This Sunday was the story of the Buddha and the Mustard Seed.  In this story a mother brings her sick child to the Buddha to be healed, but the child is not sick, it has died.  The Buddha tells the mother he can make a special medicine if she can find a rare ingredient, which is a mustard seed from a house where no one has been sad or experienced loss.  She cannot find one in the end, but finds she is not alone.  What she has discovered in her searching are companions, compassion and community.  It has perhaps expanded the limitation of her vision into something more broad and more connected.

In worship, we heard more on the theme of sacrifice and I was moved by the Worship Associate’s sharing of a story in which he and several friends sang together at the memorial service of another of their companions.  He said that during the service they were all sad, weeping, upset.  When it came time to sing however, they regained their composure in service to the music, to the healing presence of the hymn they sang, to their voices joined together, their breath joined as one.  They became something larger than themselves for a bit in service to the family and to the memory of their friend.

During class, one of the children surprised me by saying if she were in the story, she would be the child.  As I wondered with her, surprised, I asked why she would be the child and she said that she wanted to be dead.  This surprised me even more and I asked her to say more.  “If I was dead”, she said, “Then I wouldn’t have to get up and do so many things in the morning”.  Then came the laughter from all of us and several more children wishing they could get out of unpleasant activities by being dead.

This exchange has stuck with me this week.  In this child’s mind maybe death was understood as a more peaceful or desirable option than getting out the door in the morning and I admit that when I have been in the midst of great difficulty and discomfort myself, I have wished for some kind of way to get out of it.  I haven’t wished for death per se, but knowing the answer I am waiting for to get me out of ambiguity has been a deep desire, or the frustration at having to rest yet again because I’m ill and simply want to be out of my bed and operating with agency and purpose.  Sometimes I try to rush ahead to that space of knowing or the illusion of health by ignoring or pushing away reality as it is.  This is never good as it simply contributes to assumptions and misunderstandings and then shame about not thinking things out carefully enough or prolonged illness as I push through the signals my body is sending.

For this child, I wonder what she feels as her sleep is interrupted in the morning.  What is it like for her to have to get clothes on right now, or keep eating or hurry and get her shoes so we won’t be late.  I wonder what the morning would look like if she could go with her own body’s wisdom and her own timeline.  What would it look like for her to wake up and discover in some way that being in this discomfort is a place for compassion and community, that she is not alone.

I wonder what the morning would look like if I as a parent could do a better job of setting aside my anxiety of “being late” and missing the bus in order to be a bit more present and a bit more compassionate.  Not only to my children who all too often hear me remind them several times in a morning to pack their bags, eat their breakfast, get their shoes on so that we can be out the door on time, but to myself.  What will happen, after all, if we are late or if we miss the bus?  I am very fortunate to not be on a tight morning schedule and yet, I still hurry us along.  What would it look like to be really with myself and with my kids as we move through the morning, while still aiming to have them on the bus to school when it comes?  How do I want to be even in the midst of timelines and demands?  And what does this look like at church where I want to model love and belonging.  Is it more ok to be compassionate in my preparation if I’m coming to church?  Can I trust that however I show up, I’m not alone, I’m in community?

I can say that some of my deepest feelings of belonging at church have come when I have arrived late with my child yelling about how he doesn’t want to go and church is useless.  I have chosen to escort him in as he resists, doing my best to comfort myself in my embarrassment and in my struggling attempts to be present and compassionate with him in his protests.  I have not been met with judgement, but with knowing looks, with compassion and with encouragement because we’ve been there, and we’re trying, and sometimes it’s really hard for everyone’s needs to be met.  In those moments where there is no pretending everything is ok, the sense of being enfolded in community is palpable, vulnerable and almost overwhelmingly intimate.  I am trying to come to the place where I can experience that sense of community and open myself up regularly without the level of crisis that usually prompts it to happen unbidden.  I continue to practice church.  How am I present with compassion for myself and others?  How do I lend myself to the larger sense that none of us are alone, in our joy or our discomfort?  How do I create this beloved community with you and in the world so my vision is more broad and more connected?

The last few weeks in spirit play we have been playing with the idea of family (if you haven’t brought in your family photo yet, there’s still one more week).  What makes a family?  How are families the same and different than each other.  How is church a family of families?

