Sources of Our Faith: Direct Experience

Rev. Jennifer Owen-O’Quill
This morning we continue our exploration of the sources that ground our faith today.

We began two weeks ago as we considered the legacy of our Unitarian heritage, forged in the heat of the Reformation nearly 500 years ago, when our Unitarian fore-bearers began claiming the God we worshipped was one God, shared by all people. These ideas inform our religious understanding today in our commitment to the idea that the voice of the Holy speaks in every language, and our insistence that our religious sensibility should be in alignment with our reason. Faith does not ask us to deny our rational mind: instead faith is what flows beyond our reasoned answers and the known fact.

We wed these ideas to our Universalist heritage, which insists God is a loving God, and that an unconditional love is available to all of creation. Such an insistence today calls us to incarnate that love in our own lives, seeking to bring a Divine Love into the world though the work of our own heart and hands.

This is certainly not easy work, but it is the holy work we are called to do in the world.

This week we turn to our Transcendentalist roots: the Unitarian and Universalist women and men of our faith American heritage, who transformed the ways we know God and encounter the Holy in our lives.

The voices of the Transcendentalists announced a departure from the Bible based Unitarianism of the past, and further emboldened our claim that Jesus was fully human, a man who lived so close to the heart of God he served as an example to all of us for how we might live our lives. To buttress this assertion, the heretical claim was made that one could have a direct experience of God - without the intercession of Jesus on our behalf.

In 1838 Emerson charged the graduating seniors from Harvard Divinity School with the following words. Hear the urgency of his tone as he seeks to convey the import of knowing God one’s self:

“Let me admonish you, first of all, to go alone; to refuse the good models, even those which are sacred in the imagination of men, and dare to love God without mediator or veil.Friends enough you shall find who will hold up to your emulation Wesleys or Oberlins, Saints and Prophets. Thank God for these good men, but say, ‘I also am a man.’ Imitation cannot go above its model. The imitator dooms himself to hopeless mediocrity. The inventor did it, because it was natural to him, and so in him it has a charm. In the imitator, something else is natural, and he bereaves himself of his own beauty, to come short of another man’s.Yourself a newborn bard of the Holy Ghost, - cast behind you all conformity, and acquaint men at first hand with Deity. Look to it first and only, that fashion, custom, authority, pleasure, and money, are nothing to you, - are not bandages over your eyes, that you cannot see, - but live with the privilege of the immeasurable mind… .We mark with light in the memory the few interviews we have had, in the dreary years of routine and of sin, with souls that made our souls wiser; that spoke what we thought; that told us what we knew; that gave us leave to be what we inly were.” (i)
“Let me admonish you, first of all, to go alone;” he said, “to refuse the good models, even those which are sacred in the imagination of men, and dare to love God without mediator or veil.”

And so this message comes to us. You can have a direct, unimpaired relationship with your God, with the Creator of all Life, with the Source of all Knowledge, the Foundation of our being. We can enter into this communion ourselves.And today that message comes into our tradition with the first words describing the sources of our faith. In the front of your hymnals you will find these words from our current Unitarian Universalist covenant:
The living tradition we share draws from many sources: [first] Direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces that create and uphold life.
Giving voice to this message in our own times is the Unitarian Universalist poet of our day, Mary Oliver. Here is her poem, Gratitude.

Gratitude by Mary Oliver

What did you notice?The dew-snail;
the low flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.What did you hear?The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren;
the deep cup of the hour of silence.What did you admire?The oaks, letting down their dark, hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the
pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid
beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.What astonished you?The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.
What would you like to see again?My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue, her
recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness, her
strong legs her curled black lip, her snap.What was most tender?Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine. What did you think was happening?The green breast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve
of the first snow —so the gods shake us from our sleep.

Here ends the readings.

