Friday, January 17, 2014

In Praise of Having No Choice

It's been a long time since my last blog post, and I think part of what happened was that the holiday season intervened. I love the winter holidays, which are so rich with tradition and family, but I also find them overwhelming. Not only do we have all the regular decisions to make (what to make for dinner, which project to tackle at work, how to fit in exercise) we are suddenly confronted with all sorts of additional choices: what to give to Aunt Bertha and which New Year's open house to go to and how to celebrate our family's rituals while holding onto our intellectual integrity. It's exhausting. I was thinking about this idea--the exhaustion that comes with too many choices--the other day, as I sat on my couch with no choices at all. I was stuck there, actually, underneath a sleeping, feverish toddler. My phone was out of reach, my laptop was inaccessible, and no one else was home. I loved it. A year or so ago I read a great article on how tiring decisions are in The Atlantic. The article posited that what we see as a lack of willpower sometimes comes from just having made too many decisions in a day. It advocated taking choice out of our lives as much as possible: picking one breakfast and eating it every day, taking the same route to work all the time. Of course, I've heard the opposite advice too--that trying something new, even in little ways, can spur our creativity. There must be some balance, I guess, between the joys of newness and the exhaustion of over-choice. All I know is that I'm grateful for the a-sleeping-toddler-is-on-top-of-me-so-I-can't-move moments. They bring me back to the idea of just being, not doing anything, not making any choices, but simply being present to what is for a moment. May you find a moment of no choice this weekend--or may you choose to create one.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Guest Post! Desperately Seeking the Truth...

