This We Believe: On God and Prayer

Rev. Peggy Clarke, Senior Minister

September 18, 2022 

Long before becoming UU, the question “Do you believe in God” was the worst anyone could ever ask me. You might feel similarly. It’s a binary question and I’m not a fan of binary. It’s a yes or no question to the nature of the universe. It’s like asking, “What is the meaning of life: yes or no?”

I have no intention of asking or answering that question today – not for you and not for me. It’s a bad question. It’s particularly bad when people are sure they know the answer and then judge other people if their answer is different. I won’t ask the question and I don’t have an answer. And I’m sure if ever anyone ever comes close to an answer to that question, it won’t be “yes” or “no”.

The universe as I understand it is far, far more complicated than that. It’s profound with mystery- complex, unknown, unknowable. It’s wild, and chaotic with life teeming in the minute and in the magnificent. It’s loving. It’s violent. It’s unpredictable, and I’m not willing to even consider that there’s a “yes” or “no” question that comes close to apprehending the depth or breadth of what it means to be alive or in what ways we are alone and in what ways we are not.

There are times, though, when I seek people who wrestle with these big questions. Not people who answer them, but who live into them. Some are scientists, poets, philosophers. A few of my favorites are mystics. Mysticism, in its formal and academic context, is the radical experience of the divine. My master’s degree is in Medieval Mysticism, a subject I found tremendous comfort in in graduate school where we otherwise spent our time diagnosing and dissecting god. Courses on reason and doctrine were tempered by poetry written a thousand years ago by women and men overcome by Love.

We have mystics closer to our time period who have had similar experiences. The 20th century writer and spiritual leader Thomas Merton wrote of a conversion experience in Kentucky. He said:  “In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness. . .

This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud. . . . As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

Merton’s conversion on 4th and Walnut, - now so famous an experience it’s memorialized on that very corner in that city with a big sign marking the spot – that kind of experience isn’t common, but it’s also not entirely unusual. Caryll Houselander, a lesser-known 20th century English mystic had a similar experience. She was riding in an underground train. She writes:

“Quite suddenly, I saw with my mind, but as vividly as a wonderful picture, Christ in them all. But I saw more than that; not only was Christ in every one of them, living in them, dying in them, rejoicing in them, sorrowing in them – but because he was in them, and because they were here, the whole world was here in this underground train, not only the world as it was at that moment, not only in the people in the countries of the world, but all those yet to come. I came out into the street and walked for a long time in the crowds. It was the same here, on every side, in every passerby – Christ.”

Language isn’t our friend today. The word “god” – with or without a capital “G” – can be cumbersome, depending on your own personal history. “Christ” maybe even more so. These words have history. They have politics. They might be connected with very specific images and understandings. They might be connected to personal trauma. To religious trauma. To deep, unnecessary rejection, pain, longing and loneliness. Unitarians in particular have been trying to break open our assumptions and connections around the word “god” from an individual male, white, conscious, all-powerful and present being since the 19th century, but somehow we still default to that, even unconsciously, probably because that image has so saturated our culture and language it requires more discipline than most of us have time for to break free of it. In response, so many of us say we don’t believe in god. We answer “no” to the binary question. What I think we mean is we don’t believe in that, particular god and we haven’t had time to give much thought to the other ones.

Sometimes we find it liberating to hold the same kind of image, but this time god is female. And Black. That gets easier. Warmer. Maybe equally ferocious but on our side. That god might even be sexual. And lesbian. Now She’s starting to get interesting.

Richard Rohr, the director of the Center for Contemplation and Action, poses the idea that God isn’t an individual being, but another name for Everything. Everything is connected to Everything. We aren’t saved alone, but in participation with everyone else, in community with people and with the planet. God is in all things, is all things. The world is both the hiding place and the revelation of God. There is no difference between the profane and the sacred. All life is communion, all life is coherent. Limiting God to a person, a single revelation, makes the world fragmented and small. But, the world, the universe is massive – and expanding. The Holy, the connection, the foundation for life, the platform for our living, is moving, stretching, expanding. And it is the body of God, another name for Everything.

