Poems, Meditations, and Worship Material: October 2005 Archives

"David Hilliard Eaton (1932-1992) was the first African American to serve as senior minister in a large Unitarian Universalist church. During his tenure, All Souls Church, Unitarian in Washington, DC became a center of community service and social action, and was the first congregation within the Unitarian Universalist Association (UUA) to achieve a racially balanced black and white membership."

From the Dictionary of Unitarian Universalist Biography

I reprint this prayer poem by David Eaton in preparation for All Soul's Day.

A Common Destiny


All living substance, all substance of Energy,
and Being,
and Purpose,
are united and share the same destiny

All people,
those we love and those we know not of
are united and share the same destiny.

Birth -to- Death
this unity we share with
the Sun,
Earth
our Brothers and Sisters,
Strangers
Flowers of the field,
Snowflakes
Volcanoes and Moon Beams.

Birth-Life-Death
Unknown-Known-Unknown.

I pray that we will know the Awe
and not fall into the pit of intellectual arrogance
in attempting to explain it away.

The mystery can be our substance.
May we have the faith to accept this wonderful Mystery
and build upon its everlasting Truth.

Mary Wellemeyer writes:

Thoreau took few books to his cabin
at the edge of Walden Pond.
One of them was the Iliad,
Homer's tale of the siege of Troy.

He read it in the Greek,
and I imagine him by lantern light,
reading slowly and carefully through it,
translating, making sure he understood -
surrounded by the quiet.
He would have read it with his soul.

This man who later went to jail
for refusing to support a stupid war
has spent long hours with the tale of Troy.

Thoreau had never armed himself,
going over piece carefully,
praying that his arming
and his skill and luck
would bring him safely home from war,
but by reading Homer's words he must have known
the fear that went with putting on
even the most beautiful armor.

Home lets the reader know it:
Each piece of armor might be the difference
between life and death.
War is still like that.

And proud Achilles, berserk with grief-
Home does not spare the read there.
Battle madness is a tragedy too often seen
in fighting then, and since.

I imagine Thoreau reading deeply
of the risks of combat
and the dangers of moral compromise by generals.

Read slowly, from the Greek, in a cabin in the woods,
the tale unfolded a message of peace.
Peace spoke clearly through the same words
read by many would-be heroes
nurturing dreams of glory with those pages.

From her book of meditations admire the moon.

Skinner House has issued admire the moon, a mediation manuel by Unitarian Universalist minister and poet Mary Wellemeyer. Mary is parish minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Manchester, New Hampshire. I reprint this poem with Mary's permission in preparation for All Soul's Day.

Some bright morning. . .
Never mind the metaphorical stuff,
this death and rebirth that means
transformation from one phase to another,
one way of being alive in the world
yielding to another.
Never mind that.

Some bright morning when this life is over. . .
When this life is really over
how will it be? How will I know?
That old spiritual has a clue,
a word from the people's ancient memory.

Some bright bright morning when this life is over, I'll fly away.
I imagine a bright spring morning
with misty vapors rising off ponds and farmyards
and leaves of different colors, not yet fully out,
the sun shining steadily above the mists,
the little leaves stirring in the wind,
and the clouds moving across the sky.

Some bright morning
this life will be over, and something
within and beyond
will tell me, call me away.

I'll smile and close my eyes,
the melody of the old song will in my head
and I'll fly, released from this life with joy.

Sam Keen writes:

"The powerful have always been willing to baptize the status quo and name it "peace," and the impotent are regularly accused of being troublemakers when all they seek is justice."

Let me make the songs for the people,
Songs for the old and young;
Songs to stir like a battle-cry
Wherever they are sung.

Not for the clashing of sabres,
For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of men
With more abundant life.

Let me make the songs for the weary,
Amid life's fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
And careworn brows forget.

Let me sing for little children,
Before their footsteps stray,
Sweet anthems of love and duty,
To float o'er life's highway.

I would sing for the poor and aged,
When shadows dim their sight;
Of the bright and restful mansions,
Where there shall be no night.

Our world, so worn and weary,
Needs music, pure and strong,
To hush the jangle and discords
Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

Music to soothe all its sorrow,
Till war and crime shall cease;
And the hearts of men grown tender
Girdle the world with peace.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper 1825-1911

Abolitionist, suffurage activist, journalist, novelist, poet, Unitarian

Francis Ellen Watkins Harper 1825-1911

"Harper died on 22 February 1911, nine years before women gained the right to vote. Her funeral service was held at the Unitarian Church on Chestnut Street in Philadelphia" where she was a member. She had ties to the Unitarians going back to her young adult years when she worked as an abolitionist. The quotes are from UU Dictionary of Biography article on Harper by Janeen Grohsmeyer

http://www.uua.org/uuhs/duub/articles/francesharper.html

"A pioneering journalist, author of fiction and poetry, and a professional lecturer, Frances Harper had a remarkable life. Active in abolitionism, suffrage, and the temperance movement, she lived long enough to see her efforts rewarded. She gets credit for introducing the tradition of African American protest poetry. Famous during her lifetime, Harper used her prestige and writings to fight racism and also make strong feminist statements."

