A BOUNTY OF PEOPLE

a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jenen
at the First Parish Church in Portland, Maine
Sunday September 30th, 2007

READING: “A Bounty of People” by Rev. Max Coots, minister emeritus of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Canton, New York

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people.

For children who are our second planting, and though they grow like weeds and the wind too soon blows them away, may they forgive us our cultivation and fondly remember where their roots are.

Let us give thanks;

For generous friends...with hearts...and smiles as bright as their blossoms;

For feisty friends, as tart as apples;

For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers, keep reminding us that we've had them;

For crotchety friends, sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;

For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and as elegant as a row of corn, and the others, as plain as potatoes and so good for you;

For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels sprouts and as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes;

And serious friends as unpretentious as cabbages, as subtle as summer squash, as persistent as parsley, as delightful as dill, as endless as zucchini and who, like parsnips, can be counted on to see you through the winter;

For old friends, nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time, and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;

For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils and hold us, despite our blights, wilts and witherings;

And finally, for those friends now gone, like gardens past that have been harvested, but who fed us in their times that we might have life thereafter.

For all these we give thanks.

***

I was visiting the other day with Jill Saxby, who I’m sure many of you remember from the days when she was the assistant minister here a decade ago, and who is now the Executive Director of the Maine Council of Churches (so I guess she’s done alright for herself); and she was telling me about this amazing garden she’d planted at her home on Cape Elizabeth, just about the same time she started working at First Parish. That garden, she told me, “is always good for a sermon.” When she first planted it she preached about faith and seeds, and what it is like to bury something in the ground without really being sure of what (if anything) is going to come up, but trusting that something good would eventually grow from her efforts. And then later she said that she would preach about how important it is to water and cultivate a garden in order to keep it healthy and thriving, and then still later about how much harder the work became, once the garden had become a little overgrown from neglect, to go back and do all the weeding and pruning and transplanting of some plants from one part of the garden to another in order to make it all thrive again.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there listening to this, and remembering back to all of the back-breaking labor I did as a kid in my grandmother’s garden, and I’m thinking “This is really a pretty amazing garden, that grows sermons in all seasons.” Here, I’ve been following Fred Lipp’s advice, and wandering all up and down the peninsula looking for sermons lying around out in the street, or sometimes even pulling an old one out of the big barrel of them I brought with me (and sniffing it to see whether it’s still fresh)...while Jill’s got ‘em growing (as perennials no less) right in her own back yard!

And of course, this whole metaphor of “ministry as gardening” naturally reminded me of the piece by Max Coots that I read a little earlier. We call our newsletter here at First Parish “Stone Soup” not only because we all bring what we can in order to create this shared culinary delight we think of as “church,” but also because we all bring something a little different, which is what makes it truly interesting and delightful.

My conversation with Jill also reminded me of another, similar metaphor I stumbled across while researching my doctoral dissertation, which I discovered in Harvard Divinity School professor Henry Ware Jr’s best-selling 19th century Unitarian devotional manual On the Formation of the Christian Character. Ware was addressing a concern someone had shared with him that “everything they hear from the pulpit slips from their minds, even if it have highly motivated and delighted them” at the time. “To such,” Ware responded, “it may be well to recommend the reply of John Newton to one who came to him sorrowing with the same complaint. You forget, said he, what was preached to you. So, too, you forget upon what food you dined a week or a month ago; yet you are none the less sure that your received nourishment from it: and no doubt, also, that your spiritual food nourished you, though you have forgotten in what it consisted. So long as you received it with pleasure and a healthy digestion, and it has kept you a living and growing soul, it can be of no consequence whether you can particularly remember it or not.”

This notion of worship as a form of nourishment, by which we grow and cultivate our own souls, has over the years become a very important part of my understanding of everything we are trying to do here. It harkens back to an earlier understanding of Worship as Sacrifice -- not in the narrow sense of giving something up, but rather in that broader sense I spoke of last week of “making sacred.” In the appropriate season, either in connection with a local cultural festival, or perhaps for some sort of private ceremonial devotion, the people would gather at the temple or some other sacred place, slaughter an animal -- and then, in either gratitude or atonement, offer up a token portion to the relevant God or gods. And afterwards the worshippers themselves would all hang around and partake of the rest of the feast...which (as you may have already figured out) is where the word “festival” comes from in the first place.

And of course, you can’t really appreciate a good feast without an occasional fast as well -- a period of time when the worshippers would refrain from eating, and devote themselves instead to less celebratory acts of devotion like prayer and lamentation, or perhaps even study and mediation. But congregational worship as we know it today was really pretty much a Jewish invention, which grew out of the historical importance in that faith tradition of studying the Torah. The roots of this style of worship (whose offshoots are easily recognizable right here in our worship service today) consisted of various prayers and the singing of hymns or psalms, along with a public reading from Scripture, followed by a sermon in which a “scholar” (who, since all the adult males were expected to study the Scripture daily, could basically be anyone who had done their homework...) interpreted and explained the meaning and practical applications of the sacred text. These sermons intended for everyone... women and children as well as men, and the word Rabbi so familiar to us today was originally merely an honorific title: “Teacher,” meaning somebody who was worth listening to.

Most Christian worship, beginning with the Catholic Mass, is basically just a variation on this same theme: this familiar “liturgy of the word” combined with a ritualistic meal, the Eucharist (which became for our reform-minded Puritan forebearers simply “the Lord’s Supper.”) Young Ralph Waldo Emerson (one of Henry Ware Jr’s protégés, as well as his hand-picked assistant and eventual successor at the Second Church in Boston) left the ministry ostensibly because he objected to celebrating the Lord’s Supper, although he certainly had no objection to preaching, and (like his mentor) compared the sermon to a form of sustenance. “The true preacher can be known by this,” Emerson told Harvard’s graduating class of Divinity Students in 1838 -- “that he deals out to the people his life...life passed through the fire of thought.” Not life raw and half-baked, but rather life well-done...or at the very least medium rare....

Nowadays people basically come to church for as many different reasons as there are people themselves, and there are certainly plenty of different options out there from which to chose. But in a more general sense, we all still come for the same reason: to be nourished and nurtured, to cultivate the seeds we have planted in our own lives, to tend them and water them and watch them grow (and perhaps eventually even see them bloom), and to know that our lives make a difference, and that through our living we are helping to make the world a better place.

Which brings us to a very obvious question (although perhaps not the question you immediately thought of). We already know WHY we are here (or at least here in this church); now the question that really matters is HOW. How can we make certain that OUR church lives up to everything that it promises? Or at the very least, how can you make certain that this church meets your expectations, so that you receive from your participation here at First Parish everything that you hoped to when you first walked through those red doors.

The Good News is that the answer to this question isn’t nearly as complicated as you might fear, although it does come in several parts. And the first part is “Just Show Up.” As with everything else in life, most people get out of their experience of church just about exactly what they are willing to put into it, and about 80% of that is just showing up. Because when you stop to think about it, “going to church” isn’t so much an activity as it is a relationship. And like any relationship it pretty much requires that both parties be present and involved if it’s really going to work out. We’re here every Sunday whether you are or not. But it’s only when you are here that you are able to participate fully in what we are trying to do together.

Which brings me to the second thing, and that is the importance of learning to Think of this church as your spiritual home, and think of yourself as part of the “we.” It’s just a small, psychological thing, I know, but it makes a huge difference. I was first taught this trick by a mentor of mine, who understood that by nature I am pretty much a shy, introspective bookworm, and wanted to help me overcome that sense of awkward intimidation I often (still) feel in large, unstructured social situations (like the coffee hour). “Just pretend like it’s your house and that you’re the host of the party,” he told me. “And that way you’ll never have to worry about someone tapping you on the shoulder and telling you that you don’t fit in, and that you really ought to go back home where you belong.”

And you know, it really works. I’m still not exactly a party animal. And I still feel a little awkward going to parties in homes I know I would never be able to afford in a million years (although, I must admit, once I’m there I generally have a pretty good time). But before I meander too far off the topic, I simply want to reassure each and every one of you here today that this really is your church, if you want it to be. You DO belong here. So make yourself at home.

The third thing is so obvious that it scarcely bears mentioning, and since we are going to be talking an awful lot about it anyway in the next few weeks, I’m not going to say too much now. But once you’ve decided that this really is your church, you also need to Support its Mission and its Ministry generously, in a manner appropriate to your own personal circumstances and financial means. There are lots more things we could be doing as a faith community if only we could figure out a way to pay for them. And it really does take the generous contributions of each and every one of us to make those dreams a reality.