A man who calls himself Wild Bill Balding goes even further. Breaking open the idea that God is the expanding universe, Balding tells us God is a Verb, not a noun. He writes:  

'I am who I am,

I will be who I will be.'

dynamic, seething, active

web of love poured out,

given, received, exchanged,

one God in vibrant community

always on the move,

slipping through our fingers,

blowing through the nets we cast

to hold and name,

confine to nouns, to labels,

freezeframe stasis,

pinned like a butterfly,

solid, cold, controlled, lifeless.

'I am who I am,

I will be who I will be' -

not pinned down by names, labels,

buildings, traditions,

or even by nails to wood:

I am: a verb, not a noun,

living, free, exuberant,

always on the move.

“I am who I am”. That’s what Moses was told. He saw a bush, engulfed in flame, but not burning and he tried to find out what was going on. Yahweh spoke to him and told him he was being called to liberate those who were enslaved by the Pharoah in Egypt. Moses, unsure about what was really happening here, asked who is sending him and the answer was “I am who I am”, sometimes translated as “I am who Is”.

I Am Who Is. An act of Being. And the conversation is an experience, not a belief. That conversation, often called prayer, comes up from our center, not always as words, but as laughter or kisses or sobbing. Prayer is primeval, it’s primordial, it’s our most ancient language, spoken long before we had words. We dance in joy and sorrow and fear. We make wishes, often secret, and howl, sometimes in pairs and every time we do, we are expressing our deepest desires, our longing for a world we once knew or never knew and can’t live without. Prayer is our most authentic expression when we allow it, especially if we don’t try to temper it with those pesky binary questions that end with “yes” or “no”. Once we move into our minds, seeking images or specifics, wondering to what or whom we are praying, we have moved from our hearts to our heads where Mystery is uncomfortable and usually unwelcome.

I remember long ago being told to kneel and pray daily, to say thank you and to ask for things like help and wisdom. I was told if there were specific things I wanted, I could mention those too, but to be aware that sometimes the answer is “no”. So, I did that. I got on my knees and talked. It was fine, and sometimes helped me get clear about things, or made me feel better about something. Sometimes I waited for answers – and I could wait a long time. Then I started feeling like this was a dysfunctional relationship with me doing all the talking and some guy out in the clouds with all the power. When I started studying religion, I asked a teacher how to pray and she genuinely didn’t understand my question. I wanted her to hand me a stack of papers with the right words on them so I’d be sure I was doing it right. Instead, she asked if I sing. Or walk in the woods. Or chant. She asked if I danced, which I did often. She asked if I loved people, which was also a big “yes”. So, she said, she doesn’t understand why I’m asking. It seems I know how to pray.

I thought I’d find the appropriate and accepted posture and start a conversation with the magic words and then I’d wait for an answer. What I didn’t know is that I didn’t need words and the conversation was going on all around me. All I needed to do was notice. I needed to breath. To see. To feel. To listen.

I don’t know the nature of the universe. I don’t know the meaning of life. I do know how it feels to stand in a summer rainstorm, drenched and laughing. I know how to take off my shoes and feel the grass beneath my feet. I know how to hold a door open for someone or how to thank them when they do that for me, how to live into each gift, how to offer gratitude.

Look around for yourself. Just outside this door, you will see giggling children and plumes of exhaust, regal buildings and people scrounging for food, warm winds and tropical storms – in awe and delight you will see all the things, dreadful and beautiful, more wonderful and terrible than is necessary. Let it strike you speechless with worship and fear. It is Everything.

And every once in a while, look around and see that everyone – no matter who they are or what they think or why they’re here,- everyone is walking around shining like the sun.

This We Believe: The Beginning

Rev. Peggy Clarke, Senior Minister

I’m not sure I remember learning about Adam and Eve as a kid, but I clearly remember learning about Moses and the Exodus. That was a story we told in detail for hours every spring with everyone in our extended family around a table. Passover served as a critical part of my own identity. This is the story of our heritage. These are our ancestors. I’m aware that as a parent, I haven’t done that with my own child. As a UU child, my kid might be able to tell you about lots of creation and origin stories, but none of them are his. It’s true for adults, too. The stories that hold us up often weren’t learned as part of our shared faith, but were brought in from somewhere else.

