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?

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!

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?

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.

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.

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.

Buckets, Rainbow Sparkles, and Metaphors

The other day I mentioned, out of nowhere, to my five-year-old child that I loved her. I just happened to be thinking of it, and it seemed like a nice thing to say out loud. She came up to me and said, "Mama, you're filling my bucket!" Turns out her class at school has read a book about the invisible buckets we all carry, which are filled up with rainbow sparkles when people are kind, or hug us, or show us love. And they are tipped over when people are hurtful, or hit, or push us down (this is preschool, after all, although I'm afraid the same exact lesson could be taught in the adult world). I was delighted, of course, that she felt I was "filling her bucket," and had a little moment of gratitude that my own bucket is filled so frequently by my children (and only occasionally tipped out by them). But it got me thinking more deeply about the image of the bucket, filled with rainbow sparkles, and how valuable having images like that can be--not just for children, but for adults too. My daughter confirmed the next day that the bucket was invisible, and I don't think she believes it exists in any real sense, but it's very clear that she understands it existing, truly, in a metaphorical sense. Images and metaphors have been deeply important in my life--often when I think about that big concept of inherent worth, I find myself imagining it as a glow, or a spark, an aura that I can see around people's bodies and selves if I try hard enough. I'm not suggesting there's something there, but that I want to engage in the practice of imagining and seeing something there...that the visual, metaphorical "something" is important to me as I try to live the bigger concept. How about for you? Are there images or metaphors that help you to understand concepts, or help you to live in a way that makes you proud or happy?

Feeling Proud - Reflections on the DC Pride Parade

Yesterday I was lucky enough to be part of the WES contingent at the DC Pride Parade, marching alongside UU congregations from around the area. It was my first DC Pride with WES, because every other year we've somehow managed to schedule the Board retreat on the same weekend. The day was perfect: sunny without being oppressive, a little breeze, and the fabulous Pride theme of "Unleash the Superhero Within" (featuring grand marshall Lynda Carter). The WES group had a great time, and I wanted to share just a few of the highlights of Pride for me. The kids: WES marched with five children, in outfits ranging from Ethical Culture t-shirt and rainbow beads to full tiger costume and "superhero tiger" sign. They were the hit of the parade...cheers and high fives all along the route. And, most poignantly for me, appreciations to the parents for bringing them out, for carrying signs about loving all families, for showing with our children's presence that this isn't just a drag queen parade or a Dykes on Bikes parade (although both of those contingents rocked, too) but an everybody parade. And from the kids' perspective, it was an hour and a half of thousands of people telling them they were awesome. So, win-win. The adults: we had two superhero capes in our contingent, one on a 6 year old girl and one on an always-beautifully-costumed adult. Every time the parade rounded a corner, both of them took off, soaring around the parade route in the open space, capes flying out behind them. It's not often you get to see unbridled joy in action, and yesterday offered it in abundance. The other marchers: I sometimes hear complaints that Pride has gotten too corporate, and I can see the concern--what started as a counter-cultural action about deserving to live openly has evolved into what can often look like moving ad space. But then I think about the fact that LGBTQ rights have moved forward enough in this country that companies actively WANT to be in the Pride parade, that it's not about corporate responsibility to do the right thing but about smart business. And that makes me happy. The spectators: Everyone is happy at Pride. People are cheering and hugging and throwing candy and catching beads. Our WES contingent saw a bunch of other WES members, including two of our fabulous teens, along the parade route--and nothing is more fun than slowing down your marching so you can hug someone standing on the sidewalk, someone who is proud to be there and proud to know you are there. And, I think partly because we were marching among other faith based groups and with kids, I saw a number of spectators crying too, clearly moved by the experience of affirmation. It's hard to get better than that. The impact: But my very favorite moment of Pride came not from a crying spectator but from a shouting one, screaming even. As we came around a bend, a fair amount of space ahead of our contingent and our banner, a young woman suddenly ran out from the sidewalk where she was watching with friends. She looked to be in her 20s, short spiked hair, tight white muscle tee, cut off jeans, plenty of piercings. She ran toward our banner, jumping up and down. "That's where I'm getting married!" she screamed to her friends, "That's where I'm getting married! YES!" And that was Pride for me: the experience that WES and WES' commitment to inclusion and welcome touches so many more lives than we know--with our officiants, with our building, with our words, with our actions. Happy Pride, everyone. It was an honor to walk.

