Neighbors: A Prayer
The Rev. Joshua Mason Pawelek
Unitarian Universalist Society: East
Manchester, CT
April 15, 2007
At last year’s Goods and Services Auction, I put two sermons up for bid. Remarkably, both were purchased. This morning and again on April 29th I will preach these two sermons. This is part of my shameless plug every year to encourage everyone to attend the upcoming Goods and Services Auction on Saturday evening May 5th. There are over 200 wonderful items to bid on, including gift certificates to restaurants throughout the region, meals in people’s homes, tax preparation, will preparation, a hotel stay, antiques, odd jobs, and of course, more sermons. It’s a fun evening—lots of bargains to be had. On behalf of the auction planning committee, I hope you’ll come. And also watch for opportunities to bid on items prior to the auction.
Kate Kimmerle purchased this morning’s sermon. Kate had a couple of ideas in mind, but she kept feeling these were ideas for sermons she wants to preach, rather than sermons she wants to hear me preach. Don’t be surprised if you see Kate Kimmerle in this pulpit sometime in the next year. Actually, Kate said what she really wants to hear and experience is not a sermon, but a prayer. So my intent this morning is to offer a prayer. To set the context for the prayer, I want to share with you what Kate wrote as she was wrestling with a topic for me.
She wrote, “I was thinking about something along the lines of awareness and compassion. How conscious are we of who inhabits our pews (chairs)? What are (each of our) limitations and challenges and how do we respond to (each other) … in an authentic, caring, loving way, as individuals? Are we truly practicing our principles? Before we can take our principles out into the world, we need to practice them at home, (at church). Consider the ways that many people right in our UUS:E community live with or deal with some form of oppression. Being queer or mentally ill; feeling racism or sexism or classism or elitism; being an immigrant [perhaps even an illegal immigrant]; being physically ill or grieving—the death of someone beloved or the loss or diminishment of body functions; [living with a disability] hidden or out there, or just being older and perhaps less functional; being a stressed parent or student. . . . I’m sure there’s more.
“I actually think we respond well and lovingly in many ways as individuals at UUS:E but I think we could be more aware of how the person next to us might be suffering or experiencing their particular oppression.”
I offer my thanks to Kate for this invitation. In turn, I invite each of you into a time and space of prayer and meditation. Sit comfortably in your chair. Breathe in deeply the air of this mid-April New England morning. Relax. Spring trudges slowly into our lives. Even in mid-April old winter persists in shaping the weather. There was sleet on Thursday morning, a winter storm in the forecast for today. What’s the temperature? Do I still wear my winter coat? Or is spring finally here? Yes, there they are; despite the sleet and icy rain of late this week, there they are: red and green buds dotting tree branches, and new growth already on top of last year’s chives in outdoor herb gardens. There they are: birds singing in the morning.
Winter cannot resist the spring thaw forever. From grey and frozen and barren, to brown and wet and muddy, to green and moist and growing, spring emerges all around us. As Henry David Thoreau once observed, “the sinking sound of melting snow is heard in all dells, and ice dissolves apace in the ponds. The grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire…as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame—the symbol of perpetual youth, the grass-blade, like a long green ribbon, streams from the sod into the summer, checked indeed by the frost, but anon pushing on again, lifting its spear of last year’s hay with the fresh life below.”
May this past week’s final, sinking sounds of melting snow and the ice dissolving apace in the ponds—may these final thawing days inspire a thawing in our hearts. May these final thawing days when the last edges and chunks of dirty ice soften and melt in dark corners hidden from the sun—may these final thawing days inspire in us a softening and a melting of the rougher edges of our hearts.
In these final thawing days when rain washes away the last vestiges of winter, may we experience a washing away of our fears of all those who seem different from ourselves, a washing away of our reluctance to offer a kind word or a bit of help, a washing away of our reluctance to look a stranger or a newcomer in the eye and smile. May these final thawing days be a sign to us, a reminder to us, a symbol to us of the invitation we receive—the invitation we receive as Unitarian Universalists, as people with wide and varied theologies, as human beings—the invitation we receive, always, to care more deeply, to conduct our lives with compassion, to love more profoundly, to reach out to those in our very midst who are suffering, to recognize each other anew and say, “Hello neighbor, how are you?”
May the final, sinking sounds of melting snow and ice dissolving apace in the ponds, and the still cold rain pouring down on hard, black pavement, and the bird-song at dawn, and the after-dinner laughing-shouting of children playing outdoors—may this great, annual thaw create that necessary thaw in us—that essential thaw in us—by calling us back to the ethical wisdom we already know—the ethical wisdom we’ve always known—the ethical wisdom we will always know and yet which we will always struggle to live fully and authentically: the great commandment to love what is holy with all our heart, with all our mind, with all our strength, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. “Hello neighbor, how are you?”
May these final thawing days speak to us anew of the ancient, scriptural calls to compassion and love: in the Jewish Torah, in the Talmud, in the words of Hillel, in the Muslim Hadith, in the Christian books of Mark, Matthew and Luke, in Paul and James, in the Hindu Mahabharata, in the Analects of Confucius, in the words of Mencius, in the tablets and the hidden words of Baha’u’llah, in the words of the Sikh gurus Bhagat Kabir and Guru Arjan Dev, in the Buddhist scriptures—the Udanavarga, the Dhammapada, the Majjhima Nikaya, the Samyutta Nikaya, in the words of the Taoist philosopher T'ai Shang Kan Ying P'ien; in the words of so many sages and prophets: “Love your neighbor as yourself. Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you. As you see yourself, see others as well. No one is my enemy, none a stranger and everyone is my friend. Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful. You shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as a citizen among you, and you shall love the alien as yourself. What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who’ve trespassed against us. God helps His servant as long as His servant is helping his brother. What you do not wish upon yourself, extend not to others. And if thine eyes be turned towards justice, choose thou for thy neighbour that which thou choosest for thyself. Jesus said to him, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Hello neighbor, how are you?
