Good morning. I think the originator of the "Everyday Spiritual Practice" idea, the UU Minister, Scott Alexander says it best: "It was the Greek philosopher Plato who said, 'The life which is unexamined is not worth living.' Many people in our culture seem caught in a rut, meandering through their days, doing only what comes easily, simply reacting to unpredictable twists and turns, failing to structure their lives in any meaningful, maturing ways.
"This book offers an enriching alternative by suggesting how you can spiritually examine, shape and care for your life-and the life around you-to achieve more wholeness, satisfaction, depth and meaning. These suggestions range from meditation and prayer to recycling and vegetarianism (my chapter), to quilting and art. They are any activity or attitude in which you can regularly and intentionally engage, and which significantly deepens the quality of your relationship with the miracle of life both within and beyond you. This is what I call everyday spiritual practice.
"While working on this collection, I was often asked, 'What makes an everyday spiritual practice different from a casual spiritual hobby, something worthwhile that one simply dabbles in when one feels like it?' The answer is intentionality, regularity and depth. Whether it is sitting Zen, doing charitable giving, working with a spiritual director or tending your relationship with loved ones, what shapes your efforts into an everyday spiritual practice is your commitment to making the activity a regular and significant part of your life.
"Perhaps you will be startled to discover that you are already engaged in activities of everyday spiritual practice. Perhaps you will be challenged to deepen one or more of the existing spiritual aspects of your everyday living. Or perhaps you will be inspired to intentionally introduce one or more new spiritual practices into your life at this time. Soul-satisfying spiritual practices can be done even amidst the demanding confusions, distractions and duties of daily life. Please know that you are free to live your life every day with greater mindfulness, gentleness, depth, compassion and joy."
As you will hear this morning, six members of the "Everyday Spiritual Practice" class have reached six distinct places in their journeys.
In a new book, Why God Won't Go Away, brain research authors Andrew Newberg, M.D., Eugene D'Aquili, M.D. and Vince Rause put forth the theory that our brains are programmed to seek God, or some higher consciousness.
Their brain-scan studies with Tibetan Buddhist meditators during peak meditative, spiritual and mystical moments have shown "unusual activity" in the posterior parietal lobe, which the authors call the orientation association area - or OAA. The book explains the function of the OAA in this way:
"The primary job of the OAA is to orient the individual in physical space - it keeps track of which end is up, helps us judge angles and distances, and allows us to negotiate safely the dangerous physical landscape around us. To perform this crucial function, it must first generate a clear, consistent cognition of the physical limits of the self. In simpler terms, it must draw a sharp distinction between the individual and everything else, to sort out the you from the infinite not-you that makes up the rest of the universe."
"In normal circumstances...the OAA helps create such a distinct, accurate sense of our physical orientation to the world that we hardly need to give the matter any thought at all. To do its job so well, the orientation area depends on a constant stream of nerve impulses from each of the body's senses. The OAA sorts and processes these impulses virtually instantaneously during every moment of our lives."
The change found in the OAA during the peak meditative moments, as signaled by the practitioners, was a sharp decrease in activity. Since it was known that the OAA does not rest, the researchers postulated that the flow of sensory impulses must be interrupted under the circumstance of a heightened "spiritual" state, with the result that the brain was essentially "blinded" in its perception of the boundaries between self and other.
Quoting the book again: "In that case, the brain would have no choice but to perceive that the self is endless and intimately interwoven with everyone and everything the mind senses. And this perception would feel utterly and unquestionably real."
So is it possible that we are physiologically programmed to seek what many call God? It's an interesting idea, and it may help UUs reconcile our rational approach to universal questions with an urge for that vague "something more."
When I heard about the class that Helena Chapin was leading, I was intrigued. It was a kind of survey of everyday spiritual practices as experienced by Unitarian Universalist laity and clergy. Maybe I could find something to do on a daily basis that would fit my anti-schedule and my belief system. I signed up for the class and purchased the book.
I admire people who have a regular spiritual practice. Dick Gilbert has talked about his morning walks in all seasons. I've learned to avoid calling a long-time friend during her daily Yoga session.
But I'm the same person who, as a new bride, met another young wife who bragged that she always did her laundry on Monday, her ironing on Tuesday - I think she actually ironed her stockings! - and on through the week with a specified household tasks for each day. I found myself actually scared by the prospect that my life would be laid out so carefully that I'd know exactly what I would be doing on given days of the week for as far into the future as I could imagine.
As the class progressed and we talked about experiences we've had, I began to see that I have for many years been at a kind of spiritual smorgasbord table. I've sampled guided meditation, Native American sacred circles, cooking, poetry-writing, sketching and communing with nature, especially the ocean. All have provided satisfaction and even some lowering of personal boundaries, allowing me to feel a connection to something larger outside myself.
