TO SHOW FORTH

A Sermon by
James Ishmael Ford

7 January 2001

Human beings need to know. Consciousness is the deep mystery of our human condition. We want information; we accumulate observations and experiences. Out of all this we reason and feel. As we are committed to the way, we also, through this process, slowly grow ever more vast. We learn to see the connections, the underpinnings of the cosmos as well as our own minds and hearts.

This path of knowing is a way toward wisdom and authenticity. It is, near as I can tell, a current of all spiritual traditions. For some less significant, for others more. For us as Unitarian Universalists, this way of knowing is very near the core. Knowing is our spiritual path. And so, on this festival of the traditional Christian church devoted to surprise, to learning, to epiphanies--perhaps it is appropriate for us to reflect something on the "how" and "why" of such a spiritual path.

For most of us spiritual insights, deep noticing happens through spurts and starts. We have an epiphany; we are blessed with noticing. These insights can be small or large. The word epiphany is usually reserved for those larger noticings. Such as when we catch on that the world is in fact not made up the way we thought. Then, the next step. We have to deal with it. We have to get real. This is usually the longer part of the process. But then if we are lucky, it happens again: an epiphany. Once again our world breaks up. And the cycle of learning of growing deeper starts once more.

Today, I want to reflect on this process of spiritual learning, integration, and starting again. For those among us who’ve not read my little book about Zen, in it I describe one such pivotal spiritual experience. On a Sunday devoted to epiphanies, I think it might be worth repeating. "Many years ago as a young Zen monk, I was eating a meal during a retreat. I was spooning up a thin vegetable soup, gulping each bite.

"I had come to nothing but broth and still felt the nag of hunger. Then I lifted the spoon out of the broth and on top of it was a great cabbage leaf. I almost wept. It was so beautiful. I put it in my mouth. It was delicious. And a great sensation of gratitude for that leaf, for the Zen community, for the whole planet, welled over me.

"In a moment I realized how that cabbage leaf, the spoon, the bowl, the stars in heaven, and I were joined and were vacant. Each thing was itself and all were empty. At the same moment, I knew the cabbage leaf as itself and nothing else. And I wept freely, without shame.

"Later when I related this experience to the teacher, she responded, ‘Good, good. Now you have begun your training.’" That’s the passage. And, it genuinely speaks to a turning point for my spiritual life. A substantive epiphany, if you will. Although, now so many years later, and a spiritual director for Zen students myself, I’m actually less comfortable with my old teacher’s response than I was at the time and even some years later when I wrote down that account.

Good, yes. An epiphany, sure. But, when someone brings me their experience, I believe generally it is my job as a spiritual guide to keep pushing a bit. The art, of course, is how much, and when. Still, in the interview room, when somebody brings me such an experience, I find myself inclined to ask what has become of that particular epiphany? It was great, I’m sure. But, what about now? Who have you become?

One of the consequences of our extended move from the deserts of Arizona to the rocky, forested and snowy clime of New England is that much of my reference collection is unavailable to me. Because of this I’ve found myself thrown more often than would otherwise have been the case, on the tender mercies of web searching. Fortunately I have a fairly well developed nonsense detector, (in fact the first draft of this sermon used a somewhat different term) and so I’ve been moderately successful in using the web for primary research.

On balance, it has been fun. I’ve even stumbled upon a web site featuring an early edition of Merriam Webster’s renowned dictionary. It is a little confusing as they call it Webster’s Revised Dictionary of 1913. From internal evidence I assume it is in fact a printing of Webster’s New International Dictionary, produced in 1909, and of which the third edition is now current.

As I was confirming the etymological sources for epiphany, I found an illuminating turn, a direction that I had not been expecting. Epiphany itself, as most of us know, comes from the Greek epiphania. It means "an appearance," or quite literally, "to show forth." Webster’s gives us a quote from the Anglican theologian Jeremy Taylor for an example of usage: "Whom but just before they beheld transfigured and in a glorious epiphany upon the mount."

The article contained all the usual, how the word speaks to a festival of the Christian church celebrated on the 6th of January, the twelfth day after Christmas, in commemoration of the visit of the Magi to the holy family. All clean and straightforward. Except.

