March 4, 2018How to be Less ObnoxiousRev. Dr. Matthew JohnsonThis isn’t a contest but a doorway.

This isn’t a contest, but a doorway.

Will you come with me?

Come with me into the imagination, come with me into a story.

I have long believed that we learn best by stories,

even though — even though —

I was taught that what was most real was facts.

I was.

Were you taught that, too? That facts were real, and stories were false?

Some of us were. Not all of us.

But I’ve learned that stories have a deeper truth,

and even though I forget what I’ve learned,

sometimes I remember.

This is a theme for this month,

by the way.

That sometimes we forget what we know, and we’re not as right as we think we are,

not as smart, not as wise, not as good, not as important as some of us sometimes think we are.

Me, I forget a lot of the things I know.

And I have to be reminded.

I have a lot of gratitude for the people in my life who help be remember what I sometimes forget.

We’ll come back to that.

But for now, come with me into a story.

Suspend your interrogation and just come along with me in this mostly true story.

A mostly true story about a diary, and what was in it.

When was this diary written, and when did I “find” it? We’ll you’ll just have to wonder.

The diary’s first entry was in the slightly larger script of a 5th grader.

The letters a little close together, and some of the spelling was off.

But you could read it.

Here was the first entry:

This is my diary. My name is Kelly.

My mission in life is to fix the world.

There are a lot of things wrong in the world.

And I’m going to fix them.

In school, we are learning about all the things that are wrong.

Things like war.

And homeless people.

And cutting down the rainforest.

These things make me mad and sad.

There should not be war.

And people should have houses.

And people should not cut down trees.

I asked my teacher what I could do.

She said I should write a letter to the President,

but my friend Jasper said the President was stupid and wouldn’t do anything.

I asked my dad what to do

and he said I could help save the rainforest if I eat less meat.

He told me about how the trees are burned down to make land for cows.

So I told my friend Jasper he shouldn’t eat meat either,

and he said I was stupid for telling him what to do.

I’m not sure if I want to be his friend anymore.

I asked my grandma what to do.

She said I should learn more about these things,

and ask questions, and listen to people.

Because nothing is as simple as it seems.

She said, try not to be righteous about this.

(It took me a few minutes to figure out that Kelly meant righteous - that’s a hard word for a kid to spell).

The diary continues:

Grandma said, this is not a contest, it is a doorway.

And she said she loved me.

I said I loved her too.

If you turn a few pages, you come to another entry,

the script is a neater, and the spelling is better, but it looks like it was written quickly.

A few years later, probably.

Dear diary.

I’m so mad today.

My friend Jasper got suspended from school, and he didn’t do anything wrong at all.

The principal just doesn’t like him because he speaks up about things that are wrong.

This school is so bogus.

They teach us about government, and writing, but then when people want to protest something,

they say, that’s not what school is about.

This war they want to start is wrong.

We shouldn’t be sending more troops too . . .

(now, I confess, I can’t read Kelly’s handwriting here. I’m not sure if it says “the frontier” or “The Philippines” or “Vietnam” or “Afghanistan” or something else. You’ll have to fill that in. The diary continues:)

It’s wrong. They don’t want us there,

and I don’t want my friends to go to war.

Jasper agrees with me.

So we made posters.

“No War!” they said.

And we put a picture of a dove, bleeding on the floor.

It was dramatic.

We printed them up,

and when they saw Jasper taping one up in the hallway, they suspended him on the spot.

I’m furious.

I asked my teacher what to do, and she said,

“write a letter to the school board.”

Please, those grownups don’t know anything.

I asked my dad what to do, and he said,

let’s call the ACLU. We’ll sue.

Maybe.

I told my grandma,

and she asked to see the poster.

She asked me about how I felt.

After a while, she told me about her brother, who’d gone to fight in a war,

and was injured.

He died before I was born.

She showed me pictures.

I said, see, grandma, war is wrong.

She said, Maybe.