As Unitarian Universalists, we talk a lot about our faith, but when it comes time to define it, we often speak quickly about what we don’t believe rather than about what we do. If pushed, we lean heavily on ethics, and a few shared understandings of what the world should look like. From time to time, in moments that make every religious professional squirm, someone will pipe in with, “We don’t believe anything” which, of course, is absurd but no better than, “We can believe whatever we want” which is an adolescent response to our stated value of a free and responsible search for truth and meaning. Of course you can believe whatever you want. It’s a free country. But, it’s not an answer to the question. Unitarian Universalists do have a common theology, but we haven’t done a good job of articulating it which leaves us scrambling.

To combat that reality, many ministers talk about the elevator speech. We talk about rehearsing it for our members so they can adopt or adapt it and have something useful to say when asked the question. If you’re interested, mine is, “UUs are part of a covenantal faith. We don’t have doctrine, because we believe that revelation continues to unfold.” It’s short, it’s accurate, it gives a broad sense of who we are. I use it often. It’s fine. But when we’re talking about living into our faith, an elevator speech isn’t enough. We don’t live an elevator speech. We live a theology. We live, we are defined, we behave, we are liberated, by a living faith grounded in a shared theology.

Theology is a system, not just a line or two. It’s a deep and wide expanse of interconnected, interrelated stories that become the foundation for how we understand our lives. Theology is poetry and philosophy and ethics and mythology. It’s broad speculation sometimes made very small so we can hold it in prayer when we are most afraid. It translates out to culture and back in to identity and out again to politics and human systems. As UUs, we have theology, but we haven’t been very good about articulating it. Which is why I’m starting this series I’m calling This We Believe. Over the course of the next few years, I’ll take a systematic approach to theology. This will translate to some adult programming as well as we grapple with the big concepts that make up rich theological systems. It’s also, in its simplest form, the basis for this season’s podcast that I record with Rev. Sarah Lenzi called Hope and Heresy.

What better way to start this UU theology than at the beginning. Cosmology. Creation stories. And here at the dawn of a new year, starting at the beginning makes sense. Sort of. I’m not sure that January, 2022 is really a beginning. I think we’ve been in this doorway or portal, this transition into something else for almost two years. We’re living in a liminal space between what was and what will be. We’ll arrive somewhere and that will be the start of what’s next, but for now, we’re living in the meantime.

But if we’re starting our theological quest, it makes sense to start at the beginning. Every faith, every culture, has a creation story. Or two. The stories have a lot in common as you heard from our reading. Light and Dark. Land and Sea. People. Animals. Floods. Some traditions have more than one. Genesis serves as the creation story for Jews and Christians and in it there are at least two distinct stories. One is told by the day. There is a god who exists before anything else and that god creates it all from nothing.

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.”

It goes on like that. God separates the land and the sea, creates humans, all the animals…you know the story. It’s beautiful and rich. There’s a second story, too. In the first story, humans were formed as part of the creation of all the things. In the second story, it says, “The Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” It goes on to say that God planted a garden in Eden and that’s where the man lived for what seems to be quite a while because God is busy creating trees and streams and naming things, but then God realizes the man is lonely, so he takes a rib from the man from which he creates Eve. “Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh.”

This is a foundational story and, for good or ill, it defines the Judeo-Christian tradition and the many countries founded on that tradition, like our own. These stories create order out of chaos. They tell us why things are the way they are. They give us context. We might let go of them in their literal forms, but the mythology lives in our culture and language, serving as the infrastructure for our collective lives.

What are the creation stories that undergird Unitarian Universalism? We begin with science and the Big Bang. It starts with fire. Creation doesn’t begin in one moment; it came into existence in a sequence of events unfolding from within as billions of galaxies. Eco-theologian Brian Swimme puts it this way, “In the depths of its silence, the universe shuddered with the immense creativity necessary to fashion the galaxies…These gigantic structures pinwheeled through the emptiness of space and swept up all the hydrogen and helium into self-organizing systems…” Sidney Leibes, in his book A Walk Through Time says, “The primal brilliance expands briefly and then suddenly, with great fury, enters upon an even more explosive expansion that physicists designate with the phrase inflation, an exponential billowing forth in which the elementary particles, the first material beings, are torn out of a deep well of potentiality and allowed to enter the adventure of evolution.”

