What I Choose to Believe and What I Really Believe

This sermon was presented by Doug Trenfield on September 13, 2015.


My sermon today is titled “What I Choose to Believe and What I Really Believe.” I think if you look askance at the title and don’t think too hard, you get a pretty clear idea of what I want to talk about today, but if you look at it head on, like English teachers do, you can’t help but wince. You can’t choose to believe something; you either believe it or you don’t. It can’t be intensified. It makes no sense to really believe something, nor to sort-of believe something. If you wrote one of those in an essay for my class, I’d bust you up good. To believe something -- I almost said truly believe! -- is powerful. When you say you believe something, you imply that you’re ready to act on that belief. “I believe abortion is murder,” means you’re ready to fight as fervently to protect zygotes as you would be to keep an armed assailant from killing your neighbor. “I believe God watches over me and intercedes on my behalf,” means you will throw caution to the wind.


Degree of belief and power of belief are worth considering in some contexts. It’s important when trying to predict what behavior we can expect from a group of people. It’s a complex relationship, but only complex because the relationship allows for contradictory beliefs. We, the Aristotelians among us -- the annoying body of us who are bound to logic (I didn’t say logical) as an ideal -- cannot abide contradictory beliefs. To knowingly hold contradictory beliefs -- to believe God watches over you and intercedes on your behalf but also to believe that you should have insurance -- is untenable, it’s fingernails raking over a chalkboard, it’s . . . well, pretty awful.

I sound pretty tight-you-know-what, right? I am, but I’m not that bad. Let me illustrate. One Christmas season, my son Steve, probably aged 5 at the time, told me he thought there was no Santa. I talked with him about it, then confirmed his revelation. He was cool with it; it was time. The next Christmas season, then, I was surprised that Steve seemed to believe as fervently in Santa as he had before his revelation a year before. I asked him one day, gently, in a conversation, about his revelation the year before. He said, yeah, he knew, but believing in Santa was more fun. And you know what? I didn’t argue with him. See, I’m not that bad. I don’t take candy from kids, at least not my own, and I don’t poke holes in everyone’s beliefs just because I believe they are not grounded in logic.

I idealize logic. But I know it usually doesn’t carry the day for anyone, and is even less likely to when a belief in question is one that identifies who one is. The basic tenets of Catholicism, Judaism, or Islam, for example. I was raised, more or less, Protestant. We weren’t big churchgoers, but Protestant beliefs were definitely in the background. And in dem days -- I was in elementary school in the sixties -- the basic tenets of Christianity were, if not taught in schools, at least assumed to be true. Still, I was less connected to Protestantism than most, so shaking a lot of the beliefs was not so difficult when I went off to college -- really, for me, even before -- but even now, forty years later, their ghosts are with me. Here are some of the friendly ghosts (I’m happy to report the unfriendly ghosts of guilt and eternal damnation don’t reside in me), some of the things I choose to believe, sometimes, when I want to, when I need to, but that, nah, I don’t really believe.

I like to believe that God (I’m going to use masculine pronouns when referring to God because, dammit, that’s what we did) -- He has a special love for me. And you. And him. And her. And for each of the billions of people on earth, and the billions of people who ever were on earth. A special love for each of us. I had to include everyone, because that just makes sense. If He has a special love for me, He must have a special love for everyone, but what’s important to me is that He has a special love for me. He holds me in the palms of His hands. [Sing.] Isn’t that a nice thought? I don’t know if you, those who don’t believe this, can let yourself go in the belief for a moment, but if you can -- doesn’t it feel like you’re a kid reveling in the love of a parent? Maybe if you weren’t so lucky to have loving parents who protected you, this isn’t so powerful, or maybe it is because you missed it when you were young. But it’s powerful for me. I believe this most when I’m lonely, or when I hit a spate of bad luck, or when I make a spate of mistakes.

I like to believe that God answers prayers. I don’t believe this very often. I don’t really think about it very often, but when I do, I need help. When my mom was dying of cancer. Trying to understand my father after his death. My divorce. Bleak, confusing times like those. I didn’t know what else to do but to send out some kind vague plea to God. I don’t recall asking for anything specific, but I had to believe that He’d hear me, and that speaking to Him was important.

I don’t really believe these things. They don’t make sense. I’ll say more diplomatically that to me they don’t make sense, but as an Aristotelian, I really believe that they just don’t make sense. You might see it differently. I believe logic can give us all the answers if we have all the data, but I never said I was a perfect practitioner of logic, so if you disagree with me regarding these beliefs, I’ll grant that you might be right and I might be wrong. And if anything hung in the balance until we settled our disagreement, then we should debate. But I don’t think much does, and though I place a high value on truth, it’s not all I value. I value you, whether you agree with me or not. I value your integrity, who you are. I value beauty. I value peace.

