Singing Courage Right Out Loud
Rev. Dr. Leon Dunkley
December 15, 2013
This was the first sermon that I delivered after the unanimous vote of the congregation on December 8th, 2013, inviting me into the called ministry of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Silver Spring. The music that prepared the sermon was Running Blind by Michael Hedges, a song which contains the following words:
Gathering circles slow too soon
They are dancing to some forgotten tune
You weave in the sky a pattern that I can trace
Fading to taste the afterglow
That’s a pure as the song you sing so low
You fences come down to meet me face to face
Reading
Laura's Song (Read by Janne Harrelson,
a member of the Board of Trustees
Laura never tried to hit the high notes in the song. She either did or she didn’t. That wasn’t the point. What was important was the quality of her effort.
Laura was not caught up in the realm of TRYING. She gave up TRYING when she chose to go into music. She gave up TRYING just as TRYING seemed to become so very important. I mean, who succeeds in the music industry without TRYING? Being successful in a field like music rarely just happens to a person. It is never effortless. One has to put in the work. In most cases, one has to TRY. Not Laura, not that success just came to her but she didn’t TRY. She didn’t have to. Laura was different and she knew it. And that was just the way it was.
Laura was an excellent artist. She was incredibly honest with herself. She was curious and she was steady. She was fiercely disciplined. She was committed to art of practicing. She practiced every day. In fact (over time, it becomes quite clear), it was her practice that allowed her to stop having to TRY. Laura would just do. Whatever was not yet possible was never problematic. She would not say to herself, “God, I’m such a loser. I can’t even do such and such.” She would set an intention …and commit herself to it…and be truly satisfied with whatever transpired. She didn’t have specific expectations of herself. The results were unimportant. Everything was process with her. Nothing was product. The beauty of her music did not reside in the end result. It resided in the non-anxious understanding of her gifts and limits.
Laura would push the outer boundaries of her talent when she dared. Sometimes, she would even break beyond them but she always had fun. And she always accepted the final results, whatever they were. She never judged herself—at least, not in a disparaging way and not out loud. She didn’t have the time…because life is for living…and because art is for life…and because love is for art and for life and for living. And singing makes a lovely circle of it all.
Laura wouldn’t TRY. She would choose. She would set an intention and practice accordingly. She would invite those who would listen into the process. She invited us to appreciate every little turn in the road. And she walked that road responsibly. She took great care. It was as if her caring made it beautiful.
Laura never tried to hit the note. She either did or she didn’t. What was important was the way she cared for beauty.
Sermon
Laura was a lion…IS a lion.
The most radical thing we can do is to introduce ourselves to one another. How do you do? My name is Leon. It’s good to know you.
How do you do?
Good to know you
May we find in our togetherness all this joy
—Kelly Joe Phelps, Sometimes a Drifter
Introductions can awkward and hard…particularly, if you don’t mind my saying this right out loud, between men. The older and more inflexible the man, the harder it is. To be honest, sometimes I avoid introductions. I play shy. I run away—if I can. I get nervous. I get nervous because meeting another person means first having to meet myself. I hate doing that. I hate having to meet myself. I never live up to my expectations. So, I end up depending on others to help me to meet myself—maybe not entirely, but this much is partly true.
You know, I really don’t know why I have such a problem with it. I truly believe that I’m a pretty nice guy…but I still get nervous. Do any of you? So, do you know what I mean?
I get nervous because meeting someone else (or even myself) requires courage. And with courage, there usually has to be a confrontation of some kind. Before we come together within ourselves and with one another, before the larger body of which we are a part can be conjoined, before our natural families can, once again, be reunited, there’s usually some kind of confrontation. Although I probably don’t have to tell you this—at least, not now. It’s almost the holidays. You may already be experiencing this.
In any case, the experience of meeting ourselves or one another can be challenging. We have to muster courage enough to do this well. The quality of joy itself depends on it. We do it best when we learn to put down our guard, when we take down our little fences, when we can take down our pretenses and build a bridge and reach across.
So often, I find myself returning to the story that David Wilcox tells in his concerts sometimes, when he introduces a song called Fearless Love. Fearless Love is a perfectly appropriate song to call upon for a sermon that is about singing courage.
Can I share a weird, little story with you? It’s really not that long. Plus, I think you might enjoy it for a while. It goes like this [quote]:
I don’t know how long it had been since these neighbors had even talked to each other. I think it had been about two years…maybe. It all started over the dumbest thing. You see, there was just this stray cat. [Do you know this story?] I mean one of them thought it was theirs and it went over to the other porch there…across the little field, the valley, there… And the other farmer took it in. Each of them thought it was their cat. And every time they’d start talking, they’d start arguing about it…and then they just quit talking. So, when the traveler came through looking for work, one farmer said, “Well, yeah… If you’re a carpenter, I’ve got some work for you. You see that house across this field there? That’s my dear neighbor. Do you see this little ditch in the middle? Oh, he calls that the creek. He dug it with his plough. He went up on the hill and changed the way the spring comes down. The creek! He’s got a little trickle running through there. Well, if he’s gonna try to divide us up with that thing, I’d just as soon finish the job. I want a fence all the way across. I don’t even want to have to look at him. Can you do that?”