She said, I think you should learn more, and make your case.

She said, this is not a contest, it’s a doorway.

And she said, I love you.

And I said, I love you too.

Turn a few pages.

The script is less hurried. Deliberate writing. But still clearly the same person.

Dear diary.

I’m feeling really inspired today, Diary.

I’ve been reading about creating our own reality.

About the power of positive thinking, and about your energy.

How to put good thoughts out into the world.

And about how, deep inside, all of us are so powerful.

And I feel powerful.

I really going to focus on the positive.

Try to create the world I want to live in.

I feel sorry for those with such negative attitudes.

But I can’t let folks bring me down.

I’m not going to watch the news, or pay attention to all that stuff.

Not going to let it get in my head space.

I’m better than that.

My friend Jasper, he’s such a downer.

Always talking about what’s wrong.

Like we’re still kids.

My therapist says not to get into that stuff.

It just sends me to a down place.

My dad says that it’s good to be happy,

but I should also be useful. What does he know?

My Grandma says that there are ups and downs,

and I should live in the real world.

She says it’s not a contest, but a doorway.

I don’t really know that that means,

but she loves me and I love her too.

Turn a few pages. Past a variety of entries.

Kelly’s writing is that of a grown up now, though you can still see the unique way the J’s and I’s are formed.

Dear diary.

I haven’t written here in years.

My grandma died a year ago today, and thinking about her,

and her amazing, long, and beautiful life,

made me remember this diary she gave me,

when I was a child.

I’m sad she’s gone, and I miss her today.

That’s all.

Kelly.

A few pages later.

Dear diary.

Went to the protest today.

It felt so good to be with so many other people who are saying “no” to this awful law.

How could anyone think this was a good idea!

We’ve got to fight!

Fight!

After the protest, Jasper and I went to lunch.

It was great to see him and catch up.

Kelly.

A few pages later.

Dear diary,

I’m struggling with what to do about this fight for justice.

At first, it felt good.

Like we were making a difference.

But then I had other things to do.

And so did everyone else.

Well, not everyone.

I’ve been going to other meetings, and I’ve been showing up at the offices of politicians.

I wrote a letter, even though that younger me, the one who thinks politicians are stupid,

thought it was a waste of time and paper.

It feels good to be useful,

or it did.

But I got called out.

One of the other organizers — she’s such a jerk —

she said I wasn’t committed. That I didn’t know what I was talking about.

And maybe she had a point . . .

but I wish she’d been nicer about it.

Less righteous, you know.

Kelly.

A few pages.

Dear diary.

Grrrrrr.

Why are people so foolish? So uneducated.

This woman at the forum today,

it’s like she didn’t do any reading in advance at all.

I mean, this isn’t hard to figure out! Own your stuff lady.

I might have been as nice as I should have.

OK, I might have been a know-it-all.

But, honestly, she shouldn’t be such a fool.

Kelly.

A few pages.

Dear diary.

I guess I’m asking for help.

Guide my feet while I run this race.

I’m asking . . . . I don’t know. God? Not sure I believe in that!

Maybe I’m asking Grandma what to do.

It’s all hard.

Work.

Being a parent.

Relationships.

Life.

There’s never enough time to do everything the way it should be done.

And I worry that I’m not enough.

That I’m not doing enough to make the world better.

Not doing enough to be a good parent to my children,

let alone do enough for my marriage.

It’s not enough.

What should I do?

Hold my hand . . .

I wish I could sit at my Grandmother’s welcome table,

that place where I know I would be welcome.

Where I am enough.

(there’s a little doodle here. A picture of a table, a candle on the table,

two chairs. Underneath, the text continues:)

This is not a contest, it’s a doorway.

I think I know what that means, better.

I want to believe it.

That I don’t have to be the best.

I don’t have to win at saving the world.

I don’t have to have the best answers, or the most righteousness

(she spelled it right this time).

I don’t have to suit up for every fight.

But I do need to love.