Belief to most of us isn’t the solid, hard, impenetrable monolith it is to an Aristotelian. It has more functions, more important functions, than to reveal truth. I recall a good friend of mine finally able to lean back into this after spending forty years of his life trying to get everything from logic. He did what some of us came to call a backward conversion. You know how many of us UU’s are disaffected Christians? My friend converted to Christianity from UU-ism, and into a charismatic fundamentalist sect. But when he converted -- wait, a sidebar about the conversion. [Tell Eric story.] But when he converted, he tried to justify his conversion logically. And he couldn’t. His witness, which was important to his sect, was weak. He’d argue using the Bible as his sole source, which gave him no traction with those who don’t believe the Bible is the unadulterated word of God, I’m sure you know. Slowly, he let this go, though, and became a happier guy and, probably, a better witness.

Many Christians (and I’ll assume believers of other cosmologies as well) seem to understand this. A popular Christian pop song is called “I Choose to Believe.” Its chorus?


I Choose to believe


And never give up hope


God is good


He's in control


I'll keep the faith


I trust in His way


Even when His face is hard to see


I choose to believe


Googling around, I found a lot of this phrasing, “choose to believe.” Elder L. Whitney Clayton at the last General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints gave a presentation called “Choose to Believe.” Author Stephen King said in an interview in Rolling Stone, “Religin is a dangerous tool, but I choose to believe God exists. It makes things better.” There was a reference to something evangelist Kenneth Copeland said, but I didn’t think I could stomach reading that.

Is it so wrong to choose to believe something rather than have that belief confirmed by logic? I say no, so long as that belief doesn’t interfere with others. It can create so much beauty. T.S. Eliot (I can’t have a sermon without mentioning Mr. Eliot) pretty much chose to convert from UU-ism to Anglicanism because, he said, the beliefs and rituals helped him jump a synapse between a worldly and a spiritual existence. His poetry and plays following his conversion in 1927, the content and tone of his work shifted. As much as I like Eliot, I won’t claim to be an Eliot scholar, so I’ll throw this out there, my own observation, without confirmation for from the literati. I always thought his work after his conversion was more beautiful and hopeful (though no more or less artful) than his earlier work.

Believing what a community believes expediates social interaction and strengthens social ties. In 1969, Vern Bengston, a professor of social work at USC, began a study of 350 families that ran four decades. His research confirms that people activate their social needs more than they activate their logic when it comes to faith matters. The study, culminating in his book, Familes and Faith: How Religion is Passed Down Across Generations, looked at, among a few other things, faith transmission. HIs central conclusion (he had a lot of interesting conclusions other than this, so get the book if you’re interested) was that family bonds matter.

Bengston conducted the research, I’m assuming (I’m not in a position to critique his research), as dispassionately as a researcher should. In fact, he himself was not a believer in the faith of his family of origin. Until he was 67 and winding down his research, when he had what could only be described as a charismatic experience when he visited an old church in Santa Barbara on Easter. He didn’t report that in the service he attended the pastor was especially persuasive in his arguments for a Christian cosmology, but simply that he had a spiritual experience that made him a believer.

I haven’t had an experience like that, but since Eliot and Dr. Bengston, so firmly grounded in logic, can have them, I try to stay open. The limits of logic are astounding. I think we’ve got the process down pretty well -- major premise, minor premise, conclusion -- but we have so little data that it’s going to take us forever (I mean, forever) to figure it all out. I feel like we’re working on a 20 trillion piece jigsaw puzzle of our galaxy and we’ve only found a hundred of the border pieces. Is there a shortcut? Maybe. Maybe that’s what Eliot and Bengston and billions of others have found. And a shortcut to what? This jigsaw puzzle of the galaxy -- if we’re to truly see any part of the picture we need the whole picture, if we insist on the puzzle analogy. But maybe, if all I want to do is feel connected and affective with my communities (which is pretty significant) -- family, Harlingen, the region, the state . . .  -- maybe I don’t need that puzzle as much as I think I do.

My father used to say -- turns out he was quoting Unitarian and Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. -- your freedom to swing your fist stops where my nose begins. I believe we need to, and as UU’s we do, apply this to the beliefs of others. Mostly the cosmology someone believes in does not affect us. Peace.

 

A Long, Strange Trip - Part I

This sermon was presented by Shirley Rickett on 25 October, 2015.

Imagine yourself in a cave.  It is deep in the womb of the earth. It is so completely dark you cannot see your hand in front of you. Then the torches arrive and you begin your charcoal sketches on the walls of the cave. It is spirit that guides your hand, the hand of the artist. The walls offer a shoulder to an animal, a ripple for running legs.

Some years ago, my spouse and I watched a 3-D documentary directed by Werner Herzog:  The Cave of Forgotten Dreams.  It was one of the most mesmerizing pieces of film and art I have ever witnessed.  The artists created magnificent cave art 35,000 years ago in the Chauvet cave in southern France.   The people were Cro Magnum humans of the Bear Clan.  Not the amusing Disney creatures of the Ice Age but people we have much more in common with than we may like to think.

