THE WINDOWS OF PERCEPTION

A Sermon by
James Ishmael Ford

29 October 2000

I gave my very first sermon at the Marin Fellowship of Unitarians in San Rafael, California. It was, oh I don’t know, maybe fourteen, possibly fifteen years ago, several years before I entered seminary. Anyway, at the time I used what I thought as a fairly cute adaptation from an older book title for my announced sermon’s title. The sermon was Are You Running With Me, Buddha? In the conversations at coffee hour following the service, I was a tad dismayed to discover no one seemed to pick up that I was in fact playing off a book from several decades earlier, the Episcopalian minister Malcolm Boyd’s one time best seller, Are You Running With Me, Jesus?

I guess it wasn’t terribly traumatic as I’ve gone on to twist various other titles and phrases from miscellaneous sources for sermon titles over my entire ministerial career, now well into its ninth year. And so, here we find today’s title, The Windows of Perception. I was rather pleased with myself about that one. It does play out on a number of levels, what with our mixed feelings and opinions about the windows here in FUSN, our beloved First Unitarian Society in Newton.

Also I’m a long time fan of Aldous Huxley, and I liked making a veiled allusion to one of his more controversial volumes. However, after I mentioned the title during the historical sermon two weeks ago, someone came up to me and said, "Oh, James. I’m fascinated to see what it is you’re going to do with your play on Blake’s great line."

Blake. This is such a literary crowd. Of course Huxley derived his title right from William Blake. Life really is layered. Meaning, like causality is multiple. And here at the bottom of the pile of meanings, a profound truth is proclaimed as Blake sang. "If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite." If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to us, as it is, infinite. Here, beyond cute, right to the core of reality, right to the heart of our lives, I feel the full range of what we are encountering is in fact being revealed.

And what is revealed is layer upon layer of significance. When we open those doors of perception, when we allow ourselves to gaze through the windows of perception the astonishing wisdom that lies inherent within our common humanity is, indeed, revealed. In all its complexity I have to add, in all its complexity. Here even our images become slippery, become confused. So as I reflect on the nature of human perception, doors, windows, and maybe even mirrors become appropriate images.

Particularly within the context of today’s reflection on our stained-glass windows, I am caught up with the image of mirrors. With just a little coloring a window becomes a mirror of our hearts. I believe this is at the bottom of what the great Yiddish poet and dramatist Sholoyme-Zanvl Ansky meant when he wrote in his play The Dybbuk. "There is glass in the window and in the mirror, but in the mirror the glass is covered with a little silver; now lo and behold, no sooner is a little silver added than you cease to see others and see only yourself."

This is, of course, a warning. When we come upon a mirror, we find ourselves on dangerous ground. The silver, the color we bring into it changes everything. On the one hand, as Ansky suggests, all can be reduced to nothing more than a playground of the ego, a surface for projection. But possibly something more presents itself. If we are careful the images revealed can be powerful, indeed. In this reflecting back of our self-nature, we encounter a magical glass, a window into the soul itself.

As I reflect on these windows of ours that surround us every Sunday it seems to me we come to a complex and mysterious and dangerous place. They are doors of perception, windows of perception, and something more. Here as we look at them, as we actually encounter these windows through the lens of contemplation, through reflection, we’ve added some powerful silver, a dash of color.

And we find all the richness and darkness and light of our lives playing together, blending and mixing and setting off the rays of our minds. Here, as out of an encounter with any authentic iconography, spiritual art, we find the symbols of our hearts revealed. And I believe, through our contemplation of those symbols; we find many possibilities for self-discovery. These windows can be mirrors of our soul seeking.

The Christian mystic and children’s novelist George MacDonald speaks to this when he writes "What a strange thing a mirror is! And what a wondrous affinity exists between it and a (person’s) imagination! For this room of mine, as I beheld it in the glass, is the same, and yet not the same. It is not the mere representation of the room I live in, but it looks just as if I were reading about it in a story... All its commonness has disappeared. The mirror has lifted it out of the region of fact into the realm of art…" MacDonald then ends with the delightful rumination, "I should like to live in that room if I could only get into it."

Well, I suggest maybe we are in that room. Once we get past the misapprehension that we purchased this building from the Episcopalians, then we are given the opportunity to reflect on our own history, the roots of our stories, the beginnings of our dreams, the reflections of our souls. Most of our windows deal with powerful archetypes within our common lives: Education, Justice, Love. But, certainly not all are so immediately obvious.

As you cast your eyes around this room I hope the second thing you notice is that while much of the iconography is obviously Christian, there is something different about it. If you take the time to notice, you can see where our Unitarian sensibilities are in fact faithfully being represented.

I say Unitarian, as this building was constructed sixty years before the merger of the American Unitarian Association and the Universalist Church in America. But, I suggest the symbols here are even yet ours. Even our contemporary Unitarian Universalism finds its expression implicit and explicit within these windows, within these mirrors of a collective heart, and a deep dreaming.

What you see in the great window behind me and extending throughout all the other windows representing Jesus; is a particular and constant emphasis. I’ve mentioned before how our Unitarian re-visioning of Christianity has had much to do with reclaiming its original Jewish perspectives. That is our constant assertion that Jesus’ ministry was what counted most. Illustrative of this, in a conversation with one of our Christian identified members a week or so ago, I found him suggesting he was a "pre-Pauline" Christian.