At the end of the six-week class, I still hadn't found a new practice to adopt. I looked for something consistent or a common thread. After all, someone my age should have some sort of commitment. But I've continued to examine my life for something I might think of as a spiritual practice. And here's what I've realized.
My family is very important to me. Unfortunately, most of my relatives live elsewhere. I phone my 89-year-old father every Saturday morning. I try to see my daughter who lives here at least once a week if she is willing. I make regular calls to my other daughter who lives out of town. I have reconnected with my cousin through e-mail after many years of no contact. In working together on a family history, we are sharing reminiscences and learning funny and touching things about each other as children. I try to stay in touch with my brother by phone. In these contacts with loved ones, I can be really focused and continue to enrich the relationships. This meets the criteria intentionality, regularity and depth as outlined by Scott M. Alexander, the editor of Everyday Spiritual Practice.
My friends are very important to me. One of my favorite ways to spend time with a friend is to go out to a coffee shop or restaurant and spend a leisurely time across a table talking about large and small issues of importance to either or both of us. Again, at its best, this is a time of focus. Getting together with more than one friend in the same setting is fun and I often do that too, but you can only look into one pair of eyes at a time. When I go with one friend I see that it can be a spiritual practice, and in the future I will approach the experience with that intention.
Music has been central to my life since I was a young child. Participation in our church choir is, for me, and I suspect, for most of the other choir members, a spiritual experience. It has intentionality, regularity and depth and there is the added bonus of breath control and vocalizing that provides physiological and psychological benefits to heighten the experience.
For more than ten years I have belonged to a group that meets monthly for a vegetarian potluck supper and a guided meditation. And I was a member of a sacred circle that became like another family. A few years ago we disbanded but Howard and Carole Camp have started a monthly circle here in the church. The talking stick ceremony is a meaningful practice for me, but it's not something that works in solitude.
And there lies my common thread! For me, a spiritual practice is something I do intentionally and regularly to deepen my relationship with other human beings. The Everyday Spiritual Practice class was in itself a spiritual practice. I intended to participate. I attended regularly. And, with Helena's leadership and guidance, I deepened my relationship with others and with myself. What I carry away is an understanding that I already have spiritual practices. All I need to do is remember that and throw myself into them so that my brain can be available to find God in these experiences.
When I was a child growing up in Irondequoit, most of the children who lived on my street went to school and church at St. James which was on the next street over. It is probably needless to say that my brother and I were the only Unitarian kids on the block. Although I was given a rose and a copy of the "Jefferson Bible" when I was dedicated to the religious life of the First Unitarian Church, I harbored a secret longing for the accoutrements of religion that my friends showed off: rosary beads, framed pictures of gentle shepherds and statues of saints in satin dresses. A neighbor lady with a kiln in her basement gave me a mold-formed ceramic head of the Virgin Mary and I took it home and created my first shrine on the top of my dresser. Throughout my life I have continued to make arrangements of objects of beauty and significance to me. As an art teacher, I try to encourage my students to make art which is "authentic," art which expresses that which is of consequence to its creator. Making art is an everyday spiritual practice for me.
Several years ago I registered for a workshop which intrigued me at Art New England, a summer "art retreat" at Bennington College. The course was entitled "Altars and Shrines." The class participants were instructed to bring with them, in addition to their regular art supplies, family photographs, personal collections of special small found and natural objects and unusual "enclosures." As I was packing my station wagon for the trip to Vermont, my father came over and gave me a photograph of himself as a teenager holding a model airplane which he had built. "And maybe you can do something with this," he said, as he handed me a copy of his father's passport. And so, during the following week I created the "Shrine to the Nickel My Father Saved by Walking Twenty Blocks (Probably in Snow) Instead of Riding the Subway." As a child I had heard this story or some version of it many times when I asked for money. My father grew up in lower Manhattan where he financed his passion for building models by...you guessed it. The shrine is actually a tribute to more than my father's frugality and sacrifice. The images of wings and flight represent the dreams of possibility my grandfather brought with him as an immigrant to this country and the encouragement his son, my father, passed on to his children to see and appreciate the wonders of the world. Included with the passport and the photograph of my father is a picture of my brother taken when he visited me twenty-five years ago when I was living in the Virgin Islands.
