"Emotional Honesty"

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote of the preacher’s job as articulating our shared human experience “passed through the fire of thought,” to which I would add “and passed through the crucible of feeling.” It’s not enough for the preacher to think creatively; you’ve got to touch people where they live: their feelings. Today’s topic: EMOTIONAL HONESTY.

Not quite two years ago, and just three days before my sabbatical, I participated in the installation of a newly settled minister, John Cullinan, is Los Alamos, New Mexico. My friend and colleague from Albuquerque, Christine Robinson, delivering the “Charge to the Minister” asserted that, ultimately, there was only one Charge (with many variations):
“Before you were called to the service of UU_ _ _ _, you were called to the life of the spirit. Don’t forget your original call.”

Christine’s remarks made me pause to remember what led me to enter the ministry. My first two years out of college were spent in Washington, D.C. (’73-’74). I remember recognizing how all the major players worked all the time and had virtually no life. I wanted a life! Carl Jung’s question in Memories, Dreams, Reflections spoke to me: “The decisive question for humanity is, are we related to something infinite or not? [p. 325] Like Jung, I believed we were and I wanted to order my life accordingly.

In Christine’s words:

To listen to the Holy in silence;
to heed the whisperings of love;
to examine my life and my conscience for Truth, by whatever names it has been known; and
in my own words:
To learn how—to trust enough—to open my heart enough….
to grow in love & spirit & compassion enough
to be a faithful vessel the Collective Uncs./God/??

To listen to the Holy in silence
To heed the whisperings of love
To examine my life and my conscience for Truth, by whatever names it has been known; and
To learn how—to trust enough—to open my heart enough…
To grow in love & spirit & compassion enough
To be a faithful vessel the Collective Uncs./God.

The sense of being somehow “called” to the life of the spirit has been described by prophets and ministers—and others…including artists, musicians, and so on—from time immemorial, and across many cultures. An archetypal description of this experience can be found in the Sixth Chapter of Isaiah, in the Jewish Scriptures. A close reading of the text reveals that Isaiah is an official in the court of the Judean King Uzziah around 700 BCE. Given the time and place, Isaiah had a pretty comfortable life. Until the King died, at which point Isaiah, suddenly feeling insecure, did what a lot of people do under such circumstances and went to temple to center himself and pray…when suddenly he has a totally unexpected and totally transforming religious experience; he sees these flying seraphim with six wings each and the whole place was shaking and filled with smoke and then he hears this voice (that he interprets as being that of God) saying “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” And suddenly he sees and hears himself answering: “Here am I. Send me.”)

A sense of call—however it happens—can change one’s life. But far out and mind-blowing as it may in some circumstances be, when you finally get into the heart of it,
much of ministry (it turns out) is service. As described in Matthew 25: visiting the sick and imprisoned, feeding the hungry, bringing water to the thirsty, clothing the naked, and so on. Of course I interpret this passage metaphorically—food may mean spiritual nourishment in some cases, releasing those in jail may mean helping the psychologically imprisoned, but in any case ministry involves nitty-gritty hands-on care a lot more than it involves ecstatic experience. Also, a lot of ministry involves supporting healthy, fun, collective efforts: song fests, seasonal pageants, silly fund raisers, and so on.

But it’s not always fun. It’s easy to be caught up in the minutia; easy to get strung out on the success or fall of this or that initiative, this or that committee…or worry too much about so-and-so’s opinion, or whether or not someone quit because (could it have been because?) of you. My point is: without nourishing the original call to a life of the spirit, ministry can lose its joy and meaning.

I’ve seen this happen
- Charles M: booze and reckless behavior;
- Richard B: work-a-holism;
- Sandra D. or Mark E.: ideological or theological rigidity.

I try to remember my original Call to a Life of the Spirit. And I also try to remember my realization that it was parish ministry that called me, not work as a religious studies professor; that academics only studied religion, but ministers were where the action was since the parish is where religion actually happens.

Liberal congregations have so much potential.
- The writer and Unity minister, Marianne Williamson (why play small?)
- My atheist psychoanalyst Uncle Hal – “Pray to allay your anxiety about succeeding!”
- Margaret Wheatley: “There is no power greater than a community discovering what it cares about….”

Actual Parish Ministry is hard work. I recall the occasion of my first call, in 1983, when the Director of Ministry at the time, David Pohl, took me out to lunch on Beacon Hill. I said something like, “shucks, I can’t be everything to everyone,” and he replied, “Oh, that’s impossible. Just be yourself.” Well, let me tell you: that’s hard, too! People want to put you on the defensive. As Bob Dylan put it “The rules of the road have been lodged/
it’s people's games you got to dodge.” People want to enlist you to do their work, and often resist the minister’s suggestions that, perhaps, something else is a more important or earlier step.

Another reason ministry is hard is because people’s lives are hard, so describing life honestly is hard, too. Our political and economic struggles are manifold and there’s a lot of displacement which is what happens when folks upset about the behavior of President George W. Bush, for instance (about which they can do very little) displace their upset onto their minister, about whom they can do something. Whenever such behavior is unconscious—which it usually is—the minister finds her- or himself in the crosshairs.

