by Rev. Thomas Disrud

A sermon given on Sunday, April 30, 2000

At First Unitarian Church, Portland, Oregon

Call to worship

Let us come together here in this house of worship,

and join our voices in song.

May we know that we are one strong body,

connected by the spirit within us and among us.

Come, now, and let us worship together.

A couple months back the conflict between a church in Southeast Portland and its neighbors was making headlines. The Sunnyside Centenary United Methodist Church holds a meals program for homeless people on Wednesday and Friday evenings where people come for food and shelter and fellowship. For the church, it is an important part of its ministry in the community. But neighbors were not so enthusiastic. They complained that some of the people who came for the program were a nuisance . They cited noise, drinking, and people urinating and defecating on their lawns.

The church and the neighbors tried to work it out, but over the years, the tensions grew. The neighbors finally went to the city to shut down the program. When a hearings officer made her ruling, she not only curtailed the meals program, but also put a limit on the number of people who could attend worship at the church. This part of the ruling sparked a public outcry and made national headlines.

Other congregations and other organizations spoke out loudly—very loudly—against the ruling, and the City Council overturned the limit on attendance and the ban on the program. The church and the neighbors have been ordered to work it out. The situation disappeared from the headlines.

But the story won’t be over so soon. Even if the two sides work things out in the short term, the challenges will probably remain.

The story is an important one in our city. It comes at a time when many neighborhoods in the city—including the Southeast neighborhood where the church is located—are gentrifying. It comes at a time when the divide between the haves and the have-nots in our city and in our country is rising. It comes as housing prices in the city make it very difficult for some people to have a place to live. There are more people needing help and it is getting harder and harder to find that help.

At a time when religious organizations are being asked to provide more and more for the people who have the least, there’s more than a little irony that the church is getting so much resistance. I know my first response to the situation was to criticize the neighbors and to wonder why they were taking such action. Where is their sense of the common good?

But I know that if the church were a block from my house and someone urinated in my front lawn, I would not be happy. A couple weeks ago I was digging in my garden and found a deposit from a four-legged creature whose owner has not picked up the mess. I was, to say the least, irritated. I don’t think I’ll share the words first came out of my mouth. I felt as if my space has been violated.

Livability is a word used a great deal in our community. We pride ourselves of the quality of life we have here. But like many things, the issues are complex and they bring up important questions that don’t have easy answers. Who, exactly, is my neighbor? What is my responsibility that neighbor, or to others in my community?

Where are the boundaries between my rights and another person’s rights?

What does it mean to be in community?

In the early days of our nation, the French writer Alexis de Tocqueville, came to America and wrote about what he saw as a unique new culture. One of the things that impressed him was how Americans honored the characteristic of individualism. He admired this trait but he also warned that it needed to be balanced with other things—particularly the good of the whole, or the community—or it would lead to fragmentation in our society and alienation of the people.

Looking back at that warning, his words are prophetic. Opinion polls indicate that many people feel disenchanted with government and in fact many civic organizations. Record low numbers of people go to the polls and people say they really don’t feel they can make a difference in how things are.

Here in Oregon we are likely to have another ballot measure that aims to cut taxes and put more money in people’s pockets. There is a cost to such measures, to schools and services to people who need them. The people who have the most will get the most back. Most people who vote for it will not get back much at all. But still there is a lot of support for such measures.

I think this comes out of this sense of alienation. One way to channel those feelings is to aim to get all that we can for ourselves. We get isolated and our sense of the larger whole is lost. The people who need help are not seen as being in need but simply people who take something away from me. Any sense of the common good sometimes seems to be lost in the conversation. In the end, whereever we are in the conversation, we can be left feeling isolated and disempowered.

Community is a word we hear quite a bit. It is something we strive for. It is something we want. But what, exactly, is it?

It is recognizing our connections with others. It may be through shared interest, location, a shared faith. It may be planned or unplanned.

My first and my foundational experience of community was the small town in Wisconsin where I grew up. It was 256 people. Like the idyllic community, there were all the ways people cared for one another, how they come together in times of crisis, how people make sure that there is enough for everyone. You know most of the people and over time you have a clear sense of how it is you fit into things. Some people are better off than others. Bad reputations are almost impossible to change.

But there are also expectations for conformity. If you don’t fit into those expectations, you can be in trouble. And, like any community, there were things that exemplified the human impulse to be petty and small. Louise the postmaster made sure that she knew all the gossip there was to know. The chain of gossip that kept everyone informed—sometimes at the expense of others.

There was the tendency of not welcoming in new people. If you weren’t born there—it took at least a generation or two before you were truly accepted. Somebody is new for a long time.

