An elderly woman in a blue print blouse sat next to the fish tank in Dr. Westerling's office. On the other side of the tank, a man with a briefcase studied a spreadsheet through a furrowed brow.
Across the waiting room a three year old rested one hand on his mother's knee. His chin was tucked in shyly as gazed intently at the fish and the two grownup guarding them.
He pointed at the tank and looked at his mom with pleading eyes. She smiled at him and went back to reading her novel.
He studied the aquarium some more, tightened his lips, took a deep breath and struck out across the room. Mom glanced up long enough to see where he was going then returned to her pages.
He put both hands on the glass. The fish glided back and forth a few inches from his nose.
After a few minutes he ran back across the room on his toes, grabbed his mother's knees and smiled from ear to ear. She absently stroked his arm.
He took up his sentry position again: hand on her knee as he assessed the territory. After a few minutes he had soaked up enough courage for another expedition into the wild territory of strange adults and magical fish.
Psychologists call this process "separation-individuation." We humans are not born with a sense of being separate individuals. Our identities are fused with the parents we depend upon.
As we grow, we experience two conflicting urges. One is for comfort, safety, protection, a sense of belonging, being part of a family and community. The other is to strike out into the world, establish our uniqueness, our separateness and our individuality.
In the waiting room, I could see these urges battled inside the boy. He wanted to go see the fish. But his mother didn't. She was different. She wanted to read her book.
His mother didn't pretend she was like him and go to the fish. She didn't make him be like her by making him sit next to her and look at a picture book. And when he ventured off, she didn't pull him back to safety or cheer him on. She instinctively let him explore his individuality.
As we grow, the urge to explore our separate identity takes us further and farther away from home and family. We explore independence on many levels.
When our son Nathan was sixteen, the only thing he wanted for his birthday or Christmas was money to buy a tattoo. Erika and I told him we could hardly stand him permanently marking his body. But we recognized he had different values and was old enough decide for himself. But he would have to do it on his own: we wouldn't give him money for it.
His girlfriend gave him the money for Christmas. He got a beautiful Celtic knot tattooed behind his right shoulder.
Of course the process doesn't always go so gracefully. Especially as adolescents prepare to leave home, things can get bumpy. It is too much to expect them to say, "Mom, dad, it's been great. Thanks for the love and support. But I'm grown now. Goodbye." It's too much to expect parents to say, "We love you. But you need to be on our own. We rejoice in this parting." Often there is angst, struggle, tears and door slamming. A friend remarked she was looking forward to missing her son when he went off to school. Her son felt a similar ambivalence.
Nevertheless, one way or another, sooner or later, however imperfectly, most of us establish an adult, separate, individual identity. We discover something of who we are as a unique man or woman in the world.
Maturation does not stop here. As children, our task is to develop a healthy sense of a separate self. As adults, our task is to loosen our grip on our individuality, to realize how deeply interconnected we all are, to know we are part of a larger organism called humanity. As adolescents we understand the interdependent web as an ecological concept or philosophical idea. As mature adults we know it as a gut-level, heart-felt reality. One research, Jack Engler, says, "You have to develop a self before you can lose it." Those who do not fully separate and individuate do not have the foundation for deeper Oneness. Those who hang too tightly to their Ayn Rand individualism never leave spiritual adolescence.
This morning I want to talk about religious childhood, adolescence and maturity. Specifically I want to explore what it means to be a mature Unitarian Universalist.
"Well, aren't Unitarian Universalists religiously mature by definition?"
No. Of course not.
To be a regular Unitarian Universalist all you have to do is be clear about a few beliefs you reject, look like a tolerant sort of person, have collection of buttons on various social justice causes and go to church when you feel like it. It's not that hard.
We don't test religious maturity. And we like it this way. Judging someone's conscience or beliefs is distasteful to us.
Consequently, a few Unitarian Universalist are religious children. A lot are religious adolescents. And some are religiously mature.
How do you know if you are religiously mature? Last summer Daniel O'Connor, our minister in Kirkwood, Missouri, wrote a short letter to the UU World, our denomination's magazine. He suggested four criteria of UU maturity. They are (1) honoring your religious roots, (2) wrestling with life's big questions, (3) challenging your own assumptions and (4) becoming an elder. [1]
Let's explore them.
One sign of religious maturity is the ability to truly honor your religious roots.
We are born to parents we didn't choose, families we didn't select, socio-economic conditions over which we had no control, a mix of blood lines and genes we couldn't manipulate and faith traditions or lack of traditions that were not our choosing.
As children we tend to accept these without question. We don't have any other perspective for comparison.
Part of maturation is developing enough discernment and objectivity to evaluate our roots. Failure to develop this capacity leaves us in perpetual childhood.
Many fundamentalist and conservative religions say we are "God's children": not His adult's but His children. They favor obedience over experimentation, faith in a higher authority over developing your own inner authority, conformity over individuality. They try to keep people in religious childhood. We Unitarian Universalists like to rail against them from time to time.
When I was growing up, the vast majority of people coming to Unitarian Universalism came from these traditional religions. They felt stifled, confined or wounded by them. They were delighted by our openness, acceptance and encouragement to think for themselves. We had one-hour church services followed by one and a half hour talkbacks where everyone could express their disagreement. The emphasis was on what we rejected and didn't believe. This is the source of the jokes about praying to whom it may concern and UU evangelists knocking on doors for no particular reason.
In short, we were religious adolescents breaking out of religious childhood. This rejection, rebellion and pushing away is an essential part of religious separation-individuation.
But maturation doesn't stop with adolescence (I hope!). Our religious upbringing was neither all good nor all bad. Black and white thinking is characteristic of childhood and politics. There are parts of our background we may need to separate from. But there are parts we can honor.