About five billion years ago our sun was born and became a supernova seeding all the elements of our solar system. Four-and-a-half billion years ago spinning around the sun was a disc of the original subcloud just large enough to resist the cosmic rays from the sun. A cold remnant of the subcloud, a hanger-on, a residue, a swirling disc of elements, gave birth in time to Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. The planets were formed, and the solar system took shape as a community.

Cletus Wessels wrote, “The earth was a privileged planet with its size producing a gravitational and electromagnetic balance, and its position with respect to the sun enabling it to establish a temperature range in which complex molecules could be formed. Out of these seemingly random conditions came the earth’s stupendous creativity over the next four billion years that brought forth all the beauty of its land, its plants, and its animals. And then between two and three million years ago, the earth became conscious in the human.”

This is our creation story and one that can lead us more deeply toward mystery and awe. This is our mythology. To be clear, to call something a myth isn’t to denigrate it. On the contrary, I’m looking to elevate this story. Myths are big stories, universal stories that we can hold our individual stories up to. They are mirrors, or lenses, ways for us to see ourselves and our place in the universe. To call something myth isn’t a comment about the facts of the story. It’s to say that the story is True. The creation story science has given us offers meaningful insight into our lives on this planet. One of our sources of Truth is science. And, science, like UUs, changes its mind sometimes. New information is made known and new theories are posited. UUs don’t have doctrine because we know that revelation continues to unfold. But, that doesn’t mean we can’t have myths. Myths can change with time, but they aren’t dependent on facts.

The creation story the scientists have given us is ready to be mined for Truth, necessary insights into what it means to be who we are. These stories tell us that the universe is self-organizing and alive. Creation comes from chaos. Everything from galaxies to solar systems to cells and atoms, everything evolves into collaborative communities. Every species helps shape every other, all of life is in an intertwined process of co-evolution. Sidney Liebes tells us the universe is a cosmogenesis – a developing community – with a role for everyone.

Like every great creation story, this one has implications for how we live our lives. We are wildly, radically, connected to and dependent on all life on this planet. Nationalism is absurd in light of the truth of our becoming. It’s also a call to know our place, to keep ourselves right-sized in this massive story. Thomas Berry, the groundbreaking geo-theologian warns us that humans have multiplied into the billions making us the most numerous of all Earth’s complex organisms. We’ve inserted ourselves into most of the ecosystemic communities throughout the planet, reducing Earth’s diversity and channeling the majority of the Gross Earth Product into human social systems. The future will be worked out in the tensions between those committed to what he calls the Technozoic, a future of increased exploitation of Earth as resource for the benefit of humans, and those committed to the Ecozoic, a new mode of human-Earth relations, one where the well-being of the entire Earth community is the primary concern.

I admit, this origin story is more complicated than “God separated the heavens and the Earth and on the 7th day He rested.” But, it’s beautiful in its complexity. Its proximity to facts is enticing. And its implications are transformative. We could embrace this story, adopt it as our cosmology, our central story of creation and the origins of our shared lives. We have it here to mine, to discover Great Truth that can hold us up when we feel overwhelmed or unsure or confused about the world. This gorgeous, ancient, poetic history of a story is the infrastructure for our lives, telling us who we are, holding us together as a community, providing insight into how we should move forward. I can imagine us telling the story to our children, sitting around a table, explaining that they are stardust, no less than the trees and the moon, that their ancestors became planets and oceans and apes, all evolving into the glorious world we’re now a part of.

As we begin this new year, as we continue on this journey into unknown territory, this story reminds us that we are part of something magnificent, a community of elements that organized into this awe-inspiring life and we are now active players in the long, poetry of our creation.

