 I'm going to get my hands ready to say hello. It is not just me, so I'm going to get my hands up. Let's do it. Yeah, we're going to do it. Okay, great. The bird is here. Okay, and there is the little thing you have to do. Okay, good. Good. It's going to be a little weird. Yes, it's going to be a weird thing. I'm going to go all the way to the other side. So. So. So, okay, this is the other side. Okay, great. Right. Okay, next. Okay, great. Yeah, I think so. Okay. So, you want me to be done with this for you? No. Okay, great. Okay, start. Okay. Go up. Okay. Okay. Go up. Okay. Okay. Okay, great. Okay, great. The other side. Okay. Okay. Okay, good. Okay, great. Thank you. Okay, great. Here, go. Okay, great. Thank you so much. Good morning. Welcome to the First Unitarian Society of Madison. We are a community where curious seekers gather to explore spiritual, ethical, and social issues in an accepting and nurturing environment. New youths support the freedom of conscience of each individual, as together we seek to be a force for good in the world. My name is Karen Rose Gredler, and on behalf of the entire congregation, I offer a special welcome to visitors and newcomers. We are a welcoming congregation, and we celebrate the presence of all among us. We sincerely hope our service will spark your mind, touch your heart, and enrich your spirit. If you haven't already done so, this is an excellent time to silence your cell phones, as we take a few quiet moments to become fully present with ourselves and one another during this time together. Good morning. We're going to sing hymn number 188, which is a round. So we'll sing it twice through all together, and then we will break into groups. Those on my left will be in group one, those on my right in group two. If you are resistant to my authority and you want to sing in the other group, that is absolutely fine. Rise and body your spirit. Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving, ours is no care of and of despair. Come yet again, come, one more time altogether. Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving, ours is no care of and of despair. Come yet again, come, group one starts. Come, come, group two follows. Group one will start again, and come, come, whoever you are, with your hurts, your imperfections, your places that feel raw and exposed. Come, come, whoever you are, with your strengths, the world shutters to hold, with your wild imaginings of a better world, with your hopes that it seems no one wants to hear. We will make a place for you. We will build a home together. Ours is no caravan of despair. Come yet again, come. And if you will join together in our affirmation in your order of service as we light our chalice, all that we have ever loved and all that we have ever 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 this life we share. And if you'll take a moment now to turn and greet those around you. I invite anyone who'd like to come forward for our message to come on forward, come on up for the message. Morning, everybody. How are you? How are you today? Good? Do you have a good week? How you doing, Owen? All right. So one of my favorite stories is the three little pigs. Can anybody tell me the three little pigs? What's it about? How many pigs are there? Three. Who else is in the story? A wolf. Is he a good? He's a good guy. The wolf? No. Who is he? He's the what kind of wolf? The great good wolf? No, the what? The big bad wolf, right? So that's what we know about the story. Three pigs, big bad wolf, trying to blow down their houses, right? Yeah, yeah. There are different versions of the three little pigs. Did you know that? I have one that's the three little wolves and the big bad pig. That one's great. I think one of my favorites, the three little pigs are architects and one of the pigs is Frank Lloyd Wright. If you have not seen that one, go and find it. It's great. But today we're talking about this because sometimes we think we know a story really well. Three pigs, big bad wolf, huff and puff and all that stuff. But sometimes you can find out a little bit more about a story if you look at it from somebody else's point of view. So today we're going to tell the true story of the three little pigs. All right, everybody knows the story of the three little pigs or at least they think they do. But I'll let you in on a little secret. Nobody knows the real story because nobody has ever heard my side of the story. I'm the wolf, Alexander T. Wolf, but you can call me Al. I don't know how this whole big bad wolf thing got started, but it's all wrong. Maybe it's because of our diet. Hey, it's not my fault wolves eat cute little animals like bunnies and sheep and pigs, it's just the way we are. If cheeseburgers were cute, folks would probably think you were big and bad, too. But like I was saying, the whole big bad wolf thing is all wrong. The real story is about a sneeze and a cup of sugar. This is the real story. Way back in once upon a time, I was making a birthday cake for my dear old granny. I had a terrible sneezing cold and I ran out of sugar. So I walked down the street