What's Possible?

Sermon by Reverend Barbara Threet

May 11, 2008

A year ago, on the second Sunday in May, I stood trembling in this pulpit. I hope you didn’t see me trembling: you certainly weren’t supposed to see me trembling! But it was the last Sunday of Candidating Week and I knew that after coffee hour, I’d leave the building and you’d all come back into the Sanctuary to decide whether to call me as your minister. I was very impressed with what I’d seen that week. Your Search Committee had considered many candidates, and I’d considered many churches, but for several months, the one I was most interested in had been this church – and the week I’d just spent with you had really confirmed that opinion. So I went for a walk in the woods across from the Stone Zoo, and waited for my cell phone to ring. And I really was trembling inside: the decision to accept a call is a huge one for a minister, and thanks to your Search Committee’s honesty and your own candor, I had a good idea of the complexities of the situation I was hoping to step into. And while a congregation does a minister a real honor by calling him or her, it also hands a minister an astonishing responsibility and a significant amount of power. That’s very affirming, but it’s also very humbling and at times, almost overwhelming. And so I trembled.

            My cell phone did ring, and Maryellen told me that you’d just voted to call me as your next minister. And  I wept with joy. I phoned my daughters, who are used to me getting weepy when my heart is very full, and I suspect my eyes were still damp when I met the Search Committee for lunch. What I had hoped for so much, and what you had waited for so long and worked for so hard – became possible: you had a minister you believed would serve you well, and I had a church I believed was the kind of church I’d been longing to serve.

            It’s been a year of learning, for all of you, for me, and for Mary and Michael who were both hired not long after you called me to be your minister. We’ve spent a lot of time learning names and policies, patterns and habits. (I can’t tell you how many conversations have started, “There’s this woman, about this size with hair of that color about so long, maybe this old – do you have any idea what her name is?”) You’ve spent a lot of time figuring out who we are, how we work, what our quirks are and what we bring to you. Its been a very good year, a year of settling in and relaxing. There have been some exciting things this year: the Choir usually has at least a dozen people, often even 15 or 18, and they’re dressed in matching robes! After the “Articulating Your UU Faith” class ended last Wednesday, the discussion continued on for at least another 20 minutes, on evil and class, privilege and diversity, and it’s a joy to have such discussion. The new “Giving Beyond Our Walls” program, where half of the non-pledge money in the plate goes to an organization outside the congregation, has allowed us to impact our community in a significant way, locally and globally. These things have all become possible this year, and we’re all the richer for them.

            And now, we begin to look forward toward next year. Dates are beginning to fill up on the church calendar for next fall, Michael’s planning for RE next year, and I’m working on next year’s sermon schedule. The budget includes more hours for Patti, and money to purchase more choir music. Repairs and maintenance for the building are being planned, including painting over the summer. So what’s possible for us next year as a congregation?

            Increasing engagement with our larger community, first of all. Our local food pantries and MAAV and the Melrose Emergency Fund have felt o our presence in new ways. This Wednesday, the Melrose Human Rights Council, on which I serve as a liaison from the Melrose Clergy, will host a conversation about the increasing diversity within Melrose, and how welcoming we are or aren’t to newcomers. It will be held in the Middle School: I urge you to attend. And we will participate in the Community Summer Services this year, along with four other churches who have held them for years. Each of us will host two services, and each of the clergy will preach twice. The schedule will be in the June Lightbearer – I’ll preach here at MUUC on July 27 and the Rev. Peggy O’Connell, from Highlands Congregational, will preach here on August 3. Then on August 17, I’ll preach at First Congregational on Foster Street.

            Melrose UU already participates in the wider community in several other ways – the booth at the Victorian Fair, our presence at the Melrose Alliance Against Violence walk, and our Harvest and Alternative Fairs. Our increasing support of local organizations; the enthusiasm, warmth, and vibrancy of our congregation; my participation as your  minister in the community; and our hosting worship as well as social and fundraising activities – all of these can only increase our visibility, and it’s possible that it will attract more people to our doors.

            That’s already happening, actually. Last week we welcomed six new members and their children. Several others who attended here for the first time this year have become active friends who see membership down the road, and some of them bring children too. It’s entirely possible that next year we will continue to grow. Most every week there are at least a few visitors, and over a dozen who attended for the first time this year have become regulars – I’d say growth is a very strong possibility. So I want to talk about that for a bit.

            Churches usually say they want to grow, and we are not different. We each find in this place something of deep value, ideas which we believe matter in the world, and a sense of community that sustains and supports us. I’ve heard many of you say that this is a home for you, a cornerstone in your life. And newcomers use that language too: “I walked in, and I felt at home”, or “The more I’m here, the more certain I am that this is where I belong”. We are a welcoming church – not only by being open and embracing of gays and lesbians and their families, but also by welcoming all who come through our doors into this warm church community that encourages and supports one another.

