Walking in the Wild

"Only those thoughts that come by walking have any value."
-- Nietzsche

Mediation: by Mary Oliver, a poem entitled “Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond”

As for life,

I’m humbled,

I’m without words

sufficient to say

how it has been hard as flint,

and soft as a spring pond,

both of these

and over and over,

and long pale afternoons besides,

and so many mysteries

beautiful as eggs in a nest, 

still unhatched

though warm and watched over

by something I have never seen – 

a tree angel, perhaps,

or a ghost of holiness.

Every day I walk out into the world

to be dazzled, then to be reflective.

Reading:  by Rebecca Solnit from Wanderlust: A History of Walking (p. 3, 5)

Where does it start? Muscles tense. One leg a pillar, holding the body upright between the earth and sky. The other a pendulum, swinging from behind. Heel touches down. The whole weight of the body rolls forward onto the ball of the foot. The big toe pushes off, and the delicately balanced weight of the body shifts again. The legs reverse position. It starts with a step and then another step and then another that add up like taps on a drum to a rhythm, the rhythm of walking. The most obvious and the most obscure thing in the world, this walking that wanders so readily into religion, philosophy, landscape, urban policy, anatomy, allegory, and heartbreak…

Walking, ideally, is a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned, as though they were three characters finally in conversation together, three notes suddenly making a chord. Walking allows us to be in our bodies and in the world without being made busy by them. It leaves us free to think without being wholly lost in our thoughts…

Reading: by Kate Murphy from an article entitled “Walking the Country as a Spiritual Quest” (New York Times, March 2, 2013)

Ken Ilgunas, who is 29 years old, arrived at the Gulf Coast town of Port Arthur, Tex., last month after hiking 1,700 miles from Alberta, Canada, crossing through the American heartland. On his arrival, he met a big-hearted Texan who knew of him from reading his blog and generously offered him dinner at his home and a place to stay for the night. “To walk across this country is to fall in love with mankind,” Mr. Ilgunas said.

He’s one of a growing number of pilgrims who are lacing up boots and sneakers to walk across America. While their treks may not have the religious underpinnings of pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela, Mecca, Jerusalem or the current Kumbh Mela gathering in India, which ends on March 10, they are nevertheless acts of faith and quests for existential meaning.

Mr. Ilgunas had just finished his master’s in liberal studies at Duke, and was living at a classmate’s farm in Stokes County, N.C., working in exchange for lodging, when he decided to hit the road.

Reading: by Philip Booth, a poem entitled “Talk about Walking”

Where am I going? I'm going

out, out for a walk. I don't

know where except outside.

Outside argument, out beyond

wallpapered walls, outside

wherever it is where nobody

ever imagines. Beyond where

computers circumvent emotion,

where somebody shorted specs

for rivets for airframes on

today's flights. I'm taking off

on my own two feet. I'm going

to clear my head, to watch

mares'-tails instead of TV,

to listen to trees and silence,

to see if I can still breathe.

I'm going to be alone with

myself, to feel how it feels

to embrace what my feet

tell my head, what wind says

in my good ear. I mean to let

myself be embraced, to let go

feeling so centripetally old.

Do I know where I'm going?

I don't. How long or far

I have no idea. No map. I

said I was going to take

a walk. When I'll be back

I'm not going to say.

Walking in the Wild

A Sermon Delivered on March 24, 2013

By

The Reverend Axel H. Gehrmann

In our household, between my wife, Elaine, and myself, our preferred form of exercise is walking. Neither of us is a great athlete. Neither of us can find the time to regularly go to a health club or gym. And the extreme exertion of running is not our style.

And because experience has shown that we often have a hard time mustering the resolve to put on our shoes and leave the house – especially on the chilly days of winter – we have resorted to an indoor alternative. In the corner of our living room we have set up a kind of low-tech treadmill called a “Gazelle.” What is a “Gazelle”? you may wonder. On eBay it’s described as an “elliptical ski glider exercise machine” for “cardio workout.” And I can testify that the device does indeed provide a workout. 

I like it, because – unlike the stationary bicycle that has long been gathering dust in our basement – the Gazelle is perfectly silent. And I like it, because I can get on it for just a few minutes, stepping on the small footrests, grabbing hold of the two handles, moving arms and legs to a steady beat, and very quickly feel like I have gotten some exercise.

My most common workout regimen lasts precisely the amount of time it takes for my teabag to steep. My preferred pacesetter, conveniently playable on my iPhone, is the song “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder. Four minutes and five seconds. That’s usually all the workout I can handle, before settling back on the sofa, with a fresh cup of tea, and a computer on my lap.

