Unitarian Universalist Church of Delaware County - Sermons

What does it mean to be in “right relationship?” And if we’re not in right relationship, how might we “right the relation-ship?” These are the central questions that the Jewish High Holidays pose, and the burning questions – and, in some cases, I mean that literally – facing us and our nation in this moment. On a global level, what is our relationship to the Earth and all its beings? We see the brokenness of that relationship in the wildfires that have been scorching the West and the hurricanes soaking the Southeast. On a national, societal level, what is our relationship to authority? What is the relationship between a militarized police force and people of color? We see the brokenness of that relationship in the fires that are burning in our cities. This week in the wake of the Breonna Taylor grand jury outcome, but before that in the wake of George Floyd’s state-sanctioned murder and before that, and before that, and before that… On a national level what is our relationship to our democracy? We can see the brokenness of that relationship by the way the U.S. Senate is burning with desire to cram through a Supreme Court appointment before November’s election, and in the flaming, fire-inciting rhetoric of a narcissistic, egomaniacal, dare I even say tyrannical President. And, turning to the more personal, what is our relationship to each other in this moment? We see the brokenness in the vitriolic debates between the maskers and the anti-maskers, between those who trust science and the hoaxers, between the “return to schoolers” and the “health and safety first-ers.” We see the brokenness in the 210,000 deaths from this virus, with no end in sight. We see the brokenness in each other’s eyes. In the looks of fear and how we keep our distance because we just don’t know if you may be a carrier who could infect me.

What does it mean to be in “right relationship?” I’m afraid that it’s a little like the Supreme Court’s view of pornography: We can’t really define it, but we know it when we see it. There are, however, some essential elements. The first is humility. To be in right relationship is to set aside ego and any other perspectives that place us somehow above, over, or better than others. When we are in right relationship, we are walking with, not ahead of. We feel a kinship, a belonging, an alignment with the other. From that flow two other essential ingredients: compassion and justice. When we’re in right relationship we experience empathy – that sense of shared pain and shared joy – that reveals our common experience, that sense that “we’re all in this together.” Right relationship also engenders a deep commitment to justice. It’s a realization, an experience of what Dr. King said: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” If I am in right relationship with you, I will work, fight, even die to see that you are treated fairly, justly, with respect and dignity.

If right relationship requires these things – humility, compassion, and justice – these point us toward what we need to do to right the relation-ship. Or to use the language of this month’s Soul Matters theme, what we need to do to renew our relationships – with ourselves, with each other, with our nation, with our planet. And here is where we can look to the spiritual work of Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement. Atonement is the work of restoring right relationship.

It is a happy coincidence that, for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, Yom Kippur often coincides closely with the autumnal equinox, the turning of the seasons from summer to autumn.  It is a good reminder that the spiritual practice of atonement requires a turning.  You heard about the idea of “turning” in Chrissy’s story today. The Jewish approach to atonement on the High Holidays is all about turning.  In fact, there’s a

I had my first pandemic stress dream a few nights ago. In my dream I couldn’t find my way home, and the streets were deserted and there was no one around to help me. I was lost and all alone. I knew my house was somewhere close by – somehow I could sense it – but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get there. At every turn my anxiety got worse and worse, and I woke up feeling panicked, breathing hard and sweating. And grateful. I was grateful that it was all a dream and that in reality I was tucked safely in my own bed, Irene sleeping serenely beside me.

I’m guessing that I’m not the only one having stress dreams these days. Really, it’s surprising to me that I haven’t had any before now. Have any of you had a dream like mine lately? Can I get an “amen” in the chat? We’ve got plenty to be stressed about these days, that’s for sure. Even though most of us are safe in our own homes, we have enough to eat, we can go out for a walk or a run and be assured that we’ll find our way back home, the stress and anxiety just seem to keep piling up. Between the election and the pandemic, we are all living in a state of constant trauma. And as a straight, cis-, white guy, I can’t imagine the trauma that people of color living in West Philly are feeling right now, after the murder of Walter Wallace last week at the hands of the police. Or the residents of the City of Chester, which saw its 31st and 32nd murders on its streets this year.

Maybe you came here today to escape from the stress and anxiety and trauma of your life, to find a refuge from it. And if you have, I hope you’ve found it in our music, or our meditation, or our story for all ages. And maybe you’ll find some relief in the words I have to say today, because ultimately I’m hopeful and I’ll get there. Because the Soul Matters spiritual theme for the month is “Healing,” so I guess I’ve got to get there by the end of this sermon. But before we get to the healing, so that we can get to the healing, we first need to name what we’re all experiencing right now and what we’ve all been experiencing since last March, or since November of 2016, too. And that is trauma.

