Readings:

A poem by the Sufi mystic Hafiz:

Admit something:
Everyone you see, you say to them,
“Love me.”
Of course you do not do this out loud,
Otherwise someone would call the cops.

Still, though, think about this,
This great pull in us to connect.

Why not become the one
Who lives with a full moon in each eye
That is always saying
With that sweet moon language

What every other eye in this world
Is dying to hear?

Sermon:

We are in a time of great divisiveness in our nation.  The public discourse has become nasty, vitriolic, and it seems sometimes that there are two nations—the red and the blue. Sometimes these rifts run right down the dining room table…and with holidays approaching, it’s enough to make any of us nervous.

Strangely, the old cultural dividing lines are gone, and new ones have arisen.  The rift used to be between Protestant, Catholic and Jew, or between upper and working classes.  It’s no longer the case.  According to James Davison Hunter, author of Culture Wars, the new line of conflict is between what he calls the Orthodox and the Progressive views.  On either side are two very different understandings of the way of the universe—what sociologists call worldviews. 

A worldview is the way that one makes sense of reality.  A worldview answers such questions as: “Is there a spiritual as well as a physical reality in existence?  Does God exist?  If so, what is God’s nature?  Is God an active agent in human history?”  World views also assume how we know what we know:  Upon what do we ground our knowledge of the world, our understanding of truth and our conception of moral and ethical behavior? Does our knowledge derive from divine revelation, through the analysis of empirical evidence, or through personal and subjective experience?1

The answers to these questions are radically different between the Orthodox point of view and the Progressive.  The Orthodox holds that there is a God, who reigns over the universe with an authoritarian hand; that we derive our knowledge from divine revelation, and that humans are the children of this strict father God, whose job is to discipline and strengthen the children. 

The Progressive view is deeply influenced by the Enlightenment—and we Unitarian Universalists are the poster children: believing in empirical evidence, and seeing the universe as a place of scientific processes.  God, if we believe in such a thing, is a force or a feeling—not an active, parental personage.

Here’s the rub, you good, logical Unitarians: there’s no convincing, through our own beloved skills of reason and scientific debate--there’s no convincing a solidly Orthodox person that they should change worldviews.  None.  Not a one.  Stop hoping. 

Here’s why: according to sociologists, two world views cannot coexist in a society without struggling for dominance.  These world views are what sociologists call constructions of the sacred and as Emile Durkheim explained, the sacred is anything which is “’set apart’ and ‘exalted’: anything that provides the life-orienting principles of individuals and the larger community.”2  Communities cannot tolerate the presence of another worldview, because that presence desecrates their own sacred.  The mere existence of another worldview is desecration—and therefore that opposing world view must be destroyed. 

This has been true throughout human social history.  So if the stakes seem high in these conversations—they are.  We are in a struggle for cultural domination—a struggle which divides families and neighbors.

In his book Moral Politics, George Lakoff explains the worldview of these orthodox folks in more detail.  They believe “Evil is a major force in the world that must be fought using Moral Strength, which has the highest moral priority.”

 “The Moral Order legitimizes traditional power relations as being natural, determining a hierarchy of Moral Authority: God above Man; Man above Nature; Adults above Children; Western Culture above Non-western Culture; America above other nations. (There are other traditional aspects of the Moral Order that are less accepted than they used to be [but still active]: Straights above Gays; Christians above non-Christians; Men above Women; White above Non-whites.)”3  And above all, evil must be resisted through control of self and others.  And this worldview naturally leads to certain assumptions about social issues. 

“In the Progressive View is it is assumed that the world is basically good. And […] it can be made better, and it is your responsibility to help make it better.  Correspondingly, children are born good, and parents can make them better, and it is their responsibility to do so[…]The parents' job is to be responsive to their children, nurture them, and raise their children to nurture others. In this view, the highest moral values are Empathy and Responsibility.”4

These values may be familiar to some of you.  When added to the Enlightenment based values of reason and tolerance, and a sense of fair play and justice, you have a Progressive worldview.

The struggle for political dominance is based in this cultural debate, and certain political groups have realized this.  The interesting thing is that there are a great many people who believe some of each view—part Orthodox, part Progressive, and in order to gain control of the debate, one side must capture those sitting in the middle.  The religious right understands this, and has developed tools which provide the defining frames of the debate. 

There’s been much discussion lately about framing, in which the science of cognitive linguistics is used to shape communication.  Framing is a method of communicating which activates your listener’s world views.  It is not spin—in which you attempt to obfuscate the issue.  If you understand that language is made of frames of reference, then it follows that in a debate, control of the frames will give one control of the message. 

According to Lakoff, the extreme right knows this, and has spent billions of dollars over the last forty years creating the frames which will motivate people to follow their message.  Their frames activate the orthodox world view.  Frames like pro-life—which is a moral frame, and trumps choice—which is a consumer frame.  Or tax relief—using the word relief references the frame of affliction—where there are victims. Everyone wants to aid victims and end affliction. 

According to Lakoff, for religious progressives to be effective in the political area, they must learn to reframe the issues—to activate the progressive worldview among American moderates.  How is this done?  By reframing.  ” The heart of reframing,” says Lakoff, “is reconceptualizing, strengthening and broadening a position from a moral perspective.”

Tax relief is then reframed: taxes are investments that give us social dividends. And, every patriotic American pays their fair share, to support their country. Taxes are the way we support the common good.