But despite the convenience and the cardiovascular benefits of the Gazelle, the experience it offers isn’t the same thing as going for a walk.

* * *

In nineteenth century New England the Unitarian author, Henry David Thoreau, wrote, “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is of taking walks, - who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering: which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la Sainte Terre,” to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a Saint-Terrer,” a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.”

Thoreau says, “We should go forth on the shortest walk,… in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return.” We should walk in the spirit of “absolute freedom and wildness.”

Walking can be an undying adventure. But it can also be an everyday activity, so obvious and obscure that we become oblivious to its meaning. 

* * *

Often times we can most fully appreciate something only when it is suddenly taken away. Or if it can only be regained at great personal cost and with great effort. 

Many of us have been in the hospital, and after an operation or an illness, after days in bed, have needed to learn to walk again. Walking, which most of us, most of the time, do thoughtlessly, suddenly becomes a supreme physical challenge. Simply getting up out of bed and standing on your own two feet becomes a remarkable milestone. And simply setting one foot in front of the other, and taking the first tentative steps is a triumph.

Some of us have suffered strokes, and recovered. Some of us have received new knees and hip joints. Some of us face conditions that make walking all but impossible, and we make good use of wheelchairs and walkers.

In my own family, most recently, it was my grandmother who struggled to walk. Until well into her nineties she lived in her own apartment. At age ninety-nine, she lived upstairs in my mother’s house, scaling a flight of stairs every day, and going for walks that, year after year and month after month, grew smaller and smaller.  On her hundredth birthday, she could no longer walk unassisted. That day, my cousin and I carried her downstairs in a chair, so she could sit in the backyard and watch the birthday fireworks that had been set up for her.

I remember when I was a child, and she was in her sixties, my brothers and I loved to visit her in the family home located in a small Swabian village in southern Germany. She would always take us on long walks through the fields, hills and forests. And it was always a struggle for us to keep up with her. As children, we half-dreaded those excursions that seemed endless. With tired, whiny voices we would ask, “How much further?”

In my I teens I rediscovered the joy of walking, going on weeklong hikes with a friend through the Black Forest, the Alsace in France, or the Italian Alps. Carrying a tent, a sleeping bag and all the basic necessities for survival on my back, was an exhilarating experience of adventure and independence. We walked up and down mountains, through villages and valleys, never quite certain where we would end up on any given day.

Years later I would re-visit some of these paths again, as a kind of pilgrimage, first with Elaine, when we were newly wed, and then with our own children, pointing out breath-taking views, and the serene silence of ancient forests. Sadly, the kids couldn’t fully enjoy it. With tired, whiny voice they would ask, “How much further?” 

* * *

“The pilgrimage is one of the basic modes of walking, walking in search of something intangible,” Rebecca Solnit writes. “Pilgrimage is one of the fundamental structures a journey can take – the quest in search of something, if only one’s own transformation.”

A pilgrimage is a highly personal enterprise. It can be the journey of an individual on a path charted alone, like Ken Ilgunas who walked from Alberta, Canada, to Port Arthur, Texas. Or it can be a path traveled by thousands, like the Camino de Santiago. A path stretching from a village in southern France, 800 kilometers to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain. According to legend, the earthly remains of the apostle James were carried from Jerusalem to the Spanish city, and were buried there in the place where the cathedral stands today.

One of the world’s most well-known pilgrimages leads to the city of Mecca. Every year about three million devout Muslims go there to see the Kaaba, and walk around it counterclockwise, seven times. 

The world’s largest pilgrimage takes place every year in India, where devout Hindus join the Kumbh Mela. This year’s Kumbh Mela took place last month in the city of Allahabad in northern India, on the shore of the Ganges River. On February 10^th, 30 million pilgrims of all ages and social station took part in the ritual observances, and bathed in the sacred river.

Anthropologists say that pilgrims enter a so-called liminal realm outside of, yet close to, society. On a pilgrimage our social hierarchies disappear, as people join together in a common cause. Ellen Badone writes, “Stepping into this extraordinary sphere leads to extraordinary interactions where you very quickly become close and find that people are willing to go out of their way to be helpful.”

This was also Ken Ilgunas’ experience. He says, “In most every town, some complete stranger would offer me a ride, a meal, a handful of money or their home for me to sleep in.” That’s why on his walk he found himself falling in love with humankind.

