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The Observatory in the Fog Rev. Charlotte Shivvers April 13, 2008 Opening Words: Welcome to this room of windows Windows to see the great oak trees Windows to view the Windows to see grass and clouds, and sunshine after April snow. Welcome to this room of windows Windows inside to search our inner selves Windows to reveal a world beyond us Windows to see each other and know we are not alone. Welcome to this place of windows. “I had a great day at the library the other day. I went in search of a folk tale that was called something like “Maybe, Maybe Not,” a Native American story. I went through a large collection of stories. It was nowhere to be found. I was about to give up when I noticed a small book next to my car keys called “You Can Never Tell,” a folk tale from China. It was the same story in a different version! My disappointment turned into excitement. You can never tell! I then headed for the checkout. “You have an 80 cent fine outstanding” said the librarian. What?! I was sure I paid that fine. I hunted for a receipt but couldn’t find it. Just as I was about to give up, I found $25 I didn’t know I had in my wallet! You can never tell – I ended up gaining $24.20 after paying my fine. I whistled as I left the library” Here is a short version of the story, “You Can Never Tell” A
Chinese farmer has a horse. It's a
wonderful horse, his only horse, and the horse runs away. A terrible thing for the farmer. The neighbors come to offer condolence. And the farmer just says, "You can never
tell." Then
a cholera epidemic sweeps the area and the neighbors' horses all die. And then our farmer's horse returns,
healthy. The neighbors come to share in
his joy, and he says, "You can never tell." Shortly
thereafter his son gets on to ride the horse, and the horse, exuberant no doubt
from escaping cholera, prances and dances around, and the young man is thrown
from the horse and breaks his leg. The
faithful neighbors come to offer sympathy, and again the farmer says, "You
can never tell." While
the son is recovering, the emperor's army visits the village to draft all
likely young men into service. But, of
course, the farmer's son can’t be drafted because of the broken leg. The neighbors again share the good fortune. But our farmer says only, "You can never
tell." Words for Meditation “I brought my spirit to the sea, I stood upon the shore I gazed upon infinity, I heard the waters roar. And then there came a sense of peace, some whisper calmed my soul. Some ancient ministry of stars had made my spirit whole … And then I felt an inner flame that fiercely burned my tears. Upright , I rose from bended knee to meet the asking years.” (Hymn #4, words by Max Kapp) They are all asking years. We face them every day, challenges, losses, stress – even for lucky, well-fed Americans like us. I invite you to a time of silence. A time to get comfortable, perhaps to close your eyes. Imagine a whisper of that sea and let it calm your soul. Let yourself receive a “ministry of stars,” a calm to make your spirit whole. Breathe in this calm … breathe out this calm … let our shared breath invite that calm. Let us share silence. The Observatory in the Fog Rev. Charlotte Shivvers April 13, 2008 I need to say “thank you” all around – for that wonderful music, to Priscilla for all her help, to our readers, the Tonelli/Vandegrift family, and to all of you. It is a special honor to be invited to speak to ones own congregation – again. It had been a wonderful drive across We laughed – and ordered lunch. But the image has stubbornly stayed with me. Why? What’s the message? The uselessness of that “observatory” with all its telescopes? A reminder that control is an illusion? That I am not in charge? I need that as I thrive on all the little things I can do to feel control. Fixing the house. Clearing the yard. In writing, my favorite method is sitting up in bed, laptop on lap, back to the wall and a window to see through – queen on her throne with all wisdom at her fingertips. But no matter how finely tuned my observing tools, they will not see through a fog. So, yes, it’s about control. But there must be more. I think of the telescope itself. It brought serious questions to our race centuries ago. It allowed Galileo and others to whisper the life-threatening heresy that the sun did not move around the earth; we were not the center of the universe. Controversy raged: what was our place in the universe? Where was God? Science versus religion, religion versus religion, there is still overwhelming evidence that for all our incredible scientific achievements we are in a fog as to any why of our being here, where we came from and where we go when we leave. Microscope, telescope, periscope, radar … we don’t see through the fog. In fact, that hovering mist has been a human problem since the beginning, an unknown that binds us close to our ancestors in the caves. Perhaps it stuck with me, a religious professional after all, as a religious metaphor. The essence of all spiritual search is a way of dealing with the fog. Most groups of people through time have found a way to believe in something that became like a fog light for them, a god or gods to tell them the necessary “Thou shalt” and “Thou shalt not.” “ Our Unitarian and Universalist forebears had to struggle
with the same fog, but they relied heavily on their “observatory” skills. For instance, in the 16th century one
Michael Servetus was burned at the stake because he observed in scripture that the so-called trinity of father, son,
and holy spirit was mentioned only once.
