Deep in each of us there is a place—a place of peace, a place of silence, a place of serenity, a place in which, if we listen closely a still, small voice speaks to us—perhaps the voice of the divine—perhaps the voice of our own, most authentic self finally able to pierce through the din of our busy and sometimes frantic lives. Perhaps, in this place, there is no real distinction between the divine and us.
This is a knowing voice—knowing who we are and who we want to be; knowing what matters and what doesn’t; knowing what is transient and can be let go; knowing what is permanent and must be nurtured with great care and saved along with our other precious keepsakes and the wisdom of our lives; knowing how to mourn and grieve; knowing how to proclaim what we believe; knowing the way to healing; knowing the way to forgiveness; knowing the way to love; knowing the power of love; knowing the vastness of love; knowing the necessity of love in this broken and conflicted global human community; knowing the necessity of love for this sick and polluted earth; knowing how to welcome and receive love in our moments of greatest need. A still, small voice speaking to us of love and hope.
May it become our practice, always, to listen for this voice? May it become our practice these sweet June days, even in the midst of the mighty roar of war abroad and violence at home, to listen for this voice, to discern what insights it conveys, to respond to the questions it asks, so that we may know what we are doing here, so that we may live with integrity, with meaning, with authenticity, with creativity, with love—vast, undying love. A still, small voice. A still, small voice. A still, small voice.
Amen and Blessed Be.
Reading, First Kings 19: 11-14 (King James version)
[The angel of God said to Elijah,] Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.
And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here, Elijah?
And he said, I have been very jealous for the Lord God of hosts: because the children of Israel have forsaken thy covenant, thrown down thine altars, and slain thy prophets with the sword; and I, even I only, am left; and they seek my life, to take it away.
The Rev. Joshua Mason Pawelek
Unitarian Universalist Society: East
Manchester, CT
June 11th, 2006
I come back to this passage from the ancient Hebrew historian again and again: a still, small voice asking the prophet, “What doest thou here?” This phrase, “a still, small voice” and “What doest thou here?” is language from the King James Bible. There are other translations. Many of you have heard me read this same passage as it appears in the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible which says, Elijah wrapped his face in his mantle and went to stand at the entrance of the cave and then, “the sound of sheer silence.” And in the silence a voice asking him, “What are you doing here?” “The sound of sheer silence” is probably closer to what the ancient Hebrew text said 2,500 years ago, but this image of “a still, small voice” has such lasting poetic beauty that it has become ingrained in modern liberal religious language. Hence, hymn #391 in our Unitarian Universalist hymnal, John Corrado’s “Voice Still and Small.” And no matter what translation we use, the question remains the same: “What are you doing here?”
It’s a simple question, and a great one—and a difficult one. If we answer it honestly it can help us examine our lives. It can help us search for truth and meaning. It can be a touchstone for our theologies and a starting point for deeper theological reflection and spiritual practice. What are you doing here at a Unitarian Universalist congregation? What are you doing in your neighborhood? At work? At home? With your family? What are you doing in the storm, the earthquake, the fire, at the silent entrance to the cave? In your most profound moments of solitude? In your most wonderful experiences of community? Behind this question lie deeper questions: am I living with integrity? Am I dedicating my life to the things that matter most? Am I following my heart? Am I making my own decisions? Of course, the Prophet Elijah’s answer to this question is not one that flows readily off 21st century liberal religious tongues: “I have been very zealous for the Lord (“jealous” in the King James), the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets by the sword. I alone am left and they are seeking my life to take it away.” But I come back to this passage again and again. The question is critical. And, at least for me, Elijah’s answer is haunting.
Many of you are familiar with the work of the Greater Hartford Interfaith Coalition for Equity and Justice or GHICEJ. Our congregation was a founding member of this faith-based community organization. Those of you familiar with faith-based community organizing may know there are a number of national and regional networks who provide assistance and training in how to build such organizations. GHICEJ was, until recently, part of the Gamaliel Foundation Network. One of the original networks is the Industrial Areas Foundation, which was founded by Saul Alinsky, one of the most effective community organizers in the United States during the twentieth century. All these networks base their organizing work, to some degree, on Alinsky’s model. The point of these organizations is to put power into the hands of local people so they can hold government and corporations accountable; so they can work for a more just and equitable distribution of resources; so they can authentically and fully participate in our democracy. About two years ago the Gamaliel Foundation brought its week-long training for faith-based community organizations to Hartford. I attended that training along with a few other UUS:E members. Very early on in the training they asked the question, “What are you doing here?”
