My wife, Stephany, and I moved to Connecticut in the summer of 1999. I was thirty-two years old. I had just graduated from Harvard Divinity School with a variety of academic and ministerial awards. I had just received ministerial fellowship from our denomination's Ministerial Fellowship Committee. I had just been ordained to the Unitarian Universalist ministry by the First Parish in Cambridge, MA, one of the oldest and most prestigious congregations in the country. I had been hired as an anti-racism educator and organizer with our denomination's Department for Faith in Action, a ministry which would bring me all over the United States working with congregations to develop their racial justice ministries. I had also been hired as the part-time parish minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Norwich. I had wonderful opportunities to do work I loved. And on top of all this, my rock band had just signed a record deal with a small entertainment company in Los Angeles. In so many facets of my life I had been working very hard and my work was bearing fruit. I was excited and passionate. I felt on top of the world. I was proud of what I had accomplished. And as proud and excited as I was, you would never have guessed how sick I felt in my body.

It started in July of 1999 with a series of strange dizzy spells. And if it wasn't dizziness it was lack of appetite, a feeling of fullness when it was time to eat. And if it wasn't that it was mild pain in my back, or an elusive pressure in my forehead, or mild pain in my chest. And if it wasn't that it was a generalized feeling of tiredness. All these symptoms were just vague enough I couldn't clearly describe them to my doctor, who tried very hard to work with me. In the end she could only suggest equally vague treatments such as "you need to reduce the level of stress in your life."

Physically I was very healthy. My physicals and a whole variety of medical tests proved it and continue to prove it. I was left with one, undeniable conclusion: our bodies speak to us. When our minds don't want to admit that we may be in over our heads, or carrying too much stress, or feeling deeply the pain of a loss, or simply not taking care of ourselves as best we can, our bodies will find ways to tell us. Do we know how to listen?

I didn't. There were too many good things in my life for me to accept the possibility something might be wrong and my body was trying to tell me. I fought with my doctor about the diagnosis of stress. I fought the notion that my body could be so sensitive. I'm emotionally mature. I know how to manage stress. This might happen to other people, yes, but I'm doing work I love. There shouldn't be anything wrong with me. And the symptoms persisted. Finally I had to consider the possibility I was not as able to manage stress as I imagined-or that I didn't even know how to recognize it. I allowed myself to see a fuller picture of me. I began to understand I was denying my feelings of sadness at leaving a tight group of friends in Boston, about leaving a number of nurturing communities and mentors who had held me closely through my ministerial formation. I was denying my feelings of fear at discarding my identity as a student and taking on the identity-and the responsibility-of a professional minister. I was in denial about how long it would take to build the kinds of communities and social networks I had grown accustomed to in Boston. I was denying how much I identified with Boston's urban landscape and how long it would take to get used to middle Connecticut's geography. I hadn't been thinking about any of this, let alone feeling it. I hadn't allowed myself to grieve these losses. I hadn't prepared myself for the very natural isolation one feels upon moving to a new state. My body let me know it. It was only when I examined all the implications of this huge life transition; only when I admitted to myself how hard it was; only when I admitted to myself what high expectations I had placed on myself; only when I admitted I was sad to leave and missed my old life and allowed myself to feel the sadness; only then did my body begin to feel well.

Two weeks ago I made the claim from this pulpit that as much as religion is in the head, it is of the body. Although our minds interpret spiritual experience and thereby give meaning to it, it is our bodies that have the experience. If I don't know how to listen to my body, how can I be sure I am not missing some profound spiritual experience? If we haven't learned how to listen to the messages our bodies send to us, or if we've only learned to listen to and react to some of the messages our bodies send, but not all of them, how can we be sure we are not missing some profound spiritual experience? Do we know how to listen to our bodies? If not, how do we learn?

Two weeks ago I also suggested a challenge. I said engage in spiritual practice, whether it is prayer, meditation, contemplation, yoga, some kind of daily exercise, dance, music, art, or an intentional experience of nature, whether you whirl like a Dervish, or wander free and easy like the Taoist masters, or prostrate yourself on the earth, or pursue social justice. Today I bring more nuance to this challenge. Engage your body in a spiritual practice. Don't focus on the intellectual part, the abstract part. Don't enter into it with the expectation of discovering any truth that has ever been thought of or articulated by anyone ever before. As it says in the Bhagavad-Gita, "be intent on action, not on the fruits of action."¹ Let your body engage, then listen to what your body says. Does your body like the practice? Does it feel well during and after the practice? Does it feel energized, excited? Or tired and slow? Does your body feel heat or cold? Does your body feel challenged? Do your muscles ache? Do you feel closer to something sacred? Has this bodily activity called you out of your mundane existence or more deeply into it? Has it somehow enabled your spirit to soar? Or has it simply anchored you more firmly to the ground? And how does that feel? Does it feel good to be anchored more firmly to the ground? Is your breathing peaceful and slow, or hurried and heavy? Have you learned something new about your body? Or have you affirmed something you've always known and been comforted by it? Has the practice blurred all distinctions between your body and the outside world, such that you feel connected to all, and all feels connected to you? This is how we learn to listen to our bodies.

Unitarian Universalists often wonder what it means to have faith. I'm not sure what I believe in, so how can I have faith? I have no proof, so how can I have faith? This I know: we cannot think or prove our way to faith. Ultimately, faith is felt. It is a creature of the gut more than the intellect. Real faith is not an abstraction. It is quivering and shaking and breathing and stretching and opening and embracing. If your religion is only of the head, you will always wonder what it means to have faith. If you allow your religion to enter your body, if you allow your body as much as your intellect to contribute to your religious life, faith will become less mysterious. Real faith is embodied.

