We've Known Rivers: A Sermon about Challenge and Change

We've Known Rivers

A Sermon about Challenge and Change

Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker

First Unitarian Church of Pittsburgh

April 13, 2014

"When everything else has gone from my brain," writes Annie Dillard in the preface to her memoir, An American Childhood, "When everything else has gone from my brain, what will be left, I believe is topography: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way or that."

Dillard is talking about Pittsburgh, a hometown she and I share, and in her memories of topography, Dillard especially recalls the three wide rivers that "divide and cool the mountains." The Allegheny brawling in from the North; the Monongahela flowing in shallow and slow from the South; and then the two, merging into the great, westward-wending Ohio."

It surprises me not one bit that Dillard would choose to begin her memoir with a tribute to Pittsburgh's three rivers, because, like her, those rivers symbolize for me a deep sense of place, and a personal source from which flows my own beginnings as well as some of my first major changes and challenges ...childhood, adolescence, friends found, love lost, college, my parent's divorce, and the tragic loss of loved ones. 

Until recently, I had never stepped foot in any of those polluted but majestic three rivers, yet they’ve run through me with a force of gravity and love and joy and sorrow for decades.   I am from Pittsburgh, and I've known rivers.

As karma or dumb luck would have it, I resided for nearly 20 years in a town where two rivers (the Assabet and the Sudbury) merge into a third,  the Concord. It is Thoreau country –a  gentler place than Pittsburgh, though never was it as deeply embedded into  my heart or soul as my girlhood "home." 

Even so, these three New England rivers, unpolluted and pastoral,  ran under and through my life, carrying their own burgeoning memories and potent forces- marriage, motherhood, ministry. I lived once in Concord, MA and I’ve known rivers. 

 

 We were reminded earlier, in our first reading, how the writer  Norman Maclean "wades into the swift silver of the Big Blackfoot River, casting for memories with the same reverence that he reserves for trout." And how Norman begins to hear the long story of his life cascading past gentle banks, through dark eddies and roaring rapids, and then finally concluding that, "eventually all things merge into One, and a River runs through it." Norman MacLean has known rivers.

 

To be sure, each of us has known rivers of one sort or another. The Hudson, the Pinette, the Danube, the mighty Mississippi, the Charles, the Rum, the Saco, the St. Croix,  the Sudbury, the McKenzie, the wild Youghigheny. 

We each wade thigh-deep into the swift silver of memories, and we've each known changes and challenges. Some are sudden and abrupt, others planned, some welcome, and others truly dreaded. There have been changes that have carried us around  river bends to  uncharted tributaries, and some current have mostly floated us safely along, while others have swamped the very craft we had trusted to be  buoyant and sturdy. 

A sage once remarked that "you can never step into the same river twice," meaning that life, like a river, is ever-changing and forever flowing downstream from its Source. Let us pause silently and consider for a moment: Since Homecoming Sunday last September, what have been the changes and challenges in each of your lives this year? (pause)

From my vantage point, I’m looking out from this riverbank pulpit  at a beloved congregation of people navigating the currents of change, and stepping into a new river each and every day: marriage and divorce, good health and illness, birth and death, employment shifts, I see newcomers whom we welcomed here this year, and those moving off to college, to retirement communities, to nursing homes, to some other shore.  There are those grappling with the challenges of adolescence and old age, those getting their drivers licenses and those giving them up. 

Yes, here at First Unitarian, we are a community that has known its share of  rivers and together we face, and will continue to face, the changes and challenges  that inevitably run through us and under us on this great river called  Life. As I see it, we are not meant to go it alone on the river as a random grouping  of single skullers. The congregation is, if nothing else, a place where we pledge to paddle together through the flats, the dark eddies, and the sudden white water.

Just yesterday, an assembly of several dozen people came together from throughout the Greater Pittsburgh UU cluster to begin the process of building community across congregational boundaries.We shared feelings and impressions about the recent stabbings at Franklin Regional High School and how it has very personally impacted several of our congregations, especially East Suburban UU Congregation, where one of the most severely injured victims has close ties.Our own Kris Rust is a teacher there. It hits close to home. This event, this sudden and abrupt curve in the river, underscores our desire to build a big boat and row it together. 

The truth is some of us are better at challenge and change than others, more comfortable with the unpredictable ways of the river. There are those amongst us who might even embrace change and look forward to it with relish.  And that's okay and truly admirable. 

In the past, I would have strenuously resisted facing any uneasy leave-taking or transition.  But, after several decades of dark eddies and gentle flats, triumphs and reversals, entries and exits,   I've made an important discovery, and this is it...just like a river, the only true constant in our lives is change.  I believe this is what Norman MacLean is getting at when he  writes, "eventually all things merge into One and a river runs through it." The One is the Eternal, the Tao; and the river is constant change running through our lives. 

 

I'm reminded here of the words of the great Hindu poet Rabindranath Tagore, who writes,  "The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances its rhythmic measures . Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? To be tossed and lost and broken  in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back; they rush on." 

Underneath all the apparent surface differences in our lives rushes on this  steady-as-she-goes, utterly dependable state of being called change.  We can count on it. Yet, it is helpful, even reassuring, to recognize that although things can change for the better or change for the worse, change, in and of itself,  is neither good nor bad. It’s how we face and endure change that determines whether it becomes a crisis or an opportunity. 

My colleague Kenn Hurto likes to quip that “Nobody likes change but a wet baby.” All of us have probably experienced a time when we've been swamped, or even immobilized, by some unexpected or devastating or terrifying challenge or change in our lives. 