When I heard the question I began praying—frantically. What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What am I going to say? What are other people saying? When it was my turn to respond I said, “I’m here because people in our community are suffering. I’m here for universal healthcare, for decent housing, jobs, education. I’m here because as a Unitarian Universalist I believe in the inherent worth and dignity of every person. I commit to justice, equity and compassion in human relations. I pursue the goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all. I’m here because I firmly believe, as the Unitarian minister, Theodore Parker, said 150 years ago, ‘the arc of the universe is long but it bends toward justice.’” Amen.
Wrong. It wasn’t the answer the trainers were looking for. They said people of faith, especially liberals, predictably say things like this. We speak passionately about justice, but often in abstract terms. Such speech isn’t enough to build a powerful organization that can hold politicians accountable, win on their issues, and make justice tangible in peoples’ lives. The answer to the question was not “justice.” The answer was “power.” Power is necessary to make justice real.
After hearing this I continued praying, a little more relaxed now. Power. I went home for the night. Power. I came back the next morning. Power. I’m not sure why, but in the very first session that morning, the question was put to me again: “Rev. Pawelek, what are you doing here?” I was ready. “I have ambitions,” I said. “I want my congregation to thrive. I want my congregation to grow—perhaps even doubling in size in the next decade. I want my congregation to be a force for liberal religious values and a center for spiritual education and liberal ministry in our state. In ten year’s time I want to see us spinning off new Unitarian Universalist congregations in our region. I want our interfaith coalition to add 100 dues-paying member institutions in the next three years so that no politician or corporate CEO in the state can ignore us when we want something. I want to be a national leader in the marriage equality movement. I want to be a national leader in the anti-racism movement. I want to be a national leader in the environmental justice movement. I want to write opinions for major newspapers. I want to publish books. I want to do a radio show. I want the media and politicians to come to me. I want to be Anne Coulter’s and Rush Limbaugh’s and Karl Rove’s worst nightmare. I want to be powerful and I’m ready to work for it. That’s what I’m doing here!” Amen?
Incidentally, that was the right answer. I was fired up.
Except God was not in the fire.
Don’t get me wrong, I do want to be powerful. I want us to be powerful. And I want justice for those who are suffering economic, social, political, and religious oppression. But as much as I appreciated gaining clarity about power and its relationship to justice, there was something missing. I went back to that passage from First Kings. I thought about Elijah. He was a warrior for justice—divine justice. He framed the issues a bit differently than I do. His enemies were seeking his life to take it away. No one, as far as I know, is seeking my life, unless the occasional piece of hate mail counts. I publicly provoked some white supremacists back in October, but they never called to follow up with me. I don’t mean to approach this lightly. You see, lives are being sought and taken away. Nineteen young men and boys were shot in Hartford in a ten-day period in the beginning of June, four of them fatally. Power. Hundreds die in Iraq and Afghanistan every week. Power. What does it mean when I’m trying to amass power, and four boys die in urban violence less than five miles from my suburban home? It will take me years to do what I want to do; these boys have no more years. What does my power have to do with these dead boys? What does it mean when I’m trying to amass power, and hundreds are perishing in an unjust war? What does my power have to do with these deaths? There’s a hollowness in my ambition, a disconnect. Something’s missing.
Back to prayer: maybe no one is seeking my life because it’s already been taken. Maybe I lost it when I began thinking about my own power without really taking those boys into account. Maybe I lost it when I settled in an area whose development draws vital resources away from the city leaving economic and social vacuums now filled with gun violence. Maybe I lost it when my tax dollars helped finance these wars of revenge and oil. Maybe I lost it when my European ancestors gave up their ethnicity and culture to gain the privileges of white America. Maybe I lost it when I learned not to cry because, supposedly, boys don’t cry. Maybe I lose it as I receive all the things that straight white men receive simply for being straight white men. Maybe I lose a piece of my life—maybe we all do—every day as we reap the benefits of living in the richest, most powerful nation in the world at the expense of billions of people who barely manage to subsist on what is left after we’ve taken virtually everything. Maybe that’s the source of the disconnect between me and those murdered boys. Maybe my life is a wraith, a shadow, an illusion—privilege hiding the truth of immense loss, disconnection and spiritual death. Dear God give me the strength to wrestle with this terrible possibility.
