Dancing in the Ring of Eternity

Rev. Millie Rochester

March 23, 2008

It's Easter! You know the joke about Unitarian Universalists on this day: that we're all dressed up with nowhere to go. And yet, here we are.

Easter is what we know as a "movable feast" – the timing depends on the cycle of the moon and the vernal equinox, not a particular date, so Easter might fall in March, or it might be in April. This year, it's about as early as it can be – earlier than in the last 95 years, earlier than it will be for more than 200 years to come.

Centuries before the birth of Jesus, Eostre was celebrated as an ancient springtime rite. Some religious historians believe that legends from that era were grafted onto the life of Jesus to make Christian theology more acceptable to Pagans in the Roman Empire.

Like much of Christian theology, this holiday poses a challenge for a lot of Unitarian Universalists. Many of us are most comfortable when we associate Easter with its pagan beginnings. We acknowledge the vernal equinox and herald of spring (however brief that season is in Florida). Some congregations choose to incorporate the flower communion into the worship service, as we have today. And we have in common with many mainstream churches, a traditional Easter egg hunt for the children. But our Easter service is not what it is down the street at the Nazarene Church.

One of my colleagues tells the story of a group of friends of various religious denominations seated in fellowship, discussing what they believe is the true meaning of Easter. The Baptist said: "I believe we place too much emphasis on chocolate bunnies, and Easter eggs instead of the spiritual aspects, which is the real meaning of Easter. That's what I believe."

"Me too," said the Methodist. "Me too," said the Lutheran. "Me too," said the Catholic. "Me too," said the Nazarene. And the Unitarian Universalist was silent.

"I believe the real meaning of Easter is that Christ died on the Cross for our sins," said the Methodist. "Me too," said the Nazarene. "Me too," said the Catholic. "Me too," said the Baptist. "Me too," said the Lutheran. And the Unitarian Universalist was silent.

"I believe the real meaning of Easter is the triumph of Jesus over the Grave," said the Lutheran. "Me too," said the Catholic. "Me too," said the Nazarene. "Me too," said the Baptist. "Me too," said the Methodist. And the Unitarian Universalist was silent.

"I believe the real meaning of Easter is not only what each of you have said, but also that all people who believe in the sacrifice and resurrection of Jesus are cleansed of original sin through baptism, and are restored to the favor of God, and may share in His eternal Life," said the Catholic. "Me too," said the Nazarene. "Me too," said the Baptist. "Me too," said the Methodist. "Me too," said the Lutheran. And the Unitarian Universalist was silent.

"I believe the real meaning of Easter, in addition to what has already been said, symbolizes that the bodies of all people will be resurrected and joined to their souls to share their final fate," said the Nazarene. "Me too," said the Baptist. "Me too," said the Methodist. "Me too," said the Lutheran. "Me too," said the Catholic. And the Unitarian Universalist was silent.

Then the group turned to their Unitarian Universalist friend whom they all recognized as a little strange. "Your silence is a mystery to us. What do you believe, as a Unitarian Universalist, is the real meaning of Easter?" they asked.

The Unitarian Universalist finally spoke up: "I believe the real meaning of Easter is the appreciation of life's renewing cycles, and that for all things there is a season. I believe the real meaning of Easter is the acknowledgment, with its accompanying sadness, of a very human Jesus who was forced to die on the Cross because of his liberal religious views and beliefs. But most important of all, I believe the real meaning of Easter is the Celebration of Thanksgiving for the presence of the sacred in each and every living person and thing; for the presence of the sacred in the birds that sing; for the presence of the sacred in the flowers which sway and the grasses which rustle in the gentle breezes of spring. This is what I believe is the real meaning of Easter," said the Unitarian Universalist.

"Me too," sang the birds. "Me too," waved the flowers. "Me too," rustled the grasses. "Me too," sighed the wind. And all the rest were silent.

While many of our Christian contemporaries celebrate the risen Christ this day, I can not believe in the traditional Easter story of Jesus recorded in the New Testament. I can not believe that he or anyone else can rise bodily from the dead and ascend into Heaven; probably very few of us who are here believe it. And I cannot agree with the theology of vicarious atonement – that the death of Jesus made reparation for the sins of the world – much less that we are born into sin in the first place.

Two centuries ago, Hosea Ballou, the best known Universalist theologian and a devout liberal Christian, said, "The belief that the great Jehovah was offended with his creatures to [the] degree that nothing but the death of Christ, or the endless misery of mankind, could appease his anger, is an idea that has done more injury to the Christian religion than the writings of all its opposers, for many centuries."

Universalists have always believed that no loving God could possibly behave in as petty or brutal a fashion as does the God of Christian doctrine at Easter. As for Jesus, his life – the spirit of love and hope in which he lived – is the common answer that draws us together against the spirit of fear, and hate, and violence, not his death.

So no, I can't accept the story of a risen Christ (or even that Jesus was the Christ). Yet, I can believe such a man as Jesus of Nazareth lived, taught, and inspired a devoted following. I can believe that he represented a terrible threat to the political establishment, and that he was crucified as a result. And I can understand that his followers would be plunged into deep despair at his death. I can imagine that they would find a profound sense of hope and joy in believing he still lived, despite his earthly death.

Yes, I can believe in such a human reaction. Who among us has not been devastated by loss at some time, has not felt at the brink of a chasm of meaninglessness; just a nudge away from tumbling into melancholy and despair?

What is it that brings us back from that brink?

