Intoning the Chime
Call to Gather:
Opening Words - from George Kimmich Beach
Everything begins on the verge of awareness. The dawn is not and then is. Sleep is and then is not. In between is the awakening.
The passage of thin light, between, breaks open the day. The passage of thin sound, between, flows into the day. Too soon the numbing rumble of traffic swells, the day glares.
Let the soft haze hang again across the row of morning. Wait upon the narrow moment, the first awareness of being in between! Live days and seasons on the thin edge of dawn, in praise that every single thing begins now!
Chalice Lighting
Please join me in a responsive reading found in your order of service.
Leader:Life is a gift for which we are grateful.
People: We gather in community to celebrate the glories and the mysteries of this great gift.
Leader:So let us kindle now the flame of our liberal religious heritage.
People: In its glow, may our reason and our passion lead us to be true to ourselves, true to each other, and true to what we can together become.
Welcome: Deb Elliott
Offering
Special Music
Meditation : “Cookie of Childhood,” from Thich Nhat Hahn
When I was four years old, my mother used to bring me a cookie every time she came home from the market. I always went to the front yard and took my time eating it, sometimes half an hour or forty-five minutes for one cookie. I would take a small bite and look up at the sky. Then I would touch the dog with my feet and take another small bite. I just enjoyed being there, with the sky, the earth, the bamboo thickets, the cat, the dog, the flowers. I was able to do that because I did not have much to worry about. I did not think of the future, I did not regret the past. I was entirely in the present moment, with my cookie, the dog, the bamboo thickets, the cat, and everything.
It is possible to eat our meals as slowly and joyfully as I ate the cookie of my childhood. Maybe you have the impression that you have lost the cookie of your childhood, but I am sure it is still there, somewhere in your heart. Everything is still there, and if you really want it, you can find it. Eating mindfully is a most important practice of meditation. We can eat in a way that we restore the cookie of our childhood. The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.
Hymn # 352- “Find a Stillness”
Readings:
“Christian Worship” from William Ellery Channing
No spot on earth has helped to form me so much as that beach. There I lift up my voice in praise amidst the tempest. There, softened by beauty, I poured out my thanksgiving and contrite confessions. There, in reverential sympathy with the mighty power around me, I became conscious of power within. There struggling thought and emotions broke forth, as if moved to utterance by nature's eloquence of the wind's and waves. There began a happiness surpassing all worldly; pleasures, all gifts of fortune --the happiness of communing with the works of God.
“Nature” from Ralph Waldo Emerson
To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of man, but shines into the eye and heart of the child. The lover of nature is he who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of adulthood. His intercourse with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food... Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of mind... Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece.
Sermon: Being at Home in the World
About ten years ago a woman in my environmental ethics class, at Andover Newton Theological School said that she grew up fearing nature --the world outside her back door was an unsafe, wild, and mysterious place -- it was unwelcoming. This is in stark contrast to my own experiences of nature, and it presents a contrast in religious belief. Her particular Christian tradition focuses upon the desire to move out of this world and to enter a better place and my Unitarian Universalist tradition stands firmly on this earth and proclaims that this life is good and important. Our Seventh Principle, affirming the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part, connects us to the world. It calls us to understand ourselves as a part of the natural world and not see ourselves as sojourners aspiring to leave it or consumers intent on exploiting it. This morning, I want to celebrate and reflect upon our faith's witnessing the natural world as a place where we can be at home. Where we can find sources of renewal and strength in the ordinary environment that surrounds us.
In this morning's reading, Emerson says that to appreciate nature, we must retain a portion of the spirit of our childhood. This certainly echoes with my own childhood remembrances.
I grew up in the suburbs of West Hartford, Conn. and upon the rolling hills of southern New Hampshire. An essential part of my childhood was spent out doors. The world out my back door was a magical place to be discovered and explored. I climbed trees –scrambling to the top most branches --hoping to view worlds beyond my small domain. In the woods, I looked under rocks and rotting logs to find bugs, worms, and salamanders. In the reservoir behind my home, my friends and I caught frogs and turtles and picked cat-o-nine tails. We witnessed the miracle of life, as we watched quivering egg masses turn into tadpoles and then into frogs. In the marsh behind our New Hampshire home, my brother and I looked for beaver lodges, found beaver dams and hoped to catch a glimpse of a beaver if we waited long enough. We often played in the mud after it rained. There was nothing quite so exquisite as the moist and smooth texture of mud rubbed on our arms and legs and squished between our fingers and toes -- as it dried on our skin, becoming stiff and tight, we would jump in the brook to wash the mud off.
One summer, with great care, I collected, about two dozen garden spiders from my mother's garden, so she could stake the tomatoes up without killing the spiders. After she finished, I set them free and soon their webs graced the garden again and at night I lay on my back in the field and watched shooting stars.
