"God’s Spies" - the Reverend Alison Hyder

January 13, 2002 - the Unitarian Universalist Meeting House of Provincetown

“Oh the comfort – the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person – having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.”

READING: by Mwalimu Imani [from “Dying as the Last Stage of Growth”]

We seldom think of conversation as commitment, but it is. I find that expressing what I really feel and telling another person what is actually important to me at the moment is difficult. It requires a commitment on my part to do so, and I sense that this is true for most of us. It is equally difficult to listen. We are usually so full of our own thoughts and responses that we seldom really listen close enough to one another to grasp the real flavor of what the other person is attempting to convey. Creative communication in depth is what allows us to experience a sense of belonging to others. It is the force that limits the destructive potential in our lives and what promotes the growth aspects. Life is a struggle. Coping with a lifetime of change is a struggle, but through a lifetime of change we will experience ourselves as full persons only to the degree that we allow ourselves that commitment to others that keeps us in creative dialogue.

SERMON: “God’s Spies” - Rev. Alison Hyder

Eduardo Galeano, the Uruguayan reporter says, “The Shuar Indians, also known as Jibaros, would cut off the heads of their vanquished enemies. They would cut off and shrink their heads until they fit into the palm of the hand, to prevent the defeated warriors from coming back to life. But a vanquished enemy is not vanquished altogether until his mouth has been sealed. They sew his lips together with thread that never rots.” [The Book of Embraces, p. 24].

Sounds kind of attractive in a way, doesn’t it? I don’t think too many of us really want to own a shrunken head – you’re rooting around in your bag for a tissue, and pull out this wizened little face along with it. No. But there would be something satisfying, I bet, in thinking that some malicious mouth is forever sealed. And you’ll never have to listen to those insults again.

Unfortunately, by that time the damage is usually done. The words you heard have lodged themselves deep into your soul, the poisonous venom penetrating your thoughts and judgments. Stereotypes and prejudices that you learned as a child surface when you’re confused or afraid. Past criticisms still hurt and limit you. You can recall every accusation and insult from an argument 30 years ago, or what your father thought of some damn politician. The mouths may be shut, but the words retain their power to influence our feelings, and even our actions – whether we will go into certain neighborhoods, for instance, or allow ourselves to be seen in a bathing suit or sing in public - because of someone’s comment from years gone by. And how often were we restrained with a horrified, “What would people think?”?

There’s an old German proverb that states, “The eyes believe themselves; the ears believe other people.” How true that is! We can often tell if something that we see seems false or incomplete. But we are not at all trained to detect a lie, or even to search for additional information on some story we hear. So we fill in the gaps by ourselves, using previous knowledge, stray rumors and assumptions. It makes sense to us, which is just as good as the truth.

Maybe it’s because of the power of vision that words have such impact. When we hear something, we can conjure up whatever picture we want. Our imaginations are free to fill in the blanks so that any stray phrase or piece of gossip can become more real, more personalized in our heads, than the most striking landscape. If I say, for instance, “He was a beautiful animal,” some of you think of your pet, some a powerful tiger or a stallion you once saw running in a field. And a few of you, no doubt, remember the stunning guy you saw out dancing one night. Mmm – dreamy! Whereas a picture of Morris the Cat would leave many of you cold. And in fact, the photo could diminish our relationship, as you start questioning my taste or dwelling on our differences. But the words leave a measure of freedom and creativity between us.

We also have a greater tendency, most of us, to think in words than in images. We are always talking to ourselves (usually silently), to remember, to understand, to reassure ourselves of our place in the world. Some of our earliest experiences as babies were hearing others talk. They gave names to things, to the objects in our world, and to us. So that even now, it is very hard for us to separate other’s words from our own. As we process them in our heads, the brain hears them pretty much the same.

And that is why words have such power. Once they are in our head, we own them, and it may take a conscious effort of will to defuse and deconstruct them. Every civil rights and justice movement knows the importance of language, and the need to reframe our images with a new vocabulary. Words like handicapped, or queer, or crone, can have both emotional and political significance that are completely puzzling to outsiders.

Words make a community. They help us to define and describe ourselves with a common language. That’s one of the reasons we love slang so much. It makes us feel connected to certain others and tells us where we fit in the world, like a family tradition or regional food.
With familiarity, we develop shorthand. I remember when I first moved to Provincetown, how annoyed I was when people would give me phone numbers using just the last 4 digits. I hadn’t yet memorized the “487” part and felt like a total outsider. Now, of course, I do it myself. I’ve arrived. And there are all sorts of other terms and expressions that tell you whether someone here gets their living on the water, or likes to garden, whether they’re gay and in what subgroup, in a 12-step program, and where they live.

We share stories of town events, like the fire across the street, or the time Hurricane Andrew cut us off from Truro for 4 days, or Eugene O’Neill producing plays on the wharf. With these stories we associate Provincetown with endurance and courage, with fragility and gratitude and selflessness and artistic discovery. And we internalize these values as we adopt and adapt this history and make it our own. The legends become our guides.

Many cultures believe the world was created through stories. According to writer Sam Gill, the Navaho believed that “the world was not created by some powerful earth-making god, but through the creative powers of thought and the ritual language of song and prayer.” [“The Trees Stood Deep Rooted,” in I Become Part of It, ed. by DM Dooling and Paul Jordan Smith, p. 23]. Words have a deep creative power in many Native American cultures. According to M. Scott Momaday, the Native American “locates the center of his being within the element of language…It is the dimension in which his existence is most fully accomplished. He does not create language but is himself created within it. In a real sense, his language is both the object and the instrument of his religious experience.” [ibid, p. 22]. Stories and language situate us in the world, but they are also a source of power. They shape the wind and they stir the soul. Words create reality.

