 Please join in a moment of centering silence so we can be fully present with each other this morning. And now let's get musically present with each other by turning to the words for our in-gathering hymn, which you'll find inside your order of service. Welcome to another Sunday here at First Unitarian Society. This is not just another Sunday, it's Super Sunday. Or as we pack our fans call it, Passover. And a special shout out to Karen Gustafson. We're glad to have you back in the house. Karen, welcome back. All is well with the world. But a hearty welcome as well to any guests, visitors, and newcomers. This is your first time at First Unitarian Society. You'll find that it's a special place. It's so special. It's a place where independent thinkers gather in a safe, nurturing environment to explore issues of social, spiritual, and ethical significance as we try to make a difference in this world. I'm Steve Goldberger, a proud, incredibly adorable member of this congregation. And for those of you who are visiting First Unitarian Society for the first time, and you'd like to learn more about why this is a special place, we invite you to join us for the fellowship hour right after the service outside the doorway in the commons. And speaking of the service, this would be a perfect time. In fact, I can think of no better time than right now to turn off these pesky electronic devices that we just won't need for the next hour. And while you're doing that, if you're accompanied by a youngster, let me remind you that if you think you're a young companion, would rather experience the service from a more private space. We offer a couple options for you, starting with our child haven in the back corner of the auditorium, and some comfortable seating just outside the doorway in the commons from which you and your youngster can see and hear the service. And one of the reasons we are able to see and hear the service is because it's brought to us, as it is every weekend, by a dedicated team of volunteers whose names I will read to you in a moment. And I just read a study that concluded that people who volunteer at FUS services live 18 months longer than those who don't. So as I read the names of these people who are adding 18 months to their life expectancy for volunteering, you get a chance to think about those names, thank them later, congratulate them on living longer, and maybe find out how you too could volunteer to help with FUS services. I'm talking about Maureen Friend, who is handling the sound system for us today. Thank you, Maureen. Thank you to Ann Smiley for serving as our lay minister. Thank you to March Schreitzer and Lynn Scobie for greeting us this morning. Thank you for Harry Carnes for taking his seat. Thank you to Patricia Becker, Paula Ault, Dorrit Bergen, and Ann Smiley for serving as ushers, and to John Mix, Allison Mix, and Jean Hills for hosting our hospitality and fellowship hour after the service. Just a couple announcements before we get on with the service. One is from Kelly Crocker, reminding us that today our second and third graders are going to be talking about radical hospitality and the importance of welcoming others. And during the fellowship hour, they get to put that into practice by walking around and welcoming us, thanking us for coming today, shaking our hand, looking us in the eye, and generally being conversational. So we hope that you'll extend as much hospitality to these youngsters as they will be extending to you. It's a great life lesson, not just for them, but for all of us. Speaking of life lessons, next week on Sunday after the 11 o'clock service, in this very room is our parish meeting. So put that on your calendar. There's a rumor that food is involved, so that could be fun. And speaking of future events, the magic number today is 89, 89 days until Cabaret on Friday, May 4th. We're looking for some team members. And by the way, participating in Cabaret adds 24 months to your life expectancy. So with that, the announcements are concluded. I invite you to sit back or lean forward to enjoy today's service. I know it will touch your heart, stir your spirit, and trigger one or two new thoughts on this snowy day. We're glad you're here. I want to say how delighted I am to be here, is my mic on. Delightful to look out and see faces that are new. It's nice to know people kept joining after I left. And I've been also seeing some older faces and many familiar faces. So it's great to have this opportunity to kind of get my juices going again. So our opening words this morning are from Richard Gilbert. We meet on holy ground, brought into being as life encounters life, as personal histories merge into the communal story. As we take on the pride and pain of our companions, as separate selves become community. How desperate is our need for one another? Our silent beckoning to our neighbors? Our invitations to share life and death together? Our welcome into the lives of those we meet and their welcome into our own? May our souls capture this treasured time? May our spirits celebrate our meeting in this time and in this space? For we meet on holy ground. Please rise now in body or in spirit and join in the words of chalice lighting. All that we have ever loved and all that we have been stands with us on the brink of all that we aspire to create. A deeper peace, a larger love, a more embracing hope, a deeper joy in the life we share. And so now turn to one another and express your appreciation for each other's presence. Who would like to come forward and join me for the story today? Come close because there's pictures. Well, maybe some of you know this story already. The seasick Viking long ago in a fierce and frosty land, there lived a lonely little Viking and his name was Hiccup. Vikings were enormous, roaring thieves