First Reading: from Jack Reimer
Now is the time for turning.
The leaves are beginning to turn
from green to red and orange.
The birds are beginning to turn
to storing their food for the winter.
For leaves, birds, and animals
turning comes instinctively.
But for us turning does not come so easily.
It takes an act of will for us to make a turn.
It means breaking with old habits.
It means admitting that we have been wrong;
and this is never easy.
It means losing face;
it means starting all over again;
and this is always painful.
It means saying: I am sorry.
It means recognizing that we have the ability to change.
These things are hard to do.
But unless we turn,
we will be trapped forever in yesterday's ways.

Second Reading: A tale of two tattoos, as told by my colleague, Robin Zucker

There was a man who had been a devout Jew. As a boy, he had joyfully worshipped in the village shul, and he kept all of God's commandments and laws.

But when he entered his twenties, the man turned away from God, he rebelled against his law-laden religion, and went off to live in a faraway city. Once there, he chose a secular life, and in an act of clear defiance against his tradition, he had bold colorful tattoos inscribed over the surfaces of his arms and chest. Each time he admired the tattoos in the mirror he felt liberated from his restrictive past.

But, one day he awoke and yearned to turn back to his faith, to reenter his community. In keeping with tradition, the man knew that he would first have to undergo a mikva (or ritual bath) in order to purify himself prior to entering the temple. He returned to his village and hurried excitedly to the mikva.

Once he had disrobed and was poised to step into the bath, a community leader blocked his way and angrily admonished him that, according to Jewish law, no one who had demeaned oneself through the act of being tattooed was permitted to enter the mikva for fear that it would defile the water.

The tattooed man sat dejected on the edge of the bath and began to softly weep. Would he never be reconciled again to his community? would his tattoos forever be like the proverbial Mark of Cain, preventing his redemption?

A second man came upon him crying and bent down to inquire of his suffering, and the tattooed man explained his plight. The second man held out his arm, upon which one could clearly see a crude row of blue identification numbers that been tattooed there, against his will, by the Nazis at Auschwitz. The Holocaust survivor took the tattooed man's hand and gently said, "Come. Let us step into the bath together."

I met Maxine at Alternatives to Violence workshop. She was one of the oldest participants, in her late sixties. Maxine spoke with a sonorous voice. During the introductions she spoke of family she lost in the Holocaust. Early in the weekend workshop, we brainstormed a long list of different types of violence. Each of us was asked to indicate which form of violence hurt us the most. Maxine stood erect, nearly six feet tall. Without a word, she walked to the list and circled "white male oppression." (You can be sure I made a mental note!)

Later in the workshop, Maxine, I, and three others formed a group for "Broken Squares" activity. We each received three or four cardboard shapes. The goal was to trade pieces in silence until all five of us formed our own square. Only one solution existed. The catch was that we could only give pieces. We were told not to ask for a piece or to help another with their square or to take another's piece. I am adept at problem solving with shapes, and I quickly recognized what needed to be done. The next five minutes seem like an eternity. I bounced the rules about in my head, rationalizing ways I could gesture and cue others without actually solving their puzzle. As I looked at another woman, Judith, who had all the pieces she needed, my hands fluttered about. Judith pushed her pieces to me. With two quick movements, I formed her square. She gave me a side hug, whispering that she would not have figured it out all weekend. My hands continued to dart around to help others. Maxine looked at me with a frown and pleading stare. She put up her hands. I saw the gesture telling me to stop but it did not register. My frenetic gesturing continued.

Maxine was the last in our group to finish. Immediately Judith exclaimed, "Alan, I'm so glad you helped me--I've never been able to see shapes." Maxine remained quiet and motionless. She said quietly "I did not want help. I often feel like I can't solve these types of puzzles. In this activity I thought I could, but I needed time. I wanted to do it myself. You made me feel slow and inadequate. I even put my hands up to get you to stop." In a very soft voice, she said, "when you did that, you made me angry."

As we circled up to process as a whole group, I clenched my jaw and cemented my face, forcing tears from filling my eyes. This was the woman who spoke so painfully about white male oppression and I just demonstrated blatant insensitivity to her wishes. Worse, I did so by breaking the rules of the game. In the large group she was quiet. If anyone was going to say something about my blunder, it would have to be me. Trembling, I mustered the power to say, "I can't believe I did that. I - I am sorry."