In these final thawing days—these days still filled with reports and images of war and genocide and city street killings—may this ancient ethical wisdom burst forth like the green and red buds on trees. And as hawks begin to dive, as moles begin to dig, as the May pole and the Beltane fires begin to beckon, as farmers begin their planting in earnest, as the sun—yes, the sun—moves ever higher out of the southern sky, may we be reminded that even in the midst of loving spiritual communities like ours, strange, unnecessary silences still abide. Even in the midst of healthy and cohesive spiritual communities, suffering exists, isolation exists, alienation exists. Even in the midst of vibrant, growing, and joyful spiritual communities, divisions and hurts are present. We each navigate the unnatural and imposed boundaries between male and female and transgender, between straight and gay, between black and brown and red and yellow and white, between young and old, between physically well and physically ill, between mentally well and mentally ill, between able-bodied and not able-bodied, between grieving and not grieving, between parenting and not parenting, between hopeful and despairing. Yes, these divisions have been falsely created and exaggerated, but yes they have become real in our lives and contribute to the ever-subtle hardening of the edges of our hearts; and yes they keep us more tenuously related that we care to admit; and yes we keep strange and unnecessary silences about them. In the midst of these silences we can so easily become strangers to each other, so easily misinterpret each other, so easily hurt each other, so easily become isolated from each other, so easily forget the words, “hello neighbor, how are you?”
Therefore, may the swollen rivers of these final thawing days overflow in us, fill us, rush through us, cleanse us, carry the winter silt and sludge away from us, open our hearts, expand our hearts, extend our hearts, bring us face to face with each other, inspire us to transcend all those unnatural and imposed boundaries here and in the world; inspire us to pierce through those strange and unnecessary silences; inspire us to know each other more deeply, to hold each other more closely, to be more knowledgeable and aware of and present to each other’s suffering; and to remember always, first and foremost, each of us matters. Each of us matters immensely. Transgender people matter; women matter; men matter; people of color matter; white people matter; poor people matter; rich people matter; middle class people matter; homeless people matter; homebound people matter; unemployed people matter; gays and lesbians matter; bisexuals matter; straight people matter; prisoners matter; police officers and politicians matter; people with disabilities matter; able-bodied people matter; people with mental illness matter; people with cancer matter; people with HIV or AIDS matter; gamblers matter; drug users matter; sober people matter; children matter—oh boy do children matter!—elderly people matter; lawyers and doctors matter; mail carriers matter; janitors matter; soldiers matter; social workers matter; retired people matter; with or without health insurance, people matter; Jews matter; Christians matter; Atheists matter; Pagans matter; Muslims matter; Unitarian Universalists matter; Quakers and Buddhists and Taoists matter. And dare it be said? It is so difficult to say: even Nazis and white supremacists and racists and homophobes and rapists and abusers and war-makers and suicide bombers and religious fanatics matter—and so often commit horrendous atrocities and speak hate-filled words and believe in vengeful gods precisely because they were born into a world which told them over and over again, typically with violence or its threat: you don’t matter; you don’t matter; you don’t matter; you don’t matter; you are no one; you are nobody; you are worthless; you are trash. When people are made to feel that they don’t matter, literally speaking, hell breaks loose.
Haters aren’t born; killers aren’t born; racists aren’t born; homophobes aren’t born; rapists aren’t born; suicide bombers aren’t born—in almost all instances, they are made through abuse and neglect. In these final thawing days, let us be among those who agree to unmake the world’s hate. Let us be among those who believe there is no such thing as a worthless human being, as human trash. Let us be among those who meet violence with love. Let us be among those who meet hatred with love. Let us be among those who confront oppression with love. Let us be among those who challenge injustice with love. And let us begin at home: in our families, in our places of work and play, in our schools, and in our beloved congregation. In this spring season, with the sinking sounds of melting snow and ice dissolving apace in the ponds, let us strive to live the great commandment, let us love our neighbors as ourselves.
In this spring season, as this Unitarian Universalist congregation east of the Connecticut river embarks on a future of spiritual and physical growth, may love of neighbor reside always at the center. May love of neighbor be the enduring purpose of this congregation’s ministry. No matter how large a building, no matter how many members, no matter how expensive, no matter what the average pledge, no matter how well-known, no matter how many awards and accolades—none of it is more important than keeping love at the center and saying the words, again and again, “hello neighbor, how are you?” Where strange and unnecessary silences exist among us, may we gain more fully the courage to speak. Where suffering exists among us, may we gain more fully the capacity to be present to it. Where race, class, gender, sexuality and ability divide us, may we learn to transcend boundaries, to recognize each other, to accept and love each other. Where isolation and alienation exist among us, may we pause, take note, regroup, reach out, connect, rebuild, shine, love. And in all those places where the edges of our hearts have grown hard and cold through the winters of our lives, may we find in these final thawing days a reckoning, an atoning, a thawing in our hearts, an opening, an expanding, a lessening of our fears, a will to engage, a desire to love our neighbors as ourselves. Hello neighbor. How are you? Hello neighbor, how are you? Hello neighbor, how are you?
Amen and Blessed be.
Thoreau, Henry David, “Walden” (New York: New American Library, 1960) p.p. 206-207.