with bushy mustaches who sailed all over the world and took whatever they wanted. Hiccup was tiny, thoughtful, and polite. The other Viking children wouldn't let them join in their rough Viking games. Hiccup was frightened by spiders, he was frightened by thunder, and he was frightened by sudden loud noises. But most of all, he was frightened about going to sea for the very first time next Tuesday. Hiccup wasn't sure he was a Viking at all. Hiccup's father was Stoik the Vast. Wherever Stoik walked the ground trembled, flowers wilted and bunnies fainted. He hadn't brushed his beard in 30 years. Only girlies brushed their beards, boom, Stoik the Vast. Girlies don't have beards. Hiccup pointed out, but nobody listened to him. And when Hiccup told his father that he was frightened by going to sea, Stoik laughed his enormous Viking laugh until the salty tears ran down to his enormous hairy feet. You can't be frightened, little Hiccup. Vikings don't get frightened. And he sang the Viking song. I have blacked the thousand eyes of a thousand angry gales. Watch me knock the cockles off the biggest bluest whales. I have given walrus nightmares. Who thought that they were strong? I marooned a huge typhoon on an island off Hong Kong. Oh, ancient prani greenness, the never-ending sea, mess with squirmy jellyfish, but they do not mess with me. Oh, they do not mess with me. He patted Hiccup on his head and went off to do 300 push-ups before breakfast. Oh, said Hiccup to himself. It all sounds very dangerous. So Hiccup went to see the oldest Viking of all, old wrinkly himself whose barnacle beard fell down past his toes. Your saltiness, he whispered, for Hiccup was very well mannered, do Vikings ever get frightened? Little grandson who used to old wrinkly in his breath was like being kissed by a mackerel. I've been wondering about that myself. The sea is full of trials and terrors, but it's also full of marvels and miracles. Go to sea and you can tell me if Vikings ever get frightened. So at quarter to nine on a breezy Tuesday morning, Hiccup went to sea for the very first time. At half past nine, Hiccup was wishing he hadn't eaten those two smallish head-up for breakfast. At a quarter to 10, he was feeling very peculiar indeed. At half past 10, he was wishing he was dead. I feel seasick, he said to his father. Vikings don't get seasick, said Stoik the Vast. But this one was all over Stoik's feet. Hiccup got sicker and sicker as the storm got wilder and wilder. Stoik the Vast sang the Viking song to the storm, but the storm took no notice. A great wave came up and soaked him. One mighty wave picked up that whole Viking ship as if it were a matchstick and threw it 50 miles to the south. And then one mighty blast came from the gale, picked up the whole Viking ship as if it were a piece of seaweed and threw it 50 miles to the north. A terrible black wind howled all over the lonely ocean, turning the Viking ship upside down and inside out and sent shivers down every single Viking spine. We're lost, said Stoik, the not-so-vast after all. Then a funny thing happened. His face began to turn a greenish hue, and he thought of the 39 largest haddicks that he had had for breakfast. And his stomach began to heave. And then all of the Vikings turned a pretty green color and all of their stomachs heaved and with a mighty rush they ran to the side. Well, well, said Hickup. It appears the Vikings do get seasick, and immediately he began to feel better. This direction shouted Hickup, but the Vikings were too busy being seasick to steer the boat. So Hickup took charge, and a funny thing happened. The more he steered, the better he felt. As he steered for home, that stormy wind filled the sails. The boat skimmed over the ocean at 1,000 miles an hour. Out of the depths of the sea came shoals of flying fish with wings, leaping dolphins, and strange whales with horns like unicorns. Narwhals. There were eels that lit up like light bulbs and nameless things with enormous eyes that no one had ever seen before all following Hickup, the Viking, as he steered that ship towards home. Nice breezy day, Hickup, steering into the harbor. So tell me, said old Winkley, and his old watery eyes twinkled. Do Vikings ever get frightened? Sometimes they do, said Stoik the Vast. But they get over it, said Hickup, the Viking. That's what makes them so brave. So that's a story. That's a story about what? About being, about facing our fears, isn't it? About facing our fears, and when we face them, sometimes they get not so scary. So thank you so much for being here, and we're going to stay right here now and turn our attention over there to the singers. And Friedman, who is a family systems person who has written extensively on family systems and how they affect church culture and other institutional cultures. But this little book is about fables that I think are about maybe all of us. There was a man who had given much thought to what he wanted from life. Diligently, he had searched for the right opportunity. Sometimes he came close only to be pushed away. Often he applied all his strength and his imagination only to find the path hopelessly blocked. And then at last it came, but the opportunity would not wait. It would be made available only for a short time. If it was seen that he was not committed, the opportunity would not come again. Eager to arrive, he set out on his journey. With each step, he wanted to move faster. With each vision of what lay ahead, he found renewed vigor. Hurrying along, he came to a bridge that crossed through the middle of a town. It had been built high above the river in order to protect it from the floods of spring. He started to cross. Then he noticed someone coming from the opposite direction to greet him. He could not see clearly, however, or he could see