WHAT IS SPIRITUALITY? (AND WHERE CAN I GET SOME?)

a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at The First Relgious Society in Carlisle, Massachusetts
Neighborhood Sunday September 25th, 2005


Some years ago now, not too long after I was called to my very first pulpit in Midland, Texas, I traveled to California to attend a training session for newly-minted ministers in our denomination. The conference was held at the El Retirio Jesuit Retreat Center in the Los Altos foothills: it was a beautiful site, located on 48 acres of wooded grounds just south of San Francisco, with a magnificent view of San Francisco bay and the lower peninsula. The facilities were excellent, the food delicious, the workshops stimulating and thought-provoking; and as we sat at dinner on the last evening, looking out from on-high over Silicon Valley as the sun set behind us in the west, one of my colleagues turned to me and remarked, in obvious reference to the monastic vows of our hosts, "If this is poverty, bring on chastity!"

My given name, Timothy, means literally "timid before God." It's an appropriate name, I think, for a Unitarian-Universalist minister, although often these days ministry hardly seems like a vocation for the timid. It takes a lot of nerve to step into the pulpit week after week, in the sincere belief that you have something to say that is worth listening to. It takes a lot of nerve to ask people to give of themselves and their resources, their time and their money, in support of a dream which exists, for the time being, mostly in imagination; just as it takes a lot of nerve to invite one's “neighbors and fellow creatures” to share in that dream, as full and equal partners in a church community. It takes a lot of nerve to do all these things, which I suppose is why they tend to make us nervous. Until we learn to come to grips with our nervousness — to confront our timidity in the presence of issues of ultimate concern — our dreams remain fantasies rather than aspirations. This is a challenge which is primarily spiritual in nature, requiring both the recognition of our own anxieties and shortcomings, as well as the humble acknowledgment of our own unique gifts for service and ministry.

That was one of the things I learned at that conference in California so many years ago. But it was not the only thing. That trip was also something of a personal pilgrimage for me. From 1965 to 1970 my family had lived in a neighborhood about five miles south of the retreat center, so on the way from the airport I managed to persuade a carload of my fellow ministers to swing by the old homestead, so that I might see how the place had changed in the quarter of a century since I had lived there. As someone who had spent a decade living in student housing, and was just beginning for the first time the process of shopping for a home of his own, I was rather surprised to learn that the modest tract house in which I had spent my boyhood, on which my parents had made payments of $165 a month, was even then worth some twenty times what they paid for it (and God only knows what it would sell for now). But even more amazing was the little tree near our driveway which the city had planted to replace the one I had driven over in my mother's station wagon at the age of thirteen, after sneaking the keys out of her purse in order to show off to my friends. That tree had changed quite a bit since I last saw it, propped up by two wooden stakes to keep it from bending in the wind. It towered well above the roof of the house, shading the entire front yard.

So, What is Spirituality? (and where can we get some?) Generally the first place I look is to the language of the third principle of Unitarian Universalism, which calls for "Acceptance of one another, and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations." And in the past I've always gone straight for what I felt was the heart of the matter, and pretty much let the rest of it fend for itself. Spiritual Growth is what really matters; what difference does it make whether it takes place in our congregations or during a walk in the woods or up on a mountaintop somewhere? Isn't it all pretty much the same? And as for the "acceptance of one another" part, doesn't that just sort of come with the territory? It's like Emerson said: "To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men — that is genius."

But lately I've been having second thoughts about a lot of this. I don't know that it's enough any more simply to recognize that we are all pretty much alike, that we've all been created (to use the traditional metaphor) "in the image of God." We need to be able to acknowledge, and perhaps even appreciate, the ways that we are all different as well — and that the genius and wisdom of God, if you will, in creating us this way, is greater than our own. And it's not enough simply to go off by ourselves, to get close to nature and feel "spiritual" because we've been able to isolate ourselves from the distractions of everyday life. We need to learn how to do this very important work in the midst of the demands of "the real world;" and together, in our congregations, in a Community, rather than all alone.

