at the Confluence of Rosh Hashanah, the Autumnal Equinox, and Ramadan
A sermon by Heather Starr
Minister of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Central Oregon
Christine Boyer, Host
CALL TO WORSHIP
Good morning.
It is good to be here with you.
You are all welcome here, and all of who you are is welcome.
In the words of Unitarian Universalist minister Richard Gilbert:
“Shalom—how magical the sound.
Pacem—how lofty the thought.
Salaam—how welcome the feeling.
Peace—how far the journey.
The world seems at war with itself:
There are strident voices among people,
there are clashes among groups,
there are conflicts among nations.
…Where shall I seek peace?
In the halls of men and women of state?
Where shall I seek peace?
In the chambers of politicians?
Where shall I seek peace?
In the bosom of the family?”
Let us not just seek, but create, peace together here in this sanctuary during this sacred intentional time that we spend together. Come, let us worship together.
SERMON "On Surrender" Heather Starr
One day last week I managed to keep completely unscheduled in order to be outside and enjoy what were starting to feel like the last sweet moments of summer. Like any brave, energetic, and utterly foolish new arrival to Bend, I flipped through my Central Cascades trail guide—somewhat indiscriminately—, looking for a trail of some significance, worthy of my spacious day off. Ah, I said, when I came to Trail #57. Yes. The South Sister Summit Trail. Perfect. (…You all laugh so knowingly! I haven’t even told you about my experience yet!)
There were a few notable details that somewhat hindered my journey. For one, I didn’t wake up until 8:30 in the morning, which is dreamy as far as I’m normally concerned, but by the time I got dressed, gathered up my hiking paraphenalia, and picked up some lunch items, I wasn’t at the trailhead until 11am. Horribly late, in the opinion of my early morning family. …Ah, but they weren’t with me. No one was with me, which was A Good Thing. This trail has a 4900 foot total elevation gain, and I’m fairly certain I stopped to catch my breath every five feet of the distance that I went. I’m just adjusting to the altitude, I kept telling myself, in a chipper cheerleading voice. It’s not that I’m woefully out of shape, or that this trail is really steep, or anything like that.
Other minor details: I think I was in a snowstorm the entire time I was hiking. What qualifies as a snowstorm, anyway? If you find yourself asking that question…is it time to turn around? The reason I tell you about all of this is not to worry you, but because I had to continually ask myself: when is it time to turn around and go home? When is it time to surrender? Surrender involves listening. How good am I at listening to what God, the Universe, Reality, and/or my body are frantically trying to tell me?
I’ve never been very good at turning around. I realize that while the word “surrender” sounds very poetic and beautiful, my gut-reaction is that it’s sort of weak, not very fun, and involves “giving in.” When I take the word outside church for a walk around, I find that it comes up in violent war scenarios and business transactions involving “hostile takeovers.” The military concept prevalent around the world is that surrender is about “giving up the fight” and “becoming a prisoner of war.” It’s no wonder I’m resistant.
But surrender’s wide arms stretch from submission on the one hand to acceptance on the other. And we stretch as well, wrestling with when to continue to fight and struggle, and when to allow. I’m reminded of the Buddhist story of the young monk who was chasing after enlightenment, doing everything he could in his earnest search for this divine state. Finally a senior monk, observing this young monk’s fervor, paused him momentarily and said “has it occurred to you that what you’re looking for may be behind you? And that all this time, you are running away from it, instead of towards it?”
The earth is the L-rd's and all that is in it,
the world, and those who live in it;
for he has founded it on the seas,
and established it on the rivers.
Who shall ascend the hill of the L-rd?
And who shall stand in his holy place?
Those who have clean hands and pure hearts,
who do not lift up their souls to what is false,
and do not swear deceitfully.
They will receive blessings from the L-rd,
and vindication from the G-d of their salvation.
Such is the company of those who seek him,
who seek the face of the G-d of Jacob.
Lift up your heads, O gates!
and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
that the King of glory may come in.
My own life-long Unitarian Universalism, accustomed to translating religious texts into language that I can apply to my own experience, has no trouble with this passage at all. Like many of the Psalms, I can see why its powerful beauty has endured for so long. On my innocent trek into the snowy stratosphere at the base of South Sister, I was most definitely ascending the hill of the Lord. I stood in a holy place. I was awestruck by the silence, by the beauty, by the shimering series of snowflakes in September, by the breadth of sky, by my own minute-ness.
For a few brief moments I visualized myself getting lost and I was overwhelmed to think about all the people who would come looking for me, who cherished me. I lifted up my head and I received so many blessings. I felt myself filled with awe, moved to prayer and to song, to sacred tenderness. I was bathed in an undeniable grace and there was no option but to surrender, to receive, to relish and to savor this stunning world.
Surrender is rarely so exquisite as this, though. More than one patient that I saw in the hospital this past year talked with me about how to know when to surrender to illness, when to give up the exhausting struggle that continuing treatment can sometimes become—when to rest. Release, joy, even, and a sense of freedom can come from making the decision to surrender, making the independent choice to stop fighting. I have seen such gratitude and peace fill people’s eyes who have realized that there is still a choice within their power: to surrender. From these incredible journeyers, I learned that surrender is about having the wisdom to sift out, in the midst of all the details, schedules, prescriptions and goal-oriented plans, what remains that is truly life-giving, spirit-nourishing.