            When we say we are welcoming, we mean it. We do want to share our community with others: we want others to find what we’ve found. But it’s more complicated than just having someone walk in and simply become part of us. Think about the impact of adding a new child to your family, or of your child moving into a different phase of life – entering pre-school, or getting a driver’s license. Your schedule has to adjust, first of all. Your budget may be impacted. There are new freedoms, new people involved, new realities to consider when making decisions, new worries. Your six-year-old finally knows how to tie her own shoes, so mornings go a bit more smoothly – but she’s also learning to make her own snacks which can leave behind a huge mess! Or your partner accepts a new job that you’re both excited about – but suddenly you both have to learn a whole new set of names and acronyms, renegotiate who picks up the kids and the dry cleaning, and reschedule your vacation plans. Change, even wanted and celebrated change, brings about – well, change!

            An influx of new people into a church brings change too. The more rapidly it happens, the more unsettling it is, and a dozen new ‘regulars’ is almost a 10% increase! Some of it is very visible. Most members of a church informally decide which is “their” pew: after a minister has served a church for a while, we could draw a map of who sits where. The Blacklocks sit there, Jean Tai and the Caten family sit there, the Grometsteins sit there and the Bissex family used to but seems to have recently moved to there, the Griscoms and McLeods usually sit about there, and the Foleys sit there. We’re creatures of habit: we usually go to the same place. Except that you don’t always, several times recently, it’s been because when you come in, someone else is already sitting in “your” seat! I haven’t heard one single complaint: this really is a warm and civil congregation. But it is a change. When the population was pretty static, you could come in every Sunday and go straight to “your” seat. And now you have to look.

            And that brings up a significant issue. Often, those who come in after the beginning of the service really do have to LOOK. Our seats are getting very full on many Sundays. And that’s a good thing in terms of attendance and growth. But if you’re a newcomer to a church, you’re probably already way out of your comfort zone. You walk in, and you don’t know what hymns you might be singing, you don’t know what the minister is going to preach about, you may not know anyone else in the congregation. If you have to search for a place to sit, it just adds to the discomfort. One way to help the situation might be to leave the very back pews closest to the door empty, so that newcomers and families with small children can immediately find a place to sit, and that might be something to try next year. We might try to change our seating patterns: in most churches, people tend to sit down near the end of the pews. Maybe it’s some unconscious self-protection to sit near the aisles – in case of fire, you can run out quickly? if the minister’s sermon is really awful, you can get out easily? Whatever the reason, if we could change and sit toward the middle of the pews, it would leave more space available for those coming later, and would open up more seating.

            But even that might not fully address the issue. What if another dozen people find us next year? With their children, plus visitors. And another dozen the year after that? Then we just plain couldn’t fit. And then we’d need a dialogue of a whole different magnitude about how we could accommodate more people. That may or may not happen: churches often plateau once they get a few dozen more people than we currently have, and growth often slows dramatically. In fact, they plateau and stop growing at around 150 members much more often than they continue to grow. Which brings up another discussion of what’s possible.

            The population here has been pretty stable for a few years. Last year, three new people joined, and the year before, about the same. And each year we lose some members: two died this year, and people do move, or just drift away. The last time there was a real burst in growth was several years ago, and most of those people are pretty deeply involved in our community now. They teach in RE, they sing in the choir, and they serve on committees. They’re integrated into that part of church life where we know and care about each other’s struggles, support one another through illnesses and losses and griefs, and celebrate with one another over joys and successes. And we are that kind of a church. Most of you know each other’s children, and you’ve visited each other’s houses. We share many experiences here: putting the handprints on the Supper Room walls, Men’s and Women’s Retreats, dealing with the awful floods a few years ago. For many of us, shared memories go further back: the sadness you felt when Phyllis announced her resignation seven years ago, or what it was like when we bought copies of our current hymn book and weaned ourselves off from the old ones. We have a shared culture, with rhythms and expectations and history.

            We have certain ways of doing things. The Alternative Fair is on the first Saturday in December, and it’s held in the Parish Hall. The Christmas Eve tableau includes the youngest baby in the congregation as the baby in the manger. We sing “May the Long-Time Sun” each Sunday after the Benediction. And our children sit, reasonably quietly, through the first part of the service, until they come up for their story, and then they leave for their classrooms. We know which committees do what, and where things are, and most importantly, we know each other.

            All of that may stay the same forever. But with more newcomers, at the very least, we’ll have to explain some of these things. Some people will come from other churches, even others UU churches, and they’ll have questions about why this happens, or why that is done the way it is. They may even suggest changes, or a shift in our population or our numbers may demand changes. Sometimes they’ll be easy, like when I introduced “our worship is ended: our service continues” at the end of the Benediction, or the Memorial Candle when a member of our church dies. But some changes are harder – a suggestion to change how we format our RE classes, for example, or a significant change in the Order of Worship. What’s possible for next year, and the year after that, is that we may have the opportunity to examine more new ideas, and that is often complicated. Some churches choose to dismiss new ideas out of hand, with the result that newcomers or innovators feel unwelcome. Others rush to adapt every new thing, with the result that the old-timers feel unvalued and pushed aside. It’s possible to strike a balance, to create a place for new ideas and energy, to address changing needs, to make thoughtful changes, to risk a few unsuccessful experiments, and to grow in depth and trust in the process.

