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.

The Rev. Sally Hamlin speaking.

In The Wind in the Willows, Mole has just returned to his cozy home underground. Soon he lays his head contentedly on his pillow. Before he closes his eyes he lets them wander around his room, “mellow in the glow of the firelight. . . on familiar friendly things.” How good it is to be back! Yet he would not want to abandon the splendid spaces above ground; he has no intention of turning his back on sun and air and creeping home and staying there. “The upper world was too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage.”¹

Welcome, everyone! I am the Reverend Sally Hamlin, Minister of the First Universalist Church of Rochester.

Welcome to this service, to this beautiful house of worship.

In another couple weeks we will celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the first service in this building on October 4, 1908. When the merger of our two faith traditions occurred in 1961, each church in Rochester kept a name reflective of its theological origin, one Unitarian, and one Universalist. Thus, we have our historical First Universalist Church of Rochester, and we have First Unitarian, both of which are Unitarian AND Universalist. This can be a bit confusing at times, especially to a new visitor or guest today, so I thought I would mention that fact here, today, to clear up any confusion.

You may have found your way here today from another faith tradition or traditions. For those of you called ‘come-outers’, you have chosen this church as your religious home. You have decided to make this place, these people, your people.

Or you may be here today as a birthright Unitarian Universalist – a ‘born-inner’, as we say. Perhaps you were raised Unitarian or Universalist, and can claim a lifetime in this religious home.

Or perhaps, as many before you have, found your way to us, not having come from any particular tradition, but out of a deep personal yearning for a religious home. You came looking for a community involved in religious search, one that does not give up on the dream, the vision of what is possible in the world. You longed to be part of something greater than yourself, looked for a place to consider those questions sourced deep in your heart: what is the meaning of my life, why is there so much suffering in the world, how can I grow to be the best person I am capable of becoming? What is my understanding of the Divine, and what do I call that understanding? Is it God? Is it Ground of Being? Is it Nature? Is it Love?

And once here, you felt at home. Perhaps you cannot explain what it was that happened to you at the first few services you attended. Perhaps, what happens for many, happened to you? Did tears fall from your eyes? The relief, along with an intense feeling of joy, is what many experience at first here. The relief that, finally, once and for all, you found your religious home.

Here, the scope and breadth of what is possible in a beloved community gradually becomes known, and unfolds in ways previously only imagined. What feelings grow here are never achievable as a result of individual endeavor alone, but rather, come into being as a result of the natural affinity sparks of humanity have for one another, and like tiny stars, we leap toward one another in the search for light in the darkness, illuminating and expanding the fires of the Spirit of Life, the power of that combined combustion, fueling one another’s search for understanding the mystery that is called Life.

For this process of finding a religious home is best done as a collective process, undertaken with the efforts of many, with the understanding that we do not, we cannot, act alone, in the building of a religious home.

Yet despite being called a pilgrim people, our bodies and souls fill with longing and desire for roots that ground us, and a place to stretch our wings and explore all the mysteries that abound within a sanctuary of trust and respect. It is a wholly human longing to have such a religious home to call our own.

And I find myself very grateful lately that I have found my way back home. This time, I am not speaking of the metaphor of home, but actually, now, I am literally home. Home to my beloved western New York, to loving family members and friends, to the great lakes of Erie and Ontario, and the rolling hills of the Finger Lakes and of Allegany and the Adirondacks. Back to four seasons and the excitement of lake effect snowstorms, back to the land of my home. I love this part of the world. It is part of what defines home for me.

Yet it would be remiss of me in a sermon titled Coming Home, not to consider the meaning of having a religious home, or any home for that matter, without speaking of the homelessness that occurs daily, all around us. Global migrations of human beings are now seen in unprecedented numbers; millions of people displaced from their homelands, as a result of wars and conflicts and global warming, in places such as Darfur, Sudan, and in Iraq and Afghanistan, millions live in temporary shelters, moving, moving, always moving.

Most recently we heard that those displaced to Houston after Katrina, are homeless once again after the ravages of Hurricane Ike.

Unfortunately, the need for emergency shelter is not unusual in Rochester. We are, in this regard, too like many other places around the country. It is estimated that in any given week in the U.S., at least 200,000 children are homeless, with forty-two percent of those children under the age of five. In the San Francisco area, over 45,000 homeless live on the streets. An unimaginable number, really. Like a small town, the homeless roam the hills of the Bay area.

So what can we do about this? How do we reconcile the situation of our own relative privilege and the needs of so many? As a religious community, we possess what many in our country and around the world, dream of, clamor for, yet, in all likelihood will never have. We live in a community that is mostly safe from natural disaster. Many of us have inherited privilege as descendents of mostly European ancestors, and/or have had the advantages of good education and health care.

I recognize that we are not a completely homogeneous congregation, that some among us claim other identities, have known paths of struggle with class or race or gender which may be hidden from obvious view. So when I speak of our privilege as Unitarian Universalists, and as residents of this country, I want to make it clear that I understand that our struggles as individuals are often not acknowledged, and I do not diminish the depths of these struggles in any way.