clearly, that he did not know who this was that was coming. But he was dressed similarly, except that there was something around his waist. When they were within hailing distance, he could see that what the other had about his waist was a rope. It was wrapped around him many times. And probably, if it extended, would be the length of about 30 feet. The other began to uncurl the rope. And just as they were coming close, the stranger said, pardon me, but would you be so kind as to hold the end of this rope for a moment? Surprised by this politely phrased but curious request, he agreed without thought, and he reached out and he took it. Thank you, said the other, who then added. Two hands now, remember, hold tight, whereupon the other jumped off the bridge. The free-falling body curdled the distance of the rope and from a rope's length. And from the bridge, the man abruptly felt the pole. Instinctively, he held tight as he was almost dragged to the other side. He managed to brace himself against the edge, however. And after having caught his breath, looked down at the other, dangling close to oblivion. What are you trying to do? He yelled, just hold tight, said the other. This is ridiculous, the man thought, and began trying to haul the other in. They couldn't get enough leverage. It was as though the weight of the other person and the length of the rope had been carefully calculated in advance so that together they created a counterweight. Why did you do this, the man called out? Remember, said the other, if you let go, I will be lost. But I can't pull you up, the man cried. I am your responsibility, the other said. Well, I did not ask for it, the man said. If you let go, I am lost, said the other. He began to look around for help, but there was no one. I think this happened to him just now, just as he was on the verge of true success. He examined the side, searching for a place to tie the rope, but the reeling was unusually uniform in shape. There were no spaces between the boards. There was no way to get rid of this newfound burden, even temporarily. What do you want, he asked the other, from hanging below. Just your help, the other answered. Well, how can I help? I can't pull you in, and there's no place to tie the rope so that I can't go and find someone to help me help you. I know that. Just hang on, that would be enough. Tie the rope around your waist, it will be easier. Fearing his arms could not hold out much longer, he tied the rope around his waist. Why did you do this, he asked again, don't you see what you have done? What possible purpose could you have had in mind? Just remember, said the other, my life is in your hands. What should he do? If I let go, all my life, I will know that I let this other person die. If I stay, I risk losing my momentum toward my own long sought after salvation. Either way, this will haunt me forever. As time went by, still no one came. The critical moment of decision was drawing near to show his commitment to his own goals, he would have to continue the journey now. It was already almost too late to arrive on time. But what a terrible choice to have to make. A new thought occurred to him. Well, he could not pull this other up solely by his own efforts. If the other would shorten the rope from his end by curling it around his waist again and again, together they could do it. Actually, the other could do it himself so long as he, standing on the bridge, kept still and steady. Now listen, he shouted down. I think I know how to save you. And he explained his plan. But the other wasn't interested. You mean you won't help? I told you I cannot pull you up myself, but I don't think I can hang on much longer either. You must try, shouted the other in tears. If you fail, I die. The point of decision arrived. What should he do? My life or this others? And then a new idea, a revelation, so new in fact that it seemed heretical. So alien was it from his traditional way of thinking. I want you to listen very carefully, he said, because I mean what I am about to say. I will not accept the position of choice for your life only for my own. The position of choice for your own life I hereby give back to you. What do you mean? The others asked, afraid. I mean simply it is up to you. You decide which way this ends. I will become a counterweight. You do the pulling, and you bring yourself up. And I will even tub a little from here. And he began unwinding the rope from around his waist and bracing himself anew against the side. You cannot mean what you say, the other Shriek. You would not be so selfish. I am your responsibility. What could be so important that you would let someone die? Do not do this to me. He waited a moment. There was no change in the tension of the rope. I accept your choice, he said at last. And freed his hands. Let us remain seated for the singing of hymn number 108. Ministry here exploring in particular the power of personal story and the ways in which the narrative we use to tell our own stories both reflects the past and shapes the future. In the process, I have gained a greater appreciation for both the larger and more universal narratives that shape our culture. We are, it seems, all part of the big story. Within the stories of our lives are universal themes like love and loss, grief and triumph, success and failure, attachment and abandonment. Around these themes we have, for better and for worse, developed expectations and patterns of reacting, rituals and traditions that provide pathways, which we follow often unconsciously until we find ourselves wanting to claim a more individual or unique path that is more perhaps nuanced than the cultural story. There are many steps in this claiming. I received an important lesson from my granddaughter. Her grandpa and I were, my husband, John, were staying with