by Barbara Coeyman, Intern Minister

A sermon given June 23, 2002

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

CALL TO WORSHIP

Come into this place of peace and let its silence heal your spirit,

Come into this place of memory and let its history warm your soul;

Come into this place of prophecy and power and let its vision change your heart. --William F. Schultz

I’ve always been a fairly daring skier. I’m not talking about going back country off the trails. I’m just talking about regular ski slopes, where I’m willing to try almost any run, even the hardest ones, the black diamond trails, without fear of injury. Maybe physical daring runs in my family. I still recall seeing my daughter when she was four shoot straight down a long ski slope—no S curves, no snow-plowing to slow her down. She went straight on, seeming invulnerable to having an accident or injury.

I’ve come to use skiing as a metaphor for handling challenges. I tell myself to risk new paths, go down the black diamonds, take the icy patches as they come, and plan to arrive at the end stronger for having braved the run. The metaphor has inspired me many times. I even called on it during an interview I had just after starting seminary nearly four years ago.

Candidates for ministry go through many different types of evaluations. This interview I’m referring to was my first before a committee. Some of my reviewers commented during the interview that I did not appear very vulnerable, and what did I think of this observation? Well, at the time of the interview, perhaps like many of us, I considered vulnerability a pejorative quality, a condition that we try to avoid. So I replied to the interviewers. "That’s good, right, for a minister to be invulnerable—strong and daring." "They should see me on the ski slopes," I thought, "to fully appreciate how invulnerable I am."

"Well, not exactly," was their feedback. "If you appear invulnerable, it’s hard to know where the human being inside you is. Blanket invulnerability is not good." Clearly, they weren’t talking about physical vulnerability. They meant spiritual vulnerability, of the heart. They said they weren’t getting much heart from me. I thought I had heart and that I showed it, but somehow it wasn’t coming out in that interview. I left with much to consider. I could tell that I was in for another one of life’s dog gone growth experiences.

I suspect that few of us like to admit when we feel vulnerable. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard anyone boast about his great vulnerability. I certainly didn’t want to be vulnerable in that interview. Perhaps I was just naive, but at the time, vulnerability didn’t seem to have much to do with ministerial development.

Probably all of us have some understanding of "vulnerability" because probably all of us have felt vulnerable at one point or another. Vulnerability is part of the human condition, not restricted by class or age or gender. Vulnerability is a natural condition that arises when we are in the presence of danger or risk or suffering or new-ness. Often associated with loss or change, vulnerability could be described as a feeling that the ground is falling out from under us, or that we are hanging on to the side of a cliff with a very deep bottom, or that we are being swallowed up by a tremendous emptiness. Vulnerability arises when the props that support life give way. When we lose our usual means of defining success or achievement or wealth or identity, we may feel tender, naked, fragile, disempowered, or abandoned. We not only feel vulnerability in ourselves, but we can feel it—or maybe its cover-up—in others.

We experience vulnerability with different degrees of intensity. At one end of the spectrum is what me might call situational vulnerability—we feel vulnerable over discrete things in our life . . . like fine cars or houses or jobs . . . that we think help define who we are. Because we find so much of our identity through these external things, if we lose them, we fear losing ourselves. At the other end of the spectrum, we can experience vulnerability at the core of our being—what the existentialists might call "angst," that is, sheer dread—as when we experience the loss of deep personal relationships or activities or dreams, or even life itself.

We also know well that vulnerability extends beyond the personal. Collective groups like nations can be vulnerable. Certainly Americans have been much more aware of national vulnerability since last September. Since last September, probably most of us have experienced a range of vulnerabilities related to our American identity.

While we all experience vulnerability at one time or other, we respond to it in many different ways. If we see vulnerability as a negative, we are likely to respond by trying to control the source. We think that in controlling it, in having power over it, we can head off that fall into emptiness. Our control is probably in direct proportion to how vulnerable we feel.

There are many ways we try to be in control when we feel vulnerable. Perhaps you can see yourself in these examples—I know I see myself. For one, we can be in denial that we are vulnerable. We goad ourselves into thinking, "There’s no emptiness out there, no risk." We may skirt around the risk, or try to run away from it, to pretend it’s not there at all. Now granted, sometimes we may genuinely need to protect ourselves and deny some vulnerabilities if we feel quite overwhelmed. For finite periods, denial may be appropriate. But an entire life in denial cuts us off from much of what it means to be human.