The fourth thing you really need to do in order to get the most out of your relationship with this church is to Find yourself a “Fellowship Circle.” And this can actually be kind of tricky, because although they are everywhere around here, they aren’t really very well labeled. But to my way of thinking, the best example of a fellowship circle is the choir. As far as I can tell, nobody has more fun in a church than the choir. For starters, they all have a shared love of music, and they get together twice a week for just that reason: once to rehearse, and once to perform. They all get to know one another on a first name basis, and over time they get to know a quite a bit about one another’s lives as well. They take care of one another when one of them is having a rough time, and they also celebrate together when good things happen. The choir is an almost perfect fellowship circle. The only drawback is that in order to be a member of the choir, you really do need to know how to sing. And it is a pretty big commitment too, because the rest of the choir really is depending on you to show up pretty much every week.

But fortunately for the rest of us, the choir is only one of many potential fellowship circles in a church like First Parish. There are plenty of other opportunities where a person can find a half-dozen or so good friends who know you by name, and who you see regularly, and with whom you can talk openly and honestly about “matters of ultimate concern.”

If you’re relatively new to the church, you might try participating in one of our Small Group Ministries -- either by joining a Covenant Group, or else finding (or even starting) some sort of Affinity group based on an interest you share with others in the congregation. Or you might sign up for one (or more) of our Life Long Learning classes, or simply start attending more church pot-lucks, or signing up for the Circle Suppers. If you have children in our Religious Education program, you might want to get to know the other parents whose children also attend our Sunday School; or if you have an interest in Social Justice, maybe Faith in Action is where you belong.

And, of course, if you can carry a tune, you can always try out for the choir. You may never be able to rival Luciano Pavarotti -- but I promise you this, after a few months of rehearsing with this bunch you’ll be a much better singer than you were when you started.

This brings me to the fifth thing, which in some ways is closely related to the fourth. Because in addition to finding your “fellowship circle” here at First Parish, you also need to think about how to Find and Define your own “Ministry” here. This is something I learned from Rebecca Parker, who before she became the President of the Starr King School for Ministry in Berkeley, was a Methodist minister serving a medium-sized church in Seattle, and also just so happened to be the girlfriend of the choir director at University Unitarian (where I was the intern minister).

But one day it occurred to Rebecca that rather than constantly trying to find enough people to do all of the various volunteer jobs there are to do around a church of any size, she would turn that paradigm on its head, and try instead to find a meaningful job for every person in the church. And I can remember her saying how excited she was when one year the chair of the Nominating Committee came to her and said “I’m afraid we may not be able to come up with enough jobs this year for all the people who want one.”

Meaningful participation in a faith community is ultimately about Shared Ministry: about discovering your own particular calling for service to others, and cultivating it until it grows into something that feeds you spiritually on a daily basis. When I was in Denmark, one of the things I noticed was that in many of the churches there, especially out in the countryside, I would often see hanging in the center of the nave (just about where our cannonball is here) a small model of a square-rigged sailing ship. And when I asked about this, I was told that these model ships are basically a metaphor for the church itself: and that while we are all essentially in the same boat, some of us are merely passengers, while others are members of the crew.

Being a passenger is great when it’s all just smooth sailing. But when the weather gets rough, it’s nice to know that we can count on one another to help sail the ship, or at the very least to not cause more problems by falling overboard ourselves. When I was learning how to sail, one of the first rules I was taught is “one hand for the boat, one hand for yourself.” And of course, the more experience I gained as a sailor, the more comfortable I felt taking on additional responsibilities.

But if you just look around the room here, you’ll notice that there are all sorts of people doing all kinds of tasks that make it possible for us to hold these services every week. There are greeters and ushers and a lay worship leader, the coffee hour hosts and the people who set up the flowers, the people who run the microphones; and of course our Sunday School teachers and Sunday School assistants. And the Choir....

And that’s just Sunday morning. We also need Small Group Ministry facilitators, and Pastoral Care Associates, Faith in Action volunteers, Life Long Learning instructors, and of course volunteers to serve as part of our Leadership Team or as members of the various Program Councils. If you’re good with your hands, I’m sure the Buildings and Grounds people can find a place for you. If you’re good with words, maybe you can help with the newsletter or the website.

The point is, to find something that you like, that you are potentially really good at, and that will allow you to make a meaningful difference in other people’s lives. Frankly, that’s how I ended up way up here, simply by having the foresight to ask myself those three little questions when I was nineteen years old. But we all need to ask ourselves those same questions on a regular basis, so that our particular ministry to others might continue to change and grow as we ourselves change and grow. Because shared ministry, broadly defined, is what makes us members of the crew rather than merely passengers and bystanders, as well as one of the basic activities that gives our lives meaning and value and purpose as active participants in a community of faith.

And I want to make it clear that these don’t necessarily need to require huge commitments of time and effort in order to make a real difference. Most folks, I suspect, should be thinking about something that they can reasonably expect to accomplish in as few as three to five hours per month. Some of you, I know, work considerably more than that...perhaps even more than 3-5 hours/week. You are the people I probably already know by name. And there are even a handful of people whose ministry here at First Parish essentially amounts to an unpaid part-time job.

But I want to make it clear to everyone that ALL of your ministries, large and small, are important to the health and vitality of this congregation. And I also want to warn you that the days when congregations could pretty much rely on the commitment of a handful of “professional volunteers” to staff their programs and perform other essential work around the church are rapidly coming to an end in this era of two-career couples and single-member households.

When my mother was born, my grandmother (who had been working as a public schoolteacher), quit her job in order to stay home as a full-time mom. And then in her "spare" time, she became the volunteer Sunday School Superintendent at the Methodist Church which she attended there in the neighborhood. When she left that post to retire to Camano Island, the church had to hire...not one, not two, but three new staff members to take over the responsibilities my grandmother had handled as a volunteer.

And that was over fifty years ago now. It was a different time, and a different generation. Nowadays, especially if we hope to minister effectively to the needs of working families, it is going to take all of us doing what we can, and working together in an efficient and collaborative way. And if there are some jobs that we just can’t seem to find anyone willing to do, it generally means one of two things. Either the job has gotten too big to be done by a volunteer, and we need to either break it into smaller ones or hire additional staff to do it for us; or perhaps it’s merely a job that doesn’t NEED to be done anymore, and we should allow it to wither gracefully on the vine.

And this brings me to the final and most important thing I want to say this morning, which is that in everything we endeavor to do together here at First Parish, it is essential that we Have Fun. In my opinion, having fun is the sine qua non of our Unitarian Universalist faith tradition, a wonderful Latin phrase which means, literally, “without this, nothing.” I know that for some it might seem a little irreverent, given the gravity of our mission (especially in its justice-making aspects), that I should characterize “having fun” as the one essential element that gives our work meaning. But the truth of the matter is that without a little levity, without the ability to take ourselves lightly as well as seriously, we will never be able to get the heavy stuff off the ground. Having fun together is one of the essential ways that we feed ourselves in order to be capable of undertaking the more burdensome tasks we see all around us. And when we are able to bring that sense of joy and camaraderie to those tasks, somehow the burden becomes much easier than we first had feared.

So there you have it, an easy recipe for getting the most out of your participation in this “Community of Memory and Hope,” all spelled out in six easy steps. Show up as often as you can, and make yourself at home. Contribute as generously as you feel you can afford to supporting the work, the wonder, and the witness of this church and its ministry as a whole. Find and cultivate a circle of friends with whom you can talk openly and honestly about the things that matter most (it won’t be hard; they’re sitting all around you), and then find a job or role or task that you can do well, that you enjoy doing, and that makes a difference in the lives of other people. And above all, have fun while you do it. And if you do these six simple things, you will leave this place every Sunday feeling like you have indeed been well-nourished, and knowing that you got your money’s worth....

IS IT EVER TOO LATE TO ATONE?

a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Parish Church in Portland, Maine
Sunday September 23rd, 2007


READING - “First they came...” by Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892-1984)

I want to say just a little about the reading that I’ve chosen for today. As I was researching this, I discovered at least a half-dozen different versions of this text, none of which were exactly the same. The version engraved on the New England Holocaust Memorial in Boston, for example, is a little different from the one at the National Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, which in turn varies from the most popular English version (which has been cast in the form of a poem, and frequently reproduced on posters, tee shirts, coffee mugs and the like), which is also different from the version printed by Time magazine in 1989, or the version which appeared in the Congressional Record in 1968.

When Niemöller’s words first started to become widely known in the United States back in the 1950’s, the Communists he mentioned were somehow miraculously transubstantiated into “Socialists,” since at the time Joe McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover were busy rounding up Communists themselves right here in America. Likewise, there is a passage which frequently appears in Niemöller’s original manuscripts about the mentally ill, “the sick, the so-called incurables” which rarely is found in English translations.

