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Faith Voices I grew up in a Jewish neighborhood. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, 90 percent of the students in my high school were attending services at the local synagogue. During Passover, unleavened bread dominated the aisles of the local grocery stores. In December, our high school chorus sang Hanukkah songs and Christmas carols. Playing “dradle” with my friend Matthew, standing respectfully as his mother lit the menorah, marks the holiday season for me as indelibly as going Christmas caroling with my Methodist youth group. I remember, too, my first conversations about why the high school would not have a Christmas tree in the entryway. I asked Matt, “Couldn’t we have both a Christmas tree and a menorah?” “No, that wouldn’t be right,” he said. “The menorah is a religious symbol. It’s not for public display. The Christmas tree is different.” We discussed how the Christmas tree is different. Its origins are pagan. Its common use is recent. It is not featured in a church service. It is often used to promote secular activities, like shopping. We discussed the Constitutional reasons the school should not promote Christian beliefs. Looking back, it’s a mark of the cultural power of Christianity in our society that I thought perhaps the school should have a Christmas tree even though 90 percent of its students were Jewish. These conversations prepared me well to be a Unitarian Universalist. Although our faith emerged from the Protestant Christianity of the pilgrims, the refusal—for nearly two centuries—to require members to recite a religious creed has broadened and deepened our religious movement. We shelter a variety of religious traditions under a single roof of values. When people walk in these doors, they are not required to give up the religious practices that culturally define them. Instead, they join together with others who respect the inherent worth of each person, who honor the interdependence of life on this beautiful planet, who commit to making the world a place where everyone can live a life of dignity that admits hope, happiness, and a responsible search for truth and meaning. As Matt and I strolled the school hallways together, speaking earnestly of what is right in a religiously pluralist society, we were taking advantage of our positions in life to seek understanding in a responsible way. We both came from homes that were stable and comfortable. We lived in a democracy that protected our freedom of speech and religion. We were well-educated and well-prepared to ask the big questions about life, the universe, and the social order. And we did. Of the many things we discussed, perhaps most resonant were the views we shared on poverty. We both thought that people in a position to do something about poverty had a responsibility to act. We both applauded what our religious institutions did for the poor, but thought it wasn’t enough. Neither of us had the specific knowledge, or the political understanding, to grasp how the tax and legal structure of American society reinforced poverty and rewarded wealth. But we liked the idea of a “war on poverty,” just as we celebrated the civil rights movement. These early experiences with interfaith dialogue became the foundation for my understanding of the importance of faith voices in our national public discourse. The underlying values of the world’s religions are essentially those we articulate here, in this historic Unitarian church. Compassion. Love. Justice. Redemption and reconciliation. Peace on earth. There are books comparing the teachings of Buddha to the sayings of Jesus. There are volumes on the teachings of Jesus as interpretations of the Hebrew Scriptures. There are many voices that urge the similarities between Muslim and Christian teachings, and centuries of Muslim poetry that honors Jesus and the God of Abraham. From the diversity of faith voices in our pluralistic society, there emerge themes that spring from our shared values. These are often expressed in the writings of Rabbi Arthur Waskow of the Shalom Center; the messages of the American Friends Service Committee; the Sojourners newsletter; bulletins from the Muslim reformer Irshad Manji; the work of our own Unitarian Universalist Service Committee; and the writings of Rita Nakashima Brock on behalf of Faith Voices for the Common Good. In Washington on December 14, the day scheduled for a Congressional vote on the budget, members of the clergy will converge on the Capital Rotunda as a visible demonstration of our commitment to a “moral” budget—one that does not take from the poor to give to the wealthy, as the current House of Representatives legislation would do: its proposals are a sort of “reverse Robin Hood” fiscal policy. For the first time in my life, I’ll wear a clerical collar so that I am a visible symbol of the values I support. “What would Jesus do?” “What would Buddha do?” or Mohammed? Our intention is to bring the shared values of people of faith to the attention of members of Congress as they pass by. What does it mean to be a person of faith? Within our denomination, there are Sufi Muslims and Buddhist ministers. There are Jews and Christians and followers of the earth-centered traditions. There are agnostics and skeptics and avowed atheists. And all of us, across the world, join in Sunday services together during December to honor each other’s traditions—and to celebrate the freedom we have to embrace one and stand back from another. The religious movement of Unitarian Universalism is a microcosm of the larger religious universe. For this reason, many Unitarians find it relatively easy to hear other faith voices when they are raised in public discourse. We are able to listen beyond the tradition into which we were born, even though our religious birthright may forever shape the way in which we approach the mystery of life. The cultural impact of being brought up in a religion is enormous. Even when we reject our birthright religious tradition, it follows and shapes us. We may proclaim a different faith today, or practice our religion differently, but always within are echoes of our first experiences of religion. That is why many people enjoy singing Christmas carols long after rejecting the idea of a virgin birth, or thrill to organ music even though they no longer attend Catholic mass; why the lighting of the menorah, or the scent of advent candles, can bring us to a different state of mind. These are powerful symbols, with deep connections to our unconscious. Yet it can be confusing to find ourselves responding to a symbol or practice we left behind; it can be confusing to enjoy a tradition we do not embrace. The logical, intellectual part of our brain wonders how we can find psychic satisfaction in something we think of as “untrue.” But there are truths beyond the conscious and rational. The first time I stood next to Matthew, watching his mother light the menorah, tears came to my eyes. I was not Jewish; I had never before witnessed the ceremony; yet my heart found sweetness in the moment, a deep pleasure that arose from honoring another’s heritage and traditions. So, now, we enter into a season of festival, with meanings that reach beyond the logical and conscious. We enter into a season of the heart, when we must listen empathetically to the faith voices that surround us. We enter into a time when our own feelings may take us by surprise. If we reject the metaphysical, our rational minds may scoff at calling ourselves people of faith. But anyone who has seen a sunrise, or looked at the bright stars on a dark night, or witnessed the unremitting power of a seed pushing its green shoot through the earth, has discovered what faith means. It is an act of faith to raise children, to listen to the wind, to laugh, to get out of bed in the morning. It is an act of faith to spend our time, talents, and treasure for the common good. It is an act of faith to listen respectfully to another’s religious beliefs, to honor another’s practice, to speak together of shared values and universal human need. At this time in the life of the world, we need people of faith who can do these things. It is especially important, when the world is in turmoil, to understand that religious celebration can reach beyond the rational to find hope; to understand that joy and sorrow must be shared; to understand it is possible to find peace on earth. Faith voices speak the language of the heart. May our hearts be filled with peace.
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