This past Sunday, I gave a platform address titled "Ain't It the Truth?" which you can listen to here. A member of WES, Ellen Post, who always has thoughtful things things to say, has written a great response. I say great despite the fact that she basically disagrees with me--because far more important than agreement is the opportunity for real engagement. Actually, I think that's what I might have been trying to say in my platform! Here is Ellen's wonderful essay in response to my platform address. Thanks, Ellen! January 2013; updated November 2013 Glowing Words Do you ever have trouble understanding what people really mean when they use certain words, especially in a religious context – words like “God” or “truth” or “spiritual”? I do. The topic of a platform at the Washington Ethical Society (WES) a couple of years ago was, “The God I Don’t Believe In.” The speaker discussed the various versions of “God” that have held sway at various times with various peoples. At the end of the talk, she advised us to “listen for what the mystics tell us: that beneath the language, before the metaphysical concepts, behind the pan- and panen- and plain old theists, there’s a deeper truth. We are one.” I chewed on that for a few minutes. “What do you mean, ‘We are one’?” I thought to myself. “Do you mean we’re all part of some ‘cosmic stuff’? Do you mean we’re all somehow ‘spiritually linked’, whatever that means?” I finally decided that “we are one” must be shorthand for “We’re all human beings and thus share certain human traits – we all need the same basic things, have the same basic needs, etc., so we should try to see beyond the differences to these basic and important human characteristics we all share.” Why, then, didn’t she just say that? “We are one” is shorter, but more ambiguous. It could mean all sorts of things. One of the nice things about WES platforms is that after the platform address, there’s a period in which people can offer their comments. After this address, someone stood up and said that for her God was what enabled Desmond Tutu to do the amazing things he’s done. Hmmm. I thought about that. What exactly did she mean? Sometimes saying something in a poetic way packs a greater punch. Marcel Proust wrote, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” He didn’t mean “having new eyes” literally, of course. He meant that it’s the way we look at things, the way we interpret what we see, that makes things interesting, rather than the things themselves. He could have expressed this prosaically, the way I did, but the poetic way he put it got the idea across in a much more interesting way. But not all poetic expressions can readily be translated into an obvious and clear prosaic equivalent. It could be that people use these expressions as shorthand for much more longwinded statements. After all, it’s much easier to just say, “We are one” than to say, “We’re all human beings and thus share certain human traits – we all need the same basic things, and so on and so forth.” But it could be that it’s not shorthand as much as a kind of “gauzy” vagueness. Expressions like “spiritual truth” sound nice; they sound, on first hearing, as if there’s some deep meaning there. “Spiritual truth,” one thinks, must be somehow deeper than “plain old” truth. Until one thinks about it, which brings me back to “What exactly does that mean?” These “gauzy” expressions – “spiritual truth” or “spiritual meaning” – are like mirages in the desert; as we get closer and try to get a better look, they melt away, as if the only way we can keep the image in our sight is by squinting from a distance. In a post titled, “Definitions Don't Prove Anything,” on the blog Rationally Speaking, Julia Galef discusses how people often “redefine” words in what amounts to a verbal “sleight of hand” (full disclosure: Julia is my daughter): First, the basics: A definition is simply the act of setting some symbol equal to some concept, so that you have an easy way of referring to that concept. A definition itself can't be correct or incorrect, because the symbol has no inherent meaning of its own. But you have to be careful when you establish that definition, the SYMBOL = CONCEPT relationship, that you're not implicitly thinking of the symbol as having another, hidden concept inside it already. Because if you are, then what you're doing is actually equating one concept with another, different concept. That's not a definition, that's a claim, and it can be incorrect. Here's a case study that may ring a bell. Some people are fond of saying that they define “God” to be the unknown, or to be a symbol of perfection, or to be whatever caused our universe to exist. At first glance, this seems puzzlingly pointless. Why assign the word “God” to something like the unknown? We already have a word for the unknown — it’s “the unknown.” But clearly, this doesn’t feel pointless to them. There is some reason they want to be able to say “God exists” instead of “The unknown exists,” even though those two statements should theoretically mean the exact same thing according to their own definition. And that’s because the symbol “God” still has concepts hidden inside it. They haven’t scrubbed the word entirely clean of its original meaning before redefining it. With both meanings of “God” conflated into one word, they feel like the fact that the word is now pointing to something that exists allows them to believe in the existence of what the word used to be pointing to. I’ve encountered similar phenomena in other WES platforms – one time when the speaker referred to having faith in the inherent goodness of people. This is actually a basic precept of Ethical Culture – we say we put our faith in human goodness. But what does it mean to “have faith in human goodness”? Is it like having faith in God? Here again, the word “faith” has meaning already attached to it – when people say they have faith in God, they generally mean they believe in God and they believe that God has a purpose and is doing good things; and they believe this apart from any empirical evidence. When we refer to “taking something on faith” we mean we believe it even in the absence of actual evidence to support it. Similarly, “taking a leap of faith” is (according to Wikipedia) “the act of believing in or accepting something intangible or unprovable, or without empirical evidence.” So there is a sense that faith is belief in the absence of supporting evidence. When the speaker at WES said she had faith in the inherent goodness of people, she clarified that she didn’t think people were always good, but she had faith that they are capable of goodness. But there’s lots of evidence to support the notion that people are capable of goodness. You don’t really need faith to believe that; we are surrounded by empirical evidence of the capacity for human goodness – there are many, many examples of it (just as there are examples of the human capacity for evil). If there were absolutely no evidence that people have the capacity for goodness, then it would be appropriate to say “I have faith