For people who didn’t grow up in such a place, it is, in many ways, very romantic. But over the years I’ve come to have a broader view. What I take from that now is that the community is the sum of what we bring to it. It can call forth the best from us or the worst—all the things that make us human. And this is true of any community. They operate on all kinds of levels. They may exist only on the surface or they can be genuinely relational.

And there is the ongoing dynamic tension to how the individual relates to the whole. There is always a give and take in the process. What is best for me may not be best for everyone else and somehow that has to be resolved.

The writer M. Scott Peck says that true community is a rare thing, and that most of the time what we think of community really is not. For him, in true community, the differences between people are not glossed over to allow for the communal to happen, but the differences actually make the community stronger. In the willingness to honor the differences, everyone comes out in a better place. Individuals are seen in the context of the whole body.

Peck defines four stages of community that have been helpful for me in understanding what community does and does not look like.

The first stage is pseudo community. This is what looks like community and feels like community but really isn’t at all. Things are supposed to feel good and nobody has any disagreements. That is not allowed. Everyone seems connected. Everyone may even profess happiness. But underneath it is a sense that everyone just needs to conform to the norm. The way to do this is to avoid individual differences and therefore conflict at all costs.

The next stage is chaos. Here everyone tries to make everyone else fit into a certain image in order to keep things in place. When everyone doesn’t go along with this, things fall apart. People now see their differences right out in the open. They push their agenda without any sense of the whole and chaos ensues. Nobody knows what to do. Now, differences can be healthy, but here they are just part of everyone pushing their agenda over others.

Where does this lead? To the third, and perhaps the most difficult part of building community—the stage of emptiness. People don’t know what to do. It is when the defenses come down and people let go of their expectations. They are willing to be open with each other and to what is happening. It means coming from a place of humility and letting go of our need to control and force the outcome. It is sitting with a degree of emptiness. From this, something real can come.

We can trust enough to be open to how we might change or grow in the presence of others. We move from a place of expecting everyone to conform, to a place of accepting and honoring the differences. In fact, we actually come to see those differences as making us stronger.

From this place the possibility for true community emerges. It is something that happens in a group. It is something that cannot be controlled but happens in its time. nd it is something that has power not to weaken individuals, but actually to make them stronger.

But this takes courage to let go of our ego. It takes courage to let go of expectations and fears and to really be open to the people we are with. We go from wanting to control others to being in genuine relationship with them. We see them not as opposed to us but connected. We are stronger because of that connection.

A story. Writer Terry Dobson writes about riding on a subway in Tokyo one spring day. It was a quiet day, there weren’t many people on the subway. And then at one stop a man stumbles on the train and is yelling violent, incomprehensible curses. He is a large man and he is drunk and very dirty.

He takes a swing at a woman with a child and she is sent into the laps of an elderly couple. Fortunately neither she nor the child is hurt. The elderly couple runs toward the other end of the car to get away from him.

Dobson was young, in good shape and has been studying aikido intensely for three years. Aikido is the art of reconciliation. But Dobson confesses that he really wanted to fight. He admits that he was really looking for a reason to save the innocent and destroy someone.

He stands up and approaches the drunk man. The drunk decides that he’s going to teach Dobson a lesson. Just as he is coming towards him, someone shouts "hey." Dobson writes it was as if you and a friend had been searching for a word and had suddenly found it.

It came from an old Japanese man. He was standing there, immaculate in his kimono, and he beamed directly at the drunk man. He looked as if he had an important secret to share with the man.

"C’mere," the old man said. "C’mere and talk with me." The man followed him, as if he was on a string.

The drunk screams at the old man, asking him why he should talk with him. But the old man continues to beam at him. He asks what he has been drinking. The man yells that he has been drinking sake and that furthermore, it is none of the old man’s business.

But the old man is persistent. He says that he enjoys sake, too. He tells him how he and his wife, every evening, heat up some sake and take it into their garden and enjoy it. He rambles on how they enjoy the sunset together, how they look at their persimmon tree, how the tree is doing well despite the quality of the soil.

The drunk man struggles to follow, but as the old man talks, and continues to look at him, the drunks face slowly starts to soften. His fists slowly unclench. "Yes," he says, "I love persimmons too." His voice trails off.

"Yes," says the old man, "and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife."

"No," says the man, "my wife died." He says he has no home, no job, nobody. He starts to sob. He says he is ashamed of himself.

The old man says, "that is a predicament indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it."

When Dobson leaves the train, the man is sitting with his head in the old man’s lap. The old man is comforting him. The story ends peacefully.

