Sermons

'Inside and Out: In Search of the Center:'

There is a wonderful little story attributed to the Dalai Lama:

An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer contractor of his plans to leave the house building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying their extended family. He would miss the paycheck, but he needed to retire. They could get by. The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. His workmanship was shoddy and he used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career. When the carpenter finished his work the employer came to inspect the house. He handed the front door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said, "my gift to you." The carpenter was shocked! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. So it is with us. We build our lives, a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the building. Then with a shock we realize we have to live in the house we have built. You are the carpenter. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, insert a window or erect a wall. "Life is a do-it-yourself project," it is said. Your attitudes and the choices you make today, build the "house" you live in tomorrow. Build wisely!

Now, I said the story was attributed to the Dalai Lama, and maybe he is its original source. But I have to think somebody else has done some tinkering around with it, at least with the interpretation at the end of the story. The Dalai Lama would have never been so cavalier about the ending. The interpreter rightly points out that no matter what we do, we are creating the world in which we'll live. The question left unasked though, which begs to be asked, is why would the carpenter ever feel that it was acceptable to do anything less than his best work, even if it had been for someone else?

The story invites us all to be like the contractor, who -- out of loyalty, consideration, gratitude and generosity—extends himself on the carpenter's behalf. The contractor recognizes that he has more than what he needs; he recognizes his connections with the carpenter and then allows the gifts, which he has received, to flow through him in a way that honors his relationship with his carpenter. The story also invites us to recognize that sometimes we are like the carpenter, falling short in our appreciation of the opportunities for serving life well and for being well served by it. The carpenter, looking only for an immediate dismissal of his duties, forgets himself. He forgets that he is a craftsman of many years, forgets that he has a gift that might well serve anyone who would come to live in the house. He wanted to be doing what was next on his life's agenda, instead of what was there to be done in the here and now. I think that all of us do that sometimes, too.

What do you think this carpenter might have done if the contractor had said, "I want you to build one more house so that I can give it to you?" It's not hard to imagine that it would have been a very different house than the one constructed. If any of us were suddenly free to imagine our dream home, what would we create? My guess is it would be pretty nice. Mine would! I think the story tells us that wisdom lies in wanting for others, as we want for ourselves. We get the most out of wanting the best for others. It's a kind of a cosmic, karmic thing: do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.

This morning's sermon is my second in a series on this month's theme of Spiritual Renewal. My hope with this theme is that we can use this time to lift our spirits, to catch our breath in this post September 11th world. To do that in a meaningful way means to visit the depths of our spirits, to engage in our spirituality. If there are close to 750 children, women and men in this congregation, and many more visiters, that means we are operating under at least 1000 different definitions of the word spirituality. I'm not going to try to tell you how you should define spirituality, but I will tell you how I define it for myself. Then, if you want, you can compare. And more, I want to layout some criteria that we might all consider in testing the sincerity and reliability of our views on spirituality.

Spirituality is rooted in the Latin word spiritus meaning breath. Breath is what gives us life. We might have many different thoughts on why or how we come to have breath, but I think we all have to agree that breath is the juxtaposition between life and death. With it, we're here; without it, we're gone. So in my definition, breath—or spirit—is what holds us in life. It's the basic element; the reason we are able to be here. Are there other reasons why we're here? I think so. And to the extent that those other reasons are basic to our lives, they too, are a part of our spirituality.

Do we always know what those basic elements are? I don't think so, or if we do, we sometimes forget. Spiritual discipline is the practice of remembering, of getting in touch and being connected with those most basic elements of our lives. Spiritual discipline is taking the time to be conscious of our lives—to know who we are and what we're doing in relationship with that which gives us reason to live. It's about intentionally accepting life with gratitude and then living it with integrity. Spirituality is about what is most real—not about what is most fanciful.

The metaphor of the house in the story continues to be a useful one. Spiritual discipline is about having our house in order. It's not about magic or the denial of what's outside. It's about taking the time to know what's what, and taking the time to know who we are and what we are becoming. It's about arranging our house so we can live in it meaningfully.

But here's where the metaphor of the house is in need of some serious extension. What would it mean to place our full focus inside our homes? That's not how we live. Someone who stays at home all the time is said to have agoraphobia: a fear of the outside world. If our entire focus were concentrated in our home, it would get awfully difficult to live there.

It would mean that we aren't connected outside of our homes to one another, but that we are disconnected. It would mean that we are fully capable of providing everything that is basic to our lives, all on our own. It would even mean that we are capable of independently providing all of the lesser yet still important elements of our lives—not just the air we breathe, but even the love we experience, and the bread we eat. If our focus were entirely inward, it would mean that—whatever happens out in the world—it would have no effect on us or on our lives. And we know that's not how it works.

