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Small Talked OutRev. Mark Stringer First Unitarian Church of Des Moines 3/17/02
Reading From 13th century mystic poet, Rumi:
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, There is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, The world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other Doesn’t make any sense.
Sermon
During my four years of seminary I attended Chicago’s Second Unitarian Church, affectionately known by the members as 2U. I look back fondly on my time at 2U, for it was a great place to see the things I had been learning in school up close, in a more practical context. And yet, sometimes after leaving services there, I would find myself walking back to my car literally exhausted. My mouth dry, my head hurting, I would feel the need to lie down. Did I feel drained because my schedule of school and waiting tables was overburdening me? Maybe. Did I feel spent because the services challenged me too much? Possibly. Was I dizzied by my realization of how much I still had to learn? Probably. When I’m most honest with myself, though, I can see that the primary source of my exhaustion was the coffee hour. While some of you may be wondering what kind of coffee I was drinking at 2U, there are no doubt others gathered here this morning who know what I’m talking about, people who understand my pain because they have felt it too…people who have also experienced the discomfort produced by a common and oftentimes disregarded phenomena of being human: The work of conversation.
To some of you, this may seem silly. You may be thinking, "There is no work involved in conversation. After all, it's just talking. There's no heavy lifting involved. There's no preset amount of words per minute that one must get out. What's the big deal?” Yes, for some of you, small talk is a joy, a privilege, a beautiful thing. I believe, though, for many of us the simple act of conversation may not always be so simple.
By the time I began attending 2U, I had already decided to pursue ministry as a vocation, and let's face it, that choice probably skewed my perspective a bit. So I'll share instead the story of my first voluntary return to church as an adult.
I was living in New York with my future wife Susan and found myself curious about what a liberal religious community might be like. I had been told that I might appreciate a Unitarian Universalist service and since Community Church of New York was within walking distance from our apartment, I made the trek. After the service, I went through the receiving line thinking to myself how great it was that I made it through the morning without being distracted by dogma. When I came upon the minister I shook his hand and told him that I had enjoyed the service. He said, "This is your first time, isn't it?" Yes, it was. "We are having coffee hour downstairs if you'd like to join us." I responded with a quick "thank you" and then high-tailed it out of there. Coffee hour? The mere mention of the words sent shivers down my spine. You see, before I left the family nest, my siblings and I would usually accompany my mother to the Presbyterian church of my youth. If my mother entered the coffee hour fray, I knew that it might be a long time before we would get home. And home is where I wanted to be. Especially because we would often stop for donuts on the way. Ahhh, donuts. I like donuts...
I'll confess that I was not all that excited to participate in small talk with a group of people I didn't know. So I made the quick left turn and headed out toward 35th street and my walk home. Listen, it was quite a challenge just to get me to the service. The last thing I wanted to do was to have to talk to strangers.
After a few more visits to Community Church, I realized that I was attending services like one would attend the theatre. I would find the row where I was used to sitting, sit quietly by myself, enjoy the show, and then glide right out the door. Spiritually refueled for the week, I still felt little need to descend the stairs to the basement of the church, where my fellow worshippers were gathered discussing whatever it was that church-goers discuss. I didn't mind this so much. After all, it was guilt free. I would attend, hear some good music and some well-spoken words from the pulpit, throw a few bucks in the basket and then that was that.
As the weeks passed, though, I began to feel a void. The sermons would often include mentions of the "interdependent web" and how we are all a part of it. My small circle of acquaintances in NYC had not felt much like an interdependent web...more like a single strand. I knew that returning to church was not something I had done because I needed an hour's worth of entertainment once a week. There was something more that had drawn me back to church and I needed to more fully enter into the experience to find out what it was. I challenged myself to try a coffee hour and see just what was going on down there.
The Sunday of my first expedition down into the bowels of the church I found myself wavering. Did I really want to do this? What would I say to people? Would anyone talk to me? Could I escape if I needed to? Did I have to drink coffee? Due to my hesitancy, I was one of the last people downstairs. As I entered the room I looked around and saw several clumps of people. Where to begin? I walked over to the coffee table. I decided I needed something to do. Look relaxed I said to myself. Pretend like you belong. I got my coffee and looked for someone to talk to. I think I even said hi to a few people, but it was just too much. I retreated to the tables that different committees had set up along the walls of the room—I signed the social action petition, I checked out a few books in the bookstore, I leafed through pamphlets at the welcome table. I finished my coffee and I left. I can't say I felt like a success, but at least I made an attempt.