Two Roads Diverged, and It Didn't Matter

Yesterday was my 7th wedding anniversary--a day of celebration and good memories. I was tempted to post something on Facebook like, "7 years ago today I made the best decision of my life," but then I wondered...was it the best decision? Or rather, have the last seven years really been about that one decision? Don't get me wrong: I think I made a great decision marrying my husband. It's just that more and more, I resist the idea that we have these huge decision points, and that everything follows from having picked the right, or the wrong, path to follow. It seems so much truer to me that we have lots of little decisions (some of which, like marriage, certainly carry big consequences), but that the way we experience life is really what happens after those decisions. I think we can get awfully wrapped up in the two roads diverged metaphor of life, and forget that whichever road we choose, we have more choices to come about how we interact in that part of the forest. From a marriage perspective, that means that my husband and I don't "have" a good marriage (or a challenging marriage, or a fun marriage), but rather that we create one. Of course anytime I write something down I immediately see all the disclaimers to the idea. And of course there are marriages that, no matter how much you work to create something good, just won't get there--and there are decisions that truly are forks in the road with no going back. But I'm at the very least intrigued by the idea that some of the urgent, do-or-die decision points are in our minds, while the little ways that we choose to live might go unnoticed but ultimately have a deeper impact on what our lives really look like. How about for you? Have there been big decision moments that defined you? Or have you found that a fork in the road can lead to paths that you still shape yourself?

Choosing to Be in Community

Sometimes you have to hear something you know in a new way to really understand it. This past Sunday I was chatting with a member of WES, waiting for the line to the post-Spring Festival brunch to get shorter. Like most Sundays in my life, it was a hectic morning: getting the family ready to go, arriving at WES and helping people find what they needed to put the morning together, attending to some of the little details that make a Sunday "happen." And at that particular moment I was hungry for brunch myself, and worrying about whether people were finding places to sit, and trying to focus on the conversation. The conversation in which this member, gesturing around him, said something like, "Look at all of these people, choosing to be in community together. It's so great." And you know, it was! It is! All of the details of a Sunday, all the details of any day in a congregation's life, really boils down to something as simple, and remarkable, as people choosing to be in community together. It's common for clergy to complain about consumer culture, about the way that people choose this congregation or that church or this synagogue because they want to get something, because they like this music better, because they've heard this one has great donuts. The idea behind the complaint is that American society has lost its staying power, that we have choice in so many aspects of our lives that we bring it to our religious lives too, and expect the congregation to mold itself around our interests. And there's something to that (in fact, I gave a whole platform about that once). But this past Sunday, I thought instead about the power of choice, and that a culture of choice makes it all the more wonderful when what we choose is to be together, to be in community. So here's a shout-out to the WES member who reminded me that there's a reason we run around on Sunday making sure all the details fall into place--and that, even more amazingly, we choose that reason, every week.

Violence, Violation, and Those That Help

Again I turn to writing as I grapple with the news from Boston today. I have been thinking about gun safety so much over the last few months, and the events today remind me that although I do want legislative changes passed--and I think they are vitally important--that what I want even more deeply is for the culture of violence to shift. I want that not just for America, where in many ways we have less violence than in other places (and in other ways we have more). I want it for the whole world, for humanity, for us to begin to wake up to the violence we do to ourselves when we live caught in the cycles of so many kinds of violence: physical, mental, emotional, inflicted on those we know and those all the way across the world. When I was growing up, my minister at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of Albany took a non-violence pledge and encouraged the congregation to do the same. She vowed to try to eliminate all conscious acts of violence from her life, including thinking violent thoughts--thoughts of negativity or harm or even ill wishes toward others. I was a middle schooler at the time, so I'm not entirely sure how it went over, but I remember the congregation resisting the pledge. It was too unrealistic, they thought, and they didn't want to vow to something they could never really do. I understand the sense of integrity they might have been holding onto, but I wonder whether we can't do better, whether aspiration isn't more important than the likelihood of success. So many of us find, I think, that with all the violence in our culture we end up feeling numb when yet another report comes through the news. I admit to feeling that way sometimes. And then I read about the first-responders, the police who run toward danger instead of away, the parents who shield their children, the citizens who try to save each other. Mr. Rogers called these people the helpers, and he reminded us that they were always there, in every terrible story and every terrible image. I can't feel numb at all when I hear those stories, when I am confronted with this wonderful, awesome reminder of our shared humanity. We have a natural instinct to care for each other, to save each other. That's what gives me hope in times of violence, what makes me think that not only could we take that vow...we might even be able to fulfill it one day.