* * *

The simple act of walking can have a multitude of meanings. It can be secular or spiritual. It can be personal or political. I know members of our church have gathered for walks at Kickapoo State Park in the summer, or walks through Meadowbrook to celebrate the solstice or observe the full moon. And I know a few walks are coming up:

On Wednesday April 10^th, there will be a walk to raise political awareness of the need for Comprehensive Immigration Reform. The Champaign-Urbana Immigration Forum wants to build support by leading a march and vigil called “Don’t Block the Pathway to Citizenship – Light It!” The march will begin at the University Y, and then stop here at our church for a brief rally, before continuing on to the federal Courthouse for a vigil.

And on Sunday, April 14^th, we will be hosting this year’s community CROP walk. The motto is: “Ending Hunger One Step at a Time.” Last year over 200 walkers from 20 community groups raised almost $30,000. You can participate by joining the walk that Sunday afternoon, or by making a financial contribution to sponsor a walker. I encourage you to learn more about these worthwhile initiatives at the Social Action table in fellowship hall after the service.  

  

Whether we walk individually or in together – the act of walking can open our eyes to unexpected connections between us, and within us. Walking can deepen a sense of solidarity. It can inspire us to act for justice. When we walk in the spirit of absolute freedom and wildness, walking can become an art, and in inspiration.

In her book God in the Wilderness, Rabbi Jamie Korngold writes, 

“when we are open to a spiritual experience, [walking in the wild] exposes layers of the soul. Perhaps this is why God chose to give us the Torah in the wilderness, to ensure that we were spiritually prepared to hear the teachings. With each mile of distance from civilization, our packs seem to grow heavier and the footing more tenuous, we embark on an internal journey in the core of ourselves…

Removed from the distractions of everyday life, of cell phones, e-mails, and to-do lists, we are able to immerse ourselves fully in the moment, in each step, in each breath… As we look outward to the wilderness, we [also] look inward and reawaken to what is essential in our lives, to the core of our being.” (p. 4)

* * *

We don’t have to walk in the wilderness for forty days or forty years. We don’t need to cross deserts or climb mountains, to discover the wisdom of walking.

All we have to do is say, “I’m going out, out for a walk.” We don’t need to know where, except outside. Outside argument, out beyond wallpapered walls. Outside wherever it is nobody ever imagines.

When we are open to spiritual experience, walking in the wilderness can be as simple as taking a walk around the block. 

Ultimately, our religious journey is dependent neither on physical activity, nor on the presence of geographically uncharted terrain. All that is required is an openness of mind and heart, and a willingness to leave the familiar behind. 

Every step we take can be a pilgrimage. Each step reverberating with meaning, each step echoing all the journeys of our lives. Each step like a tap on a drum, adding to a rhythm, like a heartbeat. A rhythm through which our mind and body and the world are aligned.

May even our shortest walk inspire us with a sense of undying adventure,

And a love for all humankind.

May our every step be a pilgrimage to a holy land - our vision of a better world, 

a world of peace and justice, a world that we are called to create.

Amen. 

The Possibility of Forgiveness

"Forgiving presupposes remembering."
-- Paul Tillich

Reading: by Marian Wright Edelman from The Measure of Our Success, a chapter entitled “A Letter to My Sons” (p. 27)

I seek your forgiveness for all the times I talked when I should have listened; got angry when I should have been patient; acted when I should have waited; feared when I should have been delighted; scolded when I should have encouraged; criticized when I should have complimented; said no when I should have said yes and said yes when I should have said no. I did not know a whole lot about parenting or how to ask for help. I often tried too hard and wanted and demanded so much, and mistakenly tried to mold you into my image of what I wanted you to be rather than discovering and nourishing you as you emerged and grew.

Reading: by Christina Baldwin from Life’s Companion (p. 195) 

Forgiveness is the act of admitting we are like other people. We are prone to make mistakes that cause confusion, inflict pain, and miscommunicate our intentions. We are recipients of these human errors and the perpetrators. There is no way we can avoid hurting others or being hurt by others, because this is exactly the nature of our imperfection. The only choice we have is to reconcile ourselves to our own flaws and the flaws of other people, or withdraw both from our humanness and our connection to the sacred… To fully live, we must choose to enter freely the cycle of interaction in which we will hurt and be hurt, forgive and be forgiven, and move on with love intact…

Reading: a poem by Dick Lourie, “How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?”

How do we forgive our Fathers?

Maybe in a dream

Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever

when we were little?

Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage

or making us nervous

because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.

Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?

For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?

And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?

Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning

for shutting doors

for speaking through walls

or never speaking

or never being silent?

Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs

or their deaths

saying it to them or not saying it?

If we forgive our Fathers what is left?

The Possibility of Forgiveness

A Sermon Delivered on March 17, 2013

By

The Reverend Axel H. Gehrmann

If forgiveness involves acknowledging errors and saying, “I’m sorry,” then I have had ample opportunity in recent weeks to practice forgiveness, at the Philips Recreational Center. That’s where, for the past four Monday evenings I have been attending ballroom dancing lessons with my wife, Elaine. Tango lessons, to be more specific. And despite my best efforts, the results have not always been pretty.

You see, ballroom dancing is unexplored territory for us. We both have always enjoyed dancing, but our preferred style has been free form. Formal dance is much more difficult for us, beginning with its most basic rules.

So, for instance, in temperament I have always been more laid back, and Elaine has always been more assertive. Some say this has to do with our respective sibling positions in our families of origin. I am a youngest of four, and comfortable letting others take the lead. Elaine is an oldest of two, and often happy to take the initiative. In this way, we are a good match.

But when it comes to dancing tango, our instructors explained in no uncertain terms, the man must lead, and the woman must follow.

This is a real stretch for us. And so, in the course of awkwardly to trying to follow our instructors’ guidance, and straining to hear the music’s beat, I have found myself stepping on Elaine’s feet a fair amount, bumping her, and sometimes almost knocking her over. And every time I wince, and whisper, “sorry!”

* * *

I have been thinking about the Roman Catholic approach to forgiveness this week, because Catholicism has been in the news. Catholic cardinals met in Rome to elect a new leader. The title “pope” is from the Greek word “pappas” which means “father.” And like the father in most families, among the world’s billion Catholics, the pope is in a unique position to offer and receive forgiveness. 

In Catholicism priests have the power to offer God’s forgiveness to deserving believers. The sacrament of penance allows the faithful to confess their sins. And the priest, in God’s Name, has the authority to offer absolution. In this way, sins are forgiven, which otherwise, if left unattended, would have led the believer to be condemned to Hell.

* * *

I remember when I was a child, I thought my Catholic classmates’ occasional visit to the confessional was a pretty neat thing. I imagined all the mischief my friends could get into in the course of a week - the lies they could tell their parents, the pranks they could play on their teachers – and how after their “confession” they could carry on with a perfectly clear conscience. Like a slate wiped clean of any guilt, shame, or worry. 

Forgiveness is a central theme in Christian teachings. In the Lord’s prayer we ask God’s forgiveness, and we ourselves are encouraged to forgive others. How often should we forgive someone who has sinned against us, Jesus is asked, as many as seven times? No, Jesus says, not seven times, but seventy times seven times. We should always forgive.

* * *

But in real life forgiveness isn’t so simple. Not even for a pope.

Before he was named Pope Francis, Jorge Mario Bergoglio was a cardinal in his native Argentina. He was head of the Jesuit order in the 1970s and 80s, when the country was run by a military dictatorship. During those years the government kidnapped and killed thousands of people it considered part of the political opposition. Thousands of men and women simply “disappeared.” Some say Bergoglio failed to effectively confront the military junta, he failed to hold them accountable for their crimes, and thus was complicit. Some say he was a collaborator who failed to protect priests, who were kidnapped and tortured. 

One of those priests, who was imprisoned in Argentina, says he is not bitter or angry today. Years ago he spoke about his experience with Bergoglio. They celebrated mass together and hugged. He considers the matter to be “closed.”

Some point out that Bergoglio was never charged with a crime, and in fact helped protect many from the military. But others are not willing to simply forgive and forget. And they question whether the man now known as Pope Francis should be the supreme authority in offering God’s forgiveness.

* * *

Reflecting on his own religious upbringing, the rabbi Harold Kushner writes, “When I was child, I was taught that on Yom Kippur we had to atone for things we had done to hurt other people before we could atone for our offenses against God, and that God would forgive us only when we had forgiven those who had hurt and disappointed us.” (How Good Do We Have to Be? p. 66)

* * *

In Catholic thought, the sacrament of forgiveness involves a three-step process. First is contrition, a heartfelt sense of sorrow for the wrongs one has done. Second is confession, a truthful admission of one’s sins. Third is satisfaction, or penance, which involves doing something to make amends.

Did Cardinal Bergoglio practice this sacrament honestly and sincerely? I don’t know. I imagine only he does.