This week’s lesson focused on adoption.  We read a story about a boy and his adopted family as they expected to adopt a new baby into the family.  The kids were antsy and eager to move and play.  I was the door teacher and eager to sit and be still and sink into witnessing our classroom.  It was a good day of interaction with children, a visiting family and lots of energy and laughter.  I had come from the service where Rob had talked about sin and Christian rituals re-imagined and used powerfully with Unitarians.  We also sang, “Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child” which moved around in me and stirred things up.

Unity is my adopted church.  I was raised Lutheran and am grateful for the community in which I grew and learned.  It was also a place that did not seem to nourish my desire to seek a deep relationship with the Holy.  I was thrilled to study religion in college and wrestle with all that I had been given.  For a long time I found no nourishment in Christian spaces and when I desired to be a part of a worshiping community, I first adopted the Quakers and then I adopted you.  It has been a joy to be among fellow seekers where the path to our own answers is honored and informed by the gathered community.

These past few years have brought an unexpected twist to that journey.  To use the metaphor, my birth parents found me and we have been re-establishing a relationship.  Suddenly what I had felt lost feels profoundly found.  My original belonging to Jesus has been transformed and is meeting me now, exactly as and where I am.  Sometimes, though, it does feel like I live in two worlds a belonging both to my birth family and my adopted family.  Both in Christian and Unitarian spaces I can feel like a motherless child.

This is one of the reasons I show up each Sunday to be with your children.  I want them to feel that our community is their home, that they are loved here.  I want them to know by the attentiveness of their teachers that someone other than their parents see and love them.  That we are all family.  I want our belonging to each other to help us feel less alone and more willing to explore in the safety of our church home.

I have adopted Unity because it offers me the possibility of belonging to something honest, true and resonant for me.  I adopt Unity because I want to offer that belonging to others in our community.  I want our home to be hospitable and mutually inviting.  If you have come from some other place, why have you adopted this community?  If Unity is your birth family, why do you choose to stay?  Our freedom to come and go creates an authenticity in our community that I haven’t experienced in other congregations.

I believe our freedom in the classroom to sit where is comfortable, to pass if we need to, to play alone or with friends, creates a different version of authenticity that helps our children practice their choice making and gives them skills that all seeker’s need:  a sense of play and safety, a sense of courage and risk taking, the ability to try on new things, the practice of allowing for difference and the honoring of difference.

My hope for us is that we journey together in our exploration, that we adopt each other and care for each other in turn, that we follow our hearts desire and reach out to each other for support.  I hope that if and when we feel like a motherless child, that all our adopted family are there to welcome us home.

It’s a new year.  I have been happily anticipating moving from the storyteller role into the door teacher role.  Thankfully another teacher really wanted to tell the story consistently throughout the spring.  And so when I showed up to class two weeks ago and again last week to absence, I found myself looking at my own expectations.  This is a big part of my journey in Spirit Play and shows up in many different ways.  It’s that moment when you show up with one idea and then something totally different happens.

And so I came to class having not prepared to tell the story and then needed to decide how to meet the moment.  Since I taught the story role all last year, I knew the stories, or at least their basic outlines and after a quick consultation with my fellow teachers, I assumed the storyteller role.  I can imagine another time where this quick change would have un-centered me and where I would have been disappointed.  I can hear the old script in my head creating unhappiness because I wanted something different to happen.  Things didn’t go my way.  But, they did go a way and gratefully, I was able to go the way that the moment was going.  This is that moment of “yes” that improv is famous for.  The rule is to say yes to whatever story line is presented to you and continue on.  This is a spiritual principle too.  To accept the present moment as it is allows one a certain peace and freedom.

This aspect of flow or allowing the fullness of the moment is also an aspect of delightful play.  How many times have we heard our children build a story by saying yes to each other and, of course, heard tears and protests when the action of play is stopped by a no.  How wonderful to be in that opening and surprising place of being able to say yes.  I have a friend who works in a middle school.  There are many times where she needs to say no in her work.  Instead of no, she is trying to say, “yes, and….”.  She says that this sometimes works beautifully, calling both parties into a creative process rather than a power struggle.

In our spirit play class, we try to wonder in the spirit of yes.  We try to gently call each other into respectful speech and action by finding the yes in the situation we’re in.  We try to say yes when we show up to what we don’t expect.  We try to find some kind of yes so that we can fully experience what is unfolding and don’t get stuck seeing everything through a lens of disappointment or resistance.  Where do you find yourself in a space of yes?  When you want to say no, is there a way to play around to find a hidden yes?