Love Is More Fun

I spent the morning with five other folks (at least, that we could find!) from the Washington Ethical Society in front of the Supreme Court. We were there in a sea of red, showing our support for marriage equality as the Court began hearing arguments in two cases: one on Prop 8 and the other on DOMA. I love rallies, so it was a great morning for me, and the whole first part felt like a big reunion: colleagues from a variety of faith traditions, members of other congregations I've worked with over the years, all getting together to cheer and hoot and smile at each other. Of course then the opposition came in. Or maybe we were the opposition? Anyway, a big parade of folks with "One Man + One Woman" signs marched along the street that we were lining on the sidewalk. The interaction was pretty respectful, from what I saw; lots of chanting on both sides, a little bit of singing, and all of us trying to figure out each other's signs. But what I noticed most was that my folks seemed to be having so much more fun than the other side. They were angry, or scared, or just present. We were--well, at times the mood bordered on jubiliant, although this was not a celebration of anything. We chanted about love, and all our signs had hearts on them and rainbows...and aren't love and hearts and rainbows just inherently happy? But mostly it felt as though we had won already. Now I may be an optimist, but I'm not stupid. I know that there is a long road ahead, with likely setbacks, before we see marriage equality throughout America. But as the polls shift, and the legislators have gay sons who make them realize that people just want basic rights, well, it's hard not to see where this is heading. And it's heading (in my opinion) somewhere good. The WES contingent came up with a few new chants while we were together, often in response to the signs the opposition was holding up. They speak, I think, to the sense of possibility that I felt, at least, rallying there with all my compatriots in red. "2, 4, 6, 8; Kids do best with love not hate!" "We have love, we have pride; history is on our side!" What would you be chanting? Or singing?

Who Am I, the Fashion Police?

My five year old daughter is...a creative dresser. That would be the polite way of saying it. Most of the time I'm really pretty welcoming of that creativity but every once in a while I just reach a limit. This morning, for instance. She appeared in the hallway wearing a sleeveless summer dress over a turtleneck (of course they weren't the same color, not even the same pattern), with horse-themed pajama pants underneath. In an attempt to thwart this outfit, I told her the pajama pants were too long and she couldn't wear them to school. No problem: she gathered the bottoms together and stuffed them into her socks, so that they kind of billowed out over the socks like bizarre, pink pony harem pants. So what did I do? Did I support her creative mind? Complement her on her use of color? Bite my tongue and remind myself that her individuality is important? Nope. I told her I thought the outfit looked weird. And she changed. Technically it was because she didn't like how the turtleneck fit, but I did notice she changed into a much more socially-acceptable outfit. And while part of me was pleased, the other part of me was overwhelmed with guilt. Why was I the fashion police? Her preschool doesn't care what she wears. Her friends likely wouldn't comment. Officially, our rule is "modest and seasonally appropriate" and that's it. Why did I care so much that my child looked normal...and what's normal, anyway? I don't have answers, but I'm curious about the questions. Is this about how I'm perceived by other parents? Would I feel differently if my child were a boy? What does my investment in her outfits have to do with my own internalized understanding of gender, of culture, of societal expectations? How do I balance what I see as two parts of my role: both to help her navigate society successfully, and to teach her to deconstruct and sometimes rebel from that same society? How about you--what rules do you have, or don't have, for your children's clothing choices? How about for yourself? Is allowing creativity to flourish always the highest goal? For me, the reassurance is that even though I chose society over creativity this time, I feel very confident my daughter will present me with plenty more opportunities to come down on the side of creativity!

Parenting, Museums, and Having No Goals

My family and I--that's me, husband, and two kids, ages 5 and 20 months--headed to downtown DC today for some museum hopping. We couldn't decide between Natural History and American History so (perhaps totally unwisely) we went to both. And we hadn't realized there was a marathon in DC today, so we ended up bailing out of our car early and taking the metro part of the way. The whole thing was a lesson in...having no goals. It started in the traffic, which was horrible even by DC standards. Still in the car, my husband and I furiously pecked away at our phones to try to find a clear route downtown. Finally we gave up and then had to map a route to the closest metro with parking. We got out, then had to find the elevator, then go stuck on the platform because the train was single tracked...all while increasingly stressed about all the museum time we were missing with this terrible delayed journey. Finally I looked at the kids and realized they were SO excited about the elevator and then the train, that perhaps the length of time getting down there was not such a bad thing. We finally made it down to Natural History, and started wandering around. Usually I start a museum with a map, checking off the must-see exhibits, the rotating exhibitions I don't want to miss, plotting out snacks along the way. That is not, it turns out, how a 5 year old approaches a museum. So we saw some butterflies quite briefly, a whale from the balcony only, and early humans in a very non-linear format. I was doing pretty well with my type-A self, I thought. Of course then we needed a nap, lunch, and time at American History...so we had to hustle between the two museums. My husband and I split up with the girls, and I had the 5 year old, rushing her along so we could get something to eat. But she was so slow! She wanted to look at the popcorn vendor's truck. At the tents set up on the Mall. She wanted to walk on the little riser instead of the sidewalk. But it wasn't until I snapped at her for taking too long smelling the daffodils that I realized I needed to get a grip. It's fun, really, when the universe offers you a particularly obvious message. Allowing your 5 year old to, literally, stop and smell the flowers is a good goal, I realized, just in and of itself. If it meant that we didn't see a single thing at the American History museum, it would still be a great day. So go ahead and have a goal-less day. See if you don't accomplish something even more important.