Some folks stubbornly deny change, clinging  to the side of their boats even after they've  flipped over or run aground. Others simply don't  (or won't)  see it coming ; this brings to mind the scene from countless buddy movies in which the hapless heroes finding themselves adrift on some unfamiliar river. As a rumbling sound grows louder in the background, one turns the other and asks, "Do you hear that?" And you know what comes next...the camera zooms out to show them approaching a waterfall the size of Niagara! Yes, change can feel like that at times, although this is probably not the best strategy for dealing with it. 

 

For some of us, floating peacefully on our backs through change is the preferred course, face to the sky, letting go, letting things be, remaining immersed in the moment, "glad with the gladness of the rhythm" of it all.  With something like this in mind, Mary Oliver writes these words in her piece, In Blackwater Woods,

"Every year, everything

I have ever learned in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side is salvation,

whose meaning none of us will ever know. "

"To live in this world," Oliver continues,

you must be able to do three things:

to love what is mortal,

to hold it against your bones

knowing your own life depends on it;

and when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go." 

There is a real serenity and deep faith to Oliver's approach but its difficult.  "Letting go" can free us, but it can also trigger intense feelings of loss, while thrusting us into what one writer calls, "the confusing nowhere of in-between-ness." Even so, we can  benefit from this " letting go" approach, dropping our full weight  into the seat of the present moment and paddling from there.  It's worth it. 

Faced with change, still others prefer to launch themselves full throttle into the headwaters and take control (or at least, the illusion of control) as they put the ash to 'er  like mad to stay the course. Picture management guru Stephen Covey in a neon orange life vest!

 

In one of his sermon, the Rev. Scott Alexander suggests that the key to surviving life's river of constant changes,  regardless of one's technique, is mostly a matter of "resilience."  This begins, Alexander tells us [with his typical directness],  when we first make room  for the notion that bad things can and do happen to good people, that life events can, indeed,  be cruel and unfair. 

"I take it as a matter of faith," he writes, "that when life sends us reeling [and it will],  all of us are free to make certain choices that can help us avoid falling into those permanently brittle places of the mind, body, and heart that trap us in those rigid, angry places of isolation, fear, and despair." "If we are saved by degrees in our living -- and I believe we are -- then it matters one whole lot whether we strive to bring (by our spiritual attitudes and emotional choices) the greatest possible measure of resilience, [grace, vitality, and flexibility]  into our lives.

  I think our Burgh gal Annie Dillard would concur,  and would likely add these thoughts from one of her other works:  “It is madness,” she has written, “to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet fedoras to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.”   

I love her words. They remind me of my first bracing white water excursion in my early 20s down the teeming  the Colorado River. ( My colleague Tom Rosiello recalled a similar experience in a sermon some years ago) On the rafting trip, the advice was a bit puzzling.  After the life preservers and helmets were strapped on, the tanned, muscular guide answered some questions – my favorite being – “will I get wet?”

Then he ran down the rules for riding the rapids, explaining that if/when we encounter rocks and boulders, we should all lean into them…oh, and keep paddling, please. Okay did I hear that right – lean into the rock?The guide emphasized this point several times, knowing that our natural instinct prompts us  to lean away from the rock to avoid hitting it. That’s what most people do on reflex. But in whitewater rafting, as in life, you have to learn to override this natural instinct and force yourself to lean INTO the rocks instead. If you lean away from the rock, the rushing river water can catch the side of the raft and cause it to get stuck against the rock, or worse flip it over! Yes, you will get wet!

But if you lean into the rock, the rushing water hits the bottom of the raft and easily pushes you forward. Leaning into the rock is completely counter-intuitive for most people. Even when you KNOW that you’re supposed to do this, it still takes practice to override the instinct and our fear.

Our fears can serve a purpose. We sense a threat. Adrenaline rushes through our body, bringing blood to muscles. We can physically respond with speed and strength. Our primitive instincts protect us by saying, “Be afraid! Be very afraid!” Yet, even with our hearts in our throats, leaning into the rock enables us to lean in to change and challenge; to lean in to the truth about the world we inhabit, our place in it, our deepest regrets , the whitewater of relationships and careers. 

I’m remembering now the words to a Gospel song I sang with Nick Page’s Mystic Chorale some years ago – “When everything else fails, we sang, I can go the Rock. “ (the Rock in this case being Jesus) . We don’t sing songs like that in most of our UU congregations, but we do have sources of spiritual strength, moral meaning, and sacred refuge. And we should lean into those rocks. 

 Leaning into our UU congregations also empowers us to lean into the truth about simmering or erupting conflicts, lean budgets, longing for broader justice, deeper connection or a sense of the holy. This is where Dillard’s seemingly silly advice makes good sense – crash helmets, life preservers, and pew straps for our churches and fellowships.

Strapping yourself in to a covenental community  is not a genteel canoe ride on Pleasant Pond. It is a rafting trip on the Colorado, where the hard rocks of the truths we seek and those we find dot the whitewater landscape and beg us, no - require us to lean in and experience how truth feels…how suffering and joy feels, how we feel about each other across the pew, the street or the planet and then to develop grit and grace.

Yes, you will get wet! 

In the words of UU poet Barbara Rohde:

When I am swept by the cold fury of these waters

I praise the rock

I praise the river.

I must know, with my whole being, how truth feels.

I shall remember how truth feels.

Scott Alexander reminds us that much of our capacity for resilience in facing challenge and change is, "in the end, a matter of attitude and a matter of faith..a decision to affirm (even after the boat capsizes) what of value, joy and holiness still remains with us;" what blessings still bless us even as we struggle through the ebb and flow of darkness into light and back again. To stick together on the river, affirming, in the words of poet David Whyte, that "the great receiving depth, untamed by what we need, needs only what will flow its way." 

