Roots Hold Me Close; Wings Set Me Free

Canvass Sunday - March 13, 2005

Unitarian Universalist Community Church

Rev. Jill Ann Terwilliger

 

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

Henry David Thoreau

 

 

OPENING WORDS     by the Rev. Calvin O. Dame

 

We come into one another’s presence seeking some part of ourselves, knowing that we do not live alone, knowing that we cannot live fully if we are for ourselves alone. 

 

We come as ordinary people, each with strengths and each with weaknesses, hauling along with ourselves the full knowledge of our shortcomings.  Our lives set before us many tasks.  We are not always equal to them. 

 

Too often we fall short of our best expectations of ourselves; we do not know enough, we are not always patient, we fall into anger, we cannot find strength, we do not wait for wisdom, we lack vision.

 

And yet, here we are, not always perfect, not always wise, but always human, gloriously and miraculously alive and breathing, wondrously and mysteriously human. 

 

We are amazingly alive this day, and present one with another.

May our time together renew our hope.

May the stories we share refresh our courage.

May the songs we sing lift our spirits.

May the words we speak invigorate us.

May the touch of hands, the sound of laughter, the sight of faces, new and familiar, restore us in faith. 

 

 

READING  from The Once and Future Church by Roy Oswald

 

Over the centuries since 1607, congregations have been a special part of the social glue that de Toqueville described as characteristic of this nation.  They have been a center of community life.  They have been an anchor, a place of stability, holding up a transcendent vision of the meaning of life as a new nation struggled to understand and build a society.  Congregations have grounded the nation in the biblical story that gave words and ideas to America’s great moments – from the time of the Pilgrims to July 4, 1776, from Gettysburg to the Birmingham jail.  Congregations contributed not only to the framing of statements but to people’s ability to hear the messages of those critical times. 

 

Congregations have also been places of refuge and identity for those from distant lands who spoke different languages, making possible the first steps of the immigrant into a new nation.

 

Less dramatically, but perhaps even more importantly, congregations have also been a place for retreat and regrouping in the face of hurt, distress, or injustice.  They have healed and restored the spirits of those broken by deliberate cruelty and by simple human tragedy.  To this day it is to congregations that people – even many who find formal beliefs and doctrines foreign to their style of life – come to face death, loss, birth, the discovery of love, the collapse of hope.  (p. 26)

 

SERMON “Roots Hold Me Close; Wings Set Me Free”

                                    Rev. Jill Ann Terwilliger

 

Some years ago I learned that the largest single living entity in the world is a particular stand of Aspen trees.  I don’t recall where, or how large it is, and I’ve had no luck trying to confirm my memory on the internet, but that’s what I remember – a stand of trees as big as life can get.  Aspen trees multiply, not by producing seeds to be carried on the wind to new ground, but by spreading their roots through the ground and sending up new shoots.  My mom learned this the hard way when she planted an Aspen tree in her front yard.  First she enjoyed its tall narrow shape, the fluttering of its round silver leaves.  But soon she had tender tree-shoots popping up in the flowerbeds and in the lawn, everywhere and unstoppable.  When you see a grove of aspen trees, you are seeing many separate emanations of one genetic root system. 

 

I want you to picture that in your mind.  Millions of leaves fluttering in the wind. Hundreds of branches splayed above the earth.  Dozens of tall, strong, flexible trunks growing from the ground.  And underneath, each tree with its own roots, reaching out, connected to the trees around it, which are connected to the trees around it.  Roots growing down and stretching out and poking UP through the earth again, to sprout a new tree. 

 

Now, look around at all the people sitting in this room with you.  And entertain for a moment the idea that we are not solitary souls who all just happen to be here in one place, but that we are a grove of aspen trees.  From the soles of our feet grow roots that reach and connect.  From this invisible maze, newness arises, already connected.  And in this web, we are held strongly in the community and able to grow to great heights. 

 

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We here, and Unitarian Universalists in general, talk so much about our diversity that it nearly feels like heresy to suggest we are all of the same root, of the same genetic spiritual stock.  Diverse as we are, I think there is much that connects us. 

 

* We are connected in seeking a faith that takes all we know of science and history and society and experience, along with religion, seriously, as the material from which we weave meaning in our lives. 

 

* We are connected in desiring a community of faith for ourselves, our children, where curiosity is honored and personal discoveries celebrated. 

 

* We are connected in our conviction that there are many, many paths through the forest of faith that can lead to good and righteous living.  And that our own paths are only the richer for catching glimpses of other ways.  We are connected, as Rachel Remen says, in our yearning to be holy. 

 

* We are connected in our belief that how we live here and now, on this good earth, is far more important than the variety of beliefs and hopes we hold about what may come after. 

 

* We are connected in our affirmation that all people, of whatever stripe, color, or make, are unique and precious, worthy of respect, compassion, and an equal chance at life.

 

* We are connected, finally, in our desire to be connected, to be part of a community, welcomed and nurtured, inspired and challenged by that community. 

 

Beneath all our diversity, these are the roots, the common genetics that make us one beautiful grove of trees.  From this rooted place, so much is possible. 

 

It is possible to heal and grow.  It is possible to bend without breaking.    Roy Oswald says we come to religious communities “to face death, loss, birth, the discovery of love, the collapse of hope.”  I know we say we come because of a spiritual search, but pretty often that search is sparked by death or loss or birth, or the discovery of love, or the collapse of hope.  They are the things in life that make us look beyond what is clearly seen or known to ask questions of meaning and to ponder the mysteries.  They are the times in life when we seek out the company of others who are willing to hear our stories and honor them with listening and with celebration. 

