a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Religious Society in Carlisle, Massachussetts
Sunday December 18, 2005
A man and his wife were sitting together in their living room one Sunday afternoon when suddenly he turned to her and said "Just so you know, I never want to go on living in a vegetative state dependent on some machine. If that ever happens, just pull the plug." So his wife got up and unplugged the TV.
We are now, of course in the midst of the season when television abounds with football games, feel-good advertising, and of course those classic Christmas stories, the annual Holiday Specials we’ve all doubtlessly seen dozens if not hundreds of times. Movies like Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life” starring Jimmy Stewart in the role of George Bailey, and Donna Reed as his devoted wife. Or “Miracle on 34th Street” staring Maureen O’Hare as a progressive single mom and Edmund Gwenn as the kindly but eccentric Kris Kringle, and featuring a young Natalie Wood as Mrs. Walker’s precocious daughter Susan, who grows to discover that there is a Santa Claus after all. How many of us have been tempted to bring home a less-than-perfect Christmas tree after being inspired by “A Charlie Brown Christmas?” And who could possibly forget Ralphie Parker’s quest for a Red Ryder BB gun in the aptly-named “A Christmas Story?”
But perhaps the best-known and most widely-broadcast sentimental Christmas Story of all time is the one which essentially defined the genre: Charles Dickens’ often-adapted Victorian novella “A Christmas Carol,” which turned the characters of Ebenezer Scrooge, Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim into both household names and enduring icons of Popular Culture, and made the phrase “bah-humbug” part of our common Christmas lexicon. I don’t know for a fact whether Dickens’ original tale is the most frequently-dramatized non-biblical Christmas story ever, but I do know that a quick Google search will turn up dozens of different variations. The benchmark, of course -- the standard against which all other Scrooges are measured -- is still Alastair Sim’s 1951 performance (which has now been colorized for the appreciation of a whole new generation of digital cable viewers). But let’s also not forget Albert Finney’s brilliant 1970 characterization, or those of George C. Scott (who had already won an Oscar for his performance as General Patton) and Patrick Stewart (perhaps better known for his role as Captain Jean-Luc Picard in Star Trek: the Next Generation).
And then of course there are the knockoffs. Bill Murray, one of the original Ghostbusters, played the title role in 1988’s Christmas Turkey “Scrooged,” while Henry Winkler (who in happier days was better known as “The Fonz”) tried his hand back in 1977 in a version set in Concord New Hampshire during the Great Depression entitled “An American Christmas Carol.” More recently Kelsey Grammer, who has made an entire career out of playing the character of psychiatrist Frazier Crane on “Cheers” and its subsequent Seattle-based spin-off, starred in a musical adaptation that also featured Seinfeld’s Jason Alexander in the role of Marley’s ghost.
And finally there are the animated versions: not only my personal favorite, “Mr Magoo’s Christmas Carol” (from 1962), but also “Mickey’s Christmas Carol” (from Disney), and “The Muppets Christmas Carol” (with Kermit the Frog as Bob Cratchit, and actor Michael Caine in the role of Scrooge), not to mention versions featuring both the Flintstones and the Jetsons. Let’s just face facts: at this time of year, Scrooge is ubiquitous. And it’s a miracle that there’s enough Christmas to go around.
So what is the enduring appeal of Dickens’ one hundred and sixty-two year old Christmas morality tale? And could it possibly have anything to do with the author’s own Unitarian beliefs? That’s what I really want to know: is the timeless popularity of “A Christmas Carol” simply a manifestation of its straightforward expression of the classic Unitarian values of liberality and compassion, together with its profound belief in the inherent worth and dignity of every person, and its unshakable, optimistic faith that no person is ever beyond redemption, simply through the power of honest, introspective self-examination to evoke transformative change?