Another hard thing is the way people contribute to/frame/create their problems, which many people do not want to hear. How well I recall working with a therapist back in 1982, R. James Yandell, who happened to be Director of Studies at the San Francisco C.G. Jung Institute. I remember talking about Joseph Campbell, whom I’d discovered to my surprise and annoyance was a political conservative. And I remember railing against his political views and those of other conservatives until Dr. Yandell interrupted, saying, “That’s a very simplistic position psychologically; all you have to do is project all your shadow on the Republicans—then you don’t have to worry about it.” That annoyed me tremendously. But he was right. Blaming the Republicans—or anyone else—for one’s problems won’t contribute to their resolution. But people don’t always want to hear that.

I received a letter recently from a colleague in Florida, recently returning to the parish ministry after a hiatus of about five years. An ex-marine, he wrote about debriefing his first Board Meeting – “I felt like after my first firefight.” The ministry brings up all one’s own doubts & insecurities; it’s designed to. Actually, it’s often harder on one’s family than on oneself. I know of many marriages, including my first, which collapsed under the strain. Minister’s children have their own special designation as “Preacher’s Kids,” or “PKs,” and it’s not easy for them either, living up to the expectations congregants project onto them, and putting up with their minister parent’s long hours and weekends and evenings away from home.

The key is to remain self-differentiated, but connected. No one (not even Isaiah) can be good at all aspects of this craft: preaching, teaching, counseling, administration, program development, community building, outreach, rites of passage, collegial support, denominational work.

Another difficulty: there’s lots of loss in the parish ministry. I was not at all prepared for the unexpressed grief. People die, move away, leave. People quit. I remember one especially committed lay leader, Suzanne, who became annoyed at some members of my former church and resigned. “Are you angry at the Minister? asked a member of the Pastoral Relations Committee.” “No,” she replied. “I’m not mad at the Minister. But I am mad at those who would make it about the Minister. It’s not about personalities, the minister’s included; it’s about nurturing a healthy system.

How do we nurture health in our congregational system? By focusing on establishing
- Meaningful worship/celebration;
- A spirit of Lifelong Learning;
- A spirit of Moral Inquiry;
- A sound financial foundation;
- Fun, and
- Nurturing a caring community (Pastoral Associates/CARENET).

I think we’re getting there. I think you were already well on your way and that you’re helping me as much as I’m helping you achieve these goals in partnership. In the process you have helped me, immeasurably, to nourish my original call to a life of the spirit. I look forward, over the remainder of my time among you, to continue nourishing my original call to a life of the spirit. Thank you.

* * *

A word about my daughter Meredith’s visit…. I enjoyed talking together with Meredith, playing games together, visiting Griffith Park and some other beautiful sights, looking at pictures together of her and Dan’s wedding in South America, and some other pictures of her youth that we looked at in photo albums. Of these latter, there were several pictures of Meredith and one of her youthful church friends, Heidi Peyser, from when both girls were roughly five years old. The photos reminded me of one morning, c. 1985, when I arrived at the church minutes before the beginning of services, trying desperately as a single parent to get this child up and out the door to church on time. As I got out of the car, collecting my papers, I told Meredith to hurry directly into the church, only to see her hook up with Heidi and start doing cartwheels across the lawn. I was about to explode when Peter, Heidi’s father, stopped me. “No,” he said. Now Heidi was Peter’s second family. He’s had two children from his earlier marriage, but one of them, I already knew, had died. So his intervention had a lot of power when he said, “They’re doing cartwheels across the church lawn. Just relax and enjoy it.”

I have no idea what I preached on that morning. But I will remember for the rest of my life pausing that moment and watching those two beautiful children practice their cartwheels as they headed, in a very round about manner, for the church door.

Remembering one’s original sense of call to a life of the Spirit is about—for me—remembering to do cartwheels. And remembering to fully appreciate the cartwheels of others.

It’s also about remembering, always, to be honest. I think I’ve already told you how, early in my career, I established the habit of composing myself before services and saying a vestry prayer. I’m not sure anyone or anything was listening, but I phrased my prayers carefully, just in case God’s Spirit was literary. I still pray before preaching, but now it’s simpler: I pray to be honest.
“Honesty is the most vulnerable man I have ever met,” writes Ruth Gendler in her whimsical Book of Qualities.

He is simple and loving. He lives in a small town on a cliff near the beach. (Like Santa Monica, maybe?) I had forgotten how many stars there are in the midnight sky until I spent a week with him at his house by the sea.

In my time I have been afraid of so many things, most especially of the heights and of the darkness. I know if I had been driving anywhere else, the road would have terrified me. Knowing I was on my way to see him softened the fear. And in his presence the darkness becomes big and deep and comforting. He says if you are totally vulnerable, you cannot be hurt.

For all the demands of ministry, for all its struggle, I love it—the challenge that is parish ministry. I know it’s exhausting from time to time, but there is no other that calls to me: “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” Here am I. Send me.

I know you are reading this poem (writes Adrienne Rich)
listening for something, torn between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Yes. It is true. Strangely, beautifully true.

And for all of it, I am thankful.

For all of you, in particular, I am thankful. For this work. For this interim opportunity; this opportunity to step back (a little) from the work and re-member
—underneath it…flowing through it—
a call to a life of the spirit.

For all of it—every aspect—I am truly thankful. Amen.