I need to open the doorway.

This is not a contest, it’s a doorway.

Search my heart.

Kelly.

A few pages.

Dear diary.

I went to the protest today.

My own child spoke! They were so good - heartfelt and true.

I’ve done good. Not perfect, god knows.

But they care about the world.

These kids, they seem to understand something I have struggled to get:

that it is better to do together, than to dance solos on the ceiling.

They say it is a leaderful movement, and that power is shared.

They don’t take credit.

They just get it done.

They say, not the wand, not the stone, but the cloak.

Something about an ancient legend, they say.

They also talk a lot about putting marginalized voices at the center.

They talk about learning to step up and step back,

depending on where you are.

That everyone has a gift, and should put that in service of something larger.

Sometimes I worry they won’t get as much done, without someone in charge.

And sometimes they don’t.

But they seem to be having more fun.

It made me remember.

Not a contest, a doorway.

Kelly

There’s a lot more entries.

But I’ll skip ahead pretty far.

Dear diary.

One year, to the day, since Dad died.

Before he went, I asked him what I should do.

I thought he’d give me all sorts of practical advice, as he does.

But he just held my hand and said

“love the world. love your kids. love yourself.

I love you.”

I miss him.

Kelly.

A little further on.

Dear diary.

Today I held my grandson.

8lbs, 6oz.

I called Jasper and told him — my oldest friend.

We laughed — who would think we would ever be so old?

Or so wise, Jasper said.

Wise? I don’t know.

I guess I have learned somethings, I said. He has too.

Do your work, then step back.

Be useful.

Don’t hog the space.

Do your research ahead of time,

but don’t be a jerk to those who haven’t.

Love them.

Jasper remembered:

It’s not a contest.

It’s not a contest.

It’s a doorway: a doorway to justice,

a doorway to hope,

a doorway to love.

Positive energy matters. But sometimes things go wrong,

and thinking good thoughts doesn’t stop that.

The world needs you.

It needs your love more than your anger.

It needs your devotion more than your judgment.

I held that child,

and I whispered it their ear:

“It’s a doorway. And I love you.”

Kelly.

There are more entries, and maybe I’ll share them with you someday.

I don’t know when or where Kelly lived, or Kelly’s gender, or race.

I know that Kelly learned something that I struggle with,

as an activist for justice:

that you can help without being in charge.

that you can be useful without being right.

that you don’t have to do everything.

that love is more important than judgement.

that hope is more important than anger.

that everyone has a story, and you might listen to it and learn something.

That you have a place at the welcome table.

That you are good enough.

That you don’t need to fix the world to fix yourself.

That you can love the world even when you don’t feel loved yourself.

That you are loved yourself even when you don’t feel it.

That it’s not a contest.

Social justice, life, being a parent, being a person.

It’s not a contest.

It’s a doorway.

A doorway.

To that land, for which we are bound.

To which we might, if we are wise, travel together.

Let us go though.

March 11, 2018A Heaven of StarsRev. Dr. Matthew JohnsonHow soon unaccountable I became tired and sick.

Tired and sick.

Does it feel to you like people are . . . extra . . . cranky?

Maybe it’s just me.

But I’m noticing.

Even I’m feeling cranky.

And I’m cranky about feeling cranky, because I don’t like to feel this way,

but there it is.

I’m cranky.

And so are others.

I notice.

Petty complaints.

Little annoyances.

Things that have been held in, coming out.

I notice children who are annoyed at their parents.

And parents who are annoyed at their children.

I see friendships and relationships that are little testy here and there —

or more, in some cases.

I see committees getting feisty,

or people just not coming.

Of course, social media is, as it so often is, a swamp of misery.

I mean, not all of it. But you know.

Look, not everybody is cranky.

But some of us are.

And not every compliant is petty.

Some of them are really important concerns that need to be addressed.

Or good solid suggestions.

But some are petty.

Do you feel this at all?

Is it just me?

And maybe it’s the news.