We had many joys in our class on Sunday and only 3 sorrows.  The scale was tipped and weighed down with joy stones, but two of the three sorrows were about death.  One a fish, one Grey Papa.

This week in Spirit Play, we listened to the story of The Buddha and the Mustard Seed.  In this story, a mother’s son dies and she appeals to the Buddha for help.  He sends her house to house looking for a special ingredient to make a medicine; a mustard seed from a home where no one has known death, sadness or sorrow.  Our storyteller went around the circle asking the children one by one if they had ever been sad.  One child looked down and said, “Yeah, lots of times”.  None of us had a seed that could help.  The neighbors in the story didn’t have one either.

I was ready to have an interesting wondering conversation about what helps us when we face death, sadness or sorrow, but what emerged was Buddha.  With giggles, one of the children whispered, “It’s funny.  Buddha.  It sounds like booty.”  Hmmmm.

This Sunday we gathered to tell the story of the Unitarian Universalist ritual to celebrate and welcome babies into our community.

It was also the first Sunday that I got to try on the door teacher role.  You have to know that I have been longing to sit at the door since I learned more about the philosophy underpinning it’s role; a loving witness.  I value and honor the intention to physically embody the energy of threshold, safety and love that the door teacher assumes each week.  I think it is vital that there are eyes there, simply and powerfully to see and celebrate the presence of everyone in the room.

And then there’s the practice.  For any of you who have tried out meditation, you have likely had the familiar experience of making time to sit down and…your mind starts racing, you forget what you’re doing, you try to be calm and centered and the quiet itself seems to incite the inner life into an explosion of things to think, feel and do.  And all you were trying to do was sit quietly and peacefully for a few minutes.  It’s way harder than it appears.  And it’s part of the process of meditation to sit in the midst of that and try to simply come back, remember and breathe.
So I sat at the door for class and felt myself losing my focus….thinking about how I would tell the story this year if I was on the rug, wondering if I had forgotten anything as I signed folks in, musing about how I would change or re-write this story to make it more compelling for the children.  Oops.  And then I would come back and breathe and observe without the interpretive overlay.  And then I would lose focus…should I stop the child moving back and forth from the door to the rug to the door again?  Should I put my hand on her shoulder?  Should I ask her to just sit still till the story begins?  Is anyone distracted by her movement?  Oops.
Over and over in class this process happened and over and over I simply came back and tried again.  In this story, the Storytelling teacher blesses all the children and we welcome them by name.  The text of the story indicates the teacher should start with herself and then move around the room.   The teacher started blessing the children and my mind lost focus once more.  I wanted everyone to be blessed, everyone to be included.  Refocus.  In the present moment I simply observed again.  The children received their blessing and a rose, and then the teachers, and then the Storyteller received the blessing we all gave her.  Everyone had been included.  It had just happened in a different way than I imagined.  I almost missed it by holding too fast to my own expectations.  And, after all, what is the return to each moment?  It’s a return to new life the one right here in front of us that is happening and changing with such unexpected complexity and beauty.

And I too was included.  My name was recognized.  I was welcomed into the circle of our community, with all my distraction and all my attempts to come back to witness.  Even so, I am a part of it all, no perfection required.  We all are. That’s truly something to celebrate.

I have been waking up. I am waking up. Sometimes the dreams carried inside fade out and then re-emerge. The dreams are like everything else, they hang out in the soul. They are not lost. They have been planted and are waiting for the right conditions to open, to sprout, to transform.

My favorite thing is being in deep conversation about this human spiritual journey. How are things moving, for you? For me? For us? When does a community weave and open to the same strumming melody? How does the melody co-create our community, our bodies, our way of being in the world? How do we move with what’s moving?

New guidance is in my heart, a new thing to try. An old dream in different timing ready to knock on my heart again- ready to play with the physical reality.

“If you had a church, I’d go to your church”

“I have never met a Christian like you before”

“I wish there was someplace to go, like our space here”

Is it house church? Is it a video project? Is it a meditation gathering? Is it wisdom school? Is it chant? Is it community? Is it silence? Yes. And I don’t know yet.