In all,  the challenges we face can be seen to pose a simple and ultimately empowering question: this is your life, this is your river -- what will you do? Nothing you want or can even have is upstream. Because the place upstream, where you once stood, is now a different river.  

 I think the key is to launch our boats on to the river and to live, grateful not just for the moments in the sun, but also with a willingness to "stand still, with an injured and opened heart, letting the River run freely though us." 

It is with this sense of gratitude and hope that we might each set off on the next leg of our unique river journeys. And also, perhaps,  with a fuller recognition that we've known rivers of change in our lives and in our time together as a community,  and that our souls have grown ever-deeper like these rivers in facing and grappling with some of life's endless challenges.

As we face transitions and traumas,  entries and exits, let it be with a bittersweet awareness that we’ve known rivers but that we can never step into a particular river of experience or relationship twice. We must step in where we are. 

And yet, may we carry the comforting assurance that one thing is certain...the river flows on, and s there will  surely be a time,  further  downstream, where an unexplored fork offers the chance for  fresh choices, new awareness, deeper commitments, a change of course. 

 So let the three rivers run, and may the banks of our hearts be wide open  with thanks.

  Blessed be and Amen. 

© 2014 Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker. All rights reserved. Rev. Zucker and cited
authors/sources may be quoted with proper attribution.

A Resonant Silence: Lent and The Commitment to Contemplation

 

A Resonant Silence

Lent and the Commitment to Contemplation

First Unitarian Church of Pittsburgh

March 16, 2014

Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker

         Some 20 years ago, my former husband David and I had a rare get-away from work, house, kids, chores, the cat, hamster, and the hermit crab! We chose as our destination a glorious center for Yoga and Spirituality called Kripalu in Lenox, MA where relaxation and invigoration come together in a wonderful retreat-like experience in the Berkshire countryside. 

As I read the welcome packet over a cup of herbal tea upon arrival on Friday afternoon, my heart leapt in my chest as I learned that Breakfast was a "silent meal." No talking, no schmoozing, just the sound of jaws chewing on vegan granola and scrambled tofu and spoons clinking against bowls of organic yogurt topped with brewer’s yeast and agave nectar, throughout Kripalu's cavernous, light-drenched dining room.  Somebody help me! 

          Maybe you've noticed that I am  an unabashedly verbal person. I love words, puns, word games, conversation, writing, naming things, and poetry. I'm delighted when one of you invites me to get together for a chat, and my learning style is dialogic -- meaning that I process information best through discussion. Some of you may be this way, too. Stop in -- we'll talk about it!

Silence can be a challenge for me; and that first morning at Kripalu was enough to give me the willies and the giggles all at once. But as the weekend progressed, I relaxed a bit into the welcoming tranquility of silence as my regular, unrelenting Universe of noise receded farther and farther away from the Berkshires. I worked at not being unnerved by silence or put off by the hard work of letting go into the Yogic meditation known as "Savasana” (corpse pose)  Heck,  by Sunday I was content to be mostly silent at lunch. Really...I know! Amazing!

Since that first weekend, I have logged 17 visits at Kripalu and silent breakfast is a cakewalk. I’ve noticed some retreaters wearing badges like this one that says, “In loving silence,” announcing that they will not speak during their entire stay. At the start of visit 15, I took one thinking I might try it. Epic fail. God bless their sweet silent souls.

          For a myriad of reasons, we live in a society that has trained our hearing sense to prefer (or at least expect) the clamor of human words and noise over the still small voice of the Spirit that resonate in the silences. We are perpetually distracted by radios, TVs, music, conversation, traffic, beeping cell phones, the static of our thinking minds; the opening words and readings and benedictions and announcements of our highly verbal liturgy. Some of us welcome this distraction, while others aren't even aware of the condition.  It's just "normal" -- a dissonant Universe of white noise.

Some of us are squeamish with silence in the segues of our lives.  A restless voice booms, "Hey Ho, Let's Go," when the silence becomes just a tad too real, noticeable, or prolonged.   

Earlier, in our reading by Maitreya, (Ma-trey-ah)  he asks: "Why are we afraid of silence?" In response, I'd argue that silence is misunderstood as the antithesis of substance and productivity. And because silence is often relegated to the "dark night of the soul," it can be labeled as depressing and lonely. Some theologians even consider it the playground of Satan!

Then again, much of our disdain for silence may reside in our acclimation to a world bloated with noise. As Maitreya points out, "There is little quiet in our lives. In the silence, you can listen to the soul. In silence, you can speak to the Divine. This does not mean you have to sit in silence, stiff and upright."  "No," he writes,  "it means you need to be aware of the quiet, listen to it, and not be afraid of it."

        As I see it, Maitreya hits the mark squarely when he suggests that our  fear  of silence arises from the inevitable discomfort we're likely to experience as issues, authentic feelings, pain, and longing bubble up in active contemplation. Sometimes, the still, small voice says things to us we sorely need to hear, but which are sorely hard to hear.

There is an old joke that UUs are Quakers who don’t know how to shut up. There may be some truth in that. But this morning, we will try, by experimented a bit with silence, adding a few minutes here and there throughout the liturgy to our usual 10-60 seconds of quiet.

While this added silence may make a number of you squirm (given that 60 seconds feels endless to some),my hope is that it will provide a taste of a valuable spiritual practice we can each choose to cultivate in our everyday lives --dropping more deeply into a resonant silence where we grow to recognize and listen to the voice, still and small, deep within all. 

And, where we might experience, as a  result,  a greater spiritual well being that could impact profoundly on other areas of our lives -- our work and relationships, our mental and physical health, our self-esteem and our sense of belonging on this planet. 

In a fascinating essay on this topic, the scholar Rubin Gotesky notes that "Silence in religious experience has always been considered one of the roots for attaining ultimate union with God, the Absolute, the "Arch-Good," Nirvana, or whatever humankind has deemed sacred."