War, and talk of war.

Nonsense — mostly, a lot of nonsense.

Primary season is rarely good for us,

because ain’t no argument as vicious as an argument between people who mostly agree.

And tragedy.

Too much tragedy.

Another day, another cluster of death.

I think it wears on us, you know?

All of it

The last 14 months have had a cumulative effect on some of us.

The last 500 years have a cumulative effect on others of us.

And we’re worn down.

And part of it is the season.

We thought it was about to be spring . . .

and then it wasn’t.

And it hasn’t been a brutal winter, not at all.

But I’m ready for a warm breeze, not a cold one.

For daffodils and crocuses. croci?

Whatever you call them, I’m ready.

And, as if to add insult to injury,

they took away an hour of our sleep last night.

Really?

You know, we don’t have Daylight Savings Time for farmers.

Farmers hate it.

We have it because the Golf lobby — yes, the golf lobby —

want people to play golf longer into the evening.

Also the candy lobby likes extra light on Halloween so they can sell more sugar.

We’ve even sold time off to the highest bidder.

See, cranky.

The psychologist of insignificance

writes to the astrophysicist.

He projects:

I would feel so small, so unimportant,

if I were to think about the stars.

About the universe.

Sometimes.

Have you felt that?

Under the stars?

We live in the Milky Way, a large but not enormous galaxy.

In our galaxy, there are about 200 billion stars.

Or maybe 300 billion.

Average is probably 100 billion.

We’re not sure how many galaxies there are — the current guess is 2 trillion.

Which means that the number of stars in the observable universe would be written

2 with twenty-three zeros after it.

But remember we can only observe the parts of the universe that are within 13.8 billion light years,

and there might be even more of the universe that we can’t see.

Do you feel small yet?

Do you think, what does any of this matter?

Does it make you . . . cranky?

It can be like this.

It can be like this when we see something that’s awesome.

That’s huge.

That can be true of personal problems -

when the debt is so large, we can’t imagine getting it under control.

when the parent we are caring for has so many issues, we just think we should walk away.

when the loneliness is so strong, we stop bothering to leave the house.

When we’re are overwhelmed.

And it can be true of justice issues.

what does it matter?

what difference can any of us make?

the issues are so huge.

the stars, the ocean, it’s so much more than us.

Time, the universe, so much more than us.

And that can make us cranky.

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick.

til rising and gliding out

I looked up

in perfect silence

at the stars.

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick

til I looked up

in perfect silence

at the stars.

The astrophysicist writes back

to the psychologist of insignificance:

I don’t experience that smallness at all.

I don’t see the stars and think

I am nothing

I see the stars and think

I am part of this

this so much

this amazing

this wow

I am made of the dust of these stars

and I can look and my brain can understand

and I am the universe looking at itself

and from single molecules of who knows what

there has evolved . . . me

and whales and butterflies and boa constrictors

and fish that glow in the dark miles below the surface

and on another planet around another star in another galaxy

maybe some being looks up

in the mystical moist night air

in perfect silence at the stars

and feels a little less cranky

and thinks:

I wonder who else is out there?

When I feel cranky, it’s mostly about expectations.

I expect things to go a certain way.

And they don’t.

I expect it to be 65 degrees and its 40.

I expect the children to be perfectly behaved at all times.

You’d think I’d know better, but nonetheless. I expect the technology to work.

Even though it was only invented a few years ago,

I think it should work perfectly.

I expect politicians to be wise, just, and useful.

I don’t know why I expect that.

You’d think I’d know better, but nonetheless.

I expect people to be polite.

I can get a 100 compliments, and 1 complaint,

but you know what’ll I’ll be thinking about the rest of the day.

Anyone else like this?

Yeah.

So if we expect ourselves to be uniquely important,

and we look up a heaven of stars,

we might think,

whoa.

We might even look away.

It might be too much.

But if we think:

the wide universe is the ocean I travel

and the earth is my blue boat home

then maybe we don’t feel small so much as we feel

held.

