The Rev. Joshua Mason Pawelek
Unitarian Universalist Society: East
Manchester, CT
January 27, 2008
Consider these lyrics we’ve just sung: “Turn back, turn back, forswear thy foolish ways. Old now is earth, and none may count its days; yet humankind, whose head is crowned with flame, still will not hear the inner God proclaim, ‘turn back, turn back, forswear thy foolish ways.’”
I take this message seriously. There is much foolishness in this world. We do lie down on burning beds. Our head is crowned with flame. I’m not talking about the foolishness we associate—sometimes incorrectly—with adolescence, the foolishness that accompanies the stereotypical teenager’s assumption of personal immortality. Some foolishness is a normal part of human development. I’m talking about the foolishness of people who ought to know better. I’m talking about the foolishness, for example, of those who used sub-prime mortgages to help and, in many cases, lure thousands if not millions of families into purchasing homes they couldn’t afford—families who are now losing those homes in a foreclosure epidemic, creating a crisis in the credit market that is dragging our nation’s economy—and possibly the global economy—into recession. I’m talking about the foolishness, for example, of this United States war in Iraq—not the foolishness of the soldiers who must fight it, but the foolishness of the people who started it; people who were motivated not only by greed but by vengeance; people who spoke falsehoods about weapons of mass destruction; people who spoke falsehoods about how little it would take to accomplish the mission; people who continue to pay for it with borrowed money our children and grandchildren will have to repay; people who refuse to admit they’ve made tragic mistakes. We do lie down on burning beds.
Yet, how easy is it for me to name this foolishness? Very easy. How easy it is to cry “fool!” long after the deeds have been done, long after the time has passed when crying “fool!” more loudly might possibly have made a difference, long after the polls show a majority of the people feel that so much of what passes for commerce and governance is foolishness. How easy it is to point fingers at the purveyors of sub-prime mortgages, the purveyors of sub-prime wars. How easy it is to demonize those in power, those who profit, those who lie, those who cheat, those who torture, those who kill. Perhaps they deserve it, but let us not be so bold in our finger-pointing that we forget those words of Horace quoted in our reading from Robert. Fulghum: “Why do you laugh? Change the name and the story is told of you.” Or, as one of the greatest Universalist leaders of the early twentieth century, Clarence Russell Skinner, put it: “the line which separates the good from the evil runs not between men, but through them.”
There is much foolishness in the world, and some of it is our own. Who has not at some point in their lives felt like the Apostle Paul when he said to the Christian community in Rome: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” I’m reminded of the title of a sermon I heard about fifteen years ago by the Rev. Kim Harvie of the Arlington Street Church in Boston. The sermon was called “Why Do We Do What We Do When We Know What We Know?” Why do some of us persist in behaviors and habits we know are detrimental to our long-term health? Why do some of us remain in dysfunctional relationships we know are causing us stress and sadness? Why do some of us entertain thoughts of self-doubt, self-loathing and worthlessness, when we know these thoughts are not true? Why do we take each other for granted or forget each other when we know we ought to be asking, “How are you doing?” or “What do you need?” Why do we commit ourselves so forcefully to certain projects, certain directions, certain visions, when we know keeping open hearts and open minds may yield better projects, better directions, better visions? Why do people exaggerate and lie, knowing it is harmful to do so? Why do people cheat and steal? Why do people abuse and oppress? Why do people rape and kill knowing it is morally reprehensible to do so? Why do we not turn back? Why is it so difficult to forswear our foolish ways? Why do we lie down on burning beds? Why do we do what we do when we know what we know?