Artist, John Robinson, who specializes in rock art said, “The Bear Clan couldn’t have survived without possessing a sophisticated language, let alone have created art.”  (The Art of the Chauvet Cave:  Ice Age Paleolithic Cave Paintings, Bradshaw Foundation, “Return to the Chauvet Cave,” online).   Robinson, one of the few people allowed in the cave to study the art in Chauvet, was astonished at the beauty of line, the energy and detail.   In the film, archaeologists and linguists explain that humans of this time believed that there was only one language shared with trees, grass, wind sky, water. In other words humans were not separated from what surrounded them.  Much like indigenous peoples of the world, they were a part of it all:  one language, one spirit, one all.

A few years ago I attended a workshop held by John Phillip Santos. His book, Places Left Unfinished at the Time of Creation, was a National Book Award Finalist.  The workshop was on the genre Memoir, which in recent years had been booming. He spoke about how something was happening. He didn’t believe the recent rush to Ancestry.com and the Genome Project was accidental.   He cited at least three books that discussed how our DNA could be changed based on the newest technologies.  He believed the heightened interest in ancestry and memoir was a kind of unconscious collective movement in response to advances in technology that is moving faster than the time needed to know and understand what that may mean, ethically and morally. Modern science tells us that the history of the human race lies in the DNA of each of us.  If DNA is changed in us, who or what will we be?

 I begin here on the long, strange, trip to make a point about UUism. Human beings evolved and adapted and we share the history of ourselves, our species, in our DNA.  Just to touch that time and people through art gives me goose bumps. It was long before Christianity of course, but the quality of art speaks to us today, and illuminates the seventh principle, “respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are all a part.” 

Now imagine the time is 100 years or more before the birth of Christ.  Near Qumran, “white-robed ‘spiritual-seekers’ had walked out of major cities of the fertile crescent to gather into small communities” in the most remote parts of the desert.  (The Essene Book of Days, 2002, p. 7).  Professor  L. Michael White has said that:  “It has been sometimes suggested that Jesus, himself, or maybe John the Baptist were members of this group.” (“A Portrait of Jesus’ World—The Essenes and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” online). This group known as the Essenes had abandoned Jerusalem in protest over how the temple was run. (White)

The Essenes, mentioned in the Bible in the company of the Sadducees and Pharisees, were only a few of the diverse, early Christian groups present around the time Jesus was born.  We know more about the Essenes because of the scrolls they hid nearly 2000 years ago in several caves on a rugged cliff on the banks of the Dead Sea. They were first discovered around 1947.   Both the Dead Sea Scrolls and the books known as Nag Hammadi first discovered in 1945, were found by accident, and both took years to come to the eyes of scholars due to theft, antiquities dealers,  and the black market, until they finally attracted the attention of the Egyptian, Palestinian and Israeli governments. (Pagels, p. xv)l

 Elaine Pagels is a scholar of the history of Christianity.  Her book, The Gnostic Gospels, is a fascinating look into one of the Christian groups around the time of Jesus that allows us to understand origins of ideas other than orthodox we know today, and to consider diverse ways of thinking on words  Jesus said, may have said, or that were hidden from those who would destroy them. Her thesis is to show how gnostic forms of Christianity interact with orthodoxy and what that tells us about the origins of Christianity itself,  (Pagels, p. xxxiv). She says at the end of her introduction, “By investigating the texts from Nag Hammadi, together with sources known for well over a thousand years from orthodox tradition, we can see how politics and religion coincide in the development of Christianity.” (Pagels, p. xxxvi)l

Briefly, here are three religious liberal ideas from the Gnostics:

                        They questioned if suffering, labor, and death derive from human sin.

                         They celebrated God the Father and the Mother. Women were considered equal and participated in their services and worship.

                        Christ’s resurrection was considered symbolic, rather than literal.

In the town of Naj ‘Hammadi, December, 1945, an Arab peasant stumbled on 13 papyrus books bound in leather.  An excited Professor Gilles Quispel, distinguished historian of religion at Utrecht in the Netherlands, flew to Egypt in the spring of 1955.  He deciphered some codices from Nag Hammadi and was startled to read:  “These are the secret words which the living Jesus spoke, and which the twin, Judas Thomas, wrote down.”  This was a newly found text of codices that had finally made its way to the Coptic Museum in Cairo. Did Jesus have a twin brother? Could this be an authentic record of Jesus’ sayings?  “What Quispel held in his hand, the Gospel of Thomas, was only one of the fifty-two texts discovered at Nag Hammadi…” (Pagels, p. xiv)  In the same volume, the Gospel of Phillip stated,  

                        … the companion of the [Savior is] Mary Magdalene.