For me, the natural world was an awe inspiring place --a place filled with wonders, a place to find new things, a place to see life begin and end. It was a place that filled the senses, whether I was smelling the rich soil, sipping nectar from honey suckle flowers, hearing the wind whisper through the trees, touching the down of a baby chick, or watching an ant carry a crumb back to its hill. The world outside was home.
Part of my appreciation and comfort in the world of nature came from something I learned in Sunday school. I remember learning that God created the world and perhaps as creator, God was continually present in the creation. I came to the conclusion that God must be present in everything around me -- so as late an apple -- I was eating God -- as I touched the bark of a tree -- I was touching God -- as I climbed the branches of the tree --I was climbing God.
As I grew older, I slowly forgot or lost that sense of communion with nature. I failed to retain a portion of the spirit of my childhood. Over time, the wonder I experienced in living in and exploring the world was replaced by a more scientific, objective, and systematic study of biology. As I dissected the world and discovered its inner workings, the mystery disappeared. I also found that as my mind was filled with demands and responsibilities, human-created schedules and new and ever-changing information, I did not have the time to appreciate or contemplate the natural world that surrounded me.
Henry David Thoreau said something similar in his essay, “Walking.” He wrote:
“Here in this vast, savage, howling mother of ours, Nature, lying all around, with such beauty, and such affection for her children ...yet we are so early weaned from her breast to society, to that culture which is exclusively an interaction of man on man, which produces a civilization destined to have a speedy limit ...give me a culture which imports much muck from the meadows, and deepens the soil...”
But how do we import that “muck” from the meadows, which will enrich our lives? From this morning’s meditation, Vietnamese Buddhist Thich Nhat Hanh said that, as a child, he was able to be present in the world because he had no worries, no regrets, and did not think about the future. He could bring himself back to those moments of presence and being at home in the world because he knew that deep within his heart lay that "cookie of childhood."
Our UU faith has this “cookie of childhood” or more specifically an appreciation of the wisdom and truth the natural world holds for us. Our Seventh Principle affirms our respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. It symbolizes our understanding that humanity is only one strand of the web. We meet, intersect, effect, and are affected by other strands of the web. We also find this wisdom from UU writers, who ask us to pause for a moment and take the time to view the world in a new way –to see it through new eyes, without preconceptions --to see it without the clutter of our everyday lives.
In this morning's reading, Channing found inner strength by witnessing the power of the wind and waves on the beach and describes the inner happiness he experienced in communion with creation. Moving to the Midwest I wondered what would replace the awe I always felt when communing with the power of the ocean. David, a friend from divinity school, asked me the same question recently. Like me, he is a native New Englander and he has accepted a call to be the minister of the UU Church of Flint Michigan. I found it was easy to answer his question about what source of nature could replace the depth of feeling the ocean can inspire. My answer is storms. I have never seen such spectacular thunderstorms in New England. The clouds are different, they have a life of their own— swirling masses carried so low that I could almost tough them. Lightening streaking across the sky, not single bolts but a web of light moving vertically and horizontally—the clouds magnifying the light with hues of pink and purple. The smell of rain—even before it arrived—sheets of rain blown along the landscape. And rainbows arching across the black sky.
Thoreau found spiritual renewal while walking in the woods. He writes; "When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place, --a "sanctum sanctorum." There is the strength, the marrow of Nature."
I too find sacred spaces outdoors to keep me centered—to renew my strength—find a quietness within—to reflect on life—to pay attention—
to connect me to something larger than myself.
What I find most striking in Thoreau’s writing is his taking time to look at the world around him. He paid close attention to seasonal changes, the habits of wildlife, and human influence upon nature. He let his curiosity about the world take over. He reflected upon aspects of the world that are usually taken for granted. In the book, Faith in a Seed, Thoreau describes his curiosity about an event after a rainstorm. He writes:
On June 9th, 1860, we had half a dozen distinct summer showers, from black clouds suddenly wafted up from the west and northeast, and also some thunder and large hail. Standing on the Mill Dam in the afternoon just after one of these showers, I noticed the air as high as the roofs full of some kind of down, which at first I mistook for feathers or lint from some some chamber. It rose and fell just like a flight of ephemerae, or like huge white dancing motes, from time to time coming to earth. Next, I supposed it to be some gauzy, light-winged insect. It was driven by a slight current of air between and over the buildings and went flying in a stream all along the street, and it was very distinct in the moist air, seen against the dark clouds still lingering in the west. The shopkeepers stood in their doorways wondering what it could be. This was white-willow down which the rain had loosened, and the succeeding slight breeze set a-going, bearing its minute blackish seed in its midst. The earth having just been moistened, this was the best time to sow it. I traced it to its source in a large willow twenty rods distant and a dozen rods from the street, behind the blacksmith’s shop.
