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by Rev. Terry Davis

 Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist

Congregation on May 5, 2013

My friend Marilyn’s large quilted bag contained her Kindle for playing Solitare and her iPhone. Also inside was a beautiful prayer shawl she’s working on, crafted in soft yarn and in colors of gray, blue, pink and white. She also had in the bag a bottle of water and a copy of a book by Chris Bohjalian entitled The Double Bind.

As for me, my pass-the-time-away items included my laptop computer and Smart Phone, the May issue of National Geographic magazine, and a book by Paul Auster called The Brooklyn Follies. I also brought along my own crochet project – a long, green, and rather crooked-looking beginner’s scarf that I’ve been half-heartedly working on for months.

I’d like to tell you that we piled our bags into my car this past Friday at 7:30 AM to head for a trip to the mountains, the lake or a park. But that wasn’t the case.

Rather, after I picked Marilyn up from her home in Stockbridge, Georgia, we drove instead to Piedmont Fayette Hospital about 40 minutes away for her standing every-Friday appointment. First on the agenda: blood work. Next: two drip bags of steroids administered through a port in her chest. Finally: the large bag of chemo, clear, cold and toxic.

My friend Marilyn has endometrial cancer, Stage 3. She is scheduled for chemotherapy once a week for 24 weeks. That’s six months if you’re doing the math – or simply a very long time if you’re not. This past Friday was Round Number 7. And, I was on schedule to be Marilyn’s companion for this latest leg of her journey.

Marilyn turned 70 this year. She and I have known each other for I think about 15 years. I have lost count.

I could say that she’s been my friend all those years, but that’s not an entirely accurate description. You see, Marilyn is my spiritual mentor. In fact, we have had another standing weekly appointment with one another. Every Sunday evening at 8:30 pm, I call Marilyn on the phone to check in about me – a self-focused check-in that includes an update on my work and personal life, as well as my emotional and spiritual well-being.

And each Sunday, Marilyn asks some questions, or gently shares a story of her own to provide a different perspective on what I might be feeling, thinking or experiencing.

But mostly on Sunday evenings, Marilyn just listens. She quietly gives me space each week to spill my guts . . . so much space that sometimes I will eventually puncture the silence on her end of the phone by asking, “Are you still there?” 

The gift of listening with no other agenda is one that I find precious and rare. And, it seems that in my busy life – in our busy lives – it’s one that is so needed. Educator, Writer and Quaker Parker Palmer says that the shy soul – which we might understand as our most authentic self – needs safe space to emerge. And that safe space, Palmer argues, can be created by offering one another the simple gift of listening.

I believe that the art of listening – which is the topic of my sermon today – is needed among us here and in our wider world. Listening without interruptions or without offering opinions . . . listening only to make it possible for another person to more fully occupy his or her most authentic self . . . can be an act of supreme generosity and personal humility.

By cultivating the art of listening and bringing a heart for listening to our relationships with each other, I believe it’s possible to foster trust and create opportunities for deep intimacy in our lives. And, ultimately, trust and intimacy are what’s needed if a faith community like ours is to live in love and bring a message of love to those we hope to serve.

There are many theories, books and how-to courses out there on the art of listening. My guess is that, like me, many of you may have encountered some of these.

This morning, I am going to focus on Parker Palmer’s suggestions about listening, because he sees listening as a spiritual practice. It’s in this context of cultivating a spiritual practice that I would like to invite you to consider his words and his ways of listening to others and how it invites the soul forward and changes hearts.

First, to understand how hungry we are for persons who will listen deeply to our souls (or our most authentic selves), it might help to understand what it is Parker Palmer thinks the soul wants.