Paul P. Rueben; PAL: Perspectives in American Literature - A Research and Reference Guide: Chapter 5: Late Nineteenth Century - Frances Ellen Watkins
Harper (1825-1911)

She wrote: "We want more soul, a higher cultivation of all spiritual faculties. We need more unselfishness, earnestness, and integrity. We need men and women whose hearts are the homes of high and lofty enthusiasm and a noble devotion to the cause of emancipation, who are ready and willing to lay time, talent, and money on the altar of universal freedom."

Bury Me In A Free Land

 

Make me a grave where'er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;
Make it among earth's humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother's shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.

If I saw young girls from their mother's arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.

I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.

I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.

The statisticians tell me that more people fear speaking in public than fear just about anything else. And then their are all the people who speak in public a lot, and who who have gotten used to the experience. Most of these people would testify that they actually enjoy being up in front of people sharing some idea, expressing some opinion, and communicating with a group.

I remember having stage fright, the jitters and the sweating that would overwhelm me as I prepared to speak. I think I was afraid of being judged, judged because of the mediocrity of what I would say, judged because of the inadequacy of my delivery.

It was sometime after I began regular public speaking as a teacher, and later as a student for the ministry that I discovered my mantra, which I present below. I used to say this to myself quite often, less now. It helped. In time I stopped thinking about what judgments the audience was making about me, and more about how I could sing my song with force and spirit.
I give you Maya Angelou who wrote:

"A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."

Back in the day I would complain "if I hear one more book report sermon, I will scream." One of the most common sermonic methods for Unitarian Universalist ministers was to read a book and then tell their congregation all about it on Sunday.

I think we still find inspiration for a sermon in the books that we read, but we have learned to relate the contents of the book to our lives, or some national happening. I know I will read John M. Barry, The Great Influenza: The Epic Story of the Greatest Plague in History before I attempt a little prophetic preaching about the impending pandemic of "bird flu." One can read books, just don't do a book report.

But apparently there is a new cliche genre of Unitarian Universalist sermons.

Hafidha Sofîa writes: "I personally don't need to hear another Readers Digest sermon about appreciating the flowers in my garden. I want to hear from people who know and from people who believe. Even if I disagree with them, I will know more about myself after an hour with them, than a whole month of essays about 'celebrating spontaneity."

I have been trying to think about the "flowers in my garden" sermons I have heard. I know I have heard quite a few, but save for one, they all have slipped into the depths of subconsciousness where most sermons on normative virtues tend to go (including my own best efforts.) One of those garden spirituality sermons was very good, but it would be rejected by Readers Digest for creativity and depth. Alas, most were nice, set pieces on appreciation. Appreciation is virtue and must be taught, I assume, but to hear a sharing of convictions is memorable.

If Ralph Waldo Emerson were to come as a visitor, would he know I ever lived? Like most preachers, I think the honest answer is, it depends on what Sunday he came to visit.

Is it possible? Is it possible to preach one's convictions, and passions week after week? Not just when the spirit moves and inspiration happens. It would take a different kind of energy than a real good book report, or my current favorite, tell a provocative story, and talk about its meaning for today. That worked for me today. They loved it. It engaged them. But I don't think I revealed any depth of soul, they knew more about my message, but not more about my convictions.

Maybe someday, I'll send out the memo: Cancel the meetings, Cancel the memorial services. Got to do some pondering, wrestle with some big existential questions!

Meanwhile, I plan the November calendar. Hmmm. Stewardship. Pulpit Exchange. Thanksgiving. Global Warming.

Maybe in January.

Why do I love Howard Thurman? I remember hearing him preach when I was young and he was powerful, he inspired my spirit and moved my soul. Many years have passed, and I return again to his writings and find new and deeper meaning. I know I am not unique in my admiration, but I love Howard Thurman.

Howard Thurman wrote:

"There must be always remaining in every life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathlessly beautiful and - by an inherent prerogative, throwing all the rest of life into a new and and creative relatedness-something that gathers up in itself all the freshets of experience from drab and commonplace areas of living and glows in one bright light of penetrating beauty and meaning, then passes. The commonplace is shot through with new glory, old burdens become lighter, deep and ancient wounds lose much of their old, old hurting. A crown is placed over our heads that for the rest of our lives we are trying to grow tall enough to wear. Despite all the crassness of life, despite all the hardness of life, despite the harsh discords of life, life is saved by the singing of angels."

