WHAT A WONDERFUL MESS—Andrew Davis

Oh, What a Wonderful Mess are We

Good morning. Are there any drums in the house? Your time is coming, so please be patient, while I start today’s talk with three questions.

Could I see the hands of those of you who have never disagreed with anyone about anything?

Could I see the hands of those of you who are fairly certain there is at least one other person in this room who disagrees with you on an issue about which you feel strongly?

Finally, could I see the hands of those of you who at least once have had one of those epiphanies in which you suddenly realized you were disagreeing with yourself?

Oh, what a wonderful mess are we.

We know, then, at least this much: the odds of total agreement even among a small group of us is slim to none on a good day.

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Yet knowing this, and in spite of this, we not only keep coming back to this place we call church, we choose to sit beside those with whom we know we will at least occasionally disagree. Therefore, I can only conclude we’re not here because we need institutional backing to make us feel good about being right while everyone else is wrong. After all, if “right” were the issue, each of us is already “wrong” in the eyes of at least one other person here, and even worse, sometimes we find ourselves on both sides of the same argument at exactly the same time.

Who knows? Maybe we’re even more of a mess than I imagined, which naturally begs the question, what kind of mess are we?

The Reverend Barbara Wells ten Hove argues that our seven principles “are not dogma or doctrine, but a guide for those of us who choose to join and participate in Unitarian

Universalist communities.”

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I love this sentiment. By rejecting both dogma and doctrine, we also reject the temptation to waste time worrying about being more “right” than others. Still, I don’t think we’re crazy to want at least a little bit of “right” in our lives.

Our humanist sources argue that reason applied to evidence is necessary to distinguish truth from falsity. It’s not only important, but a moral obligation to get our facts straight, to draw reasonable conclusions, and to be open to a logical critique of those conclusions. It’s how we make our lives better. And yet, some of us are skeptical of reason at the expense of emotion, of too much head and too little heart.

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Our Christian sources argue that we should love our neighbors as ourselves, which I’m pretty sure is what my mother meant when she told me to play nice with others. Strange that a church would struggle with its religious roots, but we do.

Without this struggle, however, we wouldn’t exist, and struggle we did. Ours was a difficult childbirth, followed by a very loud and boisterous childhood that I imagine was highlighted by several notes home complaining that | we kept running with scissors when we should have been happy we were allowed to walk—but it was that very childhood that allowed us to grow to the point where we could embrace pluralism as we do today.

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And then there’s the “God/Goddess/Creator/Whatever” thing. Some of us are comfortable with one or more of these words—others not so much. Still, theists and atheists sit side by side in peace—most of the time. Monotheists and polytheists are equally peaceful—though occasionally they forget which one’s which and why. Even those on opposite sides of significant philosophical divides—monism vs. dualism, transcendence vs. immanence, empiricism vs. romanticism, analysis vs. intuition, even art vs. science—we all coexist side by side in peace, or at least with no hitting. Even better, we willingly work side by side for peace | because that which pulls us together is far more powerful than that which pushes us apart.

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And if words ever become too much of a barrier to understanding, the Buddhists we are smile that wry, Buddha- smile to remind us that what’s left of ourselves can never wake up enough. Or, when we’re so confused we find ourselves wandering around aimlessly, our pagan selves just beat their drums until even the most talky among us—that would be people like me—realize we might as well just shut up and dance.

Though as a matter of full disclosure, I would like to point out that this is about as “dancey” as I get.

So, yes, were a mess—a most wonderful mess—but a mess nonetheless, and frankly I like it. After all, the human condition isn’t clean and orderly, though it does occasionally demand we impose at least a little cleanliness and order on our lives lest they spiral madly out of control. And to immediately disagree with myself, I’d like to point out that too much order and cleanliness can also lead to outlandish fits of too much control.

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Or to put a positive spin on it, maybe it’s not that we disagree with ourselves so much as we willingly plumb the paradoxes we are for meaning—and that sounds like some strange mix of Jewish-Sufi-Shaman-thinking, which clearly isn’t messy at all.

There are times, then, when I think we’re like that showman who spins plates on sticks. What he does is amazing, but no matter how great his skill, he can only keep multiple plates spinning by himself for a few minutes at a time. Too many plates—or for that matter, the right amount, but for too long—and disaster strikes.

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We’re at our best, I think, when each one of us focuses on his or her own plate, takes a deep breath, and works to keep it spinning. That way, whenever any of us get tired, we can reach up and pluck our plate out of the air before going off to play or take a nap or have a nice meal or whatever else it might be that we want or need at any given moment. And if each of us takes care of both our self and the plate we’ve chosen to spin, then we can also pay attention to the work and play of others so that there is always more than one plate spinning; thus, our wonderful mess becomes an amazing sight.