Message

Emerson addressed the graduating class of Harvard’s Divinity School to deliver a message he believed was of the utmost importance for religious leaders of the day to hear: Pastors, get your relationship with God straight. Your own communion with God will reveal things to you that are fresh insights and offer up a more penetrating faith than one described in books or conveyed solely through the words and deeds of Jesus Christ. And most of the people in the room nodded politely … until a little while later, when some who left scratching their heads realized the implications of his words. “What does he mean,” they wrote in the religious journals, “How dare he assert we don’t need Jesus to live the Christian life? Heretic!”
Emerson’s words were indeed provocative: “Jesus Christ belonged to the true race of prophets. He saw with open eye the mystery of the soul. Drawn by its severe harmony, ravished with its beauty, he lived in it, and had his being there. Alone in all history, he estimated the greatness of man … Thus was he a true man … One man was true to what is in you and me. He saw that God incarnates himself in man, and evermore goes forth anew to take possession of the world.” (ii)

“He likens us to God, like our Lord Jesus Christ? Blasphemer!” Shouted the outraged.

If we could have a direct experience of God, if we were to encounter the holy on our own, as Jesus did, then we were to emulate Jesus in our seeking of God, not worship Jesus as the sole path to God. And with this idea, divisions in our understanding of God began to erupt throughout the Christian tradition, and these divisions, about the nature of humanity, the person and nature of Jesus Christ and the ways we are able to be in relationship with the Divine, with God, with the Holy, with the Mystery of life — the transcendent mystery and wonder…

These divisions still course through the veins of our spiritual life in this nation and in Christian denominations all around the world.

The implications were profound, and we are the recipients of the legacy of these insights.

Today, the question remains: How do we dance with the holy? How do we love God without mediator of veil? How do the gods shake us from our sleep? How do we stay awake and aware of the Divine?

The legacy of my own spiritual path shouts an answer, “Patience!”

And such a patience can be sustained if we trust those things which create the religious impulse in our lives:

Our longing for wholeness: how can I forgive? How can I be forgiven? How can I heal?
So many people come to the church saying, “I want there to be more in life.” “I want my life to mean more.” “I want to be connected to the world beyond me, to ask and wrestle with those ultimate questions: who am I? What does my life mean? What does life itself mean? What is my purpose here? What happens when we die?” The religious impulse.Our ability to feel connected to the whole of creation: when we are walking in the woods and suddenly feel ourselves as an integral part of the whole of creation; when we stand by the sea, or in front of our favorite painting with a sense of wonder and awe for its beauty, its power; when we hold our child in our arms, or fall into the arms of our lover, grateful upon grateful for the love that seems to burst from our every cell in our body … The religious impulse.Our self awareness. I have felt my mind do back flips as I turn over those ultimate questions: What makes life? Is there something that lies beyond the Universe? What began the beginning? The religious impulse.
Our longing for wholeness, our sense of connectedness, our self-awareness incline us toward the notion of something larger than our singular, independent existence: something transcends this. Something more. But what?

Whatever the life force is, it is powerful stuff. Whenever I draw nearer to God in my life, I am made more humble than before, in awe of the expanse of the horizon that stretches before me.

The presence of the holy has whispered past me in hospital rooms, by the ocean, in the mountains, and walking the streets of Lakeview. I have been wrapped in the arms of God in my office, in this sanctuary, and alone and grieving in my bed at night.

And I have been extended the immense honor of companioning others on their own journey of the Spirit. Different things you will behold than I. Treasures that are yours alone.

It is powerful stuff when we draw that close to the life force. It can make us run amok. Zeal can overtake us. We can forget our humility.

So my warning this morning, is that experience cannot stand alone. It is not only your mountaintop moments, or the hope you find at your lowest low that creates a full religious life. This is only a part of a larger whole, that, contrary to the words of the great Emerson, requires many other things of us: the reading of wisdom texts, a grounding in one’s religious tradition (what is the history, legacy and direction of our church), a celebration of ritual, and a commitment to relationships within your family, the church and the wider world, for our primary aim is the reconciliation of the human family to itself and with all of creation … with the life force that made us … with God.

Nor can experience ever be neglected. My husband says, “Spiritual practices are there to create the conditions for us to get run over by Grace.”

I like the image. The openings for Grace come in two ways: through disciplined practice - worship, prayer, meditation, journaling, devotional singing, scripture study. Simply by being in worship on Sunday mornings you are already engaged in at least one spiritual practice.