And this carpenter said, “Well, yeah I could do that. I would need a whole lot more wood but I could get started with what you’ve got in the shed there. You’d have to go into town.”
And by the time this farmer comes back, driving up that rutted road with his old truck full of that lumber, he looks out into that field where his new fence ought to be and that carpenter has built a bridge…out of his wood…on to his land. And here comes his neighbor, walking across his bridge onto his land, hand outstretched, big old stupid smile on his face, coming right up to his truck. And his neighbor says, “You’re a brave man. I didn’t think you’d want to hear the sound of my voice again. I just fell like such a fool. Can you, can you forgive me?”
And this farmer finds himself saying, “Aw, hell. I knew that was your cat.”
And he looks over and the carpenter’s walking away and he says, “Hey, I got some more work for you if you, uh…what?”
And the carpenter says, “You’ll be fine. I’m needed elsewhere.”
This is a story about a man who was surprised. He thought he had figured all the things that he believed in and suddenly his beliefs kind of came alive on him…when fearless love makes you cross the border. [end quote]
It’s a great story. I mean, it didn’t actually happen but it’s a great story…and there’s tons of only slightly veiled Jesus stuff in it. I promise you, this story and the song that follows is like candy for me. I can really disappear inside of it and not have to take any risks…because the story and the song are so strong. I can let them do all the heavy lifting and sit back and pretend to be magnanimous. But actually this story is second-hand. It works well in the sermon but its one beat late. It is not new. It is not fresh. It does not cover any new ground. It takes no risk. There is no confrontation—great or small—of any kind, of any consequence. In short, although it’s pithy, sharing old stories again is simply not courageous. Often times, you have to take a risk.
Now, I have a truly weird, little story but I really don’t want to share it with you, for reasons of modesty, impropriety and maybe even self-respect. I don’t want to cross al line with you but I want to be honest. So, if it’s generally ok—and I pray that it is—I’ll share it with you.
It’s an awkward story. It took place in a lavatory…a men’s lavatory in the airport back in Tulsa, OK. We had just finished up at the Mosaic Makers conference a month ago. A whole team of us from UUCSS attended. Sarah Gonzales went. Liz and I were there. Several congregants… The conference was excellent. I spent a lot of energy there. I was simply exhausted at the end of it and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t at my best I was a little raw. Overtired. I’m sure if I had not been so, none of what I am about to share would have taken place. But, you know, you don’t always get to pick your battles so here it goes.
I was still on two crutches and carrying a small backpack and my guitar. When the time came, I asked Liz to watch my things. “Can you stay here for a moment?” I said. “I just want to running into the Men’s Room.”
She said, “Of course,” and I off-loaded and click-clack-stepped across the terrazzo flooring in the grand and echoing airport hallway. There were beige, metal fences—just shy of shoulder-height—that were fastened to the wall by sets of metal brackets and metal screws. The beige fences were obviously designed to provide the requisite privacy between urinals. They were inelegant by highly functional. No one complains about the color. Men and boys of age, you may already know what I mean. Women and girls of age, you may have to do a bit more imagining. Now, I apologize for the gender bias of this story but it is in the architecture. I don’t know what I can really do about. But are we all on the same page—it is important that we are—we can move forward.
So, I noticed in the middle of things something that was strangely interesting. Now, it is uncommon to be met with such a thought at such a time but there it was. It was most undeniable. AND I know what many of you are already thinking—especially in light of last week’s call. I can’t believe that this man is our minister! Why, oh, why didn’t we take the blue pill?
So, this is what occurred at that particular moment in time. Mind you, this is what was meant to occur. This was all arranged for me. I noticed that, on the porcelain, there was life-size drawing of a housefly. It was anatomically correct and quite believable. It was two-dimensional but at that angle and with my failing vision, it was believable. It was right there in the very center of things. It was unmissable. Maybe some of you have seen it. It was the first time for me. Now, they must have had a whole lot of fun with this one in the design meetings—imagining the interactions and the reactions and such, imagining the laughter, the weird games that male humans play when met with such opportunities. I chuckled and I tired to be discrete. I was quite secretly delighted and wondered how many others were having the same experience. Now, like I said, I was really tired. Please bear this in mind.
There were only two of us in the bathroom. There had been a third but that gentleman had already washed his hands and left. Before he left, the rules of occupancy had positioned me in such a way that I was now directly next to the only other gentleman in the bathroom. He did not seem to be secretly delighted. He did not outwardly register any feelings at all. That’s how men are sometimes and there are sometimes good reasons for it.
So, here’s where things went wrong. I wondered if the gentleman next to me was more willing to be self-contained than I was or if the placement of the life-size drawing of the housefly in the center of the urinal was selective. ‘Maybe they didn’t all have them,’ I thought to myself. ‘I mean, I didn’t want to believe that there was an occasion for delight and we chose not to enjoy it because of the rules of non-expression that govern so much of male behavior.’
