First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis

Rev. Kendyl Gibbons
First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis
November 11, 2001

These windows are no accident. Oh, the present condition of some of them has to do with the incidental effects of the passage of time, but their dominant place in the structure and feel of this room is entirely intentional. When this building was designed in the early 1950s, this was the first use of the window curtain wall effect here in the twin cities, and indeed anywhere in Minnesota. Nor was it an arbitrary inclusion of an interesting new technique just because the architect thought it was cool, and wanted to play with it. The idea that the temple of the human spirit would be illuminated by the clear and ample light of day, and draw the eye toward a vista of tree-tops and city skyline, was a central concept for those who envisioned and built this room. The architects and the congregation that came together to create this building fifty years ago were very aware that they had a unique opportunity, a chance to express tangibly in space the meaning and the gift and the challenge of Humanism as they understood it. The building which is our home today was more than their legacy to us; it was also their confession of faith -- a physical statement of their hopes and their values, intended not only to shelter us who would follow, but also to inform our community and our life together by the very shape and feel of this space.

Every community of faith that builds a structure to house its activities confronts the same necessity; even our private homes cannot escape becoming expressions of our personalities and values through the choices we make about them. Inevitably, when someone wishes to understand what our religious convictions look like in practice, they want to see what kind of a place we have made for ourselves; what is our building like, and what happens in it? Every church and synagogue, every mosque and temple, stands as a visible expression of a certain set of beliefs, the frozen music of a particular theology, proclaiming without a word what it holds as important and sustaining in life, what its purposes and passions are. Every such building is a window into the faith it represents, intentional or not. We are fortunate that the builders of this edifice took that opportunity seriously, and considered with care what they wanted this building to say -- about them to us, and about us to the world. Today, it is our turn, to think carefully not only about how we can get our own intellectual, emotional and spiritual needs met here, but also about what message this institution is sending to the larger world about the beliefs and values that it reflects. Half a century ago, their window of opportunity was the literal, physical design and construction of this building. After fifty years, this home still works remarkably well for us. Our window of opportunity now is to express the Humanist faith of our own time in the quality of the institution we maintain, and in the character of our behavior here.

For at its heart, this institution, the First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, exists as an opportunity to demonstrate, over time, what the philosophy and values of Humanism look like in practice. We are the living answers to the question What kind of people does the study and practice of Humanism produce? And what kind of a community do Humanist values create? And I want to suggest to you this morning that such lives and such people and such a community are above all forward-looking; that genuine Humanism is always visionary, and that by its nature, everywhere it looks, it sees windows of opportunity. But our visions are only as beneficial as our willingness to make them real in the world; all the opportunities are irrelevant if we do not have the means to engage them, and the resources to translate them into action, just as the members of this congregation fifty years ago provided the actual bricks and steel and windows to make the building they envisioned into a reality. This was a project which required of them enormous patience, and dedication, and great generosity. But here's the thing; that dedication and that generosity were expressions of their faith, of their belief in their vision and their hope for a congregational home that would reflect their convictions. And I say to you, if our Humanism today does not make us as generous and as responsible as those who came before us and left us this heritage of their memory and their work, then what good is it? What is the use of a faith that calls us to be open-minded, if there is any chance that it leaves us hard-hearted or closed-fisted or small-spirited at the same time? That is not the Humanism that was bequeathed to us, and it is not the Humanism that the world needs from us now.

Abraham Lincoln once observed that most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be, suggesting that it is not our circumstances that determine happiness, but our attitude. In the same vein, I would suggest that most of us are about as generous, and as welcoming, as we make up our minds to be. It is not merely how much what we have that determines our capacity to give, as it is how much we believe, and how much we care. The advance givers we have honored today are not necessarily the wealthiest members of our congregation, but they are those for whom Humanism, and this place, have made the greatest impact on their lives, and those who most deeply want our message heard out in the world beyond these walls.