And my favorite variation actually has nothing to do with Niemöller’s original speeches, but rather was inspired by allegations made by the Reverend Jerry Falwell back in 1999 regarding the ambiguous sexual identity of a character on a BBC children’s program being widely aired on PBS here in the US, because he had purple fur, a triangle on top of his head, and carried a purse (otherwise known as a “magic bag”). Within a few weeks it was all over the internet: “First they came for Tinky Winky, but I remained silent, because I wasn’t a Teletubby. Then they came for Bert and Ernie...” and on it went from there....

But the truth is, there is no “authoritative” version of Niemöller’s original words. What we are witnessing instead is an excellent example of the natural process by which “oral tradition” gradually becomes written down, and thus canonized as “Scripture.” Niemöller’s original words were part of what might be thought of as a “set piece” -- language he often repeated in sermons and other speeches throughout his career, often in a slightly different form depending upon his audience and the particular context. In time, others picked up on what he had said, cleaned it up a little and gave it a fresh coat of polish, and maybe even a little twist (today we might say “spin”) so that the text might better reflect the perspective and opinions of the editor. And before you know it, the words themselves take on an authority all their own, and the actual language of the original author becomes lost in obscurity.

And yet there is a greater principle illustrated in this process as well. We would do well to remember that something isn’t necessarily true simply because “it is written.” Rather, the reason it was written down at all is because somebody, somewhere, once thought that it was true. And whatever truth that statement may contain would still be true regardless of who originally said it, or wherever it was we may have happened to read it first ourselves.

And on that note...

Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Kommunist.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten,
habe ich nicht protestiert;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

Als sie die Juden holten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Jude.

Als sie mich holten,
gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte

[When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I wasn't a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.]


***

I heard a story the other day about a nine-year-old boy who prayed, faithfully, every night for six months that God would give him a bicycle for his birthday. The birthday came and went with no bike, so the little boy went to the minister of his church to find out why God hadn’t answered his prayers.

“But that’s not the way God works,” the minister explained. “God’s gift to us when we pray is that He forgives our sins. Do you understand the difference between praying for forgiveness, and praying for a bicycle?”

“I think so,” said the little boy. And on his way back home, he stole the minister’s kid's bike....


We don’t generally talk that much about “sin” here in the Unitarian church, but I do want to say a little something about it this morning, because if I don’t my main topic of “Atonement” isn’t going to make much sense. There’s a tendency in our culture, I think, to think of sins mainly as something that we do. There are big sins, the Top Ten (like Murder and Adultery, which I like to think of as “Presidential” sins); and then there are a bunch of smaller ones, like drinking and smoking, swearing, dancing, and playing cards...all of which are apparently equally offensive to God, Who in His Infinite Wisdom (or at least many of us were told this when we were children) punishes people for their sins by sending them to Hell for all Eternity.

But this explanation of sin really misses the mark on a lot of different levels. In both Hebrew and Greek, the word for “sin” means literally “to be off target” -- to be misguided or misdirected, to be aiming in the wrong direction. In the statement of faith prepared by the United Church of Christ at the time of their merger with the Evangelical and Reformed Churches in the late 1950’s, they used the word “aimlessness” to characterize the state of sin, an anomie which a faithful trust in God corrects by giving our lives their proper focus and purpose and direction again.

This is also why the 19th century Universalists could argue that there was no hell, and that sin itself was its own worst punishment, because it leads us astray from the path that leads to the fulfillment of our true potential as spiritual beings; and that ultimately All Souls shall grow into Harmony with the Divine, because God (thank God) is a whole lot better (and wiser and kinder and more patient and forgiving) than we are.

Likewise, the word “repentance” means literally “to turn around” -- and specifically to change or transform our minds: metanoia, just as “metamorphosis” means a change of shape. And the etymology of the word “atonement” is obvious on its face. “At-One-Ment” -- to be in accord, to be of one mind.

Of course, in many religious traditions this process of reconciliation often times also requires an act of Sacrifice -- a word which (again - I hope all these etymologies aren’t becoming too tedious) means literally “to make sacred” -- in effect, giving up something that is valuable to us in order to acknowledge our gratitude for something even more valuable. And within traditional Christian theology, this language of “repentance,” “sacrifice” and “atonement” eventually led to a doctrine known as the “vicarious” or Subsitutionary Atonement -- sometimes referred to simply as “the Ransom Theory.” According to this theology, God provides the atoning sacrifice himself by allowing his son to be crucified (that is, sacrificed) on our behalf. It’s a very subtle and sophisticated idea, which in the hands of televangelists has become almost incomprehensible.

But there is an earlier and even simpler doctrine known as the “Exemplary” Atonement, which basically suggests that it is the example of Jesus’s own faithfulness in the face of death, like that of Socrates (who likewise faced his unjust execution with a similar unwavering courage and confidence in the truth of his principles), which has the power to transform our minds, and turn our lives around. A very human Jesus teaches us the power of devotion, fidelity and sacrifice by both precept and example, both word and deed, inspiring others to go and do likewise...and Western Civilization has never been the same.

There’s just one more big idea I want to run by you here this morning, and this is the notion of “collective” sin, along with the question: “How can we, as individuals, atone for the sins of our culture?” Last week I suggested that a certain amount of Xenophobia has probably been hardwired by evolution right into the very architecture of our brains themselves. But as individuals, we each have the ability to resist this instinctive suspicion of (and even hostility toward) strangers, and to practice instead an ethic of tolerance and hospitality, leading eventually to greater mutual understanding and even mutual respect: a very practical and palpable form of “atonement.”

But when the primitive and collective prejudices of an entire culture are combined with the awesome, impersonal power of modern industrial technology, the result is typically a lot less benign, and often even some form of genocide. We saw this most vividly in the Nazi holocaust of the Second World War, but sadly this is only the most overwhelming and obviously evil example of an increasingly pervasive and widespread phenomenon. Our Weapons of Mass Destruction have become so powerful that even a single “loose nuke” in the hands of one of the many marginalized and fanatical groups of people who share this planet potentially makes them capable of murdering millions of souls in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, it is increasingly obvious that the industrial civilization which created these terrifying weapons in the first place is also in danger of extinguishing itself and everything else on the planet, simply as a result of its own unrestrained excess. “This is the way the world ends,” the poet T.S. Eliot observed nearly a century ago now. “Not with a bang, but a whimper.” But more to the point, how do we now turn ourselves around from this misguided path of self-destruction? How do we “transform our minds,” and get ourselves back on target again?

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the Jewish “Day of Atonement” which completes the eight-day period following the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, known as the “Days of Awe” -- a time which (with the possible exception of Passover), is the most solemn and sacred season of the Jewish calendar. Yet observant Jews also understand that these eight days are simple one component of a much longer season of repentance and reconciliation, which began a month earlier, in the Jewish Lunar month of Elul, and continues on next week with the festival of Sukkoth or “booths” -- a sort of Jewish Thanksgiving when families build temporary outdoor huts in which to eat their meals, in order to remind themselves of the forty years their ancestors spent wandering in the Wilderness of Sinai; and also perform acts of charity, to express their gratitude for the blessing of a bountiful harvest.

In her commentary of the 27th Psalm (a Psalm which is often read during the month of Elul leading up to the High Holy Days themselves), Rabbi Amy Scheinerman observes that Atonement is best understood as the final stage of Repentance, during which individuals at last become reconciled to those from whom they have been estranged, at the completion of a much more extensive process of introspective self-examination and reflection.

The process begins by accepting Responsibility: by letting go of the temptation to judge and blame others for our disappointments in life, and instead looking within ourselves in order to identify possible sources of misguided thought which have led us astray. Let's face it, none of us is perfect. And we can always find someone else to point the finger at in order to explain away our failings. But what's the point of that? At least if we are willing to try to see ourselves honestly, and to take responsibility for own failures and shortcomings, we also potentially become empowered to overcome those failings, and in turn take full advantage of this magnificent opportunity we have been given by the Universe, which is the gift of life itself.

The next step is one of expressing our Regret. When I was younger, I often used to wonder which is ultimately more regrettable: the things we do and wish we hadn’t, or the things we didn’t do, and wish we had. But now that I’m older this is pretty much a no-brainer. Yes, it’s true that there are always dramatic exceptions that prove the rule, that sometimes people do truly horrible things they later regret profoundly because of the terrible impact their actions have had on their own lives and the lives of others. But human beings are also remarkably resilient creatures; while over time, the cumulative regret of the things we wish we had done but will now never get a chance to do again can begin to feel almost overwhelming. And these regrets are not just your traditional “sins of omission.” In a sense, they are a profound expression of grief over the reality of our own mortality itself, and the desire to make more of our lives than we have. Which is also why the expression of Regret also sometimes manifests itself in the resolution to have “no regrets” -- in other words, to live one’s life in the here and now as fully and courageously as possible.

