by Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

 A sermon given February 3, 2002

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

CALL TO WORSHIP

Good morning! This is a community of faith. We come to give thanks, to learn, to give ourselves ever more fully to the Good. You are welcome here. Come, let us worship together.

Travel is dangerous. No, I’m not talking about terrorists taking over airplanes. I’m talking about something potentially much more risky—I’m talking about spiritual risk. When we travel, we risk a change of consciousness, and I don’t mean just a cognitive change—I mean a bodily, a fleshly change as well. We change because we are forced to take in all kinds of new sensory experience—smells, sounds, visual images that become part of who we are. We notice new ways of doing things, values that are different. And once our consciousness has changed, we can never go back to our previous innocence. Yes, travel is dangerous.

When I went on my sabbatical last year, I told you that I wanted to go to places where my assumptions would be questioned. Ha! Easy to say. But there are consequences when you actually leave yourself open to that. First I went to Cuba—definitely my assumptions were challenged, particularly about economic matters.

I returned home for a while and then I traveled to Singapore, to Thailand, and finally to Bali, where I stayed for about 3 ½ weeks. For those of you who are geographically challenged, as I am, I should say that Bali is an island in the center of a string of islands that make up the Indonesian archipelago. It is hot—about in the mid- 80’s all the time—and very humid. You don’t have to tell yourself to slow down there—the climate will do that for you. The island is small, about 220 miles long by 125 miles wide, and has a population of about 3,000,000, 95% of the people being Indonesian. Small, crowded, homogeneous. And full of magic.

From the time I arrived in Bali, I knew I was in a special place. I remember so clearly that first night. I arrived by plane to Denpasar, the capital and largest city. Jess and Made, the Balinese couple who were caring for me, picked me up in their small white van, and we drove for 45 minutes over the darkest roads I have ever been upon. We finally arrived at our destination, Penestanan, a village of around, I would say, 500 people. I had rented a bungalow that is co-owned by this Balinese couple and a woman from right here in Portland. It was late, after midnight by the time we got there, so I got out my bags, and we started for the bungalow. To get there we had to walk down a dirt path about three feet wide which had on either side an irrigation ditch full of water. Jess had a flashlight to guide us, but the path was strewn with rocks and holes, and I could just imagine falling with my suitcase into the irrigation ditch. Made, who was probably less than five feet tall—I towered over her—noticed my uncertainty. "Don’t worry, I’ll take it," she said, and she hefted my bag up on her head and began walking quickly down the path. I followed as best I could. We made it just fine to the bungalow, with only one bad experience—being charged by a ferocious mother dog protecting her pups. Incidentally, the Balinese do not treat their dogs well—maybe that’s because they believe that dogs are re-incarnated thieves. I would have to say that their dogs are the sorriest looking, most mean-tempered dogs in the world. You know, that dog kept barking at me the whole time I was there, and finally I told her, "I don’t want your ugly little puppies."

Bone-tired, I climbed into bed under the mosquito netting and just lay there. I heard frogs and crickets, perhaps the lone howl of a dog, and the gecko—the big lizards that run freely both inside and out of the house and who cry, "Gecko, gecko, gecko . . . " six or seven times, each softer than the last. I heard no sounds at all except those of the earth. I felt my body sink into the bed, and I felt all of me let go, all of me just relax, really relax. I have never been so relaxed in my adult life. And that’s the way I felt the whole time I was in Bali.

I woke up the next morning around 5:30 when the roosters started crowing. One will start, and then another and another and then there’s just this cacophony of crowing. You know, my sound is bigger than your sound. Now some of you know that I’m not a morning person, but somehow all that changed in Bali. It was impossible to stay up late, because I had only one weak electric light, and so I went to bed around 9:00 and got up with the roosters. There are lots of roosters in Bali, because cock fighting is a popular sport. It is illegal, but when there is a big cock fight, the police actually cordon off parking places for the participants’ motorbikes. One reason cock fighting is allowed, I was told, is that, after all, 10% of the take goes to the village temple. (I guess the Balinese tithe!) Funny, but when I approached our stewardship committee with the idea, they didn’t seem too enthusiastic.

I was in my dressing gown when Made came up the stairs with my breakfast. It consisted of tea, a huge bowl of fruit, and an egg—usually a chicken egg, but occasionally a duck egg. All the food for each meal was fresh: eggs and chicken from the yard, fruit newly off the trees, fish or pork from the market. I was usually gone for lunch, and for dinner Made served rice, of course, always rice, some spicy pork or fish, some fried tofu perhaps, or finely chopped root vegetables—and the ubiquitous huge bowl of fresh fruit. No caffeine, no sugar, no alcohol.

