Joyful Darkness

Once upon a time…
maybe fifteen billion years ago —
There was only darkness. Nothing more.
Nothing above, nothing below.

Just Darkness that slowly began to long for something more.
The darkness could feel something more wanting to be born out of it.

It churned and wriggled, it twisted and shook, and then out of the middle of the darkness, a mouth opened

And the very first sound came forth. It was a great big sigh…"Ahhhhh" You can do it with me…Ahhhhh

The sound tickled the darkness. It was a new sensation.
It warmed the insides of the darkness, it felt good.
And soon the darkness wanted more sound,
soon there was humming,
then words, then singing.

And with each new sound, something new was born out of the darkness.
There was light, and color, there was shape and form.
There was land and water.
All born out of the darkness.
This whole beautiful blue green world
Sung into being.

[Youth and children’s choir sing: The Water is Wide]

Out of the darkness, this whole blue green world sung into being.
And even now, every time we create, every time we bring something new,
some game, idea, or piece of art into being,
We sing it out of darkness.

Each of us holds a limitless pool of creativity,
a joyous, fertile darkness within us,
just waiting to give form to new things.
Just imagine what we can create together.
Shall we sing?!     [#368 Now Let Us Sing]

Years ago, the Sunday after my mother’s death,
my father, my brother, Bill, our children and I went to my parents’ church.
The congregation sang Bring Many Names.
As we sang, tears flowed down my cheeks.

At that time of tenderness and loss,
the names and attributes we were singing about God
were ones I was feeling for my family.

I cried for my mother who was strong
and had seemed to be always working, night and day.

My tears were for my father.
That Sunday was his first Sunday ever
to go to church without my mother.
Dad had experienced the strains of human living.
His own mother had died tragically when he was a child.
He was out on his own when he was a teenager.
He was in the army in World War II and experienced the horrors of war.
When I was a child, he was sick and hospitalized for two years.
No bitterness accompanied his hardship.
Dad was warm, playful, loving, caring and quick to forgive.

That day after Mother’s death, Dad seemed old,
but with reservoirs of strength.
He was calm and wiser than despair.

And singing, by my side, were our young, growing up children
who were eager to learn, easily delighted.

I cried tears of gratitude for family
and the deep longing we humans have for home.

The last verse of Bring Many Names
sings of God as great, larger than our knowing,
a living, changing entity,
as joyful darkness far beyond our seeing,
yet closer than our breathing, our everlasting home,
that depth place of knowing and loving,
that connects us with all that is good and admirable.

Throughout history, humans have imagined God in our own images.

In order to explain creation, humans imagined a creator.

To understand life’s battles, sorrows, and regrets,
humans told stories of jealous and angry deities.

When I was a child, the image of a loving father God
was comforting, helped me feel safe and cared for.

As a kid, I loved swinging under the weeping willow tree in our back yard.
When I closed my eyes, I felt connected to everything that is.
So, in junior high school, when I read poet Edna St. Vincent Millay’s image
of moving two blades of grass apart and putting her finger on God’s heart,
I felt I knew just what she meant.
Poets like Wordsworth and Whitman sang to me
and I found God in nature.

When I was a youth, young adult
and later when I became a Peace Corps volunteer,
the image of Jesus as a child of God, a young activist and radical, challenging the status quo,
leaving his family, wandering around with few possessions,
and meeting strangers as friends was compelling and supported my choices.

As a pregnant woman and then a nursing mother,
I joined a women’s circle where we studied the goddess,
created our own rituals, and shared our stories.

But if I didn’t like the image of an old white man in the sky,
I didn’t think I wanted to replace it with a wise mother in the earth.

I didn’t want to use the word God at all.

Then one day I hit my thumb with a hammer
and called out, “Gawwd.”
And I knew I didn’t want to teach our children Sarah and Ben
that God was just a curse word.

God is a word we humans have created to get at this something
that is great, larger than our knowing,
a living, changing entity,
a hard to name something that is beyond our understanding,
yet as close as our own breathing,
the nearest, deepest, dearest part of ourselves.

If I get too involved in what to call it,
or what not to call it,
I can miss the experience of it.
Experiencing this depth, this connection is what I live for.

At the time, I was teaching public high school English classes.
I was asked by my department chair to teach Bible as Literature.

I guess it was the word Literature in the title
that got the attention of the students who were fundamentalist Christians.
They were suspicious I was teaching the Bible
not as literal truth but as fiction.

Bible in the title brought out the fundamentalist atheists
who were worried I was sneaking Christianity into the curriculum.

I agreed to teach Bible as Literature because… I love a good story.

Stories are how I learn about life.

And good stories are often told in beautiful language, poetry and metaphor.