Dickens wrote his novella at a time when the celebration of Christmas itself was undergoing a dramatic transformation in the English-speaking world. Seventeenth-century New England Puritans had essentially outlawed the celebration of Christmas in this part of the world, objecting among other things to the obvious fact that many of the most recognizable symbols of the season: holly, mistletoe, and the yule log, for example, were all unquestionably of pagan origin. Meanwhile, back in Merry Olde England (as well as in other parts of North America) “keeping Christmas” had all the solemnity of the old Roman Saturnalia from which the holiday is originally descended: a rowdy celebration of the Lord of Misrule, during which gangs of intoxicated working-class men would “go a’wassiling,” presenting themselves at the front doors of the gentry to demand their “figgy pudding” and other gifts of food and drink, and refusing to go until they got some.
Dickens and his Unitarian co-religionists, on the other hand, represented an element of society which was literally attempting to “domesticate” Christmas: to move it (in the words of historian Stephen Nissenbaum) out of the streets and into the parlour, by transforming the season from a drunken revel into a pious, child-centered “frolic” devoted to the celebration of family, the exchange of uplifting, inspirational gifts, and acts of Christian charity directed toward the less fortunate. We see these same sentiments expressed in the opening chapters of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, where the March sisters celebrate the holiday with “a good deal of laughing, and kissing, and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home-festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward....” Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy keep Christmas by exchanging small, practical gifts, putting on a play of their own creation, and accompanying Marmee on her charitable errands to the immigrant poor of Concord.
Yet there is another dimension to these sentimental 19th century Unitarian Christmas stories as well. Many literary critics have read Dickens’ tale as a commentary on the increasing sharp class divisions brought about by industrialization, and a plea for a return to more traditional, interpersonal values, when the physical and material distance between employer and employee was not nearly so great. We see this sentiment clearly expressed at the conclusion of Dickens’ story, where Scrooge feigns anger at Bob Cratchit when he arrives late to the office on the morning after Christmas, and then, after declaring “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer” proceeds to discipline his tardy clerk by raising his salary, while at the same time promising to assist the struggling Cratchit family in whatever way he can, and sending Bob out to buy another coal scuttle before he dots another “i”.
“Scrooge was better than his word,” the narrative continues. “He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing every happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.”
Scrooge’s personal transformation in many ways mirrors the metamorphosis that Dickens would have liked to see take place throughout Victorian society. But there’s a lot more going on here than the simple, cartoon-like, childish notion that the “Spirit of Christmas” somehow has the magical power to change even the most recalcitrant old miser. University of Tennessee professor Richard Kelly put it this way:
“A Christmas Carol is built upon numerous contrasts: rich and poor, warmth and cold, plenty and hunger, family and loneliness, generosity and miserliness, affection and cruelty, dream and reality, freedom and compulsion, past and present, and present and future. Most of these opposing forces are recapitulated within the character of Scrooge himself. The cold-hearted, compulsive, lonely, miserly man, who eats his abstemious meal in the shadows, emerges from his dreams, memories, and fears, into a generous, fun-loving, warm, caring fatherly man. The texture of the story, rich with contrasting imagery, prepares the reader for Scrooge's conversion well in advance of the concluding chapter. True, this is hardly a realistic tale -- indeed, it resembles a fable with its cautionary note about human behavior -- but it renders a powerful psychological account of the fruits of introspection.
“The three stages of Scrooge's conversion--the detailed memories of a lonely childhood, an awakened vision of the suffering and joys of those presently around him, and his fear of future loneliness and an awareness of his own mortality -- combine to change him into a decent man, one who goes on to earn from those who knew him this crowning accolade: ‘it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge’.”
The very word “conversion” implies a certain degree of religious or spiritual transformation. Yet consider the actual source of Scrooge’s rebirth. On one hand Scrooge realizes through his encounter with the Spirits that, compared to the people he sees around him, he has the financial means to be generous if he chooses: he has accumulated enough personal wealth that he can afford to keep Christmas as well as he likes, if only he wishes to do so. But more importantly, he has also discovered the price that he has paid personally in order to acquire those riches -- how his single-minded pursuit of “more” has cost him love, joy, his youthful happiness, family connections and human warmth, even his physical health and material comfort. He lives, not like a truly wealthy person, but like a miser whose own greed prevents him from enjoying the fruits of his supposed prosperity. Scrooge has been measuring his wealth in the wrong currency. And when he realizes how impoverished he truly is, THEN he becomes a changed human being.