in human goodness,” meaning “even in the absence of any empirical evidence, I believe human beings are capable of goodness.” As I listened to the speaker at WES, I “translated” in my mind; I decided she must mean, “I am often reminded that people are capable of great goodness, and this is what I choose to focus on.” So why did she instead use the word “faith”? Well, the talk was titled, “I’m a Believer,” and it was given to the WES congregation; I would guess at least half of WES members are atheists. These are people who don’t have faith in God. The speaker at that platform may not have faith in God either. But WES considers Ethical Culture a religion. We don’t (necessarily) have faith in God; instead we put our “faith” in human goodness. There’s an implied – but false – equivalence. Our “faith” is actually based on empirical evidence. Faith in God is not. But by using the word “faith,” the concept of religion, as it is typically thought of, was “smuggled in” to the talk. It “feels” more religious to say, “I have faith in human goodness” than to say, “I am often reminded that people are capable of great goodness, and this is what I choose to focus on.” In another WES platform, titled “Ain’t It the Truth?”, the speaker delved into the concept of truth, first speaking about the scientific concept of truth and then talking about religious “truth” and experiential “truth.” I put quotations around the word “truth” when combining it with the words “religious” and “experiential” because it is not the same thing as what scientists mean when they talk about truth. For scientists, a claim can be regarded as true if there is sufficient evidence to support it, and especially if it has predictive power. Scientists regard evolution as true, for example, because there is a vast amount of evidence to support it. Similarly, virtually all climate scientists regard the claim that climate change is real and human-caused as true because there is an enormous amount of evidence to support that claim as well. If evidence were to become available that contradicted a scientific claim, scientists would start to reevaluate the truth of the claim. Because a claim is true only if there is sufficient evidence to support it, this implies that two contradicting claims cannot both be true. In the religious context it is common to talk about religious “truths.” Similarly, when people speak about “spirituality,” they may refer to one person’s “truth” and another person’s (different) “truth.” The speaker at WES talked about “my truth” and “their truth” about the same thing, implying that there can be more than one truth about something. And once again, I “translated” in my mind – she really meant “my experience” and “their experience” of the same situation, or “my belief” and “their belief” about something. And once again, a word – this time, the word “truth” – was being used in a vague sort of way, and meaning was being “smuggled in.” Scientists adhere to a very high level of rigor to make truth claims, so that when they declare something to be true, we can have a high level of confidence that it is indeed true. Talking of “my truth” and “their (different) truth” about the same thing is a way of (subconsciously, I would guess) trying to “smuggle in” that sense of confidence about people’s different experiences of a situation or people’s different beliefs. It’s a way of trying to give validation to individuals’ religious experiences and beliefs, even if one person’s experiences and beliefs contradict those of another person. But really, two individuals’ different experiences of a situation aren’t two “truths”; they’re just two different experiences or perceptions. And similarly with beliefs. I suspect that much of the lack of clarity in how we use words is motivated, probably subconsciously, by emotional needs. Although hearing other people talk about their “spirituality” makes me wince, it probably feels good to them – and stopping to clarify exactly what they mean by that word would only dim the glow of that good feeling, especially if it turns out to be difficult to do. And, although I don’t toss around the words “spiritual” or “spirituality,” I undoubtedly toss around other words unthinkingly, without really being clear (perhaps even in my own mind) about exactly what I mean by them. Stopping to really think through exactly what we mean by the words we choose to use could indeed be overly burdensome. If we all did that all the time, there might be a whole lot less talk – and certainly a whole lot less of the “gauzy” variety. I am reminded of the wonderful contemporary dance company, Pilobolus, known for the “strong element of physical interaction between the bodies of the performers and exaggerations or contortions of the human form …, often verging on gymnastics.” I first saw them perform in New York City many years ago. I was sitting way up in an upper balcony. From there, their movements looked completely fluid and effortless. They were a beautiful sight to behold. Several years later, when I was a graduate student, I happened to catch another Pilobolus performance. This time, we were sitting right up front, only a few rows from the stage. From that close vantage point I could see the sweat and straining muscles of the performers. What had seemed so easy and fluid and beautiful from a distance was less so up close. The distance – and the inability to really see clearly – had given their performance a lovely smoothness that was lost when I could actually clearly discern their movements and what went into them. And so too for what we say and what we hear. Not “getting too close” to certain words – for the speaker, not being too clear, and for the listener, not thinking too hard about exactly what is meant –preserves a certain “glow” about those words. But what is being conveyed (and perceived) is the glow, not any underlying meaning. Glow is nice, of course, but it would be even nicer to understand just what it is emanating from – what is actually meant. Perhaps I’m just a stickler for clarity, but I think there may be real consequences to the vagueness and “smuggling in” of meaning in words used in a religious context. When people refer to “your truth” and “my truth” and seem to actually think that there can indeed be different truths about something, I worry that it makes it harder for them to really understand that truth is not like that. Experience and belief are like that, but not truth. And similarly with expressions like “God is love” or “God is the unknown.” I suspect that these are not just poetic expressions but are intended to be something more, to mean something – but on closer inspection it really isn’t clear what they mean. The human mind has apparently evolved to be not entirely rational , so it happily accepts “feel good” expressions without too much thought. My strong impression is that religious contexts encourage that lack of thought in an effort to promote that “feel good” atmosphere. And I wonder, can’t we promote good feeling without sacrificing the clarity we need to think rationally?