The third step is one of Rejection -- which might be thought of as “repentance” in the most literal sense: to turn away from attitudes and behaviors which have led us astray in the past, and literally “transform our minds” so that we see the world from a different perspective, and can proceed in a new direction. And this brings us at last to the step of Resolution, which includes both acts of Restitution, or making amends for our past faults, and also the act of Reconciliation itself, in which we attempt to repair relationships which have been damaged or broken, and become “at one” with those from whom we were estranged.

It's in this connection that I want to talk about the Jewish concept of Tikkun Olam, a Hebrew phrase which means Repairing (or Restoring or Perfecting) the World. In the Mishnah, Tikkun Olam was often used as a justification for rules or practices which are not really part of the Torah, but which are followed because they help to avoid bad social consequences. But the concept really took on a much wider significance in the 16th century, thanks to the Kabbalistic Rabbi Isaac Luria, who taught his followers that God created the world as a sort of vessel or mirror in order to reflect His Glory...but that the emanations of this Divine Light were so brilliant and powerful that the world was catastrophically shattered into countless shards, each of which contains or reflects a small portion of the divine spark, but which together (like the pieces of a shattered mirror) reflect back only a distorted image of God's original light. And so the purpose of human life is Tikkun Olam -- to Repair the World by bringing together and mending the broken pieces which are our individual souls, so that Creation might once more accurately reflect the glorious brilliance of its Creator.

And how is this done? In all the usual ways, of course: through study, meditation, and prayer, through the doing of Mitzvoth, or goods deeds, and more specifically through the faithful practice of Peace, Justice, and Compassion, not just on an individual, but on a societal level. We repair the world by repairing our relationships with one another and with God. We allow our lives to reflect the divine spark which illuminates all creation, then join together with other enlightened individuals in order to mend the breaks, bridge the gaps, and heal the wounds that divide and estrange us.

As I mentioned earlier, this past week Jews all over the world observed their High Holy Days, which began with Rosh Hashanah, and concluded yesterday with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement -- an all-day fast, combined with several lengthy prayer services, which actually began an hour before sunset on Friday, and ended 25 hours later with a single, long lingering note on the Shofar. Yom Kipper is specifically a day of introspection and repentance, as well as a day of reconciliation and forgiveness -- a time to make peace not only with God, but also with your neighbors, whom you have likely also sinned against over the course of the year, and from whom you should therefore also seek forgiveness. And yet as difficult (and even painful) as this may sound, the Talmud actually considers Yom Kippur a happy day, because if people have properly observed the holiday, by the time the fast ends they will feel both a great catharsis, and also a deep sense of serenity from having been restored to right relationship with both the Creator, and with everyone they know.

The task of Atonement, and the challenge of Repairing the World, are intimately connected. We begin with the optimistic enthusiasm of youth, which believes that all things are possible for those who are faithful to their vision and their values, and in the end we turn that vision on ourselves as we explore the enduring value of a single human life. There's a story told about the Hasidic master Rebbe Chaim of Tzanz, who in his old age remarked that over the course of many decades, he had first given up his youthful ambitions to change the whole world, and then later, his bold plans to transform his community and family. He was, in the end, hoping merely to better his own self somewhat before his time to leave this earth arrived. We repair the world one person at a time, beginning with our own personal efforts to heal, to be reconciled, to forgive and be forgiven.

I posed a question today in the title of my sermon: “Is It Ever Too Late to Atone?” And I hope by now it’s abundantly clear that the answer, at least in MY opinion, is “of course not.” But I’d also like to add that there’s no better time to begin than right now, in the present moment. In her Rosh Hashanah poem "Return," weblogger Rachel Barenblat, (better known as “The Velveteen Rabbi”) suggests that the only question that really matters is:

How to make it new:
each year the same missing
of the same marks,
the same petitions
and apologies.

We were impatient, unkind.
We let ego rule the day
and forgot to be thankful.
We allowed our fears
to distance us.

But every year
the ascent through Elul
does its magic,
shakes old bitterness
from our hands and hearts.

We sit awake, itemizing
ways we want to change.
We try not to mind
that this year's list
looks just like last.

The conversation gets
easier as we limber up.
Soon we can stretch farther
than we ever imagined.
We breathe deeper.

By the time we reach the top
we've forgotten
how nervous we were
that repeating the climb
wasn't worth the work.

Creation gleams before us.
The view from here matters
not because it's different
from last year
but because we are

and the way to reach God
is one breath at a time,
one step, one word,
every second a chance
to reorient, repeat, return.

NEIGHBORS AND STRANGERS ALIKE

a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Parish Church in Portland Maine
Sunday September 16, 2007


OPENING WORDS: “If you want to be successful, it’s just this simple. Know what you are doing. Love what you are doing. And believe in what you are doing.” -- Will Rogers

READING: Luke 10: 25-37

***
I wanted to say just a word about these banners hanging in the gallery, which really impressed me when I was here preaching as a candidate last spring. “Open the Windows + the Doors” “And Receive Whosoever is Sent.” I especially like the little envelope which provides the background for the word “sent,” because it reminds me of something my mother used to tell me when I was young, that if you really want to receive a letter, it’s not enough to just sit around watching the mailbox. Sometimes you need to write and mail one first yourself.

I also like these sentiments, because they reflect so well the theme that I’ve chosen for this year and for the start of my new ministry here at First Parish: “A Warm and Welcoming Place in the Heart of the City” -- which is actually (as you may recall from when I preached here last spring) a phrase I learned from all of you. And it also compliments something I heard Bill Dickinson say at the service he lead this past summer (the one that was so prominently featured on the religion page of the Portland Press Herald) -- that here at First Parish we are in the “gracious neighbor business.”

But most of all I like it because it reflects a principle -- a commandment, really -- which resides at the heart of all three of the so-called “Abrahamic” faiths of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam...and in many ways is the soul of that shared tradition of Western monotheism.

Christians know it as the “Great Commandment,” while in Judaism it is expressed throughout the Hebrew Bible, and especially in the shema of Deuteronomy 6:5 (which the Pharisee quotes to Jesus), where it is found alongside the instruction that “these words which I command you this day shall be upon your heart; and you shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. And you shall bind them as a sign upon your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes, and you shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”

And in Islam, each and every sura of the Qu’ran, as well as all of the public prayers (or at least the ones with which I am familiar), likewise begin with a similar invocation of the one Merciful and Compassionate God, in Arabic Allah.

Yet it is the second half of this Great Commandment -- in effect a paraphrase of the Golden Rule -- which both provides the foundation of the ethical reciprocity that makes authentic community possible, and also carries with it the lawyer’s unsettling question: “Who is my Neighbor?” And notwithstanding the words of Hebrews 13:2 (which I also quoted last spring) “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained Angels unawares,” or Will Rogers more folksy aphorism that “A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet,” we still teach our children not to talk to strangers, not to take candy from strangers, and certainly never to get into a car with a stranger...all very sensible rules, and (unfortunately) important ones for a very good reason. A certain degree of suspicion regarding the unfamiliar and the unknown has probably been hardwired by evolution right into the structure and function our brains, and (at least until now) has been essential to our on-going survival as a species -- even if it does sometimes cause us to be suspicious even of our own neighbors as well.

And yet as I reflect back on my own experience, I’m also struck by how routinely in my life I’ve been blessed by the kindness of strangers. Not to mention my Strange Friends...and even stranger neighbors...whose quirks and idiosyncrasies, peculiar attitudes and unconventional opinions have enriched my own perceptions of the world considerably.

And I’m likewise struck by how often the fear of appearing “strange” to our neighbors functions as a powerful instrument of social control. The simple phrase “but what will the neighbors think?’ can have a very real “chilling effect” on potentially anti-social (or even marginally bizarre) behavior, or at least it did in back in my old neighborhood.

And let us not forget those “intimate strangers” -- our spouses, our children...people we think we know so well, who still remain capable of surprising us with their depth and complexity.

And finally, there is the pain of becoming estranged from those we once loved: neighbors, friends, family, often merely by some thoughtless or unintentional slight through which we give or take offense, yet which strangely leaves us stubbornly incapable of making that first essential gesture towards reconciliation.

