Doing Church: Sunday Morning, and Saturday Night

I have to tell you, I came to the First Religious Society wondering how my particular faith and practice would fly here. Some of my fellow students at Episcopal Divinity School had told me they thought I sounded more like an Episcopalian that a UU. In my learning goal I wrote, "I want to explore my own beliefs and issues regarding faith, religion, and ministry, and how they are or are not compatible with the concerns and needs of a UU congregation." I wondered if I could talk with you about God, about my prayer life, about the liberating gospel I've discovered at a liberal Christian seminary. The first week I participated in worship, Harold asked me to lead the prayer. "It's OK to say 'God' here," he told me. So I was a little dismayed when, at the picnic following the service, two church members approached me to share their concerns about the prayer and its God-language. If I had a bit of a theological chip on my shoulder, they didn't waste any time in noticing it. But we had a good conversation, which helped me to see they were not so much against me naming God, as they were worried about who this God was. I remembered times when I've felt the same way, when I've wondered, is this God you're talking about a liberating God, or that oppressive God I grew up with? I was reminded once again that our perspectives and experiences are often so different, that we have so much to learn from one another, and I appreciate that these folks took the initiative to start that conversation.

I shared Kathleen Norris' story of her Presbyterian church in South Dakota with you as our reading today because it reminds me of what is particularly good about this church. She describes a community with deep roots, which is what I have found here. I think of many ways I've been a part of this community over the past nine months: Sunday morning worship, committee meetings, potluck dinners and coffee hours, adult ed. classes and young church worship, my weekly supervision meetings with Harold, and my conversations with many of you. But one particular event in my mind stands out, because it showed me a side of this church that surprised and moved me, and I wonder if any of you could guess which event I'm thinking of. The title of my sermon, "Doing Church: Sunday Morning, and Saturday Night," offers a clue. I'm thinking of something that happened on a Saturday night. But that could be a number of things--circle dinners, the auction, the partner church potluck, the midwinter party.

The event I'm thinking of, the Variety Show, formerly known as the Talent Show, happened on a night in March, just a few days before the war in Iraq began. Standing at the edge of the audience, upstairs in the Parish Hall, I felt like I could be a filmmaker, because everywhere I looked I saw vignettes that seemed important, or profound, or beautiful. I saw sleepy children in their parents' laps, and older folks sitting next to teenagers. I saw couples holding hands and tapping their feet to the music, and I saw a number of people wiping tears from their eyes after the cherub choir sang. Though there was little, if anything, in the Variety Show that was expressly religious or spiritual, I found it to be a profoundly moving experience. I saw people gathered together for the joy of it, and I sensed that there was more to this community than I had assumed. I felt this church in a new way.

This year you have shown me that "doing church" happens on Saturday night as well as on Sunday morning. Of course I knew that on some level already, but I need to be reminded that drawing a line between the sacred and the secular creates a false and unhelpful dichotomy. The Variety Show was an example of Alice Walker's theology in action: "Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. And I think all the other folks did too. They come to church to share God, not find God." That sharing is what I saw at the Variety show.

So I celebrate the ties that bind this community together. But I also want to challenge you not to be too comfortable with things as they are. Last fall, Minister Emeritus Bert Steeves preached a sermon titled "Religion is Not Always Comfortable." When I heard that, I wanted to shout, "Amen," because that is a sermon I think we need to hear. We need a community in which we feel comfortable enough, safe enough, but not so comfortable that we are complacent. Religion, if it is doing its job, should also be making us uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with injustice and oppression, uncomfortable with poverty and environmental degradation, uncomfortable with the part we play in maintaining the status quo. The old adage about religion, that it should comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable, still applies.

This year, you have been very nice to me, and I appreciate that. This church is a very civil place, and I treasure civility in a society in which it is increasingly in short supply. But I've also noticed here some tendency to avoid conflict. I'm not particularly fond of conflict myself. I grew up hearing "If you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all." But I've learned the hard way that there is a cost that comes with avoiding conflict. Now I'm trying to be real, to be truthful, to be authentic, instead of just being nice. This inevitably involves some dissonance, some discomfort. It's also a lot more fun. I think of the church as a place where we should feel safe enough to risk being who we really are, where we both support each other and challenge each other.

This is what the church is made for. I'm not very interested in a private spirituality. Certainly the spiritual path is at times traveled alone, and solitude has much to recommend it, but we need each other. I'm convinced we won't accomplish much, and we're more likely to lose our way, if we go it alone. So I ask you, what are your hopes and dreams for this church? What is your vision of what it might become, and what part are you going to play in that?

When I chose to attend Episcopal Divinity School it was because I wanted to be a part of what I sensed was a vibrant, challenging, and caring community that tried hard to practice what it preached. Several years ago the dean at EDS declared our campus to be "a fear-free zone," where all were encouraged to voice their questions, doubts, and spiritual concerns, without shame or fear. Is the First Religious Society such a place? Is Unitarian Universalism? If not, what do we need to do to make this church, and this denomination, "fear-free zones?"

