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By Rev. Terry Davis
Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist
Congregation on January 13, 2013
A week ago, I threw my back out. I’m not sure what I did exactly. I wasn’t looking for any trouble when I bent over and picked up that heavy box of dog food. For those of you who have had lower back issues, you may be familiar with that little rubbery snap that lets you know that something has shifted, popped, slipped, or otherwise moved in a direction that it shouldn’t have. Not a good feeling!
I’ve had back problems before. And, what’s usually called for is a change in my behavior. I have to slow down and simplify my activities, take short walks, do back exercises, and be patient with the results. These changes gradually, but eventually, bring about the healing I seek.
Now, what does that have to do with my sermon topic “Lessons from the Transcendentalists?” Only this: that these 19th-century reformers brought change and healing to an American Unitarianism that was ailing . . . a Unitarianism that was failing to respond to the needs of persons who sought a deeper and more immediate spiritual experience.
I believe the religious and social reforms the Transcendentalists sought and the practices they adopted to cultivate their own spiritual growth can provide us with powerful lessons on what it means to live deliberately and with experiences of the sacred in our everyday lives.
Before we examine the lessons that the Transcendentalists offer us, let’s first look at who they were and what they were so upset about.
The Transcendentalists were a very small, but influential group of Unitarians who were not happy at all with the way conventional Unitarianism was shaping up. As Nick and Elizabeth mentioned, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau are the two Transcendentalists that we might know best. The Transcendentalists also included Theodore Parker, Margaret Fuller, Bronson Alcott, George Ripley, Walt Whitman, and others.
This group of influential radicals observed that 19th century American society was becoming more industrialized, more materialistic, and more class conscious . . . and they believed that the human spirit was suffering as a result. They felt that Unitarianism’s over-emphasis on reason and intellect gave persons of faith nothing nourishing . . . nothing that would help them get in touch with that divine spark that resided within their souls.
Although they understood themselves as liberal Christians, Transcendentalists believed that God was a pantheistic presence in the world, meaning that God could be seen and felt in everything – especially in nature and in the creative arts.
Rather than use reason to understand religion, the Transcendentalists believed that persons should rely on their human emotions and intuition to experience this god-in-all. These experiences would lead persons to understand deep religious truths and inspire them to act ethically in the world and work for social justice.
In addition to being spiritual seekers, Transcendentalists were also experimenters – experimenters who were willing to challenge the status quo in the hopes of bringing about a new human society.
For example, in 1834 Transcendentalist Bronson Alcott founded the Temple School, which was a pioneer in what was later to be known as progressive education. At the Temple School, there was no corporal punishment, children were encouraged to express themselves, even on controversial subjects – and sex was mentioned in the classroom, all unheard of practices in education in that era.[1]
Similarly, Transcendentalists George and Sophia Ripley founded Brook Farm – an experiment in communal and egalitarian living. The goal of Brook Farm was to balance work and leisure, with everyone working for the good of the community.[2] Each member could choose to do whatever tasks he or she found most appealing, and all persons – men, women and children – were paid the same wages for their labor.
Transcendentalists could also be found leading the way in other social reforms and humanitarian causes, such as abolition, women’s rights, prison reform, advocating for the fair treatment of indigenous people. Ultimately, they awakened within Unitarianism a passion for a more individually-centered spirituality and a more justice-centered faith.
In thinking about Transcendentalism’s rich history and the challenges facing our world today, I wonder if we are in need of another spiritual awakening. In many ways, it seems that the conditions of the 19th century are similar to those we face today. As 21st century Unitarian Universalists, aren’t we, too, suffering from the ills of a materialistic and commercial society? Aren’t our spirits hungry for deeper connections . . . connections that we find in nature, in the arts, and in meaningful conversations with one another? Could it be that our unique faith and leadership are needed now more than ever to end oppression and secure justice?
I think so. So, what shall we do?
I believe if we turn to the Transcendentalists – these harbingers of change – we might find some answers to set us on our way. Perhaps we can begin the way they began . . . by cultivating a spiritual life that can deeply nourish us in its simplicity and inform our actions for positive change in society.
Rev. Barry Andrews, a Unitarian Universalist minister and author of the book Thoreau as Spiritual Guide, says that the Transcendentalists called these intentional acts of cultivating spiritual growth or caring for the soul “self-culture.” According to Andrews, the Transcendentalists believed that the goal of self-culture “was to make it possible for [life’s] moments to characterize the days . . . to develop a sense of spirituality in everyday life.”[3]
Andrews says the Transcendentalists sought self-culture in a variety of ways, but especially by looking to nature as a source of spiritual revelation.