That it isn’t all up to us.

Before we were born,

people stared at the stars and wondered.

They will do so when we are gone.

Before we were born,

people made art, and raised children,

and worked for justice,

and loved and lost and had cranky days

and days of beauty

and after we are gone

people will do all those things again.

And it’s not all up to us.

There are a lot of stars in the sky.

It’s okay.

It’s beautiful.

It’s overwhelming, but it’s beautiful.

We are not the only star in the sky.

We are not the only person on the earth.

Yet, we are made of stars.

And in billons of years, we shall return to those stars.

And though there are billions of people

there is no one quite the same as us

and yet we are related to all of those people.

Small and large are,

in this case,

not opposites but mystical synonyms.

Within the magic of night is a mystery,

a clue,

to a larger question:

where do we fit?

what is our place in this universe which is so large?

Given that the light of distance reaches us,

that light from the beginning of time itself

travels, and eventually, we see back into time to the beginning,

what then?

This is, of course, a religious question.

In light of awe, of wonder,

of what the father of liberal theology Fredrich Schleiermacher

called the feeling of ultimate dependence,

what is our place?

Since we are not everything, does that mean we are nothing?

Our answer is this:

we drift here with our ships companions,

casting questions into the deep.

This picture, these stars, this is amazing.

And you can feel small.

Or you can feel — connected.

Part of something so large.

It’s about perspective.

It’s about a shift in how you see it.

Where you place yourself.

You can be cranky.

Everything that’s wrong.

Or you can shift.

See the sun reflect on the water.

Be glad to breathe in the air.

Know that under the soil, the bulb is cracking open.

You can say, “why do they complain”

or you can say, “these people care. they haven’t given up.”

You can say, “these children are exhausting”

or you can say “soon, sooner than I know,

they will be grown.”

You can say, “ug, politics.”

Or you can say, “let us do what we can.”

It’s about a shift in the way you see it.

This is an amazing sight, all those stars.

But here is another amazing sight. (slide)

The experience of seeing the earth from space is something only a few hundred people have ever done.

They call it the overview effect,

and they say it changes you forever.

The boundaries slip away.

Your consciousness shifts.

You see our blue-green planet.

So small.

So beautiful.

You don’t have to go to space to see this.

They take pictures.

It’s not the same,

but still. Look.

We are just one human of so many billions,

on one small planet of so many billions

around one small star of so many billions

in one galaxy of so many billions.

And it is gorgeous.

Small and large at once.

Every astronaut who goes into space

and sees the earth says:

how can we fight with each other?

how can we oppress each other?

how can we keep our heads down,

in misery, when we live on this small and beautiful planet,

spinning in space?

When the stars shine above us,

and the chance that we are here —

that this planet, with water, and seasons,

and the right amount of heat,

when the chances are so small?

And you’re going to be cranky?

Come on.

Shift your view.

Look up.

Feel the earth spin.

Breath the air.

Reach out and hold hands with someone.

Feel your own heart beat.

How soon unaccountable I became sick and tired

Until, gliding from my seat

into the mystical moist night air,

I looked up in perfect silence

at the stars.

We cannot count them all,

so many billions

and we cannot always see them,

and sometimes we choose not to,

and yet they are there,

and yet we are here,

made of the dust of the cosmos.

Wow.

Look, we’re going to have cranky days.

We’re going to mess up, too.

We’re going to need forgiveness,

and we’re going to work for justice,

and sometimes fail,

and we’re going to be frantic, and need some peace,

and we’re going to stumble,

and need someone to pick us up.

That’s just human.

Meanwhile, the stars shine.

Reminding us, if we shift our view,

that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

It is larger than ourselves:

so much larger than us.

And that should make us humble.

And we are part of it.

We are.

And that should make us grand.

And one more thing:

so is everyone else.

They are made of stars too.

It ain’t just you.

And that should make us love.