T.S. Eliot wrote:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Last night I officiated in a service of remembrance for a ninety year old woman. She had grown up in Iowa and gone to college at Iowa State and become a teacher. Her teaching career took her to a series of schools and colleges during the 1930s and when World War Two came to the United States she joined the Red Cross and was assigned to service at Fort Hood, in Texas. She married an army physician and settled in New York where they raised two children. and she returned to teaching art in a high school.
When her husband died and her retirement came she moved to Florida. It was in Florida that she met an old college classmate, who had introduced her the Unitarianism way back in college and she found her way to the church that I serve.

She thought of herself as a Unitarian all those years, but going to Unitarian church had been associated with the relationship with her friend. After graduation, pursuing a career and a marriage, raising a family took her away from that relationship and from church going for fifty years. Ten years ago she resumed her friendship with her Unitarian friend, and returned to where she had started, as if it were the first time.

Churches also serve, when they just stand and wait.

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes:


The "burning bush" was not a miracle. It was a test. God wanted to find out whether Moses could pay attention to something for more than a few minutes. When Moses did, God spoke. The trick is to pay attention to what is going on around you long enough to behold the miracle without falling asleep. There is another world, right here within this one, when we pay attention.

Most religious traditions place "awareness," "attentiveness," and " being present" as central to spiritual practice. Whether it is praying, meditating, walking among the miracles of the natural world, or the revelation of the divine that we encounter in deep relationships with another we must be present and attentive "for more than a few minutes."

Ralph Waldo Emerson put it this way:

"These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or better ones; they are what they are . . . There is no time for them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence . . . But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tip toe to forsee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present."

We become aware by paying attention to that which is set before us by existence. We learn to pay attention by being present to this moment of time.

"I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom."

Clarisa Pinkola Estés in Women Who Run with the Wolves.

I have been working with listening to stories lately, and I have been telling stories as well. I have been told that people come to church to hear familiar stories, as well as new stories. They come to hear new stories, so that they can reflect on their own story and maybe even share it with someone.

Let stories happen to you, and share them with others. And listen to stories, let other peoples stories happen to you as you reflect on your own.

Unitarian Universalists respect the wisdom of ancient thinkers and peoples, but are always open to new insights, a new manifestation of the HOLY. This is a story as told by Bearwalker

The Ancient One by Bearwalker

Ancient One sat in the shade of his tree in front of his cave. Red People came to him and he said to Red People, "Tell me your vision."

And Red People answered, "The elders have told us to pray in this manner, and that manner, and it is important that only we pray as we have been taught for this has been handed down to us by the elders."

"Hmmmm," said the Ancient One.

Then Black People came to him and he said to Black People, "Tell me your vision."
And Black People answered, "Our mothers have said to go to this building and that building and pray in this manner and that manner. And our fathers have said to bow in this manner and that manner when we pray. And it is important that we do only this when we pray."

"Hmmmm," said the Ancient One.

Then Yellow People came to him and he said to Yellow People, "Tell me your vision."
And Yellow People answered, "Our teachers have told us to sit in this manner and that manner and to say this thing and that thing when we pray. And it is important that we do only this when we pray."
"Hmmmm," said the Ancient One.

Then White People came to him and he said to White People, "Tell me your vision."
And White People answered, "Our Book has told us to pray in this way and that way and to do this thing and that thing, and it is very important that we do this when we pray."

"Hmmmm," said the Ancient One.

Then Ancient One spoke to the Earth and said, "Have you given the people a vision?" And the Earth said, "Yes, a special gift for each one, but the people were so busy speaking and arguing about which way is right they could not see the gift I gave each one of them." And the Ancient One asked same question of Water and Fire and Air and got the same answer. Then Ancient One asked Animal, and Bird, and Insect, and Tree, and Flower, and Sky, and Moon, and Sun, and Stars, and all of the other Spirits and each told him the same.

Ancient One thought this was very sad. He called Red People, Black People, Yellow People, and White People to him and said to them. "The ways taught to you by your Elders, and your Mothers and Fathers, and Teachers, and Books are sacred. It is good that you respect those ways, for they are the ways of your ancestors. But the ancestors no longer walk on the Face of the Earth Mother. You have forgotten your own Vision. Your Vision is right for you but no one else. Now each of you must pray for your own Visions, and be still enough to see them, so you can follow the way of the heart. It is a hard way. It is a good way.

