how much most of us in this country own, or at least the portion of us reading this on our home computer, iPad, phone, laptop, or netbook. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of those devices, or anything wrong with clothing, books, toys, chairs, or cars. I’m far from an ascetic in philosophy or practice. But most of us have too much. We’re gluttons even before we tuck into the kitchen table three (or more) times a day.

Now, I come from a rather self-flagellating line on my dad’s side, so berating myself for owning too much, buying too big, or breathing more than my share than the air seems to be in my genes. I’m good at looking at my life and seeing upon what I could improve. I’m not so hot at making changes, but I do try. Several times a year I de-clutter with the aim of reducing the stuff in our lives. These binges usually follow tripping on one too many duct tape sword or noticing the size 5T shirt in my 9-year-old’s closet. Sometimes these sprees are the result of glutton guilt, but more often they’re just my way of bringing a bit of organization to my life.

But I don’t think those sprees of reduction are the point of this sermon topic. Gluttony is more than just having too much or eating too much. Gluttony occurs when our overindulgence steps on another’s right to have enough. It’s easy to absolve ourselves with gluttony on this front. After all, I’ve never taken food out of the hands of a hungry child or evicted someone from a home so I could have a place put my 54 inch flat screen (okay, we have a 20-some inch big boxy TV from some 10 years back).

Or have I?

It may not be the having that’s the gluttony for many of us but more what price others pay for what we acquire.  Picking the fairly traded blouse over the mass-produced name brand made-in-a-sweatshop shirt is a choice away from gluttony.  A move toward eating homegrown or very locally grown produce  and selecting other locally made goods saves fossil fuel for the next generation (although hopefully we find something better for them and the environment) because it doesn’t travel thousands of miles to reach our door.  Fixing a chair rather than ditching it and heading to IKEA for a new one keeps less out of the waste stream on both ends of the production cycle.  All are temperance in action.

So while my urge to move out the excess has its merits to my sense of aesthetics and aversion to chaos, it’s not actually the answer to gluttony.  Control on the buying end and making wise choices seems key.  These same practices help redistribute the wealth, decrease waste and pollution, and respect workers by buying from companies that provide a living wage.

I’m not there yet.  I try to think about purchases, asking myself a few questions:  Do I really need this?  Do I have something already that will do the job?  Who made this, and at what personal and ecological price?  Can I buy something similar with a smaller ecological and human price tag?  Can I do without?   Those questions slow me down, although they hardly stop every unneeded or careless purchase.  And that’s a step away from gluttony.

UU Salon Big Question: What Do You Believe about God?

Finding the cave of the heart takes no more than yourself, but a singing bowl, candle, and chimes can inspire one a bit.

I’ve not posted a response to a UU Salon Big Question for some time, but this month’s poser caught my attention:  What do you believe about God?  Note the wording.  Not, “Do you believe in God?” but rather “What do you believe about God?”  Here’s my response.  Take it to be my view today, and while informed by my yesterdays it’s not a predictor of what I’d say on any given tomorrow.

I was born when my parents attended a Baptist church, grew up attending a Methodist church for Sunday school followed by a Catholic Mass at the University of Detroit’s very liberal, very atypical, and very Jesuit  chapel (yes, that’s two church sessions on Sundays).  At 12, I decided to be baptised Catholic, a choice I made while attending Catholic school and dutifully working on the task of fitting in.  Call it an informed choice or not, but I was then (and remain) satisfied with the decision I made.  Fast forward to marriage to a non-Catholic at age 25, our search for a Catholic church that resonated with us, the birth and Catholic baptism of two boys in two different churches, my ex-husband’s joining of the Catholic church, and our subsequent leaving of Catholicism, some 6 years ago.  We found temporary shelter in a liberal Episcopal congregation, but soon left.  The question of the nature of God was part of that choice to leave.

I’d always believed in God.  As a child, I believed in the Guy in the Sky who knew all and loved me.  I believed in Jesus, his son, who came to earth to tell us more about God.  For a number of years in my late teens and early 20s, I believed in a literal resurrection and was deeply attached to the idea of a personal God, always accessible , a comfort during some otherwise rocky and lonely years.

And then I wondered.

I wondered the usual wonderings.  If there is a God, how could God allow suffering?  How could there be a God who answered prayers if so many good, believing people’s prayers seemingly went unanswered?  How could God be three beings in one?  Beyond the God questions, I struggled with the basic tenets of Christianity.  It was time to stop church-shopping and start letting my mind work at the questions.  Three years later, I found my current church, a mid-sized Unitarian Universalist church with a minister with an active spiritual search which he willingly shares with the congregation.  The word God was used sparingly my first months there, and references to Christianity were even less frequent.  All the better, I felt.  I wasn’t ready to approach the God question.

Over the next year, my understanding of world religions grew.  My boys and I had explored  origins and major teaching of many world religions through our history studies, and we’d all learned quite a bit.  Their religious education classes at the time focused on the same, and the messages from the pulpit were often designed to broaden the congregation’s appreciation and understanding of the many spiritual paths of the world.
Gradually, the God question returned to my conscious mind.  But more than that, I learned how to quiet my mind a reach a place both inside and outside of me through meditation.  As I’ve posted before, this practice has been a struggle, and I’ve yet to practice on a daily basis.  But it has opened a part of my self that approached the issue of God on a different level Over the past three years, I’ve come to the following understanding about God.

God is not the Guy in the Sky pulling the strings.  God is not the property of Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, or any other religion.  God is not there to do our bidding, rescue us from our human condition, smite our enemy, protect our country, or help our sports team win.