 

My father died my sophomore year of college just as the winter term was beginning.  I went home for a week and then returned to school, and then what?  What do 19 year olds know of grief, of death?  My roommate, lucky for me, though not of course for her, had lost her father-figure that year, too, so together, we knew.  But otherwise, it was to church I took my wondering and sadness, and to the campus Unitarian group.  In these places my grief was met, acknowledged, not brushed away in fear. 

 

I think that’s what happens an awful lot out in the regular world.  Grief can be scary and unsettling.  The last thing most people want to deal with by the water cooler on Tuesday morning is a weepy co-worker.  But something different happens in church.  Coming into this space we come ready to deal with the ultimate questions of life and death, we come hoping for it, even, relieved that we can bring our whole selves here.  Relieved to see our own struggles reflected in other people’s lives.

 

I grew and healed from my father’s death in good measure through the presence of UU communities.  For a few years, tears soaked hymnals and seat cushions and shoulders each week.  I’ve since soaked my share of pulpits as well.  But explanation and apology have never been needed.  My questions remained questions.  No simple answers were offered, but I never had to take the journey alone.

 

From this place, rooted in a community of compassion and justice, it is possible to wave our branches wildly in the wind. 

 

Oswald, again:  “Congregations have grounded the nation in the biblical story that gave words and ideas to America’s great moments …  Congregations contributed not only to the framing of statements but to people’s ability to hear the messages of those critical times.” 

 

Will the next Martin Luther King be nurtured in our midst?  Will we be ready to pick up and go when the call is clear?  Who knows what we or our kids will go on to do with our lives, but there is always the possibility that prophets will rise among us, and it’s more possible because of the things that happen here and the message we live. 

 

I rarely preach from the biblical story Oswald references, but its most central messages are the soil and nutrients we live from: 

Love everyone

Challenge the power system

Speak the truth

Live for goodness, not gold

Humble yourself before great mystery

Give thanks

Do all of this with love

 

I had this inkling of an idea a few months ago – something about cranes and peace.  I thought, “Wouldn’t it be neat if we could …? But no.  It’s just not practical.  And besides, getting a whole UU congregation to do one big thing together is about as easy as getting an elephant to play piano.”  The little spark of an idea just wouldn’t go away, though.  So I said something when I was talking with Janice and Jenny and Molly and they breathed some life-giving oxygen on that spark.  And I talked to a few more people and it grew and grew until it wasn’t just an idea any more.  It was a project.  It was something we were actually going to do.  We were going to wave our branches in the world.  We were going to make a beautiful symbol of our hope and dream of peace. 

 

That little spark of an idea was able to grow here because of what already existed in the congregation – roots of compassion and justice, love and hope.  The possibilities for our branches are endless. 

 

Rooted here in a community of love and hope, it is possible take flight.  Nestled in the crooks of our branches, among the fluttering leaves, birds make their homes.  Terry Tempest Williams writes:

I pray to the birds. 

I pray to the birds because I believe

            they will carry the messages of my heart upward

I pray to them because I believe in their existence,

the way their songs begin and end each day

            – the invocations and benedictions of earth.

I pray to the birds because they remind me of what I love

            rather than what I fear. 

And at the end of my prayers,

            they teach me how to listen. 

 

One of my ministers back in Minneapolis always ended the meditation time by saying:  May our hopes and dreams take flight on the wings of love.  And finally, that is what I hope happens here.  I pray our wild ideas like caring for one another and the world and the earth fly from our high branches and sing their songs in the clouds.  I pray that peace and beauty take flight.  I pray that truth and justice cover the world.  And I pray that we, too, can learn to soar.  Held close at the root, set free on the wing. 

 

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So, the question before you now is, “what is this worth to you?”  You knew this was coming, didn’t you?  It’s the canvass sermon after all. 

 

In all honesty, none of this is necessary.  Church needn’t cost you anything.  We could worship in a grove of trees, intimately connected with the earth and her cycles, singing accompanied by the birds, sharing the leadership among us.  But we have become used to having a roof and walls that keep out (most of) the rain and snow and cold.  We like chairs, lights, and speakers, hot coffee and libraries, pianos and artwork and classrooms and storage closets.  We like a minister in the pulpit, an administrator in the office and a director for the education of our children.  And so we all contribute to make these things possible. 

 

I can remind you, as I hope I have done today, why this church is important in your life, but only you can decide what the right pledge is for you and your family.  Charles and I have made a pledge of $260 a month this year, or almost 4% of our gross income.  Our food, mortgage, utilities and retirement are the only expense lines that receive more.  Our pledge to the church is the largest elective spending we do each year, and that reflects the importance of church in our life.  And that’s not just because I’m the minister.  A dozen years ago we met through church.  Our dearest, longest friendships were made through church.  Our lives are rich because of church, and so each year we choose to invest in the institution that has given us so much.  It is a joy to do so.

 

Every household’s situation is different.  As you consider what your pledge will be for the coming year, I suggest this guideline:  It should be a stretch, but not so much so that it is painful.  Whether it is $500, $2500, $5000 or more, it should be an amount that you can feel, an amount that makes you feel happy and generous. 

 

Our congregation is supported solely through the generosity of its members and friends.  There is no rich institution subsidizing us.  There is no secret angel pledging half of our budget.  Every single pledge is vitally important to sustain this church so that it may do its work in our lives and in the community, for our days, and for the days we shall never see. 

 

May it be so. 

May we make it so through our giving.