In his book A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, Palmer lists four things he believes that the soul – or that most authentic part of ourselves – wants for us:

• The soul wants to keep us rooted in the ground of our own being. It resists the tendency of other faculties, like the intellect and ego, to uproot us from who we are.
• The soul wants to keep us connected to the community in which we find life. It understands that relationships are necessary if we are to thrive.
• The soul wants to tell us the truth about ourselves, the world and the relation between the two. It wants to do this whether that truth is easy or hard to hear.
• The soul wants to give us life. It wants us to pass that gift along to become life-givers in a world that deals too much death.^[1]

These seem like simple enough desires and ones that we would naturally want to honor in our daily lives. Yet, Palmer believes that paying attention to the soul or true self is incredibly difficult. We talk ourselves out of listening to what our souls want because we think we’re being too selfish . . . or think perhaps our need is artificial and doesn’t represent any real or core dimension of ourselves.

Palmer argues that our soul, or true self, is real and that, most of all, it needs encouragement. While the soul, he says, may be tough, resilient and resourceful, it’s also incredibly shy. He writes:

Just like a wild animal, [the soul] seeks safety in the sense underbrush, especially when other people are around. If we want to see a wild animal, we know that the last thing we should do is go crashing through the woods yelling for it to come out.

But if we will walk quietly into the woods, sit patiently at the base of a tree, breathe with the earth, and fade into our surroundings, the wild creature we seek might put in an appearance.  We may see it only briefly and only out of the corner of an eye – but the sight is a gift we will always treasure as an end in itself.^[2]

 

As a Quaker, Parker Palmer’s experience with making space for the shy soul to appear has been cultivated in his practices of listening and holding the silence at Sunday worship services and in a practice known as forming a “circle of trust” where persons come together for the purpose of offering the gift of listening.

In this morning’s reading, Palmer describes an experience of using the silence of a Quaker meeting to see the soul of a person with whom he has struggled. In this moment, Palmer is not just seeing the pulse of this woman’s heartbeat; he is listening to her with his presence and by observing her life spirit. “Compassionate silence,” says Palmer,” can help us connect with each other, to touch and be touched by truths that evade us all.”^[3]

Offering compassionate silence as a way of listening to another’s shy soul and achieving human communion is something that is possible when we are not invested in a particular outcome.

Offering silence may be difficult for some of us, as we tend to feel of more value to another or to ourselves when we can offer opinions or solutions. But Palmer believes that stretches of compassionate silence are really what we need to open our eyes and hearts to another’s authentic self and create safe space for it to emerge.

Palmer also believes that we must leave our agendas behind when listening with an open mind and heart to another. Some of you have heard me quote his four rules of listening. They’re easy to remember, but I also believe challenging to do.

They suggest that, when we listen, 1. We refrain from fixing the other person’s problems; 2. We avoid saving them from making what we think are big mistakes; 3. We don’t advise them on what to do; and 4. We resist the urge to set the record straight and tell them what we think is the truth they need to hear.

“No fixing, saving, advising or setting the record straight . . . Instead, we listen receptively to the truth of others; we ask each other honest, open questions instead of giving counsel; and we offer each other the healing and empowering gifts of silence and laughter.”^[4]

So, knowing that our souls want rootedness, connection to others, the truth and to give life – and that our shy souls may need the encouragement of agenda-free listening and compassionate silence to come forward and really be present to others – where might we go to experience such a welcoming embrace of safety and care?

At Northwest, we are attempting to make this experience possible by offering members the opportunity to participate in Chalice Groups.

Chalice Groups is the name Northwest has given to its small discussion group program. These groups are comprised of six to ten persons that meet monthly, usually in members’ homes, for about 1-1/2 hours.

They are not therapy groups or social groups – although group members often report that they form deep bonds with co-participants and often seek opportunities to socialize and have fun with their group members in other settings. Rather, Chalice Groups are designed to offer a safe space to discuss matters of ethical, spiritual or personal significance.

These groups are part of the small group ministry program that is encouraged and supported throughout Unitarian Universalist congregations in North America. The roots for these small groups actually go back to our Judeo-Christian heritage.

