Holy Curiosity
Rev. Mark Stringer
First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
10/17/04

Meditation
“Loneliness and Love”by Richard S. Gilbert[1]

 

Loneliness is our common fate.

There is no escape.

But out of that loneliness comes our salvation.

For we love out of our fear of being alone.

As long as human beings people the earth,

We can be assured

That in our loneliness

There is also love—

Deep, infinite love,

Waiting to be tapped,

To water the barren brown lawn of our loneliness—

Love which shrivels if kept to the self,

Which flourishes only it if is given away.

I need you.

You need me.

I know it.

You know it.

What are we waiting for?

 

Reading
An excerpt from Martin Buber’s I & Thou:

 

Free is the man [who]… believes in the actual, which is to say: he believes in the real association of the real duality, I and You. 
He believes in destiny and also that it needs him.
It does not lead him, it waits for him. 
He must proceed toward it without knowing where it waits for him. 
He must go forth with his whole being: that he knows. 
It will not turn out the way his resolve intended it;
but what wants to come will come only if he resolves to do that which he can will. 
He must sacrifice his little will, which is unfree and ruled by things and drives, to find destiny. 
Now he no longer interferes,
nor does he merely allow things to happen. 
He listens to that which grows,
to the way of Being in the world,
not in order to be carried along by it
but rather in order to actualize it in the manner in which it,
needing him, wants to be actualized by him—with human spirit and human deed, with human life and human death.  He believes, I said; but this implies: he encounters.[2]

 

Reading

“Familiar” by Kendra Ford

 

I am a yellow flash
in an inconstant universe—not even that,
I am a hint of something familiar
at the back of the throat.

 

I catch a man I love
tucking his long hair
behind his right ear
because he’s nervous.

 

We are meant to find each other.
And I don’t only mean
this sweet blond man and me.
I mean the crazy aunt on your mother’s side,
The old man living alone across the street,
I mean the kid who talks to you at the park.
I mean you.

 

 

Sermon

         I begin this morning with a folk tale

 

         Long ago, in a far-away town, an old woman used to sit at the city gates, watching the travelers passing through, and sometimes engaging them in conversation. 

         One night, when it was growing dark, a traveler came along, weary from a hard day’s walk.  “Excuse me,” he said to the old woman, “but I am looking for a place to rest, and I wonder, can you tell me what the people are like in this town?”

         The woman smiled, and in reply she asked him a question of her own.  “You have had a long journey,” she commented, “and you must be feeling weary.  Where do you come from?”

         A little surprised by her question, the traveler told her the name of his home town.”  “Mychester,” he said.

         The woman was interested. “Oh,” she smiled, “and what are the people like in Mychester?”

         “Oh,” replied the traveler, “you wouldn’t believe how awful people are in Mychester.  They don’t care if you are hungry and thirsty.  They wouldn’t even pass the time of day with you.  And if you ask for help they turn away, or deliberately send you the wrong way.  They are rude and unfriendly in the extreme.

         “My word,” replied the old woman. “Well, I’m afraid I have bad news for you.  The people here in this town are very much like the people in Mychester.  I don’t think you would like them very much.”

         The traveler was disappointed. “Oh well,” he sighed. “I guess I’ll move on then.”

         A short time passed, and soon another traveler arrived at the city gates.  He saw the old woman sitting there, smiled and approached her.  “Excuse me,” he said, “but I am looking for a place to rest, and I wonder, can you tell me what the people are like in this town?”

         The woman smiled back at him, and again she asked him a question of her own.  “You have had a long journey,” she commented, “and you must be feeling weary.  Where do you come from?

         “I come from Mychester,” he told her.

         “And what are the people like in Mychester?” the woman continued.

         “Oh, they are so kind,” the traveler replied.  “I like them a lot.  They are always friendly, ready to help each other and generous to a fault.”      

         “Well,” the woman told him, “I think you will find a warm welcome here in this city.  The people here are very much like the people in Mychester.”[3]

 

I began with this story because I think it presents a challenge to us…a challenge similar to the one I offer in this sermon…a challenge to carefully examine our lives and how our attitudes and expectations impact the way we interact with those around us.  