                         [But Christ loved] her more than [all] the disciples,

                        and used to kiss her [often] on her [mouth].  The rest

                        of [the disciples were offended] … They said to him,

                        “Why do you love her more than all of us?  The Savior

                        answered and said to them, “Why do I not love you

                        as (I love) her?” (Pagels, p. xv)

This is Pagels:  “Other sayings in this collection criticize common Christian beliefs, such as the virgin birth or the bodily resurrection, as naïve misunderstandings. Bound together with these gospels is the Apocryphon, literally, ‘secret book’ of John, which opens with an offer to reveal ‘the mysteries [and the] things hidden in silence’ which Jesus taught to his disciple John.” (Pagels, xv, xvi)

Quispel and others first published the Gospel of Thomas and they suggested the date of c A.D. 140. Some thought that since these gospels were considered heretical that they must have been written later than the gospels of the New Testament, which were dated c. 60-110.  Professor Helmut Koester of Harvard University, “has suggested that the collection of writings in  the Gospel of Thomas, although compiled c. 140, may include some traditions  even older  than the gospels of the New Testament, ‘possibly as early as the second half of the first century’ (50-100)—as early as, or earlier, than Mark, Mathew, Luke, and John.”  (Pagels, xvi, xvii)

Some of the texts that describe the origin of the human race, that is, the Garden of Eden story is quite different from the Old Testament.  The story is told from the point of view of the serpent! “Here,” Pagels says, “the serpent, long known to  appear in gnostic literature as the principle of divine wisdom, convinces Adam and Eve to partake of knowledge while ‘the Lord’ threatens them with death, trying jealously to prevent them from attaining knowledge, and expelling them from Paradise when they achieve it.”  Another text, entitled, Thunder, Perfect Mind,  provides this poem in a feminine voice of divine power:

                        For I am the first and the last.

                        I am the honored one and scorned one.

                        I am the whore and the holy one,

                        I am the wife and the virgin …

                        I am the barren one,

                                    And many are her sons …

                        I am the silence that is incomprehensible …

                        I am the utterance of my name.

                                                                        (Pagels, p. xvii)

Pagels asks the obvious questions, “ … why were these texts buried and why have they remained virtually unknown for nearly 2,000 years?  She answers with:  “The Nag Hammadi texts, and others like them, which circulated  at the beginning of the Christian era, were denounced as heresy by orthodox Christians in the middle of the second century.  We have long known that many early followers of Christ were condemned by other Christians as heretics.” ( Pagels, xviii)

Bishop Irenaeus who supervised the church in Lyons, c. 180 wrote five volumes of condemnation that began a campaign against heresy, the action in itself an admission of the Gnostic Gospels persuasive power, says Pagels, yet the bishops prevailed.  Emperor Constantine’s conversion and the official recognition of Christianity as an approved religion in the fourth century saw Christian bishops in power who were formerly victimized by police.  Copies of banned books were burned and destroyed.  Possibly a monk from a nearby monastery hid the Nag Hammadi books in jars where they remained almost 1,600 years.  (Pagels, p. xix)

Why are all of these stories important to the history of Unitarian Universalism ?   Two things:  The unorthodox and unincluded  texts from the Dead Sea scrolls and the Nag Hammadi books carry again and again signs of liberal religion thinking. Second:  UUs tend to lean toward metaphor opposed to the literal translation of words said to be church law.  In religious discussions this was important historically and seems to be just as important today. In some cases, people’s lives depend on their ideas and beliefs, then and now.

Pagels tells us that the writings are unmistakably related to Jewish heritage and many tell secrets about Jesus.  These Christians are called gnostics from the Greek work gnosis.  “For those who claim to know nothing about ultimate reality are called agnostic (literally, “not-knowing.”) And the person who does claim to know such things is called gnostic,” or ‘knowing.’ “The Greek language distinguishes between scientific or reflective knowledge ,” such as ‘he knows me,’ she knows math.’ The gnostics use the term to indicate insight because gnosis includes an intuitive process of knowing oneself. “And to know oneself, they claimed, is to know human nature and human destiny … To know oneself at the deepest level means to know god, this is the secret of gnosis.” (Pagels, p. xix)

A gnostic teacher, Monoimus said:

                        Abandon the search for God and the creation and other

                        matters of a similar sort.  Look for him by taking yourself

                        as the starting point.  Learn who it is within you who

                        makes everything his own and says, ‘My God, my mind,

                        my thoughts, my soul, my body.’ Learn the sources

                        of joy, love, hate … If you carefully investigate these

                        matters you will find him in yourself. (Pagels, p. xx)

This and other passages struck me as similar statements UUs make when we speak about who we are:  Everyone must find her own path.  Everyone is free to seek what is inside of him, to use what experiences she brings to a sacred space to find the Beloved.   In other words, liberal religion.

Pagels reasons that what was found at Nag Hammadi shows striking differences between the New Testament and the references the gnostic texts made to it, and to the Old Testament scriptures, and the letters of Paul.  Briefly the differences are, 1, Orthodox Jews and Christians insist a chasm exists between humanity and the creator. The gnostics contradict this idea with this:  self knowledge is knowledge of God and the self and divine are identical.  2, The ‘living Jesus’ of the gnostic texts speaks of illusion and enlightenment versus sin and repentence. Instead of a saving us from our sin, Jesus comes as a guide and spiritual master.  3.  Orthodox Christians believe  Jesus, Son of God, is forever distinct from the humanity he came to save.  The gnostic Gospel of Thomas says that Jesus sees and recognizes Thomas, and says to him that they both came from the same source:  “Jesus said, ‘I am not your master.  Because you have drunk, you have become drunk from the bubbling stream which I have measured out’ …”  (Pagels, p. xx).

