Unitarian Universalist - And We Above Ground

Unitarian Universalist. Universal God, Universal Truth. Everybody Welcome. Leave your religious manifesto at the door.

That's a pretty easy, politically correct bunch of words* But you try and put it into practice. Seriously. Have a dinner party. Invite vegetarians, Muslims, Jews, Catholics (try to have it on Friday during Lent) people with bad dentures, someone who has just had gastric bypass surgery and a toddler with life threatening peanut allergy. And your mother in law. Now you face what a UU minister faces every week, or so I imagine. The dinner might require divine intervention. The service definitely did. How else could a service designed to accommodate every single person on earth regardless of race, creed, color or socio-economic status, still come in a package so authentic that all three of us in the 52 churches capacity (Myself, Carrie and Laura) sniffled and blinked away our tears for the whole hour? And then, of course, there's the fact that it was Easter. Yet, like the sash she wears around her neck that bears the emblems so many different religions, Reverend Hepler managed to weave in the different aspects of spirituality without watering down the magic at all.

*( except for the word manifesto which implies communism, but I don't care because I like it. Everything is a manifesto for me these days. I've latched onto that word like a baby cow to an udder. School project plans are now academic manifestos. The grocery list is a domestic manifesto. What to do with our tax return is our own personal economic manifesto. )

This is the picture that belongs with last weeks entry. See those tokens? Those are what the homeless can put into the coffers if they have no pennies. Remember what I told you? They put the tokens in, giving away what they had - dignity, peace, wisdom - and then they dug a little deeper and gave their pennies as well. I'm not good with my Bible stories. I can't rifle through the pages of my memory, find an appropriate Scripture and prattle it off like some people can. But I do remember this - in paraphrasing of course. There was a woman in the bible who had nothing to share but a few pennies. She waited until all the rich men with their bags of gold had gone and put the fraction of their wealth into the pot. Then, during the time for silent prayer she crept up and put in her paltry donation. She was embarrassed. She didn't want anyone to see that was all that she had to give. And then He said that she had given more than all the rich men combined because what she gave came from her heart, freely and generously. Those tokens reminded me to give what I have wholly, to my children, my parents, my friends, my family. What I have to offer is irrelevant but the giving, in the right spirit, becomes sacred.

Church With No Walls

It was cold today. Cold with a definite dampness in the air, the kind that seeps in through your pores and saturates your joints and makes all the clothes you pile upon yourself feels sticky and frigid and uncomfortable. But still, there was a service to attend in a park in Worcester, on the steps of an old building. The pigeons came, and a handful of homeless and a few volunteers and if you've never heard the Gospel - with it's message of hope and love and strength enduring - spoken through the lips of an ancient homeless man then, my friend, you ought to go. Because I've never been so humbled. Liz, the pastor, wore a bright sash around her neck and spread the bread and the (grape juice) wine and a few tokens on a folding table. The tokens had words hand printed on them - faith, hope, strength - words like that and during the time for offerings the homeless were invited to take a token and put it in the offering cup. They did, but they also dug in their pockets and put their change in. Together we sang Amazing Grace, no music except the harmonica that a member of the congregation played, no pews, no sacristy or narthax or icons or candles - just people. And the people are the church.

