A couple of separate events in the past week have come together in my musings. The first was the forty-second birthday of my youngest last Sunday. The second was the arrival of my new iPhone. The first boggles my mind. In a different way, so does the second.
I chose today’s story, Quaky Cat by Diana Noonan, for the children because that’s how I’ve felt about 2020. There have been times this year when I’ve felt that the ground under my feet wasn’t as solid as I’d thought. There have been seismic shifts in what I thought I could take for granted:
going to the supermarket, to the rugby or a concert
travelling overseas (my daughter and I had planned a trip to visit family in Sweden for the first time)
hugging my friends
shaking hands at work
…democracy?
I received my annual alumni newsletter from NYU Law School recently. One of the articles was a research report from the constitutional law professors there, Richard Pildes and Samuel Issacharoff. It started by saying that 20 years ago, their research concentrated on what led democracy to fail or flourish in countries that had emerged from autocratic rule or conflict in the 1990s and early 2000s. They formulated their research question about the health and stability of a country’s democracy as whether you could have confidence that one fairly contested election would be followed by another.
The article says that 20 years ago that question seemed less relevant in discussions of government in the US and other long-established democracies. Now, however, they say it’s different. They have to ask this question again in the US.
The Brennan Center for Justice, a non-partisan law and policy institute with links to NYU Law and that focusses on research and advocacy into elections and voting rights, had as its mission statement in early 2019 that “at this critical moment” it was “dedicated to protecting the rule of law and the values of constitutional democracy”. By the end of 2019, that language had been updated to read “Today, we are in a great fight for the future of constitutional democracy in the United States”.
Professor Pildes says in the article I was reading that now: “there’s a much greater sense of politics as existential, that everything is at stake, that losing an election is catastrophic and irreversible, rather than part of the routine alternation of power that happens in a pluralistic democratic society”. The NYU article was written earlier this year in the context of the Black Lives Matter protests and the COVID-19 pandemic. Since then we’ve had the two elections in New Zealand and the United States. I don’t know about you but to me the stakes really did feel high this time, higher than in past elections, and I feel like I’ve been left reeling and gasping for breath now that they’re over.
How does all this relate to us at the Unitarian Church in Auckland? You may remember that earlier this year Clay asked a couple of us to think together about the future of this church. I’m afraid it’s proved to be a “slow burn project” – other things have gotten in the way this year. And I also have a concern about what right I have, as a relatively new member of this church, to presume to address these issues.
But it’s got me thinking about what this church is and reading about our history. What is this place we have here? Who are we? (Oh, that little question, right?)
I’ve been thinking about a story (a parable, really) I read in a Mitch Albom book about a little girl whose father, a soldier, was being moved to a distant post. She was sitting at the airport among her family’s meagre possessions. The girl was sleepy and leaning against the packs and duffel bags. A lady came by and patted her on the head. “Poor child”, she said, “you haven’t got a home”. The child looked up in surprise. “But we do have a home. We just don’t have a house to put it in.” (And you can see the parallels with Quaky Cat, right?)
A home is a place where you belong, where you fit (or to quote Robert Frost, “the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in”). It’s much more than a physical building, although the physical building can be a big part of it. It’s something you can rely on. That’s solid beneath your feet, when everything else is shifting.
So what is it that makes this place “home” for you? Or if it’s not yet “home”, what might make it “home”?
Is it the UU tradition that we’re part of? Being part of a faith tradition is one of the things that we can hold on to in our lives. It can be something larger than us, something that will survive us, and that connects us, including to those who have gone before us and those who will come after us. A related idea is whakapapa: it’s our genealogy, lines of connection.
In April 1909 the Evening Post reported on the opening of a new church building in Wellington:
“Dr Tudor Jones, at the morning service, traced the rise and progress of the Unitarian Church in Wellington. It had started from small beginnings until to-day it comprised over 200 members. . . . The only authority before which its supporters bowed was not that of any priest or tradition, but the authority of conscience. . . . It was through grasping the principles of freedom and truth and goodness in their direct bearing on their lives and the light of the world that they could solve, so far as it could be solved at all, the riddle of existence.”