So, I took it upon myself to determine which way it actually was—were we missing out on the possibility of delight or was I at the only urinal with a life-size drawing of the housefly in the center of things. In retrospect, I could have stared directly at the wall in front of me and simply asked, “Housefly?” I mean, surely he had not miss it. And surely, he would have replied as I would have, “Do you think, as men, we are predisposed or inclined in some way or fashion to chose not to enjoy occasions of delight when they present themselves?” In retrospect, that might have been the better choice. What I did was to begin to peer over the shoulder-height, beige metal fence that was designed to provide the requisite privacy between urinals.
Now, the rules of non-expression that govern so much of male behavior cease to matter when there is a threat of transgression. Filling with a mighty rage were the eyes of the gentleman next to me. And there we were—two still-silent men in an airport lavatory who, for the first time…as awkward as it was, were seeing each other face to face. No fences. Nothing standing in the way.
That encounter ended neither well nor poorly…because it was a story. It was a flight of fancy. Everything about the life-size drawing of the fly was actually true. And I did peer over the beige metal fence to test my theory but I was alone in the room. I did imagine the rest of the story at that moment. So, the details are accurate. I did not, however, return to Liz who was waiting across the terrazzo floor to tell her about what was happening in my overly tired imagination as inspired by the distribution of life-size drawings of houseflies on institutional porcelain in Tulsa. I just washed my hands and click-clack-stepped across the wide hallway and smiled.
“Are you ready?” she said and took a breath. It had been a long weekend.
I said, “Yes,” and saddled up. We made our flight and made home and drove away from the airport under one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve every seen. It takes courage to meet a sunset—to really meet it, face to face—because, within its beauty lay the grace of your own heart. It’s always amazing when your own heart comes back to you.
The most radical thing we can do is to introduce ourselves to one another.
How do you do?
Good to know you
May we find in our togetherness all this joy
—Kelly Joe Phelps, Sometimes a Drifter
Lions symbolize courage…which is why the irony was so powerful in The Wizard of Oz…when Bert Lahr played the Cowardly Lion in that classic film of 1939. But you never know about lions…because thirty years later, of course, the miracle happened. It happened just across the pond, over in the UK.
In 1969, John Rendall and Ace Bourke saw a lion cub for sale in a London department store, the one called Harrod’s. The cub seemed cramped and lonely in the small cage, so they decided to bring the little guy home. They brought him home. They named him “Christian” and they dedicated themselves to the good life. They dedicated themselves to the joy of providing a rich experience for the young lion. And this, they did and the returns were profound. Christian was absolutely remarkable—obviously intelligent, obviously loving, obviously gentle…like Charlotte [a newborn baby who had just joined the congregation]. There’s that classic, unforgettable footage of the little cub and then, the fast-growing young lion leaping into the air—front paws outstretched, arms open wide—leaping out on into the open and waiting and loving arms of John and Ace. It just tears your heart out and opens your heart with a fierce joy and power, wild-eyed, God-made, pure…and miraculously possible.
Fast-growing, to be sure. Christian quickly outstretched the limits of his London apartment, in almost no time growing from 45 to 185 pounds with no signs of stopping. The only thing that John and Ace could do was to attempt to introduce—or to reintroduce—Christian to a nature preserve in Africa. They tried and they were successful. With heavy hearts, they left their beloved young lion where he might grow and prosper in a way that was impossible in London.
A year later, they wanted to visit him. They were discouraged. They were told that he was now the head of his own pride and was completely wild. They were told that Christian would not remember them. Undaunted, they went to visit Christian anyway. They traveled to the place where they had released him the year before and began to search. They looked for hours and they did not lose heart—or cœur, in the French…the root upon which the English word cœur-age is based.
At long last, they found him…him and his pride. And perhaps, you’ve already seen this online. It went viral a few years ago now. Christian came over the high point in the land and, for the first time in a year, saw John and Ace—face to face. Disbelieving, Christian approached slowly, inspiring the laughter and great joy of his former protectors. Seeing this, he increased his gate and, mindful of his full weight as maturity, once again in that old, familiar way leapt out on into the open and waiting and loving arms of John and Ace. The picture on the front of our orders of service describes this moment precisely. Christian came with his pride. They all met together like family. What else could they do in the present of so obvious a love of life, in the presence of so clear an occasion for love and joyous delight?
Such occasions are precious. We have to grab them up when they present themselves. As best as we can, we have to grab them for they are miraculous. They are miraculous and they may not come again.
So, grab them up. Don’t TRY to grab them. TRAIN to grab them. Make of life a practice of introducing yourself to sheer delight. Muster courage enough to risk for joy knowing—as Christian knows, as John and Ace and Christian’s pride know—love knows no limits and true friendship lasts a lifetime.
May it be so. Blessed be and amen,