It is the language of the heart. The Quakers perceived silence as essential for preparing the soul for spiritual experiences, and Pythagoras is said to have required of his initiates one to five years of absolute silence in order for them to attain a correct approach to knowledge.

         In the Old Testament, silence is a vehicle for meeting the Holy as well as becoming wise. In Psalm 46, we find the famed admonition: "Be still and know that I am God."  As a means of cultivating wisdom, silence is emphasized in Ecclesiastes in sayings such as: "A wise man will keep quiet till the right moment, but a garrulous fool will always misjudge it." I'd like to have that embroidered on a pillow!

In the New Testament, little is said directly concerning the use of silence. Jesus does enjoin his followers to seek isolation and the silence of solitary prayer, but there is no special emphasis on silence as a means of attaining union with God or Self.

           Silence acquires extraordinary status among the Christian mystics and monks, beginning with the Desert Fathers of the first century. These ascetics emphasized the importance of silence in a variety of significant modes -- flight from man, non-speech, quietude, solitude, silent prayer, and contemplation, but they used these modes according to their own inner requirements.

It wasn’t until the formation of later monastic orders, such as the Benedictines, that we find institutionalized rules applying to silence. (Such as the two words our hapless monk was permitted to speak every five years in the amusing anecdote we heard earlier in our service).

          Buddha was famously known as "The Silent Sage." In fact, Buddhism, at its core, extols serenity and silence as essential traits of an enlightened being. Silence, in particular, is perceived as an indispensable means of moving towards an interior experience of the Truth. Thus, silence and contemplation as a way to the Truth is itself the Truth. A major question arises, though: how is this ideal form of silence to be embraced, especially for us worldly folk who are not cloistered in monasteries?

         We don’t have the luxury to retreat to place like Kripalu every time we need a silent Sabbath and we certainly can’t encamp to a mountaintop cave and sit on a cushion facing the wall for the rest of our days. And, frankly, that isn’t real world spiritual growth anyway.

        Buddha himself provides the answer in the virtues of emptiness. As long as a person is willing to become empty of all forms of desire and attachment; if a person is willing to let go of control, the path of silence is very accessible. Like tranquil silence, emptiness cannot really be expressed or captured. But, unlike negative emptiness that represents scarcity, the sublime emptiness Buddha extolled is full of spirit. It is a kind of spaciousness, rather than a barren landscape.

         Thomas Merton, the beloved Trappist monk, echoes Buddha in telling us: "The true contemplative is not the one who prepares his mind for a particular message that he wants or expects to hear, but who remains empty because he knows that he can never expect or anticipate the words that will transform his darkness into light. He does not even anticipate a special kind of transformation. He does not demand light instead of darkness. He waits on the Spirit in silence, and when he is "answered," it is not so much by a word that bursts into his silence. It is by silence itself suddenly, inexplicably revealing itself to him as a word of great power, full of the still, small voice.

"What appears to be emptiness," Merton teaches us, " is actually pure being, pure love, pure freedom, pure Spirit."

         Each year, as the 40-day season of Lent arrives (as it did on Ash Wednesday, March 5th) millions of modern Christians commit themselves to active contemplation and to some form of personal sacrifice in preparation for Easter. The Lenten season coincides, by the way,  with the forty days spent by Jesus fasting and praying in the wilderness.  Even though we were committed UUs, we can join with our Christian neighbors in letting go of something we consider detrimental in our lives and add something that enriches it. Giving up chocolate for Lent this year? Facebook? Angry Birds or Candy Crush? If this helps you, ok.

As for me, I'm letting go to the best of my ability, of succumbing to non-stop chitchat and noise for Lent, and committing myself to a season of more active contemplation. Will you join me?

Sadly, after finally achieved the ability to drop into silence within the past decade, silence went away when I developed tinnitus (ringing in the ears) as I experienced some hearing loss. Now there is no real silence, ever. So, if you are able to find silence, cherish it and drop in. With tinnitus, meditation takes on a different frequency, but I still try to quiet my mind and contemplate, even if my head is perpetually buzzing.

The late, great Rev. Peter Gomes, long-time Minister of Harvard's Memorial Church, prepared a pamphlet for students entitled, "How to Keep a Good Lent." I'll tell you that nowhere in this slim treatise does the Right Reverend Mr. Gomes mention chocolate! He does, however, suggest "three S's: Silence, Study, and Service." Regarding silence, he echoes Maitreya's words, writing that  "the world is a noisy place, and even our small corner of it has more than its fair share of noise. Silence is therefore a rare and precious thing.

Gomes recommends fifteen minutes of silent reflection one day per week of Lent.  I'd counter with an alternate suggestion that you attempt a minimum of five minutes per day of absolute silence in which you do nothing at all  - no problem solving, no organizing, not even high thinking. Let your spirit, your mind, and your body relax. Breathe deeply and be aware that you are, in fact, breathing! Wait in silence for the still, small voice. Listen for what the Sufi poet Rumi called "the pure, hollow note."

         Of course, you must put aside this time and take it at least as seriously as you would five minutes of listening to NPR or skimming your junk e-mail.  Time and noise are evil twins that conspire to undermine us. But, don't give up! You might find that your five minutes fits best  at the start of the day, or at mid-day, or right before evening begins. Experiment. Take small one minute silent Sabbaths through out the day. Once you find your niche, and silence becomes natural, you may crave more, and you’ll wonder how you got along before without this daily dose of contemplation.

       As you allow silence to wash over you like a cleansing wave, you may experience a Mysterious Presence that nurtures from within. If you are Humanist, this presence may be the animating spark of life felt more vibrantly. If you are more attuned with a Creator God, the presence may take the form of a protector or soul friend.

