Sermon
Sacred People: Part Two
The last
time I spoke, I addressed the idea that there were sacred people; people who
stand closer to the divine than others, who act as communicators and conduits
for the divine. I mentioned the Buddha
and Mohammed and Moses and Jesus. And
certainly, these individuals stand out in human history as unique and special
people, as the teachers of humanity, as the instruments by which humanity
raised itself to a higher level of, well, humanity.
But
focusing on such figures, on people who have given birth to great religions and
transformed cultures, might be to miss the point that in every religion, and in every
generation, there have been people who act as points of contact between the
human and the divine realm.
For
instance, in Shamanism, the oldest and historically perhaps the most widespread
of religions, one that reached from Southeast Asia to North America; every
village had a shaman; a person who was in contact with the spirit world and who
could interact with it on the behalf of others.
Among
the Hasidim, today a very conservative group of Jews from
In
Taoism, a person who lived in harmony with the Tao could become a kind of
channel through whom the power of the Tao would flow out to their community,
transforming it into a harmonious whole.
Even
Thomas Merton, the Christian mystic, speaks of “watchers”; people who by virtue
of their prayers and presence, keep the world from slipping into chaos.
No,
when we just focus on a few major figures in religion, we are prevented from
understanding that throughout history, in every group and in every time, there
have been sacred people, people who, for whatever reason, whether by their own
choice or by God’s choice or merely as an expression of their individual
disposition, were points of contact between the world of the sacred and the
world of everyday existence.
But
more than this, by only focusing on a few leading religious figures, religions
tends to overlook a phenomenon that scholars call the “democratization” of
religion.
The
democratization of religion was the tendency of religions over time to reject
limits on who could be a sacred person, and to insist instead that the capacity
to be a sacred person, to be an instrument of God in the world, belonged to
everyone.
For
instance part of the message of Buddhism was that enlightenment could be
attained by anyone, and was not limited to any particular class of people.
Similarly,
the Old Testament prophets looked forward to the day when God’s spirit would be
poured out upon all humanity, and not limited to just the prophets, priests,
and kings of
Likewise,
in Native American religions, the vision quest, originally part of a Shaman’s
call to ministry, was no longer limited to just a select few individuals, but
became available to all.
Even
early Christianity spoke of the priesthood of all believers and the phrase “the
Body of Christ” was more than just a metaphorical designation for the church;
it expressed the idea that after Jesus died and surrendered his physical body,
he received a new spiritual body, composed of all who joined it though the
ritual of baptism. Thus every believer became part of Jesus’ new
body, were connected to his spirit, and became the
instruments through whom he acts in the world.
Central
to this idea, to this democratization of religion, is the notion that the
divine and human realms are not so widely separated as we might think. That touching, experiencing, and being used
by God is normal, a
natural function of every human.
So
why doesn’t it seem to happen? Why does
God seem so unreachable, so remote, so removed from our day to day
existence? And why do we find it so hard
to experience God or feel as if we can be used by God? Why do we find it so hard to see ourselves a
sacred people? I would suggest there are several reasons.
One
is that religion itself conspires against spiritual democracy. Too often, people use religion as a path to
self-aggrandizement, to power and prestige.
And professional religionists, if I may call them that, have a vested
interest in maintaining a system that preserves their status as the sole medium
through which we can touch the divine and the divine can touch us.
The
UU emphasis on lay involvement in the church is a reaction against this idea,
against the notion that there is a spiritual hierarchy. In many UU churches, I am told, a full-time
minister only does two or three services a month and lay people do the
others. Most UU churches would say that
this practice reflects their commitment to lay involvement; and not the fact that
having to listen to the same person every single week can be so painful. But I suspect that the theological roots of
the practice go back to the radical Christian idea that every believer is just
as connected to God as any other; that there are no special people, no special
class that stands closer to God or mediates God to others.
A
second reason we have difficulty seeing ourselves as sacred people may be that
we doubt the strength of our connection to the divine. Religion has, ironically, succeeded in
driving a wedge between humanity and the divine. It has managed to run God off its
property. It done this not only by
creating a hierarchy that stands between us and God; but it has also instilled
in people the idea that to be in contact with the divine, to be holy, is
something that only happens to a few, to those who engage in rigorous spiritual
discipline or extraordinary feats of self-sacrifice.
Religion
has succeeded in convincing many that they have to earn with sacrifice and self-denial,
the very thing that is theirs by nature and by right.
One
of the founding insights of the Buddha is that enlightenment is the natural
experience of humanity, if we could just get ourselves out of the way. But as I read the Buddhist texts, it is
evident that this insight is quickly replaced by a focus on spiritual
discipline, on all the rules we have to follow to get there, and the simple
truth the Buddha saw was obscured.
Christianity
did something similar. It created system
of spiritual disciplines designed to get you closer to God; withdraw from the
world, abstain from sex, live by yourself in a desert. It even had people who lived for years on
small platforms set on top of poles trying to get closer to God; or join the
circus, I’m not sure which.
But
the overall message of these efforts is that somehow you have to earn the right
to experience God, that the average person is unworthy
and not quite ready to touch or be used by the divine.