When we think of being traumatized, we usually think of it in terms of our response to a particular event that we experience or witness. But trauma can also come from living in a persistent state of uncertainty and stress. Like living in an unsafe neighborhood or facing the threat of a pandemic. One author puts it this way: “Any situation that leaves you feeling overwhelmed and isolated can result in trauma, even if it doesn’t involve physical harm. It’s not the objective circumstances that determine whether an event is traumatic, but your subjective emotional experience of the event. The more frightened and helpless you feel, the more likely you are to be traumatized.”[1] So, let’s name what we’re feeling right now as trauma – psychological, emotional, spiritual trauma. Because naming it is an important step on the path of healing it.

So, I want to pause for a second here to talk about healing, and what it is and what it’s not. Let’s take the example of a cut, a physical wound. I wish I could show it to you, but on the back of my right hand, you can still see, more than 50 years after it happened, where I cut myself on a coffee can. You know how, when you use a can opener you have to twist the top off, and it leaves this little sharp piece that sticks out? Well, back when I was ten years old I was at my friend Andy’s house, and he had something in a coffee can – I can’t remember what – and I wanted it so I reached into the can and sliced the back of my hand open. Andy’s mom did all the right things to staunch the bleeding, and maybe I should have gotten a couple stitches but I didn’t. So, my body – my red blood cells, my collagen, my platelets – did their job and within a couple weeks the wound had closed over and I could take off the bandage. The wound was healed. It’s a miracle, really, that our body

“All will be well. All will be well. All manner of things will be well.”

That’s not how Job was feeling, that’s for sure. For those who don’t know the story from the Book of Job, let me summarize: Job was a good and righteous man. He had everything a man could want. A large, healthy family with a loving spouse and many children. A prosperous farm with lots of livestock and crops. Good friends to hang out with. Job was living the life. That is, until God decided to take it all away. Step by step, God dismantled Job’s amazing life to test how deeply his faith ran. Would Job still believe in the goodness of God when his wife and family were taken from him? When his home burnt to the ground and he lost his farm? When his friends abandoned him? Job hung in there, through his sores and his boils, but he eventually reached his breaking point. Out of his grief and his rage, he railed at God, at the unfairness of his predicament. God returns Job’s rebuke with one of his own. “Gird up your loins like a man,” God declares out of the whirlwind. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?…Who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?”[1] Admonished by God’s tirade, Job is contrite and acknowledges that he’s just a small piece of the puzzle and that only God has the complete picture.

I’ve been thinking about Job a lot these past few months. Right now feels like a “Job Time” to me. The losses keep piling up and piling up. I don’t need to quote you the statistics on the devastation that the pandemic has wrought. The massive loss of life. The businesses that have gone under. The pain of social isolation. The fear and anxiety of what the future may hold. The frustration over leaders who are incapable of leading, who acknowledge the carnage and shrug their shoulders and say “Look: it is what it is.” Like Job, each of us has lost someone or something of deep meaning and importance in the past six months, and there’s no end in sight. The lesson from the Book of Job is often summarized as “it’s all part of God’s plan.” But I’ve got to say that, if this is part of God’s plan, God needs to go back to the drawing board and get a new plan.

The fatalism of “it’s all part of God’s plan” doesn’t sit well with most Unitarian Universalists. We like to believe that we have at least some degree of control over our lives, that we’re not merely puppets on a string or that our fate has already been decided for us in some great cosmic lottery. We hope that, at least, we’ve got some ability to control the bumper car that is our life, even if we’re limited in where we can go. If we look a little more closely at the Book of Job, maybe we can find a deeper meaning than just “it is what it is.”

First, let’s look at how Job responds to his loss and devastation. Job’s primary response to his pain is to cry out in anguish and despair.  Job rants against his suffering, pleads for understanding and begs for relief.  Job experiences the full measure of his pain.   We learn from Job that suffering is a part of life and that the path that we walk will inevitably take a turn through the valley of the shadow.  And, yes, Job teaches us that more often than not tragedy seems senseless and random. But more than that, Job teaches us that we can and we should curse the darkness.  Last spring I talked about the value of lamentation, how allowing ourselves to experience the full range of our emotions amidst our loss can be healing. Job shows us that no matter how much we might rather sleep-walk through it, we need to stay awake and alert during our long nights of the soul.  As Unitarian minister A. Powell Davies, wrote, “Let the heart be open to pain; let it be stretched by it. All the evidence we have says that this is the better way.”