But within the specific context of Scripture, a stranger is a foreigner -- someone from “Away” who dwells among us, yet whose ways, language, clothing, customs are strange and unfamiliar, and whose very presence somehow challenges our own comfortable, familiar, and (dare I say?) often provincial points of view. And by the same measure, there is nothing that gives us a better perspective on our own provincialism than the experience of being strangers ourselves, by visiting (or if we’re fortunate, even living for a time in) a foreign land, and another culture.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have had experiences like this three different times in my life. In 1978, when I came at the age of 21 to begin my theological studies in Boston, it was the first time in my life that I had ever been east of Spokane Washington. Life in Boston was a pretty big culture shock for me, -- I was shocked by how dirty it was, and how rude people seemed, and how nobody really spoke to one another or even made eye contact on the streets; but by the end of three years it was even more surprising how little I noticed any of that any more, and that it was my home in Seattle that seemed strange.

Then in 1984, when I was being interviewed for what would later turn out to be my first settled pulpit in Midland, Texas, I actually told the Search Committee that the very thought of moving to Texas made me feel like I would be living as an expatriate in a foreign land...which made them all laugh out loud, since in fact Texas historically has been part of not just one foreign country, but five: a colony of Spain, a provence of Mexico (and then briefly under the sovereignty of France), its own independent Republic (I don’t think they’ve ever really gotten over that), and a member of the Confederacy, as well as now a somewhat reluctant (it often seems) part of the good old USA.

So when they did eventually call me to that pulpit, I made up my mind NOT to behave like an the “Ugly Ecotopian,” but rather to try to understand that culture according to its own standards and merits...in the hope that perhaps I would come to appreciate a little more both about it and about myself as a result. And of course, now I’m very proud of the four years I spent as the “Bishop of West Texas” (the only settled Unitarian minister between Fort Worth and El Paso, Austin and Albuquerque), while New England now feels almost like a second home.

But Texas and New England are both still technically part of the United States. In the year 2000, however, I received a very generous stipend from the Danish government to spend a semester in Europe as a visiting doctoral fellow at the School for Postgraduate Interdisciplinary Research on Interculturalism and Transnationality (more commonly known by the acronym "SPIRIT"), basically doing whatever I wanted to...probably the closest thing to a MacArthur "genius" award I'll ever see.

One of the things I was naturally very curious about was religion, and in particular the odd phenomenon that in Denmark, where the "Folkekirke" or "People's Church" is supported by tax revenues, only about 2-3% of the people themselves actually attend services on any given Sunday, whereas here in the United States, where we have a voluntary church system, church attendance typically runs between 40% and 90% (and sometimes even more, depending upon what part of the country you live in, and how many different times the same people attend church each week).

But as you might imagine, I spent an awful lot of time going to church in Denmark, and really came to enjoy the experience, despite the fact that my command of the Danish language really isn't all that great. Given a little time, I could usually puzzle out the Scriptural text in the pew Bible, or follow along the words to the hymns in the Salmebog. But the sermons were generally almost completely incomprehensible to me -- which in some ways was probably a good thing, since it left me free to make up a sermon more to my liking inside my own head; and which really didn't interfere much with my appreciation of the rest of the service either (an important, if humbling, lesson for a preacher).

But as a sojourner in a foreign land, I also gained a new appreciation for simple rituals and the familiar structure of the liturgy itself. I especially learned to appreciate kneeling at the communion rail, alongside not only the handful of aging native Danes (and occasionally their grandchildren, there to receive their first communion on Palm Sunday); but also Christians from Asia and Africa who, unlike me with my blond hair and blue eyes and Danish surname, were much more obvious strangers in Denmark, yet still brothers and sisters in the Body of Christ, sharing a symbolic meal of bread and wine.

I don't know that I ever really answered my research question to my satisfaction (although I do have my theories), and I have to admit, it really wasn't much on my mind either as I rode the train from Aalborg to Copenhagen at the crack of dawn the following Sunday morning, since the day before (also as part of my cultural research) I had attended something called a "Paaske Frokost" or "Easter Brunch" -- basically a six-hour party that began at two in the afternoon and continued until no one was left standing... herring, salmon, roast lamb, (and of course, Danish ham), potato salad, pasta salad, bean salad, deviled eggs, all lubricated with liberal quantities of Aquavit -- the "water of life" -- which really goes down quite smoothly after the second or third one, and only turns deadly the following day.

But this was going to be the only chance I would have to worship at the indigenous Danish Unitarian Church, and I wasn’t about to miss it...so I got up early and made the four hour train trip across the entire length and breadth of Denmark, walked briskly across the center of historic Copenhagen from the train station to the church, found a seat on the aisle near the back; and as I sat there alone in my pew half-listening as the preacher droned on and on incomprehensibly about some obscure intellectual topic I didn’t have a prayer of understanding, I found myself admiring the fresco in the alcove behind the chancel where the high altar would ordinarily have been.

It was a representation of a scene from the story of the Good Samaritan, and I started thinking about how appropriate that particular iconography was for a Unitarian Church -- so much more appropriate than so many other stories from the Bible that might have been chosen instead. We've all known the story of the Good Samaritan since we were children. Even if we weren't raised in the Christian tradition, it's part of our cultural lexicon. A Samaritan is someone who does good deeds, who helps others in need, even if they happen to be strangers. Especially if they happen to be strangers....

It's easy for children to miss the subtext of this story, and even for adults the actual context is often obscure. A traveler is robbed, beaten, and left for dead at the side of the road. A Priest and a Levite (which is basically just another kind of priest) see him there but pass him by...not necessarily because they are bad people, nor even because they are afraid of being attacked themselves, but perhaps simply because they assume he is already dead, and touching a corpse would leave them ritually unclean and therefore incapable of performing their religious duties.

But a Samaritan -- an outsider, an outcast -- sees the body and takes the time to investigate. He's not worried about his formal religious duties interfering with his compassion for another human being, nor is he afraid to take the risk of becoming a victim himself. Or at the very least he is willing to face that fear. And all this in the context of the one Great Commandment I spoke of earlier: "Love the Lord Your God With All Your Heart (and all your Soul and all your Strength and all your Mind), and Love Your Neighbor As Yourself." The lawyers, the Pharisees, to prove their own importance, may wish to quibble about the definition of "neighbor." But the Samaritan knows that if you happen to be in the neighborhood, whoever you see is your neighbor. Even if he happens to be a stranger, and you yourself are traveling far from home.

And then suddenly the sermon -- the Danish sermon -- was over, and the preacher was telling us all to take out our Salmeboger og Åbenet det til nummer fire hundrede fem og fyrre and soon the entire congregation was singing while I was still thumbing through the pages of the Salmebog and trying to figure out where we were in the order of service. And then after the benediction (and this was unique in my experience in Denmark) the entire congregation was invited downstairs to the parish hall, where we all sat around a long table and were served more coffee and these amazing Danish pastries -- and anyone who wanted to could say what THEY thought about the sermon, and even ask the minister what seemed to me to be pretty pointed questions about his ideas. And it was at that moment that I really KNEW that I was in a Unitarian Church, even though it was all happening in a foreign language, and I was thousands of miles away from home.

About a month later, I had a very vivid reminder of that Easter morning. I was back again in Copenhagen, this time with my mom, who was visiting me for a few weeks around Mother’s Day; and we were on our way to the train station, once again very early in the morning, when we were approached by a rather frail, elderly woman who started jabbering at me in rapid, heavily accented Danish. And I was trying to tell her that I didn't understand what she was saying, but she didn't seem to understand me either; she just kept grabbing at my arm and pointing to a nearby bus shelter, so I looked up at where she was pointing and saw...

...a Body, seated on the bench, slumped over against the glass wall, a thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face....

Well, now the conversation suddenly got very interesting. I was trying to tell this woman (in a jumble of Danish, English, French, German, Greek and Latin all at once) that she needed to call the police, but she wasn't having any of it... she'd shown the body to me, and now she had to catch her bus,"Tak skal du have" ("thank you very much") and away she went.

And there I was.

This particular bus shelter was right outside a government hospital that had recently closed due to budget cuts, so naturally, being an American, I assumed that this young man had been shot in some sort of gang-related drug deal and then dumped by his buddies outside the hospital because they didn't want to risk involvement with the authorities. I tried to rouse him, but got no response, so I went inside the hospital just to see if I could find anyone there, and eventually located a caretaker, who explained to me (in English) about the hospital being closed, and then agreed to accompany me back outside to see the body for himself.

He also tried to rouse this fellow, a little more loudly and aggressively than I had, and sure enough, the body responded... and after a brief conversation between the two of them, the caretaker assured me that the gentleman in question was merely someone who had stayed out a little too late the night before, and had fallen asleep while waiting for his bus, having fallen down and banged his head against something hard earlier in the evening... but not to worry, because [wink,wink] he was feeling no pain. So I was able to explain all this to my mother, who of course had also seen the body, but basically understood nothing else of what had been going on, that everything was OK and that we could continue on our way.

