First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis

The Unfolding Gesture

Like much of Victorian poetry, Swinburne’s words fall strangely on modern ears, and it takes an effort to grasp the essence of what he is saying. Levertov has heard him correctly, and the objection that she registers is valid, but we will come to her in a moment. Let us first engage with Swinburne a little. He’s an interesting fellow; a late Victorian, and a romantic, a literary critic as well as a poet, and great fan of Beaudelaire. Like Matthew Arnold, Swinburne was alert to the seismic shift in the faith perspective of his era, at a time when the hegemony of Protestant Christian ideas in the English-speaking intellectual world was crumbling. Like Arnold, he uses the metaphor of the ocean, and the turning of tides, to describe the diminishing of religious belief among the educated elite of the British empire, but unlike many of his contemporaries, his response to this ebbing tide of faith is not mournful. He is not nostalgic for the more enchanted world of angels and miracles, with its innocent and credulous piety. Instead, he sees in the retreat of Christian orthodoxy the re-enactment of an historical pattern that has played itself out before now. Jesus and his heavenly Father are not the first divine figures to be cast aside as the world embraces a new theological proposition; undoubtedly they will not be the last. What Swinburne would have us understand, with a kind of weary irony, is that the gods themselves are mortal. Even though the life cycle of a mythology is much longer than that of a human generation, religion still undergoes its own pattern of rise and fall, if we, short as our own lives are, can achieve enough historical perspective to see it.

In his longer poem "Hymn to Proserpine," Swinburne takes the voice of a Roman pagan at the historical moment when Christianity is proclaimed the official religion of the empire. Acknowledging that this new-fangled faith, with its resurrected savior and its monotheistic sky father god, is destined to spread across the known world, and that his own familiar pantheon will soon be eclipsed and forgotten, the narrator comforts himself and the divinities whom he continues to hold in loyal affection with the assurance that one day in the distant future, Jesus too will fall out of favor in the popular imagination, and be reduced to obscurity. It is a process as cyclical and as inescapable as our own organic human lives, he suggests, and at the end comes not heaven or hell, but a kind of spiritual heat death, in which all the energy goes out of all the images, and there is only the sleep eternal in an eternal night. And again, unlike most of his contemporaries, Swinburne invites us to understand this as a good thing; by the time the process of life has run its normal course, whether for us as individuals, or even for the gods themselves, we are tired, he says. The last thing we need, or really want, is to get up and do it all over again; in the end, oblivion is a great blessing, and Proserpina, the goddess of sleep, is the last true object of our supplications, and the final purveyor of mercy. Hers is the sea into which even the weariest river eventually flows, and knows nothing more.

This perspective, it seems to me, has a fundamentally humanist angle. It does not engage in rational argument, or invite judgment between the ancient pagan and early Christian worldviews, or even the modern struggle between reason and faith; but it does suggest taking the long view – a very long view, indeed – of the cycles of history. When one recognizes, from this vantage point, that religion itself grows and dies, like a tide running across the centuries, one necessarily becomes skeptical of its various absolutist claims. You could call such a viewpoint jaded, but I don’t think that this is what the poet wants us to understand. Like the ancient philosopher, he invites us to contemplate death, and having looked at it squarely, not to be intimidated by it, for this is the path to authentic and meaningful life. "I am weary," he says, of people fretting about "what may come hereafter for men who sow to reap." He is tired of those who see this world only as preparation or investment for something that will happen after we are dead. Nothing happens after we are dead – thank heaven, he says, well aware of the irony – so let’s get used to it. All of us; even Jesus, and the god of Abraham