Job also tells us a lot about friendship, and how to support each other in the midst of suffering.  Listen closely t

Besides the joy and companionship they bring, pets can help us learn some valuable life lessons. This Sunday, Chrissy Bushyager, our Director of Religious Education, shares some lessons learned from the newest member of her family, Bailey the puppy. Joy Thiessen provides musical reflections on the theme.

There is no text for the sermon, so please enjoy the video of the complete service!

There is no text for this sermon, so please listen to the service on video, starting with the Reading by Scott Youmans, “Goddess Kali and the Battle with the Demons” from the Devi Mahatmya.

I’d like you to meet Edna. Edna is 68 years old. She’s married to Fred, who worked at the Boeing plant down in Chester for nearly 30 years before his COPD got so bad he had to retire. Edna works at the Giant supermarket on Baltimore Pike. Most days you’ll find her at the self-checkout, wiping down the machines and helping customers when their groceries don’t scan properly or their credit cards don’t go through. Edna has to stand for her entire shift, which aggravates her sciatica. Her gall bladder has flare-ups now and again, but she can’t call in sick because she needs this job. Edna has worked for Giant for the past seven years and she’s just about at the top of the pay scale for her position, pulling in nearly $10 an hour.

Edna likes the interactions she has with customers – at least most of them – and the other cashiers, most of whom are young enough to be her grandchildren. But she would prefer not to work. She worries about Fred just about every minute of every day, and she’d rather be home taking care of him. But Medicare doesn’t fully cover their prescriptions and her job pays for their supplemental plan. She probably should see the doctor about her gall bladder, but she’s worried about being told she’ll need surgery. She can’t be laid up because the bills would just pile up and they’d never get out from under them. Edna’s kids do what they can. Her daughter brings the two grandkids over one night a week, along with a meal for all of them. Once a month her son sorts through their finances. Edna knows that he secretly makes occasional deposits in their bank account to keep their heads above water, but neither of them talks about it because it would embarrass them both. This isn’t the picture Edna had of what retirement would look like. That cabin by the lake in the Poconos that she and Fred dreamed about all those years is just going to have to remain a dream.

I’d venture to guess that every supermarket in America has an Edna. Probably several Ednas. And it’s great that these companies employ them. But for Edna, or anyone in their position to have to work so that they can afford medical care demonstrates how broken our system is. And while Edna isn’t working in a sweatshop in 115 degree heat twelve hours a day, like workers were back when Labor Day was established, there are Americans working under brutal conditions for paltry wages, still to this day, 126 years after Congress established a national holiday honoring all workers.

I think it’s particularly important this year to reclaim the origins of Labor Day – a meaning that’s been lost to the end-of-summer picnics and barbecues – in a year when unemployment has spiked and where so many front-line workers have been risking their lives so that the rest of us can stay safe from the ravages of this pandemic. I’m talking about all the Ednas who’ve kept working in the supermarkets when we were too afraid to venture out. All the home grocery delivery workers whom we paid to shop so that we didn’t have to. All the postal workers, the UPS and FedEx drivers, and the Amazon employees who sorted our orders and loaded up their trucks every day and made their runs so that our needs and wants could still be met from the safety or our own homes. Those who pick and process the crops, many of whom are immigrants and day laborers, so that we can eat. All the sanitation workers who collected our trash like they have every week, as if it didn’t contain traces of a virus they could pick up with it. The nursing aides and orderlies and hospital janitorial staff who stared down this vicious virus on a daily basis, often for a measly $7.25 an hour. All these people and so many more have kept working throughout the pandemic so that we could continue to live, to shelter in place and stay safe. We literally owe them our lives. In case you doubt me, or believe that I’m overstating the case, take a look at what happened in Upper Darby last month. For two weeks, after a sanitation worker w

We’ve got to keep our hearts wide open, til our faith brings us back to solid ground. I invite you to close your eyes for a moment and picture yourself swimming. Maybe you’re at the Jersey shore, or in a lake in the mountains somewhere. And you’re out deep, way beyond where you can touch bottom. Now, picture yourself swimming toward the shore, and maybe you realize you were a little farther out than you thought you were, and you’re getting a little tired, and maybe you’re even getting a little scared because you’re not sure how much further you have to go. And now, feel that spot where you put your feet under you and there’s sand between your toes. Or a rock you can stand on. Picture getting to that place where you know you’re safe, that you made it. That place where you can breathe a sigh of relief, and feel like everything’s okay now, that you can relax and breathe easier. That’s what I picture, that’s what I feel when I hear Lea sing those words: “You gotta keep your heart wide open, til your faith brings you back to solid ground.”