Leading by Non-Example

I had a meeting tonight. I was completely unprepared for it, I did almost nothing while there, and I left with no action items. It was great. This was a group of eight WES members who have been working on gun safety, springboarding off the resolution WES passed in December. They've been going to summits, to congressional hearings, to coalition briefings. They've been reading (like, entire books) and thinking and, most of all, caring about this issue. They have a diversity of viewpoints on how to move forward, but they're all committed. The interesting thing for me about the meeting was that it was clear during the opening go-round that I wasn't the one bringing the most passion, or the most well-researched information, or the most helpful coalition connections. I wasn't the one bringing the most radical ideas, and I wasn't even the one bringing the most spiritual grounding. Of course I'm never the one at meetings that brings all of those things, but more often than not I bring at least ONE of those things. This time, I was an observer, a listener, a learner. And I loved the very different kind of leadership, the show up and get out of the way leadership, that it required. They're still finding their focus and they're not sure yet exactly what will emerge from their shared commitment (and WES people, if you care about this issue too I urge you to get on the bandwagon--details will be coming your way in the next couple days). I'm not sure I have a point here, except to say that it was an honor to spend time with these folks. And for this type-A, in-charge kind of person, a delight to spend my time as a Leader simply following.

I See You

I had an experience today at the doctor's (just a check up, no need to worry!) that made me realize, or rather, remember how important it is to be really seen. I love this doctor; I've been a patient of his for ten years and he's taken wonderful care of me, been there for the tricky time as we were figuring out my diagnosis (auto-immune, like so many women), and helped me with ongoing management so that really most of the time I feel just great. So I'm very fond of him, and for that reason I endure rather long wait times at his office--partly because in years past I've been the unexpectedly long appointment or the emergency overbook that causes the wait times. This morning was par for the course. I brought a book (which I read in its entirety). I played Words with Friends. I did my crossword app. All was well. When I was finally rescued from the waiting room and put into an actual exam room, I was perhaps ready to move along with the appointment, but not what I'd call impatient. Then the intern came in. There really was nothing terribly wrong with how she behaved. I'm sure she's a caring and competent doctor, who was in a rush because the appointments were backed up. She started talking to me before I could see her, as she was outside the exam room door, and then asked what the problem was, but kept starting the next question before I finished my answer. She asked the same question three times--as it turned out, because my response wasn't what she thought it should be. And her questions themselves made it clear that she hadn't read my chart, didn't know why I was regularly seen in this office or how I'd been treated in the past. Finally I told her that I was finding it hard to talk with her, because it appeared she didn't know who I was and wasn't listening well enough to find out. Before we were able to resolve much in our communication, my regular doctor came in and all was well. But the whole experience made me think how frequently we--certainly I--rush through things, don't bother to read up first, don't bother to read the face of the person in front of me, listen to the tone of voice. This doctor certainly meant no harm, but neither do I, neither, most of the time, do any of us as we hurry through. And how quickly we can feel that we simply don't matter, how quickly it can frustrate us and made us feel lonely and sad and invisible. I'm white and formally educated and financially comfortable, and so I only have to experience this once in a while...and I feel secure enough in the reality that I do matter that I speak up when it happens. How would I feel, how would I be, if I didn't have those identities as a shield from marginalization? And even with all the shields I have, how is it that I still feel such emotion when I am not fully seen? Today I'm thankful for a relatively painless reminder of the importance of noticing the people right in front of us.

So, tell me about your day...