her and her little brother while their parents were away for the weekend. And on the morning that their parents were going to return, we were passing the time by playing a game called dogopoly, and if you use your monopoly. And we played for about 45 minutes, and then I needed to get up and go tend to the baby or something. And I apparently was gone too long because when I came back, Zoe had left the table and was watching a video. And so we let her do that for a while. And then we were thinking, let me get things cleaned up. And so John went over and said, are you done with the game? And she lifted her little thing and said, what? And so he said, are you done playing the game? And she said, yes. So he went over and picked up the game and put it away. So then, of course, the video ended. And she returned to the table where the game had been. And predictably, she said, where's the game? Well, we put it away and we thought you were done. Outrage, tears. No, I meant not right then. We could play again. No, I wanted to play that game. I was winning. More tears, a slammed bedroom door. After another time, after a time, I waited. And I went in and I said, Zoe, I am so sorry that there was a misunderstanding about the game. Grandpa and I both heard you say that you were done playing and we thought that meant that the game was over. We did not take time to be sure that we all understood that the same way. And it sounds like this story has an unhappy ending. And here was the moment of truth where she said, yes. And it was a true story. Yes, I said, it is a true story. But maybe there is more to this story that can give it a different ending. Why don't you think about it? And if you can figure out a way to make this into a happy ending, Grandpa and I will be out in the other room and we'll be ready whenever you come out. So finally she came out and she said, I want to play the game again. I said, OK, but I've started the dishes. Could you and Grandpa just play the game right now? And she said, no. Having you play with us is part of my happy ending. So dishes be damned, right? And it's a true story for better and for worse. Whatever story we tell, even a lie carries a truth. It is the truth of the felt and often unconscious need of the teller to shape or to preserve some aspect of identity in relation to the big story that connects us all. Take the path of love and marriage, a recognizable theme in the big story in spite of the move to gender equity and recognition of same-sex love and changing understanding of the gender binary and the statistical probability of divorce. People of all orientations are still falling in love. Marriage as an institution, though in some ways changed, continues to happen. Lavish weddings, romantic honeymoon, mortgages, and children and expensive divorces continue to be the stuff of popular media and even celebrity culture. This is an example of a cultural narrative. In some way, even every marriage plays out this story until the unique identities of the actual real-life people involved begins to run counter to the cultural idea. And I assert that every one of us has its own particular narrative of this mythology. There is the why I never married narrative and the divorce narrative. And the what makes love last narrative, which seemed to be a necessary way in which each of us rests some semblance of identity out of the larger, culturally reinforced and often ancient and archetypal story of romantic love. At best, we tell the true story and then find a way to allow it to generate a larger truth that moves us to a different or deeper place and identity. So another big theme in the big picture, another cultural narrative, is the hero rescuer savior narrative. Earlier in this service, we heard two stories relative to or two hero narratives. Hiccup was, in a way, held captive by the myth or the cultural mythology of the fierce and fearless Viking. Clearly, he knew himself to be in many ways different from other Vikings. But in spite of all of his doubts and fears, he threw him into the mythic story because, well, that's what you do in the face of a cultural pressure. His unique path to heroism came from acknowledging his fear and moving through it. That is his story to tell. And I would guess that he probably was still a sweet, kind little boy, but with a different understanding of who he was in relation to his tribe. In the story of the man on the bridge, the hero narrative is more nuanced. Some might think that the man on his journey was not a hero at all. After all, isn't it the job of the hero to save lives? How, one might reflect, could one be so heartless as to let someone fall, potentially to his death, be seen even in a positive light, let alone be seen as a hero? Well, here's the rub. The trouble with the hero narrative is that it so often frames heroisms in terms of an event or an act of courage or rescue. The damsel in distress, the city under siege, the ambushed battalion saved by the superhuman efforts of a person who, by definition, is a hero, admired or idealized for outstanding courage, extraordinary achievements, or noble qualities. This frame is not without merit. Rescue is a noble endeavor. Any of us in real distress need help from time to time. We recognize and are justifiably grateful for firefighters and emergency room doctors and for witnesses of all kinds who intervene when needed to address the immediacy of injustice of all kinds. But like all cultural myths, heroism has its downside. The trouble with heroes is that we do not easily perceive heroism outside of the realm of crisis or drama, sometimes created by people who see themselves as entitled, like the man on the bridge, to rescue at all costs, forcing the hero to an inevitable self-sacrifice. I think that it is important to acknowledge that one