to ask my neighbor for a cup of sugar. Now this neighbor was a pig and he wasn't too bright. He built his whole house out of straw. I mean, can you believe it? Who in his right mind would build a house out of straw? So of course, the minute I knock on the door, it falls right in. I didn't wanna just walk into somebody else's house so I called little pig, little pig, are you in? No answer. I was just about to go home without the cup of sugar for my dear old granny's birthday cake. That's when my nose started to itch. I felt a sneeze coming on. Well, I huffed and I snuffed and I sneezed a great sneeze. And you know what? That whole darn straw house fell right down. And in the middle of the pile of straw was the first little pig, dead as a doornail. He'd been home the whole time. Well, it seemed like a shame to leave a perfectly good ham dinner lying around. So I ate it up. Think of it as a big old cheeseburger just lying there. I was feeling a little bit better but I still didn't have my cup of sugar. So I went to the next neighbor's house. This neighbor was the first little pig's brother. He was a little smarter but not much. He built his house of sticks. I rang the bell at the stick house. Nobody answered. So I called Mr. Pig, Mr. Pig, are you in? He yelled back, go away wolf, you can't come in. I'm shaving the hairs on my chinny chin chin. I had just grabbed the doorknob when I felt another sneeze coming on. I huffed and I snuffed and I tried to cover my mouth but I sneezed a great sneeze and you are not going to believe this. But this guy's house fell down just like his brother's. When the dust cleared, there was the second little pig. Dead is a doornail, wolf's honor. Now you know, food will spoil if you just leave it out in the open. So I did the only thing there was to do. I had dinner again. Think of it as a second helping. I was getting awfully full but my cold was feeling better. I still didn't have that cup of sugar for my dear old granny's birthday cake. So I went to the next house. This guy was the first and second pig's brother. He must have been the brains in the family. He built his house out of bricks. I knocked on the brick house, no answer. I called Mr. Pig, Mr. Pig, are you in? And do you know what that rude little porker said? Get out of here, wolf, don't bother me again. Well, talk about impolite. He probably had a whole sack full of sugar and he wouldn't give me even one little cup for my dear sweet old granny's birthday cake. What a pig. I was just about to go home and maybe make a nice birthday card instead of a cake when I felt my cold coming on. I huffed and I snuffed and I sneezed again. And the third little pig yelled and your old granny can go sit on a pin. Now I'm usually a pretty calm fellow but when somebody talks about my granny like that I go a little crazy. When the cops drove up, of course, I was trying to break down his door and I was huffin' and puffin' the whole time and making a real scene. The rest, as they say, is history. The news reporters found out about the two pigs I had for dinner. They figured a sick guy looking to borrow a cup of sugar wasn't very exciting so they jazzed up the story with all that huff and puff and blow your house down and they made me the big bad wolf. That's it, that's the real story. I was framed. But maybe you could let me borrow a cup of sugar. So what do you think about the wolf now? What do you think? Was he so big and bad after all? Why was he still big and bad? The cops had it come because he wasn't leaving. He was huffin' and puffin' and sneezin'. So all of this pretty silly story is to say that there are always other viewpoints to look at and there's always more that we could learn about a story. So when you hear stories, I hope you'll ask, huh, what else could be going on here? Just like our friend the big bad wolf or the not so big bad wolf or the sneezy I just need a cup of sugar wolf. But we are gonna rise in body and spirit and sing you out to classes and we hope you have a great time. Number 1008. When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place We are blessed with love and amazing grace When our heart is in a holy place When we trust the wisdom in each of us Every color, every creed and kind And we see our faces in each other's eyes When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place We are blessed with love and amazing grace When our heart is in a holy place When we tell our story from deep inside And we listen with a loving mind And we hear our voices in each other's world When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place We are blessed with love and amazing grace When our heart is in a holy place When we share the silence of sacred space And the God of our heart stirs within And we feel the power of each other's faith When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy place We are blessed with love and amazing grace When our heart is in a holy place When our heart is in a holy... Please be seated. Our reading today, an ancient tale. Once there was a monastery that had fallen on hard times. It was once part of a great order, which as a result of religious persecution lost all its branches. It was decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the mother house, the abbot and four others, all of whom were over 70. Clearly it was a dying order. Deep in the woods surrounding the monastery was a little hut that the rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used as a hermitage. One day it occurred to the abbot to visit the hermitage to see if the rabbi could offer any advice that might save the monastery. The rabbi welcomed the abbot and commiserated. I know how it is, he said. The spirit has gone out of people. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore. So the old rabbi and the old abbot wept together and they read parts of the Torah and they spoke quietly of deep things. The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced and the abbot said, it has been wonderful being with you but I have failed in my purpose for coming. Have you no piece of advice that might save the monastery? No, I am sorry, the rabbi responded. I have no advice to give. The only thing I can think to tell you is that the Messiah is one of you. When the other monks heard the rabbi's words, they wondered what possible significance they might have. The Messiah is one of us. One of us here at the monastery? Do you suppose he means the abbot? Of course, it must be the abbot who's been our leader for so long. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas who is undoubtedly a holy man. Certainly he couldn't have meant Brother Elrod. He is so crotchety. But then he is very wise. Surely he could not have meant Brother Philip. He is too passive. But then magically, he's always there when you need him. Of course, he didn't mean me, yet supposing he did. Oh, Lord, not me. I couldn't mean that much, could I? As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one of them might be the Messiah and on the off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect. Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful. People occasionally came to visit the monastery, to picnic or to wander along the old paths, most of which led to the dilapidated chapel. They sensed the aura of extraordinary respect that surrounded the five old monks, permeating the atmosphere. They began to come more frequently, bringing their friends and their friends, brought friends. Some of the younger men who came to visit began to engage in conversation with the monks. After a while, one asked if he might join. Then another, and another. Within a few years, the monastery became once again a thriving order. And thanks to the rabbi's gift, a vibrant, authentic community of light and love for the whole realm. Thank you, Trevor and Kristen, for the beautiful gift of music. Thank you. Thank you, Trevor, for double duty on those hymns too. We're keeping them busy today. It's written that a man once came across three stone masons who were chipping chunks of granite from large blocks. The first seemed unhappy at his job, chipping away and frequently looking at his watch. When the man asked what it was that he was doing, the first mason responded, I am hammering this rock and I cannot wait till I can go home. A second mason, seemingly more interested in his work, was hammering diligently, and when asked what it was that he was doing, answered, well, I'm molding this block of rock so that it can be used with others to construct a wall. It's not bad work, but I'll be glad when it's done. A third mason was hammering at his block fervently, taking time to stand back and admire his work. He chipped off small pieces until he was satisfied that it was the best that he could produce. When he was questioned about his work, he stopped, gaze skyward and proudly proclaimed, I am building a cathedral. Three men, all doing the same job, but telling different stories, making very different meaning out of their situation. Our lives are shaped by the stories we tell. As we look at our own lives and how we spend our days, do we look at them and say we are hammering rocks or are we building a cathedral? The stories we tell about ourselves individually and collectively matter. How do we tell the fullest story we can of who we are? How do we leave room for new stories to be added? How do we allow others to come into the fullness of their stories as well? We all have stories we tell about ourselves and oftentimes our stories are full of the moments when we believed we failed, all the things we didn't do, promises we didn't keep. These stories do not leave room for much possibility and many times do not allow room for hope or growth or new learning. They are stories that cut us off from the fullness of life and potential. The research psychologist Tim Wilson, who looks at narrative therapy, tells us that good stories are ones that give us a sense of purpose in life. We feel like we are working towards something and making progress. It helps us find meaning in our experience. A good story is one that helps us make sense of life. Our lives and our pathways, he says, are not fixed in stone. Instead, they are shaped by story. The