Awake at the Wheel

A Sermon by Sandra Merchant

Delivered to the First Unitarian Church of Oklahoma City

Sunday August 5, 2006

Reading

The perpetual migration by Marge Piercy

From The Moon is Always Female (New York: Knopf, 2004)

How do we know where we are going?

How do we know where we are headed

till we in fact or hope or hunch

arrive? You can only criticize,

the uncomfortable say, you don't know

what you want. Ah, but we do.

We have swung in the green verandas

of the jungle trees. We have squatted

on the cloud-grey granite hillsides where

every leaf drips. We have crossed

badlands where the sun is sharp as flint.

We have paddled into the tall dark sea

in canoes. We always knew.

Peace, plenty, the gentle wallow

of intimacy, a bit of Saturday night

and not too much Monday morning,

a chance to choose, a chance to grow,

the power to say no and yes, pretties

and dignity, an occasional jolt of truth.

The human brain, wrinkled slug, knows

like a computer, like a violinist, like

a bloodhound, like a frog. We remember

backwards a little and sometimes forwards,

but mostly we think in the ebbing circles

a rock makes on the water.

The salmon hurtling upstream seeks

the taste of the waters of its birth

but the seabird on its four-thousand-mile

trek follows charts mapped on its genes.

The brightness, the angle, the sighting

of the stars shines in the brain luring

till inner constellation matches outer.

The stark black rocks, the island beaches

of waveworn pebbles where it will winter

look right to it. Months after it set

forth it says, home at last, and settles.

Even the pigeon beating its short whistling

wings knows the magnetic tug of arrival.

In my spine a tidal clock tilts and drips

and the moon pulls blood from my womb.

Driven as a migrating falcon, I can be blown

off course yet if I turn back it feels

wrong. Navigating by chart and chance

and passion I will know the shape

of the mountains of freedom, I will know.

Meditation

The Real Work by Wendell Berry

As used in a sermon by Richard Foushee, Unity Church-Unitarian (Internet resource)

It may be that when we no longer know what to do

we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go

we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

Awake at the Wheel

A Sermon by Sandra Merchant

Delivered to the First Unitarian Church of Oklahoma City

Sunday August 5, 2006

Over the past three years or so, I've had the privilege of doing a fair amount of traveling--some for pleasure, some for educational purposes and some, sadly, to attend family funerals.  Regardless of their intended purpose, I have to admit that most were undertaken with a simple of goal of getting there, getting through, and getting home. 

So when I started laying the groundwork for our June vacation, I read all the guidebooks, discussed matters with my husband, Don, and made all of the arrangements for our first ever "real" vacation. I booked all of our accommodations from start to finish, arranged for guided tours, adventures and fishing trips, and scheduled in leisure time, ensured that we had plenty of maps and guides, refreshments for the road, and appropriate clothing. I even made dinner reservations for our anniversary! We knew just where we were going and--for the most part--just what we were going to do.

I'm glad to report that all went pretty much according to plan. Well...almost. It started in Kansas. Having been through Wichita on the way north countless times, I let my mind wander and, sure enough, headed for Kansas City. Thankfully, Don convinced me of the error of my ways just as we were approaching a travel island. A quick turn-around and ten minutes later we were on I-135 headed for Salina. The remaining drive would be a snap: left at Salina, right at Denver, and...

Well, now, there are two primary places to turn right at Denver.  Don noticed the sign for the first right, but I had been through the area before and knew that I-25 was the way to go, particularly since our motel in Ft. Collins was just off I-25. While we discussed which way was the best way, I sailed right by the off ramp for the toll road as I assured Don that I-25 was a straight shot and how bad could it be on a Saturday? Besides, there's nothing between Denver and Ft. Collins. (Did I mention that it had been 16 years since I'd been to Denver? The landscape had changed!)

The next morning, rested and largely recovered from the trauma, we headed to my cousin's house in Cheyenne. By now, I was having serious doubts about my navigational abilities, and was aware that I was not present enough to adequately heed the signposts.  I was, as Joan Borysenko puts it, "stunningly efficient, but not present,"[1]so I asked my cousin and his wife if my planned route was the best way to Jackson Hole.  Although my route was the fastest, they urged us to take an alternate route that would give us a much better experience and a fabulous view of the Tetons--and it would be an easy drive: I-70 to Laramie, then right and catty corner across the wide open Wyoming landscape.

Within minutes of leaving the interstate, all expectations began to erode away. We were strangers in a strange land, wanderers in the wilderness--and we just knew my cousin and his wife were having a great laugh. 280 miles of desolation. The only conversation: "How do people live here?" "It takes a special kind of person to live here, someone a lot stronger than me." "It serves its own purpose." "There's another antelope."

Coming over what seemed to be a small hill, we discovered that we had climbed to an impressive elevation as the road spun around and opened up to a view that seemed to encompass the universe. From that point on, the landscape changed dramatically with every twist of the road, going from sage-covered flats, to piney hills, to irrigated high plains pastures, and finally to the Shoshone National Forest. Our minds were baffled; our senses overwhelmed. The landscape screamed imperatives: SLOW DOWN! PAY ATTENTION! WAKE UP!

