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Home Again
A Sermon Given
by The Reverend Douglas A. Taylor
on September 5, 1999
at Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
Bethesda, Maryland
Reading
A selection from e.e. cummings from his book
i: six nonlectures:
You will perhaps pardon me, as a non-lecturer, if I begin my second
non-lecture with an almost inconceivable assertion: I was born at home.
For the benefit of those of you who can't imagine what the word "home"
implies, or what a home could possibly have been like, I should explain
that the idea of home is the idea of privacy. But again -- What is
privacy? You probably never heard of it. Even supposing that (from time
to time) walls exist around you, those walls are no longer walls; they
are merest pseudosolidities, perpetually penetrated by the perfectly
predatory collective organs of sight and sound. Any apparent somewhere
which you may inhabit is always at the mercy of a ruthless and
omnivorous everywhere. The notion of a house, as one single definite
particular and unique place to come into, from the anywhereish and
everywhereish world outside -- that notion must strike you as
fantastic. You have been brought up to believe that a house, or a
universe, or a you, or any other object, is only seemingly solid:
really (and you are all realists, whom nobody and nothing can deceive)
each seemingly solidity is a collection of large holes -- and, in the
case of a house, the larger the holes the better; since the principle
function of a modern house is to admit whatever might otherwise remain
outside. You haven't the least or feeblest conception of being here,
and now, and alone, and yourself.
Prayer
Eternal Spirit
From whom all things come
And to whom all things return,
We gather this hour as a people of faith on the forming edge of a new
day.
We gather as seekers after greater understanding and deeper
connections.
We gather as strangers to creeds and doctrines of old, as pilgrims on the
journey of the expansive range of possibility before us.
Hear us as a people in search of justice and truth, but also as a people
in search of comfort and a sense of belonging.
Where there is struggle and hardship, may there be courage.
Where there is adversity, may there be strength of spirit.
And where there is despair, may there be hope and companionship for the
journey.
All this we ask in the name of all that is holy, may it be so.
Sermon
So I was looking around our new place. My family and I found a nice townhouse near Gaithersburg. I trust most
of you already know this as it was mentioned in an article in our most recent newsletter, (and I trust that
like me you all read the newsletter from cover to cover as soon as it arrives.) Our townhouse is still rather
empty however, as our furniture will not be arriving from Chicago for another week. But this emptiness prolongs
the sense of being on the road without a home. We have been traveling this summer. Mostly we have been up in a
summer youth camp called Unirondack, but we have also visited friends and family in the upstate New York area
this summer. So, we have been rather nomadic and unsettled for the past few months. And now, even with a fixed
address and a steady job already underway, because of the temporary lack of furniture, we do not yet feel
settled.
But, we're used to this. We have moved around a lot in the nearly ten years we have been, almost once a year!
And each year we have been able to transform the rented space into a home quickly enough. But it does tend to
make one wax philosophical wandering through a mostly empty house trying to imagine how things will look when
it is a home. What is needed for it to be a home? Is it the furniture or the wall hangings? Must it be occupied
for a certain amount of time before it becomes 'homey?" Does it grow in time or happen all of a sudden? I have
heard it said and seen it written on many ceramic knick-knacks that hang in kitchens, that with Love in the
house, the house becomes a home. Does this mean that when a person lives alone, without someone to share the
house lovingly, that it is not a home?
Well, so these are the sorts of things on which I ponder. I have admitted before that I do not have a keen
sense of time. What I do have is a well developed sense of place. I have often been able to find my way
somewhere again even if I have only been there once, even if that once was a long time back. I have a good
sense of direction. Having a sense of place, of direction, is a good quality for one whose work is in the
church community. Many people consider their church a second home. I have already heard a number of Cedar
Laners espouse this sentiment in this brief time that I have been here. But churches in general have not always
put forth a productive concept of "home;" at least not by our liberal religious standards. Robert Bellah, a
retired Episcopalian professor of Sociology and Religion and a renown author, has this to say on the concept of
home from a religious perspective in his essay from 1970 entitled "No Direction Home":
Most of the founding fathers [he writes] believed in some version of that religious tradition of which Dante
was an earlier expression. For them this earth was only a temporary abode. They were to be in but not of the
world. Their true home was their Father's house, and their Father was in heaven. This earth was simply the
location of a long upward climb, the "Pilgrim's Progress," which was to end gloriously in heaven. Gradually,
over the course of several centuries, that upward course has become truncated. The heavenly home in which it
ends is a split level in suburbia supplied with all the latest electrical equipment. (p.2)
This is what Bellah wrote concerning the religious quest for "home" thirty years ago. This notion that we are
just here as a temporary lay-over on our way to a better place is dwindling in popular culture. It is
out-of-date. It does still thrive in many conservative Christian churches, but they are swiftly become
counter-cultural in our materialistic and on-the-move society; and Bellah notes this at the end there when he
indicates that the quest for heaven has been replaced by the quest for a nice house with the "latest electrical
equipment." Now, this and other Unitarian Universalist churches are also counter-cultural on this issue, but in
a different way. But my point and I believe Bellah's point as well, is that the notion of the "other-worldly"
home as the true home, is no longer the standard cultural perspective.