ways in which we understand and share the stories of our lives therefore makes all the difference. If we tell stories that emphasize only desolation, then we become weaker. If we tell our stories in ways that make us stronger, we can soothe our losses and ease our sorrows. Learning how to re-envision the stories we tell about ourselves can make an enormous difference in the way we live our lives. Now, since the age of seven, I have carried a story given to me by someone else. It was given to me by Sister John of the Cross, my first grade teacher. I have very few memories of childhood and unfortunately it is one such as this that have stuck with me. On this fine day, we were coloring a picture of some sort and I colored my whole picture blue. Now, my best friend at the time, Joey Naito, had pulled out his box of Crayolas and he was going to town. He had every color from that box on his page. Sister John of the Cross pulled the two of us up to the front of the room with pictures in hand to talk to us about creativity. She praised Joey's multi-colored creation as being a thing of beauty and mine was the bad example. The only time she talked about it was as the thing not to do and pointed out that blue wasn't a very good color anyway. For years and years, I carried her story as my story. I was not creative. I didn't know much about color and art and beauty were things best left to someone else. Narrative therapists would call this a thin story. Thin stories are those that don't seem to have much detail or complexity and are often imposed on us by others. Parents, teachers, those in authority. And because of that authority, we accept the story without question. Thick stories, on the other hand, are built from the real evidence of life. They are rich with detail, exploring our inner motives and the outer forces that may have made us act the way we did. In narrative therapy, we are asked to examine the stories we tell about ourselves and create alternative stories to our thin ones, to thicken them, searching for nuance and complexity, adding in richness and detail. So there are the stories that we tell about ourselves and then there are the stories we tell about others. Thin stories make for thin relationships. In a wonderful book called The Art of Possibility, Benjamin Zander gives us this case and point a letter that was written to him by a man named John Imhoff. He writes, my dear Benjamin Zander, you have just completed a presentation to the leadership of the North Shore Long Island Jewish health system. I should be immediately returning to my job, but not first, sitting down and briefly telling you of how you affected me. I am the man who approached you and told you of my emotional reunion with my father through your presentation. He was Swiss German and throughout my adult life, I have struggled to explain to myself why in the 25 years that he was with me, he could never, not even once say to me, I love you. Oh, we did many things as a family and I suppose his teachings in the form of admonishments have always remained with me, though softened as I became a father myself. You told us to reflect on someone no longer in our lives as you played a piece by Chopin and I thought about my father and this question that I could never answer and the story that I had told myself because of it. I am unlovable because my father never loved me. Loved me. And then as if delivered by a bolt of lightning, I recalled an incident that occurred between us at least 45 years ago. I was an asthmatic child and on so many evenings could not run to the door to say hello to my father. I would instead remain upstairs, bedridden, gasping for every breath, waiting for him to come and say hello to me and maybe just maybe say, I love you. And then as I listened to your music, the memory came back of an evening all those years ago when I was again sick and he did come upstairs. But this evening was different. He sat next to me on my bed and as I was sitting upright and struggling for the next breath, he began gently stroking my hair for a period of time that I wished would have lasted an eternity. Tears came to my eyes and I knew that while he could not say those words, they were expressed even more poignantly in the gentle stroking of a little boy's hair by his father's powerful hands. I recall that as he sat with me, my asthma attack subsided. I had completely forgotten about that incident. I must have buried it in my own desire to keep my father at a distance to prove my story that I was unlovable, that he was cold and only cared about work. True, but it's not so. My father showed me love in so many ways. If we can only examine and re-examine the stories we tell, we can open ourselves to the possibility that what we seek may be in front of us the whole time. Thank you, John Imhoff. These thin stories we tell not only shut us off from the possibilities awaiting us, but they close down the possibilities that are waiting between us. Another way to look at this idea of a thin story comes from a TED Talk called The Danger of a Single Story in which the Nigerian writer Cima Mande and