The Once and Future Church

I don’t remember the first time I came into this building. 40 E. 35th street, the current location for The Community Church of New York, was the center of UU life in the Metro NY District for decades. Our District, which went south half way down the state of NJ, almost as far north as Albany and east into CT, found a home in these buildings. I was here often, to do the business of our minister’s association, or to participate in workshops on how to do whatever it is we’re supposed to know how to do, or to attend task force meetings on all kinds of topics to move the district or the denomination forward. This was the hub. We’ll meet at Community Church. We’d be in the gallery or the Assembly Hall, places I came to know so well they felt like a second home. I was rarely here, in the sanctuary, but the few times I was, it was for an auspicious event, important moments that live on in my memory. And what a gorgeous, and perfectly Unitarian space this is. I was always in awe, and often a little jealous, of the magnificence of this room.

Which is why, on my very first day as Senior Minister, I snuck up to the building hoping no one would see me, so I could take a selfie with the sign outside that says Community Church of New York. It wasn’t for posting or texting; it was for me. It was a private moment of pride and a little bit of a pinching of myself so I knew this was real. I’m here. And the first time my name was on the board with the name of my first sermon here – A House of Prayer for All People – I took a picture of that too.

I know I’m not alone in loving this building. The thought of taking it down breaks my heart. These bricks. I know not everyone feels the same way about this room, but I love these bricks. I love the height. I love the balcony. I love the flags declaring religious diversity. I love that corridor which reminds me of ancient European monasteries. I feel silly sitting in such a decadent chair, but the size of this chancel is wonderfully luxurious. That I’m the Senior Minister overseeing the destruction of this building is painful to me, and not a task, frankly, I thought I was signing up for.

Learning that there was a committee designated by the board to look at all the ways to leverage our wealth was fascinating to me. I loved the intentionality of it. So many big, old churches just keep going along doing the same things over and over as if the world around them wasn’t changing, but that’s not the spirit of Community Church of New York. I dug in to find out what they’d learned and where their thinking was. I got all the numbers, met experts in a lot of different fields, did my best to take the stand of an outsider who wasn’t attached to any particular outcome. I just wanted the information.

And, I was skeptical. I wasn’t sure I liked our broker. At least one engineer bugged me. I was dismissive of some of the lawyers and an entire architectural firm. There was no rush and I felt the luxury of asking questions and asking questions about the questions.

And the leaders on that PET Team were really good. They were also suspicious. They also asked questions. They bickered with each other some, but always because they were so committed to creating the best possible outcome for the church. I never doubted anyone’s desire for a healthy church and a strong future.

And we were thorough. For every hire, we got recommendations, interviewed at least three people or firms, made careful, informed decisions. We followed the information as it was presented, making decisions based on the best advice you could find in New York, which, I’m here to tell you is really good. These are the experts. We learned that our buildings are in such disrepair after years of neglect that there’s absolutely no way we can afford to fix them. There’s massive asbestos. The staircases in the brownstones are pulling of the walls. The entire electric system is covered in cloth- hundred year old cloth, turning to dust and covering the wiring in 4 of our buildings. The total renovation costs added up to nearly $25 million dollars, and that’s before the recent price hikes – far above anything we could ever afford. And yes, we had multiple estimates from multiple people and companies. The numbers and the information were always the same. And, it included this building. This gorgeous sanctuary where important people have debated the hottest issues of the day. Where babies have been dedicated and couples have been married and where a few people are even buried – a little tidbit here on Halloween.

The information was clear. We ran all the numbers. We’ll have to sell the buildings to someone who can take them down safely and build something else in their place. We learned that we couldn’t get enough money for the brownstones alone to cover the cost of the sanctuary. Of course, that would leave us without any meeting or office space, so we’d be broke and too small to function, anyway. But there were other problems. We had tenants in rent controlled apartments. No one is buying this space as long as we’re obliged to those people, so we had to find an alternative. We made them a few offers they rejected. In NYC, they have the right to refuse to leave. It’s on us to make leaving more interesting than staying, and then like manna from heaven, the brownstone right next to us went on the market. We asked the congregation to authorize the purchase of that buildings and after a lot of negotiation haggling over details, we were able to move our tenants into newly renovated space. It was a bonus that we could move our shelter in as well, untying another knot.