            I want to give you a head-up on a few changes that we’ll try next year during our worship service. Some of them will probably turn out to be successes, and other will reaffirm that the old way worked better. We’ll use a different song to sing our children out next fall out of respect for the wishes of the person whose lyrics we have changed without permission. We’ll arrange the candles for Joys and Concerns differently so that they light better, and are less likely to set anyone’s sleeves on fire. We’ve already made one significant change this year: many of you wanted to hear the Postlude each week, and many of you wanted to leave directly after service for coffee hour. It would certainly seem impossible that a congregation can both leave immediately and also remain seated in silence. But, we learned that it’s possible – to do both! Some of us leave immediately after the Congregational Response, and then the Sanctuary is relatively quiet for those who want to sit and listen.

            It would be good if we could find a similar balance with the Prelude. I’m going to be pretty blunt here: we currently treat the Prelude like background music, something we vaguely hear as we enter and chat with our neighbors. Several of you, I know, wish you could actually hear that music. I suspect that for a musician who’s spent time preparing the Prelude, it must be frustrating when it can’t actually be heard. In many churches the Prelude,in a quiet Sanctuary, offers a time of centering before the service. But it would be a cultural shift here, to keep our pre-service conversations all the way in the Parish Hall – conversations in the entry way drift into the Sanctuary almost in full force. It’s a change I’d like to see us make: I believe it would enrich our worship. To help create a more worshipful space, we’ll be posting more announcements in the Parish Hall. We’ll provide a place for people to write late-breaking announcements in a very visible way, and the lighting over the bulletin boards will be enhanced so that they’re more readable. The intent is to have the Welcome and Announcements serve to draw us into a space that’s already calm and worshipful.

            That may mean a change on my part too. Mary and I, often with Michael and sometimes with the lay leader, spend a few minutes in silence each Sunday in my office just before the service, ending with a brief prayer of blessing for that day. We usually come in toward the end of the Prelude because of that. For me, such centering time is essential, but I suspect we need to start earlier, so that we’re here for all of the Prelude rather than interrupting it with our entry. Or maybe we get really bold and risk a time of silence and then a blessing prayer in the Sanctuary, jus t before the Prelude starts? I’m not sure: it will become clear, and your comments are welcome.

            It’s possible that we’ll need to pay even more attention to hospitality next year, if we continue to grow. Newcomers to our church are increasingly coming in “unchurched”, or from very different faiths – they don’t’ know the rhythm of our worship, often not of any active church life. Sometimes they bring awkward questions – why do we do This? what does That mean? And their kids didn’t grow up here, don’t know our practices. We’re pretty tolerant of occasional restlessness in our own children during a service, but the restlessness of an unknown child often raises allkinds of fears. They rustle papers: they whisper, they kick the seats, the fidget. It’s easy to find ourselves fearing the Those Children – Those Children who are not yet our own) – my become do disruptive that all we’re hear is whispering and rustling, kicking and fidgeting. But part of being welcoming is to welcome people as they are, to show them how we are, and to trust that all of us can continue to live together. it may affect us in other ways too: a newcomer may wish to hear more stories about Jesus, or be vehemently opposed to any mention of God. They may want more church suppers or less social events, or a more structured way of learning what we believe – almost a UU catechism class. We can’t bend to every wish, but we need to be willing to listen, to expand. If we’re serious about sharing what Unitarian Universalism has meant to us, and if we really believe its values can benefit our world, we will need to risk being uncomfortable.

            We will need to learn to trust new people. One of the real strengths of this congregation is that while the certainly are clusters of people who have friendships outside the church and groups of people with a particular interest  in common, we each tend to chat with any one of us rest of us during coffee hour. At social events, it’s difficult to predict exactly which people will be sitting together. We greet and welcome each other well. Many newcomers have mentioned how welcoming we are: those who visit our church are likely to be greeted warmly and invited into our community. But even with a few dozen more people, we’ll begin to see more faces that are unfamiliar. We’ll see unknown faces in the choir, in RE, in the pews, and eventually, in important church roles, and that can be unsettling. Most of you know the people in RE who are teaching your children. It’s a bit harder to entrust your child to someone you haven’t had time to get to know.

There is a transition point in church growth that we are approaching where the primary challenge is to learn to trust those you don’t yet know, to trust the judgment of others, and to be willing to be part of a rich church life where not every face is familiar. That’s uncomfortable, for a while. It even feels less intimate, for a while. And as we grow, we’ll need to develop new ways to encourage intimacy and connection between our members. The adult ed classed this spring are one way. Small groups (what you called Chalice Circles a few years ago) are another. There are many other possibilities too, and we’ll explore them together. It’s also possible to find it too uncomfortable and to pull inward, consciously or not, so that growth stalls. I hope we choose the uncomfortable way, the way that shares what we have with more and more people, the way that widens our community – even though it is challenging.

What’s possible for neat year? Song and story and conversations, meetings and classes, fairs and sermons and discussions as we continue to create together this, our beloved community. And I can’t wait to see what happens!