Today was Palm Sunday. After the service Liz took me into the streets of Worcester and we handed out palm fronds to anyone who wanted them. Being with a member of the clergy, the people we encountered must have assumed I was clergy as well and they felt no shame pouring their stories out. The thing is, I had these assumptions, these judgements that I didn't even realize I had till I found myself clutching my purse a little tighter and avoiding eye contact. But Liz, she knew their names and their stories and she hugged them and fed them and prayed for them. And - not for one second was she afraid of them. After a little while, I managed to shut the inner bitch up a little bit. We all want the same thing in life, when it comes down to it. To be happy, accepted, hopeful and fulfilled. We all feel the same emotions - the same fear, the same grief, the same joy and the same love. I guess I was a little floored by the way this lesson today tied into the lesson I took from Trinity Covenant. There, I was accepted, welcomed, embraced. Today I was given the opportunity to accept, to welcome, to embrace. There was a girl, my age. She was pretty, long red hair, big blue eyes, milky white skin, but when she saw us she burst into tears and ran into Liz's arms. She didn't know Liz, just knew what she represented and longed for the comfort of open arms. She'd relapsed on whatever drug it is she's addicted to, back on the streets and she's lost her babies and all she wanted was a pair of dry socks and the strength to take another step. I saw myself in her, naturally. There was an orange in the bag of food I was carrying, and I gave it to her and told her the same thing my mother always tells me - orange is the color of joy. And I talked with her for a few minutes. She's just as lost as I am only she's on the other side of the coin. I'm lost and loved and privileged and sitting at a new desk on a new chair in a warm house with a hot cup of tea. She's lost and alone and cold and drugged and the only new thing she has are the socks that Liz gave her. Why? Where does social equity come into play? How much of my sister's dilemma is my responsibility? I don't know. I'm lost. But today, the people who looked scary, the people I would have avoided, the places I would have avoided, managed to break through a level of shallowness I wasn't even aware that I was wallowing in. It's not enough anymore just to write a travelogue of churches. On the way home, I called my mom and told her about my experience. I was feeling a little funny. A little bit grateful to be out of the city, a little bit giddy and a little bit guilty. I told her the story of the girl and when I finished, a giant rainbow had spread itself out over the road in front of me. Really! And then a bird flew below it, a bird that at first glance looked like a dove but turned out to be a little seagull. But that's okay. This is a school, this 52 churches project. This week I want to be like Liz. I want to go fearless into the world and be the answer to somebody's prayer. Or at the very least, I want to give a person a pair of clean socks, an orange, a shard of hope, a rainbow after the storm.

Two weeks ago I got to be a minor celebrity at Trinity Covenant Church in Lexington. I was late, in keeping with my general manner of doing things, and slipped in so sneakily that I was practically invisible. I couldn't have been any more invisible had I beamed myself through the door and into the back most pew in the church. But then I opened up my program and saw my name there, in black and white. Welcome it said to our special guest Dawn Swann. And then it went on to ask God to bless my ministry. My ministry?? When did I become important enough to have a ministry - me (!)? A message ? Suddenly my little project has taken on a new dimension. A new life. I am suddenly responsible for more than just satisfying my own curiosity. There is a need to answer. There are people who are watching. I think that I should be saying thank you. What an amazing gift.



But, back to TCC and it's pastor, Doug Cederburg. There never has been a more charismatic and passionate speaker. He could have spoken Swahili or Chinese or really fast pig Latin and I'd have been as enthralled by the delivery, the inflections. He could have moved me in any language is what I'm trying to say. My editor told me this week that an article I was working on was beginning to sound like a MASH note. I don't mean to write love letters about the people I meet. But I do tend to fall in love with the ideas and the passion and the purpose people bring to the pulpit and to the pew. I am so enchanted by the fact that so many people go to church every week. There are a gazillion churches here and all of them have people. What brings them? What drives them?

Pastor Cederbug spoke of what it feels like to be on the outside - a place where so many of us have found ourselves at one time or another. He spoke of separating theology and sociology and the importance of being nonjudgmental. And that could be the most difficult thing for a human being to do. Scientists have said that our brain automatically sorts, categorizes and saves things for future use. We have a hard time not judging the book by it's cover. Look at what judging has brought us - terrorism, war, racial and religious segregation, no place to sit in the cafeteria...

Last week I was supposed to go to a Jewish Temple but my liaison was unable to meet me so instead I went to an Episcopalian church in Wayland with some precious friends. I'd been to the church before so I was a bit unsure of whether or not I was cheating. But I wasn't. For one thing, I usually only attend the Christmas Pageant service so I'm distracted by 1. The pageant and 2. the fact that my youngest daughter has the ability to channel any cast out demons and then broadcast pure evil to those around her. Then I, being especially open to the power of suggestion, become evil as well and the two of us usually end up performing a bastardized version of Godzilla vs. Mothra with me as Godzilla and her evading my every attempt to shook her out of the sky with my laser eyeballs. I like the Episcopalians because they remind me of the Catholics, the denomination I inherited from my father. But then they throw in these surprise twists like letting the priest's wife officiate and changing a few of the words in my old familiar prayers to keep me on my toes. And I've been away from familiarity long enough to truly feel at home. I'm sure I'll say that again in the weeks to come when I go home to my original parish with my friend Arby. Another thing these Episcopalians did differently was communion. Everyone went to the front of the church and knelt down by the rail and waited for communion to come to them. But I stayed in my pew and thought about the Nicene Creed and wondered about the virgin birth and decided that the whole plot would make a kick ass science fiction novel. At some point the power went out and I thought that perhaps I better quit before I found myself at the business end of a lighting bolt.