of the central narratives of Western culture is the rescuing hero narrative of Christianity. Many of us have long since put into perspective the salvation myth. We have not been well served by the belief that our destiny is in the hands of one who has preemptively sacrificed himself to redeem a world that could be redeemed more by living the teachings and the ideals of the one sacrificed. And I believe there lives in many of us the persistent idea that we can and will be saved, not just that the right will prevail, but that it will prevail through the extraordinary efforts of some particularly gifted others that are not us. Leave it to the heroes, the saviors, the Gandhi's, the Martin Luther King's, the Christ's, the Catherine Graham's, and the Ruth Bader Ginsburg's. Devlin Molano, under the auspices of an organization called Living Room Conversations, created a Facebook post which poses a question. Have we created a culture of victimhood? And if so, what would be a healthy alternative? She was clear about there being situations where people are victims, First Nations people, to slavery, to rape, and more. Everyone has been victimized by other people and other circumstances out of their control. She was referring to those people who claim victimhood for personal or political gain. So here is her observation. A victim is one of three characters in a good drama. And we love drama. Look at Hollywood. Every blockbuster has a victim, a hero, and a villain. So where is the power for each of these roles? In most cases, the villain has unearned. The hero takes the power away, and the victim is the beneficiary of the hero's actions. So the victim in our drama triangle wins the power. Only temporary, temporary. And in the long term, we all lose. Could this be what is happening, she asks, to us socially and politically? Are we claiming victim identity so a hero will rescue us from the villain? Look at our election last year. People who were disenfranchised were looking to their candidate to save us from Wall Street and the wealthy who are not paying their fair share from the overarching federal government or, fill in the blank, you can all do it. She concludes, we need a new story about ourselves and our neighbors. We need a new power dynamic where citizens know they are in charge. And so do elected officials. Can we create a new narrative about the United States, one that rejects the drama triangle as our governance system? Well, I wish that I could answer that. What that question does is raise for me many new questions. But whatever your political persuasion, to wonder if we as Unitarian Universalists cannot spawn an uprising, a new brand of heroism, one that does not rely so much on attacking the villain as it does about dispelling the drama. Less on feeding crises and more on intentional exercise of our superpowers of tears and kindness and compassion and thoughtfulness and silence and deep listening. Could we stop watching Stephen Colbert and start reading Parker Palmer or Margaret Wheatley? Could we stop reacting with self-righteousness and indignation to Facebook posts and Twitter and start writing and disseminating true stories about real people affected by the consequence of governmental action or indifference? Could we seek out the disenfranchised, not to rescue them, but to invite them into conversations about what really might help them and form empowering partnerships? Could we imagine ourselves as the man on the bridge holding on to an increasingly demanding and irrational narrative that does not serve either us or the possibility for redemption and to clearly state how that might be different and then let it go? Can we stop feeding the dragon of hatred and disrespect and withdraw our attention from the media feeding frenzy that is already bloated beyond all ability to function as an organ of democracy? The trouble with the traditional hero narrative is that it is a narrative of over-againstness. Violation, villains, crises, drama are all somehow required to retain the identity of the hero. Can we be heroic in a different way? Can we do it with a different story? Can we be more like hiccup on the other side of the sea voyage knowing that fear is real and that the only resourceful, courageous navigation will bring us to the other side? We continue our service now with the receiving of our offering. It is through our gifts that we support the work of our beloved community. We gather to this time and place. We bring our whole and broken selves. We come bearing the sorrows and the joys of the recent past in order to offer them up to this, our beloved community, that we may share with one another in what is most important in our lives. We do not always speak these joys and sorrows, but they are here being held in the hearts and the lives of those who gather. And it is in that holding that we are made whole. Let us take a moment to feel together the importance of this time together and to know that we are being held in that presence. Through the power of community, may our joys be expanded and our burdens lightened. Our closing hymn is standing on the side of love. Last year at the General Assembly, there was some controversy about this because of the word standing that seemed to some to not be respectful of differently abled people. It was lifted up, however, that stand also means holding a position. And so it is in that spirit that we invite you to rise in body or in spirit and share in this song that affirms the best in our association. May the darkness around us nurture our dreams and give us rest so that we may give ourselves to the work of the world. Let us seek to remember the wholeness of our lives, the weaving of light and shadow in the great and astonishing dance in which we move. Let us seek to remember the wholeness of our lives