My Balinese was non-existent, but Made’s English made it possible for us to talk and get to know each other. In fact, I got to know the whole extended family. Her parents lived right next to me, and her brother and his wife and children lived close by, too. The family took me in like one of their own, and included me in whatever ways I wanted to be included, most especially in the temple services and community celebrations.

I happened to luck into two of the most important holidays in Balinese culture, Galungan and Kuningan, held 10 days apart, during which the Balinese believe their ancestors visit. The villagers spent days decorating the roadsides with great bending sticks of palm, dripping with fronds and ribbons; festooning the statues with colorful fabric; and preparing offerings of food and flowers for the spirits. Made came one day just before Galungan was to begin, and said, "Tomorrow morning we will kill the pig for the feast. Would you like to come and watch? We’ll leave here at 5:00 a.m. and go into the village." Well, getting up in the dark at 4:30, well before the roosters, and killing a pig is not my idea of a good time—but I thought, "Marilyn, you are in a different culture. Go and see what this is all about."

Turns out that the ritual of the pig killing was a community event. The villagers in that neighborhood all turned out, from the smallest children to the grandparents. This was a ritual known to all, and there was a particular order they followed. Actually two pigs were killed. Watching the men and adolescent boys work together to clean and to make every possible use of this animal was truly fascinating, but I won’t go into the details, which some might find, well, distasteful. I do have photos in an album downstairs near the art exhibit, if you are interested.

The next day was the beginning of the ten days of celebration. We began by going to the temple and making an offering to the gods and getting blessed by the priest. Everyone, including the young children, had to dress appropriately—both men and women in sarongs, with belts tied differently for each gender, and small colorful hats for the men. The women tended to wear gold jewelry, which they had in lieu of a savings account, because the value of the rupiah was so unstable. Once at the temple, we joined the crowd, and we sat and we knelt and we sat and we knelt, kind of like the Episcopalians do, except we were outdoors and on the ground. The robed priest, who was a woman, came and sprinkled water on us from her bowl. At one point, we were supposed to take a few wet grains of rice and stick them on the center of our forehead. Not knowing exactly what to do, I got a whole handful of rice and stuck it all over my forehead. I guess I looked pretty funny. Made glanced up at me and laughed out loud during the sacred ceremony.

Another part of the celebration was the many parades and dances featuring Barong and Rangda. The Barong is a good spirit, a strange creature, half shaggy dog and half lion, and the bad guy is Rangda, the witch and demon. People often keep a wood carving of Barong above their front door as a protection against evil spirits—and two of those carvings are included in the Balinese art display down in Fuller Hall.

Perhaps this would be a good time to tell you something about the Balinese religion. It is a mixture of Hinduism and animism, with the emphasis on animism. Though they know the Hindu myths and the names of the Hindu deities, the Balinese are a people close to the earth, who revere their ancestors, and who believe that good and bad spirits animate the earth.

The Balinese religion has some interesting parallels to Unitarian Universalism. There is no creed, no dogma, no theology of salvation or damnation. But now here is the difference from all Western religions, and it is a major one: their religion is completely integrated into their living and is practiced continuously. The Balinese keep the universe in balance, they believe, by giving thanks to the good spirits and placating the bad spirits. They seek harmony within themselves and harmony with the community and with nature. Unlike Unitarian Universalists, who tend to believe that evil is not an inherent property of human beings, and that all misdeeds merely come from a bad upbringing, the Balinese have no trouble believing that both good and evil exist—like yin and yang—and that balance is everything.

The grandmother of the family I stayed with had as her chief job giving offerings to the spirits at the various temples—temples in the home, on the patio, in the yard, in the rice paddy, etc. She formed little square baskets of palm into which she placed rice and flowers, and then she made her rounds, offering the baskets and waving the smoke of incense over them, and speaking the prayers out loud. She knew no English, so we never actually talked—I learned only how to greet her and how to say goodbye—but I sensed the spiritual power when she was around. Though she was only about my age, she looked much older. She carried herself beautifully and moved gracefully, though, and her presence is still a strong memory for me. When I left she held me very tightly and said something to me—she had tears in her eyes, as did I, and I knew that she had given me her blessing. Made translated: "She says you have a great and loving heart."

Made’s mother was an important part of the extended family, which is typical of Balinese village life. She and the grandfather helped take care of the children—Edy, 7, and Udu, 5—and at other times the children might be cared for by an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, or a friend. Babies are never allowed to crawl around on the ground "like animals." When a child is six months old, they are allowed to touch the ground for the first time. From the time a child walks until they go to school, they are free to roam around wherever they want. They eat when they are hungry and run around naked practically all the time. These children rarely cry—though Udu, for whatever reason, was a screamer. I asked Made one day, "Made, why does Udu cry so much?" and she answered, "Because he is a child. He is not mature yet. When he goes to school, I will tell him that he must be strong and leave mother, and after that he will be fine." The children are loved and treasured, but not spoiled. They grow into adults of gentle strength and great generosity of spirit.