At the break, Maxine and I spoke one-on-one. To my surprise, her words were warm and gentle. She assured me that although my action made her angry my willingness to listen and say that I am sorry made room for a much deeper connection of trust. I could have turned away from her, looked upon her with contempt for not accepting my help or pretended nothing of significance happened. She could have held a grudge against me for the rest of the conference and chalked me up to yet another person who trampled on her voice and feelings. I owned my screw-up, and Maxine forgave me.

This story might sound inconsequential to you, but the effect this interaction had on me was profound. It was an encounter with someone with whom I thought I had nothing in common. It was an opportunity for someone to point out a mistake I made and how that made them feel. It was a moment where I could own my insensitivity. It was an experience of forgiveness.

Forgiveness is a religious term that doesn't get much press in Unitarian Universalist circles. In fact, our religious movement seems to systematically avoid the idea. It's as if admitting to a need for forgiveness would make us less than human, less than perfect, less than the ideals we so strive to live up to.

I have always loved the song "Come, Come Whoever You Are" which we sang this morning. It is a song of inclusivity, a song that declares we welcome everyone in this faith. The words are from Rumi, a 13th century Sufi poet. Lyn Unger, a Unitarian Universalist minister who used to be a part of this district, put the words to the melody we sang this morning.

Recently, I came across the Rumi poem from which the song is taken. To my surprise I discovered one of the lines had been omitted! And that line radically alters the meaning of the poem!

The poem as originally written by Rumi goes:

That puts an emphasis on our fallibility, our tendency to not live up to our vows or ideals. How utterly un-Unitarian--aren't Unitarian-Universalists upright, politically correct people, the only people worthy of the label righteous? How often have we held that sentiment coupled with moral indignation? We'd be wise too heed another Rumi teaching, "When we see a fault of another, we must take responsibility in our own selves." For we are not truly inclusive until we welcome people with shortcoming--and that would include us all.

Our Unitarian Universalist religious movement calls us, to come come whoever you are. We believe in the human capacity to cultivate goodness both within our individual lives and among each other in community. This is our strength. We ought to be proud. It doesn't matter how many doubts you have, it doesn't matter how you understand the great mysteries of life, it doesn't matter how you move through the world. What matters is you can find truth as it is revealed to you and you can be the beautiful, talented person you are. We have a great religious movement. The problem is when there is no mechanism in our faith tradition to invite us to change and grow when we do screw up. And we all do things that we regret. If there is no opportunity in our religious community to be imperfect, if there is no component to our faith that responds to our capacity for evil, then we are forced to walk a narrow ridge of needing to be perfect. And as human beings, we often fail.

This evening I wish to honor the deep wisdom of the Jewish High Holy Days. They begin with Rosh Hashana, which could be called the Jewish New Year. It is Jewish custom to prepare for a purified soul through ten days of contemplation and prayer beginning with Rosh Hashanah. For ten days, according to the tradition, one needs to reflect on all the personal transgressions of the last year and all the shady intentions that result. Today, with the setting of the sun, the Jewish tradition celebrates the final day, Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is often translated as the Day of Atonement; I recently learned a more direct translation is "The day of cleansing."

There is something unique about these most holy days of the Jewish calendar. Think of all the other holidays whether in Judaism or any other religion. Every other holiday I know celebrates a season or an historical event. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur don't. Instead, they celebrate the human capacity to change and grow. The Jewish tradition upholds the human spirit as capable of reconciliation with the source of truth. But this is not achieved by any mere conversion experience as fundamentalists often suggest. Nor is it by simply a change in attitude as those who promote the power of positive thinking lead us to believe. Nor is it possible by simply grappling with new ideas. Instead the Jewish tradition calls for a spiritual practice that is extremely difficult--the practice to willfully identify all of one's own transgressions and seek forgiveness. Each person's life is seen as an open book. All the ill will, all the deceptions and selfish actions of the past year are to be acknowledged so as to turn oneself toward the source of truth and clean one's own book of life. So, it's the practice of prayer, contemplation, tending a spiritual practice that cleanses the human heart.

One of the most frustrating chapters of my young adult ministry began when check-in began taking up two-thirds of our weekly two-hour meeting. One woman began talking about herself in check-in for 15 to 20 minutes every single week. No one dared confront this intense woman though people talked plenty behind her back. Well, one day during a break at one of our meetings, I suggested privately to Mary that we all might keep our check-ins to 5 or 8 minutes. Mary went ballistic. She yelled at the top of her lungs about how much she hated me and my attempt to infringe on her right to talk as long as she needed every single week. At least 10 others were in the room and just stared silently. I said, "Well, Mary, now that you have made our conversation everyone's conversation, let me repeat what I said." And I did. After that, every time I saw or even thought of Mary, my body tensed up with loathing and hatred. For years I harbored anger at her. And over my dead body would I ever let it go.