 

I don’t mean to suggest that the circumstances of our lives are solely dependent on our attitudes or our assumptions about the intentions of others.  Mere observation would show that many of the things that happen to us have little to do with anything we have chosen, consciously or unconsciously.  And certainly, we have all been witnesses to the nasty and insensitive things humans can say and do to each other. 

 

And yet…

 

No matter what our situation, I believe our very humanity…the reality that most of us have the ability to use reason to interpret the things that happen to us and to make decisions about how we will respond…leaves us with a say in how we make sense of our lives…and in turn, in how we interact with those around us…no matter how difficult it can sometimes be.

 

Certainly our ability to get to know other people is sometimes hampered by things that are seemingly out of our control…including, some would say, our innate level of introversion…our tendency to be more interested in our own feelings and thoughts than those of others.

 

I suspect that each of us here this morning holds a unique position on the introvert-extrovert continuum.  And, of course, there are a variety of reasons for the different places we hold, including the social skills of our family of origin, the life experiences each of us has had that have boosted or weakened our interpersonal confidence, and our willingness and ability to withstand the risks implied in any encounter.  I also suspect that no matter how introverted we each may believe ourselves to be, there is the possibility for movement and growth…for the dispelling of our fear or disinterest…for discovery that the tendency toward introversion that most of us share in some degree is, in most cases, limiting us more than we might realize, and cheating our potential companions as well.

 

To say that introversion is something to be overcome may seem like a bold…even threatening…statement to the introverts out there.  After all, many of us have been taught via the Myers-Briggs test and other similar evaluation tools that our level of introversion is not to be judged…it is merely a feature of our personhood…not all that different from our height or the color of our eyes. 

 

To those who hold to the claim that introversion is involuntary, that it is simply part of our genetic code, I humbly suggest that you entertain a different perspective.  While certainly each of us has the potential to be introverted, depending on the situation, and some of us may understandably never overcome the limitations of our lives that keep us from moving much beyond this introversion…I do think that the effort each of us may make to take any step that we can toward encounter…no matter how small…any step toward being able to more freely and joyfully engage with those around us…is a step worth taking.

 

I confess, I haven’t always felt that way.  While I think I understood something about reaching beyond myself when I was a child, my advance into adulthood and the disappointments and challenges I found there led me to retreat back into myself.  I didn’t want to increase my circle of acquaintances…it just seemed like a lot of work.

I remember feeling empty a lot of the time…as though I was missing out on something important, but I couldn’t really put my finger on it.  Then, in my late twenties, I was encouraged by a friend to read a book called The Celestine Prophecy. It was a popular new age novel of the day that had developed a kind of cult following.  The premise of the book, as I recall, was much like the message of the poem shared in this morning’s reading:  “we are meant to find each other.”  In simple prose, the book’s narrative took the protagonist on a mystical adventure to Peru, where each chapter featured an important discovery made as a result of the hero being open to what others had to offer him.

 

Though the book was contrived, it had an impact on me nonetheless.  I took its message to heart and began viewing my interactions with others as a means to wisdom.  I suppose you could say it was this book that led me, in a roundabout way, to become a minister.  For once I began to assume that my encounters with others might be open doors to new understandings and new opportunities, I found myself more willing to put myself out there, to reach out to those I might have previously avoided…whether due to fear or indifference or distrust that there was anything useful to come from my efforts. 

 

Not surprisingly I suppose, this was around the same time that I first came back to church as an adult.  I couldn’t say for sure at the time that I knew what I was looking for.  But it didn’t take long for me to realize that simply coming to the service and then making a quick exit was not enough to truly feed my soul.  I needed interaction and it needed me…even though I admit that being vulnerable and open to exchanges with virtual strangers was still not easy for me.  I realized that I yearned to grow beyond my own always-limited perspective and engage with others…to expand my mind and soul with the input of my fellow travelers in this life. In the process, I discovered that church is not just what happens in the service on Sunday.  No, church is a laboratory of human interaction that exists to teach its members that we are called by life itself to stretch beyond ourselves, to engage with the world to the very best of our ability…so that we might experience the real lifespan religious education that emerges when we put our trust in the divine potential of human encounter…even when it might not feel good…even when it reveals things about ourselves we might rather look past…even when it takes courage and involves what feels like a huge risk.  This kind of divine human encounter is dependent upon what I would call holy curiosity…a commitment of those participating to no particular outcome other than a deeper understanding of each other, and, in turn, of the life they share.