The Gnostics stayed close to the Greek tradition, and for that matter to  Buddhist and Hindu traditions.  The British scholar of Buddhism, Edward Conze, points out that Thomas Christians (those who knew the Gospel of Thomas) were in contact with Buddhists in South India and knew that influence.  Gnosticism flourished from A.D. 80 through 200 as trade routes between the Greco-Roman world and the Far East opened up. (Pagels, xxi) Unitarian Universalists draw on  East and West religious thought as they do among other world  religions as sources.  

Gnostic ideas, writings, and practices were too “creative,” “inventive” to withstand the Nicene Council and the organization and authority of orthodox Christianity.  Elaine Pagels says that the fifty-two writings discovered at Nag Hammadi gives only a glimpse of the complexity of the early Christian movement.” (xxxv) She concludes that

                        … the Nag Hammadi discoveries give us a new perspective …

                        we can understand why certain creative persons throughout the ages,

                        from Valentinus and Heracleon to Blake, Rembrandt, Dostoevsky,

                        Tolstoy, and Nietzsche, found themselves at the edges of ortho-

                        doxy.  All were fascinated by the figure of Christ—his birth, life,

                        teachings, death, and resurrection:  all returned constantly to

                        Christian symbols to express their own experience.  And yet

                        they found themselves in revolt against orthodox institutions.

                                                                        (Pagels, p. 150)

This paper serves only as a brief examination of the diverse early Christian movements and signs of liberal, religious thought, which were the reasons many early Christian groups were condemned as heretics.  Part II will begin with the Nicene Council and cover one particular figure, Michael Servetus, who lived in the Middle Ages.

Finding my UU Identity

This sermon was given on August 16th by Rachel Alvarez.

Reading # 1

“As responsible religious seekers, we recognize that we are privileged to be free, to have resources to pursue life beyond mere survival, to continually search for truth and meaning, to exist beyond bonds of dogma and oppression, and to wrestle freely with truth and meaning as they evolve.

“This privilege calls us not to be isolated and self-centered, believing that our single perspective trumps all others, but rather to be humble, to be open to the great mysteries of truth and meaning that life offers. And those mysteries may speak to us through our own intuition and experience—but also through tradition, community, conflict, nature, and relationships.

“As a faith tradition, Unitarian Universalism makes sacred the right and responsibility to engage in this free and responsible quest as an act of religious devotion. Institutionally, we have left open the questions of what truth and meaning are, acknowledging that mindful people will, in every age, discover new insights.”

—Rev. Paige Getty, UU Congregation of Columbia, Maryland

Reading # 2

“Unitarian Universalism is a fierce belief in the way of freedom and reverence for the sacred dignity of each individual… we have sworn eternal hostility against every tyranny over the mind.

           

“Unitarian Universalism is cooperation with a universe that created us; it is celebration of life; it is being in love with goodness and justice; it is a sense of humor about absolutes.

           

“Unitarian Universalism is faith in people, hope for tomorrow’s child, confidence in a continuity that spans all time.  It looks not to a perfect heaven, but toward a good earth.  It is respectful of the past, but not limited to it.  It is trust in growing and conspiracy with change.  It is spiritual responsibility for a moral tomorrow.”

--Ed Schempp, quoted in Our Chosen Faith:  An Introduction to Unitarian Universalism by John A. Buehrens and F. Forrester Church

Sermon: Finding my UU Identity by Rachel Alvarez

               My religious identity has shifted throughout my life, as I’m sure it has for many of you.  The way I identify myself, and my views of religion, have changed over time, and I imagine they will continue to evolve in the future.  As the child of a Jewish mother and a Catholic father (neither of whom were very religious), I found that attending a Unitarian Universalist church, which I began attending in first grade, confused me.  Growing up, I struggled to explain my religious background to friends, and often wished I could provide a clear-cut, familiar answer when the topic of religion arose.  Recently, however, I have been reflecting on my upbringing and find that I am grateful to have been exposed to a variety of systems of belief, and can now identify as a Unitarian Universalist, and explain our faith in a (mostly) coherent and effective way.

My father was raised in an Irish Catholic family.  As a child, he went to church reluctantly with his family, and he attended a Catholic high school.  He recounts stories of the nuns who taught him, and the trouble he caused at Archbishop Williams High School, just outside of Boston.  As a result of his antics, he claims, his three younger siblings were barred from his school and were instead sent to the city’s public high school.  As an adult, my father has never attended church. He studied philosophy and English in college, and has always encouraged me to think critically and question the ways of the world.  He is interested in different cultures and systems of beliefs, but as far as I know, feels very little connection to his Catholic roots.

My mother was raised in a reform Jewish household.  She attended Hebrew school and had a Bas Mitzvah, and her parents were active members of their synagogue.  They did not keep kosher, but did celebrate holidays each year.  My mother travelled to Israel with my grandfather when she was 20.  By the time my parents had met, my grandmother had passed away, but my grandfather was supportive of my mom marrying a non-Jew.  Coincidentally, one of my mom’s two brothers, by that time, had married an Irish Catholic woman who grew up in the same town as my dad!  Small world.  So, while Jewish, my mother’s family was rather liberal.  Aside from the occasional visit to a synagogue, my mom does not identify spiritually with her Jewish upbringing.