Such is the way in which this tree sows its seed, and possibly some of these downy atoms, which strike your cheek without your being conscious of it, may come to be pollards five feet in diameter. (Faith in a Seed, 56-57)
This reminds me of those times—too often to number—as an adult and as a parent, how easily one can ignore the natural world as we go about our days. As we hurry along we forget to look up into the sky and appreciate a hawk circling in its search for food—we forget to look down and see some insect scurrying about its business. You may have a child’s hand in yours and you feel a tug trying to slow you down. Before you tug back—take that moment—forget your impatience—and pay attention to what is around you. Perhaps this child has stopped to wonder at a caterpillar—a seed sprouting along the pavement—an ant carrying a load twice its size…
My brother Jeff and his wife Karen live on Lake Pawtuckaway, in Raymond, New Hampshire—they are avid outdoor enthusiasts—boating, biking, sail boarding, water-skiing— Karen, said she seldom is aware of the natural environment— or more precisely, how she selectively sees the world depending upon what she is looking for. More often than not, she watches the lake from the perspective of the water skier, who looks for a smooth, glass-like surface ideal for skiing upon. She might ignore the light reflecting off the rougher water. She might hear but not pay attention to the loon calling to his mate, nor wait to listen for her reply.
She described how one morning, as she sat on the deck, she watched a thick fog, tinted yellow, hover over the lake's surface. It moved slowly toward her from the opposite shore, but she didn't think anything of it --it was just the fog. A few moments later she saw a pine tree near-by release a cloud of golden pollen. This cloud soon merged with the golden fog on the lake. She said that she didn't remember ever being so aware of an event in nature as that moment of seeing and discovering the unexpected.
In this morning's meditation Thich Nhat Hanh described eating mindfully. He asked us to be present in the moment and mindful of something we might otherwise ignore— To hold it --to see it --to smell it --to wonder about it --to imagine what it might have been and what it might become—to taste it—perhaps to inspire us to discover something new about ourselves or the object we behold because we take the time to experience it and possibly see it in a new way. When I was a kid, my mother would give me a box of raisins before going out to play. As I played or tramped through the woods I would very carefully eat a raisin—I wanted them to last as long as possible. I would allow myself one—feeling its wrinkled texture—tasting its sweetness—savoring it—and waiting awhile before having another—to experience it again till the box was empty.
I usually used moments of unexpected awareness when I was assigned to lead the spoken and silent meditation at First Parish Church in Lexington. There were weeks when I did not have any inspiration. There were weeks when I barely had time to think about being meditative let alone writing something meditative for others. My most productive moments came when I thought I was empty. I'd wake early in the morning, around five or five thirty --this is the quietest time of the day because the kids were still asleep. I made my coffee and sat by my kitchen window. More often than not, the kitchen table would be piled with books, papers, pens, unread mail, and unpaid bills, and usually a few toys to add color. I pushed the mess away from my side of the table and sat down with my coffee. I would look out my window and lament its ugliness. The thermo-pane seal had long since broken and the glass is clouded with streaks and drips that could not be cleaned. On some mornings I could ignore all this and look beyond the glass and find something new to contemplate. Where Thoreau found walking in the wilderness his source of spiritual renewal, I found it looking out my window. I might hear something that differs from the usual. I might see a flash of color -- notice that the leaves are browning on the maple tree on the hill. Regardless of the weather, I like to keep the window open, so I can smell the air and feel what the temperature is like. One winter morning I sat at my window. The sun was shining after many days of freezing rain. The air was filled with the sound of running water. I sat and listened and I wondered. From that sound came a February meditation for First Parish Lexington:
In the morning, while
sitting by the open kitchen window --
I see the sun warming the winter landscape –
shimmering off the glazed trees.
A sound --like flowing water
fills the air –
yet there is no water near by.
I step outside and close my eyes.
I lift my face to the sun --
it thaws the chill of my heart's winter.
No breeze stirs the air --yet the sound
of a rushing stream continues without pause.
I open my eyes --the sun warms the ice
which has hugged the limbs and branches
of the trees for nearly a week.
Shining bits of ice are suddenly
released --they shatter and dance
across the frozen ground.
The enchantment of the frozen landscape
is coming to an end.
Soon the trees will have lost
their glistening coats of armor .
Outside my kitchen window –
the ground is warming –
three daffodils are
poking their green heads up –
waiting for their moment.
Closing Words:
“Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been. I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.”Henry David Thoreau
Leader: I extinguish now the visible flame of this community so that we may carry its light into the world.
People: Let us carry its light from this place open to life, expecting to love, and prepared to serve.