Another one: In August 1913 the Christchurch Star reported a Unitarian church sermon in Christchurch:
“On Sunday night at the Alexandra Hall the Rev J. H. Chapple delivered a lecture on “Unitarian Aims and Ideals.” . . . The movement aimed at establishing a congregation of tolerant and enlightened thinkers. Another aim was to teach kinder and more modern thoughts of God. . . . [A] fellowship was found that was not based on a common creed, [b]ut upon common aims, common ideals and a common spirit. Each member was allowed to think freely his own thoughts. The mind of each and all was thus kept open to fresh and new ideas, recognising there could be no finality or fixity in an evolving universe.”
There is a history here that we’re part of.
Is “home” the people, us, our community here? We all have very different lives outside of here. We’re divided by our backgrounds, our day jobs, age, gender, ethnicity, geography (especially our online community). Like all communities, we have tendrils and roots sometimes pulling us in different directions. But I suggest we also have a core tangle of togetherness that somehow, in its messiness and its ambiguity, creates a shared identity.
And we’ve got our seven principles up on the wall, right? I have to confess, sometimes I look at them and think “they’re so obvious”. How could anyone disagree with them? They’re pretty inoffensive, maybe even so broad as to be meaningless?
But I wonder if that’s right. If this year has taught me anything, it’s not to take this stuff for granted. The inherent worth and dignity of every person. Justice, equity and compassion in human relations. And so on. See what I mean?
This year has taught me to think carefully about what I can rely on. And also what I will choose to rely on.
Abraham Lincoln said: “Make sure your feet are in the right place then stand firm.” I’d like to see us articulate where we put our feet, then stand firm. We don’t have a big glossy church with a congregation of thousands and a live band. Sometimes it feels pretty modest – there aren’t always that many of us, right? But it’s very special. And it’s strong. And – despite Clay’s encouragement last week to be humble – I think we can be very proud of it.
I’d like to see us feel confident we are putting our feet in the right place and then radiate a quiet, strong, calm, golden warm, kind pride that can stand firm and reach out and generously welcome anyone else who might also find a spiritual home here.
I’m not saying we have all the answers – look at UU principle #4 after all – and don’t worry, I’m not proposing we get evangelical. But let’s not underestimate what we have here either.
There are lots of ways one might describe it, and it may be – it’s likely to be – different for each of us. And that’s OK. It might just be a tentative, emerging thing, especially for those who are new here (or joining on Zoom from outside Auckland).
I’m going to ask you to have a go at articulating your view of it in conversation time. The best way I could think of to phrase the question was “what makes this church feel like “home” for you?” It could also be: “what might make this church feel like “home” for you?” Something solid you can rely on, when everything else is shifting.
If you are willing, take a pencil and paper to your groups when we break out, jot down your ideas and place them in the green box here. For now, I’d like to end with the poem by Kate Tempest called “Hold your own”. You’ll see it was the inspiration for my title today.
Discussion / Meditation
What makes this church feel like ‘Home’ for you? or, if it’s not yet home,
What might make this church feel like ‘Home’ for you?
A year before jumping from Anglicanism to Unitarianism, I exchanged pulpits for three months with the priest in an Anglican Church in Barcelona. It was not easy for either me or the congregation, for they were of the evangelical branch of Anglicanism. They were quite certain of their conservative Christian beliefs and were none too happy that their vicar had foisted a heretic from New Zealand on them.
My advertised title for today’s musing was “The elections are over. Phew! Now what?”. After the predictably chaotic US election I think a better title would have been “The elections are over. Phooey! Now what?” But. upon reflection, I am now leaning towards “The elections are over. It was a curate’s egg”.