Monday, October 14, 2013

The Welcome Table

I was off from WES this past Sunday, and took advantage of the Sunday morning to visit a little Methodist church in a small town in rural Maryland. I was looking forward to being a guest in a tradition different from my own, but for which I have a great deal of affection, having loved my Methodist seminary and my many Methodist colleagues. The experience Sunday morning, though, has me thinking about the difference between a welcome guest and an unwelcome one, and the whole arena of interfaith welcome. One of the decisions I always have when I visit Methodist churches is whether or not to take communion. Methodists have an open table, something I love about the Wesleyan tradition (John Wesley believed that communion could be a means to grace, so you could participate whether or not you were baptized and whether or not you believed). I've attended Methodist services where I haven't participated, and ones where I've felt so welcome that I have joyfully received what my hosts offered. On this Sunday, of course there was plenty of theology that wasn't my own (for the theology wonks: pre-messianic apocalypticism and a TON of substitutionary atonement). But I've had so many wonderful, moving experiences interacting with theology that isn't my own, hearing stories of faith that I don't share but that I found inspiring. So the theology, for me, isn't a barrier to feeling deeply welcomed. What was a barrier was the sense that--well, that I was, specifically, not the person they wanted there, unless I was interested in being pretty radically changed. The sermon was built around the idea of the awesomeness of nature, and a beautiful psalm (66) that speaks about the whole earth singing to God. The minister talked about interdependence, a core value I share. But he also talked about a person he'd met, a young woman who loved nature as he did but who believed in evolution--and how wrong that person was. The sermon illustration was used a few times--how foolish, how sad, how wrong. By the time we got to communion, which was actually presented very beautifully and with a deeply inclusive welcome, I didn't feel that they meant me. I am, of course, a young woman who loves nature and believes in evolution. So surely, I felt by that time, I wasn't really welcome at their table. I want to be clear--the thing that pulled me away from their welcome wasn't the fact that the community believes in creationism instead of evolution. I have friends that believe all kinds of different things. It was that the sermon illustration was so specifically an anti-illustration. And what I took away was a commitment to avoiding anti-illustrations in my platforms (sermons), to finding a way to present my beliefs, my values, without needing to point out who's NOT in the group. Put another way, I didn't expect to be a part of this church--I knew ahead of time that I wouldn't share enough of their beliefs to join them--but I would have loved to have felt welcome, or at least not not-welcome. And I think they wanted me to feel welcome, would have wanted to welcome me even had they known that I was a young woman who loved nature and believed in evolution. The whole experience has me aware of how hard it is to find the right balance between stating our values and allowing in, welcoming in, guests who believe differently. That, I think, might be the challenge of a lifetime!

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Dark, Light, and the Challenge of Language

I spoke this morning about language and how it affects us, and the challenge to move beyond a feeling of being "PC" and toward radical inclusion (you can listen here). If you were there, or listen to the podcast, you'll notice a moment where I spoke off the cuff about the light in the room (it had suddenly gotten darker) and linked the darkness to the "dark" subject matter of microaggressions. Then I realized I had just DONE a microaggression with the light=good, dark=bad paradigm, and called myself out in the middle of the platform. Hilarious opportunity for on the spot learning. But not surprisingly, that particular microaggression was the one I heard from a couple of people about afterward, questioning whether it was really valid. I say not surprisingly because I've sure struggled with it, and I still find it complicated. On the one hand, I completely get that over many years, we have developed a cultural narrative about dark things being bad. I don't like that narrative, and I want to work against it. On the other hand (as a member of my congregation pointed out this morning), it's not unreasonable to note that humans evolved to be diurnal, and that we might therefore find the daylight and sun appealing. I'd love to hear from more folks about this one--how do you handle it? Are there lines you won't cross in your language? We try, in the wintertime, to have music that honors the beautiful, serene element of winter darkness...but we certainly still have music that welcomes back the coming of the sun. I work hard to avoid "black sheep" and "white knights" and similar phrases. What works for you? How do you feel about this language challenge? And what are other challenges that you work with in the realm of language?