Prayers and chants and affirmations remind us of a positive, healing, regenerative potential within ourselves and in the world. They recall us to our ideals. “Love is the spirit of this church, and service is its law,” we tell ourselves. At our best, it is a statement of pride and identity. And when we fail, it remains our goal. It binds us together as a community, this covenant of shared values and principles and dreams. It is no less true even when it is unachieved, because our ideals are us, and guide and inspire our actions. We are always in the process of becoming, and it is very often words that point the way. Will we stay on the surface, or go within? Will we try to comfort, or to conceal?

In Shakespeare’s play, King Lear decides to step down and divide his Kingdom between his 3 daughters. But first he demands a public show of their love. His two eldest daughters have no problem fawning over him, and cajole him with long and flowery effusions of affection and esteem. But his youngest and favorite daughter, Cordelia, is revolted by this spectacle and merely asserts her continued love. Lear’s pride is hurt by her modest statements, and in a rage he disowns her. He believes his ears over his reason, and even over his heart. For his two eldest daughters are cold and greedy, and once in power, they treat him like dirt. But where can he go? All of the land is theirs. Their word is now law.

Cordelia tries to raise and army and recapture Britain, but she is vanquished. As the King and Cordelia are led away to prison, Lear consoles his daughter, saying,

We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we’ll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies; and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too:
Who loses and who wins, who’s in, who’s out;
And take upon ’s the mystery of things,
As if we were God’s spies…. – King Lear, act 5, scene 3

But who isn’t God’s spy? We are here to create the world together, to manifest that which is holy. Each one of us adds to the sum of human knowledge and meaning. So it is up to us to understand the mystery of things, and to judge rightly. And that is something that King Lear learns too late. We critique each other, and demand compliance and compliments. We decide who’s in and who’s out, and laugh at other’s foibles. We don’t really know what is going on in someone else’s mind, in their heart, but we speculate and judge. Reputations rise and fall as we speak.

There is nothing wrong with gossip. Communication is what creates and maintains a community. Sharing information is one of the ways that we become involved. We talk about each other, hear the news of someone’s diagnosis, a break-up, a graduation. We share our joys and concerns, write e-mails and publish newsletters. It is the intention behind the action that counts – at least to our own integrity. We all know that words can go astray, and the road to hell is crowded. But most of us know the difference between curiosity and compassion, malice and candor. We know how to choose our words and when talking would be helpful or destructive. And if not, we know how to be silent until the truth can be revealed. As seasoned spies, it is our job to observe and analyze, to weigh all the evidence before we speak. After all, there are lives at stake. Loose lips sink ships.

And – I hate to say it – what we say about others reveals just as much about ourselves: whether we are gleeful about someone’s fall from grace, or envy others fortune, or just really puzzled by acts of violence. What we notice and critique says a lot about our values and our tolerance of differences. That’s just the subconscious stuff, of course. Because we often use information intentionally, to seem more interesting or edgy or in the know.

We know the power of a good gossip. Before there was radio to entertain us, people used to dine out on certain stories. They’d go from dinner to house party, invited by their hosts to enliven the evening by recounting some insider politics or an amusing incident. Even now, of course, we often enjoy the acerbic quip more than someone’s earnest opinions. We are not always comfortable being serious. It cuts a little too close to involvement for every day use.

Mwalimu Imari reminds us of this power in our earlier reading. Every moment that we are with someone we have to decide how much of ourselves to reveal and whether we can trust the other person with the truth. The more honest we can be, the stronger the connection we are building. I think Imari would say that we are creating an obligation – of common respect, of reverence – in our acknowledgement of each other’s experience.

I have to say that one of the more humbling aspects of ministry is the trust that people place in me, as they reveal their secrets and their shame. It is harder to sit silently than to listen compassionately, because we all share so much of the same guilt and hurt and unhappiness, however different the reason. But the power of the relationship is not dependant on solutions – not mine, at any rate. Instead, it is based on acceptance and hope. And any one of you can offer that.

Imari says, “We seldom think of conversation as commitment, but it is. I find that expressing what I really feel and telling another person what is actually important to me at the moment is difficult….. Creative communication in depth is what allows us to experience a sense of belonging to others. It is the force that limits the destructive potential in our lives and what promotes the growth aspects… [T]hrough a lifetime of change we will experience ourselves as full persons only to the degree that we allow ourselves that commitment to others that keeps us in creative dialogue.”

The essence of that commitment, the heart of it, is right relationship. It is to use our words, use our observations and our revelations, to heal and enhance each other, and not to do harm. Whether we are in a debate about military policy or the location of the Cape End Manor, discussing a someone’s hypochondria, or deeply engaged with a friend, we need to ask whether the language we are using, and the tone, and the purpose, is compassionate or destructive of each other’s dignity and wholeness. Are we strengthening our connection to the whole of life?

We create the world in our own images, in our descriptions and assertions and our lies. So we have to be accountable for the effects of our words. We have to respect their power and their longevity – or it’ll be us whose mouth they’re sewing up in the end.

We are fascinated by spies – but just as often fearful and repulsed. Because we understand the value of information: knowledge is power, and too often it falls into the wrong hands. But we are all God’s spies, making meaning out of mystery, finding challenge in doubt. Looking for truth around the next bend.

CLOSING WORDS: Anonymous

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out for another is to risk exposing our true self
To place our ideas – our dreams – before the crowd is to risk loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
T o hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.
To live is to risk dying.

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