It's been my experience over the years that Roman Catholics talk a lot about spirituality, but often when they do, it is characterized as something which lies within the exclusive domain of "religious virtuosos" — individuals living in cloisters under vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience; contemporary Saints like Mother Teresa, whose desire to pursue the interior life has inspired them to renounce the world in dramatic fashion, and set themselves apart from you and I. Yet it occurs to me that, in many ways, the tree in my old front yard serves as a much better metaphor of the spiritual life, growing as it did over time from a small seedling into a sturdy and impressive monument. The changes themselves may not be noticeable from one day to the next. But they become dramatic indeed after a decade or two of steady growth.

I've been hearing a lot more talk about spirituality in Unitarian Universalist circles these days as well, although still not nearly so much as one does among Catholics. We tend to be a bit more timid about these things, especially those of us who were originally attracted to this faith because it represented in our minds a reasonable, if not always wholly rational, approach to religion. There are even times when I wonder whether the third principle ought to read "Encouragement of one another, and Acceptance of spiritual growth in our congregations," reflecting our uncertain hesitancy concerning the subtle supernatural overtones of the term, and the natural association of the word "spirit" with sprites and spooks and other things that go bump in the night. When attempting to understand "spirituality" from a rational point of view, it is important that we allow ourselves to look beyond all of the superficial “hocus-pocus” sometimes associated with the word, to focus instead on some of its broader and more basic connotations.

In the New Testament, the Greek word for spirit, pneuma, is identical to the one meaning "breath" or "wind." In other words, "spirituality" refers to an element of our experience which (like the wind) can be felt, but not seen; which is as essential to our being as air, as intimate a part of our lives as breathing out and breathing in. Spirituality refers to the depth dimension of human existence: our anxieties and aspirations; our hopes, dreams and secret fears; our feelings of wholeness and oneness with the universe; our sense of frailty, powerlessness, alienation, and emotional broken-ness when confronted with evil, loss, suffering, and the fact of our own mortality. Spirituality is as much a product of the human spirit as it is the Holy Spirit: we romanticize it with trivial sentimentality, mystify it with unintelligible metaphysical hyperbole, hide it behind superficial devotional ceremony; and yet it remains, in its essence, a very simple thing, like a gentle autumn breeze blowing steadily upon one's face.

We do ourselves a great disservice when we view our spirituality as something distant and wholly other from our day to day experience. But it's an easy mistake to make, resulting I think from our failure to recognize that the spirit manifests itself in two distinct and complimentary modes. There is an active, expressive component to the spiritual life, and a more reflective, contemplative one; aspiration and inspiration, animus and anima, yin and yang. For most of us, one or the other of these components will be dominant, habitually preferred and taken for granted; while we long for its absent compliment to make us whole. "If only I could get organized;" "If only I could get away from it all." And yet a balanced spirituality consists of both doing and being, in roughly equal parts: a solid center and a growing edge, in the world, but not of it.

Nor is the spiritual life a static, status quo. Rather, it is a dynamic process; it consists of a series of never-ending spirals, from initiation through doubt to new insight. It begins with a call from something beyond ourselves: a realization of some limitation or shortcoming, something out of balance; and an vague, yearning intimation of something more. Yet before we can transcend our current awareness, we must inevitably pass through "the dark night of the soul:" a period of testing and temptation, when that which once sustained us is no longer viable, and that which will someday again sustain us is as yet unseen and beyond our grasp.

Spiritual growth requires an element of risk, and it is during these times of risk that our capacity to trust, to remain open and receptive, to be willing to follow the spirit where it leads us, undergoes its greatest trial. It is at these times that we need most the support and comfort of others in community, the guidance of teachers and fellow seekers. Yes, ultimately, each of us must face the darkness alone, to find on the other side that which was missing for ourselves. But in doing so, we learn once again to see the face of God in the eyes of the least among us, and to recognize in our own uniqueness the one quality we share with all creatures great and small: that they too are unique and precious in the eyes of God. And once the passage has been completed, rest not too comfortably in your new-found enlightenment. For the spiritual life is not only dynamic, it is also progressive: each year the tree must add another ring as it grows a few inches closer to the sky.