And I honestly don't know to this day whether or not I would have spent as much time I did trying to help this stranger if I hadn't seen the fresco of the Good Samaritan in the Unitarian Church the month before. I do know this...having just seen that fresco, only a few blocks from that bus shelter, I would have felt like a terrible hypocrite if I had simply passed him by.

As a general rule, we Unitarian Universalists don't ordinarily put much stock in Shame as a spiritual and emotional motivator, but I suppose there's a time and a place for everything. Because yes: I was confused, and also a little afraid, far from home on unfamiliar ground, and in many ways it would have been a lot easier for me to turn my back and walk away. But how was I going to explain that behavior to my mother (who, in all honesty, would have probably just as soon walked away herself). And, more importantly, how was I going to live with myself afterwards?

"Who is my neighbor?"? the Pharisee asked Jesus. And Jesus told him a story in response, a story about a foreigner who did the right thing when his more pious neighbors would not. Nowadays we have a slightly different question we sometimes ask ourselves whenever we are tempted to step outside the customary boundaries of social conformity. We ask ourselves "but what will the neighbors think?" -- and then let the shame of that imagined response keep us from acting too "strangely."

And yet when we can teach ourselves to ignore those imaginary voices inside our heads, and listen instead to those principles of hospitality and compassion written in our hearts, we recognize that the ONLY difference between a neighbor and a stranger is our own familiarity or ignorance, and that in all the ways that truly matter, we are less different than alike.

And then realizing this very simple truth, it falls to us to take that next all-important step of opening the windows and the doors, and receiving whosoever is sent....

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

a homily delivered by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Parish Church in Portland, Maine
Ingathering Intergenerational Water Communion Service
Sunday, September 9, 2007

[extemporaneous greeting and welcome, especially to the children]

I’m just a little curious, and maybe you can show me by raising your hands, but how many of you have started back to school already? And is there anyone here still on their summer vacation? You know, this time of year always brings back a lot of memories for me, because (as you might have guessed from the number of years I continued to do it), I always kinda liked going to back to school in the fall. Not always the classroom part so much, but I really liked seeing all my friends again, and being able to go to the library on my own (without needing to get a ride from my mom); I liked recess and being able to go out on the playground (in fact, for a lot of years I used to get up early and walk to school rather than waiting at the bus stop, just so I could play basketball for an hour before the first bell). I even liked the food in the lunchroom (which you may find surprising, since my mother was actually a really good cook). But I always found the lunchroom food kind of exotic, in a bland sort of way: Sloppy Joes (which we almost never got at home), or that fluffy white bread pizza that always came in square slices, and especially the Shepherds Pie, which (unlike my mother’s, who learned how to make it from her mother, who was the daughter of an actual West Texas sheep herder), at school was always made out of hamburger, rather than real lamb.

But you know, I also always used to get a little nervous on the first day of school. My mom used to say I had “Butterflies in my Tummy,” which I thought was a rather innocuous and euphemistic manner (those are a couple of good SAT words, by the way) of describing something that made me feel so awful. That excited feeling of anticipation and expectation, but also an anxious uncertainty in the face of something on some levels familiar, yet ultimately unknown and unpredictable.

I always used to feel that way on the first day of church as well, until one year the mother of MY children asked: “What are you afraid of Tim? That the other kids won’t like you, and are going to take your milk money?” After that, it got a lot easier. I still get nervous, of course, like I do every Sunday. But like a lot of people who have to stand up in front of a lot of other people and speak in public, I’ve learned how to use that nervousness to help me concentrate -- because I also have come to understand that the day I STOP feeling nervous is probably the day I’ve run out of important things to say....

Of course, the other thing I always dreaded about those first few days back in school was having to stand up in front of the entire class and give that annual back-to-school report about “What I Did on my Summer Vacation.” And the main reason I dreaded it was not so much the speaking in public part, but rather because my family typically didn’t do ANYTHING on our summer vacation -- which was the main reason I was so happy to be going back to school in the first place.

I mean, as I kid I generally was playing some sort of organized baseball during the summer...but that was typically over by the Fourth of July, so unless we could find enough kids around the neighborhood to pull together a game, baseball was pretty much out of the question. My brothers and I all took swimming lessons (at least for part of the summer), so we went to a place called "the Aqua Dive" for those; and then once a week my mom would take us to the library. But one good rainy day (and it rains a lot in Seattle, even in the summer) and I could blow through my entire stack of books (and half of my brother’s) in a single afternoon. (In fact, my brother used to hide his library books so that I wouldn’t come into his room and take them before he had a chance to read them himself, and then he’d forget where he’d hidden them, which led to a lot of library fines which he had to pay out of his allowance...although in his mind it was really my fault and I was the one who should have had to pay).

And then, of course, when the weather was nice we rode our bikes, and played outdoors, and tried to find new and entertaining ways of getting into trouble without getting into TOO much trouble...but nothing really like the sort of things you’d want to stand up in front of an entire classroom and tell about...not even for five minutes.

Of course, it did get a little better those summers when I finally got to be old enough to go on my own to stay with my grandparents, who had retired to their one-time summer home on an island in Washington State about an hour north of Seattle. On the island I got to sail, and play on the beach, and hang out with a whole different group of kids than the ones I saw ordinarily during the regular school year...kids whose parents and grandparents had also all grown up together at the beach, and typically measured their friendships in terms of decades.

But there was a downside to staying with my grandparents too, because my grandmother was NOT a particularly good cook, although she was a relatively competent baker of cookies: toll house cookies, peanut butter cookies, and -- my personal favorite, snickerdoodles -- cookies which (and this was important for a growing boy) my grandmother baked in great quantities to make up for whatever they may have lacked in quality. But living at the beach also meant that I had to spend a few hours each day helping my grandmother in her garden: pulling up weeds, digging in the dirt, pushing the wheelbarrow -- and basically serving as her arms and legs (and in later years even her eyes) while she directed the work, and supervised to make certain it was completed to her satisfaction. And although I didn’t really appreciate it at the time, by working as my grandmother’s personal itinerant agricultural laborer, I was actually connecting with the historical roots of the “summer vacation” in a very hands-on, dirt-under-the-fingernails sort of way.

Here’s a little more preparation for the SAT. The word “vacation” comes from the same Latin root as the word “vacant,” and it means literally to be empty, or free (of content). And when I was a kid growing up, I was always told that the reason kids got a vacation from school in the summer was so they could help their parents on the farm. What I didn’t understand back then, is that I actually had it backwards: that actually, the reason kids used to go to school in the winter is that back in the “olden days,” winter was the ONLY time that children could be spared from the demanding day-to-day work of agricultural production long enough to learn how to read, and write, and count. We may idealize the family farm, but let’s face it, for most of human history working on the family farm was really pretty much a sweatshop.

Our modern idea of a summer vacation actually reflects a somewhat later time, when at first the urban wealthy, and then eventually the middle class, were able to send their families away from the hot, crowded, and all too often fatally unhealthy industrial cities to cooler, more pleasant and healthful locations for the summer -- places like the coast of Maine, for instance, where the presence of “summer people” soon began to make a significant contribution to an economy which had previously been based on fishing, farming, forestry and the various activities which support those extractive industries. And I’m told that even today this “symbiotic tension” of relative wealth and social class between Native Mainers and people “from Away” remains an important dynamic in understanding what life in the State of Maine is really all about. Before the widespread advent of summer tourism, one 19th century commentator (Edward Everett Hale) observed that the two principal exports from Maine were Granite and Ice. “But the granite is excellent hard granite,” he continued, “and the ice is very cold ice.”

Personally, over the years I’ve come to admire the British use of the word Holiday -- “Holy Day” -- rather than our American “vacation.” Not an empty time, but a time set aside and devoted to something higher and more sacred than our mundane, day to day activities. And even though sometimes it seems like what we truly worship is leisure, the opportunity to observe even just a few days of Rest and Re-Creation seems like a very worthwhile activity to me, even if it does sometimes appear to others to be mostly doing nothing.

Of course, if you were to ask me what I did this past summer on my so-called “vacation,” I would certainly have a lot to report. I flew across the country (with the dog - the first time she's ever done that) to visit my daughter and attend the Unitarian Universalist Association General Assembly in Portland, Oregon; then drove to Seattle to bury my mother, flew back to New England, quit my job, packed everything I own into boxes and moved here to Portland Maine to begin a new ministry working with all of you here at First Parish (where, you may have noticed, the roof is falling in). And I also did a little sailing, and played a little baseball, and even read a few books (which I’ll tell you about some other time). But even this extensive summary only barely scratches the surface.