If you are a Pantheist or Pagan, it may be experienced as a "merging" with the natural world. If you are an atheist, and this all sounds like religious mumbo-jumbo to you, consider how the silence may simply help you become more in touch with your authentic self, your fears, and your strengths.  

Believe me -- Rev.  Verbal up here knows just how hard it is to zip it! to hush up! to quit yapping! All of us mere mortals, myself included,  must experience both the agony and the ecstasy of silence, just as the mystics and monks have for centuries.

"Words enough have been spoken," writes the Rev. Kim Beach, and melodies enough have been sung. Find now your own way in quiet. In the end, you and I are left with ourselves. We have only the rustling of others and the noise of the world to distract us."  Surely, distractions there will always be. But, after a while we can learn to tame the dissonance as we find a home in that interior place where the still small voice beckons to us. The calm soul of all things meets us with a whisper and an embrace at the door of a tabernacle of resonant silence.

For Lent, and for  all the days that follow, may we open that door with joyful surrender and find a stillness just over the threshold. Let us join together in a silence.

©  2014 Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker. All rights reserved. Rev. Zucker and cited authors/sources may be quoted with proper attribution.

Taming One Another: The Fox, The Little Prince, and Us. A Sermon Towards Valentine's Day

"Taming One Another"

Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker

First Unitarian Church of Pittsburgh

February 9, 2014

I can't say for  sure when the actual "taming" began between us in earnest.  But, I reckon that our "beginning" occurred one sunny Sunday morning in September 2011, when we encountered each other under a metaphorical apple tree.

I had met with Rev.[David] Herndon in August at Eat n’ Park to get acquainted and came through the Morewood Street entrance a couple weeks later. Shelley Ross greeted me warmly and she will always be my wonderful first impression of this congregation. I raised my hand when the liturgist asked who was visiting for the first time and I felt butterflies in my stomach. I was a newcomer (and a stealth minister at that point). How would it all unfold?

Then I joined the Folk Orchestra and experienced the joy of making music with Emily and Ward and MR and Sandy,  and so many others. I attended Womanspirit dinners and felt like I had won the lottery! And then, February 2012 brought a somewhat spontaneous sabbatical for Rev. Herndon and the taming between us picked up steam.I didn't know it then, but what you were  asking me, tentatively at first, was, "Will you tame us?" and "Will you allow yourself to be tamed?"

We have been called into relationship, you and I; and  I've learned quite  a lot about taming since that auspicious beginning. I came here less than 3 years ago as a relative stranger and you’ve made room for me in this Sanctuary, in your homes, in your visions and dreams, your fears and regrets.You've shared your meals with me, music with me, your frustrations, your worries, your joy, your lemon squares and soups, your remarkable talents ( as quilters and guitar players and activists and cook-it-forward cooks), your considerable humor,  and your justifiable pride as members of this community. 

As I sat in the late afternoon quiet of my study this week, leafing through my computer files of newsletters and other saved materials, I was amazed  by  how much I've already come to know you, your lives, and your connections here. I've witnessed the signing of the membership book by many newcomers,  and I’ve listened while you've shared your stories-- living with a disability, parenting a special needs child, facing a life-threatening illness or financial hardship, embracing retirement, coping with the loss of a spouse , blazing new  professional paths, rejoicing over a new marriage or grieving the end of one,   and celebrating new professional opportunities and achievements.

In our retreats and Adult Faith Development offerings, we’ve explored who we are as individuals, both in our primary relationships, and as a congregation, grappling with how to get out of the grip that closes our hearts and minds as we think about how to grow a beloved and  more multicultural community here in Shadyside.

Even so,  I've been mindful of the fact that relationships are not easy or instantaneous.  They are notoriously difficult to establish and maintain. Marriage, kinship, friendship, business and pastoral bonds ..they require intention, faith, risk-taking, love, forgiveness, loyalty, and self exposure.

In the Little Prince vignette which  I shared earlier this morning, we witness the evolution of a "taming" as a wise fox under an apple tree teaches a curious boy what is required to be in relationship with him; what it means to tamed, bonded, kindred, connected. The philosopher Martin Buber would likely approve of the outcome between the boy and the creature. He would call it an "I-thou" relationship;   one that is mutual, reciprocal, and genuine. One that creates a "circle of caring."  And we can learn so very much, glean so much usable truth,  from this seemingly simple tale.

First, from this story, we learn that RELATIONSHIP REQUIRES RISK-TAKING. 

The fox takes a risk by inviting the Little Prince to tame him, to establish ties with him, and the boy takes an equal risk by agreeing. Establishing ties is risky business, and as the fox explains, "it is an act too often neglected." But the risks and the labor of establishing ties are worth it because being in relationship, true relationship,  transforms us.

 A colleague once said,  "A ship is safe in a harbor, but that is not what a ship is for. The same applies to us. We are here to take risks. The kind of risks we accept knowingly and voluntarily, risks we run in order to live our lives the way we feel we should live them, to pursue the goals we have set for ourselves, the ideas to which we devote ourselves.

Foremost among them is the risk we take when we love. We cannot live without loving others, and each time we love someone we take a risk, the risk of being rejected. We cannot live without trusting others and each time we trust somebody we take a risk of making ourselves vulnerable to the misuse of that trust. " (Rev. G. Peter Fleck)

My hope is that the risks we (Rev. Herndon and I) take in our relationships here, as minister and congregation, will embolden us to take important, sometimes scary risks in our other primary relationships --  with partners, family members, friends, colleagues, with one another here at First Unitarian, with strangers or “the other” we encounter.  That we might strive in every relationship to become trusting and vulnerable, to love kindness, to act gratefully, to be compassionate. That we might develop a deeper capacity to apologize and forgive, to laugh and weep, to speak the truth to others, as we know it,  in love, to value one another's uniqueness. 