A while after that Gamaliel Foundation training I was at a meeting of a group of Hartford-area organizers who convene for the purpose of bringing an anti-racist perspective into the local struggle for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender rights. This group is called POWER or People Organized to Win Equal Rights. At one point in that meeting—I can’t remember why—I volunteered that I must be the most privileged person in the room—the only straight white man, the only professional, the only Harvard degree. There was silence, and then a still, small voice. “Rev. Pawelek,” said a young man, “with all due respect, what are you doing here? Why would you want to struggle against a society designed to benefit people like you?”
“I love my life. I love my wife. I love my children. I love my congregation. I love Unitarian Universalism. I love Connecticut and I love The United States. But I can’t escape feeling disconnected and unwhole and empty when people are murdered on Hartford streets—or Baghdad streets or Kabul streets. I can’t escape the hollowness that accompanies privilege and the knowledge of vast global inequities. A prevailing truth lies behind Elijah’s answer to the enduring question, “what are you doing here?” Our covenant is forsaken; altars are thrown down; prophets do lie slain in the muck and the mud, killed not only by the sword, but by guns and bombs and torture, pollution and pesticides, poverty, hunger and lack of access to clean water and decent healthcare. So many of us are in hiding from the grim realities of this world. What am I doing here? I’m coming back from spiritual death. I’m seeking my life—a real life—because it has been taken away, because I haven’t yet begun to live it. I am seeking an authentic, accountable, meaningful, fearless, anti-racist life—and not alone. I want to seek with others. I want the seeking to take place in the midst of an authentic, accountable, meaningful, fearless, anti-racist, multicultural community—a community that thrives on spirit and song, resists violence and oppression in all its forms, and gives praise and thanks—perhaps even zealous praise and thanks—to the sacred, the creator, the source of life or, as Elijah might say, the God of hosts. Without such life and without such communities I don’t believe any of us can bridge that disconnecting gap between ourselves and those urban boys whose lives are being sought as I speak. Without such life and without such communities I’m not sure I can amass power that will ever do anything other than perpetuate the satus quo in our society and that’s not sufficient. Without such life and without such communities there will never be a lasting justice or a lasting peace.
This past Wednesday, the clergy caucus of the Greater Hartford Interfaith Coalition for Equity and Justice convened a gathering of clergy and community leaders in the north end of Hartford to address the recent wave of violence. We acknowledged that this kind of meeting has happened many times before in the wake of shooting sprees and gang wars and that as the violence ebbs and flows, so do such meetings, and we eventually go back to our separate places, our separate denominations, our separate congregations, our places of isolation and disconnection, secure in our abstract proclamations of the need for justice, and focused on gaining whatever power we can to advance our own interests. This meeting felt different. I pray that it was. We agreed to check our egos at the door, emphasizing that the lives of young people in our urban centers are simply more important. We agreed to stay in relationship with one another. We agreed to remain committed. We talked about justice, but not in abstract terms. We talked about power but not how much we wanted for ourselves and our congregations. We talked about being a community and what that really means. We talked about relating to one another, and what that really means. Without saying it directly, we talked about coming to life together, and what that really means.
Back to prayer: It dawned on me through the course of the meeting that no one had ever actually asked the question, “What are you doing here?” But I was excited and maybe a little shocked to realize that the question was being answered, and everyone was giving their version of the same answer. We are building the beloved community, because that is ultimately what will save these boys, and what will save each of us. We were saying it is time to be ‘we,’ to be ‘us,’ to be one, to be united and not just a loose collections of ‘I’s.’ That shall be the source of our power. That shall be the path to justice and peace, and that’s what we are doing here.
Come, my way, my truth, my life, come. May this Unitarian Universalist congregation strive always to be home for those who wish to discern just what it is they are doing here, to come back to life, and to build, once and for all, with all those who care deeply about this world, the beloved community.
Amen and Blessed Be.