Many people that harbor rage at a person in their past, sometimes someone significant such as a parent or past partner. When the issue is abuse or severe neglect, rage is an appropriate reaction. The only problem is that rage builds up over relatively small offenses and so many of us never let it go. All the great sages teach that we must forgive those who hurt us. We understandably develop a grudge against those who wrong us. What remains hidden is that we are the ones who suffer by holding that grudge, especially when the person or people we are angry at are no longer present in our lives. Besides, whenever you hold a grudge against another person, most likely they are oblivious to that fact, or don't care. The only person who ends up suffering is the person who dwells on the hurt. In my case, all the inner fuming and resentment I carried regarding Mary was, ultimately, not about her but about my unwillingness to let go of feeling wronged.

I could not forgive Mary until I had the strength to recognize that she is a hurting person not unlike the rest of us and that her rage towards me was really not about me. But by this time Mary was no longer in my life. When I forgive, it is not the other person that is changed, it is me. The other person is changed only if I have a direct relationship with them, and they are willing to turn towards me as I have them. But that is wholly out of my control. The only person I have control over is myself. And if you can forgive, it is you who are freed.

When I told Maxine I was sorry, she acknowledged my penitent behavior and a sincere and warm rapport developed between us. When someone says I am sorry, it's so tempting to just shrug and say, "oh that's all right" even when it's not all right. Sometimes people say they're sorry just to hear those words, "oh, that's all right." But what would happen if someone responded in a way that both accepted an apology and held us accountable? One of my parishioners back in Massachusetts called this to my attention. At the hospital where Steve works, he did say something insensitive towards a nurse. Upon realizing it, he approached her and said, "I am sorry." The nurse responded, "I forgive you." She didn't brush it off, she didn't pretend that it was meaningless. Instead she acknowledged the relationship between Steve and herself. Imagine the next time someone says to you I am sorry, what would happen if you said to them "I forgive you."? It requires a turning towards them, it requires an acceptance of them, it requires a willingness to say I accept you and your apology, now let us begin again in love.

Two years ago November, I had the privilege of co-planning a meeting of downtown Worcester clergy and businessmen with Worcester's two state Senators. Both the senators were late. The one who arrived first sat down and apologized for being late. Rev. Hoyer, the Lutheran pastor who was facilitating the meeting said, "Thank you for your apology. We appreciate your acknowledgement of your tardiness." I thought I saw him gulp. The other senator arrived even later and was greeted by one of my parishioners. The senator told her he couldn't stay long, even though we had previously agreed to meet for an hour. As they walked in, fifteen of us community leaders sat around a table and naturally looked their way. The woman, who greeted him said in a tone of distress, "He says he must leave in 15 minutes." This senator had clearly thought that a meeting in a church could be blown off. As he took his seat, he also apologized for being late. Again, the Lutheran pastor said, "Thank you for your apology. We appreciate you acknowledging your tardiness." Neither senator left his seat for over an hour. Part of the reason was that Rev Hoyer honored the relationship and didn't say, "oh that's okay." Not just in our personal lives, but also in the world of business and politics, it is our relationships that hold us accountable.

Every religion has its own spiritual discipline that helps the individual heal his or her relationships with others. Seeking forgiveness in the Jewish and Christian traditions has great similarities to the loving-kindness meditations of the Buddhists. Both seeking forgiveness and seeking to be loving and kind require putting ourselves into right relationship with other human beings. Both require us to face what is real in other people. Both require us to turn towards them, to return to what is truly important to us in each of our relationships.

Here at the Woodinville Unitarian Universalist Church, I know there has been a lot of turmoil these last four years. I know there has been a lot of hard feelings. It has not been uncommon for members to feel wronged by members. Yet the beauty of relationships is that they can be mended when people turn their hearts toward reconciliation. It's never easy. But then again, nothing of depth in life ever is.

On this day, as the sun descends below the horizon, I urge you to consider where in your life you are called to turn towards what is holy and good. I urge you to find opportunities to acknowledge what binds your heart and what will set you upon the path of cleansing. As the weather begins to turn to autumn, may each of us turn towards what gives us life, and may we turn toward each other, for in isolation there is no life.

Blessed be. Amen.

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