More than a century later, the contemporary poet Denise Levertov will cite his vision of the weary river, and enter a caveat. Without denying for a moment the final truth of his sleep eternal in an eternal night, she cautions "Not yet." There is a natural cycle, to be sure, but just as there is no point in resisting it, so there is also no point in trying to hurry it along. The process of life, whether organic or ideological, has an integrity that she thinks should be respected. Before our rivers flow into that sea where "star nor sun can waken… nor any sound or sight," we have work to do, a world to mend -- a gesture to complete. Levertov uses the implicit metaphor of a blooming flower to demonstrate this claim, and I am poignantly conscious of her plea "not yet, not yet," as I watch the crab apples and the cherry blossoms fall, and the lilacs grow dusty and dry while the brief spring days pass. She is right; I am not ready for oblivion; not for myself, not for the world, not even for the sweetly pink trees in my back yard, now casting their petals on the dark surface of the pond. What might it mean to live as siblings with the flower? How can I know if I glance away, and the suddenly the flower is fallen? But perhaps, she implies, the world itself, the whole interdependent thing, is engaged in one unfolding gesture. Perhaps if we can achieve a view long enough to allow us to recognize the births and deaths of the gods, we might also notice that the earth is actually blooming, that there is a cosmic unfolding, altogether organic and natural, that ought to command our fascination, respect, and delight. So much is unfolding, she says; so much in bud.

This process of unfolding has paradoxical qualities of both inevitability and novelty. We know that a rose bud must become a rose when it blooms; you cannot plant radishes and get tulips. The completed gesture is always implicit in its beginnings. And yet we do not know, cannot know, in advance exactly how the unfolded rose will appear; its uniqueness can only be discovered in the event. The same of course is true for us as individuals, as well as for the whole planet. There are gestures that must complete themselves before we are going to understand what they mean. We can know our own power only when we have joined our solitudes in common struggle; we will know what wholeness means only when the broken has been mended, and the hurt forgiven. These are gestures that must unfold over time, that must complete themselves on a schedule that is not ours to determine. And in point of fact, why should we be in a hurry about it anyway? If Swinburne is correct, we are not in a race to any glorious finish line; there is no point to living life in the fast lane, and being the first to arrive at the sea of non-being. It is the unfolding gestures that happen along the way which create our lives, and make them ultimately worth while.

Love is like that, we know; as Diana Ross’s mama famously instructed, you can’t hurry love. You can only live with openness to the cycle of the seasons, and of life, and of history, that you happen to be in. If you spend autumn wishing it was springtime, and spend the spring resisting the coming of autumn, then the gesture of your own authentic life will never have the opportunity to unfold. If you wish away the years of childhood, of studenthood, of financial struggle, of exhausting parenthood, of professional frustration, of loneliness, or illness, or the world not being as you would wish, there will never be time for the gesture of your being to express itself, and bloom into the gift that you alone might offer. The sea of non-being awaits us all in the end, the sleep eternal, and we are wise to meet it without fear, for it is nothing so very dreadful after all, just simply and finally rest. But not yet, says the poet; not yet, says the budding rose; not yet, says the ache of a community to which we might bring healing; not yet, says the heritage of generations, whose full blossoming we still do not begin to imagine.

When the Reverend Norbert Capek conceived the flower festival ceremony for his liberal inclusive church in Prague, he thought of the flowers as symbols for the unique gifts that individuals bring into their religious communities, and the ways in which everyone benefits from those gathered gifts, regardless of who brings them. And that is an important message which never grows old; that it takes all of us, each doing our part, in order for human community to thrive, and to give meaning and shape to our life together. But I suspect that this ritual has thrived and been handed down among Unitarian Universalists for more than fifty years now because it also speaks to Levertov’s image, that so much of ourselves, and so much of the world, is like the flowers, an unfolding gesture. We are not tired of hope, yet; our desire for justice and mercy has not failed; we have only begun to imagine the power that is in us, the earth that we might build together. There is much about us not yet ready for oblivion, gestures of reconciliation, hope, struggle that have just started to unfold. We must be patient with ourselves and with each other, and even perhaps with the forces of history. Like the budding flowers of springtime, the unfolding gestures are all around us, coming to pass in the integrity of their own time. They come and go as fast as the lilacs of early May, or as ponderously as the gods arise and dwindle over the course of centuries. This ritual moment is itself an unfolding gesture, as we complete the circle of community not by simply taking a flower for yourself, but rather by receiving the flower that you are given by the person before you in line, and then selecting a flower to give the person who follows you. In honor of mother’s day, if you are here with your mom, or with your child, you may want to arrange things so that the child has an opportunity to select a particular flower for his or her mother. In this way, the message lives on through us, in the gesture that we share this morning. We have begun to love the earth, and each other, to imagine the fullness of life. Here, today, we remind each other, and the flowers remind us, how much of the fullness we have yet to realize; how much is unfolding, how much that is precious, is still in bud.