Tenderness

February 10, 2008 - Sermon by Reverend Barbara Threet

Love, according to Webster, is ‘a passionate affection for another person’, ‘a profoundly tender feeling’. It’s ‘a warm personal attachment’, ‘affectionate concern for the well-being of another’, ‘a strong predilection or enthusiasm toward another’, or even ‘reverent affection’. Love, as Webster defines it and as we experience it, is a powerful emotion. Love draws us to romantic partners and eventually toward our life mate. Love makes us willing to commit to raising a child we have never met and know nothing about for 18 years and bonds us to that child. Love lets us see beyond temporary frustrations or irritations to a deeper connection, and it can even move us to great sacrifices of time and energy, or to act with immense courage and tenacity.

For all its power and intensity, love does include a ‘tender feeling’. But tenderness, according to Webster, has quite a different quality. Tenderness is ‘being easily moved to sympathy’, ‘being weak or delicate in constitution’, ‘easily distracted’, ‘requiring careful handling’. Love is quite a contrast, with all its passion and intensity and power. Love lasts forever, at lest in songs. Love never dies; love overcomes all odds; love is the most important thing; love makes the world go around. There’s nothing ‘weak or delicate’ about that, nothing ‘needing careful handling’. Love is simply tremendously powerful and permanent!

Except all those absolutes about love are not always true. Divorces do happen and romances do end. There are adult siblings who don’t speak for decades and even the closest of friendships may fade over time. and sadly, there are parents and children who wind up deeply estranged, and communities that are ripped apart over controversies. Love isn’t always strong enough, doesn’t always endure. I wonder if one of the reasons for this is our culture’s emphasis on that ‘passionate affection’ part of love, whether it’s between lovers or parents and children, dear friends, or members of an organization – focusing on the aspect of ‘passion’ rather than ‘tenderness’? ‘Passionate affection’ sounds strong, and healthy, and adult. And that’s what we are, we grown-ups” we have educations and responsible careers and mortgages. We make decisions and have opinions. We take action, we get to the point, we take control and move toward logical, reasonable goals.

The need for tenderness, I suggest, reminds us of all the ways in which we don’t have control, of all the places that are not logical or predictable in the lives of those we love or in our own lives. Treating situations tenderly, treating people tenderly means recognizing how fragile we all are, how different we each are. Treating each other tenderly acknowledges how easily we are hurt, how many scars each of us carries, and how much we are shaped by deeply irrational fears and dreams that seem impossible, by our hopes and histories. And acknowledging that we want to be treated tenderly ourselves accepts that we too are vulnerable and fragile and in need of care. Acting with tenderness means intentionally considering the whims and wounds of another, as we decide how to act.

I think of an adult walking down the street with a little child on a warm spring afternoon  – a child of 18 months, 2 years, young enough so that this is the first spring that’s really registered. They stop at every clump of yellow daffodils, of course, but also at every tiny white flower that pokes its head up between the sidewalk blocks, and every little yellow flower growing next to the sidewalk. They stop at the tiny puddle where water has gathered and if it’s big enough so something is floating in it, they may stop for quite some time!) They stop to pick up a shiny gum wrapper, and to watch a little beetle crawl by, and they pave to pet every single clump of fresh green moss. When they come to a tree, they separate: the adult goes around on the road side, and the toddle somewhat tentatively and very proudly goes around the other side by herself, while the adult looks on cautiously. They tough every fire hydrant and notice every window that has a cat in it. This is not just a walk: it’s an adventure. It’s a tender experience, with the adult taking the time to consider the world from the vantage point of a very young child who’s just discovering the world.

Treating tenderly is like that. It’s usually slower. It includes noticing things we often overlook, and being willing to see them through the eyes of another. When we’re being tender, we even seek out the reasons why the other person might be acting as they are. We look for the factors that aren’t immediately obvious, ponder what the effect of our actions might be. We try to see a broader picture, not just rush to decisions and action.

When my daughters were little, there was one glorious summer when they were out of state visiting their father while I was moving. I was packing their toys, and sorting as I packed, and I was ruthless! That hideous clown doll that looked like something out of a nightmare – gone! Those stupid little wooden beads that were supposed to click together into a necklace but mostly seemed to end up under my feet when I got up in the night – straight to the trash! Several perfectly good stuffed animals that they didn’t play with any more, and a few they’d never played with at all – into the recycle bin, so someone else could enjoy them. And the dust-covered Fisher-Price Farm – passed onto a younger cousin. All the dolls with their hair cut off disappeared (and my girls were very good at cutting off their dolls’ hair), the pull-cricket that made the horrid squawking sound, the books I really didn’t like – all gone. It was wonderful, all that cleaning and clearing out.

The girls were NOT impressed, when they got home. I’d thrown out toys they liked, and they were sad. There were toys they’d outgrown, or toys they’d never played with, that I’d given to other kids, and they were OK with that actually, but they informed me they would have liked to have chosen which toys to give away themselves, and said good-bye to their toys. They’d have liked to see their cousin’s face when she inherited a toy they’d really enjoyed. My way was efficient, it was logical – but it was not tender.

