I want to start out this morning with two stories.
The first - ancient - is about Abraham. Abraham is the father of faith for Christians, Muslims and Jews. In biblical accounts it's difficult to discern what Abraham actually believed. He doesn't possess a certainty of faith. He is regularly confused, and asks many questions, often without receiving very satisfying answers. But this patriarch of the three great western traditions did indeed possess one marvelous religious experience. (K. Armstrong)
He's sitting outside his tent on a hot day. Sweat drips from his temples. The tribe is resting, trying not to move during the baking slowness of the day. He barely moves, his wrist clicks back and forth, as a large feather fan swishes hot air across his face. And, there on the horizon appear three strangers. In ancient times, as is often true today, the stranger was not always the easiest person to invite in. As violent as our own culture is, Abraham's day was worse. Strangers often represented a threat rather than an opportunity. But what does Abraham do. He pulls himself up off the blistering ground, brushes sand from his robes and walks toward them. He offers a greeting, inquires as to their well-being. Instead of being on guard, anticipatory of a potential threat, he sets out his best wares. He spreads extravagant dining cloths out, prepares and serves them an elaborate, plentiful meal. He offers comfort and solace. They converse and swap stories. And it happens quite slyly without fanfare or oracle, that one of these strangers is Abraham's God. And so it is, that "Abraham's act of practical compassion leads to a divine encounter." (K. Armstrong) It was in Abraham's experience - in his transcending the needs of his own - where the divine was ushered in.
The second story is a contemporary one.
A couple of years ago, my friend, Marcy, and her boyfriend, Brian, were having dinner at a Chinese restaurant. As they enjoyed a plate of lo mien, engrossed in conversation, a hand reached down and scooped up their plate of noodles. A voice, quick and agitated, mumbled "Sorry!" and a thin, poorly dressed woman left the restaurant with their plate of lo mien.
In astonishment, they watched her walk down the street, holding the ceramic plate with the flat of her hand as she stuffed noodles into her mouth, slapping sharply against her face. The owner realized what had happened and darted out the front door, chasing after the noodle thief. He stood firmly in front of her, blocking her way and grabbing a side of the plate. A struggle ensued, noodles slid uneasily from one side to the other, slopping over the edge. He surged forward and pulled with a heroic strong-arm attempt to retrieve his plate. The woman's fingers slid from the plate. Noodles flew, then flopped pathetically on the sidewalk.
Left empty-handed, with soggy, contaminated noodles at her feet, the woman stood with arms hung dejectedly at her side. The owner walked victoriously back to the restaurant with the soiled plate in hand. My friends were given a new heaping plate of lo mien, although they had already consumed half of the stolen plate. A stream of apology in Chinese came from the proprietor. Unable to eat anymore, they asked to have the noodles wrapped up and set off to see their movie.
A block later they came upon the lo mien thief. The woman was hypercharged. She simultaneously cried, convulsed and shouted at a man, who rapidly retreated from her side. My friend, unsure about what to do, listened to her boyfriend's plea to just walk away. But she didn't. Instead, she walked over to the thief and said, "Ah, we haven't formally met, but about ten minutes ago, you were interested in our noodles. They gave us some new ones, are you still hungry?" The woman nodded and extended her bony arms. She took the Styrofoam container in her hands, and bowed ever so slightly. Marcy told me this story as an Atheist with an awareness that something moving and real - as she put it - had happened in the exchange. But she did not use traditional theological language. Yet once again, her act of a practical compassion led to a holy encounter. It was in Marcy's experience - in her transcending the needs of her own - where the holy was ushered in.
Two stories, two different theologies. One the experience of a theist - Abraham, the other the experience of an atheist - Marcy.
But what I find interesting, is how far off are they? If you asked them each what their belief in god is, they would be far apart in their definitions or lack thereof. But if you say, how does your belief in god or non-belief make a difference in your life, they would both point to a transcending of self. All of which leaves me with a number of questions. Is belief in God the key to a spiritual experience or a description of it? Or another way to say this is - is it possible for theists and atheists to end up in the same place? What are the more important religious questions? What do you believe about a supreme being or what state of being do you seek?
Indeed, interestingly enough, what religions have commonly used as a litmus test for experiencing the holy, whether non-theist or theist, is this understanding that when we transcend ourselves, when we are engaged in experiences that contribute to something larger than ourselves, then the divine is present, whether or not we call it divine.
Karen Armstrong writes, in The God of all Faiths, "All the major traditions that I have studied teach that one of the essential prerequisites for true religious experience is that we abandon the egotism and selfishness that hold us back from the divine. They all teach in one way or another that we are most fully ourselves when we give ourselves away. It is ego that diminishes us, limits our vision and is utterly incompatible with the sacred. But it is very hard to rid ourselves of egotism. Much of what passes for religion is in fact an endorsement of the selfishness that we are supposed to transcend in the ecstasy of faith. People want their prayers answered; they want to get to heaven. They go to church synagogue or mosque not to cultivate self-abandonment but to affirm their identities. We get a buzz out of being right and our religion can make us feel superior over others who have not seen the light. Even when we are working hard to get rid of the ego, we can fall into a form of narcissism."