* * *

Dick Lourie is acutely aware of his father’s inadequacies. He wonders how to forgive his father, and if forgiveness is even possible. Christina Baldwin would say, Lourie is not alone. For most people the primary persons we need to learn to forgive are our parents. Parents play a pivotal role in our personal and spiritual development. They teach us the basics of what it means to be human, and what we can reasonably expect from life. 

Baldwin writes, “The more limited our parents were in their abilities to model trustworthy human [relationships…], the more sorting it takes to create a loving worldview ourselves.” 

She continues:

“However,… we cannot forgive our parents by discounting what occurred. Forgiveness is not a matter of now declaring, “Oh, the drinking wasn’t that bad,” or “I guess all kids get knocked around like that.” Forgiveness means acknowledging exactly what happened, having the feelings we need to have about the real past experience, and in this light of comprehension deciding to let go, to let it be over. We need to stop seeing ourselves as either victims or persecutors, and see ourselves instead as family, living in confusion, doing the best we can at any given moment.” (p. 205)

Christina Baldwin makes the case that forgiveness is an essential aspect of living well, because forgiveness is so closely tied to the inescapable reality of our own imperfection. It is a fact of life, that we sometimes hurt others, and sometimes are hurt. Even when we have the very best intentions in mind, we sometimes mess up. And sometimes we are messed up.

Growing up means coming to terms with realities that are sometimes painful, sometimes perplexing. The psychotherapist and author Thomas Moore writes, our task as adults is “to search for whatever it takes to forgive our parents for being imperfect. In some families, that imperfection will be slight, in others severe, but in any case we have to deal with evil and suffering in our own lives without the benefit of a scapegoat.”

Often our greatest mistake in life is to expect perfection – from our elders, from our friends and lovers, and from ourselves. It is the expectation of perfection that makes the practice of forgiveness especially difficult. Our perfectionism is unforgiving.

Rabbi Kushner writes, “When we liberate ourselves from the myth that God will love us only if we are perfect, then we will no longer feel that we need to be parents of perfect children…, or children of perfect parents.” He says, “I don’t find it necessary to forgive my parents for the mistakes they made. It is no sin to be human. They were amateurs in a demanding game where even experts can’t always get it right. Beyond forgiveness, I love and admire them for all the good things they did…” (p. 95)

* * *

Forgiveness is a three-step process. First, forgiveness involves an emotional dimension: allowing oneself to feel the hurt that was suffered when a mistake was made. Cruel words were spoken. Thoughtless acts committed. Loving-kindness withheld. Regardless whether you may have found yourself in the role of persecutor or victim, you need to honestly and sincerely open your heart to the pain suffered. 

Second, forgiveness involves an intellectual dimension: it involves understanding clearly and expressing truthfully what happened. There are many sides to every story. There are many facts to consider. In this way, to forgive is not to forget. Forgiveness asks that we remember what happened. It asks us to cherish our history, and honor those who have suffered, whoever they may be. 

And third, forgiveness involves a practical dimension: reaching out to those who are hurting and somehow trying to make amends. 

Sometimes the people we most need to forgive, or from whom we need forgiveness, are no longer with us. Friends and family members may have moved away. Our elders may have passed away. Still we can practice forgiveness.

Christina Baldwin leads a reconciliation exercise, through which we can call people to mind, with whom we are somehow estranged, whether or not they are currently in our lives. She invites us to engage in a guided meditation: “Imagine yourself sitting in a chair in the middle of an empty stage. Call up, on your right side, everyone you think you may need to forgive.  Invite them to approach you, one at a time, talk about (and write down) where you are in the process of forgiveness. If you are able to forgive them, they can move over to your left side. Notice who is on you right and on your left. Look at the agenda you have made for yourself: you forgiveness work.” (p. 203)

In some of these conversations you may also need to ask for forgiveness. And in some you may need to forgive yourself.

* * *

Forgiveness is not about wiping the slate clean. It is about creating health and wholeness where there had been hurt and estrangement. It is a matter of creating connection where there had been isolation. It is about opening doors where long ago hurts had allowed doors to close, then be locked, then be hidden behind a board of sheetrock and a layer of paint, and forgotten.

Forgiveness is just the opposite of sweeping something under the rug, and letting bygones be bygones. 

Forgiveness is about holding on to the most powerful experiences of our lives – even if those experiences are painful. It means grabbing the bull by the horns. It means wrestling with our hurts, and studying them, and transforming them into sources of strength, fonts of wisdom and compassion, indisputable evidence of our resilience and our longing to love.