With each mile, I felt like I was waking from a dream, shaking off the last sandy grains of sleep.  As we wound our way through the Shoshone National Forest, I found myself awe-struck to the point of tears as we looked down at the Grand Tetons. It wasn't that the view was that fantastic; rather, it was that the miles had eroded my sense of separation from my surroundings--from the rest of nature--and left me vulnerable to beauty and the experience of wonder and awe.

In his poem, "Directive," Robert Frost wrote:

And if you're lost enough to find yourself

By now, pull in your ladder road behind you

And put up a sign CLOSED to all but me.

Then make yourself at home. . . .

As our journey continued through what would ultimately be 10 states, three national parks, at least as many national forests and grasslands, and a landscape as diverse as the populations that inhabit them, I found myself taking Frost's advice. Our journey was no longer about attaining a goal. Instead, it took on something of the flavor of a sabbatical--minus the books. Instead, we paid attention--to one another, to wherever we found ourselves, to the people we met, to what we were experiencing, to our deepest longings and aspirations. We talked about sharing this experience with our granddaughters, and wondered if we should have broken down and purchased a video camera. No, that would be a poor substitute for the lived experience, and don't we miss too much of life as it is?

While I can't speak for Don, I must say that the journey brought about a shift in my consciousness and my priorities. And the journey, though we arrived "home" over a month ago, continues without a destination. It is a "process, the journey itself...of staying in alignment with what (my) own inner guidance is telling (me). It's a journey each of us individually, and we as a community, are called into. We may not "know yet where we are called to go" and so "we wander for a while in the strange place called 'don't know.' Don't know where (we're) going. Don't know what is coming next. Don't know who (we) are anymore. This is courage, not confusion; it is wisdom, not folly. It creates the space for something new to be born."[2]

Of course, being in "Don't Know" also raises a lot of questions, many of which are of a religious--or if you prefer--spiritual or transcendental, nature.  In his little book entitled, Questions for the Religious Journey: Finding Your Own Path, George Kimmich Beach presents Bernard Lonergan's analysis of "conscious intentionality" as a guide both for asking and responding to these questions.

He (Lonergan) outlines a series of four, interrelated questions. First: What attracts my attention, concern, or wonder? Because I also want to understand my experience, I ask, second: How can I make sense of--conceptualize and integrate--this experience? Nor is it enough simply to understand, but on the basis of my awareness and understanding I must evaluate and choose. I go on to ask, third: What decisions of meaning and value do I make? Fourth and finally, I ask: In the light of this awareness, understanding, and decision, what commitments to act responsibly will guide and shape my life?

These questions, asked in various ways, form a cumulative series through which we heighten our consciousness of the human condition and become more fully intentional in our living. We do so, Lonergan suggests, when we operate under the guidance of certain overarching commitments of the mind. Lonergan calls them transcendental imperatives, namely: Be attentive, be intelligent, be reasonable, be responsible. Sometimes he adds a fifth imperative, transcending even these: Be in love.[3]

We may have a goal. We may have a well-laid plan and supplies to cover every contingency. We may even cover familiar territory and re-visit old haunts. "How do we know where we are going? How do we know where we are headed till we in fact or hope or hunch arrive?"

Do we trust our past experience? Well yes, but be aware that the landscape of that experience may have changed dramatically. Do we listen to the advice of others? Again, yes, but be prepared to wind up somewhere you never dreamed of. What about our intuition and our faculty of reason? Of course, but please realize that reality often is beyond our grasp and can force a change of consciousness when you least expect it.  Lonergan's transcendental imperatives, and the questions they prompt are signposts for the journey that is our life--both as individuals and as a community.

When I first arrived here at First Unitarian Church, the community had entered anew the place called Don't Know, and had begun a process of self-study and evaluation. Following on the heels of this study, specific goals were established and a capital campaign was undertaken. Much good has already come out of this process--this journey that is our corporate life--though some people may disagree with that assessment. Whatever your take on the situation, it remains that we are on the journey together, as a community, in relationship, committed to the process and the real work of a free church.

Our path isn't simply an internal one, however. We also journey with our neighbors--with the rest of Oklahoma City, the state, the nation, and the world, and sometimes the landscape can seem alien, empty, even hostile. We may ask, "How can people live here?" We may think all is bleak beyond hope and unenthusiastically pronounce the presence of more or the same old same old. We may even feel quite at a loss--and lost.

But if you start to feel a little lost--maybe lost enough to find yourself--consider making yourself at home and floating freely in that place called Don't Know. Ask the questions: What attracts my attention, concern or wonder? How can I make sense of--conceptualize--this experience? What decisions of meaning and value do I make? And in light of this awareness, understanding, and decision, what commitments to act responsibly will guide and shape my life? Be attentive, be intelligent, be reasonable, be responsible. But above all, be in love. In doing so,

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all of our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.[4]