"Spaces We Need"

Somewhere in my office bookshelves 

        sits a slim little book

                titled, "The Psycho-Cosmic Symbolism of the Buddhist Stupa."       

The book describes how a certain kind of Buddhist building

        recreates the form of a person sitting in meditation.

I've forgotten the details,

        but not my excitement when I first saw

                how inner and outer space correspond 

                        and reflect each other 

                                when we build places to search our souls.

 

Throughout the world there are such places,

        expressions of the human spirit,

                created with artistry and labor;

                        loved and maintained for centuries:

cathedrals, 

        labyrinths,

                and tombs;

                        vast spaces for outdoor rituals;

                                chapels by the sea.

Spiritual proprietorship has transferred in some places from one faith to another,

                sometimes peacefully,

                        though not always.

And everywhere new shrines pop up

        like crosses planted by the side of the road:

                we need to mark where an event has touched us.

The world grinds out such fresh, anguished places all too often.

This week on TV 

        I saw members of the New York Fire Department

                demonstrating at the site of the World Trade Center.

They were protesting the cutback of Fire Department personnel

        from the recovery work at the smoldering ruins.

The TV commentator said,

        "It's become sacred ground for them."

 

One way a place becomes sacred

        is through the connections we make

                and the memories we associate with it.

Sometimes a place –

        like the new cathedral in downtown Los Angeles –

                rises from the ground

                        designed, sanctified and established for the role 

                                it will play in people's lives.

But not until the people worship in it

        will its vast interiors fully embrace the human spirit.

 

Last month, when my family and I were trying to decide 

        where to hold

                my father's memorial service,

                        we had a hard time finding the right place.

My father did not want a public memorial service.

So we searched for a nearby space

        where his family – all ten of us –

                could gather and feel at home.

 

We considered having the service at home,

        but that felt too familiar.

It did not offer enough separation 

        between daily life

                and the celebration of one life.

I vetoed a funeral home;

        my mother vetoed a private room in a restaurant.

Outdoor spaces were too public.

No one wanted a church we didn't know –

        and most churches wouldn't be quite right,

                since my father was born and raised in the Jewish tradition.

 

Finally we decided to drive some thirty miles

        back to the Unitarian Universalist church

                where my parents had once been active members.

And there, in a sanctuary that could easily seat 300,

        the minister arranged our ten chairs in a circle

                and conducted my father's service.

It was perfect.

 

The church had changed a lot

        since my parents were members there,

                but the connection was still alive and real.

My father and mother had not seen the new sanctuary,

        built several years ago.

But the list of contributors on the wall

        included their names.

The sanctuary was there waiting for them when they needed it.

 

There is something about a space 

        that holds memories, connections and associations

                that also holds us when we are vulnerable:

                        it is sacred.

This humble sanctuary has few symbols

        to proclaim that it is holy space.

It is a meeting house, 

        not a cathedral.

It needs to be larger –

        that is one of the reasons for the meeting after the service today;

                but it will always be a place

                        that is defined by what happens inside it.

 

What happens inside our spaces

        begins with the vision brought to it

                by our architect and Building Committee,

                        charged by our congregation some time ago.

When you look at the plans for our building program,

        you will see how design can help us function better

                as a religious community.

The plans include a new building on 17th street,

        dedicated to religious education,

                and a reconfiguration of the church offices.

The sanctuary proposal offers creative and elegant ways

        to enhance music and worship,

                to provide accessibility,

                        even to tell stories to the children –

                                to help us become the community 

                                        we want to be.

 

What we anticipate building now

        will outlive us, most likely.

If you think it doesn't matter

        what it will look like after you are gone,

                remember my family's experience just this past month.

We need these spaces and the connections they preserve

        more than we realize.

Through them our lives continue.

 

Such spaces are not the only ones we need.

Sam Keen writes about a sanctuary 

        he creates for himself  in his study:

                a place full of associations and memories,

                        arranged intentionally

                                and nurturing solitude and peace.

Most of us have such a place.

Like the child in the story I read earlier,

        a "little house of your own"

                is something everyone needs.

That little house is your sanctuary –

        safe and secure,

                where your solitude is protected.

 

I have a study, 

        a little house of my own, at home.

As I look around it,

        I see how my minimalist tendencies

                keep my space the way I need it.

I like things neat and simple –

        actually, just a little too neat and simple –

                and this is the environment I need

                        to write, to read, 

                                even to talk on the phone.

I also go into my little house of my own – 

        that is, inside myself –

                when I go to gym and ride the bike.

I may have a copy of the New Yorker 

        or a book in front of me,

                but I might as well be hiding

                        under the dinner table,

                                like that child in the story.

I think no one knows where I am,

        even if I am surrounded by people

                who have seen me there for the past eight years,

                        and members of the church.

 

We all need to create a "little house of our own"

        in time as well as in space.

Introverts like me find ways to be alone throughout the day,

        but everyone, even extroverts, needs that space inside –

                a sanctuary inside –

                        to be at peace.

Some people enter it in prayer or meditation.

Others experience it as a source of inner strength.

Still others see it as the divinity within.

And some see it not as a space at all.

 

In the Vedic scriptures, over five thousand years old,

        there is a reading that talks about a reality within us

                that is not a place, even though it is there.

It says,

"That which does the seeing,

        cannot be seen;

                that which does the hearing,

                        cannot be heard;

                                and that which does the thinking,

                                        cannot be thought."

The Vedas suggest that there is a presence inside us

        that is fundamental to our life,

                just as real as we are,

                        that defines us

                                and sustains us:

                                        we could call it God, or spirit;

                                                anyway, it is beyond names. 

It could be a center point, 

        having no dimensions,

                infinite and still.

When we go into our "little house,"

        we know it is there.

 

This sanctuary is our "little house our own,"

        not only a meeting house and a sacred space,

                but also a time when we feel safe

                        and our privacy is respected.

Some of our rituals, 

        such as "Joys and Sorrows,"

                heighten that sensitivity

                        and remind us what this space

                                and our gathering are all about.

We are touched by words that come from the heart.

Sometimes it sounds like they come from that center point,

        deep within.

Hearing someone else speak,

        we feel safe and protected too.

 

This is why I always ask you 

        not to use "Joys and Sorrows" for church business

                or announcements.

I know that sometimes it is hard 

        to keep the discipline.

But this is why it matters:

        we need spaces of all kinds, 

                not just buildings,

                        but moments set aside,

                                that are protected and inviolate

                                        and preserved for their dedicated purpose.

 

Despite our informality and frequent spontaneous moments,

        our whole service tries to preserve that feeling.

There can be joy and humor and intimacy

        and all the unexpected things that happen

                when a group of people comes together like this.

And it can still be safe, 

        a time when we protect each other’s privacy 

                and we approach each other with soft voices

                        and respect.

 

Our space – this church,

        is a place that connects 

                the inner and outer spaces of our souls,

                        a place that reflects, 

                                in form and function,

                                        what goes on inside us.

And it can be a place that helps shape 

        what goes on inside us.

What will happen in our lives,

        and in the lives of those who follow us,

                if we make it a place of beauty,

                        welcoming and safe for everyone?

It will be here when we need it,

        though we might not know how or why just yet.

But we will need it.

Because everyone needs a "little house of our own,"

        and this one is ours.