I am ready to play.

More details soon….

Last week in our Spirit Play class we told the story of the Good Samaritan.  I love this version of our story as the end is a reflection about who was a good neighbor.  The character of the traveler is shown.  “Who was the neighbor to this one?”  We don’t stop there though, I held up the picture of one of the characters who had beaten the traveler.  “Who was the neighbor to this one?”  And I held up one of the people who walked by on the other side of the road.  “Who was the neighbor to this one?  We happened to have several visitors in our class on Sunday so we got to practice together.  How were we neighbors to our new friends?  How were we neighbors to each other?

As we often say in our congregation, “There are no other people’s children”.  We belong to each other.  We are all people’s children.  We all are unique in the world and carry a gift in us that is only ours to give.  How can we more clearly see this in all people?  I have been sitting with this all week.  Who is the neighbor to the person on the side of the road asking for money?  Who is the neighbor of all of the women in our country stepping forward with stories of disrespect and violation?  And we can’t stop there.  Who is the neighbor of those men? Love is not an either or.  At it’s best love is a generous unconditional flowing that overspills itself with kindness, humility, openness and restraint.  Love can see the truth of where we shine and where we wound one another, and call us into more.  It does not condone our acts of wounding, but expands compassion to move us to amends, toward reconciliation, to new life.  This kind of love is a discipline and a compelling invitation.

Any time we see others with judgement, it is an opportunity to grow and learn where our hurt is and how to heal it.  Any time we can point to “those other people” it is an invitation to expose our own belief in separation and begin to heal it by listening with humility to what is going on inside us.   Who is the neighbor to the judged?  Who is the neighbor to the one holding judgement?  We are called to be neighbor to both, to grow our love and compassion to hold both and to hold a possibility for something new to emerge that binds us into the creative work of bolstering belonging and the beloved community.

This work begins in us.  Are we an advocate of love and healing?  Where is love in this place?  In this person?  In this situation?  Who is the neighbor to my own heart?  Can I count myself as a loving advocate in my own quest for embodying love?  When I harm others, what does love call me to?

It was a family Sunday last week and the sanctuary at 9am was full of families.  My children were off for the weekend camping with their Dad and as I made my way to worship, a parent asked if I would accompany their child to worship so they could go teach our spirit play children who were gathering for class downstairs.  “Yes”, I said.  And “Yes”, said my heart.  This child had been in my spirit play class a few years ago and we talked about that and about how I looked very familiar to him.  We sat together and when KP told us a story about the first being last, my friend joined the crowd and afterwards made his way to class.  I sat in the warmth of community.  This is the community that I want at Unity and I had just been able to participate in it’s creation.  So many layers of yes.

I went downstairs myself pondering and wondering about the lesson, the second in our life cycle series.  I was curious and excited because one of our teachers had played around with the story and was presenting it creatively.  I smiled to hear that the story went well.  I listened in a different way.

The moment of class that stuck with me however was the circle time at the beginning.  We always sing and greet one another and then we go around the circle to share our joys and sorrows.  The storyteller this week decided to begin in the opposite direction of our usual flow.  Right away our insightful children reminded her that we usually go the other direction.  I know one of them, at least, had picked her seat hoping to go first.  The storyteller explained that this time we would go this direction and next time we could go the other direction.  Since I had just heard KP’s story, I observed this moment closely.  There was some delight on the part of the children who unexpectedly got to share first.  There was some disappointment and protest from those who thought they had secured the first spot, but ended up being the last to share.

I identify with both positions.  While I hardly ever position myself hoping to be first, sometimes when I have been very excited to lead and share, I too have felt the disappointment of feeling passed over.  The practice for me when this happens is to try to stay out of my story about what it means to meet a reality different from my expectations and to trust that everything is ok, no matter when my turn comes.  This has taken some practice.  Most of the time I can hear the voice in me grumbling about how my insight was so wonderful and it wasn’t honored in the way I wanted.  I hear it grumble in anger about how it isn’t fair that I didn’t get my way.  And I let it go.  This is easier on days where I am rested, secure and calm.  It is much harder when I’m tired, hungry or cold.  It takes practice to let go.  I want to practice this skill because those voices block out my ability to listen to whoever is going first.  The grumbles remove me from the present moment.  They definitely aren’t supporting me in living my life in integrity, service and joy.  And so I practice gracefully letting go so I can stay here inside what’s happening and witness the life that is always emerging.

