SERMONS 

Foundations

Opening Words
from Theodore Parker

May ours be a religion which, like sunshine, goes everywhere;
its temple, all space;
its shrine, the good heart;
its creed, all truth;
its ritual, works of love;
its profession of faith, divine living.

Reading
by Maya Lin

I feel I exist on the boundaries
somewhere between science and art
art and architecture; public and private; east and west

I am always trying to find a balance between these opposing forces,
finding the place where opposites meet.

water out of stone
glass that flows like water

the fluidity of a rock
stopping time.

existing not on either side
but on the line that divides
and that line takes on a dimensionality
it takes on a sense of place and shape.

Sermon

About a year ago I heard an interview on public radio with Maya Lin, the architect who designed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I was so moved by her words about the memorial. I was especially moved by the way she spoke of the importance of marking the tragedy of the Vietnam War. She spoke of the memorial as a scar in the earth. A scar that is polished over time. But always a scar.

Many of you, I'm sure, have been there. It is a place on the earth that possesses power. It is a power that comes from beauty, the beauty and meaning of Lin's design. It is a power that comes from the simple acknowledgement of unfathomable loss. It is a power that comes from Life. So much life lived. It is power that comes from our own ability to arrive at that place of knowing the enormity of the gift of life, the tragedy of our frail attempts to live it well, and the capacity within us for love.

I consider it a sacred place. I have visited others. Like the Ocmulgee National Monument in Macon, Georgia. There is evidence there of 12,000 years of human habitation. There is power there. I believe it is power that comes from the early people. From their connection with the earth. From the places they built that were sacred to them. Mounds for burial. Mounds for worship. Earthlodges used for sacred ceremonies. Standing on the tallest of the mounds, the temple mound, you can see the landscape transformed by our people's relatively short, but impacting stay. My eyes are drawn to contrasts. The neon bank sign on the building that reaches almost the height that the Mississippians achieved in their mounds by moving dirt one pail at a time. The less jarring contrasts include the cleared land that meets the river. The green mound against a blue sky.

I am still there. And quiet. Maybe that is the source of the power. Maybe it is the space that I create in myself to see in this striking way. If I were not still I would not see. And yet I do not believe for a minute that this place, or others like it, requires my attention to be. I do not believe, in other words, that this place is no larger than I am. Let me say that without the double negative. It is clear to me that there is power greater than myself in these places. And in them, I am enlarged. I draw on that power and become more.

This room has been a place like that for me. A place where I draw on power beyond me and become more. A sacred place. A place where I can bring my fear and find courage. A place I can bring my grief and find hope. A place where I can bring my brokenness and find glimpses of what it means to be whole. This happens sometimes when I'm singing with you. It happens sometimes in the silence. It happens sometimes when I walk into this space in the middle of a weekday and the sun catches a section of pews in a way that I've never seen before. I experience the sacred here sometimes when this space is packed full. The sound and smell and sight of this community gathered is often enough to make me catch my breath. It is partly memory. The memory of love received and given. Memory of those who once sat in these pews, those who once spoke from this pulpit. It is also a collective vision of Life that I do not experience many places. A vision that moves back and forth in time from memory to hope and hope to memory and creates a full understanding of this present moment. A healing vision that gives me faith. This is that kind of place for me.

Now, Theodore Parker says ours should be a religion which goes everywhere. I agree with him. Our religious practice does not differentiate between places we should take our faith, express our faith, and places we can go, leaving our faith behind us. None of us would suggest that we affirm the inherent worth and dignity of all people--only on Sundays. That we celebrate the gift of Life, only for one hour a week. That we are free to treat Life or people with disrespect or contempt in our work life or our family life.

In addition, our religious heritage has taught us to seek the holy in all the world. To recognize the sacred value and beauty of people who look like ourselves and people who look different. Even the value and beauty of people with radically different beliefs from our own. Our heritage does not stop with human value and beauty. We are taught to recognize the value and beauty of the rest of the natural world as well. To seek and discover the holy in all places and all moments.

So each moment has the potential for sacred power. Every place contains an experience of the divine, if we will be still and quiet. So does that mean this place is no different from any other place?

I have shared how I believe this physical place supports, offers a sound foundation, for these ideas. The intimate connection between what is inside this sanctuary and what is outside is one way. For some it might be that the sacred inside is taken into the world through these windows. For others it might be that the sacred outside is transported in. Either way, or both, the intimate connection reminds us that we "exist on the boundaries"-somewhere between these things. And that we are part of an interdependent web.

Then the connection created between us in this space, by its shape and slope, draws us into a physical experience, or at least representation, of our belief in the inherent worth and dignity of every person. We are drawn into community in this space. We can see each other, for the most part. And there is no line in this room that says this is sacred space and this is not.

So is this place different from any other place? Of course the answer is yes and no. If we are still and quiet we will experience the Holy here. This is a way this place is not different from any other. Our religion, all space. I remember learning as a child that God would be present whenever two or more were gathered in God's name. The point of this scripture from the book of Matthew is not that God requires two or more before showing up. Countless other passages remind the faithful that God is always present, if we will open ourselves to experiencing God. This passage captures the paradox of sacred place. All space is sacred, and we need sacred space that is set apart, that is different from other space.

In being set apart, something changes. With intention, we help to make a place sacred. Many use the term "consecrated" to speak of this kind of set apart space. Consecrated means to make or declare something as sacred. At first glance this feels ridiculous. We could make something sacred? Maybe declare it sacred, but if we are willing to make that distinction-between making and declaring-are we just engaging in some kind of show?

Again, I would have to say: "yes and no." It is in the midst of the tension between our power to consecrate and the sacred power that is beyond us, that we live. I would go so far as to say that it is in this creative tension where the revelation of the Holy is possible. "I feel I exist on the boundaries, somewhere between . . . existing not on either side, but on the line that divides."

This space is sacred, I believe, because we (and others before us) have declared it so by our intention (the power within us) and our surrendering (to the power beyond us). In this creative tension the force of love has made itself known to us. The mystery is experienced. Not only in space, but in time.

We are blessed by the creative genius that designed space that physically represents this creative tension. We are drawn in and we are drawn out. Existing not on either side, but on the line that divides and takes on a dimensionality, a sense of place and shape. We are blessed by the gift of this space-but this gift is not enough to keep this space, or this time, or this community, or indeed ourselves, alive. Surely it is the work of a religious community to keep space and time and community and individuals alive. That is, full of life. To do this, I believe, we must be willing, ourselves, to live in the tension of creating this sacred force of love and surrendering to it. Some might call that willingness a commitment to live in faith.

That our building offers a foundation for the work of faith is a gift. But it is not the work itself. It is not the Life itself. Or faith. Only a foundation. As we endeavor to extend this foundation of our community I hope that we will remember this. The building is a powerful tool. Its potential to help us do the work of this community is great. But it is not the work itself.

During this time of change, and in times to come, may we find ways to live together in community that allow us to invoke the sacred by our own power as we also surrender to it. It is in that delicate balance that life, full, rich life, is possible. That mystery can be experienced. That growth will happen. Where music arises and beauty is known. Only in the fragile tension of its strings can the harp make its music. Only in the delicate balance of faith can we know the enormity of the gift of life and the capacity within us for love.