We in Fact or Hope or Hunch Arrive

The reading I offered you this morning is . . . wrong. Unitarian Universalism is not underrated. At least not today, not here, not on Commitment Sunday. That's right -- we're going to prove my reading wrong: we're going to rate Unitarian Universalism way up high and celebrate your terrific congregation and the commitments that so many of you are making this year. That's the plan for this canvas Sunday.

At least that's what I was told the deal was this morning. I figure I was invited to participate in your annual pledge drive because I serve a church near Boston, and surely ministers from Boston would have the good taste not to mention anything so crass as, well, . . . money.

Actually I'm not from New England though, so I don't know any better, and I do want to tell you a story about: money. It's a true story that came from some old ledger books on the top shelf of my office at our church in Massachusetts, some ledger books from the Depression.

In the 1930's, of course, times were tough. During that period, our church members were accustomed to pledging either twenty-five cents a week, fifty cents, or one dollar a week. In the 1929-30 church year, all of the church members fulfilled their pledges of thirteen dollars for the year, or twenty-six dollars, or fifty-two.

But as the depression continued, our ledger books begin to show tiny numbers at the bottom of each page. Five cents. Two dollars, twelve dollars. And then a little "s." Five cents "short" of the pledge. Twelve dollars short. Just what one would expect during the depression.

But picture this: Picture more numbers appearing at the bottom of the ledger. Four dollars. Eighty cents. Seven dollars. Thirty cents. And after these numbers, the tiny letter "o." Four dollars "over the pledge." Eighty cents "over."

I can find no evidence in our records of a special appeal from the Board of Trustees, no traces of public discussion, only the quiet generosity of the people of the church.

I've read through a number of boxes of our church's historical material dating back from the early 1800's -- sermons and stories and lore. But nothing has touched me more than the dusty ledger book filled with numbers from the Thirties: In our church during the

Depression, for every pledge that had to fall short, one of many generous people overpaid his or her pledge to compensate.

I love the history of our churches. Gandhi was never a member. Mother Teresa never belonged either. King Midas never showed up, nor Bill Gates, for that matter. Just regular folks, like us. They dedicated their babies, they worshipped, they reached out to do their part in the world, they tended one another, they kept the place going, they tried to live their best lives.

In those old days, Samuel Eliot, a big shot from the Unitarian headquarters, stood outside our church to dedicate a new building, and he said, "My friends, let us not forget that the church of the spirit must be forever building. You are linking your personal religion to the spiritual life of this whole community, and in this high endeavor, I bid you Godspeed."

Unitarian Universalists need not be underrated. Across time, across the continent, we all have been doing just what Sam Eliot told the Unitarians in Reading, Massachusetts to do: year after year we have linked our personal religions to the spiritual life of the whole community. You're doing it again today, by just walking in the door on the one Sunday a year when Unitarian Universalists offer religious commitments in the form of a pledge.

But oh, it isn't easy. What in the world does it mean to put Sam Eliot's vision into play? One might ask, as the poet Marge Piercy asks, "How do we know where we are going?"

["The Perpetual Migration" in Circles on the Water]:

"How do we know where we are going?

"How do we know where we are headed

till we in fact or hope or hunch arrive?

As individuals here this morning. Where are we going? Where are we headed? Are we really living? Will our lives count for anything? Where does Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church fit in? That's what you want to know before you plunk down your 25 cent weekly pledge or 56 dollar annual pledge or, in 1998 perhaps a little something higher.

These are theological questions, the kind of questions we like to ask in our churches. Indeed, in a recent issue, our denominational magazine, The World, published a survey of just these sorts of questions -- maybe you filled it out. I think you'll agree that it may not be the best designed questionnaire in the universe, but still, some of the topics are worthy of contemplation and conversation.

Just twenty questions, but they're tough, though they're multiple choice. Like this one: "What are the deepest yearnings of your heart?" And here are the choices: "Peace and harmony. To be known and loved. Happiness, nurture and love for my children/family. To become whole/find meaning. To make a difference, help build a more just world. To feel I am part of a wondrous creation. " It is a theological survey; it gets us asking, "How do we know where we are going? "How do we know where we are headed till we in fact or hope or hunch arrive?"

Another question: "What things should your congregation be most intent on helping children learn?" Choices? [We should help our children learn] "A sense of their inherent worth, self-respect. What Unitarian Universalism is and stands for. That their faith and their lives are one . . . they grow together. Openness to difference and respect for others. A love for the adventures of life."

And a third question: "How does being a Unitarian Universalist sustain you in times of crisis, tragedy or pain?" Possible answers? "It provides a community of love, support and renewal. Reminds me that I am not an exception to the human condition. Addresses oppression which affects me. Provides a sense of transcendence, God or a healing power. Comfort of beloved friends. "Theological questions that help us discern where we want to go fill we in fact or hope or hunch arrive~'

Unitarian Universalists love to ponder the quest, the search, the journey. At canvas time in particular, you can't escape this kind of theological question. What is it you love? What are you doing here? Is it the Book Club? The up-coming discussions about ethical living? The Memory Garden project? The Auction? Soup kitchen work? The energetic new members? Today's free lunch? The Sunday Forums? Sermons, maybe?! Teaching the children, and exposing your kids to grown-ups and curricula that are solid and affirming. Maybe it's the music that sustains you, or the quiet pause in the week, or the caring way that people cluster around when things in life go awry. Why do you come? Where were you headed with this? Where did you think you were going?"