You may not be familiar with the phrase. I wasn’t before coming to New Zealand. It goes back to a cartoon published in Punch by the Victorian era’s most celebrated cartoonist, George du Maurier, grandfather of novelist Daphne du Maurier. The cartoon shows two clerics having breakfast. One is a bishop and the other is a curate, the lowest of the low in Anglican Church hierarchy. The bishop apologises to the curate, “I’m afraid you got a bad egg. Mr Jones.” To which the curate responds, “Oh no, my lord. I assure you parts of it were excellent!” The joke of course is that if part of a boiled egg is bad, all of it is bad.
My brave lad sleeps in his faded coat of blue In a lone solemn grave lies the heart that beat so true He fell faint and hungry among the valiant brave And they laid him sad and lonely within his nameless grave
He cried, “Give me water and just one little crumb And my mother she will bless you in the many days to come Oh! tell my sweet sister, so gentle, good and true That I’ll meet her up in heaven, in my faded coat of blue.”
No more the bugle calls the weary one Rest, lonely spirits in thy grave unknown I’ll know you and find you among the good and true When the robe of white is given for the faded coat of blue
Long, long years have vanished, and though he comes no more Yet my anxious heart will start with each footfall at my door I gaze over the hillside where he waved his last adieu But no gallant lad I see, in his faded coat of blue
No more the bugle calls the weary one Rest, lonely spirits in thy grave unknown I’ll know you and find you among the good and true When the robe of white is given for the faded coat of blue
It might strike you as odd that I open these musings with a lamentation on what most of Christendom celebrates today as All Saints’ Day. Faded coat of blue was a folk song written by J. H. MacNaughton following Gettysburg, the bloodiest battle of the American Civil War. I do so because it is about remembering. Ultimately All Saints’, All Souls’, Samhain, Dia de la muerte, the Buddhist celebration of Obon in Japan, Chuseok in Korea, Gai Jatra in Nepal, Pchum Ben in Cambodia, and Hungry Ghost Month celebrated by Taoists and Buddhists all centre on remembering the dead.
As I shared last Sunday, there are times when the preacher loses control of his talk, not unlike a wild horse taking the bit in their teeth, hellbent to go where they will. Last week was a wild ride like that. While surprised to have my intended journey interrupted I was not unhappy where my musings took me. I saw some unexpected sights. Even so, I am going to try again to reach my intended destination.
Like many of us I have spent considerable time thinking about how Covid has changed the future both in the short term and for the long term. I don’t have a crystal ball for this task. And if I did, this being 2020, it would malfunction: Filling with smoke before rolling to the floor and smashing into smithereens. What I do have is current events and, more importantly, history to offer insights.
I find myself feeling a little more at peace this morning. We have once again eliminated Covid 19 from the community. And the election season that felt like it would never end is now over for another three years. Perhaps now life can go back to the way it was, a 2019 normal. Phew! I wasn’t sure how much more I could take, for neither pandemics nor elections necessarily bring out our better angels.
But who am I kidding? We will never turn back the calendar. The way it was has been irretrievably interrupted by a plague of biblical proportions. How will it play out? It is a question that has been explored as long as there have been pandemics.
New Zealand has a very strong right-to-die movement and polls suggest that at least 60% of us support voluntary euthanasia.
However, the minority is equally passionate in their opposition. From the perspective of a politician, supporting the right to die with dignity is a no-win situation. This issue has been avoided for twenty-five years since a bill presented in 1995 was soundly defeated. This election the issue is before us again as a binding referendum.
Compared to what is going on in the US, our election season is not filled with much drama or suspense. Thank you, Spirit of Life! Polls suggest that the current government will get another term. The only question is will Labour be able to govern alone or will they need a coalition partner. What suspense there is surrounds the two referendums on the ballot. Considering that each has the potential to be transformational, they have not had nearly the air time of the political decisions most Kiwis seem to have already made.
For the past couple of years, I’ve been involved with the West Auckland Women’s Interfaith initiative… this began in the wake of the Christchurch Mosque shootings as a way to break down the barriers of fear between People of different faiths, to form interfaith friendships, where we could realise our essential unity as a human family, despite our differences of belief, ritual, and culture. Visiting some of the women in their various congregations, and I had some surprising adventures.