Today’s sermon is supposed to be the last in the series I’ve been preaching all this past fall about “The Purpose Driven Unitarian.” And the topic for today was Affirmation: Witness, Outreach, Evangelism, Mission...transforming our lives by giving ourselves the purpose of transforming the lives of others, by sharing the good news of our saving message of hope, that people are precious and that together we have the ability to make the world better for everyone.
Many contemporary Unitarian Universalists feel a litle uncomfortable about thinking of themselves as “evangelists” or “missionaries.” The idea of “sharing” our faith with others feels a little pushy, especially if we’ve ever felt afflicted by someone who wanted to share their faith with us. But if we reflect upon the example of Dickens’ “Christmas Carol,” we will see that it is certainly possible to promote the ideas and values of our liberal faith without being obnoxious or domineering or imposing ourselves on others, and that the best example of the value of our beliefs is our own lives well-lived in the compassionate service of all humanity.
We need MORE Scrooges in this world. Not the old, stingy, small-minded Scrooge, huddled in his dark, cold counting-house hoarding even the lumps of coal in his coal-scuttle. But the enlightened, transformed and generous Scrooge, who has become the Spirit of Christmas incarnate, a living (albeit fictional) symbol of the redemptive power of self-understanding, compassionate service, and loving relationships. May our own lives also embody and testify to these same values, not only in this holiday season, but throughout the entire year. And in the words of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, Every One!”
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Sunday, December 4, 2005
SALVATION BY BIBLIOGRAPHY
a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Religious Society in Carlisle Massachusetts
Sunday December 4th, 2005
Opening Words: My Symphony by William Henry Channing
To live content with small means;
To seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion;
To be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich;
To study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly;
To listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart;
To bear all cheerully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never;
To let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.
This is to be my symphony.
[Extemporaneous Introduction]
I know it may seem a little strange to some of you who are perhaps still a little new to Unitarian Universalism, that the minister should take a Sunday off every once in awhile, and let someone else -- and not just another minister, but someone from the congregation -- have a turn in the pulpit. But the way it was explained to me is that, if a minister is any good, then we deserve a Sunday off every now and then; and if we aren’t, then the congregation deserves one. But from my perspective, the best thing about letting somebody else have their say every once in awhile is that once they’ve done it themselves, they generally develop a lot more appreciation for what I do all the other weeks of the year. And it sounds to me like Roy also had a chance to experience how much fun it can be as well, simply to follow the thread of your own curiosity while at the same time attempting to shape a message that will be inspiring, and enlightening, and encouraging for others. It’s not an easy thing to do, but it can be quite rewarding, especially on those rare occasions when everything comes together just right. But mostly it’s just a discipline which takes on a rhythm all its own, and around which every other aspect of a preacher’s life revolves.
Today we come to the fourth topic in this informal series I’ve been preaching about “the Purpose-Driven Unitarian,” which Rick Warren would call “discipleship” but which I generally refer to under the more general heading of “education.” A disciple is basically just a disciplined religious learner; and discipleship is simply a specialized kind of apprenticeship, where the learner/the apprentice/the disciple is not only expected to master a particular set of skills or techniques, but also to develop certain insights, personal beliefs, and ethical values, along with a profound sense of principled moral integrity -- qualities which educate the soul as well as the mind. Discipleship is about both Doing and Being: not just how well we perform, but who we ARE and how well we express that identity in every other aspect of our lives.