To tame or to be tamed, one must be willing to take risks.

Second, we learn that RELATIONSHIP REQUIRES PATIENCE AND INTENTION. 

"You must be very patient," explains the Fox. "First you will sit a little distance from me, like that, in the grass. I will look at you out of the corner of my eye. You will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstanding. But you will sit closer to me everyday."I say to you (and you, in turn, might say to others): “If you let me, I will sit closer to you everyday, but I will come only as close as you wish; abiding in silence and in words, in humor and in tears. I welcome your trust and I will not abuse it.”

 It takes time  to move closer on the grass, so let's endeavor to be patient. As Ralph Waldo Emerson suggests, "It is foolish to plant an acorn in the morning and expect to rest in the shade of an oak in the afternoon." We mustn't be hurried in matters of the heart and spirit. Yet, "taming," like loving and caring, is a verb; it is active. It takes discipline, intention. In my view, there are three vital intentions that we must consider and then embrace  when we establish ties --

One, we must truly want to love and figure out how. Two, we must find an opening through which our love can flow into the life of another; and three, we must become unhurried in the taming. It is nearly impossible to be attentive and really be present when we're rushing around or pushing the river. That's what the Little Prince means when he says,  "It is the time that I have wasted  on my rose that makes my rose so important." 

Wasted?" It's fascinating to me that St. Exupery chose the word "waste," instead of more noble verbs like "devote" or expend" to describe the Little Prince's care-taking  of his rose. We've been conditioned to abhor the concept of wasting time -- in our fast-paced, throw-away culture, it conjures up an image of non-productive slacking. So what does it mean to "waste time" on relationships? I believe it implies time freely given and unmeasured, even when its inconvenient, with the awareness that without this "wasted time" we are not truly important to one another, we are not tamed.

To tame or to be tamed  , one must be willing to be patient and intentional. One must be willing to waste time.

Third, from our tale, we learn that RELATIONSHIP REQUIRES DEPENDABILITY. 

The Little Prince  comes back the next day and the Fox tells him, "It would have been better if you had come at the same hour. One must observe the proper rituals." (more actions too often neglected!) As one of your minister, you should feel assured that you count on me (and on Rev. Herndon) to be there for you, to return your phone calls and emails, to show up, to listen and respond,  to serve as an oasis of for you in times of crisis,  to observe the proper rituals of our relationship.  During my student ministry in Wayland, MA when a parishioner would apologize for bothering me with some dilemma, I'd reply, "Bother me! Please bother me! You are why I'm here. You are why I'm a minister!"

To tame or to be tamed, one must be willing to be dependable and present. One must be willing to be "bothered." 

Fourth, we learn that RELATIONSHIP REQUIRES BEING KNOWN.

The Fox doesn't mince words when he tells the boy, "To me you are nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys, and I have no need of you. And to you, I am nothing more than a Fox who is just like a hundred thousand other foxes, and you, on your part, have no need of me. But if you tame me, we shall need each other, To me, you shall be unique in all the world; and to you, I shall be unique in all the world." The fox  wants to be known and to know the Little Prince. "One only understands the things that one tames," he remarks, " If you want a friend, tame me."

To be sure, "genuine relationships will not allow us our secure hiding places, and in that sense, they are costly," writes the Rev. Marilyn Sewall. "They will cost us the image of the person we imagine ourselves to be. But this is the pay off -- they will inevitably bring forth more of who we really are and make us more fully alive, more available to the world. They will bring forth the strength and goodness and beauty that already reside within."

In the story, when the Prince decides to move on, the Fox is understandably sad and he cries, causing the lad to remark that the taming has done the creature no good at all. But, once again, the wise fox knows better. Being in authentic and safe relationships, even those which end, transforms us and makes us unique in all the world to others. And that does us a great deal of good. We live by the grace of being known to others, lovingly. We give life to others by knowing them, lovingly. This epitomizes reciprocity, a mutuality of knowing. There is "I and Thou." which upholds life and creates a circle of caring. All of the Valentine’s Day cards, candy, Pandora charm bracelets, ticklish teddy bears that sing silly songs, or rose bouquets in the Universe will not magically or instantaneously conjure up this relational alchemy.

To tame or to be tamed, one must be willing to be known enough, exposed enough,  bonded enough, to become unique in all the world to another. 

And finally, we learn that RELATIONSHIP REQUIRES HEART.

Back in September of 2000, my then 10-year-old daughter Michaela gave me a fortune cookie fortune taped to a piece of white note paper -- it reads: "The heart is wiser than the intellect." I took that with me  when I went before the Ministerial Fellowship Committee at the UUA, I carried it in my pocket during  my candidating week for my first settlement in Reading, MA , and I have it with me today to remind me that ministry is heart-centered calling and that  congregations are heart-centered communities.

The Jewish wisdom text tells us: "God wants heart."  Surely, that is what we want most from one another, as well...heart. Being in relationship, being "tamed" means having your heart open -- sometimes that means having it broken open.  The fox, a furry Zen Master to the end,  shares a secret to that effect with the boy and by association, with us, here in this Sanctuary. "Its a very simple secret," he explains..."It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye." "What is essential is invisible to the eye," repeated the Little Prince so that he would be sure to remember.

At this point in the story, the lad  is preparing to move on to his next adventure. For us, there is a no leave-taking on the horizon, and the taming will continue and the relationship will deepen. How I welcome that and honor the gift of that. 