I don’t remember Rev. Harvie’s answer to this question. But the question has stayed with me all these years, and this morning I’m revisiting it. I’m slowly nearing the end of my series of sermons on the Unitarian Universalist principles entitled “How Shall We Live?” Today I’m wrestling with perhaps the most familiar and the most widely quoted principle—the first Unitarian Universalist principle—the inherent worth and dignity of every person. For me this is compelling and beautiful language. It is healing language for all those who were taught to believe in their own worthlessness, or taught to believe in the worthlessness of others. This principle recalls the Universalist side of our tradition, the belief in an all-loving God who condemns no one and saves everyone—no exceptions, no excuses, no conditions. Everyone matters. Everyone is worthy.
How shall we live? First, we shall live with faith. I choose the word “faith” very carefully, because the more I reflect on this principle, the more I realize we can’t prove there is such a thing as inherent worth and dignity. We can’t measure it. We can’t document it. We accept it on faith. We strive to live “as if” it were so—“as if” every person has inherent worth and dignity. We shall live with a deep and abiding faith that every human being on this earth matters immensely. We shall treat others in the spirit of the Biblical commandment to love neighbor as self.
But what about foolishness? Worth and dignity don’t provide a full picture of the human condition. Inherent foolishness is much easier to document and measure than inherent worth and dignity. This morning I am asking, “What happens to our faith in the inherent worth and dignity of every person when we are honest about our own tendency to lie down on burning beds, or about our own capacity for selfishness, for causing harm to others, for looking the other way when someone is in pain, for apathy and lethargy, for stereotyping, for rushing to judgment, for our complicity in systems of oppression?” What happens to our faith in inherent worth and dignity when we acknowledge our capacity for evil? Some of you will remember my references to the Rev. Davidson Loehr of Austin, TX, who says Unitarian Universalism is dying, and whose ideas provided motivation for this sermon series. Rev. Loehr raised these same questions with me. He said “when you [preach on the first principle], I hope you ask about all the things not mentioned: evil, the shadow sides, our inherent foolishness, selfishness, solipsism, ability to rationalize whatever makes us feel good, etc.”
So, I’m asking. I recognize how much more difficult it is to live in response to our first principle when we add these less admirable human qualities to the conversation. Most foolishness is, in the end, forgivable. But there are moments when foolishness crosses a line, moments when harm is done with malicious intent, moments when the human spirit is diminished with malicious intent. Now we’re talking about evil. A few years ago I taught a course here called “Articulating Our Faith.” I remember keenly how some of the participants struggled with the first principle and their experience of evil. We talked about how there are people—not just the Hitlers and the Stalins, the Osama Bin Ladens and the Saddam Husseins—but people in our communities, people we may perceive as just ordinary people, yet they’ve committed or will commit horrendous acts of abuse and violence and never show remorse, never even ask for forgiveness. Somewhere, at least for some of us, a line can be crossed and we lose whatever clarity we thought we had regarding inherent worth and dignity. Somehow, the one who commits unspeakable violence simultaneously does violence to their own worth and dignity—or at least to our perception of it. We become unable to see in them a human being worthy of anything. When that line is crossed redemption, however one understands redemption, no longer seems possible, let alone warranted.
A colleague said something similar the other day as we were talking about this sermon. My colleague’s family suffered a terrible tragedy at the hands of another family member. My colleague, who professes faith in the inherent worth and dignity of every person, yet who also has experienced human evil, said there is a point at which people commit such incredible acts of violence that they slip beyond the pale. They devolve. Redemption becomes impossible, particularly when the perpetrator expresses no remorse and doesn’t seek forgiveness.
I struggle deeply with this. The principle says “every person,” and yet here we are suggesting exceptions to the rule. I want it to be every person! I want to believe it is every person! And yet, if I’m honest with myself, making those exceptions comes more easily than I’d like to admit. One doesn’t actually have to experience evil directly in order for the line to be crossed. That crossing happens all the time. When that terrible home invasion took place last summer in Cheshire, the perpetrators crossed the line in me. I’ve been upset about murders before. I’ve spoken out about violence in Hartford, for example, as part of the Greater Hartford Interfaith Coalition. I’ve never lost my capacity to see the worth and dignity of the perpetrators when murders take place on Hartford streets. I find that I feel for the perpetrators differently than I feel for the victims, but I don’t lose the capacity to feel. I lost that capacity in response to the Cheshire murders. A line was crossed. Oh, sure, these killers ought to be treated fairly under the law, let justice be done, etc. But that was in my head. In my heart I did not care about them as human beings. Redemption? I did not care. Death penalty? I did not care. I remember naming this to my wife. Then I remember wondering how I could ever confess to you that your minister had lost his ability to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of at least two people. Well, there! I’ve said it. Now you know. Confession over.
