Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

October 8, 1995

A student of a martial art form called Aikido recounts his experience on a Tokyo subway some twenty years before the telling. Our car was comparatively empty, he says. A few housewives with their kids in tow, and some old folks. Then the doors opened, and the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man who staggered into our car bellowing curses. He wore the clothes of a laborer and was big, dirty, and drunk. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. An elderly couple scrambled toward the other end of the car as the drunk kicked at them. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear.

I was young then, he remembers, and in pretty good shape. I'd been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly every day for three years. I thought I was tough. The trouble was my skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

"Aikido," my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated." In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity to save the innocent by destroying the guilty. This is it! I thought. People are in danger. I stood up. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.

"All right!" he hollered. "You're gonna get a lesson." And he gathered himself for a rush at me.

A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted, "Hey!" I remember the joyous, lilting quality of it. Both the drunk and I found ourselves staring down at a little, old Japanese man, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had an important secret to share. "C'mere," the old man said. "C'mere and talk with me." He waved his hand lightly. The big man followed, as if on a string. "Why the hell should I talk to you?" he said.

The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved even a millimeter, I'd drop him in his socks. The old man continued to beam at the laborer. "What'cha been drinkin'?" he asked.

"I been drinkin' sake," the laborer bellowed. "And it's none of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

"Oh, that's wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! I love sake, too. Every night, me and my wife warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from the ice storms we had last winter. We like to watch our tree when we take our sake--even when it rains!" He looked up at the laborer, his eyes shining with pleasure.

The drunk's face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. "Yeah," he said. I love persimmons, too . . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Yes," said the old man, smiling. "And I'm sure you have a wonderful wife."

"No," replied the laborer. "My wife died." Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. "I don't got no wife , I don't got no home , I don't got no job . I'm so ashamed of myself." Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

Then it was my turn, recalls the student. Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was. The train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically, "My, my," he said. "That is a difficult predicament. Sit down here and tell me about it." I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man's lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair. I had just seen Aikido tried in combat.

The story is about manifesting power. As human beings we will manifest power: there is no escaping that, no denying that. The only question is where that power is grounded, what is its source.

James Hillman, in his book Kinds of Power , reminds us that there are cultural determinants that teach us what power is all about. In Italy and Japan power is largely defined as influence. In England power is defined still to a large extent by one's position in a class system. Your accent and your manners determine your place. In some primitive cultures, power is secured by your relationship with spirits or ghosts. In American culture, power is most often expressed as force, as power over . Whether we are speaking of personal relationships, or corporate life, or foreign policy, we are interested in winning, in being on top. That cultural definition of power has had obvious and largely negative consequences: the overblown military budget; the amount of rape and domestic violence; the right of citizens to pack deadly weapons. Our historical and literary tradition--the statues in our parks, the stories in our schoolbooks--tell us that the hero is one who wins against great odds by effort of will. "Power," says Hillman, "is persuasive force, muscular struggle, decisive command, productive result . . . . Power is imaged by the winner, even the slayer."

We see the abuse of power at every hand, in high places and in low. Bob Packwood fell from high political office, not because he liked women and was simply unskilled in approaching them--but because, in spite of his considerable ability in oratory and in political maneuvering, he was a terribly insecure man who was tragically unaware of his own ego needs and how they drove him. He was a man who would write in his diary, "I tried blow-drying my hair in a natural way--that made me feel very confident." Bob, get a life! How pathetic! As with all people who really don't like themselves, his center of power was external to himself. Power was something "out there" that had to be grabbed at and manipulated. His sexual exploits were not about sex, but about "scoring," not about wanting women, but about desperately wanting self esteem.

And then there is the O.J. Simpson case. Talk about multiple levels of abuse of power! Think about it. The abuse began when Blacks were rounded up and brought to this country on slave ships 200 years ago. From slavery, to Jim Crow, to the ghettos of despair in our cities today, symbolized in that trial by the L.A. Police Department. A third of our young black men on any given day are in prison, in half-way houses, or on parole. One poll showed that only 2% of blacks believed Simpson should have been convicted of first degree murder, whereas 60% of whites believe he should have. What this trial did was to absolutely lay to rest the belief that racism is no longer a live issue in this country, that it's over and done with. The acquittal was a vote against a system by a people whose experience has shown them that the system cannot be trusted. The prosecution didn't have much of a chance, no matter what evidence they introduced: the system was on trial. Whites were on trial. So these deep wounds which were opened two hundred years ago are with us still.

You see, sin begets sin. That's the way it is. The race issue shifted the emphasis from that of domestic violence. There was no doubt that Nichole Simpson was a battered wife. And daily hundreds of women are battered and even killed by their husbands, lovers, boyfriends. The stronger one has the power. And power means force and control in our culture.