For example, we didn’t really “bury” my mom. My mother’s body was actually cremated, and her ashes now sit on the bottom shelf of the nightstand in her bedroom on Camano Island, right on top of the ashes of her own mother, which have been there now for almost 20 years. (And there’s still a little room there for a few more of us, after which we’re probably going to have to come up with a more permanent solution).

I did conduct the memorial service for my mom, which turned out to be a very moving experience for me, and my entire family as well. My very first sacerdotal act (there’s another great SAT word) following my ordination in 1981 was to officiate at the wedding that summer of my brother Kurt and my sister-in-law Lynne. And now, one week shy of their 26th wedding anniversary, we were all together again...with, of course, an entire generation no longer present, and an entirely new one grown up to take its place, all of us assembled to observe a very different kind of religious ceremony.

And it was hard for me not to see these two events as linked together, perhaps like bookends, but I wasn’t really sure what it meant until my aunt came up to me after the service and said “25 years ago at Kurt’s wedding I thought, ‘What a Joke! That’s not a real minister -- that’s just my kid nephew in a costume.’ But today you really filled that robe, and I was very impressed...and proud.” And then I got it. It had only taken me half a lifetime, but I had finally (kind of like the Velveteen Rabbit) become a “real” minister, even for my own family.

And then the next day, we were all staying together back at the cabin (which I suppose out here in Maine you would call a “cottage”), and my brother and I got up with the early tide, and took the boat across the bay to pull his crab pots and collect a dozen or so fresh Dungeness Crab; and then when we got back, both my brothers went off to pick wild blackberries at a place they knew; and a few hours later my father and his sister (my other aunt) showed up with a freshly caught wild salmon (which - just for the historical record - they’d bought, not caught themselves) and some locally grown sweet corn -- and the cooking started, and I played a little baseball with my neices and nephews...and at one point in the afternoon, as we were all sitting on the deck looking out at the water, my sister-in-law said to me, with tears in her eyes, “This is such a perfect day. The only thing missing is Betty Jo.” And I said back to her “No, no Lynne -- you have it backwards. The thing is that Betty Jo can not be here, and we can STILL have perfect days like this.”

Now I know those of you who are more literal and scientifically-minded than most other folks are probably thinking “But Betty Jo WAS there...she was less than 30 feet away, stacked up on a shelf in the back bedroom.” But that’s not the point. The point is that we had taken our emptiness, and filled it with something Holy. And in doing so, we were “re-created” -- we participated in the miracle of Creation once again.

And then a few days later, we all had to go our separate ways again for awhile, and the next thing I knew I was standing up here in front of all of you, filled with the butterflies of nervous excitement and expectation, and just a little anxious in my anticipation of something on so many levels intimately familiar, yet ultimately unknown and unpredictable as well....

And I hope you’ll all like me, and please, Please, PLEASE don’t take my milk money, and I’m realy looking forward very much over the months and years to come to getting to know all of you, and to hearing your stories the much the same way as you have so kindly listened to me tell mine today.

This Meeting House is indeed a sacred place, a safe and welcoming “sanctuary” in the heart of this city, which we make Holy through our presence here, and by filling it with our warmth, and our love for one another, our hospitality to strangers, and our devotion and commitment to the values and principles of our shared Unitarian and Universalist faith traditions. We come from many different places, we travel many different paths. But in this place, we mingle our lives together like the waters of many rivers flowing to the ocean, perhaps in time rising as fog, falling as rain, even freezing as ice, but always, always flowing back once more into the sea from whence we all have come.

ONE OF GOD'S CLUMSY INNOCENTS WHO FOUND HIS WAY AMONG THE ANGELS

A sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Parish Church in Portland, Maine
Sunday September 2nd, 2007


Folks frequently want to know how I come up with the inspiration for my sermons (and particularly sermons like this one, on "the world's worst poet"), and usually I'm at something of a loss to tell them. I mean, who really knows where these things come from, originally? But this morning I can tell you PRECISELY how and when and where the Muse whispered to me in a mysterious way. It was Sunday, July 5th, 1987; and I was sitting out by the swimming pool at the parsonage at my first church in Midland, Texas (whatever else you may think of Texans, they certainly know how to treat their ministers!) and I was reading (of all things) the local Hearst newspaper, the Midland Reporter-Telegram. And I noticed an article, a feature off the Associated Press wire, which turned out to be my introduction to the life and work of William Topaz McGonagall -- the man reputed to be the world's worst poet.

I knew right away that I had to preach a sermon about this man. There was something about his life which cried out to be expressed -- a certain courage and nobility of spirit deserving of our attention. One phrase in particular, a comment by a Scottish literary critic named James Cameron, captured my imagination. He described McGonagall as "one of God's clumsy innocents, who found his way among the angels." I read that phrase and I thought to myself "What better epitaph could any of us ask? What commentary speaks more profoundly to the universal human condition?"

Unfortunately, Midland Texas in the mid-1980’s was not exactly overflowing with easily accessible McGonagallia. It was not until some time later, when I happened to be in Boston and had the opportunity to stop by the Weidner Library at Harvard University that I was able to obtain the materials I was looking for: the complete works of William McGonagall, anthologized in three volumes: Poetic Gems, More Poetic Gems,and Last Poetic Gems. Moreover, I was overjoyed to discover that, as an alumnus, I was allowed to check them out and bring them back to Texas with me.

I kept the books out well past their due date (fortunately, no one at Harvard was clamoring for their quick return); and by the time I was finished with them, not only could I honestly claim to be the foremost authority on this subject in all of West Texas, but I could also state with some confidence that McGonagall's reputation as the world's worst poet is both well deserved, and not likely to be challenged in the foreseeable future. Yet it is more than the quality of one's poetry that makes a poet. William McGonagall had poetry in his soul, a poetry which burst forth with an authentic, Wordsworthian "spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling," despite his undeniable lack of skill or talent.

He was born in Edinburgh, in either 1825 or 1830 -- We don't really know for sure, and he himself reports both dates in different places; but as a child moved with his family to the city of Dundee, located in the east of Scotland on the Firth of Tay, where his father was employed as a handloom operator in a Jute-weaving mill: a trade which McGonagall himself also practiced until machinery made his vocation obsolete. It is reported that he had only 18 months of formal education, yet he was literate enough to be familiar with Shakespeare, and even performed for a time as a Shakespearean actor, where his powerful voice and striking appearance, as well as his obvious enthusiasm for his roles, made him quite popular with the rowdy and boisterous Dundonian audiences.

It was not until he was in his forties that McGonagall turned to composing and reciting his own "poetic gems." He describes that moment in one of his brief autobiographies:

**I remember how I felt when I received the spirit of poetry. It was the year of 1877, and in the month of June, when trees and flowers were in full bloom. Well, it being the holiday week in Dundee, I was sitting in my back room in Paton's Lane, Dundee, lamenting to myself because I couldn't get to the Highlands on holiday to see the beautiful scenery, when all of a sudden my body got inflamed, and instantly I was seized with a strong desire to write poetry, so strong, in fact, that in imagination I thought I heard a voice crying in my ears -- "WRITE! WRITE!" I wondered what could be the matter with me, and I began to walk backwards and forwards in a great fit of excitement, saying to myself -- "I know nothing about poetry." But still the voice kept ringing in my ears -- "Write, write," until at last, being overcome with a desire to write poetry, I found paper, pen, and ink, and in a state of frenzy, sat me down to think what would be my first subject for a poem....**

The result was "An Address to the Rev. George Gilfillan," which was published anonymously in the Dundee Weekly News. All told, McGonagall would eventually compose some 576 poems during his lifetime: poems which were uniformly, as James Cameron notes, "of a magical dreadfulness that reached the sublime." McGonagall's early reputation was established by his poem "Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay," which some believe foretold the Tay Railway bridge disaster of 1879, in which 90 lives were lost after the poorly constructed bridge collapsed during a violent storm. The verse in question reads:

**Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
I hope that God will protect all passengers
By night and by day,
And that no accident will befall them while crossing
The Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
For that would be most awful to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.**\

In 1881 he added the words "By Appointment to Her Majesty" to his calling card: "William McGonagall, Poet and Tragedian" after receiving the following letter from Queen Victoria's personal secretary:

**General Sir Henry F. Ponsonby has received the Queen's commands to thank Mr. McGonagall for sending the verses which were contained in his letter of the 10th instant, but to express Her Majesty's regret that they must be returned, as it is an invariable rule that offerings of this nature not be received by the Queen.**

McGonagall typically published his verses as broadsides, single sheets containing his latest composition, which were often printed free of charge by a local publishing house and then sold by the poet himself for a penny apiece to passers by. Needless to say, it was not a particularly profitable enterprise. Slightly more lucrative were his performances in Public Houses -- ironic, since McGonagall himself was a teetotaler; but the barmen soon discovered that the presence of "The Great McGonagall" was sure to draw a thirsty crowd. A typical performance is described in a biography by David Phillips, which draws upon a contemporary newspaper account:

**"The hall was filled by a large audience, the majority of whom were young men and lads, all evidently in a thorough mood for fun...."

