Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

October 26, 1997

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.

Reinhold Niebuhr
The Irony of American History

The Power of Positive Thinking, by Norman Vincent Peale, is one of the best-selling books of all times. First published in 1952, there are now 5,000,000 copies in print. As part of my research for this sermon, I decided I really ought to take a look at it—anything that sells that many copies, after all, has found some way to speak to some deep human needs. I must confess, though, upon perusing the volume, I had to agree with the visitor from India who came to the U.S. back in the 1950’s to study our religious life. He was given various things to read, including St. Paul’s letters in the New Testament and the enormously popular volume by Dr. Peale.
When asked about his response, he remarked, “I found Paul appealing, but I found Peale appalling.” I also found Peale appalling. Take some of his chapter headings: “Try Prayer Power,” “I Don’t Believe in Defeat,” and “When Vitality Sags,” which suggests treating depression by thinking positive thoughts. Peale wrote many other books, all having pretty much the same theme, titles like The Positive Principle Today, Enthusiasm Makes the Difference, and The True Joy of Positive Living. There was only one title that stood out as a bit different: it was Sin, Sex, and Self-Control. That volume did not enjoy the popularity of his other work, somehow.

I’ve got to say that Peale is no worse than most of the self-help stuff that is churned regularly out of our publishing houses today. For example, Ardath Rodale, CEO of Rodale Press and author of a book called Climbing Toward the Light, suggests that when “obstacles” come into our lives, obstacles like divorce, loss of a job, or the death of someone we love, we should take positive action. She suggests soaking in an herbal bath and thinking about positive sensations, she says to “stoke your inner fire by laughing more,” and to write down in a notebook five positive thoughts or feelings you experience each day. She ends her article by advising, “Each day can be the best day of your life. Believe it! Celebrate! You can do it!” Now think about this. No, every day cannot be the best day of your life. Some days are really pretty awful. And when someone you love dies, writing down five positive thoughts somehow seems a bit inadequate.

But if it is easy for us to reject these obviously shallow approaches to positive living, we have to ask ourselves if we as Unitarian Universalists have anything better to offer. Sometimes I wonder. Maybe it’s just the language we’re rejecting, the aesthetic, and not the theology. As religious liberals, we have turned away from the notion that humans are depraved creatures hopelessly mired in original sin, and we have instead emphasized the inherent goodness and perfectibility of people. But maybe in ridding ourselves of needless guilt, we’ve also rid ourselves of accountability. Some of us think there is no such thing as sin, just bad parenting. I would beg to differ.

We say as Universalists that there is no hell, no damnation. Yes, but we mean that no punishing God is ready to throw us into a burning lake of fire after we die. But is there a hell? Yes. It is the hell we make for ourselves on this earth. It is the brutal killing of innocents in Algeria. It is our children in this country shooting each other for a pair of Nike shoes. It is some people going hungry while others can’t even imagine what to do with all the money they have. Hell is that place of separation from God, whatever it might be, and we’ve all been there.

You may have heard the story of the farmer who received several flyers offering a series of workshops on improving farming techniques, workshops like “Crop Rotation for Soil Improvement” and “Irrigation Methods for Land Reclamation.” Getting no response from the farmer, the County Extension Agent called and urged him to attend. “Why should I?” responded the farmer. “I already know how to farm better than I do.” We already know how to do better than we do. We know how to be better parents. We know how to eat healthier diets. I mean, how many times have I read articles about eating more fruits and vegetables and less fat. But ask me if I would rather have a banana or a brownie. A soybean steak or a hamburger and fries. We have the information. But often we don’t do better. We need to acknowledge the part of us that is just plain ornery, that doesn’t want to change.

The problem in not acknowledging our dark side is that we then proceed to dump our negative stuff on others. We gossip, we criticize, we put down other people. This summer I had a visit from an old friend, a man I used to teach with in New Orleans. He’s brilliant, and he’s rich—but so negative about so much. The restaurant wouldn’t seat us where he wanted to sit. The restored Victorian home we toured wasn’t restored properly. And on and on. Finally after hanging out with him a couple of days, I said, “Do you realize how much energy you give to negative thought?” He laughed and said, “Yes, all my friends get tired of it.” I thought to myself, “Well, why don’t you stop?” But why don’t we all stop doing the self-destructive things we do? Later than evening we were sitting in the wicker chairs on my front porch, and he revealed to me thoughts that were almost too tender to speak of. Of the lack of fulfillment in his life. Of his regret that he had never married and had children. Of the emptiness he had experienced since he retired. His beloved dog Skipper was long dead, and he had decided not to get another dog, because he wanted to travel. He has been to Europe seven times in the past four years. And other more exotic places. “You can only travel so long,” he said. “And then you have to come home to something.” I felt bad because I had criticized him earlier. I understood that his negativity was his way of dealing with his own pain.

