August 24, 2008
I’m thankful to Pawel for introducing me—and I suspect most of us—to Henry Cowell’s early 20th century piece, The Tides of Manaunaun, this morning’s prelude. Cowell once wrote that “in Irish mythology, Manaunaun was the god of motion and of the waves of the sea. And according to the mythology, at the time when the universe was being built, Manaunaun swayed all of the materials out of which the universe was being built with fine particles which were distributed everywhere through cosmos. And he kept these moving in rhythmical tides so that they should remain fresh when the time came for their use in the building of the universe.”
For the record, and for those of you are familiar with Celtic mythology, I’m not sure where Cowell’s description of Manaunaun comes from. I couldn’t find any other authority on Celtic mythology who confirms Manaunaun’s identity as the “god of motion” who kept all the materials of the universe moving in rhythmical tides until it was time to create the universe. It doesn’t mean the story isn’t authentic, just that I couldn’t find it anywhere else. I did confirm that Manaunaun was a member of the ancient Celtic pantheon, the Tuatha Dé Danann. He was the God of the sea and fertility, son of Lir, husband of Fand and foster-father of many gods, including Lugh—some of you may be familiar with these divine names. He was the guardian of the Blessed Isles, his ship followed his command without sails, his cloak made him invisible, his helmet was made of flames, his sword could not be turned from its mark, and he rode the sea in a chariot.
So, while I recognize Cowell’s story of Manaunaun may not be an authentic retelling of the ancient mythology, I like it very much. I like the emphasis on motion and tides. As John Varian’s epigram for The Tides of Manaunaun said, “Long before the creation he sent forth tremendous tides / which swept to and fro through the universe / and rhythmically moved the particles and materials of which the gods were later to make the suns and the worlds.” This mythological idea resonates with me: before the gods set about the work of creation—before the Big Bang, we might say—there was movement, in and out, tides, ebb and flow, flux. Before Creation, there was motion.
In her poem, The Terns, Mary Oliver reminds us of this same essential and enduring motion when she says, “this is a poem about loving the world and everything in it: the self, the perpetual muscle, the passage in and out, the bristling swing of the sea.”
I thought about the sea and tides as a backdrop for this morning’s service mainly because I’ve just come from the sea. Our family had the privilege and the blessing to spend the second week of August at Ferry Beach, the Unitarian Universalist camp and conference center in Saco, ME. Although it rained every day, still there were many moments to go to the beach, to the place where the water meets the shore; moments to, as the hymn says, “gaze upon infinity and hear the waters roar; moments to reflect on the things that matter most in our lives.
Then we had the privilege and the blessing to spend the following week visiting Mant’s Landing, a beach on Cape Cod Bay in the town of Brewster. We had slightly more sun that week, and more opportunities to walk in the bay at low tide. I’ve preached before about my spiritual experiences in that bay, and while I don’t mean to repeat myself, I am always moved at the sight of blue crabs, horseshoe crabs and hermit crabs, snails, clams, barnacles and mussels, marsh grass and all the different kinds of seaweed, jelly fish and star fish, and billions of micro-organisms feeding on the bodies of creatures who did not survive the changing tide, mixing the smells of decay and salt water—mixing the smells of death and life—all these creatures whose lineage extends far back beyond anything remotely resembling humanity—all these creatures whose lineage extends back to the first moments when life evolved out of the sea onto the land. I am always moved.
When I let my mind wander further in these low tide moments I think I can apprehend some small bit of the eternal and our relationship to it. If life as we know it had its origins in the places where the water meets the shore—if life as we know it evolved over millions of years along the great, flowing sandy edges, bathing in the constant motion of the waves, how could the tide—the passage in and out, the bristling swing of the sea—how could this great, perpetual motion not be deeply imprinted in us, in our cells, in our DNA, in our hearts, in our spirits, in our dreams, such that when we have the privilege and the blessing to be at the beach in the presence of ocean waves something stirs inside us; something moves inside us; something leaps inside us. Do we not, at some level, sense that before the earth, before the planets, before the stars, before the universe there was motion? Not stasis but motion? The ancient Hebrew poets who crafted the Biblical Creation story in Genesis say that before God began creating a wind swept over the face of the waters. Motion. When we contemplate our own bodies—beating hearts, breathing lungs, flowing blood, electrical impulses across nerve cells—do we not we comprehend our essence is motion? Isn’t motion one profound difference between life and death? The motions that make up our bodies—do they not mirror the tides? And is it not possible that all motion within us, around us and between us is ultimately derived from some ancient, primordial, rhythmical tide still flowing and still connecting all to all?
Beaches are edges—geographical edges, natural edges, continental edges. A beach is the edge of the land; and a beach is the edge of the ocean. Edges in nature are spiritual places for me. Edges are places of tension and release, places of energy and motion, places of great natural diversity where one ecosystem meets and merges with another. Edges have features that inspire awe in both its joyful and terrifying forms—awe at the knowledge of how small we truly are in this vast universe; awe at the knowledge that we are nevertheless a part of this vast universe; awe at the span of time that has come before us; awe at the span of time that will come after we are gone. Edges are places where we encounter two profound and intertwined realities: first, the abundance, resilience, creativity and diversity of life; and, second, the certain reality of death.