But I’m still not willing to let the first principle be conditional. I believe this loss of caring I’ve described is one of the ways evil takes a toll on all of us whether we are directly impacted by it or not. It slowly closes our hearts. Yes, we care about and grieve with the victims of evil, which actually may open our hearts in unexpected ways, but our hearts also close down around the edges where we might have mustered some caring for the perpetrators. We don’t see them as worthy. We become disconnected from them. That’s another definition of evil I hear often among liberal religious clergy—evil is any force that disconnects people from each other. The more violence and abuse that transpires in our communities, the more we disconnect, the more our compassion wanes, the more our caring wanes, the more our hearts slowly close. I’m reminded of the challenge from Jesus in the book of Matthew: “Love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you.” He points out to his listeners that the sun rises on not just the good but the evil as well. The rain falls on not just the good but the evil as well. I think the intent of our first principle is the same as Jesus’ intent in this passage. And I pray, “Whatever happens, let us not become disconnected—even from those who commit evil.” Let us not deny someone else’s humanity even if they’ve crossed the line. For in denying their humanity we echo back the violence they did. As long as that echo continues, their act continues to wield power in our lives. In denying their humanity and our connection to them, we allow the diminishment of our own inherent worth and dignity. Love must prevail and we must be its agents or our hearts will slowly close.
And I struggle with whether this is fair, whether this is realistic. I recognize it is easy for me to say this prayer. I recognize that I speak as one who has had no direct, personal experience of evil. I haven’t had to live in the aftermath of another human being doing something terrible to me, my family, or my church. I haven’t had to live in the aftermath of another human being doing something terrible to me because of my race, my age, my sexual orientation, my gender. I haven’t had that kind of personal and immediate experience that would truly test the limits of our first principle. I certainly would never want to tell someone how to feel about a person who has just visited evil upon them. I would not and could not pronounce the words “pray for those who persecute you” in the presence of someone who has just suffered rape.
How, then, shall we live? Are we doomed to promote this principle with conditions attached? I don’t think so. This is what I believe: In light of the reality of evil, we cannot expect any one of us to sustain our faith in the inherent worth and dignity of every person through the entire course of our lives. There will be moments when the line is crossed and we cannot honestly profess this faith because we cannot feel it. But together, as participants in a religious community, we can sustain this faith. I trust that when my faith wanes because I am confronted with some evil out of which I cannot make sense, someone else will carry my faith for me until I am ready to believe again, ready to heal, ready to forgive. When your faith wanes because you are confronted with some evil out of which you cannot make sense, someone else will carry your faith for you until you are ready to believe again, ready to heal, ready to forgive. When compassion becomes difficult for me, when mercy becomes difficult for me, when I become disconnected—others will carry me, and compassion, mercy and connection will survive. When compassion, mercy and connection become difficult for you, others will carry you, and compassion, mercy and connection will survive. Not alone, but together we shall sustain our faith. Not alone, but together we shall be love’s agents on this earth. And, I believe, love will prevail.
Amen and blessed be.
Bax, Clifford, “Turn Back” (Boston: Unitarian Universalist Association and Beacon Press, 1993) #120.
Reference to the morning’s reading, an excerpt from Fulghum, Robert, It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It (New York: Vallard Books, 1989).
As quoted in Fulghum, Robert, It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It (New York: Vallard Books, 1989) p.5.
