First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Canton, Massachusetts

One of You

Rev. Beverly Boke
First Parish Unitarian Universalist - Canton
May 8, 2011

First Reading

"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

Second Reading

"The Rabbi's Gift," adapted from A Different Drum, by M. Scott Peck

There is a story about a monastery that had fallen on hard times.

Once upon a time it had been part of a great order, but now all its branch houses were lost and there were only five monks left: the abbot and four others. All of them were over seventy years old.

Deep woods surrounded the monastery; in the woods there was a little hut that a rabbi occasionally used for a hermitage. The old monks sensed when the rabbi was nearby. "The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods," they would whisper.

It occurred to the abbot that the rabbi might have some advice for him that would help to save his monastery. He went to the hut.

The rabbi welcomed the abbot, but when the abbot explained his visit, the rabbi could only say, "I know how it is. The spirit has gone out of the people. It's the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore."

So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and spoke of deep things.

When the abbot had to leave, they embraced each other. "It has been a wonderful conversation" the abbot said, "but I have failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me that would help me save my dying order?"

"No, I am sorry," the rabbi responded. "I have no advice to give. But I can tell you this: the Messiah is one of you."

When the abbot returned to the monastery the monks gathered around him. "What did the rabbi say?" they asked.

“He said the Messiah is one of us. I don't know what he meant."

In the time that followed, the old monks wondered about the rabbi's words. The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks? Which one?

He probably meant Father Abbot. He’s been our leader for more than a generation.

On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that! Thomas is a man of light.

He certainly could not have meant Brother Eldred! Eldred gets so crotchety at times! But come to think of it, even though he's a thorn in our sides, Eldred is almost always right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Eldred.

Surely it’s not Brother Phillip. He's so passive, a real nobody. But then he has a gift for always being there when you need him. He just magically appears. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.

Of course the rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person.

Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O God, not me. I couldn’t … could I?

As they contemplated the rabbi's message, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect, on the off-off chance that they might be.

Now, people from the surrounding towns still came to visit the monastery in its beautiful forest to picnic on its lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even to meditate in the chapel. As they did so, they sensed the aura of extraordinary respect that began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery to picnic, to play, to pray. They brought their friends to this special place. And their friends brought their friends.

Then some of the younger people who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one young man asked if he could join them. Then another, and another.

So within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi's gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.

Sermon

The rabbi said, "The Messiah is one of you."

We wonder along with the monks what the Rabbi meant when he said that to the Abbot.

He's a rabbi, but I don't think he meant the promised savior of the Jewish nation prophesied in the Hebrew Scriptures.

And I don't think he meant Jesus, the savior in traditional Christianity.

Honestly, I haven't been able to figure it out.

But I think I know what he meant to do. I think he meant to leave the abbot with a morsel of hope and dignity, so that he could return to the faithful remnant of the dying order and tell them that small though their order had become, they themselves were good, worthy men whose lives had meaning.

But look what happened! From those few words, the Messiah is one of you, the whole order was revived – revived to the extent that it became "a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm."

And that happened because of one change. They began to treat each other with extraordinary respect. Not only that – they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

We all know what it means to treat others with respect. To be respectful is to have regard for the feelings, wishes, and the rights of other people. To have or to feel respect means to feel deep admiration for someone, for their abilities, or their accomplishments or just for their qualities – the way they are in the world.

Most of us believe we should treat everyone with respect. I like to put it this way: treat other people with respect even when you don't think they deserve it. It seems to me that one sign of a healthy, mature person is that they have regard for other people's feelings and rights no matter what they think of them privately.

Everyone at the monastery thought well of the Abbot and Brother Thomas. Not so much for Eldred and Phillip at first – but then when they began to consider the rabbi's comment, they were able to think of qualities they valued in those brothers they might have dismissed as unworthy.

So they began to treat each other with respect – extraordinary respect. Unusual, remarkable respect. Respect you don't find every day.

Respect. It's so important that it's at the heart of our first Unitarian Universalist principle – We affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person. The word "respect" isn't there but you can't affirm and promote another person's inherent worth and dignity without it.

- - -

I've been thinking about our faith as an institution – about our Unitarian Universalism as an entity. There's a lot of talk about growth. The Ballou-Channing District Spring conference was all about "the important or powerful questions we need to be asking of ourselves if we are to be a vital and viable religion in this decade." Some say we're like that dying order of monks. They might say along with the rabbi in our story, "The spirit has gone out of the people," meaning perhaps that church is no longer relevant. I've heard that the way we "do church" has to change.

These things may be true, but I've been involved with Unitarian Universalism for over 30 years and we've been worrying about this problem for at least that long.

Even here, where good people gather together in community and keep this church alive, there's room for quite a few more before the place would feel crowded.

