Reverend Sally Hamlin speaking

Part of the preparation for my move to the Bay area five years ago to attend seminary included selling and packing up the home where I had lived for fifteen years. I worked on this methodically from the time I received my acceptance letter from Starr King School for the Ministry in December, until the day of my actual move in August. Sorting through possessions: keepsakes from my daughters’ early childhoods, old love letters written when I was newly infatuated, boxes of files and papers and unread books, old kitchen knickknacks- just lots and lots of stuff.

Each box was a stroll down memory lane, and I moved along this path slowly, not wanting to miss a thing. I wanted this transition, one of the biggest in my life, to be marked. I wanted to honor it and not let it pass without its due acknowledgement. A lot of life had occurred in that house, this place of childhoods, marital passages and deaths of family members, health challenges and career shifts. All of it was reflected in, not only the contents of the house, but in the sense of place of the house: the gardens I had built and designed, the huge messy maple tree out back that littered the yard with endless branches which fell when a strong wind blew, the deck off the back of the house where I had spent countless hours gazing upward, skyward, watching the wind move the clouds which came off the lake, listening to the animals, the squirrels and the birds, the buzzing insects that hummed in the deep heat of summer, and the rustle of the leaves of the huge trees that were like God’s own whisper to my soul.

I know within my body the ways the weather feels in Western New York. I can tell in my bones what the weather is planning even without looking at the barometer that stays near my front door. My body became the barometer in humid weather; it took on fluid like a dry thirsty cottonwood drinks in the first deep rain. In spring in Buffalo, the earth itself takes on a heady scent that reminds me that we walk upon a live underground world, supported by the pulse of Mother herself, her smell musky when she awakes after her long winter slumber.

I could predict thunderstorms, and there are some magnificent ones in here Western New York, by reading the patterns of the leaves in the trees; and I could forecast snowstorms by watching the way the clouds bank and form their mass: they huddle down low and dark.

Looking back at my memories of that place, and especially of how I depended upon the weather patterns for orienting myself, I am surprised that I did not predict that I would feel so displaced by my move to the West coast, where the weather patterns were all new to me. At times I felt a great sense of both sadness and bewilderment, that goes beyond missing family and friends, and that I framed as part of simply not knowing how the weather in the East Bay “worked”. I realize I had simply not learned to read the signs of the weather there in my first few seasons. The seasons are more subtle, the changes unpatterned and unpredictable to my emigrant eyes.

However, when I would speak about the disorientation I felt with native Californians, I was often met with blank stares, or with incredulous faces that implied something like: there is weather in Buffalo that you would miss?

There was one person who responded immediately and with compassion to my bewilderment. Rebecca Parker heard something beyond the words I was speaking and took the time to listen to my story of dislocation and displacement. She patiently explained the northern California seasons to me, taking me through each subtle shift in an imaginary year. She explained the weather by describing the colors of the hills and how they change from gold to emerald green, the seasons of the flowering plants and trees, how the air patterns move, and when and where the birds would appear.

When she did this, I felt as though I could finally consider this place as a home for me. I could imagine it to someday feel like something I could know, in my body, although at the time this knowing felt like a long ways away. Whether she knew it or not, Rebecca extended a very big kindness to me that day; she gave me hope that this place would one day feel like home.

Why is the sense of place so important to our sense of feeling at home? How and why do we use our sense of place to navigate our world? What is it that Rebecca Parker did that helped with my feelings of displacement?

Yi-Fu Tuan, a geographer at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, says that the sense of place and rootedness that people have increases proportionate to their experience of languaging within the place. He says that how a place is spoken about, described and named, and how a person is introduced to it will influence their connection to it. Language, he says, “is never neutral”¹ and that “words have the general power to bring to light experiences that lie in the shadow or have receded into it, and the specific power to call places into being”.²

How does this information help us in our church community?

If it is a fact that almost 80% of new Unitarian Universalists come to our faith from some other religious tradition, then we can assume that most people come to us by choice. But it is necessary to consider that even though this is true, these so-called religious immigrants may still have some difficulty understanding the new ‘culture’ they find themselves in. New members may be suffering from a feeling of displacement, which is defined as “any movement or shift from a customary setting”.

People who are born and raised in our faith tradition have had the opportunity to name the landscape of Unitarian Universalism, so to speak. They have a familiarity with its symbols, rituals, traditions, language, and culture. Our religious ancestors created Unitarianism and Universalism by naming it, they languaged it. They called it into being. They brought to life something that did not exist before. Part of our heritage and what gives it such power is that many of our forebears also suffered and sacrificed for these beliefs, some of them with their lives. This profound commitment, in part, is what underlies and makes vivid the pictures of the stories of our faith tradition. Knowing these stories helps us have a sense of being part of something much larger than ourselves. When we light the chalice together on Sunday morning, we are instantly transported through sight, and words, and symbol across centuries and oceans, to our religious roots, and connected vibrantly to the web of life of which we are a part.