She further articulates that all the world's religions, whether non-theist or theist, insist that the single test of any theology or spiritual practice is - does it offer a practical application of compassion? This alone is the test. You pass if your theology, if your vision of the divine, makes you kind, patient, selfless. You fail if your theology, if your image of that which is holy, makes you bigoted, self-righteous, unkind, or dismissive of others.
One great example of this is a story about Rabbi Hillel, an older contemporary of Jesus. It is said, that a pagan told Hillel, that he would convert to Judaism if the rabbi could sum up the whole of the Jewish teaching while standing on one leg. So Hillel, stood on one leg and said: Do not do unto others as you would not have done unto you. That is the torah. The rest is commentary. Go and learn it!
Armstrong reminds us that it's important to note God wasn't mentioned, nor Mount Sinai, the law of the holy land, or other values inseparable from mainstream Judaism. Instead, he summed up the guts of Judaism by pointing to the nature of the experiences we engage in.
Tom Owen-Towle in his book, Wrestling with God, points out that Jesus, when critically analyzed, wasn't a formal theologian but a practical one. He possessed no systematic doctrine of God, in fact he rarely even mentioned God. Instead, as Owen-Towle says, "He aspired to incarnate what he knew of ultimacy and goodness." This carpenter from Nazareth was not an academic or learned scholar. And he wasn't so much interested in finding God as he was interested in bringing God to the table. This is where his holy power was held. In the experiences he gave to people rather than in the beliefs he convinced people to accept.
I love that! This emphasis on experience rather than belief. If only our culture could get to the place Jesus was, imagine all the divisions that could be bridged. Imagine how much closer atheists and theists would feel toward each other.
My colleague, Rev. Ed Frost, gets at how we can get over whether or not our pew mate is a theist, or an atheist. Why the label of what we believe is less important than why we are here in the first place. "I don't believe it is crucial that you share my faith that it is God, as the Creative power in the Universe that effects the transformation, when, in partnership, we create the conditions. I do believe that it is crucial that we share a common commitment to create those conditions. If we share that mission, transformation will take place, and we can allow each other the freedom to use or not use the name of God in giving thanks."
So here it is. I'm putting it out there. I see a need to get over ourselves. We have spent far too much time arguing over whether or not it matters that we use God language or we don't. For too long we have argued whether or not an atheist holds any moral footing. Can they live an ethical, moral life without believing in a concept of God as central to their theology? Can atheists live a spiritual life if they don't believe in a god with an intentionality, will or consciousness? In truth, I think perhaps both sides need more humility. Atheists need to grant that ideas of divinity aren't silly, and theists need to grant that the holy is accessible to atheists. Both sides could benefit from agreeing that the question of religion is not whether we are theist or atheist, but are we giving ourselves away, are we servicing the greater good, are we active in our experience with the world in giving compassion, in offering kindness, of withholding judgment?
So, at this point you may be wondering why I have this Buddha up here this morning, when this is a sermon on God. Well, it has to do with our daughter, Neva, who is encroaching on three years. This sculpture is housed in our office, and it represents the Buddhist imagery of compassion, it is known as the Quan Yin. One of the central notions of Buddhism is this practice of compassion. It is said that the Buddha would regularly urge monks and lay folk alike to sit quietly and radiate feelings of benevolence, sympathy and compassion to all four corners of the world. They were to leave out no one. Their radiated feelings must include those they loved and those they didn't, those they knew and those they would never meet. The Buddha believed that by doing this act, the practitioner would then reach ceto-vimutti (release of the mind). For a Buddhist (a non-theist), this is a state of being that we in the West would equate to God. Why is this? "Because a habit of universal compassion breaks down the carapace of selfishness that holds us back from our best selves and the experience of the Sacred. It dethrones ego from the center of our lives and puts others there." (K. Armstrong)
For months now, when Neva walks into our office, she stops, looks at the religious imagery in our office, goes to the coffee table, takes a tissue from the box, climbs onto the chair next to Quan Yin and wipes the statues nose, and then wipes her own nose.
Her first instinct is not to ask what is this? or who is it? or even what does it mean? but to reach out as if born with an intuition that the sacred question is not what do I believe, but who is in need?
I think all of us are born with this instinct. And my hope in watching her, is that our children's children, if helped to nurture this most important question of the religious life - not what do people believe - but what do people need, that the future will hold a world united in the effort to reach out to one another rather one divided into tribes based on beliefs.
May we, my friends, help to carry this intuitive question forward, so that the generations that follow us are helping the needs of the world as they live out their religious calling, no matter what they believe.
May it be so,
Amen.
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