Around that time I had I read a book about climbing Mt. Everest and learned that higher elevations must be approached gradually, in stages, so that the body can get acclimated to the thinner air. Now I wouldn't say that participating in coffee hour is much like climbing Mt. Everest, but the air did feel pretty thin in that fellowship hall, and I was getting acclimated all the same.
The next week, I tried again. Though I could have convinced myself that the members of the church should approach me—after all, I was the visitor—I refused to be passive. I didn't want to leave complaining about how no one had given me the time of day...especially when I hadn't even asked. This time I was determined to actually have a conversation with someone. Apparently determination was all I needed, for now that I was intentional about meeting people, there seemed to be no limit to the number of people who would talk to me. I just started going up and introducing myself and saying that I was new. The names and faces of the people who took the time to learn my name are still firmly fixed in my mind. Helene, Jason, Al, Ken, Eric. I suppose many of you can remember the people who first talked to you here. People like Mary Ellen, Terry, Barb, Caroline, Bob, Dave, Pat, Harvey. Chances are good that someone took a first step with you. Someone took the chance to get to know you a little bit...enough to give you the courage to meet someone yourself, and maybe, in turn, you've made someone new feel at home here too. And the interdependent web continues to develop new strands of connection.
Now years later, I believe I've gotten better at coffee hour and situations like it. What changed? Well, I think I did. I became intentional about opening myself to what interaction had to teach me. I tried being a little bolder. Of course, I still have moments when I would prefer to be alone, when I am left exhausted by my attempts to be bold.
In preparation for this sermon I went to the library and did a quick search on conversation. I figured there must be many books dealing with such a common aspect of everyday life, and I wanted to pass along any pointers I came across. Sure enough, I found several selections related to "successful" interaction. After perusing the first few titles, I quickly realized that they would not provide much help. While the books did seem to offer some sage advice (such as the classic tool of conversation—ask the other person questions!) the authors were ultimately encouraging their readers towards goals of power and manipulation. "You too can control your friends," they prodded. "Here are ten easy steps to get people to do what you want them to do." Perhaps the most irritating assertion was "People are desperate to be told what to do." Is that really what small talk is all about? If so, it's no wonder that it can make me uncomfortable. I mean, who really wants to be manipulated?
I believe that, in contrast to these descriptions of conversation as a means to power, my experiences of small talk improved when I approached interaction from a place of humility, when I began to take a sincere interest in the lives of others, not so that I could control their behavior, or so that I could refocus attention on myself, but so that I could learn what they know, so that I could see the world through their eyes. I discovered that I could more closely approach the divinity of those around me when I was able to keep myself open to the endless possibilities of interaction. I could only take this step when I stopped worrying about how I would be perceived and started really trying to know people...as they are.
One way for me to get to know others was to get more involved in the church. I did the new member orientation, I took a building your own theology course, I helped out in the homeless shelter, I started teaching RE. As each endeavor allowed me to get to know more people, I found myself much more at ease during the coffee hour. Soon, I began to know enough about people that I could more comfortably be at church than ever before. However, this did not completely solve my problem. Seeing someone once a week for five minutes at a time does not always make for satisfying interaction. Even as I met more people I could still find myself getting stuck in that interdependent web. The more strands I connected myself to, the more immobile I sometimes felt. I would be talking to someone and then we would reach that familiar point of discomfort…that moment when eyes don't know where to go, words don't seem to come that easily and we both seem to be searching for a way to "wrap it up." There was a time when I would take these moments personally...as though I were failing the social challenge. If only I could have come up with something to say, some neat tidy package of conversation that would have made us both feel OK. Ahhh, but neat and tidy does not always fit real conversation. It's messy...and it's work.
