Rowing For Our Lives

Mary Oliver and Richard Bach bring us a scary message—leave the familiar shallows we’ve always known to enter deeper unknown waters. Row for “the long, falls, plunging and steaming”. These readings hold out the promise of full, whole lives; lives in which we reach for truth and meaning as seekers, as people of faith. As we undertake this uncertain journey, we might ask ourselves “Must we give up all that once offered us security and rootedness?"

My answer is “no”.

I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by water—the Atlantic Ocean in Norfolk, Virginia where I grew up and the blue Pacific of Hawaii and Los Angeles when I was a young adult. Now, I am here in Annapolis. On one beautiful night about a month ago, I paused to look out over the harbor as I walked from Eastport to Annapolis and I thought how happy I am here, how these waters invite me, how peaceful the boats appeared, moored on the bay. We all know that the waters of life are not always peaceful and serene. The Reluctant Messiah story teaches us that we must let go in order to do “our true work”—“this voyage” that is our lives. This is the great adventure we are all called to make.

Everyone’s voyage must originate somewhere. My voyage began in the Methodist church where Bible stories shaped my early love for storytelling and metaphor. Decades later, when I entered Wesley Theological Seminary, which is Methodist, I enjoyed a kind of homecoming. My first year helped me value my earliest religious experience; by my second year, I realized how far I had moved beyond the Methodist faith, how those doctrine sand beliefs held me too tight to the riverbed. Like the reluctant messiah in the choral reading, I allowed the current to lift me, but my childhood roots are Methodist. My Methodist background enriches my life still and grounds me for the Unitarian Universalist ministry.
My religious journey took me to a far distant shore from those roots. In Los Angeles, I became an ordained minister of Integral Yoga. Integral Yoga built a temple called LOTUS—the Light Of Truth Universal Shrine in central Virginia. The temple is shaped like a giant lotus, a beautiful flower that grows out of mud and debris. The temple contains scriptures from many of the world’s religions that refer to the light of truth inherent in each of them. I will always value interfaith dialogue and work with other religions because of my experience there. I left Integral Yoga and my ministry there because we were all asked to sign a pledge, restricting our freedom of expression. I could not sign that vow in good conscience. My first marriage ended around the same time. I felt abandoned by the world I knew, by God and by my community of faith. Leaving that ministry was, for me, a necessary part of the voyage; it made me resilient and compassionate when I see others caught in their own currents.
I found Unitarian Universalism near the end of a long time of searching for my true Self. Even as the current lifted me free, I yearned for a religious home once again and I found one in the Unitarian Universalist church in Charlottesville, Virginia. I also found a religion that let me be truly whole—a community where one did not have to be perfect or deny the shadowy parts of one’s self, an inclusive church in the current. Our Unitarian Universalist heritage, the roots that hold us close, as in these wall hangings, call us to this struggle. We can chart our own course and yet covenant to let the current lift us together.
The waters call us and "the river delights to lift us free" if we let go. On September 10th, life was peaceful. The boat felt safe for most of us. Since September 11th, we have all been hearing those waterfalls ahead, forced to let go of the rocks that held us securely. We are in this boat, heading for those waterfalls whether we like it or not. We don’t know where the current will take us. A part of me would rather talk about the nice, shallow waters where we all feel safe and content, but we are seldom in those waters now. Life is drastically different for us today than on September 10th.
These are so many questions I’ve asked myself these past five and a half weeks. We will always remember where we were physically on September11th. That is the easy part. But where were you emotionally on that day of tragedy? Were you enraged, fearful, or sad—did you want to bomb or blame someone, anyone? Were you numb, unable to think or feel much of anything? Were you heartened by the actions of the firefighters and police or the final acts of the passengers and crew that crashed in Pennsylvania? Did you look at Arab, Muslim or Sikh men and women differently or with fear and loathing?
Where were you spiritually? In a place of despair, cut adrift from many certainties that gave your life meaning before that day? Did you gather with other people to seek solace or were you alone, dealing with the pain and anguish by yourself?
And where are you now--do you feel that the current is smashing you over the sharp rocks, overrun by fears of losing your job or getting anthrax? Are there people with whom you can share your true feelings? Are there places where you can be heard and accepted?
We are all connected in this world--now more than ever. John Donne’s message from centuries ago, echoes in our ears—“Do not ask for whom the bell tolls—it tolls for thee.”
After September 11, I saw this church in a unique way. I saw people who need one another and who need this community. I heard people say, “I don’t want to be alone. I want to be here.” I saw the meaning of church life and the purpose of ministry—my ministry, our ministry here together as I have never seen or felt it before. My heart and my mind are filled with images of our first weeks together and they are deeply imprinted there. I feel the strength of our common purpose as we go through the falls together.
I have heard many reactions to September 11th. Each of us has different feelings and thoughts about those horrendous acts. We want our government to do different things. Yet being a community of faith means that we hear one another with respect and try to understand one another, even when we don’t agree.
I just completed a paper on two founders of English Unitarianism, Joseph Priestley and Theophilus Lindsey--two very different men. Priestley was a man of science and reason, yet religion was central to everything he did. Lindsey was an Anglican minister, who saved every penny to help the poor in the community. Two very different men, yet they had a friendship that lasted well over a decade. Priestley wrote that his friendship with Lindsey was the most significant relationship in his life. He supported Lindsey when all others abandoned him, and he turned to Lindsey when his wife of over thirty-four years died. Their example shows us something about real connections and our common purpose that links us together. Francis David, another of our Unitarian founders said, "We don't have to all think alike to love alike." We do unite in worshipping together, in coming together now as we all go through this traumatic time together. We are united when we listen carefully to one another's words and the silence when feelings run too deep to be spoken out loud.
September 11th is now part of our collective memory. Though we naturally may feel many painful emotions, we must remember what we sacrifice if we lack compassion for others. If we fail to reach out in love to one another and the wider communities around our globe, we are not rowing towards those fearsome waters. We are avoiding them and we may miss an opportunity to find true connectedness and deep love. Though we may need to drop the oars and rest at times, we must steady ourselves for the long journey ahead and resume it when we are stronger.
I want to close with a poem that I wrote when I decided to enter the currents again and pursue the Unitarian Universalist ministry. I have adapted it to reflect our present struggles in the currents.

O
Spirit of
Life, we heard
your Voice in the
Uterine Waters that
were our first home. We
remember times of
magic when we
watched a

storm
upon the beach while the lightning flashed and the thunder roared.

We imagine the strength of the water flowing over us like a cascading waterfall. All
of these waters have brought us to this Moment~
all of these events flow through
our veins and are a part
of us.
The sacred waters teach us to bend and flow, to reach and to
stand still, to merge and return to the beginning. We flow down to
the low places as we are carried to the heights. The Waters call us Here.

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