For in the end, the stars shine for us all.

Every night a child is born —

under a sacred star, somewhere, which is everywhere —

every night a child is born

which is every night

every night a child is born

is a holy night.

What do you see?

I invite you to see what’s possible.

What’s beautiful.

What’s awe-some.

What’s kind.

What’s good.

What’s worthy of praise.

What’s worthy of love.

I invite you to see, to feel, to sing, to dream, to care

for this blue-green home of ours,

drifting through the stars,

our home,

our gift,

our earth.

March 18th, 2018Interfaith Humility Rev. Dr. Matthew JohnsonDo you know the one about what happens when you cross a Unitarian

and a Jehovas Witness?

They knock on your door but then don’t have anything in particular to say.

Or how about this one:

Q: How many Unitarians does it take to change a light bulb?A: We choose not to make a statement either in favor of or against the need for a light bulb. However, if in your own journey, you have found that light bulbs work for you, that is wonderful. You are invited to write a poem or compose a modern dance about your personal relationship with your light bulb. Present it next month at our annual Light Bulb Sunday Service, in which we will explore a number of light bulb traditions, including incandescent, fluorescent, 3-way, long-life, and tinted, all of which are equally valid paths to luminescence.

Years ago, the humorist Jon Carrol published what he said was a communique from a group calling itself Unitarian Jihad.

The whole thing is fabulous.

It begins: Greetings to the Imprisoned Citizens of the United States. We are Unitarian Jihad. There is only God, unless there is more than one God. The vote of our God subcommittee is 10-8 in favor of one God, with two abstentions. Brother Flaming Sword of Moderation noted the possibility of there being no God at all, and his objection was noted with love by the secretary.

It concludes:

People of the United States! We are Unitarian Jihad! We can strike without warning. Pockets of reasonableness and harmony will appear as if from nowhere! Nice people will run the government again! There will be coffee and cookies in the Gandhi Room after the revolution.

If you type in Unitarian Jihad Name Generator, it will give you your own Unitarian Jihad name.

I did it while writing this at it gave me “Father Battleaxe of Moderation.”

I’ll take it, that’s pretty good.

It’s good for us to laugh at ourselves.

It’s really important. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Rule one of religion.

It is good for us to laugh at ourselves.

It doesn’t feel so good when other people laugh at us, though, does it?

That doesn’t feel good at all.

And they do.

We were in the news late last year, as you know.

As we are from time to time.

And when we are in the news, for any reason, especially for something controversial —

racial justice, a woman’s right to control her own body, economic justice, equality for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer folks —

when we are in the news

inevitably,

we get nasty-grams. Voice mails, letters, comments:

that we’re not a real church.

Not a real religion.

Sometimes we think these folks aren’t just educated about us.

That’s the Unitarian way, after all, to believe that people just need to be better educated.

But some of them are quite well-educated,

and they make it clear in no uncertain terms:

they think we’re wrong.

they think we’re misguided.

that we’ve abandoned tradition in ways that are foolish and false,

that our laxity about creed and doctrine is a sign of weakness,

that we’re more interested in politics and coffee then we are in God and salvation.

(And I know what some of you are thinking:

you ARE more interested in politics and coffee than God and salvation. What’s wrong with that?)

People come after me too:

I’m not a real pastor.

That somehow my credentials aren’t real.

My $40,000 in student loan debt begs to differ.

I am real, and so are you.

We try to brush it off.

But it stings when we’re attacked.

I deal with this professionally, but I know some of you deal with this at the family table,

in the workplace,

when you visit your in-laws, or your parents

or your own children.

They don’t get it.

They worry for the state of your soul.

They said, “I’ll pray for you to be converted”

which feels . . . gross, right?

Pray for me to live my best life, or be healthy, or safe.

But don’t pray for me to convert to your faith.

That’s just . . . insulting.

And so it’s tempting, isn’t it?

To get defensive?

To attack the attacker?