Beauty is everywhere in Bali, from the terraced rice paddies to the woven roof of the homes. The Balinese have what seems to be a kind of ever-present consciousness of beauty. In fact, I understand that there is not even a word for art in Balinese, for beauty is just a part of what is. The village I was in was a 15-minute walk from Ubud, a larger town that is the arts center of Bali and is in the south-central area. I did not go to the tourist areas on the beaches—the Balinese believe that evil spirits are in the water and good spirits live in the mountains. Villages out and around Ubud specialize in various art forms, whether it is a certain style of painting or woodcarving or dance or batik. Almost literally, everyone is an artist—and a skilled artist. They have other jobs as well, but they also do art. Just as our children know they’re going to grow up and learn to drive, Balinese children know they’re going to grow up and do some form of art. Balinese life is one aesthetic whole, featuring balance and harmony.

I looked at a lot of art in Bali, and brought a few pieces back home with me—they are in Fuller Hall, and with each is a little story about how I came to find the piece.

It is amazing to me how much time the Balinese give to art and to religion. They have about 60 religious holidays a year, and over 20,000 temples on this small island. Often their homes will serve as studios and galleries for their art. They just make very different choices than we make about use of time. Their children go to school only four hours a day. People hang out for hours on end at the warung, or snack stands, and just do nothing, just talk to their neighbors and play with their children. I don’t mean to say they are not industrious, because when they work, they work very hard—it’s just that they don’t feel the need to work all the time. They basically grow rice, and have two plantings and two harvests a year, and those are times of intense work. But the Balinese make time for people, and for things of the spirit. Those who work in the tourist industry and are expected to be somewhere from 8:00-4:00 experience a huge breakdown in their way of life.

I was also moved by how everyone is accepted and integrated into the community. It would be impossible for anyone, I think, to be hungry or homeless, because family and friends are all around. The elderly are highly respected. Once when I was hanging out at a warung, I observed an old man who was mentally ill with a group of villagers. He was entertaining them with foolish stories, and they were laughing with him, not at him. Then a tourist, a young woman, walked by and he started to follow her. Two or three people quickly went after him and gently pulled him back into the group before he frightened the young woman or embarrassed himself. It was clear that he was very much a part of the community and would be looked after in the context of that community.

There is so much more I want to share with you, but there is no time. Just little things, images like a rice farmer herding ducks through the rice paddy at dusk. The Balinese dancers in their brilliant colors. The relentless bargaining for the art. The cows that look for the world like deer. The gorgeous art work of impressionist Arie Smit, the Dutch artist who came to Bali as a young man and found his bride there and just stayed. He is now in his 80s and is still there in Ubud, painting.

I don’t want to romanticize the Balinese, though. They are poor by our measures. They bathe in the stream, some of them, and stand there naked with their hand over their private parts. Their toilets are basically a hole in the floor. They have begun to get our packaged goods and have strewn the irrigation ditches with plastic bottles and wrappers. The smell of rotting garbage is one of the givens.

I learned that there is a difference between a high standard of living, which we have, and a good quality of life, which they have. Tat Twam Asi is their code of living, their way of moving in the world: freely translated it means, "I am you" or "you are me." We are one. How could then one person intentionally harm another? Our ideal of unfettered individual freedom has given us much opportunity, but little community—many material possessions, but little possession of ourselves. We have gained so much. What have we lost?

Yes, travel is dangerous, but I got what I asked for—I saw a radically different way of life, and surely my assumptions were questioned—my assumptions about time, about work, about the meaning of family, the preciousness of children, the importance of beauty—and about a spirituality that is lived from moment to moment. I think my heart has opened a bit more, as I pray every day that it will.

You know, things are the way they are in a given culture partly because of geography, topography, and climate—but things are as they are largely because human beings have made certain choices. Other humans have made different choices. That understanding in itself is so valuable. If we wish, we can make other choices. Go where you haven’t been—it doesn’t have to be far away, it just has to be strange, different. It could be right here in Portland at Dignity Village or the Japanese Garden. Go where you haven’t been, and wake up to what you want to be.

So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

Spirit of Life, give us the courage to leave the familiar, to pass through our fear, to go where we need to go. Help us to give up our attitudes of superiority, our assumptions that our way is the only way. Let us learn from all we meet, that our hearts and souls might be enlarged by the difference. May we come to understand, deep in our flesh, that we are one. So be it. Amen.

BENEDICTION

Go where you need to go, find what you need to learn. Go in love and in peace. Amen

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Copyright 2002, Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell.  All rights reserved.