 

A church like ours provides many avenues to nurture and practice holy curiosity.  Small group ministry, working with our children, affinity groups such as our men’s and women’s groups, AMOS events and training, even coffee hour after services provide opportunities to enjoy meaningful encounters with others.

 

But perhaps the most poignant place where we might practice the discipline of holy curiosity in our church community is through our new caring ministry program.  After all, being present to others in their time of need is a privilege that can offer great rewards for both the giver and receiver.

 

As most of you know this is caring ministry month at the church.  All through October we are encouraging members and friends to register to be a caring ministry volunteer.  There are many ways for each of us to participate, from occasionally cooking meals, to writing cards, to paying visits to those who are grieving or who are unable to make it to church.  If you haven’t yet filled out a registration form, you can do so in Channing Hall immediately following today’s service.  Maybe some of you have not yet registered because you doubt that you have what it takes to participate. Maybe you are short on time?  If enough people participate, none of us will have to do too much…in fact, we may not even be called for months.  Maybe some of you fear that you are not the caring type…that you don’t have what it takes to visit the sick or shut-in, as though you may need a special skill to do so.   If so, I hope you will be reassured and encouraged to reconsider when you hear some thoughts of one of my mentors.  The Rev. Barbara Pescan wrote in her church newsletter column recently of how someone had told her about a friendship that was such that she had to arrive at her friend’s door “absolutely empty handed…without flowers or gift, or interesting tidbit to tell, or child story, or cheerful disposition or even good intentions—arrive and be welcomed with appreciation solely for her own being.”

 

This relationship had developed in the midst of a chronic illness and financial poverty but it could have come about regardless of such serious circumstances.  Essentially, the two women made what might seem like a radical choice in a culture that encourages us to maximize our time by multi-tasking and rushing through our interactions.  They chose to simply be present to each other…to partake of whatever their encounter might bring…to not have a plan or an agenda other than their faith in human relationship…their belief that something would grow from the time they spent with one another…and their commitment, we might say, to holy curiosity.

 

This image of “arriving empty handed” has a lot to do with holy curiosity, I think, and it can be of great use any time, but especially when we visit with people facing tragedy or great loss.  As Barbara wrote, “To be with those who have lost someone…suddenly and tragically is to be there with your simple presence—stripped down to serve, and ready for what they may say or do or need.  And, being there is important, without words, or with halting words that seem and probably are inadequate.  And that is all right, and as it should be.  We are enough as we are.  In some situations…it hardly seems enough to know that our inarticulateness is enough.  But, it is.  What in the name of all that is holy can we image saying that would make a difference at such moments?  In arriving ‘absolutely empty handed’ the visiting friend expresses faith in human relationship; deep understanding that something can come of the time we spend with one another; the profound respect for the worth and dignity of this human being, and for one’s own being, and for what can come of the meeting between the two.  And, there is something in our humanity that, in barely believable circumstances, is an essentially healing presence—even without words.”[4]

 

Ultimately, I think, this arriving empty handed is what holy curiosity is all about.  The same holy curiosity at the heart of a wisdom tale with which I close.

 

A rabbi once asked his students how they could tell when night had ended and day was on its way back.

“Is it when you can see an animal in the distance, and can tell whether it is a sheep or a dog?”

“No,” answered the rabbi.

“Is it when you can look at a tree in the distance, and tell whether it is a fig tree or a peach tree?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” the students demanded, “when is it?”

“It is when you look on the face of another human being, and see that he or she is your brother or sister.  Because if you cannot do that, then no matter what time it is, it is still night.”[5]

 

Closing Words (Martin Buber)

“Believe in the simple magic of life, in service in the universe, and it will dawn on you what this waiting, peering, ‘stretching of the neck’ of the creature means. …look, these beings live around you, and no matter which one you approach you always reach Being.”[6]