“The G Word”

This is a sermon in several acts. Think of National Public Radio’s Ira Glass and his “This American Life,” stories on a theme. The connection between some of these acts will be readily apparent; between others, perhaps not. But here is our theme: growth, the “G” word.

I am an unrepentant evangelical Unitarian Universalist. Some people believe that this is a contradiction in terms—an unrepentant evangelical Unitarian Universalist. Or, as the old joke goes, they imagine me knocking on people’s doors with nothing to say. But for me, it’s not an oxymoron, nor is it a joke, even though I laugh when saying it. I believe in Unitarian Universalism. I believe in the growth of, and the growth in, congregational life. I believe we have something to offer, and that we can also always do better.

Act 1

Unlike many, if not most of you, I grew up Unitarian Universalist. The first religious air I breathed was this air, this feeling, this movement, and I thought it the ordinary and usual. Many of my friends were those who also grew up UU. It was the water in which we swam. My ex-husband grew up Unitarian Universalist in a Jewish neighborhood. When he was ten, his family moved to the suburbs, and he met his first Roman Catholic. He thought that they must be some small obscure sect.

We didn’t know then how small Unitarian Universalism was—or how small we now are. There are less than 200,000 adult Unitarian Universalists in North America . . . just a small fraction of the population. To us, it was simply home. It was the place where I learned right from wrong, where I could explore what it meant to be human, where I could challenge myself and others to be all that we could be. When I was a teenager, and didn’t seem to fit anywhere else, it was a place where deep friendships were made in a heartbeat, where I was affirmed simply for being. As I grew up, it was a place where I could spread my leadership wings, learn how to run meetings, lead worship, be about making the world a better place. When I got married, when I got divorced, when I came out to myself—the church was always there. And when I could no longer avoid the call into ministry, the call to dedicate my life to helping other people understand the holy, help other people struggle through the hard times, the chance to be witness to people’s strengths and vulnerabilities, well, when that call could no longer be ignored, it was this faith tradition in which I found myself so deeply at home and embraced.

It’s hard to think of my life without Unitarian Universalism. Every step of my life, every substantial change, every trial, every joy, my congregation and fellow religious travelers were there. As I grew into myself, I grew into Unitarian Universalism. It has been my home. It is the place where I know I will always belong. It has nurtured my growth—personally and spiritually. It is the place I choose to be, week after week, month after month, year after year. It is the place where I choose to live, to dedicate myself and my being. Without Unitarian Universalism, my life would be less. That’s my story.

Act 2

There is something that brought you here, something that keeps you here. Maybe, like me, you were born here—born into this faith. But for you, like for me, you keep having to choose this faith. But for most of you, most of you found your way here, one way or another. Maybe you live on this hill, or lived near another UU congregation. Maybe it was a friend or family member who told you about Unitarian Universalism. Maybe you heard or saw one of the ads this fall and decided to seek us out. Maybe you took the Beliefnet quiz and discovered that you were UU. Regardless of how, somehow you found your way here, to this space.

So what was it like for you? What was it that brought you here, or what is it that holds you here? What is it about this religion or this congregation that keeps you coming back?

This isn’t a rhetorical question—it’s a real one. What is it that brings you here, brings you back? Take a moment and think about it. Then I want you to turn to the person next to you. Tell them what it is that brings you here, that keeps you here, that holds you here. Then listen to what it is that brings the person you’re talking with. And if you’re new here, and don’t have an answer to this question, tell that other person what it is that you hope to find here. You’ll have a minute or so each, and if you have more to say, do that during coffee time. I’ll ring the gong in a few moments to bring you back together.

Act 3

The author of this story isn’t known, at least not by me. And it wasn’t a UU church, but it could have been.

His name is John. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans and no shoes. This was literally his wardrobe for his entire four years of college. He is brilliant. Kinda esoteric and very, very bright. He became a Christian while attending college.

Across the street from the campus is a well-dressed, very conservative church. They want to develop a ministry to the students, but are not sure how to go about it. One day John decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans, his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started and so John starts down the aisle looking for a seat. The church is completely packed and he can’t find a seat. By now people are looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything.

John gets closer and closer and closer to the pulpit and when he realizes there are no seats, he just squats down right on the carpet. (Although perfectly acceptable behavior at a college fellowship, trust me, this had never happened in this church before!) By now the people are really uptight, and the tension in the air is thick.

