Strength In Humility
a sermon by Rev. Alan Taylor
delivered April 2, 2000
at the Woodinville Unitarian Universalist Church

First Reading: from Jack Kornfield, Roots of Buddhist Psychology

We all have, without exception, a very deep longing to give—to give to the earth, to give to others, to give to the society, to work, to love, to care for this earth. That’s true for every human being. And even the ones who don’t find it, it’s because it has been squashed or somehow suppressed in some brutal way in their life. But it’s there to be discovered. We all long for that.

And there’s a tremendous sorrow for a human being who doesn’t find a way to give. One of the worst of human sufferings is not to find a way to love, or a place to work and give of your heart and being.

Second Reading: from Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

If you trust in Nature, in what is simple in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to be you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

Sermon:

A week ago Saturday, I went over to Betsy MacWhinney’s house to make dinner for the Canvass Kick-off Celebration. It seemed fitting that the newly ordained minister and the Board President were cooking for the rest of the congregation for stewardship Sunday. It was really important to me that I make really outstanding chili—just two weeks previously so many people cooked for my ordination, and now they as well as the rest of the congregation would be pledging their financial support to the church. So it was my turn to step up to the plate and make something really quality.

Saturday morning, I showed up at the MacWhinney-Hendron household with gallons and gallons of beans. I’m talking three good size pots plus a nearly full trashcan that soaked at my house the 36 hours previously. I also hauled over the bell peppers that had filled the entire upper half of my normally empty refrigerator, several pounds of ground turkey, bags and bags of onions, and large containers and bags of nearly a dozen spices. It was immediately clear that Betsy’s one giant pot was clearly not going to be enough. So we got a hold of two huge canning pots. And we also used three small pots (8-quart pots). Because the stove couldn’t accommodate more than two large pots, Hal, Betsy’s husband, got the wood stove going. He also fired up the propane camp stove. So in time, we had one giant pot on the stove with the three smaller ones, one giant pot on the wood stove, and one giant pot outside on the camp stove. Suddenly a horrifying realization came to me. The recipe called for canned beans, and thus the 40 minute cooking time was not going to be nearly enough, especially considering the mass quantities we were cooking. After all the pots had been cooking for over an hour, Betsy and I joked that if the beans didn’t ever soften, we could order out for pizza. Two hours later, we knew that over half of our chili—the less than cooked contents in the huge canning pots—wouldn’t be either offered as veggie chili or meat chili, there was no mistaking it. It was smoky chili—with hard beans. Canning pots are meant only for water—if you cook something more dense, such as chili, it will burn quickly.

The next morning, I returned bright and early. Betsy had already got much of the meat done and had put on the pots of beans. I agreed with her that the smoky chili wasn’t worth cooking any further. So we focused on the remainder. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, we had enough chili for everyone who came that evening. I know the quality and density of the chili depended upon which pot one’s bowl came out of. But I was quietly astonished that most people seemed to actually like it.

It was a humbling experience. To buy way too many beans; to burn the two largest batches; to nearly lose my calm in the kitchen of the Board President; and to top it off, to serve chili that didn’t come close to what I envisioned; for I had wanted to make the most incredible chili for the many great people who are a part of this congregation on the very night they’d be filling out their pledge cards. And here I had two huge pots of smoky chili and a vat of chili that could have been mistaken for Safeway’s Select.

At the end of the evening, I couldn’t help but thinking of the loaves and fishes story in the New Testament. For me it worked in the reverse—I started with far, far too much food, ruined more than half of it, and still somehow, everyone was fed. If I had ruined all the chili, my only consolation was that perhaps the congregation would spare me, indeed forbid me, from toiling in the kitchen. Well, I can’t but help remember the class act so many of you contributed to for the ordination. I now have even greater appreciation for the mass amounts of hors d’oeuvres and the table decorations you all prepared.

The sages of all the religious traditions teach the virtue of humility. It takes a humble heart to remember what is truly life-sustaining. Wisdom and depth of meaning come from reflecting honestly on our experience and changing our actions so as to live out the ideals we hold dear. As Rilke put it to a young poet, “if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, … in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge.”