Our colleague friend tells of his friendship with an Episcopalian priest.
Our friend was interested in ministry and told Father Jim,
“I think ministry is interesting but I don’t believe the theology.”
Father Jim said, “Oh, I don’t either.
But human beings live by symbols and metaphors, rituals and poetry.”

Metaphors, rituals, and poetry touch my deepest longings

Today when life seems precious and fleeting,
I’m drawn to the last words of the song Bring Many Names —
God as everlasting home.
I want to be at home
in myself,
at home with my family and friends and all of you
and at home in the universe,
one with all that is,
always.

And I want this for you.

It’s strange how these things happen.
As some of you know, my father died on Friday evening,
long after this service had been planned.
Today, the Sunday after my father’s death,
This congregation sings Bring Many Names.
And the tears flow down my cheeks.

Dear Dad,
[I wrote late on Friday night]
It’s January 26th, 2007, and a few hours ago I received a phone call from Mother and sister Marcia saying you had passed peacefully from this life. It’s too early to put this all into perspective, but there are these words that want to come out of my heart and into the Universe…words that you will not hear with your ears, but words I know were in your soul, that depth place of knowing and loving that connects us with all that is good and admirable in existence.

I do not know what my earliest memory is of you. You were always there — if not in person, in presence. All the rooms and spaces, the indoors and the outdoors, were filled with you. Your presence in the world made it safe for me. I could venture to the edges, peer into the unknown, explore uncharted territory, knowing I could return to your open heart.

You never expected more of me than was me, and always expected I would take the next step in my becoming…Sometimes you trusted me more than I trusted myself, but in your trusting I found courage to take the next step.

I could get sad recognizing we’ll never pick up pool cues together again,
but oh so quickly the wondrous and joyful memories come flooding in,
wash away the sadness, and leave me filled with appreciation.

So, from the bottom of my heart to the fullness of your being, Thank You.

It’s strange how these things happen.
Our daughter Sarah, as a Christmas present,
invited me to go with her to hear some local song writers.
Last Wednesday night, for the first time, I heard the music of Rob Giles.
I was drawn to one song, though I didn’t know the title.
When I bought the CD, I didn’t know if that song was on it.

Friday, before receiving the call from my mother and sister,
I heard the song again.
It’s called Heaven.

When I die I’m not going to Heaven.
Not going to heaven Cause heaven is here.
When I die, I’m not going to heaven,
Not going to heaven Cause heaven is Here
in the arms of my own beating heart.
Heaven’s here in the arms of my own loving heart.

When I die, I’m going to the ocean, the timeless ocean.
Yes, Where the water’s clear, yes,
and When I die, I’m gonna be the ocean,
The ageless ocean that’s Always been Here
in the arms of my own beating heart.
Heaven’s here in the arms of my own loving heart.

Yes, I’ll be the action of the waves —
that moment they’re crashing against your face —
that moment it happens when you Wrap your arms around yourself
Cause you know…
there’s nothing else but love…
Blood and tears,…Flesh and fears, and a Billion years
of Beating, loving —
One thing’s clear,…God’s right here,
and Its’ Pumping through your, my, our loving,
Here in the arms of my own beating heart:
Heaven’s here in the arms of my own Beating, loving, dying heart.
… Beautiful.
[Rob Giles, “Heaven,” This Is All In Your Mind, RobGiles.com]

I emailed Rob Giles yesterday:

Dear Rob,
I had the great pleasure of attending the Wednesday composers’ night at Sweetwater…
I had not heard your music before.
I bought your CD.

Two nights later, I learn my 86 year old father has just died…
and I’m listening to Heaven…

I’m a minister
In a co-ministry with my wife
At the Unitarian Universalist Church of Berkeley
And we are preaching tomorrow on “Joyful Darkness…”

Full of gratitude for my Dad’s life, and his peaceful death,
I had a dream last night

I was flying
And looking to my left I saw lush, rolling green hills…
I realized I was looking for my dad’s new home —
And there it was

In the arms of my own beating, loving heart…

So,
Thank you…
Your words will be with us throughout the service tomorrow
As you, I, we seek to speak out of this mystery…

And into the ageless mystery
Of ocean waves and breezes blowing,
the wide waters and rolling green hillsides
And this pumping Beating loving dying consciousness
that is the gift of grace.
Beautiful.
In gratitude…

The last words of Bring Many Names are where we’re drawn today-
Great, living, joyful darkness, our everlasting home.
I want to be at home
in myself,
at home with my family and friends and with all of you.
I want to be at home in the universe,
one with all that is,
always.
and I want this for you. May it be so.

Our beating hearts
Our arms reaching out
Timeless
Ageless
Nothing but love
No thing but love
Love
Always been here
Always will be
Pumping through your my our loving
Our roaring, looming thundercloud of glory
Here, here, here
Beautiful
Amen.

 ♦