Sermon Archives : Earlier Sermons
Celebrating Imaginative Faith
April 20, 2003, Easter Sunday
At the canvass dinner two weeks ago some of us created bumper stickers for Unitarian Universalism. You may have noticed them on the bulletin board. One of the ones I really liked was “Unitarian Universalist: Born Okay the First Time.” I know it has a little edge—still it captures something really important about Unitarian Universalism. We affirm the worth, dignity, beauty, and wonder of humanity. We seek the inner light that shines in all hearts. We strive to live in a way that demonstrates our respect for individuals--all individuals. What is precious in us is inherent, we were born this way!
Today, though, there’s another bumper sticker I’d like to offer. “Unitarian Universalist: Born again and again and again.” My bumper sticker idea affirms something important in Unitarian Universalism as well. Our potential isn’t realized once and for all with acceptance of a particular creed, or even with a dramatic conversion experience. Our blossoming doesn’t stop when we finally see The Truth. Not only do we reject that way of thinking about truth, we embrace an ongoing unfolding of each human spirit. We believe rebirth is possible. Renewal will come. Again and again.
Experiencing rebirth and renewal requires a capacity to imagine. To form a mental image of something not present to the senses or never before wholly perceived in reality. I’m borrowing there from Webster’s definition of imagination. As far as we can tell, our existence is not limited to an eternal repeating circle, but rather to an endless spiral. When we circle round again, we may recognize this new place—yet we can still be assured it is new. We have experienced more life since last Easter. We have learned countless things.
This past Thursday at our brown bag lunch, we watched a fascinating video on the development of our brains. They took us from prenatal development into old age. I learned two fascinating things about our brains. First, the neural (?) cells that make up our brain are cells that must last us our lifetime. Unlike most other cells in our bodies, they do not regenerate. The ones you are using right now are as old as you are. The growth in our brains happens instead through connections made. And these connections grow in richness and complexity for our entire lives. In the middle of the explanation of this, the narrator said, “after watching this video, your brain will be different.”
A simple cycle of growth, then, is not an adequate explanation for our lives. We spiral in growth. That is why imagination is so important. We have never been here before. Imagination is one of the tools we use to define ourselves. Just watch children. It is a tool we use to make our lives. It is a critical component of hope. And the message of Easter is, to some degree, a call to imagination, because it is a call hope for something more. A call to imagine, form a mental image, of New Life, of Life renewed, of Life redeemed.
I struggle with our practice of arriving at Easter Sunday without Good Friday. Maybe some of you attended Good Friday services. As I’ve often said, Easter doesn’t make any sense without Good Friday. What’s the use of New Life, or Life redeemed, without the truth of Life taken away, despair realized, limits acknowledged? Imagination makes it possible to experience both Good Friday and Easter.
In our meditation, Jason invited us to imagine the Joy that comes when our mouths can once more form the sound of “Alleluia.” Implicit is an invitation to experience, to imagine the darkness of Good Friday. The crucifixion.
As human beings, we tend to underestimate both our limitations and our potential. Some of us focus more on limitations, some more on our potential—but either way, it is difficult to embrace ourselves where we truly are. It is difficult to find the fullness of our humanity: the wonder of being rooted in the finite reality of the world and being connected to the infinite world of spirit. It’s no wonder we struggle with embracing the wonder of our own fullness. Our limited reality is that place where everything dies, where desire creates suffering, where our bodies fail us, where our personal failings can alienate us from one another, where resources are scarce. Our unlimited reality is the realm of spirit, where there is no limit to the potential for love, where transformation can make us new, where relationship can restore us when we are lost, where resources are always abundant.
Imagination first makes it possible to see both limitation and potential, and most importantly makes it possible for us live fully in the strange and wonderful realm of humanity. Imagination makes it possible for us to awaken to our humanity. Again and again.