Can you believe it's been TWO CHURCHES since I updated? This is because I also have a job. And friends who have needs. And children who have more needs and a husband who has even more needs, if you can believe that. Oh yeah, and then there's this book I'm writing about 52 churches....which leads me to an explanation of this picture here to the left. That is the backside of a Hindu temple. My friend Laura and I attended a Pooja here. Attended is a misnomer. Crashed is, perhaps, more accurate. But the worshippers were quite accomodating. They received us well and with kindness, a little bit of explanation and a couple of sweet cookie balls that we (ok I) ate on the way home. Hinduism is a freaking old religion. The ceremony we watched - full of flowers and milk and honey and sandalwood and incense - transcended both time and geography and pulled us onto the lap of Indian history for a story of faith and sacrifice and adoration.

This picture, to the right, probably requires a bit more explanation but will have to pass with less, perhaps. Carrie took this one at her church, the church of Bono. Something I've learned so far is that religion is a very wide river. I promised to keep an open mind because I am most certainly not qualified to rate or judge or even define religion. When Carrie approached me with the idea that music is her religion I first thought, will that really fly? And then I thought, hell yeah it will. Because music in general, U2 in specific is the tributary with the power to connect my friend to that wide river. What more can a religion hope to do than cause a soul to shine, move a person to tears, bring a girl home?

First Church of Christ, Scientist

Yes, it is a science.

I think that fundamentally we want the same thing. I think there's a yearning inside of us, a plug which wants nothing more than to be connected. I think that part of life, a big part - a majorly big part - is finding the right outlet. There is no correct outlet, only the right one.

Christian Science takes the bible, disects it down to it's subatomic particles, plugs it into an equation and spends a lifetime applying and solving for X. There's another book called Science and Health, by the woman who actually founded the movement, Mary Baker Eddy. The book is something of a companion to the bible in that the bible appeals to the right side of the brain and Science and Health interprets it for the left. During the service the lay readers read out loud, alternately, from the bible and from Science and Health and the listeners analyze the readings and figure out how to apply them personally. And so if you listen very carefully and allow your brain to wallow in the information being provided, perhaps you will leave the service neither heavy on the left nor heavy on the right but with a balanced understanding of the principles of this life.

So......First Congregational. What did I think? I think if Jay Gatsby ever went to church it was here. I think Molly is the hippest pastor I've ever met in my life. The day I went, the last Sunday in January, the snow was falling, the radiator clinked and hissed, the wool mittens and sweaters steamed and I listened to a sermon on death and dying and growing old gracefully that was all at once difficult and poignant and funny. And then I was invited down into the underbelly of the church for one heck of a spread. Bagels and coffee and something that filled the air with the tang of curry. I met some really fun people...a man who can compose winter songs from mid-air, a Harvard Divinity School student who will make the most empathetical pastor someday, and a couple of girls who made me laugh and made me welcome.

And then.....we went to Mexico. Where we attended a blessing ceremony held by a Mayan Shaman.

We held hands in the middle of the jungle, ever aware of the proximity of uncountable jaguars and pumas and crocodiles, atop a ceynote where the corpses of great Mayan kings were thrown. The threshold of earth and the underworld. An ancient Mayan dressed in white, chanted something and burned a resin that smelled like sandalwood but came from a nearby tree and he blessed us - me, my husband, two Germans and four Canadians. I understood nothing. But I didn't have to because there a universal meaning to spirituality and sometimes the inability to understand makes things clearer.

Dzogchen Center

We met up with our liaison, Juliet, in Harvard Square at a little cafe called Veggie Planet. The serendipity started there. Veggie Planet is owned by the woman who wrote my favorite vegetarian cookbook of all times, Vegetarian Planet. So, first we got to sample a recipe and see how it was meant to taste, not the way it tastes after I get through with it. What fun. Then we walked through a ridiculously cold night over to the Quaker meeting house (oh the irony) for the service. (When I say ridiculously cold, I mean Mother Nature was just over the top. Why so cold? Why?) We sat right in the center of the meetinghouse on these burgundy pillows and I was a bit unsure what to do. Being in the center, naturally I suffered a little bit of performance anxiety - would I stand right? Would I hold my hands right, bow right, chant right? I just followed along and aside from being half a beat behind, and having strange foot cramps that I don't want to remember, I think I did okay. Luckily, no one was judging. As a matter of fact, Tibetan Buddhists don't really go for the whole judging/labeling thing which I find very soothing. If there's any place to perform ungainly acrobatics in order to shake the cramp from your foot, the center of a Buddhist service would probably be the place.