For us to imagine that our spirituality connects us only internally to our higher selves is a lot like a child standing in a tree house shouting down to his mother, "I'm not coming down. I'm going to live here by myself forever." Dag Hammarskjöld wrote, "The more faithfully you listen to the voice within, the better you will hear what is sounding outside."

We are not the ends we seek, but the means to them. The object of our spiritual quest ought not be a self-satisfied complacency, but instead a self-knowledge that provides awareness to our interconnectedness with everyone and everything in the world around us—seen and unseen. And more, it demands of us that we remain in responsible relationship with all that we encounter.

If spirit is breath, we have to realize that we can't breathe in forever. If we did, we'd burst. And we can't breathe out forever either. If we did, we'd implode. Ignoring the internal is no more spiritually rewarding than ignoring the world. Perhaps we'll say more about that another day. But for our spiritual lives to have integrity, we must find ourselves in both: inside and out.

In our postmodern, communication superhighway, shrinking-globe world, it's not easy to find the balance between inside and out. Everyday we become aware of even more of the fibers that connect us in the seemingly ever-growing tapestry of life. In the past, forgive my egotistical temporal centrism, it had to be a lot easier to balance one' s internal life with clan, or with tribe, or even with a much smaller national life.

Today there are no bounds. It's frustrating, frightening, and challenging. We are a part of an interdependent world that, unless we are sticking our heads in the sand, we are learning more and more about all the time. I want to address the idea of heads-in-the-sand for a moment, because I know that's what some people think spirituality is all about.

There is a kind of new spirituality afoot that I don't think measures up very well to the breathing criteria I've been describing. It's not so much of a real spirituality, but more of a pseudo-spirituality. I often think the two are confused. The focus I'm concerned about is one that's all inward. It's the individualistic religion of, Me. Not all, but much of the New Age movement is caught up in this piously wrapped, self-indulgent, self-justified effort to use the trappings of spirituality and religion to justify an existence of consumption.

It's no wonder it's become so popular. It's tough to be authentic in a world racked by violence and wrought with injustice. It's tough to know our place in the scheme of things—tough to know if we have our own house in order. What is our part in the New World order? For what should we be proud? For what should we atone? The answers aren't easy, though there are plenty who would provide easy answers. We want comfort. And when a false sense of spiritual security comes along with the message, "Don't worry; be happy," it sounds pretty good. But it's not. It's an attempted throwback to a romanticized past that never existed, where things looked easier. It's not good; it's cheap. And cheap things never really last... Only things that are put together well can hold up overtime.

Another element of this pseudo-spirituality that I find quite dangerous is the message, "You are unique, and you are special." A true spirituality doesn't have much room for uniqueness or special-ness, because no one is unique or special. Instead, we are each precious! The life in each of us is precious. And so the life in all of us is precious. That's something that connects—not something that separates us.

The Calvinistic promise of a "chosen people" has found new root and new language in a message that lures those who would be seduced by it. True spirituality on the other hand, true religion, is about the transformation of our hearts, our minds, and our homes. It is about the transformation of communities, and nations, and the world. True spirituality, true religion cannot distinguish one from the other... Because they are all one; we are all one.

The kingdom of God is within. Love your neighbor as yourself. The hole at the center of the wheel is not there simply to be an empty space. It's there to be of use. If spirituality is to have any merit, and I would affirm that it does, it's merit is in allowing us to engage the void within so that we, too, might be of use, so that we might be more fully engaged in the world without. Our center is not in the hole; it's in the dynamic, in the balance of inside and out. And we can't fully have either with out the other.

Our religious community calls us to bring our spiritual quests into a shared enterprise. That enterprise is the business of transformation. We are here to save ourselves, each other and the world. That salvation depends not on isolated piety, but on determined authenticity.

We are precious. Life is precious. Love is precious. Through gratitude and contrition, through spiritual awakening and dogged resolution, we are transformed and saved, our lives are transformed and saved, and the world itself is transformed and made safe.

In our search for the center, if we are willing to look both inside and out, if we are willing to live responsibly and responsively with what we have found, we will not be surprised in the end to learn that the house we have built for others is the house we have made for ourselves. And then we can gratefully and happily live in it.

Tagore said, "I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy."

We build our lives, a day at a time. You are the carpenter. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, insert a window or erect a wall. Life is a do-it-yourself project. Your attitudes and the choices you make today, build the "house" that you'll—that we all—will live in tomorrow. Build wisely today!