Then there is the issue of money and its relationship to justice. How could anyone in this country--whether Black or white--come away from this trial without acknowledging the power of money in the courtroom. Without his power team, could Simpson have escaped conviction? What about all the people on death row in this country--are they there at least in part because they could not afford a Johnny Cochran to defend them? What about our legal system? Is it effective in reaching just verdicts, or is it simply about smart lawyering and winning? So many abuses of power on so many levels were revealed by this trial. I hope that we will not turn away in complete cynicism, but that we will grow wiser than we are. That we will address the brutalities of racism that daily visit the lives of all Blacks. That we will stop believing that women are the property of men. That we will create a system of justice where both Black and white, poor and rich, will have a fair shot.

Given how power is seen in this culture, and given the frequent abuses of power, it is not surprising that the word itself is in some disrepute. You may hear people say, "I don't want power." Or, "It is wrong to seek power." Let's consider these statements.

In the first place, we all have power and we all seek power. To deny this is itself likely to lead to abuse of power, for such denial makes us unable to see how we hurt others. We become like a big German shepherd puppy who bounds into the living room, happily destroying every fragile thing in its range. I see this denial of power in particular in women, including myself. I think that many of us have bought the cultural definition of power, and if power is force, then we want no part of it. Perhaps we should work on a new paradigm. What if we saw power as the ability to make change? It may be a change as large as the protest movement that brought the Vietnam War to an end--or it may be teaching an adult to read. It may even be something as simple as smiling at someone who has had a very bad day and saying, "You know, in my book, you're a great guy." Last Sunday 321 of you signed a petition urging national political leaders to heal the gross economic divisions in this country. I believe that these names will be noted, and I know that when there are enough voices joining together to say these things, our leaders will listen. This is power put to good use.

Perhaps we could begin to see power, not as power over, but as merely using ourselves well in the world. Power doesn't have to imply competition or control; it can instead mean healing, transforming, leading, serving. To not use our power, in fact, is an abdication of the worst sort. It is looking the Holy One in the face and saying, "So you've given me these gifts? So what?" I believe we are obliged to honor our innate powers by developing them and by blessing the world with them. I believe this same principle applies to our institutional life, as well.

This church is preparing to hire an architect to do preliminary drawings for the restructuring of our block. This is a project of some moment. I ran into a city architect at Artquake recently and told him what we were up to, and he said this was one of the 1/2 dozen most exciting urban church projects all over the country. I couldn't stop him talking about it. He kept me for a full hour. We still have a lot of work to do as a congregation in determining what we want on our block--we're not breaking ground anytime soon--but it is clear that we want to use the space not just for ourselves, but to serve the greater community. We will decide among many possibilities: housing, social service agencies, performance space, day care, an after-school arts program, etc. Owning this block in downtown Portland means that we can exercise power--not power over, but power to give, power to witness, power to make positive change in our community. If we do this project right, we can be a model for other urban churches all over the country. We have institutional power. And therefore we have responsibility. We should move ahead boldly and do what it is we are called to do.

For me, the most compelling image of real power is that of birthing, of giving life. As soon as I received the news of my pregnancy, I was given over to joy and given over to the new life within. I had to rest, to eat properly, for I was protecting this child, but these limits I gladly placed upon myself. As the time for the birth approached, I was awkward and ungainly; I had to get up frequently in the night for trips to the bathroom; I was easily fatigued. But my joy only grew stronger as I anticipated the birth. My labor started precisely on my due date, and I realized with a pounding heart that I was no longer in control of my body at all--it was completely given over to this little stranger. This relationship was not about equality, not about reciprocity. It was about submitting myself to the rhythms and needs of another. Power in this context is not about force or control or domination. It is about being an instrument of life, of losing one's self completely in service to the Holy. I understood for the first time what it is to love something more than I loved myself.

Perhaps our strength is at least partly found in our vulnerability, for it is often our very weakness that opens us to grace and healing, and our need that allows us to love and be loved. "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." What can that mean? Blessed are the humble, blessed are those who long for forgiveness, blessed are those who fear, blessed are those who care for the very young or the very old or the ill or the poor. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

If power is to remain alive and vital, it must answer to its source and only to its source. It must return again and again to the spring from which it comes. This morning I admonish you: go bathe in living water. Your way will open before you, and you will begin to be aware of power you never before knew you had. When this power comes upon you, do not respond with pride, nor with domination, but with humility. Ask that you might be used to bless the world. And you, in turn, will be mightily blessed by the world, beyond all and any expectation. So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

O Spirit of Life, we acknowledge today--each one of us--that we are powerful. Help us never again, individually or collectively, to deny our power, for we know it is a gift we are called upon to use. May we never use power to aggrandize ourselves, but rather make ourselves a conduit for that Living Water which would call forth your blessing upon a parched and thirsty land.
Amen.

Copyright © 2000, Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.