To tame or be tamed, one must be willing to take risks, to be patient, intentional, and dependable, to be bothered and known, and to open one's heart. In every relationship, we must ask ourselves if we are  willing.  I am. How about you?

We have time for getting the taming right; for practicing it with one another and with others. Yes, we will likely make some mistakes with each other. We are human, after all. We may disappoint , we may misinterpret, we  may not handle every situation just so...but I can promise you, that I will abide. I will show up, I will foster joy, I will open my heart,  I will take this and other tamings in my life seriously.  And I ask you to do the same, with me and with one another, and with all of those who meet you under that metaphorical apple tree.

And, I'll strive to always remember (and I hope you will, too) the myriad ways in which our time together, here at First Unitarian, will bring the Little Prince's secret to life: that the quality of caring which is essential  to community, essential to all of our relationships,  and essential to a shared ministry  is invisible to the eye, but that it is seen rightly and clearly by the heart.

"People have forgotten this truth," warns the Fox, "but you must not forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose." "I become responsible forever for my rose," repeated the Little Prince to himself so he would be sure to remember.

"I become responsible forever for what I have tamed." repeated this mother, friend, colleague, partner, and minister, carefully and gladly to herself, so she would never, ever forget.

May it be so.

Blessed be and Amen.

©  2014 Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker. All rights reserved. Rev. Zucker and cited authors/sources may be quoted with proper attribution.

Letterboxing:Getting Lost and Found in the New Year

Letterboxing: Getting Lost and Found in the New Year

Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker

First Unitarian Church of Pittsburgh

January 5, 2014

First, find the Biddle Building on S. Braddock Ave,  and park in the lot next to the tennis courts. 

Locate the trail sign that says Braddock Trail. Facing the sign go left or south down the trail. Stay on the main path. Walk until you get to a paved road. Cross the road and continue on the path. Follow for about 100 yards from the road around a sharp bend in trail. There is a drainage pipe sticking out of rocks below right side of trail.

A little further up the trail on the left side of the path you will find a double tree with knarled roots. With your feet standing on the path, put your back to the double tree and walk 20 paces into the woods. Look for the tall solo standing tree on the edge of the hill. On the back side of the tree look down and you will find what you seek. 

These are the clues for the East Ridge letterbox, placed on  May 14, 2005 by someone who calls herself “Pink Cat.” The box is actually a sealed Tupperware container. Inside is a Ziploc freezer bag holding a small journal, several writing implements, a stamp of a sassy cat face and a stamp pad with shocking pink ink (no surprise there, Pink Cat!).

I recall my goofy joy in finding my very first letterbox that day, in the fall of 2012. I lay my jacket on the ground and sat down on it, crosslegged, next to the tree.  I stamped my little letterboxing journal with her cat stamp and noted where I found the box and some personal reflections on the day and the experience. I lifted the journal out of the bag and  was moved to read the many touching entries, dating back to 2005 -- some funny, some poignant, some lonely, some zesty, some simple and sweet.

The stamps that accompanied the entries were equally diverse and quirky – alter egos or symbols of the person we perceive ourselves to be, the one we’d like to show to the world, but don’t or won’t.  Who knows what these individuals can or will share about themselves in plain sight, because that is so much harder to do.

 I wrote my own entry in the book, stamped it with my stamp of a bird covered in poetry text (no surprise there either, hm?) and placed it back in its hiding place.

The East Ridge box is one of more than 100 boxes in Southwestern PA alone. Throughout the world (especially in Dartmoor, England),  there are virtually thousands. Letterboxers like me are heading into the woods or onto the moors, into the desert and up mountainsides, clues in hand, journals and stamps and pens in tow; orienteering our way to hidden treasures.

One thing I love about this hobby, which dates back to the 1850’s , is  that boxes are hidden, (or “planted” in letterboxing jargon) not buried. An important distinction.  You have to work to find them but the process doesn’t exhaust you. The pursuit is not meant to frustrate you or make you feel stupid or small. 

No wonder I saw a sermon in this years ago!  Like so much in our human lives, what we seek can be hidden, or at least obscured, by branches of fear or rock piles of regrets, twists in the road we had not expected or fuzzy self awareness. And especially in early January – during the annual resolutionpalooza, let’s add -- too many unrealistic  “expectations.”  Hmm - “expectations,” or what one of my witty and wise colleagues calls “pre-meditated resentments.” As a result, we can get even more lost when we yearn to be found. And we can make ourselves feel small or stupid in the process.

The productive, spiritual practice of getting lost asks us to take risks, to meander off the beaten path, to order our steps with what we might consider moral or just, and to pay close attention to the clues that lead us into the woods (sometimes dark or shadowy), then to places of discovery, and ultimately, into a dappled clearing.

One aspect of letterboxing that especially appeals to me is that it take place in the woods – my favorite environment.  The woods are a natural place of beauty and serenity and landscapes that often harmonize with one another gracefully - drumlins and ponds and stands of hardwood trees; beaver dams and high hawk nests.