Then came the recitations, received in a manner "most uproarious, altogether past description. Every now and then, and particularly when the performer was uttering some choice bit and giving it the 'sweetness long drawn out the audience would burst out with the chorus of John Brown's Body in a manner that completely 'shut up' the gifted artiste. Notwithstanding all the irreverence on the part of the audience, the bard remained perfectly calm, and seemingly not in the least disturbed by the riotous proceedings around him; and whenever the noise ceased he resumed where he had left off with the greatest nonchalance...."

"Mr McGonagall, however, had not proceeded far with his recitation when a number of the audience who were seated near the platform rose from their seats and, ascending the improvised stage, they forcibly seized hold of the 'Poet to Her Majesty' and, notwithstanding his frantic struggles, carried him shoulder high to the street...."

"A tremendous crowd thronged the street, almost all of whom seemed to be in a very frenzy of amusement. Mr. McGonagall had ultimately, owing to the great crowd, to take shelter in a shop nearby....The general impression of the audience seemed to be that they never in their lives were so thoroughly entertained as they were by the celebrated McGonagall."**

Marcus Eliason, the Associated Press writer whose article first introduced me to McGonagall, offers this summary of his career:

**...Dundee, a hard-drinking, ruffianish sort of town, turned McGonagall-baiting into a sport.

He was pelted with peas, pies, and rotten hams, shouted down by hecklers, mocked by street urchins as "Mad McGonagall," and hounded by magistrates for causing the unruliness.

A barman, incensed at McGonagall for having the nerve to recite teetotaling propaganda in his pub, stuffed a wet towel in his mouth.

Soon he was refusing to perform unless a clergyman sat on the stage....

He would recite his poem about the Battle of Bannockburn brandishing a sword with such exuberance that the front-rows had to duck....

In 1887, fed up with these riotous spectacles, Dundee's elders bought McGonagall a one-way ticket to New York....**

It's through incidents such as these that McGonagall's true character is revealed. There are thousands upon thousands of bad poets in the world, poets who aspire perhaps to achievements beyond their gifts, and who fail ingloriously, lapse into obscurity. What separates McGonagall from all the rest is his unflagging sincerity and dogged persistence, a tenacious optimism which endures beyond all sense or reason. The Times of London has called McGonagall "a real genius, for he is the only memorable truly bad poet in our language." His anthologies have sold over half a million copies, well outstripping sales of the work of his far more talented Scottish contemporary, the (Unitarian) Robert Burns. McGonagall's poetry radiates an enthusiastic reverence and passion for life which transcends the technical flaws of the verse itself -- the clumsy meter and the awkward rhyme -- to express a vitality somehow compelling despite its obvious artistic limitations.

McGonagall returned to Dundee from New York, and for a time it was business as usual. He hit upon an ingenious scheme for supplementing his income -- printing ditties such as this one on the back of his broadsheets, in exchange for a small sum:

**You can use it with great pleasure and ease
Without wasting any elbow grease;
And when washing the most dirty clothes
The sweat won't be dripping from your nose....
And I tell you once again without any joke
There's no soap can surpass Sunlight soap....**

The harassment continued however, while failing health and constant poverty likewise took their toll. In December of 1892 he composed this poem in anticipation of the coming year:

**Welcome! thrice welcome! to the year 1893,
For it is the year I intend to leave Dundee,
Owing to the treatment I receive,
Which does my heart sadly grieve.
Every morning when I go out
The ignorant rabble they do shout
'There goes Mad McGonagall'
In derisive shouts as loud as they can bawl,
And lifts stones and snowballs, throws them at me;
And such actions are shameful to be heard in the city of Dundee.
And I'm ashamed, kind Christians, to confess
That from the Magistrates I can get no redress.
Therefore I have made up my mind in the year of 1893
To leave the ancient City of Dundee,
Because the citizens and me cannot agree.
The reason why? -- because they disrespect me,
Which makes me feel rather discontent.
Therefore to leave them I am bent;
And I will make my arrangements without delay,
And leave Dundee some early day.**

This particular poem drew an editorial response from the newspaper the Scottish Leader:

**Dundee is threatened with a very serious calamity, to wit, the departure from its gates of the Poet McGonagall.
McGonagall is a very good poet for Dundee, with limitations -- such things as a lack of ideas, a trivial shakiness about spelling, and a want of familiarity with syntax, for which doubtless his parents are more to blame than himself. He is never at a loss for a rhyme, and when he discovers the full value of the circumstance that Dundee rhymes with 1893, he may be induced to reconsider his decision and stay for yet a year....**

Sure enough, it was not until 1894 that McGonagall and his wife moved to the city of Perth, where he continued to compose and to perform his poetry until his death in 1902. He lies buried there now in an unmarked, pauper's grave; his only memorials the poetry itself, and a modest plaque on a park bench near the statue of Burns in downtown Dundee. Throughout his life, William McGonagall was the object of ridicule and derision, the butt of cruel hoaxes and practical jokes. Yet the last laugh, it seems, belongs to him, for through no other merit than perseverance he has earned himself a slice of immortality. He is "one of God's clumsy innocents who found his way among the angels" -- a hope and inspiration for all of us whose gifts and talents likewise fall somewhat short of the mark, but who notwithstanding continue to aspire to high ambitions....


AN ADDRESS TO THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN

All hail to the Rev. George Gilfillan of Dundee,
He is the greatest preacher I did ever hear or see.
He is a man of genius bright,
And in him his congregation does delight,
Because they find him to be honest and plain,
Affable in temper, and seldom known to complain.
He preaches in a plain straightforward way,
The people flock to hear him night and day,
And hundreds from the doors are often turn'd away,
Because he is the greatest preacher of the present day.
He has written the life of Sir Walter Scott,
And while he lives he will never be forgot,
Nor when he is dead,
Because by his admirers it will be often read;
And fill their minds with wonder and delight,
And wile away the tedious hours on a cold winter night.
He has also written about the Bards of the Bible,
Which occupied nearly three years in which he was not idle,
Because when he sits down to write he does it with might and main,
And to get an interview with him it would be almost vain,
And in that he is always right,
For the Bible tells us whatever your hands findeth to do,
Do it with all your might.
Rev. George Gilfillan of Dundee, I must conclude my muse,
And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse,
Nor does it give me pain to tell the world fearlessly, that when
You are dead they shall not look upon your like again.



AN ADDRESS TO SHAKESPEARE

Immortal! William Shakespeare, there's none can you excel,
You have drawn out your characters remarkably well,
Which is delightful for to see enacted upon the stage--
For instance, the love-sick Romeo, or Othello, in a rage;
His writing are a treasure, which the world cannot repay,
He was the greatest poet of the past or of the present day--
Also the greatest dramatist, and is worthy of the name,
I'm afraid the world shall never look upon his like again.
His tragedy of Hamlet is moral and sublime,
And for purity of language, nothing can be more fine--
For instance, to hear the fair Ophelia making her moan,
At her father’s grave, sad and alone....
In his beautiful play, "As You Like It," one passage is very fine,
Just for instance in the forest of Arden, the language is sublime,
Where Orlando speaks of his Rosalind, most lovely and divine,
And no other poet I am sure has written anything more fine;
His language is spoken in the Church and by the Advocate at the bar,
Here and there and everywhere throughout the world afar;
His writings abound with gospel truths, moral and sublime,
And I'm sure in my opinion they are surpassing fine;
In his beautiful tragedy of Othello, one passage is very fine,
Just for instance where Cassio loses his lieutenancy
...By drinking too much wine;
And in grief he exclaims, "Oh! That men should put an
Enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains."
In his great tragedy of Richard the III, one passage is very fine
Where the Duchess of York invokes the aid of the Divine
For to protect her innocent babes from the murderer's uplifted hand,
And smite him powerless, and save her babes, I'm sure 'tis really grand.
Immortal! Bard of Avon, your writing are divine,
And will live in the memories of your admirers until the end of time;
Your plays are read in family circles with wonder and delight,
While seated around the fireside on a cold winter night.