If you find little you can embrace in your roots, at least you can bow to them and thank them for teaching you to be passionate for something different. And I suspect most of our roots offered more than a bad example.
Another sign of maturity is having spent time wrestling with life's big questions.
Unitarian Universalism does not prescribe theology, metaphysics or beliefs. But it is not because we think they are unimportant. Quite the opposite. They are too important to be prescribed. If we are alive, our perspective will shift, change and mature over time. So we affirm the freedom to develop and explore our own beliefs.
But with this freedom comes responsibility to explore questions like: "What's the nature of God?" "What does it imply to say God exists or doesn't exist?" "What happens when we die?" "Is there an underlying order to the universe or is it fundamentally random?" "Is there purpose to your life?" "What will allow you to die contented?"
You don't have to have a specific set of answers or even be certain about your own beliefs. But when asked what you believe, you should be able to say more than "I don't believe what I was taught as a kid." A mature UU can enter into a coherent, thoughtful conversation about theological questions.
I think this is one of the reasons our Ministry Circles and Adult Enrichment classes have been so popular: many of you are hungry for a chance to explore.
A third sign of maturity is stretching: no matter how you answer those big questions, you step outside your area of comfort and challenge your answers.
Some people come to Unitarian Universalism, decide what they think and sit down. They become obnoxiously self-confident in their unexamined conclusions.
So challenge yourself. If you're beliefs haven't changed in 20 years, you may be religiously dead. If you don't believe in God, try sincere prayer. If you believe in God, contemplate a chaotic universe with no divine forces. If you enjoy an active life, try a silent retreat. If you love solitude, join a protest demonstration. If poverty upsets you, volunteer at Loaves and Fishes.
Whatever makes you comfortable, know that. It's good to have a home base. And, a mature UU continues to grow. She or he stretches beyond this comfort base to add depth, texture and humility to their religious life.
A fourth sign of UU maturity is eldering. True eldering has nothing to do with age. It's a feeling of ownership, responsibility and caring that grows on you.
Part of this eldering is the financial support you give the congregation. We are in the midst of our annual pledge drive. Typical financial appeals go something like this: "Think about what this congregation gives you. It costs about a dollar a minute to keep us running. If you pledge $120 a month, you keep us going for about two hours a month. Think about this and pledge as generously as you can."
Notice this is directed toward religious adolescents. It is framed as fee-for-service: it encourages you to separate from the congregation and evaluate the goods and services you receive. Many give generously in this way. It's fine.
As you become an elder, the fee-for-service rationale becomes less important. You don't stand apart from the congregation enough to want to count and measure services. You know the value. The only question is, "Given my resources, what can I do to strengthen my religious home." You move from a sense of ownership and generosity and less from "what's in it for me."
Erika and I give 5% of our income. And it comes off the top rather than waiting to see what's left over at the end of the month. It feels good that way.
Of course eldering is broader than just money. Perhaps the first sign of emerging elderhood is when you find yourself saying "my church" rather than "the church." You think of this place less as an institution and more as a home.
There are other signs of eldering. You know you are becoming an elder when:
* You see something amiss and rather than think "someone should fix that" you think," I wonder if there is something I can do."
* You notice someone has not been around for a while and you call them to see if they are okay.
* You feel less concern about being welcomed and more about being welcoming.
* You are aware of your particular gifts and find ways to offer them that help you and the congregation. You don't volunteer out of guilt but out of caring.
* When you need to rest, you don't get anxious, you just slow down and take care of yourself.
Being a UU elder is not so much about a particular amount of money, time or tasks. It's about living an attitude: you look at the congregation and feel "I love this place and want to care for it."
So these are four sign of UU maturity: honoring your religious roots, wrestling with life's big questions, challenging your own beliefs and eldering.
If you want to dishonor your religious roots, ignore life's big questions, never examine your beliefs and take no responsibility for nurturing this congregation, then I say to you, "Welcome. I'm glad you're here. I hope you'll come back."
Nothing I've said this morning is intended as a "should" or "ought to." "Should" is the language of religious childhood.
In fact, it would be a little strange for someone to come here looking for a place to elder without even knowing the congregation. We all have times of need. I hope you feel nurtured here.
On the other hand, if you honor your religious roots, wrestle with those theological issues, challenge your own assumptions and spontaneously elder because this place feels like home, I say to you, "Welcome. You are the lifeblood of this place. There is nothing magical or mysterious about what makes us thrive: it is your generosity, caring, guidance and wisdom."
And if you feel somewhere in between, if this place feels like home in some ways and you want to deepen your religious life, you might want to look at these four areas: How do you relate to your past? How comfortable are you conversing about those big questions? What can you do to step outside of your conclusions? Is there some way your heart longs to give something back?
I say to you as well, "Welcome. I think you are in the right place. I'm glad you are part of this place because ..."
All God's
critters got a place in the choir
Some sing low, some sing higher,
Some
sing out loud on the telephone wires,
And some just clap their hands, or
paws, or anything they got.
1. Listen to the
bass, it's the one on the bottom
Where the bullfrog croaks and the
hippopotamus
Moans and groans with a big t'do
And the old cow just goes
moo.
2. Singin' in the
nighttime, singing in the day,
The little duck quacks, then he's on his
way.
The 'possum ain't got much to say
And the porcupine talks to
himself.
3 The
squirrels keep count: one two three four
As the waterbugs soak the classroom
door.
The magpies caw with all they've got
And the grasshoppers mow our
parking lot.[2]
[1] UU World, July/August 2003, p. 14-15
[2] adapted from "A Place in the Choir," Bill Staines, 1979