As a child, I grew up identifying myself as “half-Catholic, half-Jewish.”  Living in a predominantly Catholic town in Massachusetts, the Jewish part of my background made me feel unique, and was a source of pride to me.  This appreciation for my mixed religious heritage persists, although I do not feel much connection to the belief systems of either Catholicism or Judaism.  I found an article that resonated with me.  It was published in the Wisconsin Jewish Chronicle, and written by Leah Blankenship, a graduate of the Jewish Cultural Studies program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.  She writes,
"Many children of intermarriage say they simply cannot turn their backs on the non-Jewish half of their identity.  This openness to multiple identities is particularly true among college students, according to Daniel Klein and Freke Vuijst, who interviewed hundreds of students for The Half-Jewish Book, published in 2000.  Klein says that those who consider themselves to be half-Jewish 'feel they are a combination, they are an amalgam, they are bicultural.' A 2005 survey by Hillel, The Foundation for Jewish Campus Life, found that 48 percent of college students who consider themselves Jewish come from intermarried homes. It's from this population that a new subculture is emerging of 'people who draw from both sides of their heritage and synthesize their cultural halves into a remarkable new identity,' the authors write."
Like many young adults from intermarried homes, I felt a sort of crisis in trying to synthesize the two halves into a whole identity.

Now thinking of being “half-Catholic and half-Jewish,” seems laughable to me.  Rather than fitting into both Catholic and Jewish communities, I did not feel that I could fit into either one.  After all, that “Catholic half” of me did not understand the rituals, like First Communion, CCD, and Confirmation, that my peers went through during elementary, middle, and high school.  I could not recite the Lord’s Prayer, and I felt entirely lost during the few Catholic masses I attended with friends after sleeping over at their houses.  I never knew when to stand up, when to kneel, what to say in response to the priest, or what to do while all those around me went up to the front of the church to get their communion bread.  I never felt that I fit in with Catholicism.  It seemed to me like an exclusive club that I would never be a part of.  And yet, I still called myself “half Catholic.”

Similarly, my “Jewish half” would have been lost in a synagogue, and, despite celebrating Passover and Hanukkah in addition to Easter and Christmas, I never felt connected to the holidays for their religious or spiritual significance.  Each year, until I was about 8, and a few odd years sprinkled in later, we went to my aunt and uncle’s house for a Passover seder.  According to ritual, the youngest person present at the seder asks the four sacred questions.  I was always the youngest, but as a shy little girl, I always hated this part, and refused to ask the questions, leaving my older cousin to take my role.  After the seder dinner, the kids looked for matzoh hidden around the house, and got little chocolate coins as treats.  These are my only memories of Passover, which I haven’t celebrated in nearly twenty years. For Hanukkah, my mom and I lit the menorah each night, and I would say the prayer with my mom, both in Hebrew and in English.  I took great pride in learning to pronounce the Hebrew, but didn’t really agree with what I was saying. This was about the extent to which I understood my “Jewish half.”

Even during the years that I called myself “half-Jewish and half-Catholic,” I could have provided another, albeit more complicated, answer.  Beginning in first grade, I started attending First Parish Church in Cohasset, Massachusetts, a Unitarian Universalist congregation, with my mother.  She decided that, as a compromise between the differing backgrounds of her and my dad, UUism would be a good solution.  UUism is quite common in that part of the country, where it originated, and First Parish is located right on the town common, where it was built around 1750.  Despite its impressive history and place in my hometown, I never knew how to explain UUism (something I still struggle with as an adult), and so, lacking a good description of it to share with my friends, I abandoned this identity and deferred to the Catholic-Jewish hybrid. 

In an article titled "The UU Identity Crisis," Rev. Dr. Todd F. Eklof writes,   
   
"Today I hear lots of talk about individual UUs needing to have an ‘elevator speech' prepared in order to readily tell others about our unique faith. But these statements are often so different they hardly seem to be describing the same thing, and many, even at that, have trouble coming up with just a few simple sentences to describe the essence of Unitarian Universalism. Some say it’s a religion that accepts all faiths and you can believe whatever you want. Others say we believe in the worth and dignity of every person, along with some other principles they can never quite remember. Still others highlight our emphasis on social justice in the wider world, while some describe our support of one another’s individual spiritual journeys. Although all of these touch upon some genuine aspect of who we are, none seems entirely adequate in expressing our UU identity, if there even is such an animal at this point."

And so, because of the challenge in truly explaining what UUism is, I found difficulty in explaining it to others.  Even so, it was a wonderful community to be raised in. First Parish had a strong religious education program, and I grew up attending Sunday school, singing in the church’s junior choir, participating in our annual traditions, and eventually participating in the UUA program, Our Whole Lives, which was sexual education.  Thinking back, it’s pretty interesting to me that I took sex ed at my church, and it was very open and progressive, from what I remember.  Since the time we first started attending First Parish in 1991 my mom has been very involved in the church.  I still attend with her when I am up in Massachusetts, and it feels like home, among people who have watched me grow up. My dad doesn’t attend, but each Sunday, when my mom is heading out to get to church, he jokingly reminds her, “Say hi to God for me!” 
   