The title of today’s sermon -- Salvation by Bibliography -- is actually something that was once said to me by an older colleague who was trying to explain why so many UU ministers have such huge personal libraries, and why whenever someone comes to us with a problem, more often than not one of the first things we do is recommend a book about it. It was a tongue in cheek remark, with a sharp edge of truth, all based on the realization that none of us in this line of work really feel like we are smart enough to do the job the way it really ought to be done. So we surround ourselves with the wisdom of the ages, hoping that perhaps some of it will sink in. During his lifetime, Theodore Parker (the 19th century Unitarian minister for whom my dog is named) had a private library of some fifteen thousand volumes -- it was the largest library of its type anywhere in North America at the time, and (just for purposes of comparison) was about five times as large as mine, which (as some of you know) is already overflowing my office and crowding me out of the parsonage as well. Bibliomania is an obsession not only tolerated, but actively encouraged among Unitarian Universalist ministers, “...an innocent habit” the Rev. John Haynes Holmes wrote in his autobiography I Speak for Myself, “to be indulged, I believe, to the limit of ambition.”
***My library proliferated like a biological organism. It grew into hundreds, then into thousands of books. Each new volume, like a newborn infant, was classified and then placed upon the shelves, there to produce a little library of its own, in its own proud field of learning. Just to look at this collection of books, lined up like soldiers at drill, was to be instructed, inspired, uplifted by the discipline of imagination and order. To handle them by taking them one after another haphazardly from the shelves, if only to caress their handsome bindings, and consult afresh their learned indices, is to feel the gates of wisdom swing wide to our approach. Then there are the first editions to be sought out once again, the authors’ inscriptions and signatures to be re-examined, the classics to be consulted for fresh study and delight. “Have you read all these books, Grandpa?” asked a skeptical young miss on a certain day of intimate disclosure. “No, my dear,” was my reply, “I don’t believe I have read half of them. But I know what’s in them all, and why they are here.” I count this the real justification of the private library. To have the great books on hand, and the current books as they pass by, to be used when needed or desired!***
I can also still remember the first time I ever read that passage, shortly after receiving a copy of Holmes’ autobiography as a gift from the personal library of the retired Universalist minister Tracy Pullman, when I was still a divinity student at Harvard. Tracy actually gave me two huge paper grocery sacks full of books, which I had to carry home with me on the Red Line in the dead of winter. But when I was finally able to unpack them and put them up on the shelves of my snug little room in Divinity Hall, they warmed the place better than a fire in the grate, and made me feel cozy and at home. It was more than just a gift of paper. It was an intellectual legacy being passed down from generation to generation: an act of faith and trust that I would carry on the good work which Tracy had done for an entire lifetime.
It used to be that erudition and personal piety were the two criteria on which aspiring ministers were examined prior to being approbated for ordination. Nowadays we’ve changed the labels somewhat, but the qualifications are still pretty much the same: an appropriate academic credential, plus good “people skills” and a somewhat vaguely-defined quality known as “ministerial presence,” which as best I can tell is a delicate balance of gravitas and levity which allows good clergy to take their work seriously without necessarily taking themselves TOO seriously. Good ministers need to be sensitive, but not thin-skinned; we need to be smart but not arrogant; confident, but also humble. And since none of these combinations really comes naturally to a normal human being, it takes a lot of practice to get them kind of close to right, which is why clergy consider it such a blessing to serve generous and forgiving congregations, especially early in our careers.
Of course, sensitivity, intelligence, confidence, humility, a thick skin and an open-minded, non-defensive attitude are not merely attractive qualities for ministers only. Together they describe a style of spiritual wisdom which represents an important asset for any person of faith. And it’s not necessarily something that can be learned from books. Academic scholars often differentiate between formal theology and what is known as “lived religion” -- the kinds of spiritual beliefs and practices which shape and inform the everyday experiences of ordinary people’s lives. The two are obviously related, but they can also be quite distinct. You don’t need to have a graduate degree in theology in order to live an ethical and meaningful life. Most of the values by which we live our day to day lives we learned from our parents, or from our peers...from friends, family, mentors, colleagues, coaches, neighbors, perhaps even ministers or Sunday school teachers. These lessons may have started out in books, but now they have made their way into the very fabric of our lives and our society. Tell the truth. Be honest, and true to your word. Don’t take advantage of those who are weaker than you, but do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
What other lessons have you learned, and where did you learn them? And how has “reality” sometimes tempted you to compromise your “childish” beliefs about right and wrong? We all know that life isn’t always fair, and that often the experience of disappointment or betrayal can leave us feeling wounded, bitter and cynical. Often we may feel that our innocence makes us vulnerable, and that we need to protect ourselves by acting in ways that we know under “normal” circumstances wouldn’t be right. At times like that it takes a lot of moral courage to refrain from doing something you just know deep down in your heart is wrong, even though you can rationalize it in your mind as necessary and justified.