The woods have also served in lore and legend and dream psychology and on Broadway as a metaphor for the unknown and the subconscious. I read that if you dream about heading into the woods, this may suggest a need to open yourself up to discovering your potential and your instinctual nature. To dream that you are walking through the woods may signify your return to an aspect of yourself that is innocent and spiritual. If you are walking out of the woods, then the dream may be a literal depiction of being in the clear of some situation. To dream that you are lost in the woods may indicate that you are starting a new phase in your life. And, you may be expressing some anxiety about leaving behind what is familiar to you.
This interpretation of being lost in the woods is the most hopeful, I think – the notion that you are starting a new phase, even with the inherent anxiety. Heading into the unknown, trusting our instincts, and drawing on inner resources to find our way through, takes sustained effort beyond the enthusiastic, well-meaning January resolution adrenaline rush.
This becomes all too apparent  when we find ourselves, not slightly off the trail, but  painfully lost in the forest of the world. Bhagavatam speaks of this in the reading we heard earlier – “We go round and round in the forest, unable to find our way out, until some kind traveler, some mahatma, reveals it to us.”
As I’ve preached before , I’m here, as a fellow traveler, not as a “mahatma” but as one of your ministers, to shine a flashlight on the path so you don’t trip quite so much. But, as Bhagavatam reminds us: May we each carry a lamp into dark places, for we too, have been lonely and without a light.”
Most likely, many of us have experienced hard times when we literally couldn’t see the forest for the trees. We’ve gotten lost in addictions or vanity or our own narcissistic bubbles. Perhaps, we’ve gotten lost in long-standing, embedded beliefs about who we’re supposed to be or how life is supposed to go.  We find ourselves deeper into the woods, so far off the trail that it’s hard to find a blaze or a clue that could get us oriented back towards our true North.
Addictions and self-absorption and meanness and emotional disconnection are clues that we have in fact, lost our way and need to pay attention. Too often, the way we deal with the recognition that we are lost and attention must be paid is through making of those well-intentioned New Year’s resolutions. 
I had considered calling this January 5^th sermon “Deeper not Different,” because it’s nearly impossible to become a completely different person, no matter what we resolve.There are no personality or temperament transplants that I know of. Sometimes we get lost in the belief that we will wake up “different” because we do 100 crunches everyday or stop eating a particular food. Better health or housing, more money or a new partner can improve our circumstances and relieve pressure. Yet, in  the light of day, we are still us.
Other times, we can get lost in the idea that volunteering four hours per week or focusing more on our important relationships will magically expunge our flaws and make us virtuous. These actions can and do deepen us, for sure, and if we set off into the woods to be deepened, not different, then we are more likely to get found in authentic and lasting ways.  To be clear, I’m all for resolving to go deeper in the manner I just described. However, I’d recommend that we reframe that list as ways you feel lost now and where you’d like to be found in 2014 -- not just geographically, but in mind, body and spirit.

Woody Guthrie scrawled 33 resolutions by hand in January of 1943. (and the fact that his name is Woody is only a happy wondrous coincidence here!)  He calls then “rulins” and they cover the gamut from the reasonably doable to ambitious. Our own lists may even include some of Guthrie’s intentions. It starts with practical items and then morphs into the personal. 1. Work more and better; 8. write a song a day; 9. Shave and wear clean clothes – look good (later on, we have companion items to this – wear clean socks and take bath); 14. Listen to the radio a lot; 15. Learn people better; 17. Don’t get lonesome; 19, Keep hope machine running; 27. Help win war, beat facism; 31. Love everyone; 32. Make up your mind.” 
I wonder what 1944 was like for Woody and how many of these “rulins” he was able to manifest in his own journey into the woods and out again. It was the year he recorded This Land is Your Land, so #25. “Play and sing good” seems to have worked out. Dontcha just love 15. Learn people better? I do. I'm gonna adopt that one. 
I think Guthrie would resonate with my favorite personal mantras – “Small things often.” Did you notice that letterbox clues are doled out in small portions? Pink Cat instructs us: Facing the Braddock trail sign, go left down the hill; look for a solo standing tree; and walk 20 paces, and so on. Getting found in the forest of the world requires small things often, rather than big, sweeping , dramatic changes.

As some of you know, my 27-year-old son Sam is off in Barcelona, Spain,  living a vibrant existence of a chef, sommelier, food writer and culinary tour guide. I know, what’s not to like? Hm, perhaps the bohemian wages and cold, shared flat. Despite his joy in living life in Spanish, as he puts it, he recently confided to me that he feels imbalanced and a bit lost in the woods.

 I suggested crafting a life plan and he wrote one–admirable, but on review, it veered between too rigid and too vague. “ I will do yoga every morning; I will read everyday for 1 hour; I will tidy my room each morning…and later on, I will cook more often at home, I will not stay out so late.”

I reminded him – “Small things often,” dear boy.  And I say now: “Small things often,” dear congregation. Make your “getting found” list realistic and clear. Be kind to yourself. Don’t set yourself up to get even more lost through well-intentioned, but blurry trail markers, on  your one-of-a-kind journey in progress.

My colleague Victoria Safford navigates her own ongoing journey by paying attention to those moments when she had become lost and those when she had been found, primarily by allowing herself to be vulnerable, awake to life and to her location in the forest of the world.

“Here’s where I found my voice and chose to be brave.,” she confesses. “Here’s where I was once forgiven, was ready for once in my life to receive forgiveness, and to be transformed. Here’s a time, and here’s another, when I laid down my fear and walked right into it; Here’s where cruelty taught me something; Here’s where I was told that something was wrong with my eyes, and where I said, “Yes, I know, I walk in beauty.” And here and here and here and here…these are the landmarks of conversion.”

Safford models for us a willingness to be vulnerable. Getting found asks us to be vulnerable in allowing others to know us, vulnerable in  becoming visible and known to ourselves and to them, like a letterbox,  lifted from behind a tree stump and brought out into a dappled clearing.

How do you want to get found this year? How might you resolve to become deeper, not different? As you move along the trail, you’ll need to pay attention and you’ll need to leave clues – for yourself and for others, doled out in small portions, just beyond a fallen log or beneath an old stonework bridge. There, you will find what you seek.

What stamp, what impression, would you like to leave, hidden in plain sight for others to find, here and here and here and here,  in this forest of the world?

Amen.

©  2014 Rev. Robin Landerman Zucker. All rights reserved. Rev. Zucker and cited authors/sources may be quoted with proper attribution.