| |
It took me by surprise when I discovered that most
folks could not remember much before they were five
or six years old. I am apparently one of those rare
birds who retains vivid impressions from infancy.
One of my first memories is lying on my back in
my crib and gathering my toes into my mouth. We
have all seen babies do this and register some indication
of satisfaction, even delight. We "discover"
our toes. Whether our toes are self or other is
irrelevant. Our early world is an extension of our
infant selves.
We emerge from the primal matter of amniotic fluid
and the miracle of a fertilized egg. We return--or
perhaps proceed--to the primal mystery that awaits
us all. Beyond the borders of birth and death, there
is no evidence that I as an individual exist. But
evidence is a construct of the human species, undoubtedly
limited in its scope, so who knows? What we are
concerned with inside the borders of birth and death
is the I and how I connect to what I find here.
On an elemental level, there is no I and "other."
There is simply I and "we."
So why does humankind trip over its own left foot
in getting along?
The task of the growing child and the ever developing
adult is two-pronged and paradoxical: individuation
and socialization, a creative reflective emergence
of our self, distinct and miraculous as the one-of-a-kind
snowflake, and a creative reflective emergence of
our self in community, complex and unpredictable
as a full-scale blizzard.
At the core of our human dilemma and our human possibility
is the dynamic tension between "I" and
"we". At the heart of the liberal religious
movement within which I am a minister is a reverence
for life that encompasses affirmation of the inherent
worth and dignity of every person and respect for
the interdependent web of all existence, of which
we are a part.
With vision blurred by historical habits of dualistic
thinking, our pendulum of perception and value swings
periodically towards the individual and then towards
the community, towards independence and then towards
interdependence. No wonder we're a confused species.
Our tendency is to push the pendulum toward either
extreme-the I of a hyper-individualism or the we
of a hyper-vigilant community. It seems that the
pendulum of our religious and cultural discourse
has swung too far towards the "I."
There is ample indication on the national scene
that community and interdependence are long overdue
for attention, and we are paying the cost of neglect.
I have a right to my SUV, natural resources be damned.
I have a right to purchase those sneakers and it's
not my problem that they were made in a country
known for its sweatshops and its wholesale practice
of child labor. I am responsible to my family and
myself, which is quite enough thank you very much.
Even the erosion of civil liberties that is marking
our post-9/11 era is more a manipulation of the
individual's need for security-or a sense of security-than
a large-hearted appeal to the common good.
A few years ago, sociologist Robert Bellah addressed
an annual gathering of congregations within my larger
community of faith and honed in on a survey completed
by over 10,000 members of this body. It was a survey
that tapped our religious needs and aspirations,
as well as our demographics. In our social witness,
he noted that we are strong dissenters, but religiously
and culturally we are American mainstream. One of
our deepest beliefs--unfettered individual conscience--is
shared by the majority of our fellow citizens. In
Bellah's words:
"Beneath the surface glitter of American
culture there is a deep inner core, which....is
ultimately religious: the sacredness of the conscience
of every single individual. Nothing....takes away
from the enormous power for good of that idea. But,
by the very weakness of any idea of human solidarity
associated with it in a culture dominated by the
dissenting Protestant tradition, it opens the door
to the worst in our culture. It easily leads to
the idea that humans are nothing but self-interest
maximizers....."
This is the risk of a narrowly construed individualism.
It is the cost of myopia. Bellah calls us to question
this outlook.
"I don't think we can challenge that version
until we come to see that the sacredness of the
individual depends ultimately on our solidarity
with all being, not on the vicissitudes of our private
selves."
(Robert Bellah, The Ware Lecture, General Assembly
of the
Unitarian Universalist Association, Rochester, NY,
June 1998)
It's about interdependence, not just pushing the
pendulum to the extreme of community but setting
the pendulum into a movement of rotation. We're
points on a circle; we're in this together.
To introduce the offering in my congregation, we
say, "The morning's offering will now be given
and received." There is an understanding of
mutuality in our offering. As we give, we receive.
In our liberal theology and our social ethic, we
give generously. My congregation is commonly identified
by our vital outreach to the surrounding community.
Our challenge is to heed the extent to which we
also receive from those we serve--in richness of
perspective, in the reminder that we give out of
the privilege of having enough to give--enough time,
enough money, enough education, enough skills. To
give and receive in partnership is to listen also
to the levels of comfort--and discomfort--with which
our "congregational clients" benefit.
Is it I and he, I and she, or I and we?
Mutuality isn't easy for those accustomed to being
in the position of giver. Several years ago, I went
through a divorce--a gritty, anxiety-to-the-sky
custody trial divorce. Without the support of family
and friends, I don't know how my children and I
would have made our way through it. As an occasion
to say thank you to two of these friends--husband
and wife--I took them to dinner at a quite elegant
restaurant on the North Shore of Long Island. They
were beyond comfortable financially. I was struggling.
I was equally intent on paying the bill and summoned
every ounce of my stubbornness to do so. He was
accustomed to hosting, to giving, to being in the
position of benefactor. "Look," I said,
"it's selfish on your part if you can't give
me the opportunity to give to you, and I don't want
to regard you as selfish." He sat back, startled.
I paid the bill, and that was that. It's about mutuality--including
mutuality of the power and privilege to give.
In the spring of 1941, James Luther Adams, one
of the giants in shaping the theology of our liberal
faith, observed that
"As creative beings we can act to preserve
or increase, destroy or pervert, mutuality--though
it must be remembered also that conditions over
which we have little control may affect the results
of our action. We are fatefully caught in history,
both as individuals and as members of a group, and
we are also able to be creative in history."
(from his essay, "The Changing Reputation of
Human Nature")
When Adams wrote these words, Pearl Harbor was
months away. Dietrich Bonhoeffer had returned to
Germany, committed to resisting Nazi oppression
in community with the Confessing Church. Anne Frank
was writing in her diary.
Five years later in 1946, Adams set forth his thoughts
on "A Faith for the Free."
"We are historical beings, dependent upon
a creative power in nature and history, a transforming
reality that "sustains meaning and goodness
in the human venture." As historical beings,
we open ourselves to this reality most fully in
"the exercise of the freedom that works for
justice in the human community."
We dwell in the promise inherent in community.
We dwell in the promise of whatever purposes and
principles define that community. Perhaps it is
the variably textured community of family. Perhaps
it is the familiar community of neighborhood. Perhaps
it is the faith community of a congregation, bolstered
by a shared covenant, or the variably construed
community of nations, bolstered by a shared charter.
We dwell in the promise inherent in the communities
of our birth, the communities of our circumstance,
and the communities of our choosing.
I come to this life from a state of We. I thrive
in this life because I am and We are. I leave this
life as I know it and enter a profound oneness with
the ultimately mysterious We. I may dissolve, but
we do not disappear. Spiritual wholeness and freedom
come from living our lives in community, an extended
community defined by the justice of I and We. On
an elemental level, there is no I and other. There
is simply I and we, a gift far greater than a solitary
I could hope for, a promise that just might preserve
our human community into the next millennium.
Adapted from a Sermon by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
The Unitarian Church of All Souls, NYC, July 19,
1998
|
|
