"At Home in the Universe"
As we look this morning at our theme of The New Face of Commitment, it might be a good idea to try to put things into some kind of perspective. Sometimes small and insignificant things seem enormous. And other times things that are really important seem to get lost in the shuffle. How can we know what’s important and what’s not? There are some helpful–even hopeful–lyrics that were written for a song that was part of the Monty Python movie, The Meaning of Life. For those of you who are folk enthusiasts, the song was also recorded a few years back by Jim Post. It’s entitled: THE GALAXY
Just remember that you’re standing on a planet that's evolving
From the sun which is the source for all our power.
The sun and you and me
Now the galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars;
We're 100,000 light years from galactic central point;
Now the universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
So remember when you're feeling very small and insecure,
Lighten up there are stars in the sky.
I had the most amazing experience just last week, when I went into New York to see the newly opened Hayden Planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History. If you have any inclination at all, I’d encourage you to go see it. The structure and the content of the exhibit provide the most expansive experience of the universe you can imagine. You are transported back, through a visual display, to the Big Bang, the first instant of our universe. And then you walk along a spiraling time line that proportionately displays the unfolding development of novas and super novas, of stars and solar systems, of galaxies and galactic clusters. I didn’t even know that our Milky Way was a part of a galaxy cluster called the Virgo Super-Cluster. You have to walk several hundred feet (down an incline, fortunately) from the point of the Big Bang to the moment when the Milky Way appeared. It’s still a couple dozen more feet to the appearance of our own solar system circling around the sun. And down much further still, at the very end of the several hundred foot long, spiraling walkway, there is a glass case, and in it a human hair. The width of that hair provides the proportionate representation of the time that humanity has existed. Then the Space Show in the planetarium can be a life altering experience in itself. Somehow it manages to provide a physical experience that enables the viewer to feel and to see the enormity of the universe from a human perspective. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt both so substantial and so miniscule at the same time. And if the experience hasn’t yet provided the visitor with an appropriate universal perspective on things, the way out of the planetarium is constructed with models that illustrate ratios that range from the size of the universe itself to the slightest electrons orbiting an atom. When we stop to realize that the universe is not some theoretical construct but a nearly incomprehensible physical reality, we recognize–first of all–that we really do need to lighten up. But we also recognize that All That Is in this vast universe once occupied a space smaller than a single atom; that we are the descendants of that great unity; and that what separates us as being different from one another, here on this planet, is so infinitely minute in the larger scheme of things. Seeing such a grander view, we realize that we need to do whatever we can to promote one another, to promote life, and to enrich our lives with the transcendent possibilities of love. Otherwise, we’ve missed the point, and a point is really just about all we have. I think that’s why many of us come here, to the Unitarian Church of Montclair, in an attempt to see a grander view. A grander view gleaned from interaction with other pilgrims on this blue-green orb, here in the Northern Hemisphere, in this community of Montclair in northern New Jersey. We come to learn ways of approaching the truth, not so that we’ll be smarter, but so that we might live more fully, more intentionally and with more meaning. And we come together in this holy effort, because we know that in concert, we have a better chance at grasping what there is to hold on to. This is a religious community; our face of commitment is one of caring and compassion. Our countenance is the aspiration of connection. Our challenge is the transformation of the mystery and the power of this vast universe into actions that allow us to shape what it is becoming–even if that is only in our own little corner of the Milky Way. There is a story written by Sister Helen P. Mrosla that’s a wonderful example of applying the universal to the specific. Perhaps this is one of the new parables that can help us to learn the new paradigm. It’s a true story. On our Commitment Sunday, perhaps it’s a good way for us to remember more fully the potential of our being here, a part of this committed community. He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, he had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful. Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving - "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day. One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice teacher's mistake. I looked at [him] and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!" It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, Thank you for correcting me, Sister." At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third. One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frustrated with themselves and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend." That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much." No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again. That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from a vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip - the weather, my experiences in general. There was a lull in the conversation. My father cleared his throat as he usually did before saying something important. "The Eklunds called last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is." Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam. The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend." I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, "Mark I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me." The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he said. After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it." Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said. "I think we all saved our lists." That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again. Sister Helen knew, like Galileo, that in order to tend to the Spirit of Life, we need to look beyond ourselves as the center of the Universe. We need to see the stars all about us. Perhaps it occasionally takes courageous acts to respond to the realities of the universe in which we find ourselves. But maybe sometimes it only requires that we be there in some way that reflects and holds up the best around us in order to promote it and one another. This is a religious community; our business is transformation; our face of commitment is one of caring and compassion. Our countenance is the aspiration of connection. Our challenge is the transformation of the mystery and the power of this vast universe into actions that allow us to shape what it is becoming–even if that is only in our little corner of the Milky Way. We are here to help one another lighten up, and to bring out the best in one another, to raise in each other the highest of aspirations–of intergalactic proportions–and to be with one another for the journey, because it is a journey that we all share. We are each helped as we commit ourselves to helping one another along the way. We come together here to improve the quality of life, in our hearts, in our homes, in our community and in our world. May it be so.
by Charles Blustein Ortman
March 19, 2000
And things are hard and tough,
People are stupid, obnoxious and dumb
And you feel like you've had quite enough.
And revolving at 900 miles an hour.
It's orbiting at 90 miles a second, so it’s reckoned
And all the stars that you can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outward spiraled norm of 40 thousand miles an hour
In a galaxy we call the Milky Way.
It's a hundred thousand light years side from side.
It bulges in the middle 16,000 light years thick
But a guess is just 10,000 light years wide.
We go round every two hundred million years,
And our galaxy is only one of millions and billions
In this amazing and expanding universe.
In every direction you could wish
As fast as it can go, the speed of light you know,
12 million miles a minute, and that’s the fastest speed there is.
How amazingly unlikely was your birth.
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up above,
Cause there [may not be] any down here on earth.
Lighten up now there's a good question why,
But you don't know the answer and neither do I
So meanwhile let's just all lighten up.