My second shrine was made in memory of my late husband, Peter Berg, who was an artist. I found the paintbrush and small monkey figurine in a box of his high school memorability in the basement of our house. The monkey with its long beautiful hands seemed a perfect representation of Peter's advocacy for the rights of animals. I repeated images of hands, eyes and hearts from works by Leonardo DaVinci. The row of houses on the top of the box represents the home we created for each other. An artist friend asked if she could contribute a rock on which to rest the brush and to represent the Jewish tradition of placing rocks on the graves of loved ones.
The third shrine was completed very recently, last week in fact, although it has been thought about for a long time. The enclosure is a box I found in an antique store in Catskill, New York. I asked my friend, Terry Joseph, who was born in Japan what she thought was the original purpose of the box which has the characters for "Spring" and "warm water" on the front and she said she believes it was made as a presentation box for articles for a tea ceremony. I told her that my idea was to hang inside the box strips of Oriental paper because I had read in a calligraphy book that the Japanese hang strips of paper from trees on which they have written words which celebrate nature and life. The Japanese call this tanzaku. This was the shrine I wanted to make for my mother who loves Japanese poetry. Terry told me that she would be honored to write in brush calligraphy special words to hang in the box. We sat across the table from each other as I tore the paper into strips and she thought of the words which she thought should be included. She wrote the traditional season words and the characters for mother and home. "I'm going to write a word which has no real equivalent in English," she said. "It represents a kind of giving that a person does just to make other people happy." I can't think of a better word for a shrine for my mother.
Scientists are used to dealing with doubt and uncertainty. All scientific knowledge is uncertain. This experience with doubt and uncertainty is important. I believe that it is of very great value and one that extends beyond the sciences. I believe that to solve any problem that has never been solved before, you have to leave the door to the unknown ajar. You have to permit the possibility that you do not have it exactly right. Otherwise, if you have made up your mind already, you might not solve it.
When the scientist tells you he does not know the answer, he is an ignorant man. When he tells you he has a hunch about how it is going to work, he is uncertain about it. When he is pretty sure of how it is going to work, and he tells you, "This is the way it's going to work, I'll bet," he still is in some doubt. And it is of paramount importance, in order to make progress, that we recognize this ignorance and this doubt. Because we have the doubt, we then propose looking in new directions for new ideas. The rate of the development of science is not the rate at which you make observations alone but, much more important, the rate at which you create new things to test.
If we were not able or did not desire to look in any new direction, if we did not have a doubt or recognize ignorance, we would not get any new ideas. There would be nothing worth checking, because we would know what is true. So what we call scientific knowledge today is a body of statements of varying degrees of certainty. Some of them are most unsure, some of them are nearly sure, but none is absolutely certain. Scientists are used to this. We know that it is consistent to be able to live and not know. Some people say, "How can you live without knowing?" I do not know what they mean. I always live without knowing. That is easy. How you get to know is what I want to know.
This freedom to doubt is an important matter in the sciences and, I believe, in other fields. It was born of a struggle. It was a struggle to be permitted to doubt, to be unsure. And I do not want us to forget the importance of the struggle and, by default, to let the thing fall away. I feel a responsibility as a scientist who knows the great value of a satisfactory philosophy of ignorance, and the progress made possible by such a philosophy, progress which is the fruit of freedom of thought. I feel a responsibility to proclaim the value to this freedom and to teach that doubt is not to be feared, but that it is to be welcomed as the possibility of a new potential for human beings. If you know that you are not sure, you have a chance to improve the situation. I want to demand this freedom for future generations.
Doubt is clearly a value in the sciences. Whether it is in other fields is an open question and an uncertain matter.
I am thankful for scapegoats. Who would I be without them? After all, scapegoats define who I am - not them. I paint my scapegoats with a coarse brush in sinister shades and clashing colors. My own image is enhanced by comparison. I compare my best to their worst. As a result, I always win. No matter what, I am superior.
Those people out there, they make mistakes, they do bad things. It's true and truth is powerful. After all, who can argue with the truth? Those people are to blame for the problems in society, not me, oh, not me.
I wrote this to frame a personal struggle that I ponder. The Spiritual Practices class was a safe place for me to discuss this concern. I ask myself, "How can intelligent people on both sides of issues be so certain that they are right and their opponents are wrong?" Everyday, articles in newspapers reflect this belief. I too, try to justify my side of issues; my scapegoats are the 'not-me' side. But how can I be so certain I am right when everyone thinks they are right?
I used to think that I could divide up my knowledge into two broad categories: "What I know" and "What I don't know." However, Karl Popper identified a third category. He said that the category "What I know" is actually two categories mixed together - "What I know that is accurate" and "What I know that contains embedded errors and blind spots." Now here's the problem. The embedded errors and blind spots are scattered throughout what I know, and they are invisible to me.