In Six Degrees of Separation, John Guare writes:
The imagination. That’s our out. Our imagination teaches us our limits and then how to grow beyond those limits. The imagination says “Listen to me, I am your darkest voice. I am your 4 a.m. voice. I am the voice that wakes you up and says, “This is what I’m afraid of. Do not listen to me at your peril.” The imagination is the noon voice that sees clearly and says, “Yes, this is what I want for my life.” It’s there to sort out your nightmare, to show you the exits from the maze of your nightmare, to transform the nightmare into dreams to become your bedrock. . . . The imagination is not your escape. On the contrary, the imagination is the place we are all trying to get to.
The Alleluia. The blessed wonder of finding the possibility in the midst of all of our limits.
In many Christian Churches, the practice of the Easter vigil is a way for individuals, in the midst of community, to remember that even in the midst of loss and despair, we can find hope. The vigil is a way to condition ourselves to be imaginative in this way. To experience, in a sense, the liberation that comes when bondage to old ideas is shaken off, the exhilaration of becoming more of our best selves, born again to possibility.
The story, and ritual that surrounds it, invite us to imagine ourselves into a different world. Ritual begins with a historical context. (We see this vividly in the Passover seder ritual—calling celebrants to not only remember, but understand themselves to be those who suffered in Egypt.) In the Easter story we share the life of Jesus. Last Sunday, on Palm Sunday, Christians made the journey into Jerusalem with Jesus. Then throughout Holy Week they have relived the story of Jesus’s last days. The last supper. The betrayal. The crucifixion. Out of these well-known details of this particular story comes possibility. We are asked to imagine a whole new reality—Jesus lives. Hope survives. Our lives are not forsaken.
Easter asks us to imagine.
Imagine: you are visited by an angel. You can tell, because he sings a message with the purest tone. It’s good news. You are to give birth, whether from your body, your partner’s body, or perhaps birth to a new idea or thing of beauty. By giving birth, you bring new life, Life that holds the promise of humanity. Life that will redeem Life. Imagine you are the one who can give birth to this promise. You have been chosen.
Imagine: a star calls out to you in the night. Before you even see the star, you feel it, you sense it, you know it is there. And when you look up, you see what you knew would be there. Brilliant star shine. It will guide you. You do not know yet where, but you know you must follow that star. It holds promise for your Life that you do not yet understand. It will brighten the path that is unfolding before you. The path that leads to who you will yet become.
I don’t believe that Jesus wanted us to focus on his journey to resurrection at the expense of our own. I don’t believe Jesus wanted to claim exclusionary kinship with God. I believe Jesus was offering all of us our own relationship with God, our own possibility of a Life of Love. I believe the message and beauty of Easter come not only from this one particular story of Hope, but from many stories and experiences in our lives. I believe Jesus was inviting us to our own resurrection.
Imagine: you hear a message that convinces you (convinces you like never before) that Love is strong enough and that there is enough love in you. Suddenly, in the faces or the words or the music or the beauty around you, you see with utter clarity the truth of Love. In one exhaling breath you are released from fear. In one moment you become what you never knew you could be.
Or Imagine: maybe you are the prophet who offers this message to the stubborn, distracted, and sometimes cynical world. In one act of kindness, in a story told, in words or touch that heal, you understand that you are one who can bring Love to the world. You are the prophet and your life brings hope to others.
Imagine: you have received the message, you know that Love is strong enough, and then you are betrayed. You are afraid that Love itself has betrayed you, but you’re not sure. Now everything you’ve believed is called into question. Everything your life has been is up in the air. Sure, the message about love was that it was strong enough—but even for this? You find it really hard to imagine. For days, for weeks, for years (perhaps) you are afraid again. Limitation once again defines you. Hope escapes you.
Imagine: the stone is rolled away, just as promised. It takes you time to accept this. To trust again, to believe. You have been hurt—yet how can you resist peering around the entry way into that dark cave of truth and seeing? Maybe, maybe something has come and opened this door for you. Maybe the promise of Love is redeemed. Once you take that risk, you see the signs everywhere. In a stranger you meet on the street. Even if you do not learn her name, you know it is Messiah. Once you have imagined Love once again, you hear the message everywhere. You are born again into Life. And you know Love again.
Imagine.
Alleluia.
Amen.