Still, there are times I’d like to imagine we’re just one thing, regardless of how clearly I know we’re not. It would make questions like “Now, what is a Unitarian Universalist?” so much easier to answer—but truth be told I don’t really want

“easy.” I want meaningful, not only for myself, but for everyone else here with me as well.

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This is why I so often turn to art to help me sort through the meaning questions I encounter. And in our search for meaning today, the art I’d like you to consider with me is music, specifically, a song by Mary Hopkin.

Ms. Hopkin is a Welsh folk-singer who broke onto the music scene in the late 60’s. She won a talent show in London, was signed to the Apple label by Paul McCartney, and appeared doomed to slip into a brief career as a teeny bopper—until 1971 when she released Earth Song-Ocean Song and everything changed—especially with the track titled “Water, Paper, and

Clay.” The lyrics are in your order of service, and I’d like you to listen as she sings it for us.

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Now, I’m too old to actually believe in the illusion of my own plans, but for those of you ready to drum or sing your way into happiness at the drop of a hat, please remember to let those of us less gifted than you hear the words as Mary sings them.

There will be plenty of time for you to take over later.

I give you Mary Hopkin, singing “Water, Paper, and Clay.”

So much for teeny-bopper, eh?

For me, “Water, Paper, and Clay” touches on everything

Unitarian-Universalism is at its best. As I mentioned before,

Mary Hopkin is from Wales, and the Welsh know a thing or two about messiness. For example, the landscape of Wales is full of sacred springs. In pagan times, people believed these springs were the places where the land of women and men came into direct contact with the land of the Sidhe (pronounced Shee) or fairies.

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One of their more important goddesses, Brigit (pronounced

Bre-hid) daughter of Dagda, is the namesake of at least one spring in Wales—and in Ireland | and in England | and in

Scotland | and in just about any other country where Celtic culture once held sway. These springs were so sought after for blessings and healings, that Brigit (Bre-hid) the Pagan Goddess became the Brigit, the Christian saint. Today, pagans and

Christians alike still visit her springs for the blessings they believe she will bestow on them. Like I said, it’s messy in

Wales, but Mary Hopkin understands that messiness is a blessing not a curse.

The lyrics of “Water, Paper, and Clay” not only grow out of such messiness | but give purpose to it in the form of the life cycle of birth, marriage, death, and final return, all wrapped into the four elements plus one: water, clay or earth, air, fire, and paper.

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I’d like to share my thoughts about each one, in the order they were sung to us, before I play the song again and ask you to join in however you wish.

Water. Without it, there is no life. What better element, then, for celebrating birth. We use water to clean and bless our children. Water is the link that brings balance to a world sorely lacking it. With water, we grow. Without it, we die for water | is life. Water blesses life. Water is soft and hard, calm and storm. If anything is holy on this earth, it is water.

For me, water both reminds me of my limits | and challenges me to push myself beyond them. It is the model I follow to find myself when life spins out of control. Water finds clarity through stillness, and we could all do worse than to learn this lesson.

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When I see water, especially in its natural state of rain or river, lake or ocean, snow or ice, as opposed to that which comes out of a faucet or a plastic bottle, I’m reminded of my freedom and my limits: to abuse one brings about the wrath of the other, and so I seek out the playful middle—neither too hard nor too soft, too swift nor too slow, just gently alive.

Paper. Without it, we are stuck in the immediacy of now.

What better creation, then, to remind us of our minds and the obligation we have to nurture them. Paper both contains and releases the imagination. It is where we can safely learn to confront stupidity and cruelty with reason | and wrestle them both into submission. Paper stands for our commitment to ideas and from it emerges science, law, and the entire humanist tradition. Paper is how we tell our stories so that they will be remembered by more than just ourselves. If anything represents a mind able to improve itself in spite of itself, it is paper.

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Now, paper is the “plus one” element in the song, and more than anything else, it symbolizes the power we have to right our wrongs. Long ago, when paper was a scarce commodity, a single letter became many letters. I would write my letter to you on a single piece of paper. You would respond to me by writing your letter in between the lines of what you had received from me, and when I was ready to respond I would erase my original text and write in the space that was left. There was evidence that an earlier text was there, but the first text did not dominate what replaced it. This trace of the old that precedes the new is known as a palimpsest, and if we’re honest with ourselves we too are palimpsests.