We need to cherish our memories, not in order to bear a grudge, but rather in order to transform them into something life-giving.

Every experience of our lives can be a doorway to enlightenment. A doorway to salvation. A doorway to bliss. Even the most painful moments – perhaps especially the most painful – have that power to open our eyes, to break open our hearts, to make us more fully alive – more fully aware, more filled with awe and wonder, more prone to respond with gratitude and joy.

* * *

Like learning to dance the tango, life is an imperfect enterprise. Life will invariably involve a certain number of missteps, treading on toes, bumping into others, and thoroughly losing track of the tune according to which you are trying to move. That’s OK.

It’s OK to feel bad about our mistakes, and to say we are sorry, and then continue on together, trying to do better. 

May we have the courage to acknowledge our imperfections.

May we dare to do so sincerely and truthfully,

So that we can then join together more joyfully

Each of us humbly doing our part to build a better world.

Amen.

How Prayer Works

"Pray, v. To ask that the laws of the universe be annulled in behalf of a single petitioner confessedly unworthy."
-- Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Reading: by Rick Moody from an essay entitled “Why I Pray”

There are no atheists in foxholes, the celebrated formulation goes. It’s an observation that even the least spiritually inclined of my acquaintances occasionally makes. And, indeed, when I ask friends if they ever pray, their experience is mostly in the category of these foxhole prayers. Lily, a producer from northern California, once spoke to me of praying during the Oakland fires, when her parents’ house was in danger. “I prayed to God all night and the next day. I prayed that the house wouldn’t burn, that everyone would be okay, that the fire would stop.” Lily wasn’t and isn’t a regular churchgoer, doesn’t take her children to church, doesn’t believe, and yet she found solace in that moment. Another friend, a novelist, spoke of praying in the middle of the night during dark times: “I wake and simply murmur, ‘Help me.’ Who else could I be speaking to?” Cynthia, a prominent magazine columnist, told me of praying during her father’s struggle with cancer. She adapted a line from Saint Augustine: “Whisper in my heart, tell me you are there.”

These days, on this side of the Atlantic, our military foxholes are few. Yet aren’t there still the metaphorical foxholes, the inevitable pointless deaths or business reversals or romantic failures? And if foxholes, metaphorical or actual, continue to exist, then won’t prayers continue to be mumbled in the dark bedrooms of America or in the first light of small-town mornings? When I got out of the hospital, when I was living alone in a converted filling station in Hoboken, New Jersey, when I was showing up for work and little else, when I was still suffering, in spite of medication, with a number of vexing complaints – then, though I had never gotten down on my knees for anyone or anything, though I had never admitted the possibility that I couldn’t solve my problems myself, though I had never submitted that merely human agencies were not entirely effective, then I began to pray. Regularly. My prayers were unadorned, without thees and thous. They were simple prayers: Give me a chance, please.

The epiphany in this story, therefore, is backward. I never believed in God and, as a result, never prayed to glorify his or her or its name. Instead, I prayed because I was desperate, and thereafter I believed in whoever it was I prayed to – mainly because prayer did me some good. Life improved – as life improved for my acquaintances who pray, whether or not they go to church or believe in a […] God or anything else… I pray, therefore, because prayer works.

Reading: by the Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh from The Energy of Prayer (p. 19) 

Does prayer work? 

Perhaps we believe that if prayer works, then it’s all right to pray. The corollary is, if prayer doesn’t work, what’s the point of praying? 

The best way I can answer this question is with a story. There was a six-year-old boy who had a little white mouse as a pet. The mouse wasn’t just a pet; he was the boy’s dearest friend. One day, the boy and the mouse went into the garden to play, and the mouse ran into a hole in the ground and didn’t come back out. The young boy was so sad. He felt that there was no point in living without the mouse. He knelt down, joined his two palms, and prayed fervently for the mouse to come back again. He prayed with all his heart. He prayed as he had seen his mother do, and he mumbled this prayer to God: “I have faith in you, God. I know if you want to, you can bring the mouse back up again.”

The child stayed on his knees and prayed with all his sincerity for over two hours. But the mouse didn’t come back up. Finally, the boy went back inside.

Throughout his childhood, he would pray whenever something bad happened. And what he prayed for never came true. By the time he was in high school, he no longer had faith in prayer.