I've often thought it would be great if I could have access to a five-second delay machine, like what is used on live television or talk radio to allow the censors to edit out portions unsuitable for broadcast. I could carry the device in my pocket and by simply pushing a button, I could take back anything without my misplaced words doing any harm. Whenever I would hear myself saying something stupid or inappropriate, I could simply splice out the moment of tension and be on my way. Awesome...until everybody else got hold of the device and then we'd all be back where we started. No, I've begun to accept that discomfort is an important part of interaction. Why else would it seem so inevitable?
These days, I find myself leaning into those uncomfortable moments...letting the waves of tension wash over me and seeing what happens on the other side. Sometimes I even find the courage to name my discomfort. I began trying out this approach during my first year of seminary. I remember talking to a classmate who was in her final year of study and who had recently returned from internship so I hadn't yet gotten to know her very well. We talked for a while about instructors we had both taken, the benefits of living off campus and where each of us was in our schooling. Then, with the easy subjects taken care of, there was that inevitable lull in the conversation. I decided to admit that I was feeling a little uncomfortable and that I was trying to face up to my innate introversion. She nervously laughed and said, "Aren't we all introverts to a certain extent?" The wisdom of her words settled in. Yes, I suppose under the right conditions we all can be introverts. As we enter into face to face conversation, we are engaging in what can feel very risky…risky enough to keep ourselves hidden, to run away, to hide. So, I've been thinking about ways in which the risk could be acknowledged...brought out into the open so that it could be named and then minimized. I've brought along one idea.
What if we all wore signs--[hold up sign and read aloud] "I want to like you. I want you to like me. I sometimes feel inadequate when I talk to others. I don't want to say anything inappropriate. I want to be heard. I like donuts." Well, maybe we don't all like donuts. But what if we all wore these signs around. Would that help? A little too much to read, right? What if we simply wore signs that said [turn sign over and read aloud] "I'm Human." Guess what? We already do. We already do. It's written into the skin and the eyes and the heart of every one of us. We are human. And maybe the most overlooked part of being human is recognizing the humanity of those around us. By proposing that we're all introverts to a certain extent, my classmate was subtly suggesting that I remove the focus from myself and see how others might be feeling the same way.
Could it be that we all are battling feelings of inadequacy? I tested out this thesis by telling a few people I know that I think they are unusually good at making conversation. Each seemed reluctant to claim their skill. While they appreciated my praise, they confessed that they know what is really going on inside their minds and it isn't always pretty. So, if even the most skilled conversationalists among us still experience moments of inadequacy, doesn't that give us all some freedom from the need to view ourselves as inadequate?
I like how singer/songwriter Dar Williams explained her discovery that she was not alone in her fear of interaction, or in her feelings of inadequacy. She wrote: “I’m like East Berlin I had this wall, and what I knew of the free world was that I could see their fireworks and I could hear their radio And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing And they'd know that I was scared they would know that I was guessing Then the wall came down, and there they stood before me with their stumbling and their mumbling and their calling out just like me.”
Stumbling and mumbling, talking and listening, risking and learning. We're all in this together and it's not easy. It's work. And as the saying goes, It's good work, if you can get it. And the good news is, we've got it. Right here, right now.
I’ve learned to think of our community as a laboratory of human interaction for it provides endless opportunities for us to expand our understandings of what it means to be human, and in turn, what it means to be part of that interdependent web we hear so much about. One way to increase our understanding of this life that we share is to open ourselves to the challenges and rewards of interaction. When we find the courage to humbly engage with those around us, we inevitably find our perspectives changing and increase the possibility that a greater perspective may be created. Theologian Henry Nelson Wieman called this kind of interaction “creative interchange” and believed that it was the source of human good and our greatest hope for the future.
The small group ministry program that will begin meeting in April is one means by which participants may begin to see interaction as more than just a source of discomfort. SGM provides a structured opportunity to engage with others, to approach the kind of creative interchange that Wieman was talking about, and I’m pleased to report that so far we have nearly 80 people enrolled in the program. This is the final Sunday for initial enrollment, and there is still space for you. Visit the Small Group Ministry table in Channing Hall following the service for more information.
But even if Small Group Ministry is not yet for you, I hope that you will take advantage of the other opportunities for interaction that this church offers. Attend tonight’s all-church potluck, sing in the choir, join a committee, teach an RE class. But before you do any of that, won’t you join us after the service for coffee and conversation? We’ve been waiting for you.
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