A colleague and her family have an amazing ritual, part of their dedication to continually give away, to reduce the amount of excess ‘stuff’. A few times a year, she and her partner and their two children each fill one box to give away. They each include some clothes. Hers includes books and extra knitting materials as well. Her partner includes art supplies she bought but dint’ use in her box, and extra tools. Their kids usually do find some actual toys to part with, and some CDs, some sports equipment, a mishmash. Their ritual is to fill at least one box each, and as they do, they often reflect on where this book came from, what that article of clothing was worn to, what this gadget meant when it was purchased. They still fill their commitment to cut down on the amount of clutter, but they do so tenderly, recognizing what things mean, consciously making choices, and learning more about each other in the process. In sharing these stories, and clearing out together, they release them more easily and they strengthen their family. It’s a tender ritual, one I wish I’d thought of years ago.

Treating things tenderly takes time. Treating others tenderly takes time too, risks getting it wrong. Tenderness recognizes how complicated life is, and how little we truly know about others, or even about ourselves.

One of my favorite British comedy series is “As Time Goes By”: I think I’ve watched the entire series half a dozen times. The two main characters, Lionel and Jean, had a passionate and brief affair nearly 40 years earlier, the first significant love for both of them, and then they lost touch when Lionel went off to war. Both of them eventually married, and when we first meet them, both are approaching retirement age. Jean has been widowed for several years, and Lionel’s marriage has long since ended. They run into each other quite by accident, and both are very adamant that there are no feelings left: it was a LONG time ago. But it’s clear that as much as they wish it wasn’t true, as much as they try to pretend even to themselves that it isn’t true, both are still hurt despite the years. jean wonders why Lionel never wrote like he promised he would, and Lionel wonders why Jean never responded to his first letter, the first love letter he ever wrote, and he felt so rejected he never risked writing her again.

They meet for an impromptu cup of tea, and they spat a bit, both affirming it was a mistake even to agree to this much contact, and they agree that they’ll go their own ways after this brief chat. But in their spatting they discover the truth about the Lost Letter, and it’s clear they both are saddened by this discovery – Jean says, “So it’s as simple as that? We wound up in a Lost Letter bin somewhere?” but things are still painfully awkward. Then the waitress comes, and Lionel orders a drink for himself, and with a brief smile that he tries to conceal, he orders a cup of cider for Jean. He’s clearly pleased that he remembered that she liked cider, and so he’s baffled when she says, “But I don’t like cider!” He’s caught off-guard for a second, and then he says, rather gruffly, “Well, you used to!” and she responds, “Did I? I suppose I did – but that was nearly forty years ago.” Lionel is crestfallen. He’s tried to show her that he remembered a little detail from their past, that he wants to please her. Jean’s clearly muddled too: her first reaction was a bit harsh, asserting how she is now, and she’ trying to backpedal to include being touched by his remembering. It’s a tender, and painful, moment.

Tenderness is often like that. Messy. We have to act in this world, have to make decisions and choices over and over every day. If we stopped to analyze every situation to determine who might get hurt and what all the factors are that we could possibly consider, we’d never get anything done. Yet every interaction includes countless ghosts from the past, assumptions on all sides, minefields of emotion, as well as all the realities of this day. Each moment has its tender side.

Treating tenderly means keeping in mind that there is always more than meets the eye, more than the immediate facts. That snappy teenager at the dinner table, the one whose attitude can send you right up the wall – it might be just hormones, or a fight with a friend or a lack of sleep. It’s just as likely that she’s not doing well in biology, say, or French, whatever that means: getting an A- instead of an A, failing completely, struggling to understand a concept that everybody else seems to grasp easily. She’s afraid you’ll be disappointed, and she can’t even let you know that matters as she struggles to establish her independence. And so she pushes you away, she’s surly or silent or sarcastic, holding you at a distance. Can she tell you what’s going on? Probably not – she probably doesn’t understand it herself. To admit to herself, let alone to you, how much she wants your approval is to act against her drive for independence and self-definition, and that’s about the most important work she’s doing now. Do you have to put up with her surliness? You probably can’t change a whole lot, and if you try to analyze the situation to her, it probably won’t help. But if you can remember in your own heart that there’s probably a lot more going on and treat the situation with tenderness, then maybe at least you won’t feed into it by being surly back. Maybe you can even risk acknowledging that her words hurt, that they leave you feeling spurned and shut out, and that while you respect her need to express herself and to establish herself, you hope she can include you sometimes too.

And that’s the other side of tenderness, acknowledging our own vulnerable places. It’s not something we have to struggle to do, to be tender and fragile: the truth is, we all are. We’re all imperfect beings, with scars from life and frustrations at things we haven’t mastered or don’t do well. We’ve all had experiences that have left vulnerable spots. That art teacher who told you in third grade that you really couldn’t draw leaves you terribly sensitive about even sketching a poster. The time you missed that game-wining punt in high school still leaves you feeling inadequate, when you let yourself remember.

We each hold secret dreams, private failures, worries we don’t quite admit, and skills we’re still trying to master and aren’t quite sure of. And all of us have these soft places, places of vulnerability.