If they’re going to make fun of me, I’m going to make fun of them.

It’s tempting.

To cloak our hurt in superiority.

Why are they mean to me? They’re just jealous.

That’s what I do when I feel threatened: I retreat into ego.

Anyone else do this?

I do.

And then, usually, I regret it later.

Anyone else?

Because a superiority complex might make us feel better for a moment,

but it’s . . . gross.

Thinking that we’re the best —- it’s human nature,

but see how it feels from the other side.

They say, “I pray that you’ll convert to my faith.”

We respond: “I hope you’ll become as evolved in your thinking as I am.”

Are they really that different?

Stephen Prothero critiques what is called “the perennial philosophy” —

the belief that all religions are really the same.

The sense that the rituals, practices, and particularities of religion

are unimportant, and that what religions’ share:

an openness to wonder and an instruction to treat other people with respect

are the only important parts of faith.

How much we miss, he writes, when we do that.

How much we fail to understand when we don’t go below the surface.

When we don’t see the way that each faith asks different questions,

let alone provides different answers.

How each faith has a history, stories, and depth and diversity within the tradition.

There’s as much difference between a Pentecostal Christian and Greek Orthodox Christian

as there is between a Tibetan Buddhist and a Zen Buddhist,

or between different schools of Islam, Judaism, Yoruba, or Daoism.

This perennial philosophy, which says every religion is true

— and, he writes, the “new atheism” that says every religion is false —

both have the goal of minimizing differences,

and given the history of those differences being used to justify and inspire horrible violence, wars, genocide, and oppression,

one can understand the temptation.

But neither approach is honest — to the depth, the character, the diversity of faith.

And neither approach is kind.

Kind to the people whose lives are oriented by these faiths,

who are comforted in grief, who are inspired to greatness, who are connected with something larger then themselves.

There is a tension here for us.

Because the perennial philosophy, is, for us, not just an strategy toward peace,

but an actual article of faith.

Indeed, this is our core belief!

That each religious tradition, and also science, and art, and, well, everything,

offers up wisdom, and beauty, and truth,

and that we, in community, using our conscience,

put the pieces together in ways that inspire us to live with justice and love.

That is the heart of who we are.

Which means we are uniquely tempted to demonstrate interfaith egoism.

We are uniquely tempted to think we have advanced beyond a childish faith

to a more mature faith —

indeed, sometimes we use those words.

I’ve probably used them!

And I shouldn’t.

But we are tempted.

It’s especially tempting when we’ve been harmed, shunned, or betrayed by another faith.

When we were told we weren’t orthodox enough,

or submissive enough,

or straight enough,

to be Christian, or Jewish, or whatever it might be.

Some of us have been harmed by other religious traditions.

We have been threatened, wounded, and in some cases,

even physically harmed.

Religion has been used an excuse for abuse.

And those wounds go especially deep, because it is betrayal.

To say love and preach hate is treason.

And so I do not today wish to diminish or wipe away the pain and harm

that has been done to so many, including some of you,

by faith, and those who claim to be faithful.

Not at all.

But here is a secret.

Or not a secret.

This faith — Unitarian Universalism,

this faith, which I love, which I have given my life to,

which some of you have devoted generations to,

we too have sometimes done harm to others.

We have too.

When our words of justice fall short of our practice.

When people think our devotion to freedom means they are free to be horrible.

When ministers, and others, have abused their power and committed sexual misconduct.

When we have promised a commitment to racial inclusion, right up until it meant giving up systems of white authority.

We’ve done those things.

We have our demons too.

Some are more modest, but still harmful.

when we mock others, and their faith.

when we talk like anyone who disagrees with us is inferior.

A few summers ago, I visited a Christian church.

Part of my sabbatical, to check out the competition.

And I was shocked by the Supersessionist language —

that means the way they talked about Christianity being the fulfillment of Judaism,

the higher evolution of the Jewish faith.

Supersessionist thinking is an element of anti-semitism,

casting those Jews who didn’t follow Christ as backwards.