I saw a great reframing by a progressive Christian candidate the other day: “Jesus healed the sick.  Now we call that healthcare.” The framing work is done to prepare people for political debates in the public square.  But my question today is how to handle ourselves in more intimate settings.  What do we say to our parents, our siblings, our old friends—if they have drastically different views than us?  The Thanksgiving table ought not to look like Crossfire. 

If you came hoping to learn how to debate your brother-in-law into the corner, I am afraid you may be disappointed.  While God knows, I too would like to win those arguments, I have a different goal to suggest for us this coming holiday season.  What if in these conversations our goal was not to win, not to convince—but instead to strengthen our family ties, to deepen our sense of mutuality?  What if we might be emissaries of the sacred—bearers of peace and gentleness? Of late, I have been taking advice from quarters other than political strategists. 

I have been trying to practice the methods taught by the Persian mystic Hafiz, and other great religious teachers.  It is the method used by Gandhi as well.  It is the practice of seeing the divine in every person. Of being open to new lessons for oneself in every conversation. 

Imagine that you are sitting with your sister, who can get your goat like no one else.  Or your cousin, with whom you used to play Scrabble and build forts, and he begins to rail about some issue, and every button of yours is pushed, and you desperately want to respond in kind—what if you stopped?  Breathed? 

What if you remembered Gandhi’s method, when he wrote to the high level British officials whose policies were bitterly oppressing the Indian people. Gandhi would write: ‘Your most excellent sir, I write you in the highest regard,’ and he would sign: ‘With prayers for you and your family.’  Gandhi did not back down from his requests, but he presented them with utter respect for the sacredness of his opponent.

During your cousin, or sister’s argument, after you breathe, and remember Gandhi, look for commonalities, shared concerns.  Why does your sister like Dr. Phil?  Does she appreciate his advice to parents to be strong disciplinarians?  Is this because she is struggling to raise kids in this very uncertain world?  Is she frightened by the violence and sexual content of today’s pop-culture?  Perhaps you are disturbed by this too, and can speak of shared concerns.

Hafiz tells us: Everyone is God speaking.  Why not be polite and listen? Your uncle—why does he still support the war in Iraq?  Ask questions: and don’t be in the conversation to win.  Does he remember the terrible pain in this country over the divisiveness of Vietnam and is he going to support the troops no matter what?  What is the value, the moral concern, for each person in these questions?  Is it perhaps a concern you share?

Or your aunt, who attends a very conservative church and is convinced that Unitarianism is a cult—that we are fallen and will go to hell.  How many of you have someone in your family who is convinced that you are hell-bound?

Let me advise you against the tactic tried by one of my children: to state emphatically to an elderly aunt: “Well, I don’t believe in Hell—so I can’t go there!”  That’s a classic failure of reframing, by the way.  To reframe would have been to say, “I believe in a God so loving that He would never damn his children.  A God so powerful and vast that nothing can be separated from Him, and everything is contained within His goodness.”

That answer respects the other person’s worldview and reframes the conversation from damnation to a God of Love.  In a moral framework, love trumps hatred.

My grandfather, a dear and loving man, and a conservative Baptist minister, was terribly upset when I joined the Unitarian church.  He was deeply pained by what he saw as my departure from the Christian fold. I was irritated with him, angry at him for being judgmental, disappointed in him for still believing ancient myths that went against every scientific fact. 

But gradually I came to see that my grandfather could not change his religion, could not alter his worldview, without a drastic break in his reality, a terrible shift in his own consciousness.  Those shifts are so great that they can break a person, and I did not wish that on my 90 year old grandfather.

And in his worldview, his most profound understanding of the universe, people who did not accept Jesus as their savior would go to hell, and would not be reunited with their loved ones after death.  The great hope in the Christian salvation narrative is the reunion of the saved in heaven.  My grandfather, rapidly approaching the end of his life, was filled with sorrow at the idea that I would be lost to him for eternity—and that I was taking his precious great-grandchildren with me.

You do not have to share this worldview to understand the depths of grief this belief would bring.

How could I respond, in kindness, and with integrity, true to my own faith?  How could I speak to him in ways that preserved our love, kept the relationship open, and yet was honest?

What I did is not what I wish now that I had done.  I lacked the courage to tell hm the truth, and I allowed him to think that it was my husband’s preference for us to attend the Unitarian church.

Here’s what I wish I would have done, and what I do now with my more conversative family members: I wish I had listened, a lot, and answered with gentleness and respect for his age and wisdom.  I wish I had acknowledged the pain he felt, and apologized for causing that suffering. Surely my ego was sufficient for that!  I wish I had thanked him for his care, and for the gift of his teachings.  And I wish I had said, “I know we won’t see this in the same way, and I am very sad about that.  But I also want to assure you that I am choosing a path which has integrity for me, which gives me the strength to make moral choices, and allows me to walk more closely with God.”

These things are true for me, and these are the words I use now with my cousins and other more conservative family members.  I choose my words carefully, framing my meaning in language the listeners understand.  Each time I have to set aside my ego needs, the need to be right, the need to convince, the need to triumph, and instead trust that my deepest meaning will be clear, that my love and respect for them will be the foremost message I deliver. 

It does no good for us to talk past one another.  We must listen—we must see the divine in the other.  We must bow to that divine spark in everyone we meet.  We must remember, in each encounter: This is an emissary sent from the sacred.  What does the divine, the Holy, ask of me in this moment?

Everyone is this world is saying, ‘Love me.’ Why not become the one who is saying, so sweetly, what everyone in this world is longing to hear?

Let us love one another.
Amen.

© Cecilia Kingman Miller 2007