I've always resonated with the idea that how you spend your days is how you spend your life--and I thought of it especially yesterday, when I had a particularly interesting, although not atypical, day in the office. I thought WES members in particular might be interested to know what a Wednesday looks like for me, so here goes: 9:30 - arrive at the office, check and respond to email, take a look at the newsletter which will need to be sent out in the next day or so; 10 - meeting with a member of staff and a community organization director, talking about how our two organizations could work together in a way to make use of WES' space and benefit both organizations and the community!; 11 - work on information the Board has requested, check email again, check in with some staff members; 11:15 - head out for a lunch meeting with a local rabbi, where we talked about possible ways for our congregations to work together; 12:45 - back from lunch, check email (phone call with a member on the way to and from lunch...but of course carefully watching the road!); 1 - meeting with a visitor to WES to talk about last week's platform and shared interests; 2 - meeting with two WES members to talk about congregational life, great conversation and one of my favorite things to do!; 3:30 - office and administrative work, like editing a lease for our downstairs space, following up with WES members on their gun safety work, meeting with the consultant who's in the office to see how the focus groups are going, and supporting the folks working on logistics for our upcoming anti-racism training; 5:15 - head out the door to pick up my kids! No evening meeting last night, so a little time in the evening on email. And that's a day in the life! What I loved about Wednesday was that it included lots of time connecting with people: with staff members, WES members, visitors, community leaders, and other clergy. I get so many ideas from those conversations, plus they're fun. Now today is another story...a few meetings and a phone call, as well as staff meeting, but I simply HAVE to clear off my desk and clear out my inbox. Wish me luck!

Adapting to Carpets

A couple weeks ago, my family went on vacation to Florida (it was great). We stayed in a condo there, and over the course of the week--and through the process of being littered with toys and books and stuffed animals--it felt sort of like home. After our week in sunny paradise, we came back to our real home. And it felt...not like home. My husband and I both noticed right away that it felt different. Bare somehow, or empty, or just a little off. After a little while, we were able to identify that the problem was that our house wasn't carpeted. Of course, our house has never been carpeted. But apparently that one week of wall-to-wall carpeting in our little Florida condo was enough to re-train our minds to see non-carpeting as empty, bare, wrong. We adjusted back quickly enough, and now our floors just look like floors again. But it got me thinking how quickly we adapt to things, how easy it is for us to be taught that something is acceptable, desirable, even mandatory. What other things in life have I adapted to? What do I think I need to own, to wear, to believe just to be normal? And what process do I go through to examine those adaptations, what trips do I take--should I take--to consider what's really essential? Just musings from my comfortable, "necessity"-filled existence.

Being and Becoming White: Resources

I'm sometimes asked, after a platform address with a lot of "teaching" in it, to share my resources. And I always say "oh, of course, I'll put them on my blog!" and then it is Sunday afternoon and I have officially lost the ability to function. Can you guess how often they make it here? So I'm putting up the major resources I'm using for tomorrow's platform tonight. Ta da! Website for traveling exhibit about race The classic essay on white privilege A great list of common "detours" (I like that phrasing, too) that lead to white guilt and denial [I didn't use this resource as much for this platform, but I think it's a good list] And two books: "The Invention of the White Race, Volume 1: Racial Oppression and Social Control" by Theodore W. Allen - great if you have, oh I don't know, a PhD and a lot of time (but it is a seminal work in this field) "What If All the Kids Are White? Anti-Bias Multicultural Education with Young Children and Families" by Louise Derman-Sparks and Patricia G. Ramsey - totally readable and engaging, I think even if you have nothing to do with young children because it just has some good background on white identity and privilege Happy resource reading!

Zen and the Art of Packing Ornaments

I love un-decorating for Christmas. I love decorating, too, putting up each sparkly ornament and ornate stocking holder. For a while, my house looks like it was taken over by the glitter-and-gold fairy, and it's a welcome spot of brightness in the cold, dark days. But just as good, in my opinion, is taking them all down. All my regular things suddenly look simple and elegant. My living room seems huge without a six foot tree in it. There's a sense that everything is back in its place, quiet and unassuming. And that's winter for me, too: not just the sparkle of the holidays, but the waiting and quiet and beautiful dark of the rest of the months. A poet calls winter a time of "pregnant negativities"--the spare architecture of the trees, showing us the house across the street that we almost never see in the summer time; the cold ground, where we just know the bulbs are gathering strength for their big showy blossoms in the spring. So I invite you, in the weeks and months to come, to look at the spaces where the decorations are not, where the leaves are not, where the sun is not. And to find in those places, too, a kind of beauty, a quiet waiting for what comes next.