 
And that’s hard. We’re grown-ups, after all, We’re not supposed to be swamped with petty jealousies or slights. Part of growing into adulthood is precisely learning to let some things just wash over us, not taking everything so personally We learn as adults that the focus will not always be on us, that we won’t have all the answers, and that our needs will not always be met. We learn to move forward and get things done. Sometimes the adult walking down the street with the two-year-old really is in a hurry, and simply can’t stop and dawdle! Often action is called for, decisive action, without all the facts.

 
And yet, we need tenderness. We need to be card for and considered. In order to get that, we probably have to risk letting ourselves be a bit less certain, a bit less hardened. It amazes me how many times I hear adults talk about how good it feels to help someone else, how willing they are to provide a ride or a meal or a listening ear. Yet these same people are quick to say, “I don’t want to be a bother”, or “It’s really hard for me to ask for help”. OK, so if most people actually enjoy being helpful but few of us dare to ask for help, then how is anyone going to have the joy of helping? We need to let go of the illusion of our own absolute independence and acknowledge our tender places. Treating tenderly includes treating ourselves tenderly, not demanding perfection in every moment, not expecting absolute consistency in how we feel, not pretending that we are beyond hurts or confusions or sadnesses or doubts.

Sermon from January 13, 2008

So What’s “Polity”?

by Rev. Barbara Threet

There are moments in history that have consequences far beyond what was expected. When the Buddha sat down beneath that bo tree, when a little baby named Jesus was born, when Muhammed received the first teachings: the consequences of these events have influenced human history far beyond what anyone could have predicted.

            There are plenty of more recent changes within religions that have resulted in unanticipated changes too. When Martin Luther tacked those Ninety-Five Theses onto the cathedral door some 490 years ago, he had no intention of starting a new religion. or of breaking from the established Church of Rome. Luther was staunch supporter of the church, but he believed the church had strayed from being as pure as he thought it should be, and he hoped his protests would lead to a stronger church. Instead, within a few decades, his actions and those of many others had splintered the church and formed several Protestant denominations – “Protest-ant”, for those who protested the Catholic Church to the point that they left!

            This morning I want to tell you about a few such simple actions which have had profound impact on Unitarian Universalists today, and on our polity. “Polity” means how a church and a denomination are organized: how its congregations are governed, how its clergy are ordained and placed, how different churches within the denomination relate to each other. UUs often say that we practice ‘congregational polity”, and that’s true. But often, that phrase is used just as an emphatic declaration that each of our congregations is entirely independent in how it governs itself. Being emphatically independent isn’t the only thing that ‘congregational polity’ means, nor is it true that we each govern ourselves differently. I want to tell you three stories which illustrate where some of our common practices come from, and what they mean for us today.

            The first happened just a few miles away in Boston, in King’s Chapel right in the heart of downtown. King’s Chapel was organized in 1686, the first Episcopalian church in America. During what we call the American Revolution, its minister actually supported the British, and he accompanied their troops in 1776. Around that time, a member named James Freeman became a reader at the church, rather like our Liturgists or Worship Associates. In 1782, since the church had been without a minister for a while, they asked him to become a salaried lay leader, effectively functioning as their minister. As time went by, two things happened to Freeman: First, he decided he really wanted to be a minister. And second, his theology began to change – he gradually became a Unitarian, believing that there was only one God, rather than a Trinitarian, believing in the Trinity. Eventually he found he could no longer support Trinitarianism in any way: he went from believing that Jesus was divine but not quite equal with God (which was called Arianism) to believing that Jesus was a simply a very remarkable but very human person (which was called Socinianism). Further, Freeman came to believe that no priest or minister could grant absolution from sins, and he changed the part of the service which involved absolution into a simple prayer. He began to suspect that he needed to resign, as his theology changed, but a friend suggested that he talk to his congregation openly about these changes. He did- and to his surprise, over 80% of them wanted him to stay on!

            So he did. he changed the prayer book to become Unitarian, and the great majority of members openly ascribed to Unitarianism as well. But Freeman still was not ordained. Ordination is a public ceremony setting a person apart for service to the church, confirming certain rights and responsibilities on that individual, and charging them with a particular kind of religious leadership. Freeman was not ordained, although he was obviously a very committed lay person. But, could he properly perform the sacraments – baptism, communion, marriages, last rites? So Freeman made application to an Episcopal bishop in Connecticut for ordination. But in order for this to be granted, he needed to subscribe to the established prayer book exactly as it was written, in its entirety. He found that he couldn’t, so he was turned down. He tried the bishop in New York: same result. Eventually, King’s Chapel took the very radical step of simply ordaining him themselves without sanction from any denomination, giving him the distinction of being the first person ordained by an individual church in America – and an openly Unitarian church at that!

            Our churches still retain that power. Our Association of churches maintains a credentialing process for its ministers, and sets rigorous criteria for ministers who are ‘in fellowship; with the Association – ministers it will recommend to its member churches. But only individual churches ordain. We’ll have that privilege this June when we ordain Jay Libby, whose path to ministry included many years as an active member here. We’ll vouch for him when we do this: we’ll say that be believe he’ll serve our churches well, we trust his judgment and experience, we have confidence in him as a minister – and that’s a serious, and joyous, responsibility.