I thought of my own embedded errors and blind spots while driving home from the Spiritual Practices rehearsal last Monday evening. As I turned onto the road in front of my house, I was facing the full moon rising above the horizon. It looked huge, more than twice its normal diameter compared to when it is high in the sky. Science tells us that the size of the moon had not changed, what really happened was inside myself. My mental representation of the moon was not accurate - it was an embedded error that looked real.
Science also tells us that there is a blind spot in the center of each eye, at the place where the optic nerve is connected to the retina. But I don't see a blind spot. I see what is not there!
I am stuck and I know it. I am not able to see in myself my embedded errors and blind spots. I ask myself how many other times do I see what is not there, and not realize it?
To me, being spiritual means wrestling with this question: "How can I learn to see what I cannot see?
It occurred to me to consider the possibility that the errors I see in my scapegoats might exist within me. The visible mistakes of others might be valuable, not for enhancing self-superiority, but as a light illuminating invisible errors within myself. This is a new and more rewarding way for me to view my scapegoats. What is invisible within me made visible through them. I am thankful for scapegoats.
Susan Manker-Seale writes, "Like hungry swallows we search, For there is emptiness in every breast"
I have been searching all of my life to fill a spiritual emptiness within me. The "hole" is much shallower now than it used to be, and sometimes it is filled to overflowing. But it takes continual awareness on my part each day of my life, and conscious focus on my inner work, to stay filled with warmth and light. To feel love, and to be able to love, is as necessary to me as it is to breathe.
Reaching out to people, and relating in an open and authentic way is essential to my well being. My life has been happier and more productive with the help of three APC adult program courses I have taken this year: Autumn Wisdom, Evensong and Everyday Spiritual Practices. In these groups we listened silently and attentively to one another without interruption when one of us was speaking. I felt a communion with each person in the group. I benefited from the sharings of each individual, and experienced joy in being together with the whole group. There was new learning about truly important life issues. I eagerly awaited each meeting. When I see someone in church who has been in one of these groups with me, I feel I truly know them and am known. I also find enriching the monthly meetings of our Native American Circle, which meets here at church. For over fifteen years I have been a member of a Dream Group and cherish the members and the remarkable insights that have resulted in personal growth for me and the others.
In March, I was tested. Bob and I visited close friends in Florida whom we had known for forty-five years. Last year they were in good health and spirits. We were surprised and saddened to see that Marcy, now suffering from dementia, was confused and upset. Matt was worried and had drawn into himself. After a few days I myself felt lost and depressed. What to do?
I had brought with me "Compass of the Heart," a novel that portrays Native American connection with Spirit. I sat alone quietly and read for two hours. Gradually, I felt my mood lift. I "came back to myself," and was able to find my own path again.
Late in the afternoon I sought out the heated outdoor pool with the intention of making my exercise in the water a time of spiritual renewal. As I moved in the water, I was aware of the water flowing around my body, its touch on my skin, and the freedom of movement with no arthritic pain. I also focused on the beauty of the blue water, the sky with its puffy white clouds, the bright golden rain trees in full bloom around the pool, and the singing of the birds. Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh says, "The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk upon the green earth in the present moment, to appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now. It is not a matter of faith; it is a matter of practice."
It was St. Patrick's Day, and our Irish friend, Matt, had spent all day preparing a feast of corned beef and cabbage with all the fixin's. Feeling emotionally stronger, I wanted to help make this traditional meal a time of true communion. After we were seated, I suggested that we all hold hands around the table in silent gratitude for being together again. As we ate, we reminisced and laughed about experiences shared over many years. Marcy's long term memory and her wonderful sense of humor were intact.
We had raised our children together, camped together, canoed together, skied together, and had many adventures. The happy memories of all the past times shared nourished our souls as the delicious food nourished our bodies. The spirit of love filled each one of us with joy. We had truly connected again.
- - - - -
In closing, I would like to share with you a meditation of Dick Gilbert's that has spoken to me for many years. It is the story of my life and, I suspect, many of your lives.
There was a soul went forth every day,
A soul craving ecstasy,
Seeking satori,
Heaven bent for transcendence.And the soul sought out a guru to lead the way,
But the way was in vain.
And the soul sought out mystic potions,
But the potions only muddled the mind.
And the soul sought out clever gadgets of the brain,
But was empowered not.
And the soul sought out the mountaintops,
But the view was clouded from sight.And then the soul took its eyes from the mountains,
And looked upon its world,
Its world of common people and common things.
It looked upon all that had been forgotten
In the race for the distant mountain peaks.And lo, the luster of the divine shone through,
And the smell of incense was rich,
And the touch of human flesh was warm,
And transcendence broke upon it.
And it was good.
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