Life moves on and my ranting days are behind me. However even in one's 90's one wants to be heard on occasion. Thus I'll continue to MUSE - occasionally as the spirit moves me. I love the thoughts expressed by Webster:
Muse v, to ponder or meditate at length: to reflect: (Middle English) to sniff around
Friday, February 17, 2017
I'm no proselytizer, but...........
................ I just have to share with you why this atheist attends church. You'll find it in the lead up to his sermon for this Sunday that the minister posted on my church's blog site. Thrilling to me is also the great degree of social activism in this Unitarian Universalist church and the extremely large number of young people of all races, cultures, faith backgrounds and sexual orientation that are in attendance.
I truly believe that this introduction to his sermon shares a needed balm and comfort to surviving our present American dilemma.
A Great and Common Tenderness
As we wrestle with our own fears and anxieties about the direction
of our country and the future of our planet, many of us have asked the
question, "What do we tell the children?"
Here's the poet Rebecca Baggett's beautiful answer:
(for my daughters)
I want to tell you that the world
is still beautiful.
I tell you that despite
children raped on city streets,
shot down in school rooms,
despite the slow poisons seeping
from old and hidden sins
into our air, soil, water,
despite the thinning film
that encloses our aching world.
Despite my own terror and despair.
I want you to know that spring
is no small thing, that
the tender grasses curling
like a baby's fine hairs around
your fingers are a recurring
miracle. I want to tell you
that the river rocks shine
like God, that the crisp
voices of the orange and gold
October leaves are laughing at death,
I want to remind you to look
beneath the grass, to note
the fragile hieroglyphs
of ant, snail, beetle. I want
you to understand that you
are no more and no less necessary
than the brown recluse, the ruby-
throated hummingbird, the humpback
whale, the profligate mimosa.
I want to say, like Neruda,
that I am waiting for
"a great and common tenderness",
that I still believe
we are capable of attention,
that anyone who notices the world
must want to save it.
I love the poet's reference to Neruda's "great and common tenderness." I'm waiting for that tenderness, too.
My sermon this Sunday, "A Balm in Gilead," asks how, in this time
of vitriol and scorn, we can treat one another with tenderness and
compassion. And we'll hear from the
All Souls Choir, who will share the spiritual "Balm in Gilead" and other
And before long I hope to share a major thought stream of mine regarding my 91 years experience in churches that has led me to becoming an agnostic atheist who finds hope in attending "thoughtful" churches.