            And our individual churches choose their own ministers, as you did last year. A bit about the process, for those of you who are newer – it’s a mutual selection process. A church establishes a Search Committee to select the one best candidate for the ministry of their church, and they prepare a detailed church profile using a standardized form. Ministers in search prepare profiles too. All these UU churches and ministers post their profiles on a secure web site, accessible only by ministers in good standing. Search Committees keep the identity of the applicants highly confidential throughout this process, and ministers are urged to treat the list of where they’ve applied in the same way. Search committees read the files of all the applicants and invite those of particular interest to exchange much larger packets, with much more information.

            After exchanging packets, a church initiates in-depth conversations with several of the most likely applicants. Churches and ministers are both gradually narrowing their searches: a church or minister can pull out of the process with any other minister or church at any time. At each step, though, it’s up to the church to make the next move: we ministers just sit and wait. Eventually the Search Committee settles on a few of the most likely prospects and invites each to a separate weekend of mutual exploration. From the minister’s perspective, it feels like each word, each gesture, each action, is being analyzed – and it is. And that’s as it should be: the Search Committee wants to know these prospects well so it can choose wisely. And the minister – we’re sizing them up to. We notice what they ask, how they interact, what their priorities are, and we measure whether we think we’d be a fit. After a weekend of many long conversations, the minister preaches on Sunday in what we call a Neutral Pulpit – NOT the one of the church in search – so the Search Committee can observe the minister “in action”. We’ll provide such a Neutral Pulpit in a few weeks, when a minister who’s being considered by another UU church will preach here.

I want to say a few things about that: first, if you notice there are several people here all from another UU church, don’t ask them about their search, or how they liked the minister. They can’t talk about that with anyone but themselves. Second, don’t reveal to another minister who this candidate is, or what church is considering them: a major reason for our process is that by having the Search Committee do the narrowing down to one candidate, the chances of the church splitting over competing candidates is hugely reduced. Be aware that we’re being entrusted to be part of a sacred process: the calling of a new minister by a sister UU church. And we’re being entrusted with confidential information as we offer our church as a Neutral pulpit.

And third: be proud. We’re taking part in a unique process, the process of an individual Unitarian Universalist church finding its own minister, trusting its own members to undertake this crucial task.

Usually after the Search Committee has completed all its weekends with all of its prospects, it selects one to present to the congregation. The candidate come to the church and preaches for two consecutive Sundays, meeting with every possible committee, Board, and individual during the intervening week. After the minister has preached the second Sunday, the church members vote on whether to call that minister as their minister. That’s it. Each church chooses its own minister: each minister chooses to serve, or not, in a church.

And when a minister leaves, it’s the result of a decision reached by some combination of the church and the minister, not by any outside agency or organization. No diocese or synod or presbytery sends or appoints a minister, or tells them it’s time to go, and no outside body opens or closes our churches either. We do that. And while the UUA sets criteria for the ministers it recommends, only individual churches convey ordination. All this – from those Episcopalians-turned-Unitarians who decided to ordain James Freeman themselves!

The second story has to do with money, and property. In Freeman’s times, most churches in Massachusetts (and several other states) were publicly funded. That’s why there are so many First Parish Churches in Massachusetts – there are over 60 that are Unitarian, and many more that are Congregationalist. when towns incorporated, they had to establish a Parish Church, and the minister, who was paid for by taxes from the town, was responsible for preaching, for maintaining public morality, and often for teaching. Towns had to erect a Parish Church and maintain it. Most of these parish churches were loosely Congregational, usually with a Calvinistic theology. this system of government-mandated, publicly-funded, local churches was known as the “Standing Order”.

But there was a problem. A parish was a geographical area, and all the qualified voters in that area could vote for the minister. But not every resident in the Parish went to church regularly. Churches tended to be comprised of the more devout people, who often wanted strict, conservative clergy. Those voting parish members who didn’t attend church regularly wanted more generous, liberal ministers in the churches. On several occasions, the Parish selected a minister that the Church thought was too liberal: there was a large shift among clergy in the late 1700s and early 1800s from believing that all people are born sinful to believing that people had potential for both good and evil (called Arminianism). Sometimes the theology of the church membership shifted with a new minister, and eventually he and some portion of the church would leave to form a new church. Sometimes, small groups of people in the parish had different theological views (Baptists, for example), and they wanted to form their own church with a minister who believed like them. All of these people attending churches other than the Parish Church objected strongly to having to pay taxes to support the Parish Church when they attended their own church. So, over time, the laws changed. By 1720, Baptists, Quakers, and Anglicans in Massachusetts could get exemptions, paying taxes to their own worship communities rather than to the Parish Church. It wasn’t until 1833 that the Massachusetts Constitution was amended so that tax dollars no longer supported the Parish Churches. Incidentally, the old practice of selling the pews of the church, even deeding them to one’s heirs, arose after this time, as one way to fill the funding gap when tax income stopped.