After years of investigating our options, accepting some very difficult truths, facing some painful realities, taking many steps in the right direction, we were ready to move forward with the decision by the congregation to sell to the highest bidder. It was sad, but necessary and we were ready.

The thing making this all OK was the idea that we were building something better. We were designing a glorious new church. Nearly 30,000 square feet of state of the art space with a massive, but flexible sanctuary, plenty of meeting space, classrooms, art rooms, a dance studio, a place for broadcasting and research and, really, everything a modern, alive, vibrant, relevant church could possibly imagine. I accepted the loss of something beloved because what was next was going to make this all worth it. Community Church was coming alive again. After so much turmoil, after decay of more than one kind, we were looking at a revival in a space worthy of our legacy and exciting enough to launch us into a new age.

Learning that wasn’t going to happen was a massive blow. I went through all the stages of grief. Denial. No, there has to be another way. A lawsuit? We didn’t even do anything. Everything is by the book. We’re going to get this dismissed and it’ll all be fine. Anger. How did this happen? Why didn’t we know about this? I thought this wasn’t a possibility because YOU told me that. Bargaining. What if we settle the lawsuit? Can we just give them some money? There has to be a way to make this go away. Depression. This is so sad. All that work. All those dreams. And there’s nothing. Acceptance. OK. What’s next. This is what’s real, and I hate it, so what can we do to move forward?

First, I recognized for myself – and this might be true for you too – that I’m not mourning the past but an imagined future. First, that future was to happen here. Then, after accepting it wouldn’t be here, I thought it was somewhere even more wonderful. Now, it’s not those things. The past that I’ve loved, still exists. No one can take from us what we’ve had. But, we have to imagine a new future.

People have been asking a lot about that. I can tell you that there are 2 buildings for sale within a block from here that are quite wonderful, bordering on perfect. They aren’t expensive. Once this vote happens, we’re going to get the information we need to make an informed decision, but knowing we have those options is very hopeful. It would actually mean that we could find ourselves in new space in a year rather than the 5 years we were preparing for. We’d have even more than 30,000 square feet, and we can bring it all up to the standards we were dreaming of before, making ourselves both a center for art and spirituality and a center for justice grounded in faith.

And we can do that because this sale will give us more than 60 million dollars. What small non-profit or NGO or church has that kind of money? We’d have options. Lots of them. Far more than we have right now. And we have ideas. What about a building dedicated to children and youth with classrooms and a nursery and a youth art gallery and an LGBTQ after-school program? I’d like to start a lecture series for the entire denomination focusing on Black UU History and Theology. Maybe we can host gatherings focused on a theological renaissance or the spiritual benefits of climate transformation.

When I started here, I said this was a ministry of YES. Today, I’m asking us all to embrace that vision. Let’s say yes to our future, yes to an alive and relevant church, yes to our leaders, yes to congregational health and yes to hope for what’s to come. For more than a dozen years, a need for change has been apparent. Groups have been formed to investigate options and make recommendations, but none have been taken. This time, is different. I’m confident that we’ll vote yes to this contract because I have to believe that this church will survive and will thrive. To vote no would be catastrophic. I’m not telling you that to frighten you; I’m saying it because it’s true. We’ve come this far, have spent a lot of money to get here, not to mention the good will of our leaders who have poured themselves out for to get us here. We have put it all on the table which is how it should be. For something this big, it should have taken a lot of time and it’s not unexpected that those of us who have been doing this for these last few years are feeling depleted. It’s OK. It’s a sign of seriousness and dedication. Now it’s your turn to meet us in this place of hope. The work is done. All we need do is to say yes.

This church has moved 4 times, has survived two fires, changed names three times, been part of two denominations. We’ve been broke before, dead broke, the kind of broke that lead us to talk of closing. And each time, leadership thought big and acted with courage and love. And, I’m sure there were naysayers with each big move, people who organized to stop the change, who acted up and walked out. But, the core of the church, the thing, frankly that I think defines Community Church over so many other churches, the core of the church knew it was time and took a bold step into an unknown future.

Here we go again.