Of course, there are some people who never really do develop that basic ethical conscience most of us form in childhood...who are incapable of real empathy, or perhaps even of anticipating the consequences of their own bad behavior on the lives of others. Scholars call them “sociopaths,” and they generally do require very specific rules and a fair amount of supervision to keep them on the straight and narrow. But most of us are capable of policing our own lives, while at the same time protecting ourselves, to a large degree at least, from the bad behavior of others, without resorting to bad behavior ourselves. Even honest people can be victimized and exploited. But innocence does not necessitate naiveté -- it is possible to live one’s life in reasonable safety by faithfully practicing a few simple precautions, without necessarily assuming or expecting the worst from every situation we encounter.
Our Unitarian and Universalist ancestors used to talk about this process of educating one’s conscience in terms of two closely related ideas. The first was the notion of “Self-Culture.” And the second was a doctrine known as “Salvation by Character.” Both shared a belief that the human soul was something organic, like a flowering plant, which if properly cultivated (or “cultured”) would blossom into something at once both beautiful and useful. The “fruit” of this process of cultivation was Character: a distinctive and essential pattern of personal attributes which embodied moral strength, self-discipline, and the various other exemplary characteristics of a principled and virtuous life. By educating the moral sentiment, through (for example) exposure to uplifting works of literature, and by exercising their moral fiber through acts of charity and the performance of other good works, our liberal religious forebearers attempted to transform their lives into living testaments of their religious values.
For Rick Warren, of course, discipleship is ultimately about following and imitating Jesus, and the list of uplifting books begins with the Bible. Character is formed by overcoming adversity and resisting temptation, as we grow to spiritual maturity “transformed by Truth.” The nineteenth Century Unitarians and Universalists who practiced Self-Culture would have agreed with all of this. But they also looked for inspiration beyond just the Christian tradition, to the scriptures and sacred writings of the world’s other great faith traditions, where they discovered passages like this in books like the Tao Te Ching:
Cultivated in the individual,
Character will become genuine;
Cultivated in the family,
Character will become abundant;
Cultivated in the village,
Character will multiply;
Cultivated in the state,
Character will prosper;
Cultivated in the world,
Character will become universal.
May it be as true in our time as it has been in all times, as we work to transform our lives into worthy testaments of our faith....
at the First Religious Society in Carlisle Massachusetts
Sunday December 4th, 2005
Opening Words: My Symphony by William Henry Channing
To live content with small means;
To seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion;
To be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich;
To study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly;
To listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart;
To bear all cheerully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never;
To let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.
This is to be my symphony.
[Extemporaneous Introduction]
I know it may seem a little strange to some of you who are perhaps still a little new to Unitarian Universalism, that the minister should take a Sunday off every once in awhile, and let someone else -- and not just another minister, but someone from the congregation -- have a turn in the pulpit. But the way it was explained to me is that, if a minister is any good, then we deserve a Sunday off every now and then; and if we aren’t, then the congregation deserves one. But from my perspective, the best thing about letting somebody else have their say every once in awhile is that once they’ve done it themselves, they generally develop a lot more appreciation for what I do all the other weeks of the year. And it sounds to me like Roy also had a chance to experience how much fun it can be as well, simply to follow the thread of your own curiosity while at the same time attempting to shape a message that will be inspiring, and enlightening, and encouraging for others. It’s not an easy thing to do, but it can be quite rewarding, especially on those rare occasions when everything comes together just right. But mostly it’s just a discipline which takes on a rhythm all its own, and around which every other aspect of a preacher’s life revolves.