However, the commercialistic perspective which seems to have stepped in and filled its place is no great shakes
either. By this perspective, we say that the pie-in-the-sky future life is not real and does not matter, what
matters is what you have now. What matters is about bigger, better, and faster. Who you are and what you are
worth is currently measured by the status of what you do and what you have. The "dream home" from the
perspective of our consumer culture is defined by the stuff that is in it. In this morning's reading, e e
cummings states that "the principle function of a modern house is to admit what might otherwise remain
outside." The house then becomes a status measure of the occupant. He puts in a little dig at the hearer right
there at the end of the excerpt I choose. He says, "You haven't the least of feeblest conception of being here,
and now, and alone, and yourself." Cummings is touching here on the concept of being at home in yourself.
'Home,' it seems here, is not just a 'Where', but also a 'When,' and even a 'Who.'
* * * * *
I have a story I want to share which I find illuminating. It is a common story among churches, but it bares
retelling.
There was a well-to-do father who had two daughters. The younger of the two went to her father and said, "I
wish to travel and see the country. I want you to give me now what would be my inheritance." The father figured
the sum, divided what would be the inheritance between his two children, and gave his youngest her due. Within
a few days, she gathered all she had, and went traveling around the country, visiting many big cities and
fantastic places. In her travels she squandered all she had and ran up a big credit card debt. She hit on hard
times and went to work for a fast-food restaurant. Unfortunately, she only made enough after taxes and health
benefits, to cover rent and bus fare to and from work; leaving only a little for food, and no money for fun and
entertainment. She couldn't even eat the scraps that lay around the fast-food joint due to strict health codes.
But when she came to herself; she said, "Even the servants in my father's house have enough to eat. I will go
back to my father and say 'Father I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be
called your daughter; treat me like one of your hired servants.' " So she set off and went to her father. While
she was still a long way off, her father received an e-mail from a neighbor up the road warning him that his
prodigal daughter was on her way home.
The father leapt up from the computer filled with compassion. He ran and put his arms around her. Then the
daughter said, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your
daughter." But the father said to his hired servants, "Quickly, bring a change of clothes, new shoes, and rings
for her hand. Open the best bottle champagne. Let us eat and celebrate, for this daughter of mine was dead and
is alive again, she was lost and is found!" And they began to celebrate.
This is my updated version of Luke, Chapter 15, verses 11-24, the story of the prodigal son, or daughter in
this case. Usually we hear this story with a message about God being like a loving and forgiving parent. And I
think that is a fine message, but it is not the one I am after today. I'm interested in a very short line in
the middle of the story. "She came to herself." The daughter starts out pretty well. She heads out to see the
world, she squanders all her money and ends up in the dumps. And then it says "she came to herself." And there
the story turns around, she gets up, and goes home again to the loving open arms of her father. All because
"she came to herself." Now what does that mean?
It is a funny thing how being away from something causes deeper appreciation of it. When a couple is in love
and spend all their time together, it is rare that their relationship will be the subject of their
conversation. Early on they may say cute things to each other and encourage each other in the relationship; but
as it grows and matures, people don't really talk about it because it is too central a thing to talk about.
Now, separate that couple from each other, and they tend to write letters or talk on the phone about how much
they miss one another's company. They talk about the relationship. Being away from something causes deeper
appreciation of it. "Out of sight, out of mind," only holds true for those things which are not as important to
us. And "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," plays out true in the larger scheme of things.
I walk around my empty townhouse thinking about home when it is not quite there. The prodigal child realized
the worth of her family at the point when it was furthest from her. "She came to herself." She realized what
was most important to her, recognizing it by its absence. And that is really the crux of what I'm after this
morning. Somehow these absences, gaps, and spaces are the conductors for really important stuff.
Now science has been telling us this for years. The synapse between nerve cells, that space between one and the
next, is key to physiological function. And music, a lot of sound is shaped by the empty space of the
instrument, or on another level, by the pauses and breaths in the score. And of conversation, it is said that
"Silence can live without speech, but speech cannot live without silence." (Jacob Trapp) The empty spaces in
our lives seem to be an essential piece of a good life.
Earlier I said that the consumer culture presents the perspective that a person's house can become a status
measure of the occupant. What this story, this phrase from the story, "She came to herself," implies is the
opposite. The occupant becomes the measure of the home rather than the home being a measure of the occupant.
Home, it may be, is simply a self-projection out onto the building you occupy. If you are not at home in
yourself, where can you ever be at home?
Again from this morning's reading, e e cummings called a home a "collection of holes." It is not the walls and
the roof that make it a home. Rather, it is the space created by those boundaries which allows for there to be
"home." And further, I would assert, it is not just the "collection of holes", or the spaces, but what happens
in the spaces. The love, the conversation, the memories, the connections, . . . all this happens in the
in-between, the empty space within the boundaries of the walls. And thus it is home.
And here, too, between these walls is a large amount of empty space. The conversations, the music, the laughter
and the tears, the memories and the connections made in this, our house of worship, has made this our home. And
so, here I stand, new to this community, not yet settled in or even unpacked, . . . and yet I am home again.
And so I say to you, every week as you enter into this "collection of holes" we call Cedar Lane, I say to you,
"Welcome Home."
In a world without end,
May it be so.
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