Friends: I am worried. I’m afraid our reputation is in a very precarious state.
When I arrived in Boston about 10 years ago I heard many things that Bostonians believed about Boston and other Bostonians. You’ve probably heard them, too, if you’re from out of town. I was cautioned about how hard it would be to break into Boston socially. It would be eons, I was warned, before I would feel welcomed and included. That was a hard bit of news for someone who was lately from Rochester, NY—practically the Midwest when it comes to friendliness.
And now here I was in Boston--the Hub of the Universe. A place where family names are virtual badges of privilege and caste. Boston is the place they say where the Lowells talk only to the Cabots and the Cabots speak only to God. There was a fabulously spunky woman at my last church, west of here, who recalled her introduction to Boston society. Her last name is Elliott. When she would meet people from Boston they would ask, “Is that with one “L” or two?” When she told them it was with two “Ls”, they would say, Oh dear, I’m so sorry…
A few years later, I found myself at the First Church in Boston. THE First Church in Boston, thank you very much. Such an historically august name might be off-putting to some who might worry that our pews are still filled with folks of a Puritanical stripe or two…
But they wouldn’t have to worry for long. As I said, our reputation is in jeopardy. Because what I’m hearing from people who are joining First Church is that (whisper) it is a very friendly and welcoming place.
Shhhh! Keep it down!
Haven’t you noticed that we’re already running out of coffee half way through coffee hour! You know, we just might have too many nice people here.
And we used to be such a private, reserved bunch. But for a month of Sundays, members have been standing up here to share why they contribute their time and financial gifts to the operation and ministries of this church. They volunteered to speak--publicly--from their hearts—about how you are making a difference in their lives!
Yes, you! I know: they have spoken about how this church, First Church, matters to them as a place where they can express their leadership or hospitality, their commitment and their generosity. But when they say the church, they actually mean YOU. The building? It’s wonderful. But you are the church.
I met with someone recently who comes out of another religious tradition, and she wanted to offer a compliment to us. ‘You are not like a real church,’ she said—beaming generously!
To be fair, I think what she meant was that our physical structure does not impose itself on a visitor like a more traditional church building might. There are no stained glass windows depicting unfamiliar stories or people. No iconography decorates our chancel, harkening back to an ancient—and, for some, uncomfortable—lineage. And she noticed, something else: that we laugh. In place of a rigid solemnity, visitors discover a feeling of openness and welcome and inclusiveness that helps them feel, well, welcome and included!
You have a wide embrace that makes The Society of the First Church in Boston a special church. It is an embrace grounded in our Unitarian Universalist principals, strengthened by our sources, and invigorated by our passion and our commitment. It’s a place where we practice being human. And you’re doing a good job…
I admit that at first I was a little defensive when I heard the remark that we do not seem like a “real” church. What could it mean? And so I pondered, what does make us a church, distinguished from, say, a community center or a political party?
I think there are several answers and definitions, but the one that keeps rising to the top of my mind is the idea that we are a place set aside for an uncommon purpose: To remember.
Remember comes from the Latin: to be mindful. To remember is to recall something or someone that you once saw, knew or experienced. It is to return to your original self. To remember can be to make a gift or make provision for. It is to convey greetings from one person to another. It is to pray for the success or well being of another. It can be to remember yourself—to recover yourself after a lapse.
When we gather as a church, we set aside time in our busy lives to remember a litany of things:
We remember history and one another’s names and stories.
We remember that we are loved, and that we need one another.
We remember the cycles of the year as reflected in nature and in ritual.
We remember those who have died and those who are suffering.
We remember that we have gifts to share in the world
and how to be good
and that we are blessed.
Together, we remember that we can turn to someone in need,
and that it is possible to say I’m sorry and be forgiven.
We remember to sing and to laugh.
As a church, we remember who we are and what we are called to be.
I am so grateful that Patrick Wooten is here with us this morning to help us remember the people whose lives were devastated by hurricane Katrina a year and a half ago….
I know it’s not just my aging brain, but sometimes my memory feels like fuzzy Velcro: nothing seems to stick for very long. It’s hard to keep track of everything, isn’t it? Katrina, the tsunami, the war in Iraq. AIDS, shootings in the city, homelessness, poverty, Darfur, Afghanistan, 9-11, a neighbor with cancer.
Information goes in but it doesn’t stay Velcro-ed. It falls off and gets swept away until I remember—through an act of intention to recall, or through a story or a ritual or a song that revives the memory. So, thank you Patrick for being here with us today to bring your story to life for us…for helping us to remember.
This week is a notable one in the liturgical calendar. It calls us to remember two foundational stories—one in the Jewish tradition, the second which flows from it into the heart of the Christian tradition. First is the Exodus story—remembering the flight of the enslaved Israelites from Egypt and their search for the Promised Land; and second, the Passion narrative—remembering the last week of the life of the Jewish teacher, prophet and healer, Jesus of Nazareth.
We, as a church, offer experiences for remembering these stories—and what they mean for us as 21st century liberal religionists. I have to steal a line here from a sign I saw hanging on Old South last week that says: Our faith is 200 years old. Our thinking isn’t.”
On Tuesday evening, friends will gather for a Passover Seder—a communal meal served and eaten while taking turns reading from the Haggadah—the story of the Exodus.
Remember! says the God of Israel via the Exodus story. Do not forget what it was like to be a slave or to be a stranger in a strange land. You have been delivered from oppression. You will be restored to your homeland. Do not forget! Free the slave from bondage, the oppressed from suffering. Extend hospitality to the stranger. Make them welcome in your midst. And comfort them in their exile.
Next Sunday is Easter, a holy day for Christians, an occasion of joy and hope after a time of sadness and loss, of persecution and hopelessness. It is the one time in our church year that we offer ritual communion. Next Sunday morning, before our regular service, all are welcome to gather in the chapel at 10 am to share a symbolic meal of bread and wine and remember the example of Jesus: to the wounded, offer healing; welcome the excluded, the marginalized, into a circle of love; where there is hate, bring love, not fear.
After our service today, we have our weekly coffee communion—a time to greet one another in the Narthex—a church word for lobby. After you have had a chance to say hello to old friends or greet a new friend, I hope you will join me in the auditorium for a special workshop we’re calling Transgender 101. It’s part of our Welcoming Congregation curriculum. Our goal is to formalize what so many of you have already experienced here at this church—that we do have a wide embrace, that we are welcoming of you wherever you are on your spiritual journey, and who ever you are, who ever you love.
To be a truly welcoming congregation, we—all of us—need to spend some time together opening our hearts and minds to understanding one another in all our diversity. Today we’re taking another step on that wide, welcoming path. I hope you will remember to participate in what may be a challenging conversation for you.
We do these things—workshops and coffee hour and Passover Seder and Easter dinner, and so many other things, because we are not only a community center, we are a place of communion. Whether our offerings are coffee and muffins, or bread and wine, or baked ziti and salad, turkey and apple pie—we are here as a church, to join in communion with one another. Graciously serving and being served. Allowing love in and shining love out.
We care for one another, feed one another, laugh and dance and share stories with one another. On purpose. Intentionally. As a church. That we might be nourished. That we might be strengthened. To live our lives fully and in communion with others—to join with—to be part of one another’s lives.
We undertake these partnerships freely and with compassion, that we might save one another, that we might be saved: from loneliness and apathy and injustice and violence and destructive memories. And we are saved for hope and for service and for justice. And to remember. To be mindful of the precious opportunity we have—with each breath—to undertake to live our lives with integrity, with boldness and creativity. To be present and bear witness to the joys and blessings of our lives with grateful hearts.
Let us remember these things. And be glad that we are a church.