As I cooked the chili, I temporarily forgot what we are about as a religious community. When I write sermons, I am more apt to remember. That particular night my job was to nourish you, to see that you don’t go home hungry. But I would have done anything to raise your impressions of the church as you sat filling out your pledge cards. But this is far from the mission of our church. We are here to serve. We are here to serve one another and the greater community by offering a time and place where people can reflect, rejoice, grieve, and be real about their own struggles and dreams.

True faith is not about impressing others. It is not about making fabulous meals, nor is it about pleasing other people. Faith is about believing in the goodness of creation, the potential of humanity, and the possibilities open to us to bringing forth the goodness in the world around us. There is a marvelous story of a man who once stood before God, his heart breaking from the pain and injustice in the world. “Dear God,” he cried out, “look at all the suffering, the anguish and distress in your world. Why don’t you send help?” God responded, “I did send help. I sent you.”

The saving message that Unitarian Universalism offers is that all people are worthy, all people have goodness within that can be brought forth for the blessing of others, and we can work together for a better tomorrow. If our days are spent worrying whether we are serving good enough food, whether we look better than the next person, or whether we are impressing our boss, then our lives are shallow. If we concern ourselves with how we can aid others who are hurting and how we can give of ourselves to what our heart calls for, then our deeds will speak even more loudly than our words.

Three weeks ago, during the ceremony when this congregation ordained and installed me, Rev. Rob Eller Isaacs delivered the charge to the minister. He charged me to cultivate my own faith such that others can see it. That may sound like an oxymoron. How does one, a minister or a lay person, develop their faith and live it out loud—while maintaining humility? It depends on whether we can honestly value our own strengths. We can give voice to our faith with a humble heart when we embrace the fact that we don’t have all the answers. To admit we don’t have all the answers frees us up to live the questions.

Yesterday, over a dozen of us gathered for the Basset Hound Parade. Several members put together a float with plenty of signs saying who we are. It was a trailer on which three of our musicians performed. As Larry, Brad and Chuck played their music, people in the crowds clapped and children danced. Those of us carrying signs passed out information about our church. It was quite an experience to look at people in the eyes and ask them if they would like to learn more about us and, regardless of their response, smile. We handed out hundreds of bags with candy and, when they ran out, hundreds of our little cards. We can be sure hundreds of people who didn’t know about us in the past, do now. 

Yesterday wasn’t the first time I publicly evangelized. During seminary, I wanted to create a student group on the UC Berkeley campus. I drafted a flyer with several questions on it such as “Do you regard critical inquiry as a core religious value?” and “Is spirituality important to you?” and “Do you believe more in Original Blessing than Original Sin?” At the bottom of the flyer, it said, “If you answered ‘Yes’ to these questions, come to the Liberal Religious Alternative.” At the top of the flyer, I couldn’t resist putting up an eye catcher. It read in bold letters in two lines, “Are you disgusted with religion that insists upon dogma?” Out to Sproul Plaza I went with my flyers. This famous courtyard was where the civil rights protests originated as well as the Viet-Nam era peace demonstrations. Today, there an eclectic bunch of people: some dread-locked individuals playing drums, an older man in a faded blue suit who sings into a tinny amplifier, and loud obnoxious evangelical Christians telling people that they will go to hell if they don’t repent. So onto that colorful scene I took my flyers and held them in both directions for all to see. Several people stopped to talk. Many more took a flyer. One fellow told me he is a part of the Air Force and that he hoped pagan celebrations would be introduced into the armed forces; a group of women expressed surprise and delight to know a religious organization had many people who affirmed their pro-choice position; and one fellow yelled at me that we are corrupt since we embrace, let alone ordain, openly gay and lesbian people. The encounter which had the most impact on me was a short, stocky man, likely in his late forties. He told me his name was Kenneth. Kenneth told me he applauded my efforts in trying to create a liberal religious campus group. He also told me he was disturbed by that first question on my flyer. “If you want to build a religious community,” he said, “don’t you want a positive foundation? By catering to people’s disgust, you build upon on your negativity. Who in their right mind would seek such a religious community?”