How Prayer Works

A Sermon Delivered on March 3, 2013

By

The Reverend Axel H. Gehrmann

In the spring of 2004, while I was on sabbatical, I had the opportunity to travel overseas and visit a wide variety of religious sites. Cathedrals in Germany, Unitarian Churches in England and Scotland, Hindu Temples and Muslim Mosques in India, as well as the small Unitarian congregations in the Khasi Hills, just north of Bangladesh. The last leg of my travels took me through Hungary and Transylvania, to our partner congregation in Szekelykal, Romania.

All the sacred places I visited were beautiful, and awe-inspiring, and amazing in their own ways. From Westminster Abbey to Stonehenge, from shrines on the banks of the river Ganges, to the temple in Deer Park, where the Buddha is believed to have delivered his first talk. From St. Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest, to the Unitarian village church in Szekelykal, which was the culmination of all my journeys.

Our two congregations had become partners two decades earlier. And so, even though I was visiting for the first time, the minister and villagers treated me like an old friend.

I don’t speak either Hungarian or Romanian, and so the barriers of language and culture between us were clearly felt. Still, despite these barriers and differences, I felt a distinct sense of religious kinship. After spending several days with the minister, Attila Molnar, meeting the members of his congregation, and colleagues in nearby villages, I had a clear sense that, despite obvious differences, congregational life in Szekelykal and Urbana, IL, shares much in common.

There is a universal human experience of mystery and wonder, a longing for connection and understanding that finds expression in a multitude of traditions and practices. There is a common religious impulse shared by all people.

This idea was conveyed clearly in a gift Attila gave me, when I left for home: these praying hands. (Show wooden board.) This wood carving is based on the famous ink drawing by the 16^th century German artist Albrecht Dürer. It was a sketch made in preparation for a larger painting. The hands in the painting belong to a praying apostle. As a model, historians believe, Albrecht Dürer probably used his own hands.

* * *

The religious scholar Karen Armstrong once pointed out that, despite the fact that “Hindus, Buddhists, Native Americans, African tribespeople, Jews, Christians, and Muslims all have very different beliefs, … when they address the sacred, they do so in strikingly similar ways.” She writes, “It is surprising that prayer is such a universal practice, since it is fraught with problems. Everybody insists that the ultimate and the transcendent… cannot be defined in words and concepts, and yet… men and women habitually attempt to speak to the divine. Why do they do this….?” (Every Eye Beholds You, p. xiii)

* * *

Why do we pray?

The American medical doctor and author Larry Dossey says we pray, because prayer works. In a book entitled Prayer is Good Medicine, he writes, “It is really no longer a question of whether experiments prove that prayer works; they have already done so.” He says, “more than 130 controlled laboratory studies show, in general, that prayer or prayerlike state of compassion, empathy, and love can bring about healthful changes in many types of living things, from humans to bacteria.” “Statistically speaking,” he says, “prayer is effective.”

For instance, 

“in a study by cardiologist Randolph Byrd involving 393 patients in the coronary care unit of San Francisco General Hospital, prayer groups from various parts of the United States were asked to pray for sick individuals assigned to a “treatment” group; no one prayed for those in the control group… This was a double-blind study: No patients, no physicians, and no nurses knew who was and was not being prayed for. Byrd found that the prayed-for patients did significantly better on several outcome measures. (p. 29)

When it comes to prayer, Larry Dossey is a true believer. From Dossey’s perspective science and statistics have settled the question whether the power of prayer is real. But the scientific and medical communities at large don’t share he sense of certainty. 

More skeptical scholars see the flaws in studies Dossey cites. They are poorly designed and their results are often not reproducible. The findings are far from conclusive. For instance, a comprehensive study a few years back involving over 1,800 patients showed that prayers offered had no effect on the recovery of people undergoing heart surgery. And patients who knew they were being prayed for actually had a higher rate of post-operative complications, like abnormal heart rhythms. (“Long-Awaited Medical Study Questions the Power of Prayer,” The New York Times, March 31, 2006)

* * *

Prayer may be a universal religious practice, but the power of prayer, the meaning of prayer, and even belief in prayer is not shared by all people.

Millions of people across the world pray every day. And millions more have given up on prayer. Like the boy whose mouse ran away, and who was deeply disappointed because his fervent prayers failed to bring the mouse back, many of us have come to the conclusion that prayer doesn’t work.

We may hear stories every once in a while, of a cancer miraculously cured, or a tumor that suddenly disappeared, and we are told that these amazing recoveries occurred because of prayer. And yet who can doubt that there are countless other instances in which all the prayers in the world failed to prevent an illness, a tragic accident, or a natural disaster?