Words of Gathering

KH:

Good morning, and welcome.

The flower festival that we celebrate today

is observed by Unitarian Universalist churches all over the world,

because it expresses so clearly our understanding

that each of us brings gifts to share here,

and each of us is enriched by what others give,

and that the beauty of our church community

is composed of the collected gifts that each of us brings.

KG:

This gathering of flowers is designed to make tangible the idea that each of

us brings gifts to our religious community, and together those gifts create the beauty of our church. Each of us also takes away gifts when we are part of this community, and

often we do not know who gave the gifts which mean the most to us, or who receives with gratitude the gifts we gave. This is the nature, and the inherent mystery, of human community.

KH:

This morning as we celebrate this ritual again, the flowers connect us

not only to each other, here in this church, but also to many Unitarians all over the world, and from many years ago, who we may never meet, but who have participated in this celebration too.

Let us call forward now, and welcome, the assembled flowers of this morning’s festival,

And also the three newest members of our chalice lighters club,

Who are to be recognized today.

PROCESSION

Chalice lighters recognition

End with song for children

Greetings and Announcements

Mother’s Day Proclamation antiphonal reading

Presentation of new hymnbook supplement

Last March, at the annual service auction, many of the participants generously funded the purchase of the new UUA hymnbook supplement, Singing the Journey. You will find these teal colored paperback volumes in the pew racks together with the standard gray hymnbook. This supplement will help to expand our musical vocabulary, and give those who plan the assemblies more options for collective singing. I invite you now to turn to hymn 1026, and Barb is going to help us become familiar with this piece, in celebration of mother’s day.

Introduce Jo Haberman for special collection

Readings:

Swinburne

Levertov

Sermon

Flower Celebration song

Blessing of Flowers:

KG:
Our service this morning ends with the members of the congregation coming forward, forming two lines here at the front.

Each person is to select a flower to give to the person

who stands behind them in line.

When you have both received and given a flower,

you may proceed downstairs for refreshments and informal celebration.

But first, listen once again to the words of Norbert Capek, Unitarian Bishop in Czechoslovakia, who originated the Flower Festival and who perished at Dachau. This is the blessing for the flowers just before they are distributed that he wrote for this ritual as it was celebrated in his church:

KH:

In the name of Providence,

which implants in the seed the future of the flower,

and in our hearts the longing for people to live in harmony;

In the name of the highest, in whom we move

and who makes the mother and father, the brother and sister,

lover and loner what they are;

In the name of sages and great religious leaders,

who sacrificed their lives to hasten the coming of the age of mutual respect;

Let us renew our resolution, sincerely to be real brothers and sisters,

regardless of any kind of barrier which estranges us from each other.

In this holy resolve,

may we be strengthened knowing that we are ultimately one human family;

and that one spirit, the spirit of love, unites us;

so may we endeavor always for a more perfect and more joyful life.

Closing words:

KG:

May we bear this flower in our hearts,

even when it has vanished from our hands,

in remembrance of the countless gifts of beauty and steadfast care,

given and received in this beloved community.

Distribution of Flowers

The Garden of Prosperine

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,

Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;

Though one were fair as roses,

His beauty clouds and closes;

And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;

Today will die tomorrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;

And love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light:

Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight:

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,

Nor days nor things diurnal;

Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.

Beginners

Dedicated to the memory of Karen Silkwood and Eliot Gralla

"From too much love of living,

Hope and desire set free,

Even the weariest river

Winds somewhere to the sea--"

But we have only begun

To love the earth.

We have only begun

To imagine the fullness of life.

How could we tire of hope?

-- so much is in bud.

How can desire fail?

-- we have only begun

to imagine justice and mercy,

only begun to envision

how it might be

to live as siblings with beast and flower,

not as oppressors.

Surely our river

cannot already be hastening

into the sea of nonbeing?

Surely it cannot

drag, in the silt,

all that is innocent?

Not yet, not yet--

there is too much broken

that must be mended,

too much hurt we have done to each other

that cannot yet be forgiven.

We have only begun to know

the power that is in us if we would join

our solitudes in the communion of struggle.

So much is unfolding that must

complete its gesture,

so much is in bud.