Here again is Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Terns.” For me, this poem is an edge poem. Listen for the tension and release. Listen for the energy and the motion. Listen for the terrible and joyful awe—a sense of smallness and connection. Listen for life and death intertwined:
The birds shrug off
the slant air,
they plunge into the sea
and vanish
under the glassy edges
of the water,
and then come back,
flying out of the waves,
as white as snow,
shaking themselves,
shaking the little silver fish,
crying out in their own language,
voices like rough bells—
it’s wonderful
and it happens whenever
the tide starts its gushing
journey back, every morning
or afternoon.
This is a poem
about death,
about the heart blanching
in its folds of shadows
because it knows
someday it will be
the fish and the wave
and no longer itself—
it will be those white wings,
flying in and out
of the darkness
but not knowing it—
this is a poem about loving
the world and everything in it:
the self, the perpetual muscle,
the passage in and out, the bristling swing of the sea.
At the beach kids sometimes start to figure out life and death by watching birds hunt for fish or drop crabs on rocks to break their shells. Sometimes they start to figure it out by collecting dead creatures, or pieces of dead creatures, or the former homes of dead creatures: horseshoe crab tails, crab claws, clam shells, driftwood. This year Mason and I looked for bleached white crab bodies without any holes from sea gulls pecking at them and with all their legs still attached. Of course, the fact that they’re dead doesn’t mean anything until the child sees a living crab, or is spit on by a living clam, or screams at the sight of a big old living granddaddy horseshoe crab crawling slowly along the ocean floor. Mason’s grandfather picked one of these up out of the surf and turned it over to show its wiggling legs. Alive the creature is far more complicated and mysterious and (sometimes) dangerous than its dead relative—or its dead relative’s detached and dried out tail. The living version is a bit more difficult to approach than the dead version. But they are both there to compare and experience at this great, flowing, sandy edge.
This, for me, is spiritual learning. This ongoing comparison of the attributes of life and the attributes of death in this edge place is spiritual learning. But I also don’t want to give you the impression our vacation was an idyllic spiritual retreat where Mason and Max were continuously in awe of all the wisdom this great, flowing sandy edge had to impart. Thanks to the middle-schoolers at Ferry Beach, Mason has discovered Pokemon—don’t ask me to explain, I can’t—it’s a television show, it’s a movie, there are playing cards. During low tide at Mant’s Landing he was really more interested in play-acting Pokemon. The seagulls were his enemies and the two mint condition, bleached white crab bodies we’d collected became “crabs of power.” Perhaps edges are also places that fire the imagination and make it safe to dream.
I was walking at low tide, maybe a quarter mile out into the ocean, trying to just let it go and allow Mason to be himself and follow his heart and it occurred to me: religion at its best tries to offer what edge places offer: insights into the abundance of life intertwined with the certain reality of death. This wasn’t some profound mystical awakening. I simply remembered that on this Sunday, August 24th, 2008, we would, in the morning, be marking the birth of Aidan James Waugh. We would be welcoming a new life into the world, dedicating that life and celebrating all the potential it holds. And in the afternoon, we would be marking what is, in our hearts, the death of Carol Shapiro (even though we don’t know with absolute certainty that she has died). We will be acknowledging and honoring our loss, remembering and grieving together. I’m reminded of the quote from the Rev. Forrester Church which I’ve used before in this pulpit “Religion is our human response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die.” That means many things, but certainly it means that, as religious people, as a religious community, we take time to honor new lives, and we take time to honor death and loss. Religion fails us if it cannot meet us at the gates of eternity: birth and death. Using Mary Oliver’s language, we might say religion is a poem about death and a poem about loving the world and everything in it—religion is a poem about loving life.
Rev. Church continues: “knowing we are going to die not only places an acknowledged limit upon our lives, it also gives a special intensity and poignancy to the time we are given to live and love. The fact that death is inevitable gives meaning to our love, for the more we love the more we risk losing. Love’s power comes in part from the courage required to give ourselves to that which is not ours to keep: our spouses, our children, parents, dear and cherished friends, even life itself. It also comes from the faith … that life, howsoever limited and mysterious, contains within its margins, often at their very edges, a meaning that is redemptive.”
On September 1 I begin my sabbatical. I am deeply thankful that you provide this time of rest, retreat, scholarship and creativity to me. I anticipate returning in January not only rejuvenated but also with a clearer sense of who I am, who we are, and what our shared ministry is. As I make my final preparations for the sabbatical, I leave you this notion of a healthy religious community as its own kind of edge place, a community whose life is full of tension and release, energy and motion, diversity, creativity, awe, imagination and dreaming; a community fully aware of the reality of death, and thus inspiring its members and friends to live more fully, to love more generously, to open hearts more widely, to follow passions more freely. This is life at the edge. I like to think these words describe the ministry we strive to offer and share here at UUS:E and I pray and trust that in the coming months you will, in my absence continue to offer and share such ministry with each other and with the larger community.
Before Creation there was motion: a wind across the water, a tremendous, rhythmical tide. It has never ceased. And thus, at the edges of our lives, where the water meets the shore, may we learn to move to this rhythm and be home and be whole.
Amen. Blessed.
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tides_of_Manaunaun. This quote, which I found in a Wikipedia article is taken from Cowell’s commentary on a Folkways recording from the 1960s.
See http://www.pantheon.org/areas/mythology/europe/celtic/articles.html. in the online Encyclopedia Mythica.
Kapp, Max, “I Brought My Spirit to the Sea” in Singing the Living Tradition (Boston: Beacon Press and Unitarian Universalist Association, 1993) #4.