About this time, the minister realizes that from way at the back of the church, a deacon is slowly making his way toward John. Now the deacon is in his eighties, has silver-gray hair, a three-piece suit, and a pocket watch. A godly man, very elegant, very dignified, very courtly. He walks with a cane and as he starts walking toward this boy, everyone is saying to themselves, “You can’t blame him for what he’s going to do. How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor?”

It takes a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church is utterly silent except for the clicking of the man’s cane. All eyes are focused on him. You can’t even hear anyone breathing. The people are thinking, “The minister can’t even preach the sermon until the deacon does what he has to do.” And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the floor. With great difficulty he lowers himself and sits down next to John and sits with him so he won’t be alone.

Everyone chokes up with emotion. When the minister gains control he says, “What I’m about to preach, you will never remember. What you have just seen, you will never forget.”

Act 4

So what is it that ties all these stories together? It is the “g” word, growth—the growth of us as individuals, and the growth of us as a religious movement, and the growth of congregations as entities. The G word—one that sometimes makes congregations and members scared, because with growth must come change.

Yet despite that fear of change, most congregations yearn for new members, if for no other reason than to help with the work, and to help pay the bills. I know that’s why I stay in church—to give money and serve on a committee! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have more hands to do the tasks of church, and more people paying the bills? We wouldn’t need to change anything else—we could just do things the way we’ve always done them, just with more people. But both parts of this verbal equation are wrong. With increased size, form has to change—we can’t do things the way we’ve always done them. We don’t always know the people coming in the door, and when there are three hundred people, you can’t do things the same was as when there were sixty. Individuals lose power, as others step to the fore.

And the other side of the equation is wrong too. The irony is that with more members, the cost per member actual gets higher, rather than lower. With more people, there’s more going on. There are more things that you want to do. More things that need to get done. Increased programming, increased heat and electric. It seems bizarre, but the economies of scale never really pay off, because there’s always more and more that can be done.

Yet numerical growth is only kind of growth. And the other forms aren’t as scary. There is also maturational growth, the way that each of our lives is deepened and made more whole by being here in community together. Each time we go a bit deeper theologically, or spiritually, or in ritual, or singing, each time we do that, we mature a bit more, we grow deeper in our individual faith, and deeper in our collective faith. Growth is not just about numbers, it’s about deepening our response to whatever it is that we believe most holy.

There’s growth, too, in structure. As I’ve said, patterns of behavior and form happen when the congregation decides to move toward more effective ways of operating. Efficiency isn’t the criteria as much as effective is—although none of us miss doing the hard and tedious tasks. But growth happens as we learn to be more efficient, as we learn to work together as a community, through good times and bad times too. Internal structural growth is part of the equation—one we don’t often talk about when we mention growth, but it’s there nonetheless.

And growth is also incarnational—the taking in of what we can learn and how we can grow, and how our spirituality becomes more alive. Incarnation is taking that in and living it in the wider world. Every time you learn something here that has you taking action in the wider world; every time you are buoyed up here to go and fight for justice; every time you are motivated to save our planet or work to end war—all of that is growth, too.

All of this is growth. It’s not just about numbers, even though as an unrepentant evangelical Unitarian Universalist it is always about that for me. But it’s not just about growing bigger, but us growing deeper and smarter and more efficient and growing out into the world. It’s about taking those stories you told each other, and wanting them to become more real, more vibrant, more true. It’s about not just stopping at the door and saying, “whew, I’m in; now I’m all done.” If we’re not growing—as individuals and a congregation—if we’re not growing in at least one dimension, then we are closer to dying than living. Even if our bodies turn on us, we can always grow. The stories you told one another, your own sense of at-homeness, wholeness, arrival here, are the reasons to grow. That, and the hundreds and thousands more who would be here, if they only knew.

You don’t have to decide to grow bigger. You don’t have to be unrepentant evangelical Unitarian Universalists—though it wouldn’t hurt! It’s okay to grow only in spirit and heart and outreach and form. But I believe I am called, and I believe we are called, to grow in some way, to become, to be more than we are today. Those of us who have found a home within these walls may not close the door behind us. Rather we must hold it open for all who enter, for all who hear the call to this religious community. And when we run out of seats, we can sit on the floor together.

“The G Word” by the Rev. Dr. Lisa Presley January 13, 2008

“The G Word”
by the Rev. Dr. Lisa Presley
January 13, 2008