But even many life-long or old-timer Unitarian Universalists can unknowingly suffer the effects of displacement when their congregations shift and grow with the addition of new members.

The effects of displacement should not be underestimated, especially when it comes to religious identity. Two contemporary theologians (Nieman and Rogers) describe the impact of displacement thusly: “Displacement separates us from the patterns that have been central to us, the strategies that have helped us mark off who we are. . . it threatens the very core of what culture at its best seeks to provide. . . ways toward identity, belonging and action.”³

While these same theologians argue that we usually associate the effects of displacement with immigrants from other countries that come to North American culture either by choice or as a refugee from persecution, “displacement is a cultural issue of some considerable magnitude for native-born Americans as well. . . Americans no longer tend to live and die in the same place”, and “Middle class professionals have been described as the new migrant workers.”⁴

So even though you may have come to Unitarian Universalism from another faith tradition, where rituals, roles, and polity were clearly defined for you, it is likely that your previous religious experience no longer “works for you”, or you would not be here. You may have felt hurt by your tradition in some way, or been denied full access to its rituals or practice because of some core part of your being or identity, such as your gender or sexuality, for example.

If this is the case it may take you some time to feel at home here in Unitarian Universalism. You will have some work to do to heal your wounds. It will take some time, but we will help you.

Or, conversely, you may be one of the people who immediately felt at home once you attended a UU worship service. I have heard this from more than one person to know this is not an uncommon experience.

But it cannot be assumed that all people will immediately feel at home in a new congregation where, our UU ideals or tenets, our rituals and our roles, our polity and absence of creed and doctrine are new or different.

If we want to help new members or visitors feel welcomed and part of our congregation then the learning about Unitarian Universalism must take place with the understanding that how we language the experience for visitors and new members will have a huge impact upon them. It will influence their level of participation, their sense of belonging, and, most especially, it will influence how long people will stay with us, or, whether they decide early on, that the differences are too vast to navigate, and will require too much emotional, spiritual and psychological work on their part.

As Nieman and Rogers, the theologians quoted earlier, say, “as a private psychological wound like grief or depression, the effects of displacement can . . . easily remain hidden from others” and may even make it difficult for those suffering from the effects of displacement to recognize others around them who may be suffering from the same plight, thereby increasing feelings of isolation, rejection, and cause “available social resources for expressing and addressing displacement. . . unused.”⁵

What are the implications of this information for us as Unitarian Universalists who, as a religious group, have a higher percentage of visitors than other denominations, and yet have one of the lowest “stick around and join” rates?

The first thing we can do to assist in diminishing the power of displacement is to name it, to “draw this reality into the open and make it visible.”⁶ It is important for both the minister and for the congregation to have a sense of how disorienting cultural change can be for those who are experiencing it for the first time.

If you have come to us from another faith tradition, do you remember the first time you participated in a Unitarian Universalist worship service? If you identify as one who carries hidden wounds from other religious experiences, this recollection is critical. This will be the first step in not only feeling that you belong here, but it will crack open your heart and allow the loving healing community that is First Universalist to embrace you on your path to wholeness.

When we listen to one another’s spiritual journeys, sharing our stories with one another, we begin to create a bond that can deepen a tentative connection or cement an otherwise wavering one. We have begun the process of languaging a spiritual home together.

Part of this naming and listening is what “rounds out the task of attentiveness, testing our understanding by holding us accountable to others”(96). Such naming helps to begin to pave the path to reclaim a lost vision for those who are displaced, so that they can find in our church community a destination, a home, and thus, recover some sense of purpose, hope and belonging, building social capital along the way.⁷

We have much to learn about what shapes and strengthens our congregations. For those of us who have successfully navigated the journey from another faith tradition to Unitarian Universalism, we especially treasure our new found faith community. We value our polity and the freedom it provides.

Much like I have had to learn to read the signs of a new geographic weather pattern in order to feel a sense of place, home and belonging in California, we need to begin to offer one another a listening heart, much like Rebecca Parker did for me that afternoon,. By recognizing the longing that our visitors and seekers have for a true religious home where all of who they are is welcome, we can take the first step, provide a willingness to hear the tale of the traveler’s journey to help the wandering pilgrim find a home in our Unitarian Universalist congregation.

Today, about fifteen minutes after the service ends, and for the next few weeks the Membership Committee and I will be offering a series of gatherings that will begin this sacred dialogue of sharing our stories, of languaging one another into a sense of place. It is our hope that as we begin to practice intentional religious hospitality, that we will help others find in First Universalist, a place to call home.

We invite you along for the journey.

May it be so. Blessed Be. Amen.

©This sermon was written by Reverend Sally Hamlin for the congregation of the First Universalist Church of Rochester, New York and was delivered on October 19, 2008. No part of this sermon may be copied without permission of the author.