This weekend marks the beginning of not only the Jewish Days of Awe, but also the Muslim month of Ramadan, fasting from sunup to sundown. Ramadan is more than a daylight fast—it is “a time for inner reflection, devotion to God, and re-establishing one’s self-control. It is a time of worship and contemplation. It is a time for Muslims to strengthen family and community ties.” The whole concept of surrender is integral to Islam—it is, in fact, what the word Islam means in Arabic. Surrendering to the undeniable, overwhelming existence of God. The undeniable existence of God.
When I think about these Holy Days from a Unitarian Universalist perspective, my first reaction is that there is very little that most Unitarian Universalists find undeniable. Our faith tradition is a dissenting tradition, is rooted in a history of questioning what many other people have believed unquestionably. And so, as we sometimes have difficulty in confidently naming and celebrating what we do believe in, so too do we have difficulty with surrendering, with allowing that our determined grasp to the truths we have found and the journeys we have made—these things are still only part of the Mystery in which we live.
Philosopher Sam Keen gets at this human struggle to be certain and yet also to surrender quite beautifully. He finds it, of all places, from the bar of the flying trapeze. Listen carefully, you adventurous seasoned folks in the congregation, for what may yet await you! Keen writes: “I didn’t begin practicing the flying trapeze until two months before my sixty-second birthday.” Twice a week for months he practiced his own twists and turns from the trapeze bar, departures from the platform, and drops to the net before beginning to face the next step: letting go of the bar and being caught by the hands and arms of the strong-armed Catcher on the other side of open air.
This next step—letting go, and trusting that he’ll be caught—raises all his fears and doubts. He writes: “As a philosopher, I am committed to questioning and entertaining doubts about all orthodoxies, ideologies, and belief systems whether theological, political, economic, or psychological. I refuse to place absolute faith in Jesus, Progress, the market economy, psychotherapy, Guru XYZ, or any of the Grand Inquisitors who promise peace of mind. With regard to God—with all His-Her-Its-Their aliases—I remain agnostic but hopeful. To take the leap of faith is to commit oneself to live by the maxim ‘In God we trust.’ But what if there is no God, no Ultimate Catcher, no everlasting arms? If I am to risk the abyss, I would like reasonable assurances that I will be caught.”
And yet, what Keen quickly comes to is that in order to continue his journey as a budding trapeze flyer, he has to take the literal leap of faith. He realizes: “It is reasonable to play it safe, not to leap—but it is not reasonable always to be reasonable. There is no way to enjoy the comfort of faith…without making a wholehearted, existential commitment of the self. Faith…and flying all depend on a relationship that can be created only by an act of trust that involves taking the risk of falling into the void. It is only after a successful flight to the arms of the catcher that the risky decision to trust is seen as the essence of wisdom.”[1] Only in hindsight does the risk, the faith, the surrender, make any sense at all.
In order to move forward with our passions and our dreams, our visions and our longings, we must surrender to that which is more mysterious than our rational selves.
At some point, we too must turn around, must hunker down in prayer, must bow our heads in wonder, must witness ourselves in silent amazement, must commit to a community task not because we know the way or the right answer, but because we are surrendering to the movement and longing of the group that is more than our individual selves can know or contain.
On my snowy hike, I came to a fork with an option to continue towards Moraine Lake or follow the footsteps of that day’s one previous hiker towards Wickiup Plain. I took the trail to the right, towards the Lake. Now there were no footprints in the newfallen snow in front of me to follow, and I had to look for the trail by watching for the dips and valleys in the snowdrift that told me the trail was underneath. I walked towards the Lake and started down the canyon that held the lake at the bottom. At one point I sat and took in the gorgeous scene all around me—Broken Top periodically emerging from the clouds, deep green trees glistening with fresh snowfall, the quiet serene lake at the bottom of the canyon. I sat there, and I thought about going further, continuing on, continuing to plow ahead, hoping I was on the right path. But the trail was steep and hard to find under the snow. I thought, gently and easily: I think I’m going to turn around, now. This is enough. Going down that slick, steep, snow-covered trail on my own doesn’t seem like any fun. And I realized that’s another way of knowing when to surrender—it’s time to turn around when it’s just not fun anymore. When I’m not relishing the adventure of it at all, when it’s no longer nourishing the spirit. It’s time to go home. And so I did.
May surrender come to us just as easily—not as a fight, or a struggle, but a gentle opening, a giving-way, a new understanding, a new beam of light and of awareness. May we feel tenderly escorted into the next beautiful place that awaits us, the as-yet-unknown Mystery. May it be so.
BENEDICTION
May you step from this place into the Unknown expecting to be caught and to be held.
May you experience the blessings of surrendering to that which is large and loving and holding you in a vast embrace. Go in love, and go in peace.
[1] Learning to Fly: Trapeze—Reflections on Fear, Trust, and the Art of Letting Go, by Sam Keen. Broadway Books (New York: 1999).