In contrast to denying, we might build a crust of hardness around us to keep from feeling the vulnerability we know is there. Unfortunately, this crust also sends a message to others that nothing can get through to us. I suspect that I was doing this "crusty" thing at the time of that ministerial interview. I was quite unaware of the hard shell I had been building up for several years during the loss of a job and a reluctant move from a house and an area of the country I loved. I was aware that these losses left me vulnerable—I definitely wasn’t in denial. But I responded by believing that all I had to do was tough it out. The review committee felt my toughness, my crust.

Trying to control vulnerability may work for awhile, but control won’t serve us well in the long run. In trying to control our vulnerabilities, we actually set them up to control us because we define them as the "Other." Ironically, as "Other," they remain alive and capable of holding power over us. And then we use lots of energy in protecting ourselves from them, energy that would be better spent living life.

Rather than controlling, there is another way to respond to feeling vulnerable. We can learn a lot from a fifth-century Indian prince about embracing vulnerability. The prince’s father hoped for the best life possible for his son and so vowed to shield the prince from all suffering: from old age, sickness, and death. So the prince lived in ignorance of these human sufferings, and was also surrounded with sensual delights to make his world of goodness all the better. One day riding in his gilded chariot, his driver accidentally let the prince see an old man. When the prince asked, "What sort of man is this?" his driver said, "This is old age. We all become old." The next day, the prince saw a sick person. "What sort of man is this?" His driver said, "This is illness. We can all become sick." The third day they encountered a funeral procession, loved ones weeping over the corpse. To the prince’s questions, the driver exclaimed, "All who are born must die."

At last, the prince understood vulnerability, and understood that it applied to him as well as to others. Some of you probably know that prince’s name. He was Siddhartha, and these encounters started him on a pilgrimage to move beyond suffering and vulnerability. After years of meditation and fasting and wandering, Siddhartha found his way. He found that by embracing vulnerability, he learned how to move beyond it. This is how he reached enlightenment. He came to understand vulnerability as the source of awakening and liberation. In this process, he became the Buddha, that is, the "One Who Is Awake." Central then to Buddhist teaching is the understanding that vulnerability is the seed of enlightenment already within us. In Buddhism, the path to enlightenment is found not by controlling vulnerability but embracing it.

Now, by "embracing," I mean that we are willing to claim our vulnerabilities. Standing at the edge of that deep chasm, we are willing to jump off without any idea of where the bottom is. Maybe there is no bottom at all, but still we are willing to jump. By embracing our vulnerabilities, I do not mean we give into them or accept them with resignation. That approach makes us victims. Instead, by embracing I mean that we are willing to reach out and connect with them. In so doing, we let go of trying to control them.

I’ve learned a lot from Buddhist teachings about letting go. What helps me most is remembering the "unity of being" that Buddhism promotes. It’s not about me versus the vulnerability. Instead, the vulnerability and I are part of the same existence, the same universe. It’s a lot easier to embrace something I feel part of than something I oppose.

Then, through embracing, we not only find unity of being. We also encounter a new kind of power, not power over but power with. It is relational power, power that is transformative, of the vulnerability and of ourselves. It’s as if, in absorbing the energy of the vulnerability, we take it into ourselves and add it to our own energy. We jump into what we think is emptiness, and in turn find enlightenment.

Let me explain this on more practical terms. I once had a neighbor who complained to the landlord because I was hanging laundry out on a porch railing. No, this is not a story from the current Doonesbury comic strip, it actually happened. The neighbor tried to exercise power over me to stop this practice. I reacted with anger, defiance, and not talking to my neighbor. I also tried to have power over him. Finally the neighbor came to talk with me directly, and I had a chance to explain that we had a baby and so had lots of laundry, and not much money for the Laundromat and, where we’d lived previously, hanging laundry out wasn’t a problem. In this relational mode with the neighbor, I was much more willing to find another solution for drying the laundry.