Last week at this time, I was in Portland, Oregon, at the UUA's conference for leaders of large congregations. Now compared to the rest of the world, a large congregation in the UUA is rather like a jumbo shrimp, but nevertheless I learned a thing or two there. Statistically, we as Unitarian Universalists are still at the bottom of the list of all denominations in our per capita giving to support our churches and societies, even though we are near the top in income. This sorry state of affairs has been true for a long time -- for as long as I have been aware of these numbers. And we are fond of explaining it to ourselves by dismissing the giving of those in orthodox churches as 'heaven insurance', on the theory that they think the more they give, the better their chances of being well off in the next life. But I think that we are merely rationalizing our own behavior; that is not what most traditional believers actually think, and it is not what underlies their giving. Rather, I am convinced, if you will talk to people who are generous supporters of their churches, of whatever denomination, you will find that it is not because they believe in hellfire and heaven, but because they believe that their faith has a claim on them, that it is worth sharing and supporting; that it has a saving message for the world, that it is a gift to the world. And they believe that how generously they support that faith is a measure of how generously they live; and how generously they live is a measure of that faith's real power to transform and enrich lives. They believe that their giving illustrates what kind of people this faith has made them -- and I think they are right. Moreover, I believe that our giving illustrates what kind of people our faith makes us, and I refuse to accept that intellectual authenticity must necessarily come at the expense of kindness, or idealism, or generosity. There is no reason for the orthodox to be better givers than we are, or for their congregations to be more welcoming to newcomers than ours, for generosity and welcoming go hand in hand.

I also believe that our giving as an institution illustrates what kind of community we are, which is why I think it matters enormously that we are taking 10% of whatever we raise, and giving it away to help meet the needs of our larger urban community. There is a reason why these windows look out over the landscape of the city; it is so that we might never think ourselves separated from the needs and the struggles and the hurts, the celebrations and the aspirations of our fellow human beings, out there on those streets and in those buildings. In his reflections on religion, Kahlil Gibran's prophet advises the devout that when you enter into the temple, you should "take with you all people, for in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes, nor humble yourself lower than their despair." Until we bring both those hopes and that despair into this room, and together strive to respond with creativity and generosity and compassion to them, we have failed to realize the full promise of Humanism. These are our windows of opportunity, right now, framing for us a world in need of our help, our hope, our message.

I want us to see not only the opportunities of the world around us, but the opportunities of the future that lies before us. I want to invite you to look through these windows in your mind's eye, and see a First Unitarian Society congregation of 1500 - 1800 members. That's right; based on what I learned at last week's Large Congregations Conference, I am convinced that this building could support the staff and programs of an 1800 member congregation. Furthermore, this building is going to need a congregation of that size, if its potential, and the faith of its founders, is to be realized. The statisticians and the church consultants are pretty much in agreement that the era of the mid-size church is over. Experts tell us that by the end of this century only very small and quite large congregations are going to be culturally and economically viable. Tiny congregations of fewer than 80 people on a Sunday morning will continue to function as extended families for their members, offering intimacy and mutual support, but looking outside themselves for program resources, either to larger congregations or to secular sources. These will be important communities for their members, but they will have no impact on the larger moral, social and political issues of the day. Already, a significant percentage of Americans who attend church on Sunday are in these small congregations. But the largest percentage of Americans who attend church on Sunday are in the emerging, resource-rich, very large congregations. These churches, with attendance in the thousands each weekend, can offer a wide variety of programming to meet a host of individual needs, as well as excellence in all aspects of their functioning, from music to publications to staffing. Using a commercial analogy, consultants such as Lyle Schaller argue that tomorrow's religious communities will either be like large shopping malls or superstores, offering a broad selection of ways to participate and to be nurtured, or they will be like small specialty boutiques, catering to a highly defined and limited clientele. Now others may disagree with me, but I don't believe that Humanism is meant to be a boutique religion for a few elite intellectuals to exclude everyone else from. We could do that; it's certainly an option -- we might even have enough endowment money to keep this edifice intact around a little, pure-brand Humanist specialty shop. But that would be unworthy of this building, and unworthy of our heritage.

