Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, June 9, 2024.

You know, we each have our own particular ways of perceiving the world, our own biases and preconceptions. We come by this naturally; for early humans, it was important to sense if that person ahead was friend or foe. Or if that animal coming your way was was one you might want to capture and eat, or one you should run away from! Early religions often functioned as communities of safety and sameness, with clear distinctions between who was in and who was out, and this was a strategy of survival. So we have wired within us this tendency to notice differences and make judgments based on all kinds of factors. 

One of the thing I love about being part of a church community is that my preconceived notions are regularly being upended, or at least adjusted, by getting to know folks, and hear their stories. We are each more complex and nuanced that anyone would guess at first glance. Do you know what I mean? Someone may seem gruff at first, until you get to know them, and learn that under that hard shell they are really a pussycat.

Our biases are based on our life experiences, and what our society teaches us, and our particular social location. Our race, class, gender, sexuality, ability or disability—these all shape how we interact with others and the world. It’s easy, especially those of us in the dominant groups, to take these factors for granted, think we are just “normal,” and fail to understand that our filter on world is not universal. Others have different perspectives and values as good as ours.

I’m grateful for this month’s theme of “Perspective,” because we need to be reminded, don’t we, that our perspective is particular and subjective. That others perceive the world differently than we do. How many of our interpersonal and societal and global problems are caused by our unawareness of this fact, our our unwillingness to acknowledge it? How often to we try to stand inside another’s shoes? As Thoreau wondered, “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?”

By now I expect that most of you have heard the news this week, that I’ll be retiring a year from now. I hope you saw my letter, and hope you know how much I love being your minister. I’m not going to say much about it right now, but I will say this, because it’s about perspective. For some time now I’ve been wondering about when I should step down from this ministry. I’ve been thinking of something I heard once from the head of the office that helps UU congregations and ministers find one another. He said, “I’ve seen ministers leave too soon, and ministers stay too long. You don’t want to do either.” Even though I’ve been here 16 years now, I imagine some of you might think this is too soon. A few months ago, I mentioned this to a retired colleague, and he said, “That’s the rub. If you stay until they think it’s time for you to go, then you will have stayed too long.” 

This helped clarify things. If I stay until you notice me slowing down and forgetting things, until you start wondering, “How long is he going to hang around?,” then I’ve stayed too long. From my perspective, this timing seems about right—and I hope it will feel like that to you. And I already know that I am going to miss the view from here; your faces, your singing, your openhearted presence, all of it, on an ordinary Sunday.

You know that religious traditions can confirm and reinforce people’s prejudices and biases. And they can also educate, inspire and open up our ways of seeing people and the world. I experienced this the other night, when we hosted a part of a panel of Jews and Muslims talking about what’s happening in Palestine. 

One of the panelists was Tal Woods. She and her partner Kristina have been coming here lately. Tal grew up devoutly Jewish, and she’s super smart. She writes these theologically deep emails that I love to receive. Talking about her own indoctrination about Israel and Palestine, and her questioning, at an early age, of that narrative, she said “No one is above propaganda. I needed to engage in an ongoing interrogation of my own biases.” 

Now there’s a transformative practice for you! How many of us make a regular habit of questioning our own assumptions and biases? An interrogation of what we assume to be true? Isn’t there depth to be found, and liberation, on that journey of questioning our own perspectives?

Tal then said, “We can make a practice of contextualizing our own experiences.” In other words, stepping back and seeing our individual stories and ideas within a wider frame. We live in a society that so elevates the individual that it’s easy to forget that our own experiences are not universally shared. That it helps to zoom out and take in a wider view. I hope seeing and listening to one another here does that for you. And I want to challenge you. Instead of hanging with the people you already know after church, how about you go up to someone you don’t know yet, or don’t know very well, and introduce yourself, and ask them, “Will you tell me something about yourself, or your life?”

Listening to the panel on Palestine last Tuesday night had this kind of effect on me; hearing the experiences and perspectives of Kristina, Tal, Bia, and Adam broadened my perspective, and their spirits breathed new life into my soul and expanded my horizons, for which I’m so grateful. The following morning, I had another expansive experience, in Terminal A at Logan Airport, waiting for a flight to Charlotte. We were going to see my mom, to be with her on her 95th birthday. It was Tracey, actually, noticed it. Watching the parade of people passing by, she leaned closer to me and said, “Anyone who thinks they can keep America from becoming more diverse doesn’t realize they’ve already lost the battle.” 

The poet Ted Kooser, thinking about the poem we just heard from Ada Limón, made a similar observation. He said, “Sit for an hour in any nation­al air­port and you’ll see how each of us dif­fers from oth­ers in a mil­lion ways, and of course that includes not only our phys­i­cal appear­ances but our per­cep­tions and opin­ions.”

Let’s hear Ada Limón’s  poem again, and picture two friends walking and talking, and listening to one another. This is “What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use”:

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,
black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.
They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.
You say they look like arks after the sea’s
dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,
and I think of that walk in the valley where
J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,
No. I believe in this connection we all have
to nature, to each other, to the universe.
And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,
low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,
and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,
woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.
So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,
its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name
though we knew they were really just clouds—
disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

What if, rather than trying to refute another’s view, or convert them to our own, we tried just standing side by side, and looking up? Taking in the sky, breathing it in, together.

Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine; teach me your song, and we can sing it together. Let’s spend some time leaning over the edge, looking into the depths, casting our questions out and around. Abiding there, in the blessing of that present moment. 

Here we are, all we kindred, pilgrim souls. All of us here on this blue/green planet, making our way home. Together, I pray, making our way home.

Amen.