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Connecting In to the Manifold

At some point during the week--usually about 8pm on Saturday night--I wonder why it is that all these clergy are writing different messages for Sunday morning. Couldn't those of us in the same tradition just split up the weeks, each take one, and read each other's stuff the other 51 weeks of the year? Later in the week--usually, and thankfully, by 11am on Sunday morning--I've decided there is something unique to say, something that is just right for this congregation of people at this time. But I still wonder, how are we connecting with each other, in our individual little meeting houses and societies and churches. How is the particular-ness of what happens at my congregation on Sunday part of a movement or a tradition that relates to the particular-ness of what happens at your congregation at the very same time? For me, the answer is often in the music we share. Although WES doesn't use a hymnal, we do frequently sing songs that are found in other Ethical Societies or in UU congregations. Two Sundays ago, we had an especially connected morning: singing two new pieces, one written by a local UU and one by a member of the Brooklyn Ethical Society. In both cases we actually know the composers, and there was something just so sweet about singing this music that was written out of the traditions we're connected to, part of that big river of liberal religious and ethical movements--a river that extends back hundreds of years and that is alive and flowing now. Then this past Sunday, we closed with a beautiful song we've sung before, and after the platform service someone came up and told me I should really friend the composer on Facebook, that she was a neat person. I'm so grateful for the connection that music creates, and the way it links us with each other...even in our particularity.

Friday, August 23, 2013

All I Have (On Email) Is Now

Something truly bizarre has happened with my work computer, which means--among other things--that I every day when I go into my email I have only the messages that I've received in the last 12 hours or so. (Note to worried people-who-have-emailed-me: I will eventually get all the email back, and I promise I'll respond to you). But the whole experience has me thinking about our attempts to live in the moment, and how much our lives fight against that hope. What if we really only did have the present moment? What if we only ever had emails from the last 12 hours, or to-do lists for the day, or worries for...oh I don't know, even just the week. I know that I'm finding something remarkably relaxing about having my inbox filled only with the details and the concerns of the very-present moment. Imagine not seeing, when you log in, the hundred emails that you haven't yet responded to and you're sure require your immediate attention. Eventually my inbox will be re-filled with all those old emails. And perhaps eventually I will fulfill my lifelong dream of actually going through all those emails and dealing with them once and for all. But in the meantime I'm really hoping that I can hang on to the sense of presence-to-the-moment that my email woes have created.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

You Can't Freeze Glowsticks (or Life)

As we packed up at the end of our family camping trip last week, my five year old daughter suddenly came barreling into view, panicked and holding out something small and shiny. "Can we freeze my glowsticks?!" she practically shouted. "They will last if we freeze them!" I challenge you to look into the eyes of a five year old and tell her that you will not freeze the glowsticks that are obviously central to her entire happiness in life. So, with the help of our wonderful camping hosts, we ended up with a gallon bag of ice, five little glowsticks wedged into the center. Those glowsticks, and the rapidly melting ice, traveled all the way back from Indiana to DC with us. And now the glowsticks have been rescued from the water and they are in my freezer, where I am sure my daughter will check on them to ensure safe arrival. But here's the thing. You can't really freeze glowsticks. The little glowsticks have some color left to them, but not a lot of shimmer. Somehow the whole, sweet thing felt like a giant metaphor to me: our deep and earnest desire to save what we love, what we treasure, and the reality that we never can, not really. That everything is transient--summertime, camping trips, life--and sticking it in the freezer will only leave us with a bag of cold water and tepidly colored sticks of plastic. So grab your glowsticks and run around like crazy with them, high over your head, symbol of summer. And then let them go. As the poet Carl Sandburg writes, "Gather the stars if you wish it so. Gather the songs and keep them. Gather the faces of women. Gather for keeping years and years. And then...Loosen your hands, let go and say good-by. Let the stars and the song go. let the faces and years go. Loosen your hands and say good-by." Darling daughter, no ice will keep the glowsticks aglow forever. Hold them tight, then loosen your hands and say good-by.