Today we come to the fourth topic in this informal series I’ve been preaching about “the Purpose-Driven Unitarian,” which Rick Warren would call “discipleship” but which I generally refer to under the more general heading of “education.” A disciple is basically just a disciplined religious learner; and discipleship is simply a specialized kind of apprenticeship, where the learner/the apprentice/the disciple is not only expected to master a particular set of skills or techniques, but also to develop certain insights, personal beliefs, and ethical values, along with a profound sense of principled moral integrity -- qualities which educate the soul as well as the mind. Discipleship is about both Doing and Being: not just how well we perform, but who we ARE and how well we express that identity in every other aspect of our lives.
The title of today’s sermon -- Salvation by Bibliography -- is actually something that was once said to me by an older colleague who was trying to explain why so many UU ministers have such huge personal libraries, and why whenever someone comes to us with a problem, more often than not one of the first things we do is recommend a book about it. It was a tongue in cheek remark, with a sharp edge of truth, all based on the realization that none of us in this line of work really feel like we are smart enough to do the job the way it really ought to be done. So we surround ourselves with the wisdom of the ages, hoping that perhaps some of it will sink in. During his lifetime, Theodore Parker (the 19th century Unitarian minister for whom my dog is named) had a private library of some fifteen thousand volumes -- it was the largest library of its type anywhere in North America at the time, and (just for purposes of comparison) was about five times as large as mine, which (as some of you know) is already overflowing my office and crowding me out of the parsonage as well. Bibliomania is an obsession not only tolerated, but actively encouraged among Unitarian Universalist ministers, “...an innocent habit” the Rev. John Haynes Holmes wrote in his autobiography I Speak for Myself, “to be indulged, I believe, to the limit of ambition.”
***My library proliferated like a biological organism. It grew into hundreds, then into thousands of books. Each new volume, like a newborn infant, was classified and then placed upon the shelves, there to produce a little library of its own, in its own proud field of learning. Just to look at this collection of books, lined up like soldiers at drill, was to be instructed, inspired, uplifted by the discipline of imagination and order. To handle them by taking them one after another haphazardly from the shelves, if only to caress their handsome bindings, and consult afresh their learned indices, is to feel the gates of wisdom swing wide to our approach. Then there are the first editions to be sought out once again, the authors’ inscriptions and signatures to be re-examined, the classics to be consulted for fresh study and delight. “Have you read all these books, Grandpa?” asked a skeptical young miss on a certain day of intimate disclosure. “No, my dear,” was my reply, “I don’t believe I have read half of them. But I know what’s in them all, and why they are here.” I count this the real justification of the private library. To have the great books on hand, and the current books as they pass by, to be used when needed or desired!***
I can also still remember the first time I ever read that passage, shortly after receiving a copy of Holmes’ autobiography as a gift from the personal library of the retired Universalist minister Tracy Pullman, when I was still a divinity student at Harvard. Tracy actually gave me two huge paper grocery sacks full of books, which I had to carry home with me on the Red Line in the dead of winter. But when I was finally able to unpack them and put them up on the shelves of my snug little room in Divinity Hall, they warmed the place better than a fire in the grate, and made me feel cozy and at home. It was more than just a gift of paper. It was an intellectual legacy being passed down from generation to generation: an act of faith and trust that I would carry on the good work which Tracy had done for an entire lifetime.
It used to be that erudition and personal piety were the two criteria on which aspiring ministers were examined prior to being approbated for ordination. Nowadays we’ve changed the labels somewhat, but the qualifications are still pretty much the same: an appropriate academic credential, plus good “people skills” and a somewhat vaguely-defined quality known as “ministerial presence,” which as best I can tell is a delicate balance of gravitas and levity which allows good clergy to take their work seriously without necessarily taking themselves TOO seriously. Good ministers need to be sensitive, but not thin-skinned; we need to be smart but not arrogant; confident, but also humble. And since none of these combinations really comes naturally to a normal human being, it takes a lot of practice to get them kind of close to right, which is why clergy consider it such a blessing to serve generous and forgiving congregations, especially early in our careers.
