The Pleasure is the Point
The world has become a frightening place. I suppose, it’s always been that way to some degree, and I’m sure every generation is convinced they are living in the end times in one fashion or another. Change does that. Becoming awake does that. With that said, the planet is in a particularly precarious position with about 7 years left before the damage we’ve done to our climate becomes irreversible. Equally frightening is knowing that our democracy is losing the guardrails that have held it together for 250 years, making the foundation for our lives - both the platform for all life and the ground for our particular American context - unstable and dangerously close to collapse. I would argue that we are in a more fragile place than at any other time in human history, both because of the imminent collapse of our planetary systems and because of our access to global communications that force momentum at lightening speeds. While in the past, people might have had time to adjust to advancements, today we live at high velocity. While our direction is destruction, we hardly have time to catch our collective breath before another horrific thing happens, propelling us toward the disintegration of our free society faster than our minds can fully understand all that’s going on. And, even if we weren’t bringing ourselves to the edge of national disaster, climate change is bringing the whole planet there, a problem we can’t seem to summon the will to address in any meaningful way, guaranteeing global catastrophe.
There seem to be two responses to these dual realities. One is an urgent, angry activism propelling people on both the right and the left toward intense, self-righteous politicking. The other is hedonism sponsored by denial. We are either shaking people to wake them up and get them to fight or we’re keeping our heads down, reading romance novels and watching reality TV. Sometimes, we do the activist thing, signing letters, posting frightening facts, showing up for rallies, reading the news daily, and then we burn out, overwhelmed by the distance between where we are and where we need to be, so we spend the next few months keeping our heads down, reading romance novels and watching reality TV.
Neither of these is a perfect solution. I’m not sure either of them will get us anywhere close to where we want to go. It’s possible hedonism will serve those who live into it, focusing on themselves and those in their immediate circles, indulging their physical desires, and even their spiritual desires in the form of churches who preach personal success, hyper individualism through personal relationships with god, and feel-good theologies. And, it’s possible the activists who never let up, who won’t stop until every system reflects their understanding of peace, who shame us into constant participation will eventually create a world where justice rolls down like water. I’m guessing, though, that neither will create a future of balance and joy. There isn’t anything wrong with taking care of yourself nor is there anything wrong with the fire of activism. I’m just not sure that either road is leading to a utopian future.
I am imagining a new world. It’s what the novelist Octavia Butler calls writing Science Fiction. We have to imagine it to achieve it. And when I imagine this utopian future, we’re living in communities of intentionality, with people caring for each other in real and tangible ways. We’re growing food together, we’re sharing resources and skills and training, we’re living slower lives in partnership with each other. We are living with Love at the center of Everything. We don’t get to that new world or whatever science fiction you’re imagining following either the path of self-righteous activism or hedonism.
How we get there matters. We are building the plane while flying it, and the tools we use will determine what kind of plane it is. So, I’m hoping we build with joy, and love, and tenderness and pleasure.
Emma Goldman was an anarchist, which for her and the left-wing activists of the early part of the 20th century, was about liberation. There were rules, especially for women, that bound them into very small lives. They were fighting for suffrage, but also for an end to the conventions that dictated who they were allowed to be. One day, Emma received a letter from a man after her attendance at a party had been noted by some others in the women’s rights movement. The letter told her that in a time of such distress, it was unseemly for her to be seen dancing. He went on to note that her frivolity would hurt the cause and that her behavior was undignified. There were, after all, very serious matters at stake, and if they were going to be successful, they needed to reflect the urgency, especially in public. In her response she said, (I’m quoting from her memoir) “I did not believe that a cause which stood for such a beautiful ideal…for release and freedom from convention and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy.” She then went on with a version of the now famous line, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.”
The revolution isn’t separate from the joy. The revolution – the dramatic upheaval of the conventions that have brought us to the brink of destruction – the revolution has to include dancing. And singing. And art. And even though we don’t usually say these things from the pulpit, it has to include sex. One day we should talk about why we think sex isn’t something you should talk about in church, but that’s for another day. For today, I’m just noting that if we’re talking about pleasure and joy and art and dance, we shouldn’t forget sex.