I was offended.

But later, I thought, have we not sometimes done that?

Used Supersessionist language to talk about other faiths?

Have we not thought they should have evolved with us?

Look, I’m proud of our faith.

We do some things really well.

But not everything.

That’s true of others, too.

They do some things well.

Not everything.

Some other faith traditions, they go to more depth in their faith.

They work with one story, one set of metaphors.

They have stronger commitments to particular spiritual practices,

and they form rituals that often can hold people through their whole lives.

Some of them practice pacifism or non-materialism in ways that are very profound.

Some of them have commitments to ecology that are life-changing.

Some of them have musical traditions that are ancient and beautiful.

Some practice a level of generosity that is awe-inspiring.

There have been times I’ve been tempted.

Maybe I want the community that comes with being a muslim.

Maybe I want the sense of equanimity that comes with being Daoist.

Maybe I want the radical prophetic love that comes from following Jesus.

Maybe I want the sensory ritual that comes with being a Hindu.

But then I stop:

and I say, no, this is my home.

I can’t choose one of those, because I want to explore them all.

This Father Battleaxe of Moderation values . . . moderation.

Blending and choosing.

I think there is a unity of all things.

That doesn’t mean I’m a better person that those who don’t.

It just means that’s my path.

And that means this is my home.

To be a heretic is to choose:

that’s what heretic means: one who chooses.

We chose. This is our home.

But other homes are beautiful, too.

And useful in their way to the people who follow them.

Just because it doesn’t work for you doesn’t mean it doesn’t work for them.

If your faith makes you more decent, more compassionate, and more loving,

then it is good.

And any faith — any faith — lived in certain ways,

can do that.

And any faith — any faith, lived in other ways,

can fail that test.

Ours included.

We believe that religion is a human endeavor.

It is the struggle of human beings to make sense of the universe and their lives.

It is made and sustained and changed by human beings.

That is our particular belief, and one I’m committed to.

But think about it.

If religion is a human endeavor,

it is a lot like human beings.

Which is to say, unique, beautiful, and imperfect.

None of us see the whole story.

No name is sufficient to name that which holds all,

we must bring many names,

and, sometimes, silence.

Like human beings, religions have their own backstory,

their own ways of being in the world.

And you can’t always tell from looking what the story is.

So what is called for?

Humility.

Humility and curiosity.

Learn before judging.

Listen before appropriating.

Love before deciding.

How do we practice interfaith humility?

The same way we practice humility in life.

Don’t think our answers are better than other answers.

You can’t even compare the answers, because we’re asking different questions.

Don’t mock, or fear, what you don’t yet understand.

Be kind.

Be generous when ascribing motivation and intent.

Ask questions.

It’s okay to make fun of yourself, a little bit.

But making fun of others, that can really hurt. Be careful.

Many religions do share an ethical teaching:

to treat others as you wish to be treated.

Call it the golden rule.

Some go a level down, if you will, to a silver rule:

don’t treat others how you don’t want to be treated.

And that would be an improvement in our world.

But I’d like to elevate to a higher rule:

some call it the platinum rule:

treat others they way they want to be treated.

Which means, asking.

And it also means, sharing.

A back and forth.

Humility is a prerequisite for genuine conversation,

and for common work for a better world.

At our worst, our arrogance shuts that down.

At our best, our commitment to discovery is the interfaith bridge that makes it possible.

So let’s try to be at our best.

Let’s share a cup of tea, a beer, a walk in the woods,

and say, tell me what you love? and I’ll tell you what I love.

And we’ll listen.

And love what is different, and what is similar, and

neither of us will pray, or hope, for the other to change their mind.

But hope that together we might change the world.

That’s what’s most beautiful.

When nobody has the only answer,

when everyone respects the choice each of us might make,

then, then, we can try to live together,

to learn together,

to share together,

to work together for a better world,

to love together,

and, even, sometimes, to sing together.