Prayer is problematic on many levels. Rick Moody captures several of them, when he describes his own childhood experience. Moody writes, as a child in church 

“I learned right away that the dialogue implicit in prayer would be, in my case, one-sided. To whom was I mumbling these words? (I hadn’t yet memorized the Lord’s Prayer, so my version was full of stray syllables and patches of humming.) And why was there silence when it was done? The whole notion of prayer seemed founded on falsehoods and prevarications.

In my parish, there were unclothed emperors wherever I looked. Adults prayed to God (whoever or whatever that was) who never answered, and they prayed for the kinds of virtues that they rarely manifested in their own lives, or they prayed (I believed) for stuff, for rain and good health, with results that were inconclusive…. “

If we don’t believe that prayer works, what’s the point of praying? Do we believe, or don’t we believe? That’s the question that prayer and religious practice seems to hinge upon. “We tend to equate faith with believing certain things about God or the sacred,” Karen Armstrong writes. “A religious person is often called a “believer” and seen as one who has adopted the correct ideas about the divine. Belief is thus seen as the first and essential step of the spiritual journey.” This is a very common way we often think about religion.

And yet, as Karen Armstrong has discovered, “the history of religion makes it clear that this is not how it works. To expect to have faith before embarking on the disciplines of the spiritual life is like putting the cart before the horse.” Faith is not the point of departure, but rather the destination we approach once we decide to embark on the religious journey, once we decide to engage in religious practice, once we decide to pray.

“All the great teachers of spirituality in the major traditions have, …insisted that before you can have faith, you must live a certain way. You must lead a compassionate life…, you must perform [certain] rituals… all traditions insist that you must also pray. Prayer is thus not born of belief and intellectual conviction; [but rather just the opposite] it is a practice that creates faith,” Armstrong writes.

Our actions shape our awareness. This is the lesson Armstrong finds in religious history. It is the same lesson Rick Moody was surprised to learn, when he had his “backward epiphany.” For the better part of his life, Moody was not a believer, and so he didn’t pray. But then in a moment of desperation, at a time when the challenges of life almost overwhelmed him, when he found himself trapped in a metaphorical foxhole, he began to pray. Even though he never believed in God, he began to pray. And once he began to pray, because it did some good, he began to believe.

* * *

If we do pray, who is it we pray to? This is the question Thich Nhat Hanh asks. 

“Who is the person to whom we pray? Who is Allah? Who is God? Who is Buddha? … Who is Our Lady? When we practice looking deeply into [the] matter of prayer, we find more questions than answers.

Where is the line where oneself ends and the other begins? For Buddhism, this is possibly the most basic question…

If you think that the Buddha is a reality wholly separate from yourself with absolutely no relationship to you whatsoever, and that you are standing down here and Buddha is sitting up there, then your prayer… is not real because it is based on a wrong perception, the perception of a separate self… 

You and the Buddha are not two separate realities. You are in the Buddha and the Buddha is in you.” (p. 29, 31)

Karen Armstrong writes, “When men and women pray, they are in some profound sense talking to themselves. This does not mean that they are not also addressing the ultimate, since all the world’s faiths do not see the sacred as simply Something “out there” but as a Reality that is also encountered in the depths of our own being.” 

And even if we are the only ones who hear our own prayer, our prayer still matters.

* * *

Prayer may not have the power to do everything, but prayer can do something. Prayer may not always be able to move mountains, nor lure a child’s runaway pet mouse out of the ground, but nevertheless prayer can sometimes do us some good. 

Sometimes simply saying “help me” can provide us with a sense of solace. Sometimes simply saying “Give me a chance, please,” can ease our desperation, and help us remember that there are some problems in life that we won’t be able to solve alone… and that’s OK. 

* * *

Prayer is a universal human practice. It doesn’t require elaborate rituals, it doesn’t require many words. Prayer can be as simple as placing the palms of our hands together. This gesture will be equally understood in the hills of Transylvania, and the prairies of the Midwest. It will be understood in old English churches, and in any village in India.

In India it is both a prayer and a greeting. You say, “Namaste.” Namaste is Hindi, and means, the Sacred within me salutes the Sacred within you. Namaste. Even when the word is not spoken, the meaning of the gesture is understood.

Whether or not we believe,

May we resolve to lead a better life.

May we resolve to be more compassionate and kind in all we do.

In this way, all our prayers, 

Whether or not they are ever spoken,

Will surely be heard.

Amen.