During my 7th and 8th grade years at First Parish Church in Cohasset, Massachusetts, in addition to Our Whole Lives, I took part in the church “Coming of Age” program.  For the program, we were instructed to choose a mentor in the church, a supportive guide along our path of religious exploration.  I chose Janet, a woman around my mom’s age who took me out for lunch dates, recommended books for me to read, and bought me a nice journal in which to record my thoughts and reflections.  Along with the other 13 and 14 year-olds, I spent two years exploring religion and trying to formulate my own beliefs.  During our 7th grade year, we visited several different UU churches all over Massachusetts, to compare them with our own experiences at First Parish.  During our 8th grade year, we visited places of worship representing other religions, including Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism.  At the end of the two years, each of us gave a presentation to the congregation called our “Statement of Belief.”  I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I think I mentioned that I don’t think God is some white man with a beard in the sky, but that some kind of higher power exists.  I remember I was given a hymnal, signed by our minister and a necklace in the shape of the chalice from my mentor, which I decided to wear today.  I felt very grown up, worldly, and sophisticated.
   
Although I felt confident as a graduate of the Coming of Age program, I continued to question my religious identity.  Growing up, I knew I wasn’t Catholic, because of my meager participation in any of the rituals and rites of passage.  I also didn’t feel Jewish, but since my mom was Jewish, and since I was “more” Jewish than most of the people in my hometown, I felt connected to that side a little more strongly.  As a senior in college, I heard about an opportunity to learn more about my Jewish half.  Someone told me about The Birthright program, and I decided to go to Israel.  For those of you not familiar, Birthright is non-profit educational foundation that sends Jewish young adults to Israel for ten days to explore their heritage and beliefs.  The trip is completely free, funded by philanthropists and the Israeli government, in the hopes of helping young adults forge a stronger connection with their Jewish heritage.  Thinking back to the study I mentioned earlier, that states that 48% of college-aged Jewish people came from intermarried homes, I can see the reasoning behind the efforts to strengthen connections to Judaism.  Because of my strong sense of wanderlust, I really wanted to go, not so much to explore my spirituality, but to visit a far-off land at no cost.  I was worried that I wouldn’t be “Jewish enough” for the trip.  After all, I didn’t attend synagogue, I didn’t speak Hebrew, and I didn’t know much beyond the basic beliefs of Judaism. However, once I made it through the application process and phone interview, I was surprised and comforted to find that many of the others in my group of about 30 people, ages 18-26, had similar feelings.  Many had been raised in a similar, secular home, by parents of different backgrounds.  Throughout the week, we hiked at Masada, floated in the Dead Sea, sang songs, learned about the history of the Jews, visited the Western Wall, toured historic synagogues, and even celebrated Shabbat, the Sabbath, with an orthodox family.  I remember at one particular session, one of the leaders, Michael, discussed the insecurity many people have with “not feeling Jewish enough.”  It felt wonderful for these feelings that I had held for much of my life to be spoken aloud, acknowledged, and validated.  Michael assured us that, no matter our background or upbringing, we would be welcomed and embraced in Judaism, and just knowing that made me feel so good, so accepted.  I felt a new interest in my Jewish side.  I started imagining that, upon returning to the States, I could join Hillel, the Jewish organization on campus, for my last semester, and start attending synagogue.  Still, though, I had trouble reconciling my beliefs, or lack thereof, with the tenets of Judaism.  I had an amazing time in Israel, but upon my return, my enthusiasm waned, and I never did make it to a Hillel meeting.

After graduating from the University of Richmond in Virginia and moving here to the RGV, I did not attend any religious services for about five years.  When I first moved here, the lack of separation between church and state turned me off religion completely for a while.  So many coworkers asked me which church I attended, that I felt the urge to rebel by proclaiming that I did not attend church, and no, I did not want or need help in finding one.  However, during one of my visits home to Massachusetts, when my mom and I attended a service at First Parish, I was struck by the sense of community I felt, and the thought-provoking discussions people held afterwards.  Back in the RGV, I decided to finally check out this fellowship that I had driven by so many times, and I am so glad that I did.