Of course, sensitivity, intelligence, confidence, humility, a thick skin and an open-minded, non-defensive attitude are not merely attractive qualities for ministers only. Together they describe a style of spiritual wisdom which represents an important asset for any person of faith. And it’s not necessarily something that can be learned from books. Academic scholars often differentiate between formal theology and what is known as “lived religion” -- the kinds of spiritual beliefs and practices which shape and inform the everyday experiences of ordinary people’s lives. The two are obviously related, but they can also be quite distinct. You don’t need to have a graduate degree in theology in order to live an ethical and meaningful life. Most of the values by which we live our day to day lives we learned from our parents, or from our peers...from friends, family, mentors, colleagues, coaches, neighbors, perhaps even ministers or Sunday school teachers. These lessons may have started out in books, but now they have made their way into the very fabric of our lives and our society. Tell the truth. Be honest, and true to your word. Don’t take advantage of those who are weaker than you, but do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
What other lessons have you learned, and where did you learn them? And how has “reality” sometimes tempted you to compromise your “childish” beliefs about right and wrong? We all know that life isn’t always fair, and that often the experience of disappointment or betrayal can leave us feeling wounded, bitter and cynical. Often we may feel that our innocence makes us vulnerable, and that we need to protect ourselves by acting in ways that we know under “normal” circumstances wouldn’t be right. At times like that it takes a lot of moral courage to refrain from doing something you just know deep down in your heart is wrong, even though you can rationalize it in your mind as necessary and justified.
Of course, there are some people who never really do develop that basic ethical conscience most of us form in childhood...who are incapable of real empathy, or perhaps even of anticipating the consequences of their own bad behavior on the lives of others. Scholars call them “sociopaths,” and they generally do require very specific rules and a fair amount of supervision to keep them on the straight and narrow. But most of us are capable of policing our own lives, while at the same time protecting ourselves, to a large degree at least, from the bad behavior of others, without resorting to bad behavior ourselves. Even honest people can be victimized and exploited. But innocence does not necessitate naiveté -- it is possible to live one’s life in reasonable safety by faithfully practicing a few simple precautions, without necessarily assuming or expecting the worst from every situation we encounter.
Our Unitarian and Universalist ancestors used to talk about this process of educating one’s conscience in terms of two closely related ideas. The first was the notion of “Self-Culture.” And the second was a doctrine known as “Salvation by Character.” Both shared a belief that the human soul was something organic, like a flowering plant, which if properly cultivated (or “cultured”) would blossom into something at once both beautiful and useful. The “fruit” of this process of cultivation was Character: a distinctive and essential pattern of personal attributes which embodied moral strength, self-discipline, and the various other exemplary characteristics of a principled and virtuous life. By educating the moral sentiment, through (for example) exposure to uplifting works of literature, and by exercising their moral fiber through acts of charity and the performance of other good works, our liberal religious forebearers attempted to transform their lives into living testaments of their religious values.
For Rick Warren, of course, discipleship is ultimately about following and imitating Jesus, and the list of uplifting books begins with the Bible. Character is formed by overcoming adversity and resisting temptation, as we grow to spiritual maturity “transformed by Truth.” The nineteenth Century Unitarians and Universalists who practiced Self-Culture would have agreed with all of this. But they also looked for inspiration beyond just the Christian tradition, to the scriptures and sacred writings of the world’s other great faith traditions, where they discovered passages like this in books like the Tao Te Ching:
Cultivated in the individual,
Character will become genuine;
Cultivated in the family,
Character will become abundant;
Cultivated in the village,
Character will multiply;
Cultivated in the state,
Character will prosper;
Cultivated in the world,
Character will become universal.
May it be as true in our time as it has been in all times, as we work to transform our lives into worthy testaments of our faith....
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