Henry David Thoreau summed up this priority best in an entry in his journal. He wrote, “My profession is always to be on the alert to find God in nature, to know his lurking places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas in Nature . . . To watch for, describe, all the divine features which I detect in Nature.”[4]
Other ways the Transcendentalists pursued self-culture included reading; journaling; engaging in contemplation; having conversations about philosophy, world religions, poetry, science, and mythology; and taking long, meditative walks outside.[5] Transcendentalists tended to keep their material needs to a minimum so that they would have more time to pursue these leisure activities, which they considered critical to their spiritual growth and to their ability to contribute to positive social reform.
In thinking about these spiritual practices of the Transcendentalists and their desire to overcome the soul-crushing consequences of living in a rapidly-changing society, it has occurred to me that the Transcendentalists possessed something that perhaps many of us lack today.
They had what we would call “downtime” – time in their day that wasn’t occupied with producing or accomplishing but, rather, was set aside for more rest, for leisure, and for more contemplative activities. The Transcendentalists seemed to recognize that tending to the spirit require a roominess in one’s daily schedule that isn’t valued by our society – then or now. Elizabeth’s children’s story about Thoreau made an excellent point about this.
The importance of intentionally creating downtime was brought to my attention in a most poignant way a few years ago. It occurred when I was working as a chaplain at a large geriatric care and nursing facility in Atlanta. As is typical of many nursing facilities, the residents’ advancing age and declining health had left many of them with nothing but downtime . . . lots of downtime and often few visitors to appease their loneliness.
There was one resident I used to visit there that I’ll call Lucille. Lucille was in her late 60s. She had long gray hair and always had a smile for me when I came by to visit her. Unlike some of the other residents’ rooms, Lucille’s was very sparsely-furnished. She had only a bed, a nightstand, an old chair for visitors, and a few framed photos of persons whose names she could no longer remember.
The first time I visited Lucille she informed me that she had been living at this nursing facility for 32 years. Quite honestly, I found that incredible, so I looked up her chart after our visit. True to Lucille’s word, she had indeed been a resident there for 32 years due to a diagnosis of schizophrenia. On my second visit, I found Lucille lying on her bed, the window blinds almost completely closed and a damp washcloth pressed to her forehead. She told me that the washcloth helped her relax, and she invited me to sit in her guest chair.
In the darkness and quiet of her room, Lucille said to me, “I’ll bet you stay pretty busy visiting people here. This is a busy place.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed.
“Well,” she continued, “I want you to know that you can come into my room any time for some rest. We don’t have to talk. You can just come in, sit in my chair, and we can just be quiet together. You can write or read or just rest. Would you like that?”
I may have been the chaplain, but in that moment, it was Lucille who was doing the ministering. She was giving me the opportunity to take some downtime . . . something that was plentiful for her and in short supply for me. I was deeply moved by her hospitality and considerateness. I knew the kind thing to do in return was to take her up on her offer . . . and so I did. What I didn’t know was how much those visits were about to nourish my spirit.
And, so, as the weeks went by, I would often stop by to see Lucille. Holding a washcloth on her head, she would smile and nod at me as I took a seat in her beat-up guest’s chair in the corner of her room. And there we would be, sitting together, saying nothing, but experiencing everything.
Those quiet visits with Lucille were times of spiritual growth for me. They were times when I felt connected to Lucille and to something greater than the two of us. It was a personal experience of the holy that needed no sacred texts, no rational explanations. It was immediate and powerful, just as the Transcendentalists suggested is possible.
Thinking about them now I’m reminded that downtime is indeed a precious commodity . . . and is vital if I am to cultivate the spiritual growth I seek and our hurting world needs.
And so it seems the 19th century Transcendentalist movement is one that offers powerful opportunities for the spiritually hungry persons of today. These reformers remind us that our best opportunities to connect with the holy are right in front of us – in nature, in the arts, and in the sacred corners of quiet rooms. The Transcendentalists show us that our recovering our spiritual health requires that we intentionally make space for simple spiritual practices . . . and that the health and wholeness we seek for ourselves and our world depends on it.
So, may we go from here curious about these harbingers of change and open to the lessons they offer . . . for our sake and the sake of us all. May it be so. Amen.