How does our faith bring us back to solid ground? Or to put it another way, how does our faith ground us? What is it that our faith offers us that gives us that feeling that we can make it through the waves that are pushing us around? Isn’t Unitarian Universalism all about questioning everything? Aren’t we all on spiritual journeys that lead us to explore different paths to meaning, purpose, perhaps even enlightenment? Doesn’t being a UU mean that there are no clear and easy answers? What can possibly be the “solid ground” of a faith that tells us never to blindly accept anything, but to always think critically? After all, “Question Authority” is perhaps our favorite bumper sticker.

I think we can find the solid ground of our faith in our covenant. In the promises we make to each other. The promises about how we will behave toward each other, how we’ll build community in the face of our curiosity and our questioning. In the face of our differences. Differences of belief. Differences of background and experience. Differences of race and ethnicity and sexual orientation and gender identity. Our covenant is the glue that holds us together, the safety and solid ground of the shore that we can return to, again and again, when the waves are pushing us around and threatening to pull us down.

Every Sunday when we gather, we recite our covenant together. Maybe because we do it each week, it can seem like it’s just rote, and maybe it can even feel a little bit stale. So this morning, as we embark on a new church year, a year that promises to be full of waves pushing us around, I thought it would be good to spend a few minutes reminding ourselves just what our covenant says, and renewing our commitment to it. So, here it is; feel free to join me in saying these words again:

Enriched by our differences and joined together in our search for meaning, we covenant with ourselves and each other:To seek truth in a spirit of love;To strive for justice; andTo serve others with a joyful heart.

What do these words mean to you? What is the key message here? If you’d like, you can tell us in the chat as I spend the next few minutes offering you my perspective on that.

The first thing I notice in our covenant is our affirmation that we embrace our differences. That they don’t divide us, but that they enrich us. They make us stronger and better as a community. Right out of the box we proclaim our commitment to building a beloved community that affirms and promotes diversity in all its forms. Because it’s contained in the preamble to the actual covenant, it’s easy to overlook. But these four simple words – “Enriched by our differences” – create the container for our community. And it’s a container that has open doors and permeable boundaries, inviting and accepting all those who share our values, no matter the color of their skin, who they love, what they believe.

The preamble also reminds us of that

I would venture to guess that at least a few of the pets we’ve blessed today are what we call “pandemic pets.” Pandemic pets is a term that encompasses not just dogs, cats, puppies, kittens and other pets who have been adopted or bought while we’ve all been confined and quarantined. An article in the Washington Post equated the demand for adopting, fostering, rescuing and buying dogs during the pandemic to the Cabbage Patch craze of the 1980’s and the “Tickle Me Elmo” mania of the mid 1990’s. “What began in mid-March as a sudden surge in demand had, as of mid-July, become a bona fide sales boom. Shelters, nonprofit rescues, private breeders, pet stores — all reported more consumer demand than there were dogs and puppies to fill it. Some rescues were reporting dozens of applications for individual dogs. Some breeders were reporting waiting lists well into 2021.”

Irene and I have been pet-less since our two dogs died several years ago, and we’ve got the itch ourselves. We’ve been regular visitors to the Providence Animal Shelter website over the past several months to see whether there’s an adorable older pooch to adopt and, until just the past couple weeks, there have only ever been one or two available. And we know why we’re seeing this boom in adoptions, of course. We have more time on our hands during the quarantine. Some parents are looking for ways to distract and entertain their children as the weeks and months creep by. And, as it’s become apparent over the summer, we’re not going anywhere any time soon, so we’re less constrained by busy work schedules and vacation get-aways.

Yes, all of these are reasons why people are bringing new pets into their homes these days. But truth be told, they’re all just easy excuses. They don’t really get to the heart of the matter. Because what’s at the heart of the matter is our hearts. Pandemic pet owners can give us all sorts of reasons why they’ve chosen their furry, feathered or scaly friends, or as some say, their pet has chosen them. But it all comes down to this: We all have more love to give. Our hearts are bigger and fuller and more ready to be opened than we can imagine. Pets are outlets for our love. Vessels into which we can pour our hearts. And what’s more, at least with most animals – except maybe the most stand-offish of cats – our pets reciprocate. They offer their love in return for ours. As we pour our love into them, they pour theirs out to us.