I wonder if our philosophy of liberalism—onward and upward forever more—prevents us from acknowledging our brokenness, our inability to absolutely fix things. Even to fix ourselves. Without this acknowledgment, we are led to despair, for we try again and again to perfect the world and we fail. We begin to wonder if we have any power at all. As Kant insisted in regard to ethical actions: “When there is no feasibility, there is no obligation.” It is only when we recognize and accept the ambiguities of our existence, the messy gray areas of moral choice, the fears that plague us, that we create a context in which action can be taken. We have to say, yes, failure is possible; injustice occurs; pain and suffering exist; the outcome cannot be known. But only when we get to that place of acceptance of reality as it is can we paradoxically begin to exercise our really formidable powers. Only when we know the risk and accept the risk can we act.

One of the best ways to get to this more mature place, spiritually speaking, is to fail and to suffer. Not that I would wish it on anyone—but have you ever noticed how failure tends to enlighten you, how suffering tends to make you more compassionate? These unwanted and uninvited experiences that life plops down on our plate strip us of our illusions and deepen us. Or at least they can. They act as leveling experiences, which prevent us from feeling superior to others, that confirm our common humanity. When is suffering not really suffering? When is failure an opening?

You see, the real problem that I have with Norman Vincent Peale and his feel-good counterparts writing today is that they are so uncomfortable with paradox, which is the underpinning of religious truth. You lose your life to save your life. By accepting suffering, the suffering lets go. By not striving, everything comes to us. We receive through giving. For these popular writers, religion does not deal with such subtleties; rather, religion is merely a tool to help you accomplish your goals and cure your addictions. Do they really believe they can box up the Holy this way? Do they think they can reduce the Divine to technique? What does it mean to stand in the presence of the Living God?

Our spirituality is not a means to an end; it is a relationship with the Mystery. Not a means, but a relationship. With the One Whose Name I Cannot Know. We say God, we say Atman, we say the One, we say Spirit of Life, we say “our highest values.” All metaphors for the Mystery. And we cannot co-opt this Mystery of All Mysteries to sell vacuum cleaners or to win football games. We come before the Holy knowing we don’t know, we can’t define its parameters, can’t make it come when we need it, can’t control it—and yet we feel its suasive power in our lives. We can only make ourselves ready to receive. Says Annie Dillard, “Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.” (from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)

To receive the gifts of the Spirit, then you spread your sail, you prepare yourself for grace. You look for the gift. This practice seems easy when the blessings of the world seem to fall around our feet, but it’s harder to look for the gift when our assumptions crumble in the face of a sudden illness or personal loss. I have mentioned before that I am in spiritual direction with a Catholic nun. One day when I went out for my visit, I settled into my chair and asked her casually how she was doing. She said that she had had some difficulty with her eyes and her doctor had told her that she might go blind. I was horrified. I couldn’t hardly believe her words. I asked her how she was doing with this news, and I’ll never forget her response. She said, “I’m wondering what new direction God has in store for me now.” She did not lose her sight, thankfully, but I have no doubt that she would have found a way to serve, a way to live thankfully.

Through her powerful witness, my spiritual director taught me the meaning of what she calls “the theology of indifference”—that is, being indifferent to whatever state you happen to be in: to desire only to be in right relationship with God. As St. Paul wrote: “whatever state I am in, therein to be content.” When I first started seeing my director, I expected her to tell me how to “shape up” spiritually, the same way my personal trainer does in the gym. But no—she just loves me. Month after month, she accepts me and loves me just as I am. I think she’s helping me understand the nature of God. God is not always trying to get us to shape up—God just wants to be better and better friends with us, I think. Partners, maybe. God as Beloved. Yes, we do become more loving, less ego driven perhaps. But that comes as a natural unfolding in the context of the relationship.

As I’ve watched various ones of you in the congregation go through difficult times, you’ve taught me much about finding the gift in a bad turn of events. Several years ago, a young man came through the line to shake hands after the sermon. As he took my hand, he began to weep, big tears unashamedly rolling down his face. He told me that he had AIDS, and that he was dying. I held him for a moment. And then as he looked at me again, a beautiful smile broke through his tears. “But I’ve received so many gifts from this illness,” he said. The tears and the smiles, together. A few months ago, he came through the line again, looking I must say, very healthy and fit. “I have a problem,” he said. “With the treatment of these new drugs, it looks like I’m going to live! But I have to figure out how. Nothing is the same as it used to be. I have to start over.” He smiled, again through his tears. “In whatever state, therein to be content.”