In Orthodox Judaism, for example, there is a tradition of forming small groups of ten men each called minyans who would participate regularly in readings and public prayer.

In early Christianity, Jesus taught his disciples in small groups, with the gospel readings emphasizing his relationship with his core group of 12 disciples. Later, 1^st century Christians in ancient Palestine practiced meeting in small groups in persons’ homes (for prayer, preaching and baptism) . . . for safety and due to the small size of what was then a Jewish sectarian movement . . . By the year 100 CE, it’s estimated that there were 40 small groups or “churches” in place.

In our Unitarian Universalist tradition, the practice of gathering in small groups for meaningful discussions could be found in Boston in the early 19^th century. Unitarian Margaret Fuller, who was a feminist, Transcendentalist, American journalist and critic, held what were known as “conversations” in 1839 in a Boston bookstore. These conversations were attended by mostly Unitarian women, many of whom lacked access to higher education, and occasionally a few men.

Discussion topics included Greek mythology, philosophy, art, poetry, and feminist topics. Lydia Emerson (wife of Unitarian Minister and Essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson), Mary Channing (wife of Unitarian Minister William Ellery Channing), and Unitarian Julia Ward Howe (Abolitionist and author of the Battle Hymn of the Republic) were just a few of the more than 200 women who participated in these conversations over a five-year period.

Today, small group ministry programs can be found in other faith traditions, although they may not necessarily be referred to as such.  In our Unitarian Universalist tradition, we often refer to them as “covenant groups” because central to the group is a covenant, or promise, made to each other to listen respectfully and accompany one another on a deep intimate journey.

At Northwest, the Community Ministry team is launching sign-ups today and next Sunday for four new chalice groups, including two groups for persons who share some additional common ground . . . such as being parents of young children or an interest in earth-based spirituality. These groups will be led by trained facilitators who are committed to the art of listening that includes these foundational Parker Palmer’s principles.

So, whether we are considering joining a Northwest Chalice Group or we find ourselves spending time with a dear friend, let’s keep in mind that there is a shy soul in there that wants to come forward, find connection, speak its truth and give life to others.

So, let’s make space for that shy soul to emerge by being open-hearted and open-minded listeners, and by leaving our fears and agendas aside. Because when we are able to do this for each other, we will participate in a rich and meaningful human communion . . . and that our presence and attention can speak volumes.

May it be so for you and for me. Amen.

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By Rev. Terry Davis

Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist

Congregation on April 28, 2013

In my eight months here at Northwest, I have shared openly about some personal aspects of my life. You know about a few of my struggles and triumphs, and we’ve been getting to know each other.

But there is something I haven’t shared with you yet. And, thinking about this morning’s sermon topic, now seems like a good time to bring it up: I am a Trekkie.

No, I don’t have my own personal costume of my favorite Star Trek character. I have never been to a Dragon Con or Comic Con event where Trekkies tend to gather to share memories and memorabilia. And, I know there are more devoted fans of the television show Star Trek than I am (fans who prefer the more serious term “Trekker” to “Trekkie”).

Nevertheless, I will claim the label Trekkie because I have watched countless episodes of Star Trek since my childhood, starting with the original series in the 1960s, as well as the many new Star Trek series that came along over the years. And, in true Trekkie form, I have never grown tired of the reruns.

Now, while Captain Jean Luc Picard and his crew members in the series The Next Generation are probably my favorite characters in the franchise, the setting for the series Deep Space Nine is the most intriguing to me.

As some of you may recall, Deep Space Nine was the name of a space station strategically located near the portal of a newly-discovered wormhole in the Milky Way galaxy. Now, this wormhole was an important passage to the unexplored Gamma Quadrant, a section of the Milky Way that was, oh, about 70,000 light years away. An assortment of galactic explorers, interstellar traders and others who were traveling back and forth through the wormhole stopped at Deep Space Nine to rest, refuel and stir up a few conflicts.^[1] You might say that Deep Space Nine was sort of the Howard Johnsons of outer space.