I asked Matthew to bring the gift of chanting this morning precisely because chanting is very clearly a bodily experience. It is a wonderful example of using the body in a repetitive, ritualistic, musical way-a way of grounding the body, freeing the spirit, and growing closer to the sacred. As many of you know, Matthew and Anne Falkowski run Samadhi Yoga Studio in Manchester. They were inspired to establish Samadhi after taking yoga classes with Brian Heath here at UUS:E. From my conversations with Matthew and Anne and other yoga enthusiasts here at UUS:E I decided to start taking introductory yoga classes at Samadhi. I've realized very quickly that anyone who engages in yoga begins to gain access to a variety of ancient South Asian traditions, many of which predate the emergence of Hinduism, yet which also merge into Hinduism.

One of the wonderful aspects of Hinduism and many Asian religious traditions is the direct emphasis on the body, on learning to listen to the body, on understanding the body as a pathway to spiritual insight and wisdom. Western religions have historically been more willing to draw a stark line between spirit and body, elevating the spirit and disdaining the body. They have been suspicious of the body and its supposed weaknesses. I find it much easier to talk about the relationship of our bodies to our spiritual lives with Hinduism as the context, rather than the various western religious traditions. This morning's chants have made reference to some of the more well-known gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon, and I want to briefly share an interpretation of them.

We began, appropriately, with a chant to the elephant-faced Ganesha, who is worshipped at the beginning of religious ceremonies as the over-comer of obstacles. This chant invited us to center ourselves, to focus ourselves, to become present. It asked us to put aside all those other concerns in our lives that would otherwise prevent us from being focused and present. Our second chant invoked the name of Krishna, an avatar of the God Vishnu. This chant invited us into knowing, into deeper wisdom. Matthew reminds me that as we become aware of our deeper wisdom, we become aware of thoughts and behaviors in which we persist, yet which are also at odds with our deeper wisdom, and which therefore actually prevent us from fully knowing ourselves. We need some spiritual mechanism whereby we can move beyond these old thoughts and behaviors. Our third chant is one such mechanism, a chant to Shiva, the destroyer. The chant to Shiva helps us move beyond thoughts and behaviors that no longer serve us. Chanting is a way of using the body to focus on the image and the role of a certain deity or sacred object so that the practitioner simultaneously moves deeper into self-awareness and wisdom.

Matthew informs me that chanting, like yoga, like many rituals, like prayer, like meditation, creates energy in the body. But just creating energy is not enough. Listening to our bodies also means observing the energy we create. Through observing the energy we learn something about our bodies, our limits, our potentials, what feels good, what feels bad. I'm just starting to understand what this means through my introductory yoga courses. During my first class I was following along doing the stretches to the best of my ability. Because I've been an athlete most of my life the stretches were familiar. But I had only ever stretched to loosen up before a run-a means to an end. I had never stretched for the sake of stretching. I had never paid attention to the energy stretching generates. As I observed, I was amazed to notice heat rising in my arms and hands as I stretched.

Did this heat lead me to great spiritual insight? Well, there was no blinding flash on the road to Damascus, no conversion experience. But it did teach me something I didn't know about my body, about creating energy, about observing that energy. It taught me I had no idea about this potential in my body. It opened a path in front of me. It hinted this learning can go on and on, deeper and deeper, that the insights will come if I continue to practice in a disciplined way. And maybe that's what it means to embody faith, a faith that through the physical experience of spiritual practice, the insights will come, the wisdom will come, the sense of connection with the sacred will come. I may not have a rational understanding of what it is, but I have faith it will come.

It says in the Bhagavad-Gita, one of the central scriptures in Hindu tradition, "perform necessary action; it is more powerful than inaction; without action you even fail to sustain your own body."² That is, don't renounce your body; don't disengage from the world. Your body is a gift. Use your body. Open yourself up to the potential your body harbors. Engage your body in spiritual practice. Create energy. Observe energy. But through this process, the Gita cautions, do not become attached to certain outcomes. Do not expect certain outcomes. This is often difficult advice for westerners to heed. We always want to know where we are going. The Gita says "always perform with detachment any action you must do; performing action with detachment, one achieves supreme good."³ This keeps us focused on the body. Again, observe the energy created through practice. See what it means to you. But do not attach meaning to it before you've actually had the experience. Entering into something without knowing what will come- that's a definition of faith.

I'm always intrigued when I read in the Gita of the embodied self. It's a curious term. Out of context you might hear it as redundant. Aren't the body and the self pretty much the same thing? But it's more than that. I interpret this phrase to refer to our deepest sense of self, our most profound wisdom, which is also part and parcel of God, one and the same with the entire cosmos. Self is not just 'myself' or 'yourself.' It is also God, the universe, everything: Brahman. It's intriguing and challenging and mystifying to me that the embodied self actually extends far beyond the physical limits of our bodies. The Gita says "Our bodies are known to end, but the embodied self is enduring, indestructible, and immeasurable."⁴ "It cannot be cut or burned; cannot be wet or withered; it is enduring, all-pervasive, fixed, immovable, and timeless."⁵ I have faith that our bodies can be pathways to the sacred. I have faith that at some very deep place my body knows what is true for the gods is true for us as well. As our opening words proclaimed, "I am the self abiding in the heart of all creatures; I am their beginning, their middle, and their end.⁶