I knew when I drafted the flyers, that the questions should describe Unitarian Universalists in positive terms. I was well aware of the tendency of many of us to describe ourselves in terms of what we are not—we are not exclusive, we are not dogmatic, we are not mainly Christian. And yet, I yielded to catering to what turns people off. It can be an effective ploy, as we saw the supporters of I-695 gather people who are disillusioned with government, but in the long run this kind of gathering together will not lead to a creative, sustaining solution.

Thus, we come to some important questions: What turns people to the source of their truth? What turns you toward what is ultimately creative and sustaining? What turns people to others in their midst who are in need? I don’t expect you to have the answers. However, I urge you to ask such questions, to live the questions that well up in your hearts, and trust Rilke’s sentiment that you will live your way into the answers.

Jack Kornfield is a Buddhist teacher. He is known for his book, The Path With Heart. In his lesser known work, The Roots of Buddhist Psychology, Kornfield says, “We all have a very deep longing to give.” It is easy to think that we are not giving enough, or that what we are giving is somehow unworthy. Humility teaches us to give the best of ourselves to others, to expect ourselves to do the best we can, and to let go of the result.

Do you ever get into situations where you feel utterly incapable of doing what you’re expected to do? I do, more often than I’d care to admit. Let me share with you one last story. It was nearly four years ago. I was a chaplain at San Francisco General Hospital. My primary floor was 5A, the AIDS and Oncology unit. I walked into the room of a nice looking elderly man. From the sign outside the door, I knew his name was Leo. Leo was short, not big. He had a gentle expression on his face as he told me that he was 72 years, that his uncle was a priest and his sister a nun. “Chaplain, I might possibly benefit from your word. Just possibly.”

“How are you doing?”

“Not well. Let me tell you. I came into the hospital nine days ago. Had lots of tests done. Then on Thursday my doctor sat down with me. I told her to be candid. She said I had prostrate cancer. I knew that from before. But now she said it has moved into my bones. She told me I might want to get my life in order. Chaplain, what would you do if you were in my situation?”

I said, “I’d be scared. I’d be confused.”

He looked away and said, “Yeah I’m confused, I don’t know what to do, I just don’t know what to do. I know you can pray and read the Bible but that’s no good to me right now.” Looking back at me, he again asked “What does a man do when he is facing death?”

I paused, not knowing what to say, and then I said the only thing that came to mind. “Some people like to focus on the breath.”

“Focus on the what?”

“The breath.”

“The what?”

By now, I knew this was a stupid thing to say, and yet I said, this time slowly, “the breath.”

“The breath?”

“Yeah, you know—meditation.”

“No I don’t. Chaplain, I need your word.”

At this point, I felt like excusing myself, for I had no idea what to tell this dear man who had few weeks to live. Instead, I asked him, “What is truly important to you?”

“That’s a good question,” he said, “let’s see, what is important to one…”

“Leo, my question is what is important to you—in your experience? Let me rephrase the question, ‘What do you long for?’”

“Aside from the continuation of life, I don’t know. I suppose it is good to discuss these things, but I don’t know how to answer.”

“I am wondering, what is on your heart?”

Tears welled up in his eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes I do.”

He began to tell me how he had volunteered working with children whose parents were in prison or no longer in their lives. He told me how he gained a lot of satisfaction out of getting to know some of the children, to see these children. He told me how he hadn’t done as much as he would like, and that in the remaining weeks of his life he wanted to find ways to give to these children—in addition to getting his life in order.

Whenever I think back on this encounter with Leo, I am deeply humbled. I am humbled by the realization that no amount of articulate speaking or learned ideas will be of use in the face of harsh reality. I am humbled by the depth of caring and goodwill came pouring out of Leo when he was given the space to share what is truly important to him.

There are some questions that never cease to carry meaning: What is truly important to you? What do you long for? What is on your heart? As a newly ordained minister of the liberal tradition, my faith rests in living authentically in the light of these questions. Indeed, I believe that each of us needs to live in the light of any and all questions that well up from the depths of our being. May our church offer the space to hold all of our questions--the most difficult, the saddest, as well as the most mundane and the most profound. I believe we will find that each question is shared with many others, and that if we meet each other in humility, we can help one another to live into the answers.

Blessed be. Amen.