The opening sequence to the series features a computer-generated spaceship leaving Deep Space Nine. Flying through the darkness, the ship suddenly encounters an enormous portal that opens up out of nowhere. The spaceship then disappears into the portal, leaving the viewer to imagine that ship is traveling through the wormhole and is destined for new adventures in the unknown reaches of the galaxy.

The existence of portals and wormholes that lead to somewhere else in space and time is something that many scientists have argued is real, including Albert Einstein. I find it a thrilling possibility to consider.

Metaphorically speaking, I believe that portals and wormholes also exist in our personal lives. These passages can lead us to experiences that invite us into the mystic, which is the topic of my sermon today. They are the tunnels and byways that move us to a different and deeper kind of awareness . . . journeys of our mind and spirit where time and space seem nonexistent and we may feel as though we have connected to something much larger than ourselves.

These passages may transport us, perhaps to a place where we experience a deep sense of inner peace. Or, they may take us directly into our sense of wonder and awe in a deeply profound way.

I imagine that people like us – Unitarian Universalists who often have unique and varied ways of understanding what is most sacred – I imagine that most of us know where to go to find the wormholes in our lives. We know where to steer our spaceship, so to speak.

We know that wormholes into the mystic, for example, can be found in our walks in the woods or along the beach. We may find them in the morning on the golf course or in the afternoon with our paints and canvas.

They might be in the resonance of played piano keys or vibrating guitar strings . . . or in the rhythm of knitting needles looping yarn, of sandpaper smoothing wood or of folding towels warm out of the dryer.

These and so many other activities that involve nature, the arts or some simple physical activity on our part have a way of serving as our passage to that mystic place that nourishes our spirits and increases our sense of well-being.

So, when it comes to going into the mystic, it seems to me that the challenge is not where to find the passage. Rather, the challenge is making the time to linger at its entry point. Like those galactic explorers of the Milky Way, we have to slow down our hurried travels. We need to stop at the way station along the way and allow ourselves to linger for an hour, an afternoon or even a day or two to rest and refuel.

We need the clear calendar, the mindless moment, the do-nothing day. We need regular downtime so that we can engage in those simple hobbies and habits that replenish us . . . that can make us feel as though we have traveled 70,000 light years back to ourselves in an instant.

I know I’m not saying anything new here about the need for downtime. But why do so many of us – including me – find making room for it so difficult?

In his article “What Happened to Downtime? The Extinction of Deep Thinking & Sacred Space,” writer Scott Belsky suggests that the reason we distract ourselves with e-mail, the Internet, people and activities is because we are actually afraid of downtime and the sacred space it creates.

“Space is scary,” he writes. “During these temporary voids of distraction, our minds [can] return to the uncertainties and fears that plague us all.”^[2] Belsky, who is a creative technical consultant and no Luddite, argues that it’s not our iPhones and Facebook that are the problem; it’s our inability to face life without the reassurance of constant activity and data. To get to our wormholes and into the mystic, it seems, we have to take a break from being so busy. So, how do we do this?

One suggestion that Belsky makes is that we rediscover the meaning of Sabbath. He makes a specific reference to a contemporary Sabbath movement known as the Sabbath Manifesto. The Sabbath Manifesto is a creative project that is designed to slow down lives in an increasingly hectic world. It was created by a group of Jewish artists in search of a modern way to observe a weekly day of rest. They are all members of Reboot, a non-profit group designed to “reboot” the cultures, traditions and rituals of Jewish life.^[3]

According to their website, these Jewish writers, filmmakers and media professionals who developed the Sabbath Manifesto are not particularly religious. Rather, they say that they “felt a collective need to fight back against our increasingly fast-paced way of living. The idea is to take time off, deadlines and paperwork be damned” they declare.^[4]

Members of the Sabbath Manifesto have developed ten core principles that they observe one day per week, from sunrise to sunset. They’re simple practices, with the intention of getting themselves to slow down, to stop the busyness and to get back in touch with the sacred rhythm of simple things. The ten principles of the Sabbath Manifesto are:

Avoid technology.