I'm on sabbatical just now, so I've been thinking about all this. And to jolt me into actually having a few thoughts -- I've been traveling -- working all the travel deals and frequent flier miles -- and so I'm just back from the Amazon, and Prague. And Istanbul, too.

When I travel, I try to blend. I leave my camera at home. I don't buy any souvenirs. I eat local food where local people eat. I stay away from tourist haunts.

So I'm in Istanbul, in the marketplace-adrift in the covered bazaar to tell you the truth-and I'm blending. Blending there in the

marketplace -- I'm walking amidst the tables of figs, flip flops, saffron, carpets, apple tea, hookahs -- there I am, now I'm walking past booth after booth of pistachios, evil eyes, satellite dishes, Islamic holy books, Bart Simpson T-shirts, brass trays-harem girl outfits.

Harem girl outfits. And the fellow in the harem outfit booth looks at me for a split second and says to me in perfect English: "It is your destiny."

This particular sales pitch did not work on me. At least to date I have not put my name on the harem girl sign-up sheet, regardless of my destiny. I laughed out loud is what I did, and there it was in the Turkish covered bazaar, a moment of perfect clarity: I am a Unitarian Universalist, and we are the people who choose our religion. Our historical tradition tells us that we don't believe in predestination, or destiny, or that anything was or wasn't "meant to be." We take the side of freedom, and that freedom includes making of ourselves what we will, and making our religion our own. What we choose is what we are. We see that in our churches.

And that, my friends, is the point.

You are choosing your religion here, what you're going to believe about Easter and Passover -- what you think they mean. How you handle death, and what you think happens next, if anything. How you're going to change the world; how you're going to pray (if you want to pray at all); how you're going to connect with the cosmos and how you're going to get through the day. It's your religion, and your church.

It's your church, and maybe you like rocking babies in the Nursery, or you like designing shelves, or you'd just like to try; you're a natural-born leader or you'd like to test your wings at chairing a committee. You're a bit of a ham, or terrified of public speaking, either way it's your church, your vision, it's all within your power. You are choosing your faith.

You can admire the children's watercolors here in your church, you can plant an azalea, you'll let the rest of us send you a get-well card, you can play the piano or just tap your feet, you'll cry at a baby dedication, you'll eat the canvass brunch, you'll smell the flowers and all that's great because you've chosen this church as your own.

Whether you are chatty or mute, analytical or artistic, you with your personal finances bar graphed on your computer, you who feel at home in the kitchen, who have a wealth of intuition, you whose watch beeps on the hour, you who wonder what day it is, you whose socks don't match, you are welcome here because, after all, this is your church and you are sitting here this morning and you know this is good stuff.

In her poem, Marge Piercy not only asks how we know where we are going, where we are headed -- she speculates that we do know what we want. We want, she goes on to say, "Peace, plenty, the gentle wallow/ of intimacy, a bit of Saturday night/ and not too much Monday morning/, a chance to choose, a chance to grow/, the power to say no and yes, pretties/ and dignity, [and] an occasional jolt of truth."

You here today know what you want. You know what you want from church. You've made your decisions, you know what counts in your life, you know what you like; why else would you be willing to fill out a pledge card, guilt free and happily? You have your own reasons to celebrate, one and all.

Folks, you have in fact or hope or hunch arrived. You know where you are headed. And whether you're looking for peace and harmony, or wholeness, or a more just world, you're here together. You've arrived. And whether you want to teach the children a sense of their inherent worth, or that their faith and lives are one, or a love for the adventures of life, you're here together. You've arrived. And whether you're looking for a community of love, or a sense of transcendence, healing or comfort, here you are together. You've arrived.

Yes. We arrive out of many singular rooms.

We come to be assured that brothers and sisters surround us in love. We try again that solitude found in the midst of them who with us seek their hidden truths.

This is the reason for assemblies in houses of fellowship. It is good to be with one another.

So may it be with us. Amen.

READING

The reading is by the Rev. Galen Guengerich, one of our ministers in NYC. He says: Last September, GQ magazine, following what has become an annual tradition, issued its Overrated List . . . GQ's list of things that do not deserve their current high regard includes, for example, family values, two-ply thickness, packaged melatonin, outlet stores, contemporary British fiction, the Christian Coalition, picture-in-picture capability, Seattle, and Emma Thompson.

Published [recently] in order to counter what GQ calls the alleged "snarkiness" of the Overrated List, the Underrated List highlights people, things, habits and ideas that have been unheralded, unappreciated, maligned or just generally underrated.

According to GQ, your life and mine have been profoundly diminished by our failure fully to appreciate the subtle charms of Q-tips, televised bowling, Marshmallow Fluff, the foot as erogenous zone, the Ohio River, and waffles. Also underrated by modern-day cultural mavens are board games, canned cranberry sauce, and the name "Harry."

Before you respond, with barely disguised disdain, that marshmallow Fluff and televised bowling are held in low regard for good reason, allow me to mention one other item. Somewhere on this list of underrated things, down near the U.S. Postal Service, disposable cameras, and blind dates, you will find -- that's right -- Unitarian Universalism.

[We are], [according to GQ], a cutting-edge, hipper-than-thou cultural event.

So now you know. Eat Marshmallow Fluff, watch bowling on television, and attend a Unitarian Universalist church. This could be called GQ's unified field theory of a meaningful life. I suppose one could do worse, especially when it comes to the Unitarian Universalist part.

Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
9601 Cedar Lane, Bethesda, Maryland 20814-4099
Tel: 301-493-8300    Fax: 301-897-5713
e-mail: office@CedarLane.org
Sunday Services at 9 and 11 a.m.
© 1998-2008, Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
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