Goze Adiche warns of the dangers of creating thin stories, what she calls the single story. The single story is when you compress all the complex stories of individuals or groups of individuals to a single, often oversimplified narrative. Told enough times, such stories get internalized and we forget that they are merely stories. They can be stories given to us by others like the story I received from Sister John of the Cross when someone else compresses the complexity of who we are into one story that we then carry with us. And Adiche gives this example in which she inadvertently bought into the single story of another. She says, I come from a conventional middle-class Nigerian family. My father was a professor, my mother an administrator. And so we had, as was the norm, live in domestic help who would often come from nearby villages. So the year I turned eight, we got a new house boy whose name was Fide. The only thing my mother told us about him was that his family was very poor. My mother sent yams and rice and our old clothes to his family. And when I didn't finish my dinner, she would say, finish your food. Don't you know people like Fide's family have nothing. So all I felt was enormous pity for Fide's family. Then one Saturday we went to his village to visit and his mother showed us a beautifully patterned basket made of dyed raffia that his brother had made. I was startled. It had not occurred to me that anybody in his family could actually make something. All I had heard about them was how poor they were. So that it had become impossible for me to see them as anything else but poor. Their poverty was my single story. We are not a single story, but a rich combination of multiple stories that create the tapestries of our lives. Adice said, what if my mother told me that Fide's family was very poor and also very hardworking and extremely creative that they were makers of beauty. The process of creating the stories of our lives is a process of invention. We get to create the ones that bring us hope and meaning. We can reject the ones that hold us back or harm us. And when we realize these stories of ourselves are in fact stories, we can change them, adapt them, add to them, make them more complex. When we create thick stories for ourselves, we are recognizing all that we bring and we can find freedom and new life in these stories for ourselves that then allows us to help others find freedom as well. When we recognize that we are stories that are complex and dynamic, that we are each multi-storied, then we are less likely to step into the trap of creating a thin, single story of another. Years later, when Adice left Nigeria for the United States to attend college, she remembered this story of Fide and his family when she met her first roommate who was quite shocked by her. Her roommate asked, where had she learned English so well? And was surprised to learn that English is the official language of Nigeria. She asked her if she could listen to her tribal music and was greatly disappointed when Adice pulled out her tape of Mariah Carey. She assumed that she didn't know how to use a stove. Her roommate had a story of her already written before she arrived, a story that was a kind of patronizing, well-meaning pity. She held a single story of the continent of Africa, that was one of catastrophe and of a people who couldn't do anything for themselves who needed to be saved by a foreigner. How do you do this, Adice asks? How do you create a single story? Show a people as only one thing over and over again, and they become that story. Tell a person that they are only one thing over and over again, and they become that story. Our culture can tell thin stories as well that do not reflect the complexities of our world. One of the most common ones is that we are a land of equal opportunity, that anyone can pull themselves up by their bootstraps if they're only willing to work hard enough. The reality, of course, is that our starting conditions dramatically impact our chances of success in life. Growing up in poverty means you are far less likely to become wealthy than those born into the middle class, let alone those born into wealth and privilege. We love to lift up those stories of someone who started as the poorest of the poor and ended up with great wealth, and we use those thin stories to show how this must be true. But the individual examples run counter to the broader reality. Income inequality and social mobility are both decreasing in our country and little is being done to shift the tide. Perhaps we need to rewrite that story. Because the stories we tell affect our own lives and what we believe is possible for us. They affect our relationships and what we believe is possible between and among us and they affect our wider world whether we truly believe that justice and freedom and peace are available for all of us. Stories matter. They have been used to dispossess and malign and they can also be used to empower and humanize. Stories can break hearts and souls and stories can be used to repair and to heal. So may we be willing to consider and reconsider