In so many ways, we’re all feeling frightened. On Friday evening in a residential neighborhood, a man was firing his AK-15 in his backyard. A neighbor asked him to stop because his infant was having trouble sleeping. In response, he shot and killed him, 3 women and an 8 year old child. This is the world we live in. We are armed to the teeth, shooting children who accidentally knock on our door or drive into our driveway or neighbors who ask for quiet so the baby can sleep. Urgency is not unwarranted. The crisis is real.
The work is necessary, but that doesn’t mean it also has to be unpleasant. The world might feel sharp and hard, but we can greet that with softness, with kindness, with authentic care and whispers to counter the screaming. The revolution is communal, it’s deeply relational. Hyper independence brings us to a place of buying guns to protect our homes and shooting our neighbors for wanting quiet. Instead, we lean into community, into flexibility. We yield to each other. Our softness is our resistance.
Yesterday, I wasn’t feeling well. It’s been happening all week and is related to migraines which I used to get often but haven’t in years. This week was different and Saturday morning I was dragging. I had to write this sermon, take my son to get his haircut, my brother-in-law is in town and we were having dinner with him and my mother-in-law. So, early in the morning I was in my office in front of my laptop pushing through when my husband quietly handed me a banana he’d started to peel. Bananas have been my salvation all week, for reasons I don’t really understand. I feel better after eating one. My husband saw we were out, so without saying a word, he went to the grocery store to get more, then handed me one with some Excedrin and a glass of cold water. It was kind. And generous. And as I was writing about the harshness of the world, it was a reminder of gentleness.
Our activism and our restfulness, our fight for justice and our joy, our chanting in the streets and our singing in the shower, are connected. And, it’s not about needing one to continue the other. It’s that these things are the same. We are building a new world while engaging all of it. This is the revolution.
There is no “here” and “there” or “this” and “that”. It’s all one thing, one place, one life - Ours -and we’re living it as whole beings. The method is the message. So, if I want to build a world of radical inclusion, I have to live into that vision now. If I want a world where communities are the central sources of goods and services, where we partner with each other, caring for our families and the details of our lives with a larger circle of people, I have to build those communities now. If I want love at the center of everything, I have to put it there now.
The pleasure is the point. It’s not a by-product. It’s not an aside, a way to rest to go back to fight. The pleasure, the joy, the sweet love that makes our days possible – that’s the point. That’s what we’re doing here. We’re creating a world of THAT. A place everyone has that. A place everyone can safely play and dance and read romance novels.
Rest, and the centrality of love, and a shared practice of joy, and the commitment of communities of care are part of my vision for the future. Which means they need to be part of my life right now. Without apology. Without feeling badly that we’re getting ready for our climate action by painting fabric and learning paper mâché, or even though we’re furious about yet another black man being killed, we can bring singing to the streets to help heal our heartbreak. And when we’re back home, it’s OK to take a hot bath, to let a new soundtrack take you away, to eat a favorite meal or get a full body massage. More than OK. These things are all part of the creation of the new world. These are the tools because these are what the plane, is made from. The pleasure is the point. It is the vision of the new world. Communities working together, building something new, sourced by joy and a vision for something better.
I brought chocolate with me. We’re going to eat it, together. I’m calling it communion. In my theology, communion is the action we take to connect. The word comes from Latin literally meaning With Together. It’s an act of Being With. It might mean being with god or gods or connecting with others or the ground of our being. In November, I learned that there was a tradition of cornbread communion and you all introduced that to me. I’m now introducing you to chocolate communion.
Chocolate is sensual. It’s sweet and soft. The chocolate I brought will melt in your mouth, extending the pleasure. When eaten slowly, it can be joyful. And when eaten together, it can also be communal.
It feels like a window into the world I’m dreaming about. A place we rest together, enjoy life a little, experience something indulgent, in community. Not only part of the future I hope to imagine into existence, it’s part of the present I want to live into. I want us to offer each other things that are beautiful and delicious. Without
guilt or shame, without anyone telling us to do better or be more or work harder, I want to share chocolate. Chocolate, With Together. Communion.
A few notes- please don’t leave the wrappers for someone else to pick up. There’s a garbage on your way out. If you are allergic to nuts, it might be safer not to eat it. You know your own body, but Lindt says that their chocolate might have come in contact with nuts.
While the chocolate is going around, we’re going to sing. Indulge. Listen to the music. Taste the chocolate. The pleasure is the point.