Connect with loved ones.

Nurture your health.

Get outside.

Avoid commerce.

Light candles.

Drink wine.

Eat bread.

Find silence.

And give to others.

These strike me as lovely acts of self-care. Individually, each seems simple enough. Yet, taken together, I’m aware that they could possibly create a seismic shift in my external and internal worlds. I believe they could slow me down in a way that would make it easier to pursue my wormholes and go into the mystic.

In reflecting on these principles, I think I had what I will call an accidental Sabbath the other day. There was a technical glitch in my Smart Phone that made it impossible for me to make calls, send texts and e-mails for one solid day. Now, I’ll admit that I carry my phone everywhere with me and have been known to check and send e-mails while stopped at a traffic light, in the bathroom and even while lying in bed. So, not being able to use my phone for a day was a very big deal.

Well, it was in the morning when I discovered this problem and it was my day off, so I tried not to fret about it. Instead, I put my phone down and decided to do something I hadn’t done in a long time: I decided to make French Toast.

And, a few minutes later, as I stood at the kitchen counter, slowly blending eggs and milk together in a bowl with a fork, I looked up and gazed mindlessly out of the window over the sink. On the tree just outside, I saw a large Brown Thrasher sitting on a branch.

I noticed its reddish feathers and brightly streaked chest. Thrashers are also known have the largest song repertoire of any North American bird, with at least over 1,100 song chants. And this one was singing its heart out, while I was beating my eggs and milk.

We both went on like that for what seemed to be an infinite minute . . . the bird sweetly chirping and me lightly beating. I felt so taken into the moment, I could have stood staring out of the window indefinitely. But, then the Thrasher flew away and my egg milk was ready for the first slice of bread. My journey through the wormhole was complete.

Now, it wouldn’t have occurred to me that a disabled Smart Phone would lead the way to French Toast, a Brown Thrasher and passage into the mystic . . . but there it was. This accidental Sabbath and the downtime it created were the necessary elements to bring me to the entry point. I don’t believe there was any other way to get there.

Singer/songwriter Van Morrison, whose saxophone solo from his song “Into the Mystic” was hard to keep out of my head the entire time I was writing this sermon, seems to understand the mystic as something transcendent, or happening outside of himself.  He writes:

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic

Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic

Interestingly, a BBC survey revealed this Van Morrison song as among the most listened to by doctors as they operated on their patients.^[5]  I’d like to think it’s because the song and its imagery of sailing into the mystic brings about a sense of release and ease.

Unlike Morrison’s understanding of going into the mystic as a transcendent experience, in Nick’s reflection this morning, he talked about a mystical experience as something immanent . . .  meaning that it’s something he feels happens inside of him. He says his mystical experiences allow him to traverse the geography of his own mind and to see the world he lives in in new ways.

Whether we understand traveling into the mystic as happening inside or outside of us, it seems to me that we all might benefit from the transformative experience it offers us.

I believe that the portals and wormholes that will help take us there are all around us. We need only to find our Sabbath – that way station in our busy lives – and stop in regularly to rest and refuel. From there, we can engage in those activities that bring us closer to Nature and the arts and in sync with the gentle rhythms of our bodies.

It’s my hope that, when we do, we’ll find our passage into the mystic easily and often. And, ultimately, we will experience a greater sense of connection and well-being that is the promise and blessing of life lived simply and mindfully.

May it be so, for you and for me. Amen.

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by Rev. Terry Davis

Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist

Congregation on March 31, 2013

I was working rather late in my office down the hall this past Wednesday night. At about 9:30, as I was getting ready to go home, my cell phone buzzed, letting me know I had received a text message. “Look at the moon as you come out of the driveway tonight,” the text read. “And don’t work too late. Lots of love, Aruna.” Aruna, you see, had left choir practice just minutes before.