Andrew Delbanco, a respected commentator on the Unitarian tradition in America, and a professor at Columbia University, writes in The Real American Dream: A Meditation on Hope, that hope is in the stories that restore our sense of purpose and worth, and make life worth living again. Hope is something to celebrate.

It's the same resurgence of hope that we feel at the sight of a rainbow after a storm, hope told in stories of the lived experiences of real people; what my colleague the Reverend Rob Hardies refers to as the hope of "people who've been surprised by joy just when it seemed we would never find our way out of despair, people who've seen the first rays of light streak into the tomb as we rolled the stone away." But when we are in the midst of despair, that light seems far away, maybe nonexistent. We need help to find it.

Sometimes the means by which we foster hope is born of circumstance, always of the choices we make. An article in the St. Petersburg Times caught my eye last week, with its headline: "Before he dies, Chuck Feeney wants to give away his fortune – and inspire others to do the same." He established a foundation and transferred virtually all of his money to it when he was 53. Eight years ago, he instructed the foundation to spend it all by the year 2016. Of his eight billion dollars in accumulated wealth, this man is literally giving away four hundred million dollars a year. He has given a billion dollars to further education in Ireland, his ancestral home; five hundred eighty-eight million dollars to Cornell University, his alma mater; one hundred twenty-five million for a cardiovascular center at the University of California at San Francisco; sixty million dollars for a biomedical center at Stanford. In contrast, Chuck Feeney lives a relatively frugal life.

That sort of financial generosity makes the headlines – like the stories we sometimes read about people of seemingly modest means who leave a million-dollar fortune to endow a school or scholarship – but there are people who are every bit as generous during their lifetimes, in a quiet, un-flashy manner, generous of their treasure, their time and their talents, people who don't necessarily make the news.

At this time of year, we frequently hear the word "sacrifice," and generally associate that with a sense of giving up something of value. Are these acts of generosity examples of sacrifice? I think the answer lies in the meaning of the word, for to sacrifice is "to render sacred." Most of us will never be millionaires, but all of us can offer hope in one way or another. Great sums of money are not required to let someone know you are thinking of them, or miss seeing them on a regular basis. Kindness is generosity rendered sacred, and we may not even be aware of its significance, at the time or ever.

Rob Hardies tells a true story about a man who was crossing the Commons on a cold, sunny morning in Boston:

The man was on his way to the Arlington Street Station, the "T" stop just off the Commons, on the Green Line. He had decided that that morning he would buy a token, enter the station, and throw himself on the third rail. Life didn't seem to him to have a purpose anymore.

He was just about to head down the steps of the "T" stop, when another man called out to him, "Welcome!" It was Sunday morning, and the ushers of the Arlington Street Church – the historic Unitarian church just five feet from the "T" stop – were on the front steps, welcoming members. It was freezing outside, but they were on the steps with a handshake and a smile, and one of them mistook this fellow for a parishioner.

The confusion was enough to cause the man to postpone his suicide attempt just long enough to go into the church to pray. He went inside, and stayed for the Sunday service; and something that was said that morning gave him the strength to keep on going. Something gave him hope.

Hope occurs in relationship, not in a vacuum. We discover hope together; and sometimes when we feel we cannot discover hope, we create it together. We move with one another, are responsive to one another – responsive to our being, our growing, our living in community – intentional community like this one, and the community of the larger world. And in that relationship, we make room for one another in spirit. We are in true conversation, which allows for spaces of listening silence – listening – not merely the space of waiting for a voice to stop before we speak.

Genuine relationship is a dance of sorts, not unlike the song we sang a little while ago. Sometimes it's a difficult one for congregations to sing: it contains unexpected spaces between the words. The words and music of that song were written by Ric Masten, who died just recently. Years ago, Ric was ordained, and was the one and only Unitarian Universalist Troubadour Minister at Large. "Let it be a Dance" is one of my favorite songs, but I only recently learned the story behind it.

Two of Ric's daughters were dance students. They had wanted to ride with their high school teacher to a dance concert in a nearby city, but were busy, and couldn't go. The teacher's VW bus filled up with several other students, and they all enjoyed the show.

In the rainstorm on their way home, a drunken driver crossed the center dividing line at a hundred miles an hour, and crashed head-on into them. The teacher and the two girls in the front seat were killed instantly; a number of the riders in the back were critically injured. Ric's oldest daughter's best friend and older sister to one of the girls who died, suffered such a serious injury to her knee cap that her doctor doubted she would ever walk, let alone dance, again. Ric said he made a wager with Barbara when he visited her in the hospital:

"that she would come dancing up our country road exactly one year from that day. And...I would write the song for her to interpret...and so," wrote Ric, "exactly one year later, Barbar...did come dancing up our dusty mountain road. Limping, it's true, but you never saw anything quite as beautiful as Barbara dancing in the sunshine. I wrote the song 'Let it Be a Dance' for this grand event."

The song speaks the truth of eternal hope, that in relationship we recognize the presence of the sacred in each and every living person and thing, and draw from that hope as if life-giving water from a spring.

M. Scott Peck opened his book The Road Less Traveled with the words, "Life is difficult." In Further Along the Road Less Traveled, he added, "Life is complex. Each of [us] must make [our] own path."

Yet, as we travel the path, we are not alone, we are inextricably linked with one another throughout eternity. All that has happened before affects the now and what is yet to come. All whose lives we have touched are changed somehow, just as we ourselves have been touched and changed.

We have come here to be reminded of that, to be reminded to hope. And so, this Easter morning, let us be joined with one another in the dance of life. Let us love the music while it lasts, and enjoy the dance.

Blessed be, and Amen.