The good news, you see, is that we can be of use in spite of our circumstances, in spite of our shortcomings. I wish I had a nickel for every mistake I’ve made since I came to this church. This was my first call. So I had to learn to be a minister. And then I had to learn to be a minister in a large church. And then I had to learn to be a minister in a very large church. My time here has been a constant learning, a constant evaluation, a constant changing. But I don’t have to have all the answers. All of you help with the answers, as we share in the ministry of this great church. I’m clear that I don’t have to be perfect, that I can stumble and be forgiven—but what I must do every day is to make myself available to the Spirit, to my call. And to love you.

And I try to listen to my desires and to trust them. Sometimes there are voices from the past that keep us from our authentic desires. These are voices that name-call: they may say that we are lazy or stupid or self-centered or ugly. We know that these are not voices of the Holy One, for the Holy One cherishes us. Nevertheless, these voices can keep us from acknowledging our deepest desires and therefore turning away from those callings and relationships that would give us the most satisfaction and fulfillment. Sometimes a possibility rises up before us—and it is possibility that frightens us the most. Here is a person I could love. Intimacy alert! Here is a book I could write. You’ll make yourself look foolish! Who do you think you are?



I was talking with a minister friend about just such a book that is pulling at me. I was anxious, caught in my fear, rattling off the reasons why it would be impossible for me to do the book. She sat there and listened and listened. Then she looked at me and said, “What does God want you to do?” Now that’s a different question, isn’t it?

The fear is that we might fail. That we might not be accepted. I know of a person who dreads the end of his Shabbat service because the rabbi always says to turn to the person next to you and say, “Shabbat Shalom.” This individual has the terrible fear that the person next to him won’t want to reciprocate—that he’ll put his hand out, and the other person won’t respond. It has never happened. It’s an irrational thought, of course. But it strikes at something deep within. We’ll reach out to someone, and we’ll be rejected. We’ll set out on a challenging project, and we’ll mess it up, and everybody will know. How often do our irrational fears keep us from our deepest longings? What would we choose to do if we knew beyond a doubt that we would succeed?

This is a church that says, “Yes!” to its people. An almighty yes! A yes that is connected with your own best impulses and your need to give your gifts. This is a church where we celebrate your lives as precious, each and every one. No, you’re not perfect and I’m not perfect—but that’s not the point: we’re good enough, and we are willing to give as we are led to give. As a community, we can do what no one of us can do alone.

Last Thursday night at the Board meeting, Tess Beistel did our closing. She asked us to clasp hands in a circle and asked each one to say how he or she felt on Celebration Sunday. I remember very well how I felt as I saw each one of you come down the aisle to place your pledge in the basket. I know most of you now—I’ve been here long enough. I know your stories, your struggles, your dreams, your desires. And what I felt was a deep, deep love for you as you came forward in turn. I saw the joy you had in giving, and I knew that the joy came from your growing devotion to this community of faith and from the maturing of your spiritual lives.

We have a great work before us in restoring our Salmon Street sanctuary and in making more space on our block in which to learn and to worship. Am I ever frightened at the enormity of the task? Yes. Do I think we can do it? Yes. You see, I’m convinced that we must do it, we are called to do it, and if that is the case, I’m willing to move ahead in faith, and watch it happen. I am in prayer about it, and I am in prayer for our leaders. I would encourage you, too, to lend your support to our leadership throughout this process.

And in your own personal journeys, remember that under the doubts, the mistakes, the fears, the injustices, there is something more. There is the One Whose Name Is Love, the Abiding Presence, the Everlasting Arms. You are not responsible for the fruits, you are responsible only for making yourself available to the Spirit. And if you choose this way, you will be as a flower to this world, and you will unfold in a kind of beauty you never thought possible.
So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

Spirit of Life, when despair comes calling, may we turn away. Give us the felt knowledge of your presence in our lives, so that we may look always for the gift in every circumstance. Out of our pain, may we grow compassionate; out of our failure, wise. Take all we are and all we might be and dedicate it to your larger purposes.

So be it. Amen.

BENEDICTION
Now as we go from this place, give us the courage to say yes to our deepest desires, and may our deepest desires be ever in accord with the Holy.

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