The Holy works on you as you work with it. Forgiveness does not happen by Miracle. You soul sweats to find that crack in your heart that can extend forgiveness for those deep hurts we endure.

Which brings us to the second way we find Grace: through life events that take us to mountaintops and leave us wandering in the valleys of the shadow of death.

Love does not happen by human design. Sure we have to be open hearted, but still, love erupts the way it always has: by grace. People say, “I don’t know what it was, but something happened.” “It was different.” “We clicked.” Love comes by Grace and then it is up to us to nurture that love.

Hope is not manufactured in factories or concocted in laboratories.  Hope springs up within us by Grace.

And when we lose someone we love, grief overcomes us, and we find our way through with the mettle of our spiritual resilience.

When our lives are consumed by wrong action when addictions overtake our vitality and leave us wrecked and worn when our anger and hatred have wrung the best of us dry …

at those rock bottom, valley of the shadow of death places, sometimes, somehow we reach out.

Somehow we find the grace at last, and begin to right ourselves and start to climb back up from that low place.

Other things in life can knock us down: the loss of a job, the shattering of a dream, the shock of a betrayal.

The exhilaration of the mountaintops I have certainly enjoyed, but I find the valleys of life bear more fruit. When we have run out of hope, when desolation and despair surround us, grace can break through, if we open our terrified and grieving eyes to finally see.

What is so awe-ful about the descent into the wells of despair and desolation, is that we might not have the courage or ability to open our eyes. That is what is so scary about watching our loved ones, and sometimes finding we ourselves, falling into those valleys, those deep wells of despair. We don’t know for sure we or they will reach for that grace in time.

A couple of years ago I found myself down in a low desolate place. And I learned more on my way back up from that place than I have from any of my mountaintops. Wisdom is sometimes discovered when we think we are lost and we realize it is really that we have been found.

It is a clear memory for me. I went to General Assembly, the annual meeting of our denomination. It was in LA. And I found when I arrived, that I could not make myself join my colleagues. The church year had been terribly hard, and had taken a monumental spiritual toll on me. I was totally wrung out. I reached for the phone and called a colleague. What do I do? Make myself go? “No,” he said. “Go on retreat. Listen for what you have to learn. It’s time.” And so I did. I drove up the coast, and checked into a retreat center, and just listened to the silent, patient presence of my God. Quiet, humble days followed. And I finally emerged. Changed. Re-tooled by God’s hand, and yours and my own. I found myself filled with a greater sense of God’s presence in my life and God’s love and compassion for me that I had ever known.

Grateful upon grateful for the deep blessings I receive and the gifts I am able to give into the world. Willing to be wrung out if that is what is asked, and trusting I will be filled, made whole again. Patient that the timing is not my own.

May you find in your own lives a practice that quiets your restless soul with a great patience and an abiding trust, and may the spirit of Grace shout to you from mountaintops and companion you through the shadows of death, that you might enkindle the flame of the Holy that burns in your own heart, and that lights the whole of creation that surrounds us all. And may you see the face of the Holy in me and may I see the face of the Holy in you.

I turn again to the words of the poet Mary Oliver.

The Night Traveler

Passing by, he could be anybody:
A thief, a tradesman, a doctor
On his way to a worried house.
But when he stops at your gate,
Under the room where you lie half-asleep,
You know it is not just anyone —
It is the Night Traveler.

You lean your arms on the sill
And stare down. But all you can see
Are bits of wilderness attached to him —
Twigs, loam and leaves,
Vines and blossoms. Among these
You feel his eyes, and his hands
Lifting something in the air.

He has a gift for you, but it has no name.
It is windy and wooly.
He holds it in the moonlight, and it sings
Like a newborn beast,
Like a child at Christmas,
Like your own heart as it tumbles
In love’s green bed.
You take it, and he is gone.

All night - and all your life, if you are willing —
It will nuzzle your face, cold-nosed,
Like a small white wolf;
It will curl in your palm
Like a hard blue stone;
It will liquefy into a cold pool
Which, when you dive into it,
Will hold you like a mossy jaw.
A bath of light. An answer.

So may it be. Amen.

 Copyright © 2006 Second Unitarian Church