To me, now, God is the energy of the universe, a palpable presence if we still our minds and feel the connection we have to others.  God is what is in each of us, regardless of creed or lack of creed.  God is ever-present but more easily sensed in those quiet moments or when we connect with others.  God is within is, around us, between us, over us, under us, to our right and left, in front of us and behind us, to borrow a Navaho prayer.

But I rarely call this presence God.  I’ll refer to the divine, a larger presence, my ground of being (gob, for short), the energy of the universe, and other longer, more convoluted expressions, but almost never as God.   Why not?   I’m not sure.  While I don’t feel, as some UUs and  other former Christians do, wronged by Christianity and angry at religion in general, my reaction to the word God is muddled.  That Guy in the Sky comes to mind, and moving from that to a broader definition takes mental effort and distracts from my understanding of what this divine being or presence is. The word God engages my mind and my feelings, but this isn’t where the divine resides.  Hindus refer to “the cave of the heart,” which refers to that in us that is not body, senses, feelings, or thoughts.  It’s what is left when we leave all those behind.  When I reach that spot, I am in contact with the divine, within myself and beyond myself.  And I can’t reach it when my mind is contemplating the meaning of the word God and my feelings whirl around those meanings.

While searching for a link to a better explanation to the cave of the heart,  I found this poem, written by Quiong practitioner, Satya, and her words are the clearest explanation I can find:

In the Cave of My Heart

by Satya Kathleen Dubay

In the cave of my heart

I am silent

 

In the cave of my heart

I am still

 

In the cave of my heart

I am the breath

of the One

that is breathless

Spiritual practice, meditation, prayer, or other, can take the willing to this cave of the heart, where the divine by any name resides in each of us.  At least that’s what I believe.

Addendum:  Thanks to Rev. Alex Riegel for today’s sermon on the heart .  I’d written most of this post prior to hearing this message this morning, and, upon finishing this reply to UU Salon, found the cave in the heart applied to this topic.  This sermon and others from the Universalist Unitarian Church of Farmington can be found at uusermons.com.   The divine can be found in the cave of your heart first.  Once you find it there, you’ll see it everywhere.

Namaste

Rules of Engagement

I don’t like war.  I’m opposed to name calling, fighting, civilian gun possession (other than for hunting), and other forms of violence, physical and otherwise.  I was raised by pacifists singing folk songs about peace, and their messages sunk in.

However, I’ve started many a verbal sparring match with those I love the most.  I’ve called names, argued with children and an ex-spouse, and otherwise not acted peacefully.  And I’m ashamed of all that.   I’ve been on the receiving end of all those types of violence as well, but, as I know well, that’s never an excuse.

I think it’s quite human to be angry.  Anger, joy, love, disappointment, sorrow, passion.  All are part of the spectrum of emotions that are part of the package of our humanity.  It’s also quite human to want to be understood.  While some folks go underground when those they love don’t “get” them, I’m one of different ilk.  My desire to be understood can lead to not-so-peaceful engagement of others in the face of all information telling me to stop talking, yelling, pleading, berating, and otherwise stating my case (and putting forth as many ego boundaries as possible).  And it’s always — and I do mean always — fruitless and often destructive.

Now, certainly there are appropriate times, places, and methods of stating one’s case.  As humans, we have rights and needs, and advocating for those rights for oneself and others is good and necessary.  But I’m not talking about those meeting those basic needs.  I’m referring to the tendency I have (and I know I’m not alone here) of becoming so identified with my thoughts that I mistake them for universal truth.  My sense of “me” versus “other”  deepens, and my quest to be understood turns to a drive to be right.  Big difference.

But when I operate out of love, out of my soul, without the mind steering the boat, I drop the ego.  The sense of me and other diminish and, for brief yet precious moments, can vanish.  Being understood occurs in the understanding of others, of seeing the self in the eyes of the other.  Empathy?  Sort of, but more so. Seeing that the other isn’t other, that, but for the slightest change in circumstance or turn of the universe that I could be the other.  When I proceed with that point of view, peaceful engagement is far more likely.

I’ll admit that, for me, this recognition of other as self is easier with strangers.  Without the emotional overlay and attachments, I’m better able to engage on a compassionate level.  It’s harder in some relationships than others.  Take my children.  When I can connect, seeing myself in their distress, fear, or joy, I can engage peacefully, even when I need to correct them or give them what they feel is bad news.  Too often, though, I’m distracted, often wrapped up in what is me and my separateness.  Being human (and, boy, am I that), I know this is normal, but still I strive for more peaceful engagements than those that are violent in spirit.

My biggest challenge is with my once-was-husband.  (I just don’t care for the term “ex-husband.”)  After fifteen years of marriage, several good years followed by several of increasing conflict and sadness, we developed rather unhealthy and certainly not peaceful communication patterns.  Despite a few years of separation and a now-completed divorce, it still takes little for our engagements to escalate into powerful ego conflicts.  One of us meets the other with self versus other, and the other follows in suit.  I feel myself shore up my ego, protecting my sense of self.   He follows suit, and we both spend energy and emotion delineating self from other.  It’s predictable, destructive, and painful.

So it’s time to disengage, or at least change our rules of engagement.  And since I’m the only one I can change (and, yeah, I struggle with that limitation), that means following different rules of engagement.  Rules that allow me to see myself in him, as hard as that seems now.  It’s surely the path to peace, and, as I’ve said, I don’t care for war.

A special thanks goes out to Alexander Riegel, a fine minister of UUCF and a wise man.  This post was inspired by a recent sermon of his, Interbeing.  It’s well worth thirty minutes of your time.