Part of the collection of Indigenous Literature compiled by David Welker. http://www.indians.org/Resource/resource.html

Anne Lamott wrote:

Broken things have been on my mind lately because so much has broken in
my life this year in the lives of the people I love--hearts, health,
confidence. . . [good friends have died].

Our preacher Veronica said recently that this is life's nature: that
lives and hearts get broken--those of people we love, those of people we'll
never meet. She said that the world sometimes feels like the waiting room
of the emergency ward and that we who are more or less OK for now need to
take the tenderest possible care of the more wounded people in the waiting
room, until the healer comes. You sit with people, she said, you bring them
juice and graham crackers.

And then she went on vacation.

"Traveling mercies," the old people at our church said to her when she
left. This is what they always say when one of us goes off for a while.
Traveling mercies: love the journey, God is with you, come home safe and
sound.

from her "Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith"

you lay buried for two thousand years
until a farmer saw you in a furrow
and claimed you for his own

now you cry, still bleeding,
for the sins of Columbus and Reagan
and the wandering spirit of your creator

and you stand, sacred and disciplined,
sharing your vast knowledge with arrogant strangers
who cannot understand the simplicity of your message:

turn off your computers and listen,
just listen

American Indian Resource Directory http://www.indians.org/index.html

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes:
We understand that ordinary people are messengers of the Most High. They go about their tasks in holy anonymity. Yet, if they had not been there, if they had not said what they said or did what they did, it would not be the way it is now. We would not be the way we are now. Never forget that you too yourself may be a messenger.

The prophet is one who points to the corruption and banality of the present moment and cries doom. The prophet details the betrayal and calls the people back to covenant.

Is there an implicit covenant that is framed by the promises and ideals of the U.S. national tradition? I taught history before I choose to go back to theological school. I know that the ideals of the Declaration of Independence did not extend beyond white male property owners, and that the "we the people" that constituted the Constitution did not include the nations of Native Americans or the African American people. Yet over time we extended the promise, and "we the people" enter into a covenant to create a national community based on ideals of inclusive justice.

Can I critique the performance, the failure to honor the covenant and the same time believe in the promise enough to be call on others to renew the covenant? Will our descent in post modernist nihilism and narcissist aversion to bad news make our people immune to hear with ears that hear the good news that prophets are among us, and our local prophet may be ourselves?

The young salesman approached the farmer and began to talk excitedly about the book he was selling. "This book will tell you everything you need to know about farming," the salesman said with conviction. "It tells you when to sow and when to reap. It tells you about weather, what to expect and when to expect it. This book tells you all you need to know.

"Well thank you." said the farmer "but that is not my problem. I know how to farm. MY problem is doing it all.

from Joseph Gosse, Spiritual Life magazine reproduced in 100 ways to keep the Soul Alive.

CARPENTER SHIH went to Ch'i and, when he got to Crooked Shaft, he saw a serrate oak standing by the village shrine.

It was broad enough to shelter several thousand oxen
and measured a hundred spans around, towering above the hills.
The lowest branches were eighty feet above the ground,
and a dozen or so of them could have been made into boats.
There were so many sightseers that the place looked like a fair,
but the carpenter didn't even glance around
and went on his way without stopping.

His apprentice stood staring for a long time and then ran after Carpenter Shih and said, "Since I first took up by ax and followed you, Master, I have never seen timber as beautiful as this.
But you didn't even bother to look, you went right on without stopping.
Why is that?

Forget it-say no more! said the carpenter, It is a worthless tree!
Make boats out of it and they'd sink, make coffins and they'd rot.
Use it for doors and it would sweat sap like pine;
use it for posts and the worms would eat them up.
It's not a timber tree-there is nothing it can be used for.
That's how it got to be so old!"

After Carpenter Shih had returned home, the oak tree appeared to him in a dream and said "What are you comparing me with?


Are you comparing me with those useful trees?
The cherry apple, the pear, the orange, the citron,
the rest of those fruitiferous trees and shrubs-
as soon as their fruit is right, they are torn apart and subjected to abuse.
Their big limbs are broken off, their little limbs are yanked around.
Their utility makes life miserable for them,
and so they don't get to finish off their years Heaven gave them.

They bring it on themselves-the pulling and tearing of the common mob.
And it is the same with all other things,

As for me, I've been trying for a long ime to be of no use,
and now that I'm about to die, I've finally got it.
This is to be of great use to me. If I had gotten to be of some use,
would I have ever grown to be so large?

When Carpenter Shih woke up, he reported his dream.
His apprentice said, If it is so intent on being of no use,
what is it doing there at the village shrine?

Shhh! said Carpenter Shih. Say no more!

published in Drew Leder's Spiritual Passages; Embracing Life's Sacred Journey.