So what would an 1800 member congregation look like? First of all, that's 1800 counting children, because children count. I tend to think that our particular location makes it unlikely that we will ever see the one to one child to adult ratio that some suburban congregations experience, so I'm envisioning a membership of roughly 1400 adults, with some 400 children. Larger congregations tend to average around fifty percent attendance of the members on a regular Sunday morning, plus visitors, which means we would expect 750 to 800 adults; how would we put them all in this room? The answer is that we wouldn't; not all at the same time. Growing faith communities with a message to share have recognized that they will always want to reach more people than can fit in any one facility at any one time. My fantasy -- rather modest by the standards of many congregations that offer five or six different service times in the course of the weekend -- is merely two successive Assembly times on Sunday morning, which would mean a comfortable average attendance of 400 at each hour, with perhaps 150 children in the building at the same time. Thanks to the vision and the generosity of our predecessors fifty years ago, we have the space; that window of opportunity is open for us.

What we do not have, obviously, at this juncture is the staff to meet the demands of an institution thriving at that level. On this the experts vary; some say that a congregation needs one full time program staff person for every 150 people present on Sunday morning, but that doesn't count musicians. Others count musicians and argue for a figure of one staff person per 100 in attendance. By the same token, some suggest one full time support person -- administrator, secretary, accountant -- for every 300 on Sunday morning, but don't count janitors. If the building custodians are included, the figure is more like one support staff for every 200 in attendance. In many if not most congregations, these full time equivalents are often supplied by several individuals in part time capacities. These ratios would suggest that our congregation at 1100 on Sunday morning -- don't forget, kids count! -- would need between seven and eleven full time program staff, and four to six full time support positions.

Our theme speaker at the conference, Gil Rendle from the Alban Institute, observed that liberal churches have a strong tendency to staff only enough to meet the needs of the existing members. Staffing for growth means being on the high side or ahead of these recommended ratios, so that staff members have the capacity to work on outreach, and with people who are not yet members of the congregation. Staffing for growth is not just about serving the existing members, and it is not even just about bringing new members in, though it will have that effect in the long run. Staffing for growth is really a gift that a congregation gives to the larger community when it believes that it has something important to share. When this society is staffed for growth, we will be able to have many different forms of outreach into our city; outreach in publicity, effectively using print, broadcast, and web-based communications to advocate our values and spread our hope; outreach in social concerns, having a respected voice in decisions that affect the quality of life in our city, and working to empower the disenfranchised; outreach in education, offering classes and lecture series and special events that help people to better understand themselves, their lives and their world; and not least significantly, outreach in the form of weddings and memorial services for those who seek our help in making their life passages with dignity, integrity, and meaning. When this society is staffed for growth, we will be able to work as equals alongside the other downtown congregations, bringing our unique voice to the gathered faith communities of this city; I want you to know that we are welcomed, and held in esteem in that body. When this society is staffed for growth, we will be able to serve intentionally the special needs of youth, of young adults, and of the elderly. We will be able to offer support for the many stages of parenting, for singles, for the newly married and the newly divorced; in short, for people in all the ages and circumstances of their lives.

When this society is staffed for growth, we will be able to say to the community around us, this is how we do it as Humanists -- this is the kind of people this faith has made us; this is the kind of people your children will grow up to be like if you bring them here; this is the kind of generosity that we learn and teach and practice here; this is the kind of people we want to be; these are the gifts we want to give this city. In order to do this, in order to become such a place, we need to enlarge our vision; we need to look at the windows of opportunity bequeathed to us by this building's founders; we need to look at this city; we need to get clear about our values, our message, our mission. The 250,000 dollars we are hoping to raise through the present stewardship campaign is only a down payment on what we have the opportunity to give to this community, and to become together in the years ahead. Right now, we need to get the roof and the heat straightened out; we need to get our house in order. We need to show ourselves what we can do, that we can give it away, too. We need to demonstrate that generosity is not the exclusive provenance of orthodoxy; that it informs the Humanist path and the Humanist community too.