Now, I’m not suggesting that you try such a tactic the next time you are in a threatening situation. It wouldn’t work for everyone.

But as I read the account I found myself asking where I would be in the story. I certainly would not have wanted to have anything to do with the drunk man. And I certainly would have had a hard time putting myself forward and risking my safety to trying to help him.

But what about those situations that are not so extreme? I usually don’t put myself forward in those times either. Most of the time I recognize an inclination to seek out people who are most like me in hopes that they will reinforce my comfortable sense of self. If I sense a differentness from them, I’m less likely to want to be in community with them.

It is easier, oftentimes, to want to put someone in a box and really to not have to get to know them. And, also, to not see how it is that they are like me.

As Unitarian Universalists, we covenant to honor differences among us. We don’t come together all believing the same thing, but honor the fact that we are each different come together on the search.

But if this is a strength, it is also perhaps our greatest challenge. Walking this talk is one of the toughest things that I do and I know that most of the time I probably don’t succeed. The more I try, the more I come to recognize what truly radical thing it is to try to do. Seeing past differences and honoring them is not easy.

The question becomes who is at the table and what am I doing to make the table a welcoming place?

Will everyone feel welcome here? Well, yes, I say. But what about republicans? What about business people who make a great deal of money? Are they welcome here or not?

The answer is yes, they are. But they may not always feel that way. It is easier most of the time to live with categories than with persons. It was easier to say so-and-so is this, and therefore (fill in the blank). But when I get to know somebody I’ve had in a box, I start to realize how my conceptions of that person may or may not be very accurate.

And what emerges is a realization that as I’m able to live with the differences, our similarities seem to make themselves known. We indeed have things in common.

M. Scott Peck writes about a time in his psychiatric training when a group of young interns was brought together for a three day weekend. The goal was to try a certain model of group work. They would not get much sleep and see how they did together. Peck, from the East, where manners are important, describes another man in the group from the Midwest. He was boorish, and smokes cigars, and didn’t like Peck at all. The group has been up for hours and it is now two in the morning. Well, the boorish man falls asleep and starts snoring loudly. Peck describes how he is trying to concentrate and how and man snoring makes that impossible. Peck, who is tired, writes how he is filled with rage and hatred for this person. And then something strange happens. Peck writes: "Just as I was looking at him with such disgust, he turned into me. or did I turn into him? In any case, I suddenly saw myself sitting in his chair, my head rolling back, the snores coming out of my mouth. Sensing my own fatigue, I realized with equal suddenness that he was the sleeping part of me and I the waking part of him. He was doing my sleeping for me, and I was doing his waking for him. The waves of fury, disgust and hatred turned instantly into waves of affection and caring. And stayed that way. Within a few seconds he looked to me like his old self again, but was never again the same."

Perhaps it is those moments when we come to see things in a different way that we have experienced the true mark of relationship.

The experience of community doesn’t make life magically better, but it does reframe things and open us up to what might be. This awareness is something we are constantly called to strive toward, but something that will always challenge us. We must build communities and institutions that promote this.

And in the midst of it, we have stay centered and also stay open to stretching ourselves. We must cultivate this grounding for ourselves and be open to the differences among us. If we can come from this place, we recognize that it is not about us, but part of something larger.

That is not easy, but it is imperative that we work for it.

Words of Naomi Shihab Nye, a Palestinian writer who lives in the United States.

The Arabs used to say,

When a stranger appears at your door,

feed him for three days

before asking who he is,

where he’s from,

where he’s headed.

That way, he’ll have strength enough

to answer.

Or, by then, you’ll be such good friends

you don’t care.

Let’s go back to that.

Rice? Pine nuts?

Here, take the red brocade pillow.

My child will serve water

to your horse.

No, I was not busy when you came!

I was not preparing to be busy.

That’s the armor everyone put on

at the end of the century

to pretend they had a purpose

in the world.

I refuse to be claimed.

Your plate is waiting.

We will snip fresh mint

into your tea.

Community is not something we instantly create. It is something we continually strive for, making mistakes along the way. It is not easy, but when we find it, even in glimpses, we are aware that we are connected and held by something larger. When we realize that, our differences and challenges don’t scare us. They inspire us to fuller, richer, life in the presence others.

May it be so. Amen.

Prayer

Spirit of life, we come this day seeking wholeness and peace. Be with us on the journey. Help us to have the courage to be who we are and the humility to be open to others. Help us to build community that is real and life-giving. May it sustain us in all of our days. Amen.

Benediction

May you be held in the light of this beloved community this day and may you bring your light into the world. Go in love and in peace. Amen.

Copyright 2000, by Rev. Thomas Disrud.  All rights reserved.