And shouldn’t that except be how it is when we consider a showing forth? There should be something we didn’t expect. And this is what I found, something I didn’t expect. A small noticing, but perhaps useful, nonetheless. The listing then directed the reader to look up "Fancy."

Fancy. Now there is a term to associate with a theological word. Turns out it also comes from the Greek, this time for "appearance." And so, for fancy in 1913, or I suspect in 1909, here is how the compilers of one of the great English language dictionaries defined the term. "The faculty by which the mind forms an image or a representation of anything perceived before; the power of combining and modifying such objects into new pictures or images; the power of readily and happily creating and recalling such objects for the purpose of amusement, wit, or embellishment; imagination."

Oh, my. The illustrating line for this definition comes from John Milton. "In the soul Are many lesser faculties, that serve Reason as chief. Among these fancy next Her office holds." This fancy, not the whim of our current use, but this richer although still shaded fancy, according to that old Unitarian Milton, serves right after reason. Now, this is an astonishing invitation for a Unitarian Universalist reflection on epiphany, if I do say so myself.

Itself kind of an epiphany, wouldn’t you say? The appearance of the mind’s delight: of surprise, of the power of joining two or more thoughts into something new. But, of course, also shaded by foolishness, or whim. We shouldn’t forget our own current usage as some modifier to the meaning. Shade upon shade, nuance upon nuance. All in all, a difficult art, indeed. But, also, isn’t this an epiphany we can understand, we can approach, we can celebrate? I hope so.

Because, on our great path toward depth and meaning and purpose; here we find one of the delightful ways we accomplish our goal. Here we encounter one of the ways we dig in deep. Here we discover one of the secrets of learning, of moving beyond some static status quo, and, as our current usage has it, get real, discovering dynamic reality.

But, there is work to this play. We need to enjoy, to delight in surprise. At the same time, to just play is often to miss the possible deep. We need to not turn away from the hard parts, from the surprises that are less delightful. We cannot rest easily in a realization that the cosmos may be perceived in a cabbage leaf. It must continue. We must continue on within the great dynamic of possibility.

If our goal is to get real, to truly know, then we must see what such small or great experiences count for in our ordinary lived lives. So, for instance, not included in my book is something that happened to me maybe a month or two later. I was walking down a street in Castro Valley, another suburb near the Oakland Zen monastery where I was then living.

I was wearing "civvies," blue jeans and a work shirt, and I don’t remember but probably Vietnam era combat boots. The uniform of youth that didn’t want to be caught in establishment uniforms. I also wanted to make some kind of Buddhist statement. So, I affected a mala, a Buddhist rosary of one hundred and eight beads that I wore as a necklace. Thus dressed I had exited the bus, and was walking toward a friend’s house.

There I had the encounter perhaps my old teacher should have thrown at me. This teacher was maybe ten or eleven. Smudged faced from a serious day of play. She stood in front of me arms akimbo, a very ratty Barbie doll swinging loosely from one hand by a foot. "What’s that?" She asked pointing with her free hand at my mala.

Ah, I felt. This is one of those Zen stories, where the teacher appears for that ready student. But now it was me in the story, center stage. After all, I knew in my gut she was one with the cabbage leaf, one with me, one with everything. And I knew, as well, I really did--that she also was just as she was. A little girl asking a question.

Then I committed the great sin in such Zen encounters. I hesitated. As the old teachers say, stand when you stand, sit when you sit. Whatever you do, don’t wobble. And there I was wobbling like an unwinding top. I couldn’t decide. What would be the right response to a child? What should be the right response to a child? Indeed, where was my Zen answer? I gulped. I choked. And I sputtered.

"A mala, prayer beads, like a rosary."

She sneered. "Sure looks stupid." I failed the test. She waved me on with her Barbie doll. Defeated in the great engagement with real life I trundled on to my friend’s home. And I might add, to many more years of spiritual training.

The American Zen master Charlotte Joko Beck doesn’t like the traditional language Zen gives to such experiences: kensho, enlightenment. I don’t know, but I suspect she would be wary as well of epiphany. The problem happens when we make our ordinary lives too special to live in. Then it really does look stupid.