He and his followers claimed one god, not a three-part god, hence Unitarian became their name. In But fog didn’t totally clear. Controversy continued even as our two ancestral religions drew closer. In fact, Universalist minister Thomas Starr King once said, “The Universalists believe in a god too good to damn them, and the Unitarians believe they are too good to be damned.” It made me realize that maybe the image of the fog-bound observatory tantalized me because Unitarian Universalist controversy continued into our own time. Many of us can remember when a UU Sunday morning event felt more like a lecture than a religious service; the emphasis was on the observatory, as if all answers could come from our rational minds. Little attention was paid to relating with the real unknown, the opaque fog. Many UU’s – like me – however, got tired of that lecture mode. I’ve thrilled with our changes, for instance, with the addition of the chalice ritual. This chalice shape has been a religious symbol since the time of the goddess, and the flame is surely a symbol for the power and mystery of the unknown. It acknowledges the fog, and gives me freedom to tap into the power of the unknown. Feels like I’m getting closer to why it’s haunted me. Fog as religious symbol, perhaps. But there’s something more – about that misty
place of no control. Years ago in my All that respect for the fog makes me suspect that the image has stayed with me to suggest that not only do we need a positive relationship with the fog, but we might well look on the fog as the source of great riches. It resounds, in fact, with the possibility of grace – grace in that unexpected, undeserved, and un-asked-for event that leads to personal growth. Something clicks. Bob
and I just had a powerful grace-out-of-the-fog event, one that many of you
cared through with us. It was a journey
to All was revealed. It lasted almost 4 months. Yes, we could help. She had an incredible support group, but as Hospice said, we became the glue that held it together. We stayed in the homes of neighbors and friends. And her husband, Bob’s son, did let us in, and we now treasure a larger relationship with him and our grandsons. And we learned. It was a mind-stretching experience. Most of her support group was from her Christian Covenant church. We got to know them. I had gotten so used to the Religious Right kind of Christianity that it was a mind-boggling surprise when these people not only acted like Jesus taught – they were always available to help any way they could – but not once did any of them ask if we were saved, or if we’d been born again. If they knew what Unitarian Universalists believe, if it mattered to them, they never gave a hint. They just called us saints for what we were doing! Some of the places we stayed were fine homes in gated
communities high in the In my care of Donna, even the fog of death cleared some. I’ve been with death a lot as minister but never with the dailyness of it that she allowed. As she became weaker, there was a constant in and out, up and down, like riding a wild roller coaster. My attempt was to be present, with love. She was. And I could learn, despite, or because of, our differences. She loved company and I thrive on alone time. She cried easily and a lot. I don’t cry much. She trusted in a Jesus who would be with her through eternity. I trust a Jesus who offers eternity in the act of caring for our neighbor. She was a devout Christian. I’m a devout Unitarian Universalist. We became closer and closer, and in the last days I could hug her through my tears and thank her for what she had taught me about love. The observatory did not take us there. We had to enter the fog. I got it. That fog, that cloud of unknowing, is something I need not only to acknowledge and respect, but to trust. That’s it. Trust the fog. Trust the fog … on a very simple level, too. I was the instigator of a controversial community forum recently. There had been planning meetings, telephoning, e-mailing, worrying – off and on from July until the end of February. The day came and I was ready – early. Unheard of for me. I was anxious and finally just sat and meditated, realizing, “You’ve done all you can, sister, you’ve done the observatory part, now you need to trust the fog.” (I did, and happened to be a good forum.) There’s an important piece here. Yes, trust the fog, but remember it’s treacherous. Don’t ever drive in it. And you need to prepare for it. You don’t just walk into that low-flying cloud feeling, “Well, I’m gonna trust the fog. That should do it.” No, we need to take advantage of all that part of our minds and our history that created the observatory – we need to use our heads, do our homework, eat healthy, drive safely, Google up the best resources. We actually come for the experience of this many-windowed room and this rich community as a way of preparing for the fog. Even for that hospice experience in California I realize in retrospect that I went in well prepared: I had all the experience of my lifetime – motherhood, diapers, ministry; and I knew ahead that the only way to deal with the dis-connect in our family was with love – move love that I had ever been capable of – before. Bob and I prepared as we went along, too, by trying to practice intentional kindness, especially with each other. Yet, necessary as our preparations are, the skills that built the telescope will not take us all the way. We still must feel the fog in our face. The most recent Time Magazine features a Unitarian Universalist ad with the heading, “When in doubt, pray; when in prayer, doubt.” Perhaps they, too, had been contemplating the fog. It’s a catchy heading and good words later. But I would conclude it differently. Yes, of course, when you’re in doubt, pray. Prayer to me means opening to a source of power larger than my conscious mind; it means sometimes saying “help me find my way.” Most often I get to prayer by opening to some profound part of nature, the eternal. I cherish a prayer experience my son Gil shared with me years ago. He was struggling to get into medical school, frightened, anxious, and he walked to the ocean where he realized, with a surge of joy, “That ocean will be here whether I get into medical school or not.” So, I come out believing, “When you pray, trust.” If you bother to pray as you enter the fog, you would do well to trust. Trust that there is in the fog something for you. Trust that even the wrong decision may have benefits. Trust, “this, too will pass.” Trust the fog, recognizing that your anxiety might seem minor in a hundred years, or fifty, or next week. And remember that trusting the fog in prayer does not mean that because you pray for your ailing Uncle Jimmy to live, he will live; trust means believing that you and Uncle Jimmy both can gain something from the experience of your prayer whether he lives or dies. Trust will not make evil go away when we face the fogs that
become a Holocaust or The ultimate words of trust for me are those in your order of service, from Patrick Overton, When we come to the
edge of all the light we have, And we step into the darkness, the unknown, We will find something
solid we can stand upon, Or I believe we will surely learn to fly. Learn to trust the fog. Have faith in the unknown. It is a rich resource. Once upon a time in the days of King Louis of France, the one who was putting lots of people to death, a doomed man pleaded with the king and offered that if the king would let him live for one year, he would teach the king’s horse to talk. The king agreed, and the man went off to share his joy with his friends. But they scoffed – stuck in their observatories I might say. They said, “You can’t teach the King’s horse to talk!” “Ah, my friends, in a year’s time, the king may die, I may die, or the horse may talk!” As religious liberals it may be especially hard for us to acknowledge the fog beyond our incredible human powers. But we also have great skills and powers in preparing for misty unknown. And we give ourselves a gift as we move toward trusting that which is beyond us. Trust the fog. Trust yourself in the fog. You may learn to fly, the horse may talk, the ocean will still be here, you can never tell, the gated community may open its doors to you, even death can show you new faces, perhaps your own. Back in
Closing Words: My friends, There are rich gifts waiting for us They are ready, buried, in each new experience. May we find them.
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