A popular expression at my school is "both/and." We are challenged to see things as "both/and" rather than "either/or". And this is, I believe, good theology. The quote from E.B. White at the top of the order of service illustrates a great tension in life: "I arise in the morning torn between a desire to save the world and a desire to savor the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." Both/and thinking keeps us in the tension between saving and savoring. A healthy life, an effective life, certainly involves both activities. A healthy congregation is one that enjoys itself, that savors the community of potluck suppers and variety shows and candlelight Christmas services, one that enjoys both laughter and tears in worship. And a healthy congregation is one that is about saving the world--reaching out to strangers in our midst, being active in the community, taking a stand for justice, inspiring people put their faith into action. The poet Marge Piercy articulates such a lived-out faith:

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water-buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I'm convinced we do our part in bringing about this time by doing our own work. And I think there is no more important work for us to do than the work of becoming who we were born to be. For some of us this is more difficult than for others! But I'm convinced we can't do this alone. Elaine Prevallet, a Roman Catholic nun, says "We need a community . . . to help us recognize that our own individual gift--who I am--is for something, has a unique role to play, a contribution to make. We need them to help us name the gift and find its place within a frame; we need them to keep us accountable and honest and steady in a culture geared toward constant change. The pull of individualism is so strong that we cannot afford to go it alone. We have to find or create communities--containers--if we are to be faithful to God's call."

I'm struck by the fact that we Unitarian Universalists, who encompass a wide range of theological beliefs, often keep them to ourselves. I believe this is an issue not just here at the First Religious Society, but across the denomination. What are we afraid of? If I am a Christian and you are a Pagan, if I am in the habit of using the word God and you get nervous when that name is mentioned, can we still talk to each other? For a non-creedal church that encourages each individual's search for truth and meaning, we don't share with each other much about our particular beliefs. I know it feels risky to articulate our faith. But we claim to be a church that accepts people where they are on their spiritual journey. We say that we affirm those who see things differently. But when we act as if we have a policy of "don't ask, don't tell," we all miss out. We need to work to make the church a safe and affirming place for exploring our theological and spiritual differences. I see our pluralistic faith as a great experiment in whether people of different beliefs can find common ground. One of the most important things I've learned in seminary is an awareness of how my my particular context affects how I see the world. My theology is affected by the fact that I am a white man who grew up in an upper middle-class family that attended an Episcopal church. Your social location is bound to be different. But we often deny our differences, as if doing so will make them go away. We're really all the same, aren't we? No, we're not! Denying our differences only tends to make some folks, usually the more marginalized ones, feel invisible. If I am straight and you are gay, if I am young and you are old, if I'm a man and you're a woman, I shouldn't assume I know what your life is like.

At a converstaion recently at a circle dinner,I made the mistake of assuming that the hosts agreed with my political views. Another guest, who didn't make that assumption, asked what our hosts thought about the issue, which happened to be the war in Iraq. I'm grateful that he had the presence of mind to say, "I don't assume that you agree with me. What do you think?" That night we didn't all agree. We did listen to each other. We had a good discussion and a great time together.

My idea of church is not a place where we all agree, or even where we all are okay all the time, but a place where we bring our hopes and our fears, our strengths and our shortcomings, and we share them--we share ourselves--with each other. I believe in church. I believe that faith communities like this one have the power to transform lives. And I believe that an empowering, transformative community does create positive change in the world.

When my wife Tracey and I were married, near the end of the ceremony the minister said a prayer that continues to guide my life. His blessing included these words: "Give them such fulfillment of their mutual affection that they may reach out in love and concern for others." Of course we don't do this perfectly. We don't always love each other wholeheartedly, and we aren't always able to reach out to others. But we try. And that is my prayer for you, as individuals, and as a church community. May you feel loved enough, safe enough, fulfilled enough, that you can do nothing else but reach out in love and concern for others. May you feel secure enough that you can then take a risk for love. May you feel strong enough, that you will reach out in love not only for your friends, but to strangers in our midst, and even to your enemies. May you have courage enough to face what your fear.

I want to end by saying thank you for sharing yourselves and your community with me this year. I particularly want to thank Harold for being my mentor, and for the collegial way he has shared his wisdom and experience with me. You've all taught me so much. You've affirmed some of my gifts, and you've helped me to see more clearly ways I need to grow. You've shown me a lot of things, not the least of which is that church happens on Saturday night as well as on Sunday morning. It's hard for me to say goodbye to you, and I feel a real sadness that my time with you is coming to an end. I will miss you a lot. I will come back to visit, but I suspect it won't be the same.

Looking back on the time I've spent with you, I think of our reading this morning, of the description of the congregation gathered in that small town church in South Dakota: "When the minister finally got to say his "Let us pray," we were ready. We had been praying, all along. We had been being ourselves before God."

That's what I have seen you doing this year, being yourselves before God. Thank you for sharing your church and yourselves with me, and God bless you.

Amen.

Frank Clarkson