There are those who say that we are a small denomination because we don't offer a simple, clear theology. (What could be simpler than "one God at most, everybody saved"?)

They insist that it's hard work to be a practicing Unitarian Universalist, to develop your own credo, to follow those 7 principles in your heart, in your home, in your congregations. You bet it is. But it's hard work to be a practicing Christian or Jew or Muslim or Buddhist or Hindu too, not to mention other less well-known religions. If you really follow any responsible religion's demands, it's a life's work. It's about being better than you are, better even that you sometimes think you can be, every day.

Unitarian Universalism is not a small association on account of it being too hard to be a Unitarian Universalist. There's more to it than that – much more.

As I contemplate the future with you I've been thinking about growth and our longing to be a bigger association. I've been thinking about what we might do together that would make this place and our larger faith "a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm."

People say we need to attract more people of diverse backgrounds. They say we're too white, we are too suburban, we're too wealthy. They say we're elitist, racist, and mono-culturist. All this may be true.

But I think the heart of it is simpler. I think we just forget that the Messiah is one of us.

I don't want to over-simplify things, and there's always room for institutional improvement. But we need to start with remembering that each of us – the "us" that's already here, already known to one another in all our flaws and failings – is precious, a treasure, beautiful, whole. Each person here is the secret to salvation.

Stop for just a moment. Think about each other. Think about the warmth of each other's hands when you shake them, the strength and comfort of each other's embrace when you greet one another. Think about the way you know you can call on each other when you are in need. Think about how willing you are to help anyone who would call.

Think about what it means to lose one of you.

There's a well-known story in Unitarian Universalist circles about a guy in Boston who was heading for the Arlington Street T Station one Sunday morning when he heard someone say, "Welcome!" He was passing the steps of the Arlington Street Unitarian Universalist Church. The ushers were all standing out there as they do every Sunday morning, welcoming all who come, and one of them was welcoming him to church.

He hadn't intended to go to church that morning. The guy had decided that he was going to buy a subway token, enter the station, and throw himself on the third rail. Life didn't seem to have a purpose anymore.

But when he paused at that "welcome," he decided to go into the church to pray before he continued. Then he stayed for the whole Sunday service, and something that was said that morning gave him the strength to change his mind, to keep going. Then he became a member of that church.

That life altering change all began with one word – "welcome." On that day that usher was the Messiah. Then other members and friends and maybe the minister of the congregation became the Messiah, one after the other.

This is the meaning of our principles, the message of our heritage, and the only thing that will save us from becoming like that dying order of old monks. We are called to welcome each other, and all people, as Messiahs – as ones who have the potential to save us from lonely, broken, meaningless lives.

It is this call that makes our faith a challenging one. It is this summation of the central message of every major religion – treat others as you would be treated yourself. Confucius said it, Gautama said it, Jesus said it, Mohammad said it. It was the message delivered by the prophets time and again to the Hebrew people as their part of the deal Yahweh was offering. In exchange for your radical freedom, do justice, and love mercy.

It's not easy to be just and merciful and respectful of one another. It's hard enough to respect ourselves. Lord knows we wake up every morning meaning to be good. And then we have to get up and face the day with only our human selves and each other to be good with and to and for.

But the Messiah is one of us. It's not that we're that good. It's that ordinariness is enough. We are sacred beings as we are. We do not, as Mary Oliver reminds us, "have to walk on [our] knees for a hundred miles through a desert, repenting."

If you doubt this, imagine something threatening the life of the person sitting in front of or behind or next to you – a car careening out of control toward them, perhaps – quick! Won't you try to save them?

Of course you will – without thinking about it. And it is because in your heart you know that person is a miracle, holy and beautiful, just as they are. You won't ask them to become a better person on account of your saving them! You won't ask for a receipt or a certificate. You'll just do it.

And then, when the danger has passed, you'll pat them on the arm and say, well then. Well, then…you take care now.

And you will have been the Messiah … and you will have saved the Messiah.

But most of the time it's nothing as grand as all that. Nothing as dramatic as saving someone's life – no careening cars or earthquakes or armed robbers. Most of the time it's much, much simpler than that: more akin to the usher offering a warm and sincere welcome, and someone saying, "see you next week!" to the newcomers. Most of the time it's as simple as offering your seat to someone who looks tired, sending a note to someone who's having a hard time, getting someone a cup of coffee, listening to a person's frustrations or fears. Most of the time it's as simple as knowing the children by name. It really doesn't take much to save your soul.

And that's the heart of it. That's what we need to remember. What we need is already within us. All the love we need, all the faith we need, all the hope we need is already within us.

Back at that monastery, the rabbi may or may not have meant to say it but here is the meaning I take from his words: you are – each of you – a sacred being and a blessing in the world.

You. A Messiah. You – me – us – each other's saviors. Day after day after day.