We tend to think of ourselves as special. We tend to believe our human consciousness makes us somehow better than the rest of the cosmos, which appears to just muck along without reflection. But, the truth of it is our special insights take us a long a way toward realizing we’re just part of the crowd. We get to know, but beyond that, we’re no different than dirt or cats or stars.

On the other hand, and on the spiritual path there are more hands than Tevyeve ever counted. If we don’t notice these moments, then we might just continue on without ever opening ourselves to the possibilities of change. And that, itself, would be a tragedy. Charlotte Beck acknowledges this, while giving the whole process a little less flash. She calls these moments, small intimations.

Maybe this is something for us. Perhaps we need to find that more humble language for our spiritual quests. We need to remember how we are all part of this world, stuff of its stuff, dust of its dust. We are gifted with this special kind of seeing, minds that can perceive, that can know. But that’s not all that much.

The way of wisdom is a way of coming to notice just a little less clouded by that very ability to perceive, and judge. It is a little foolish to claim special status for rising above our own limitations. So, what do we do? So, what is wisdom? What is authentic knowing? Is there such a thing?

I think so. But, it is also a small thing. It comes from asking how do we engage our lives in a manner that is respectful of the whole thing? How do we allow ourselves to be who we are? How do we get real? How do we not wobble, and instead answer the question that was asked. "A mala, prayer beads, like a rosary."

Well, to do this we need honesty. We need very much never to gloss over the reality of our being. One cannot start from a lie. We need to know ourselves truly. And therefore, on this spiritual path of authenticity no trimming. No pretending. No puffing. Keep it small.

Who we are, right at the beginning, is a great mystery, all by itself. In the sense of being wrapped up in the whole, perfect just as it is. So, what does this way of the small, of small intimations look like? Are you selfish? Do you get angry at little things? Do you fret about the inconsequential? Perhaps the problem is you can’t tell the important from the inconsequential. Is there never enough?

This is the question: Who are you, just as you are?

If we hope to know, to gain maturity, to be of use in the world, to love our children or companions, if we want to amount to anything, we need to first let ourselves be who and what we are. That is just as we are. Greedy, hateful, filled with the clouds of confusion. These are the materials with which we begin. Foolish and resentful and grasping, whatever it is, these are the strands out of which we are woven.

Of course, together with many other strands. And we need see them, as well. Do we love our children? Do we care what happens to our neighbor? Do we give a little time and money to needs beyond our family or self? Each of these things we do for others, is also a part of it all, one or many strands in the weaving that is our selves. And these, too, we need to let be, just as they are. A mala, praybeads, like a rosary: but without hesitation.

The path of knowing is one of noticing. The way is paying attention to what is. As we do these things, as we give ourselves over to lives that can be informed by what is, I promise the power of grace will bubble out of some mysterious and yet bottomless well. This is where our noticing, our knowing takes us. We just need to notice and let the epiphanies happen. Of course, they cannot be clung to as more than they are; what Charlotte Beck calls those small intimations, small openings.

Still, as we show forth ourselves from within these small openings, then our lives do take on a new timbre. Things do change, if only a little. Small opening, small kensho, small epiphany. But, it is a chance; it is a moment for change. Each time we allow ourselves to be confronted by that Zen master waiting behind every corner, holding onto her Barbie doll, waiting to wave it in our noses, and asking us the questions that can change our hearts, that can change our minds; grace appears.

So, on this festival of epiphanies, let us acknowledge the way of wisdom is the way of small noticings. And as we do this, perhaps we offer up the greatest possibility. As we go out into the world starting from where we are, and yet ready to be changed, then grace truly is spread upon the world like fire. The dross can burn away. And, our true gold, our ordinary, small gold, can be revealed.

And those golden coins, however small they might be, will add up. And the treasure revealed will be the necessary blessing for our lives, and the lives of our children, and the lives of all on this glorious small planet spinning through the great night. And we will know our hearts and minds. And our actions, small though they may be, will prove to be enough.

What a blessing. What an epiphany.

Amen.