And so, I packed up my laptop computer, locked up the building, and got in my car. And, as I headed up the driveway, what do you think I saw? That’s right – a full moon. It was shining bright, a warm yellow color in the sky.

And, given that it was still early in the evening, the moon was just over the horizon, which means that it looked – what? Big or small? It looked big – it was enormous! Did the moon change size that night? No. Did the Earth get closer to the moon from one night to the next? No.

Instead, I experienced what scientists call the “moon illusion.” It basically means that our mind is playing tricks on us. Scientists say that our brain sees the trees, houses and hills we see along the horizon and is trying to figure out how big the moon should be in relation to them. So, it makes the moon seem bigger (or closer).

When the moon gets higher in the sky, there aren’t any trees or houses or hills to give us a perspective, so the moon appears smaller (or further away).

Apparently, one way that you can trick your mind out of the moon illusion is to bend over at the waist and look at the moon upside down through your legs.^[1]

I didn’t do that. What I did do is perhaps what Aruna did . . . I marveled at the gigantic moon in the sky and wondered how it could be so. I was seeing something I didn’t understand and the very unusual nature of it made it feel magical and special to me.

In many ways, this experience of seeing things that are out of the ordinary and hard to understand – and feeling a sense of awe at that mystery – is what Easter is all about.

In a liberal faith whose heritage springs from Christianity, it would be remiss for us not to recognize this religious holiday. How do we, as 21^st century Unitarian Universalists, find meaning in the holiest day in the Christian faith? What messages does this ancient story of Jesus’s death and resurrection hold for us?

I believe that gospel story of the empty tomb – the story of the women who came to find Jesus and, instead, saw something they didn’t understand – is a reminder that the most sacred part of  living may be when we encounter mystery. The most sacred part of our days may be when we don’t know the answers and, instead, allow ourselves to simply see what we see, experience what we experience, and stand in the moonlight of possibility.

The Easter story from the Christian scriptures says that three women went to find Jesus’s body, which had been taken to a cave after he died, to give it a proper Jewish burial. Instead, they found no sign of him. The body was gone.

Inside the cave, they encountered two men in dazzling clothes who asked them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.”[2]  Awestruck, the women returned to the village where they reported to their friends that Jesus’s body was missing.

But none of Jesus’s other friends believed them. They thought the women were making the whole thing up. It wasn’t until Jesus appeared to the friends later that day that they realized what the women had been saying about the empty tomb was true.

Now, we know that most Unitarian Universalists today don’t believe that Jesus literally rose from the dead. However, I imagine,  regardless of our theology, we might all agree that experiences of awe and wonder are essential components of a rich human life, a rich spiritual life. Even a scientist like Albert Einstein – someone who worked hard to explain the mysteries of the universe – made room in his life to experience and appreciate the unexplainable.

He wrote, “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.”

In thinking about this quote from Einstein and this Bible story, I can imagine that, perhaps, what was alive for the friends of Jesus in that moment when they encountered the empty tomb wasn’t Jesus himself. Rather, it was mystery. It was the mystery of hope that was alive . . . hope we will still be okay even when things have gone terribly wrong in our lives and in the lives of those we love . . . hope that we can carry on and eventually find joy and beauty to comfort us and to give us new life.

So, this Easter, as we reflect on that ancient tale of the empty tomb and admire the beautiful springtime flowers you brought here this morning, let’s not bend over at the waist and try to look at it all upside down through our legs. What I mean is, let’s not always spend our time trying to figure things out. Instead, may we find ourselves just taking it all in.

May we see our children joyfully hunting for eggs like they do every year. May we notice the bright red azaleas and white dogwood blossoms that appear so magically in Atlanta every Spring. And may we drive up the driveway one night and notice the big yellow moon on the horizon. May we see all these things and simply say “wow.” May it be so. Amen.