It seems to me that we Humanists ought to be the most generous people on the planet; after all, we know that we can't take it with us, neither our fortunes nor our capacities for kindness to one another can be of any use to us after the end of our brief sojourn in this world -- at least as far as I know, there's no place else to take it! Actually, this reminds me of a story. It seems that there was once a certain miser; it is not recorded whether he was a Humanist, but he spent the years of his life amassing great riches. And he was surprised when the angel of death appeared to him, indicating that his time on earth was over, and he was to be taken to The Other Realm, bringing nothing with him. He began to plead and bargain, desperate to find away to cling to at least some of his most valuable possessions. Finally the angel of death sighed and relented a bit; one small suitcase he might take with him on this last journey. Feverishly he turned out his vaults and packed the permitted bag with as many solid gold ingots as it would hold. He could barely lift the resulting burden, but he felt a surging sense of triumph over all the other empty-handed souls approaching the gates of heaven. St. Peter, guarding the pearly gates, was annoyed but resigned to see the miser entering with his carefully hoarded treasure. "They never listen!" he muttered, and turning to the miser he said, "Alright; let's see what you've got." Protectively, the miser opened his case, and St. Peter could not keep the puzzled astonishment from his face. "You brought pavement?"

Dearly beloved, it is all pavement that does not serve vision; it is all pavement that is not used to move the world toward kinship and justice, to build a community of memory and promise, to leave a legacy of hope for the generations that come after. The opposite of generosity is not greed, but fear, and there are two things that cast out fear -- love and vision. That is the message that sings down the years from those who gave us this building, who encoded their faith into these windows. "Be not afraid, but love the world," they say. "See further than your present gathering; widen your vision to the city and beyond. Find your sustenance in the light of day, and be summoned here to the service of all humanity and the building of an ever-larger community." Today we are asked for a renewed dedication in our own generation, that the windows we have been given may shine clear again, and their vision be more amply fulfilled. May we as stewards of that vision in our turn measure our confidence in the power of our message by the generosity of our commitment to the future of this place and its possibilities. The windows of opportunity are before us; let us leave to the future no less a gift than was given to us.

Opening words:

We gather today for the celebration of community, of continuity, of opportunity,

rejoicing in the legacy of this place, this building that is our home;

a gift to us from generations past;

our gift to those who will follow.

We gather in the goodness of our heritage, secure in our memories and our promises,

seeking the dedication that may bring our yet greater visions to fulfillment.

But let it not be forgotten that we gather also on the anniversary of victory and defeat;

on a day remembered for the fateful armed struggle of nations;

on a day designated to honor the great sacrifices of those

who have given their lives and their pain to ensure today's freedom.

And let it neither be forgotten that we gather in a world once more engaged

in the fearsome enterprises of war;

In a nation demanding again the lives and pain of its sons and daughters,

inflicting death and suffering upon our brothers and sisters,

for the same ambiguous ends that war always serves.

I am reminded, on this Veteran's Day, of the words of Archibald MacLeisch:

The young dead soldiers do not speak.

Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses; who has not heard them?

They have a silence that speaks for them at night, and when the clock counts.

They say:

We were young. We have died. Remember us.

They say:

We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done.

They say:

We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.

They say:

Our deaths are not ours; they are yours; they will mean what you make of them.

They say:

Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing

we cannot say; it is you who must say this.

They say:

We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.

We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.

In the very midst of our rejoicing, may we indeed remember.

And may the visions to which we dedicate ourselves in this place

be such as are worthy of the sacrifices that have been made for the sake of our liberty.