While I frequently find myself going last, I occasionally find myself first in an unexpected way.  This can feel just as disorienting as its opposite.  I have sometimes felt put on the spot or unsure when I have been invited into the first place.  The practice for me when this happens is to try to stay out of my story  about what people expect of me when I’m first and to trust that everything is ok, even if I’m surprised.  This takes even more practice.  I far more often get swept away by these voices who push at me and tell me that I need to be quick and wise and step up.  They tell me that others are watching and listening and so this better be good.  I hear these stories and I try to let them go.  On good days I can do it, on challenging days, sometimes not.  I have learned to take a breath and take extra time when I’m suddenly first.  I give myself permission to pass.  I want to let go of the voice because, again, it blocks out my ability to be present in this moment with all it’s invitation and openness.  I practice gracefully letting go.

I am playing with this idea lately about the relationship between the world as it is and my response to it.  I am striving for that place of non-attachment, or active indifference which finds center and opens to life unfolding as it is.  It is an attitude that attempts to remain in the present moment no matter what that moment offers.  How can I rest in being primarily and be first or last secondly?  How can I rest in being primarily and be present to what is surprising or unexpected?  How can I be grounded and joyful, first, last and everywhere in between?  I’ll keep practicing.  When I do it gets easier and I build the trust that I am ok in every moment and it’s ok to be really present here all the time.

I live the depth of my life in two layered worlds.  I have been deeply formed by the Christian message and the life of Jesus.  My life has been dedicated to my conscious and active choice to model my living after this great sage.  It is also true that I have journeyed to find fellow travelers seeking authentic relationship to the Universe, and that journey has moved me beyond Christianity into the broad world of enlightenment and spiritual awakening.

These worlds, for a time, seemed quite separate.  I couldn’t find seekers in my church communities and it was hard to find devotees of Jesus exploring other traditions and spiritual teachers.  These worlds have been coming closer together inside my own journey for the past two years.

It started when I began studying a Hindu meditation style and wondering about what a guru was.  Quite clearly in my meditation, Jesus reminded me that my dedication to him made him my guru and there was an invitation to go deeper.  And so I did.  Jesus and I had been in a strained relationship for years, even though I still modeled my life choices after his example and teaching, so I made amends, got back in my Bible and started to pray.

The experience for me was like the colors after a rain storm.  The text was vibrant in a way it hadn’t been before.  The teachings were wise beyond any reading of them I had done before.  I had eyes to see the meaning now.  I had ears to hear.  I can’t explain how profoundly those scriptures, that had been living in my bones for years, transformed into teaching that explained the process of spiritual awakening.

The Lord’s Prayer was one of those texts that blossomed before my new eyes.  I could see that if I held Jesus in the light of enlightened spiritual teacher, everything changed.  I wondered why everyone didn’t appreciate Jesus more?  I don’t know about you, but I can have intelligent conversation just about anywhere about a teaching of Buddha without fear, but Jesus seems to trigger defensiveness.  It occurred to me that I’ve never had anyone say to me that if I didn’t believe in Buddha’s teachings I’d go right to hell.  Unfortunately, many Christians have stated that if I don’t believe in Jesus, that’s exactly what would happen.  It’s so sad.  That kind of judgement masks the message of love that I feel is the only reality of the Universe.

For these next several weeks I will be offering a daily devotional looking at the intersection of spiritual awakening and the teachings of Jesus as found in the Lord’s Prayer.  Open your eyes anew to the vibrant and relevant teachings of Jesus.  Join me as I knit the worlds together and open our sight and hearing.

The devotionals start tomorrow February 28th.  Please Sign Up to read and pray along.

This week’s reflection starts long before the classroom.  I woke up Sunday morning and started my morning meditation.

When it was time to wake up my children, I called to them through the door to their room so I wouldn’t have to open it and disturb the blanket fort they were sleeping under, it’s corner wedged between the door and frame.  I started to get dressed and think about breakfast when I heard my children talking and then yelling and then screaming at each other.  I called through the door again hoping my voice would disrupt their anger and retorts, but it didn’t.  In fact, I could hear that the argument had turned physical and they were hurting each other.  It was time to come in, fort or no.