The impact today? Each of our churches is entirely self-supporting financially. Especially in this area of the country, which is so heavily Catholic, this can come as a shock. The ‘polity’ of many other denominations means there’s a lot of outside support – most commonly, from the Catholic diocese in this area. But with our governance, our polity, each UU church is entirely self-supporting. We pay dues to the District and to the UUA, and we get curricula for our children, public advocacy, resources for church development, and many other services. But no money comes directly back to us: no one helps maintain our buildings or pay the salaries of our ministers or staff. We rely on the pledges of members and friends, and to some extent, on endowments. We don’t’ require that members tithe, although some choose to do so as a spiritual practice. We don’t have a membership fee. But we do require that members make an annual monetary pledge. How much? That’s for each individual to decide, based on your own income and expenses, your own circumstances, your valuation of this church, and how much you wish to participate. These pledges are very important: they’re how we heat our Sanctuary and pay our staff, buy curricula for our children and pay the insurance on our building.

It’s not only money that was influenced by this change, though. Two hundred years ago, ministers were often charged with the education of the children of the town, especially in rural areas. They were paid by local taxes, so this demand could be made. Once churches weren’t funded by taxes, the town no longer had control over clergy, and this was one of many factors in moving toward state-funded public education. Churches no longer automatically served as town halls, as had often been the case, so separate town halls had to be built. In some cases, the cemeteries belonged to the church, and public cemeteries had to be created. And the churches could no longer rely on the towns to maintain their buildings or their grounds. Each was on its own.

We rely on ourselves for the work of the church too. That’s one of our on-going challenges: we need people to teach our children, to serve on the Board and make policy decisions, to organize events and staff committees – and we also want to provide a place for people who simply need to rest and be nourished. This sense of being a needed place of refreshment and restoration is a very important function of a church, and one we seek to honor. So, while most everyone will have periods when they need this ‘down’ time, there is an expectation that over the years, members will find ways to contribute their time and energy. We need one another: we are, each of us, the individuals who create and sustain a vibrant church for all of us.

The third area I want to explore, very briefly, is much more recent: it’s the Fellowship movement. Traditionally, churches have been founded in several ways. As you heard earlier, some were originally government-mandated. Often a denomination would send out missionaries – Baptist or Catholic or Methodist – to start churches in growing communities. Sometimes a circuit -riding preacher – a Universalist, perhaps – would come into town and gather a group of followers. Sometimes new churches were the result of an older church splitting over theology or politics. But in the 1950s the Unitarian Association developed a new way: the Fellowship program. Most, though not all, of these were through the Midwest and out to the West coast. Small groups of lay people who gathered regularly, often with similar political views or similar hopes for their children, were granted status as Unitarian churches, although few of them had ministers or owned their own buildings. Some were deeply religious, but most were more inclined toward intellectual debate and discussion, most were strongly humanistic, and some were staunchly atheistic. Most were involved in social justice work. they did meet regularly, many did worship, and they did gain tax-exempt status. Many of these eventually developed into more church-like organizations, with their own buildings, settled clergy, and the usual church programs.

This movement influenced us in several ways. It brought more members in who did not consider themselves Christian, but who did want to be part of an organized group of individuals who sought to have their beliefs reflected in how they lived, people who stressed ethical living over correct doctrine. The fellowship movement strengthened our commitment to developing strong lay leaders, including lay participation in services. It contributed heavily to our commitment to teaching our children about many of the world’s religions, and about social justice issues. I believe the Fellowship movement was important in encouraging congregational ownership in decision-making within our congregations. It certainly revitalized our involvement in social justice issues: many of the Fellowships were originally groups of people focused on issues around peace, or civil rights, the environment, or local political issues. Their buildings tended to emphasize social space and kitchens, classrooms and places for their children rather than grand Sanctuaries. The Fellowship movement had some down sides too: some groups developed a strong anti-clerical stance, and a few devolved into very insular, even antagonistic debating societies. But many fellowships sparked new churches, brought new energy, broadened our theology, encouraged involvement in the larger community, and set in motion a model of strong involvement by lay people in the affairs of the church.

So there are three stories from years ago of unexpected consequences which affect our polity in this time. King’s Chapel simply wanted to choose their own minister, and be sure he could administer the sacraments. From that, we get our practice of ordaining and selecting our own ministers. A bit later, Massachusetts voters just wanted to choose which churches got their financial support. This sparked not only our current financial reliance on ourselves, but was an important step toward the separation of church and state. Still later, the Unitarian Association wanted to expand by actively encouraging groups of individuals to form their own lay led churches, from which we get our current structures with strong leadership, diverse theologies and a renewed commitment to social justice. Each of these simple actions affects who we are now, and how we and other Unitarian Universalists organize and govern our churches.

There are many, many other stories too. Later this morning, some of you who are curious about us, or considering membership, or are relatively new members who’d like to know more about our faith, will meet to learn more. For now, though, well explore a bit more of our history through singing together a VERY optimistic old Universalist hymn, written in the late 1800. I for one sure wish that what they assumed would happen had actually come to pass. Parts of it have, and the rest – reminds us that there’s still work to be done!

[Note: copies of the song One Hundred Years Hence can be obtained in the MUUC office.]