One of my favorite hymns goes “There is more love, somewhere, and I’m gonna keep on ‘til I find it. There is more love somewhere.” What our pets do for us, even when they’ve chewed up our favorite slippers or dug holes all over our back yards, is to help us find that love. They help us feel that love. And in the process, we learn that we have these boundless, bountiful reserves of love in our hearts. We learn that love is not a zero-sum game. Because I pour my love out to my pet does not mean that I have to love someone or something else less. Like the Grinch’s on Christmas, our heart grows and grows and grows. Not just three sizes, but more and more and more, without limit. To borrow the title of the closing hymn we’re about to sing in a moment, our pets are channels for the streams of our love.

We bless our animals today, but in doing so we are reminded that we are blessed by them. By their presence in our lives. We are bound to them in a spiraling, circling dance of affection. The more we give, the more we get. The more we share, the more we have. Such is the law of love.

Blessed Be and Amen.

Racism is all around us.  It has been with us since before the founding of our country.  There is racism that hides in the shadows, and racism that stands boldly in the light of day.  And just as we come in many colors, racism comes in all shades of gray.  This service is a combined effort of UUCDC’s Anti-Racism Coalition and Rev. Peter Friedrichs.  There are stories and personal reflections, videos and music.  There is food for thought and nourishment for the soul.  But above all, there is hope and abiding love.

There is no text for this service, so please enjoy the wonderful video!

Oh, how I long to be with you today. To have this sanctuary filled to the brim with your smiling, expectant, grateful faces. To hold our traditional fall harvest ritual, with cups of cider and piles of pumpkin bread set out, a feast for all of us to enjoy. And I wish those we’ve lost during this past year to still be with us. We’ve lost so many this year. Far too many. And I wish we all were getting together with our loved ones. Remember those awful days of trying to travel over the holidays? Weather delays at airports. Traffic jams on the highways. I even miss those, too. The list of what we miss this year goes on and on. There is so much that’s different, and it’s so stressful in so many ways, and there just doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. I don’t know of a single person who doesn’t wish it was all very, very different than it is.

I have a feeling that, when we finally emerge from this pandemic we’re all going to be a little more Buddhist in our outlook on life. We’ll acknowledge that all life is dukka, which means challenge, and that the more attached we are to things, the harder life is. Maybe we’ll all be a little more flexible. We’ll all hold onto things more lightly, accepting that everything is fleeting. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll all appreciate the little things a little more. We’ll take them less for granted than we have.

This time of year has traditionally been about being grateful for the abundance in our lives. We celebrate the harvest, when our barns and our bellies are full of all the riches the earth has to offer. It’s represented by the image of the cornucopia, or “horn of plenty,” food spilling out of it and across the table because there’s so much goodness it can’t hold it all. Fullness – of hearts, of minds, of spirits, of bodies – is what we celebrate and how we celebrate. And the conundrum we face this year is that these feel like such lean times. Our patience is wearing thin. Many who are isolated and alone are hanging on by a tenuous thread. Although it erupted briefly after the election, hope still seems hard to hold onto.

So how, in these lean times, can we be thankful? In her most recent blog, Christian writer and theologian Diana Butler Bass had this to say about giving thanks amidst the trauma that is 2020: “We shouldn’t be grateful for COVID, for the political chaos, for the broken climate, for economic suffering. But we can be grateful through these times, while we are struggling in them…None of us should be thankful for this terrible year. But, if we stop and reflect, we see that we can be thankful through it. 2020 needn’t have the final word and steal from us the possibility of thanks and joy.”[1]

What Ms. Butler-Bass is saying is that while the virus is running rampant through our community, despite the threats to our democracy from a narcissistic President, notwithstanding the perpetual threat to black lives from persistent, systemic racism, what has not been stolen from us, what no amount of devastation can rob from us, is our capacity for gratitude. Our capacity for gratitude – our ability to find something, anything, to be thankful for – is one of the innate characteristics of our very being. It lies at the core of who we are as thinking, feeling humans. While it may seem elusive at times, we always have within us the seeds of gratitude.

At this time of year, in this year, the losses seem so large. And they are large and I would never want to minimize them. But no matter how large the losses, we cannot and must not let them overshadow the smaller things that are the fertile soil in which we can plant the seeds of gratitude. My heart is lifted when I see photos of beautiful sunsets posted on Facebook, because it means someone is grateful for the beauty. I look at the generosity of this congregation in supporting our community partners where, during the pandemic, we’ve seen Share the Plate contributions nearly double what they were pre-pandemic. I see the YUUCKI’s