These moments prove to me some of the most difficult parenting situations I encounter.  I want to protect both of my children from being hurt physically or emotionally.  I want the yelling and fighting to stop.  I want to bring calm to the situation, but their anger tends to fuel my anger, especially when they are more intent on continuing their argument than in listening to me.  I found myself getting louder and louder and more frustrated and soon we were all yelling and unkind to one another.  Embarrassingly, the melee ended by me tearing down the blanket fort and separating the children.

As I prepared breakfast and took some time to calm down, I marveled at how fast that situation had gotten out of control and how disappointed I was in myself.  I not only didn’t manage to bring calm to the situation, I added to it.  That is not the kind of parent I want to be.  Parenting is a spiritual practice for me and it truly breaks my heart when I fall short.

I first decided I needed to apologize to my son, who had built the fort.  I told him that I wished I hadn’t taken it down and I would help put it back together.  I apologized to my daughter for yelling.  We ate breakfast.  And then I built the fort myself, fixing the blankets higher than they had been which was a welcome improvement according to the kids.

And then we went to church.  It was story Sunday so we all went to the Sanctuary together and sat down.  Even though I sat between them, they started to poke and pick at each other disturbing those around us.  I stood up for the first hymn and noticed they were drawing a line on the pew delineating whose side was whose.  And then they started drawing a line up my back.  This was a sad moment for me.  I don’t want my children to feel scarce with my love and attention so that they need to claim their part of me.  I want all of me to be for both of them.  Listening to Jessica’s sermon asking us to please have mercy on ourselves for our moments of failure was just the balm I needed.

Our lesson in class was about the Persevering Ant who goes on a pilgrimage to find what is biggest and most powerful, ending up in conversation with God who was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.  One child said that the piece of fabric under the story was the most important part because it held all the other parts.  All the pieces were included.  And it made me think about one of the greatest powers of Love, to hold all things, even the things that we sometimes find difficult or painful.  To have mercy on myself means that the power of love can draw me back to my center and give me the strength to apologize.  It gives me the desire to wonder why I behaved the way I did this time and what I might do differently next time.  It gives me the assurance that there is more than this;  more than my painful learning as a parent, more than the smaller forces of fear and tiredness and hurt.  There are more chances, more relationship, more love and more mercy than I can exhaust by my mishaps and missteps.  This is truly good news and worth practicing again and again and again.  What does the power of love call you to?  Where do you need to have mercy on yourself?

Last Sunday I got to tell a story about listening.  The gist of the story was that Love/Truth/God is something that is always available to us if we stop and notice and listen. We experience this in the depth of our hearts, in relationship with others, through the gifts of nature, through stories, song and poetry and through the gathered community when people come together for service or worship.  Each way to experience had a section of underlay all it’s own separated partially by popsicle sticks.  After introducing each I said the refrain, “We practice listening.  We listen with our whole selves”.

Listening seems simple enough, but, like meditation, it’s harder than it seems to truly listen.  This is because it asks of us the same quality of presence that we use in meditation.  There is a person here speaking.  As soon as we start composing our response or associating about when that happened to us, we have ceased to be present.  I’m sure we’ve all had the experience of listening to another and missing what was just said as our attention wandered off to our own thoughts.  We maybe even appeared to be listening, but we weren’t really there.

I know from my work as a Spiritual Director and from my experience with friends and family that truly being in a moment by moment listening presence is  rare.  When we find those rare people who can simply be with us, listening, to whatever comes, it is a profound gift.  That moment requires receptivity and acceptance that isn’t found easily in daily life.  Most of the time we listen to others and they listen to us in order to try to teach, help, fix, analyze and advise us.  These interactions can be helpful, but how often are we allowed and offered the space to be exactly where, who and what we are in the moment?

And if we have such difficulty truly and deeply listening to each other, how can we listen to/for that Infinite Mystery we sometimes call God?  Where is the presence of Love in our beloved community?  Where is the presence of Truth in our sacred stories about people who have tried to live in faith and love?  Where is God in the gifts of the natural world that touch us through our body?  Where is the Mystery in our encounter with any other person, with our own deep heart?  And how do we come close with that formless and unimaginable Beyond that always just is?  When we start listening in any of these arena’s, when we come into awareness or silence to simply notice and look for Love/Truth/God, we start to find it everywhere.