I haven’t yet addressed the most important aspect of embracing vulnerability. We must remember the heart. It is only through the heart that we can be open to this process of embracing. Personal transformation may yield new power, but transformation also requires a tenderness we can find only through our heart. Personal transformation is a

Journey of the Heart. Journey of the Heart happens to be the title of an excellent book by feminist theologian Rita Nakashima Brock. For Brock, the heart is the source of both our vulnerability and our strength. Brock writes, "The heart’s strength lies in its fragility."

At first, it might feel incredibly risky to open our hearts, but knowing that in doing so we can find enlightenment and empowerment should make the risk worth it.

Besides transforming ourselves, others are transformed as well by our Journey of the Heart. Others feel when our hearts are open. When others feel that we can accept our own vulnerabilities, then surely we can accept theirs as well, and so they are willing to connect with us. Others see that we really are part of the human race. I was beginning understand why the ministerial review committee cautioned me about vulnerability.

It’s certainly no accident that many religious visionaries have been willing to place themselves in vulnerable situations, on the edge of emptiness. In addition to the Buddha, think about other religious leaders like Jesus, or Ghandi, or Martin Luther King. Or the Unitarian minister James Reeb. Reeb knew he and dozens of other ministers were putting themselves in a very vulnerable situation in 1965 when they responded to King’s call to Selma, Alabama, to help in the Civil Rights march. One evening, as Reeb and two other Unitarian ministers left a restaurant during the march, they were clubbed by a group of white men. Several hours later, Reeb died. His death was tragic, but it also generated much power and strength. It moved President Johnson and Congress to pass the Voting

Rights Bill a few months later, and it continues to empower Unitarian Universalists today to fight for equality of all types, even if the struggle puts us at risk.

Even with all of this rational understanding about vulnerability under my belt, I did not fully "get" what it means to embrace vulnerability until I experienced its chasm of emptiness head-on. A year or so after that ministerial review, I came to realize that I was responding with denial to a huge vulnerability in my life. I had been denying that my marriage was failing. When I realized that I had to leave the marriage, I felt more vulnerable than I have ever felt in my life. I was sure that my core would disintegrate. I was sure that coherent meaning as I knew it would cease, for me, my children, our extended families. It felt as if I were dying. But I stepped off the cliff anyway. I left the marriage.

Sure, it was a hard first step to take, but amazingly the world did not disintegrate, and I did not die. Instead, my heart began to open as I let go of my defenses and hurt, and I found new places of strength in myself. Not only had I not known that I had those places within me, but I had no idea there was untapped strength there. Most extraordinarily, in moving into these distant corners of my being, I also found new places for God. I came to experience very intensely a God who not only surrounds me but also lies within me. I experienced the meaning of life from within me, internally, not from external sources. Through this dog gone growth experience, I found an incredible power and energy and strength—not overnight, but over the course of weeks and months. I experienced a journey of the heart that I know is still continuing and that I pray will never end.

As we search for greater meaning, greater awareness and enlightenment in life, we must keep our hearts open constantly, because enlightenment can come upon us when we least expect it. A heart that is not open is a heart that will not be able to embrace and transform.

I know that exposing ourselves to our vulnerabilities and living with heart is risky. I hope we remember that during risky times, we can find strength and support in faith communities like this congregation. We can find strength to let go of our fears and defenses, little by little. As we find honesty, depth, and heart in ourselves, others will find these qualities in us as well. We are on a life journey that will never completely make sense, but it is an exciting, beautiful journey that we don’t want to miss. Embrace the

Journey.

May each of us experience an on-going Journey of the Heart. In finding our heart, may we also embrace life, in all its mystery . . . and wonder . . . and beauty . . . and love.

So be it.

PRAYER

Spirit of Life, we pray for heart. We pray for heart, so that we may find tenderness and kindness and love in ourselves and so that others may also know these things in us. We pray for heart, so that we may find connections within ourselves and with others. We pray for heart, so that we may find strength with others. We pray for heart so that we may know love, and, in loving, that we may live life to the fullest.

In the name of all that is holy, we say . . . Amen, Shalom, Salaam, Blessed Be.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright 2002, Barbara Coeyman.  All rights reserved.