Now, as I wrap up my twenties, I have found myself revisiting my beliefs.  Despite what I said as part of my Statement of Belief so many years ago, I have begun to question the existence of God.  I feel grateful to be part of this fellowship where, whether one believes in one God, many gods, or no god, we are all encouraged to pursue our own spiritual paths, while also being accepted by such a supportive community.  In preparation for this presentation, I looked through the archives of the NPR series, “This I Believe,” and found an essay by Penn Jillette, the comedian/magician.  In his essay, titled “There Is No God,” he states that,
“Believing there is no God means the suffering I’ve seen in my family, and indeed all the suffering in the world, isn’t caused by an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent force that isn’t bothered to help or is just testing us, but rather something we all may be able to help others with in the future. No God means the possibility of less suffering in the future."
As part of my shifting religious identity, I have begun to question the existence of God for these same reasons.  Why would an all-powerful God allow such horrors to occur, without intervening?  I used to say that, “everything happens for a reason,” to comfort those going through a challenging time.  However, the more I think about it, I doubt that I believe that.  With all of the terrible tragedies occurring around the world each day, would God continue to watch it unfold for the sake of testing our faith?  Would he or she watch people die young, tragic accidents occur, deadly wars ravage thousands of lives (often over religion itself), doing nothing?  Do these things truly happen for a reason?  In the words of Rev. Marisol Caballero of Austin's First UU,
“…healing, peace, and even happiness may be found in the direst of circumstances – not because of some half-baked theology that causes people to say such things as, 'everything happens for a reason,' and, 'God never gives you more than you can handle in a day.' That's crap! The gaping holes in this thinking are apparent in the face of tragedy, stark injustice, and disease."
So maybe these tragedies do not follow rhyme or reason.  Instead, as Jillette states, could it be that we have the capacity to work on resolving those challenges?  Of course, the prospect of us humans solving some of these big problems, whether by developing a cure for cancer, bringing about peace, or ending racism and poverty, sounds ambitious and overwhelming; still, for me, it brings me some comfort to think that we could be in control of the future, rather than letting that higher power have all of the control over our world. In both First Parish and the UUFHC, I have found myself surrounded by people who are active in social justice issues, and I am proud of UUism as encouraging us to take action and face these challenges affecting our global community.
   
Along with the presence of God, I wonder to what degree, if any, fate exists.  I used to think that each little piece of my life was like a puzzle piece, and that the pieces would fit together for a reason.  Now, I’m not so sure.  For example, did I move to Texas because I was destined to meet my husband, Mark?  I don’t think so.  However, I do at times reflect upon the small, seemingly meaningless choices that led me to where I am right now.  If, when confronted with the choice between taking Spanish or taking French in 7th grade, I had chosen French, perhaps my whole life would have turned out differently.  That one decision, seems to have contributed to many of the major life events that I have experienced.  I chose Spanish.  I majored in Spanish, I studied abroad in Spain, and I ranked the Rio Grande Valley region as my first preference on my Teach For America application partly because of my interest in utilizing my Spanish language skills.  So, did it all happen for a reason?  Did I choose Spanish because I was destined to make my life here?  I’m not sure I would go that far. 

I do feel that the decisions we make add up to make the lives we lead.  I guess this is different from the concept of fate.  I, after all, was the one to make each of those decisions.  But, it still makes me wonder at the amazing importance of the many choices we make along the road of life.  We are in control of our futures.  This comforts me more than the idea that God has a plan for us laid out, a plan over which we have little control.
           
Because of my lifetime spent in the Unitarian Universalist community, I feel comfortable with my questions and my evolving religious identity. I enjoy thinking about these concepts, like the existence of God and the reason things happen. My more recent move toward agnosticism/atheism can still fit into UUism, and, as a UU, I feel I can still honor my family's backgrounds, both the Irish Catholic Doyles and the Eastern European Jewish Litvins.

I feel very lucky to have been raised in an amazing, supportive, liberal, open-minded congregation in Cohasset.  Now, as an adult, I truly appreciate having rediscovered UUism as an adult, here at the UUFHC.   No matter one’s individual beliefs or backgrounds, whether he or she was raised Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Hindu, or atheistic, all religious journeys are welcomed by our faith.  While this can make our religion a difficult one to define, the diversity of UUism makes it richer and gives us great potential for affecting change in the world. 

In Our Chosen Faith:  An Introduction to Unitarian Universalism, UU leader Wallace W. Robbins is quoted as writing:
Ours is a church of reason-- not because the mind is free of errors, but because the dialogue of mind with mind, and mind with itself, refines religious thought.
Ours is a church of moral work-- not because we think morality is a sufficient religion, but because we know no better way of showing our gratitude to God, and our confidence in one another.
Ours is a church of conscience-- not because we hold that conscience is infallible, but because it is the meeting place of God and the human spirit.
Ours is a non-creedal church-- not because we have no beliefs, but because we will not be restrained in our beliefs.

Often, I have described UUism by what we are not.  We don’t have dogmatic beliefs, we don’t have requirements for membership, like specific rites, rituals, heritage, etc.  However, it can be useful to consider what UUism is and what it provides to us as members of this community.  For me, it provides a sense of identity and fellowship, and an opportunity to consider my impact on the world around me.   

Now, instead of identifying myself as “half-Jewish, half-Catholic,” I proudly identify as 100% Unitarian Universalist.  Just as the title of the book I referred to indicates, I feel now that I have truly chosen UUism as my faith, and feel proud of this community.  As a UU, my years of feeling incomplete, or not enough to fit into any religion have been replaced by an understanding and appreciation for the challenges, for the uncertain journey, for the freedom to question and reinvent oneself that is part of Unitarian Universalism.