The
Universalist tradition from which we came said something quite different. It said that the sacrifice of Jesus made it
possible for all humanity to come into a proper relationship with God. And this meant more than just, “All Dogs go
to heaven.” It meant that we are all
connected to the divine, that we can all experience
and be used by God.
Whatever
you may believe about Jesus and the result of his crucifixion, as universalists we do believe that the connection between God
and humanity is alive and vital, that there is no obstacle between us and the
divine accept, perhaps, the obstacles we create in our own minds.
As
one of the Rabbis said, “The world is full of God’s presence, but we are like a
man looking for a mountain with his hands over his eyes. The mountain is there, but he cannot see it.” Religion has been very good at keeping us
from seeing the mountain, from experiencing God’s presence, by insisting that
there are all sorts of preconditions we must fulfill before we can touch the
divine or become its instrument.
A
third obstacle recognizing ourselves as sacred people and living that truth is
that we often confuse the nature of our connection to God. We aren’t sure how that relationship
manifests itself in our lives.
Last
Sunday night, by a strange twist of fate, I had dinner with a group of
Franciscan monks. One of them was in
charge of recruiting young volunteers to give a year of their life to working
with various ministries in the
People
miss the point when they imagine that we experience God by suddenly being able
to walk on water or in the miraculous multiplication of the coffee cake to feed
the unexpected visitors who just dropped in.
God doesn’t alter the laws of physics or somehow cause a nine-inch crumb
cake to satisfy a ravenous hoard. God is
a moral influence in the world, who gives us insight
into a problem or courage in the face of disease or helps us speak a timely
word of comfort to the confused or despairing.
What
my Franciscan host meant was that as we give ourselves to the work of God, we
will discover that we suddenly see how to handle that difficulty or that we
find we have the strength to face what frightens us or that we unexpectedly
have the wisdom that someone needs. And
we know that those gifts are given by God.
Yes,
visions are fun and sometimes I wish God would multiply the three cheerios left
in the bottom of the cereal box so I can have breakfast. And the profound spiritual experiences that
some people have can be guideposts for their spiritual journey and anchors when
they are assailed by storms of doubt.
But I am far more grateful that when I sit down with a suicidal young
man, I don’t have to plan what I’m going to say, somehow the right words just
come to me and those words help him. And
I’m grateful that the stupid jokes that pour out of my mouth when someone is in
a dark situation, somehow lift their spirits and give them perspective and
break the clutches of despair. And I’m
far more grateful that the imperfect and stumbling care I give others, somehow changes their lives and turns them into people
who also care. And I know it is not me
who accomplishes these things.
But
that’s the problem with much of religion.
It focuses on the extraordinary and sometimes even the bizarre. It looks for God in the strangest places; in
visions and heavenly voices and multiplying breakfast cereal. But the presence of God is found in the
ordinary, when we are mysteriously helped to help others; when we discover
strength and courage we know is not our own.
And
I think that there is another obstacle to being sacred people. We tend to get in the way.
So
often in life we approach situations with our minds, with our strategies
already in place. We decide in advance
what people need or rely on formulaic answers to their problems.
In
Taoism there is the idea of wu wei. Wu wei is often translated
“inaction”, but that fails to grasp the idea.
It is better translated as “effective action.” Effective action comes from being sensitive
to the Tao, so that the Tao, the power that creates, upholds, and guides all
things can move through you.
The
idea is that if we learn to step aside and let things happen, if we learn to
listen to the Tao within, to follow the stirring of this force; things will
work the way they are supposed to.
Some
of my best classes in college have been the ones where I don’t even know what
I’m going to lecture on till I start speaking.
It’s not that I haven’t done my homework; I’ve read and thought and made
notes. But before I speak, I try to feel
what is supposed to happen, to sense within myself where that lecture needs to
go.
When
I do this, when I let my classes happen, they work. I know they work because at
the end of the semester I’ve had students come to me and say, “I don’t know how
you knew what was going on in my life, but every week your lecture was about
the very thing that was bothering me.”
On
the other hand, when I try to make things happen, when I decide in advance
where the lectures need to go, when I initiate my master plan; the results are
deadly.
There
is something about trusting the force within, listening to that inner
prompting, trusting that the Tao or God or the Creator (they are all the same)
will give you the words you need and will show you what you need to do, that
just makes things work. There is something
about knowing you are connected to God and learning to hear that inner voice
and trusting it enough to follow it, that allows you to become a sacred person
to those around you, a source of help, an instrument
of God. Being connected to God doesn’t
mean God magically controls us or our actions; we still have to cooperate by
listening, trusting, and following.
And
this is not just a Taoist idea. When
Jesus says, “I and the Father are One”; is he claiming
that some metaphysical merger has just taken place; or is he saying that he has
learned to listen to and follow the prompting of the Spirit within him? And when my nemesis, the Apostle Paul says,
“It’s no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me,” is he suffering from multiple personality
disorder, or is he saying that he too has learned to listen to the divine voice
within, a voice he identifies with Jesus?
Is he saying that he has learned to trust that voice and be guided by
it? Too bad he didn’t do it more.
And
when we say that we wish to grow into harmony with the divine; don’t we at
least in part mean we wish to hear and follow that voice too?
Being
a sacred person begins by recognizing that you are already a sacred
person. And we grow as a sacred people
and become sacred people to others, by learning to hear, trust, and follow the
presence within us.