the stories we tell about ourselves, one another, our community and our world. Let us tell thick stories, rich in hope and possibility and in the telling may we begin to make them true. Generosity is one of the spiritual qualities that we aspire to and one of the practices we nurture here in this community. With our offering each week, we give of our resources to support the work of this community and also to our partner outreach offering recipient. This week, the Greater Madison Urban League. You can find out more about their good work in your red floors and we thank you for your generosity. Thanks again, Trevor. I think everyone appreciates your efforts and Kirsten's. Thank you in fact for all the ways you all give to this community. We appreciate it and we also would like to thank those folks who helped to make today's service possible and run smoothly. Our greeters were Marsh, Switzer and Diana Reedham and on sound is Mark Schultz. Thank you, Mark. Our lame minister is Pamela McMullen. Our ushers are Karen Hill, Sam Bates, Doug Hill and Elizabeth Barrett. Hospitality, the folks making coffee and lemon water are Richard DeVita and Jeannie Hills. At our book table, as is frequently the case, we have Jerry Thane and at our welcome table outside is Ann Moser. Thanks to all of you. Oh also, I would like to say that one of the ushers asked me to remind you, if you would please return your books if you're able on your way out, they appreciate it greatly. I have two announcements to which I want to call your attention and they are in the red floors which is full of good information but two particular things include the fact that this is the final week for a guest at your table collection. Perhaps you have had those boxes sitting at home collecting change or $100 bills or whatever you've been collecting in them. Please remember to return them, there is a table out in the commons and also please put your name on the side of the box or give a single check that is representative of all the money that you've collected, that's fine too. Also out in the commons is a table where you can learn or our tables where you can learn more about small group ministry. These are being highlighted between and following the services. Members of our various groups are available to answer questions and share information. There's also additional information in the January newsletter. So if you're interested in becoming more involved in some kind of a small group, please check that out and see if there's anything that speaks to you. Thank you very much. We join together each week, a community who gathers with joys and sorrows written on our hearts. In this place we love and are loved, we give and receive and return. This week we celebrate with Anne Smiley, the birthday of her son Will who is in Delhi today with his in-laws. He and his wife Medavi will also celebrate their second wedding anniversary there the day after tomorrow. We're also holding in our hearts Norma Swanson, the mother of Janet Swanson, who passed away last Sunday. Ron Valenza is the son of Janine Nussbaum and we send him our love as he's in his final days at a grace hospice. And we remember Lee Weiss, a generous and loving woman whose memorial service was held on Friday evening. These flowers, a gift from her chalice group, are in her memory. We hold all those joys and the sorrows that are too tender to share, that live within our hearts. May we remember that we are part of a web of life. May we be grateful for the miracle of this life we share, the hope that gives us the power to care, to remember and to love. And if you will rise now in all the ways we do for our closing hymn, number 151. I wish I knew how it would feel to be free. I wish I could break all these chains holding me. I wish I could say all the things that I could say. Say them loud, say them clear for the whole world to hear. Say them loud, say them clear for the whole. I wish I could share all the love in my heart. Let's still keep us upon to be me. Then you'd see and agree everyone should be free. Then you'd see and agree everyone should be free. I wish I could give all I'm longing to give. I wish I could live like I'm longing to give. I wish I could do all the things I can do. Though I'm way overdue I'd be starting anew. Though I'm overdue I'd be starting anew. I wish I could be like a bird in the sky. How sweet it would be if I found I could fly. I'd soar to the sun and look down at the sea. Then I'd sing cause I would know how it feels to be free. Then I'd sing cause I'd know how it feels to be free. We extinguish our chalice remembering there is within each of our hearts a most glorious light. Go forth and let its spark help you understand what troubles both you and others. Go forth and let its light of reason be a guide in your decisions. Go forth and bring its ray of hope to those in need of help in both body and spirit that they may find healing. Go forth and fan the flames of passion spreading the warm glow of love to help heal our world. Go forth and share your glorious light. Blessed be, go in peace and please be seated for the postlude.