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As we grow, learn, and move on from past mistakes or triumphs we replace the parts of our old selves we’re ready to let go with the new selves we’re ready to become. The mark of the old, though, is always with us because we’ve learned from it in order to become something new and, hopefully, better.

Clay. Without it, there is no earth on which to live. What better element, then, to remind us of home. Clay is work and is shaped by work; it works us as we work it. Clay holds us in place and allows us to push against it to make the beginnings of our journeys easier to bear. Clay protects us both in life and death. At rest it contains the potential to wake up and change not only itself, but all that we are. If anything can protect us from ourselves, it is clay.

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When I think of clay, I first see a mother’s arms enfolding her child. Then I see Kay’s and my dogs—Augie and Bailey, two pure white Bichons Frises—wallowing in mud. For me clay is both sublime and ridiculous. It is the world’s most abundant resource, and yet so few of us know what to do with it, even fewer know how. There is something wonderful about grabbing a handful of clay, about kneading it until it comes alive to the touch, pushing it up and out until it simultaneously fills space with strength and fragility, waiting to breathe in the fire that will temper and transform it into useful beauty, a mode of transition,

I think, we could all do well to embrace.

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Air. Without it, we neither breathe nor dream. What better element, then, to lift us up and out of ourselves so that we can actually see both others for whom they are and ourselves for whom we are. Air is the power to seek both within and beyond ourselves. Air makes play possible and gives shape to the sounds that carry our words to a meaningful end.

If anything offers hope in the face of despair, it is air.

When I think of air, I imagine the comingling of breath from both flora and fauna. What we exhale, plants inhale, and vice versa. It is the most perfect symbiotic relationship I can imagine, and I am humbled every time I remember how much I both need and am needed. Neither plant nor animal can have dominion over the other without threatening their own existence.

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I know that storms rise out of changes in barometric pressure and humidity | and temperature and geothermic activity

| and the jet stream and the Gulf Stream and oceanic salinity levels and solar activity, | etc., etc., etc.—but I prefer to think of storms as not so subtle reminders | that if we don’t remember our proper place in the world, the world might just get rid of us.

After all, there are plenty of other animals who exhale CO2 as well or better than we do. Air reminds me to aspire to be better today than I was yesterday, to be better tomorrow than I am today.

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Fire. Without it, we destroy everything we love by forgetting that we must find the balance between creation and destruction. What better element, then, to burn away the deadwood and waste that suffocates new growth and dreams.

Fire helps us find focus and, yes, it leaves a mark no matter how careful we are with it, but it also serves as a marker to help us find our way home in the dark. It keeps us warm when we are cold. Fire pushes us to never settle for good enough by helping transform good to great. If anything can temper our lives to make it possible to survive more than we thought we could bear, it is fire.

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The Ancient Greeks argued that the Titan Prometheus not only created man from clay but betrayed all immortals when he gave fire to humans. As punishment he was chained to a rock for eternity. Each day, an eagle comes down from Olympus to feed on his liver, and each day he endures that pain—without anesthesia or opioids of any kind, mind you—only to grow back his liver during the night and prepare to offer himself, however unwillingly, for another feeding the next day. All of this, I must admit, makes me glad I’m not immortal. But more to the point,

I’m reminded of the power of fire, and how those privileged enough to have such power too often confuse themselves with gods | and seek to punish those who just want to come in out of the cold. Water may be life, but fire—both literally and metaphorically—makes life worth living. Hording it, makes us unworthy of life.

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There you have it: my musings on water, paper, clay, air, and fire. So, now it’s time for me to pause and let Mary Hopkin take us where we’ll let her. If you want to sing along or beat your drum, or for the truly gifted among us, both at the same time, please do. But whatever you do, make the song your own.

Play “Water, Paper, and Clay.”

Remember how I started this talk? On one level, I asked you to think about our differences, but on another level, I used our differences to help each of us imagine what makes us special and to remember that as a church we do not exist without the uniqueness each one of us brings to the table. So, I’d like to close by asking you to consider the symbiotic relationship between “I” and “we” that is the heart of Unitarian

Universalism.

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When I hear Mary Hopkin sing “Water, Paper, and Clay,” I see us at our best, and I hope you can see some of that for yourself, too: better yet, I hope you can see something I haven’t even begun to imagine. More importantly, when we gather for lunch after the service, I hope each one of us is able both to discover something valuable and unique about at least one other person here | and to let at least one other person learn something just as valuable and unique about you.

Mary Hopkin sings it far better than I can say it, but I’ll leave you with this: may your life be blessed with the best you can make of yourself | through the help of water, paper, clay, air, and fire.

Thank you.

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