In many respects, spiritual progress is a relative concept. We all grow at different speeds, we grow to different heights — it's hardly a competitive enterprise; there are millions of varieties of trees in God's garden. And yet there are also certain constants, standard practices which can help each of us to achieve our full bloom and foliage. Patience, persistence, compassion, and trust; honesty, integrity, generosity, and diligence; humility, vision, wonder, and awe: cultivate these qualities within yourself, reflect upon them in your quiet moments, express them in the living of your daily life. Bit by bit you shall grow taller and stronger; the comforting shadow you cast shall grow long and wide. You need not leave the world to seek the spirit. Rather, seek to bring the spirit to the world where you live, and grow.

To be sure, there is also much which can be learned from the observation of "religious virtuosos" — renowned saints and gurus, present and past, living and dead, who have grown to great heights, cast long shadows. There are techniques which can be learned and mastered, pathways which can be followed. But we must never forget that spirituality itself is not a technique: it is an attitude, a virtue, which no virtuoso can embody for us. The imitation of Christ is all well and good. But ultimately imitation must give way to personal authenticity if we wish ourselves to become more Christ-like, or glimpse our Buddha nature, discover our totem, our "spirit guide."

Do you wish to meditate? It’s not difficult; you don't need to take special classes, or shell out hundreds of dollars for a designer mantra. All meditation techniques involve four basic constants: a relatively distraction-free environment; a comfortable body posture; a mental device to aid concentration such as chanting or following your breath; and, most importantly of all, a passive, open, receptive attitude — a willingness to let the spirit speak to you. Our Unitarian and Universalist traditions have a rich heritage of using personal journals, or diaries, as vehicles for spiritual self-examination: the journals of Emerson and Thoreau world-famous. A journal is a daily prayer with pen and paper, a private, personal communion with one's own experience, free of both pretense and banality. Not that it’s always great literature either -- the important thing is that we regularly take time to reflect upon our lives, and to record those reflections for ourselves. Nor should we overlook the expressive side of spirituality: for there is as much to be learned through doing, through service, as there is in the solitude of one's own contemplative reflection. The key is to strike a balance, a harmony of yin and yang, in which what we do and who we are leads us onward from what we were to what we yet shall become.

My own spiritual discipline is based on guidelines developed by the Reverend Harry Scholefield, the minister emeritus of the First Unitarian Church of San Francisco. Harry taught four steps for the development of a rich spiritual life. The first of these is Daily Practice — a minimum of a half-hour a day should be set aside at a regular time for private reflection and contemplation. You can do this while walking, or while sitting in a chair; it may occur in a regular place, or in different places. But it must be daily, for a minimum of a half-hour. Unless, of course, you are too busy — in which case Harry suggested you should meditate for a full hour!

The second step is the use of a Diary, or "meditation log." The style, length, content and character of the log are entirely up to the user, but it should in some way reflect the process of the meditation, recording dreams, memories, poems or quotations, from the widest possible variety of sources. All that matters about any diary is that it's content is somehow significant to the writer. But the process of translating one's reflections to paper is what separates contemplation from idle daydreaming.

The third step is one of Memorization. Some of the passages from the diary — typically poems or brief quotations — are committed to memory. The passages memorized should be of special significance to the memorizer, and should become the focus of at least part of the daily meditation. Memorization represents the re-internalizing of the fruits of one's contemplative reflection: a key element in the process of spiritual growth and transformation. When we memorize something, we learn it “by heart”-- it becomes a part of us rather than merely an item of passing interest.

The final step in this scheme is Experimentation. As the practice of this discipline becomes more and more integrated into one's daily habits, the period of meditation can also be used as a means of concentrating attention on self-transformation, the development of character, commitment to social change, a fresh appreciation and awareness of both the joy and the suffering of human existence, or any of hundreds of other human concerns which are, in their essence, religious in nature. This dual-focus on both material from one's diary and free experimentation keeps the daily discipline fresh, and gradually gives it direction, continuity, and spiritual depth.

A rich spiritual life is indeed a precious treasure: one which we can freely share with others, and yet enjoy fully without diminution for ourselves. Indeed, it often seems that the more we do share of our spirituality, the greater abundance we discover in our own lives. Yet it is also a delicate thing, a thing which must be carefully tended and nurtured if we wish to taste its sweetest fruits. This cultivation is not difficult: anyone can learn to do it. The real question is whether or not we are willing to do so. For the spirit itself is never far from us. It merely waits patiently for each of us to plant the seed.