But if the advantages we experience as Unitarian Universalists can be used to work for justice in the creation of better world, our work must be based upon the acknowledgement of our privilege. It behooves us to acknowledge it, not hide who we are or where we come from. Power and privilege, not acknowledged, or misunderstood, can unintentionally be used for harm, rather than for good. When we understand power and the sources of it, we may move forward more clearly, and use what we know and have and claim, to change the world for the better.

And from what I have observed, that is exactly what you have done at First Universalist. That is who you are. You have chosen to stand with those who are experiencing something most of you have never experienced. Yet, you have taken the time to learn, to study the issue of homelessness, and have, as a congregation, and in many cases, as individuals, decided to work with RAIHN.

Right here in this building, every few months, we meet face to face with those affected by the problem of homelessness, when we offer hospitality as part of First Universalist’s commitment to house those served by the Rochester Area Interfaith Hospitality Network, or RAIHN.

This deep commitment you make to others, shown with your time and with your devotion, demonstrates that you know that the devastating effects of homelessness for people in this very community, is profound. And your commitment is inspirational.

And this says a lot about your spiritual journey as individuals and as a religious community. You have decided to live our first principle which speaks of each person’s inherent worth and dignity. You recognize in your pledge to live by these guidelines that it could be you who is homeless, who has lost the job that led to a loss of health care, that led to a loss of a prescription plan, which led to not taking medications that keep a chronic illness in check, which led to an expensive hospitalization, which led to huge bills left unpaid, which led to a loss of a home, which led, ultimately, to being homeless. In another disturbing twist on the six degrees of separation theory, this scenario I just described could be true for any one of us.

The alienation and frustrations of the middle class are no joke. As the costs of just maintaining a roof over one’s head continue to rise, and, in the light of the past weeks national financial crash of banks and investment companies, along with our government’s bailout at our future expense, we are held in suspense as our retirement accounts diminish right before our eyes. We cannot predict what the future holds for any of us.

A few days ago, I attended the annual Symposium on Hunger and Homelessness at a hotel just a few blocks from here. I attended the workshop offered by Donna Ecker, co-director of Bethany House, the Catholic Worker house of hospitality for women and children in Rochester. As I listened to Donna speak of the philosophy and mission of Bethany House and the services it has provided for over forty years, I realized once again that the basic need of each human being to have shelter and food and a safe place to rest, is the same the world over, despite the circumstances which caused one’s homelessness.

And meeting that basic need is what RAIHN is all about. But it is also about much more than that.

Because when you volunteer to take a shift at RAIHN, what you offer to our guests, who are temporarily homeless, is much more than a bed and a few meals. It is about offering a message of hope, that there are people who care in the world, and that you are one of them. It proves that there are still those whose faith and belief in the inherent worth and dignity and goodness of all, calls them into service with compassion.

And the learning does not stop there.

As a RAIHN volunteer, you have the opportunity to find out that you are important as a human being. That, just by being you, you can make a difference in another human being’s life. The guests who stay here, bring their children here, sleeping in this very building, offer you a unique opportunity to see in the face of the other, what it is that is truly important about life.

As a volunteer for RAIHN, you can begin to remember what it feels like to matter in the world. You begin to recall that you are important. That the gift of your personhood is all you are asked to be. All you are asked to be, whether in the world or here at First Universalist, as a seeker or as a member, is yourself. The only one who can be you, is you.

And that, my friends, is enough. You are enough.

It is said that the definition of home is that it is the place that, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Well, whether it is a religious home you seek, or a temporary home in which to rest your head for a night to be safe and warm from the elements, with your children sleeping soundly nearby, may it be here that we find one and the same.

I would like to share a poem I wrote a few years ago with you now, titled “Coming Into the Home Stretch Now”.

Coming into the home stretch now
It was no less than everything that it took to get you where you are this very moment.

Like an athlete in the Religious Olympics this time.
You have trained for this event your whole life.

The focus- everyday, for what has seemed like forever;
the hold- of the dreams, of the hopes, of the “I know I can do this”
the release- of family, of friends, of belongings, of home
the persistence, the showing up everyday, without wavering
- to come here.

To the event of your life. It is no less than that. No less than everything.

What did you think? Did you think that it would be easy?

For some of you it is like coming home. Finally, home.
For some of you, it is like entering a new home. Familiar, and beckoning.
For others, it remains less strange than it was one short week ago.
Your journey, all your journeys, have brought you to this place.

Now I say:
Let it be no less than everything that you bring here.
Let it be all that you have carried and sorted and held and released.
All the good-byes, the letting go, the falling away, the separating wheat from chaff.
The separating.

You belong here.
And isn’t that a relief to know?
Your whole life’s journeys have deposited you in this place now.
Here is my advice to you: let it be like this, exactly.
Like the naked athletes who stripped away all non-essentials to hasten their arrival at the finish:
Come.
Coming into.
Coming into the home. The home.
Coming into the home stretch.
Stretch.
Claim now the wreath of olive branches and let it circle your heart.
You. Spiritual athletes all. Come into the home stretch. Claim your prize.

May we continue to give thanks for the many ways in which we have already made it home.

BATTER……UP!!!

May it be so. 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 September 21, 2008. No part of this sermon may be copied without permission of the author.