The time wasn’t appropriate for me to ask what exactly he meant then, but I suggest at least in part it probably has to do with this common impulse that has woven within our movement for three hundred and more years. We have historically been deeply interested in the life of Jesus and the teachings of Jesus. We are, for the most part among us, not so deeply concerned with the great, and I freely acknowledge profound mythic Jesus: the child of God who comes as a sacrifice for the sins of the world, and whose Easter resurrection is the central symbol.

But, look. There are no crucifixions here. Look around and you will find no resurrected Jesus here. Our nineteenth century Unitarian forebearers summarized this perspective of ours as a concern with the "faith of Jesus rather than a faith about Jesus." This is a leading characteristic of our liberal faith. For the most part we are concerned with the arts of living. For many among us the foremost concern is with how we live and, of course, face death. But not much with what happens after death. How shall we live? How do we treat others? What are the arts of a profound and holy human life? This impulse and these questions run through our movement from its inception. And these windows, for the most part, speak directly to that perspective.

As Unitarian Universalists our humanist, rational and this-worldly perspective continues to be our leading characteristic among western religious traditions. In fact our clear and unambiguous humanist perspectives, which dominated our movement throughout the twentieth century, begin its greatest flowering right around the time this building was constructed, a full hundred years ago. But, I suggest--as you look at these windows you can see it right there, right here, always with us.

Gayle Smalley’s new pamphlet on the history of our windows is a tour de force. She has put an astonishing amount of energy into researching these windows and I hope each of us will take the time to read her results at some point. Here today, I would like to reflect in a rather more impressionistic manner on four of these eleven windows, these eleven mirrors into the heart and mind of our spiritual tradition.

First this window which faces the congregation. The principle scene is the Sermon on the Mount, a perfect image for our community, seeking the ways of life, and listening to the good rabbi Jesus proclaiming an ancient tradition. The window is dedicated to the memory of our Society’s member George Lincoln Lovett, who as the then minister of our congregation Julian Jaynes wrote. Was a person "Gentle in manner, firm in conviction, he was strictly loyal to the moral ideal, generously helpful to human needs, and responsible to all the demands of the friendly and neighborly life."

Now this is something important. These windows, each of them, speak to our relationships with actual living people. Each of these windows is a memorial to members of our Society, living people who gave some genuine part of their hearts to us. And in these windows, in these mirrors we find reminders of our own deepest possibility. I for one am awed that the ancient calls of perennial Jewish and Christian wisdom, of, I really believe deepest human wisdom is given center stage through this window.

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to us, as it is, infinite. So, here is a little scrubbing for us. Hidden, echoing perhaps within our hearts, our memories are the words given on that mythic day when Jesus and his friends gathered to share the ways of salvation.

Speaking a summation of the wisdom that spins out of the ancient soil of the Near East, from the great prophets of Israel, Jesus stood among that throng of spiritual seekers, and proclaimed the blessings of God. Blessings that fall upon the simple in spirit, those who mourn, the gentle, those who seek righteousness, the merciful, those who seek simplicity and clarity, the peacemakers, and the persecuted. May we all understand the blessings promised here, as our own genuine heritage, as our own authentic way.

Now exactly framing this window, is my personal favorite, the one I get to look at. Dedicated to the memory of Nathaniel Allen, as Gayle wrote a "prominent educator, pacifist and abolitionist who was among the founding members of our society." As his obituary recorded in the Newton Graphic tells us, Allen was "a Garriossonian abolitionist (that is a very aggressive in your face abolitionist), and an officer of the society when in those days it cost something to be identified with (people) of their belief…"

I find it a very appropriate connection between our two great windows, the one offering the ideal teachings of our western spiritual culture, and the other a concrete expression of those ideals in a flesh and blood person within our beloved community. Nathaniel’s abiding creed of "peace, education, freedom, courage and truth," I have no doubt, continue to be our guiding principles to this day. In that window much of our story, of our dreams, of our profound possibility is revealed.

And so it continues through the many windows, those many mirrors of our possibilities. Here we find those many layerings, hints, dreams and frankly difficulties. An authentic spiritual life has many difficulties; it is about living in the real world. So, the Christian windows are perhaps the most difficult for many among us. But, look over at the Burrage Window, the third down from me here on the outside wall. There we find scenes from the life of Jesus, but central to it is his birth. There is an important theological echo here, if we take time to notice.

When the mythic center for Unitarians shifted away from the death and resurrection of Jesus, it perhaps naturally came to center on the birth of Jesus. The great holiday for Unitarians observing the Christian calendar has always been Christmas. As most of us here know, the Puritans banned that midwinter holiday in New England as a thinly disguised continuance of the celebration of the divine Sun of ancient Rome.

What fewer among us know, is that Christmas was re-claimed for our New England culture by us, by the Unitarians. Quite simply our forebearers didn’t see a problem with that blending of myths, tolerant from the beginning. We’ve always liked Christmas. Particularly, I think, as Christmas pointed to the real issue, centering on a living Jesus and his teachings. Worth thinking about, I believe.

But then, for me, perhaps the most difficult, and therefore possibly the richest window to reflect on is the Peabody, the third from the pulpit area on the inside of the building. I know it was the one I’d be most willing to dispose of from the minute I saw it. Julian Jaynes described its theme as the "arming of the Christian knight." Certainly an image I can do without.

But. Oh, I how hard those buts can be. My own cherished delusions, my desires for righteousness, my wanting to be right—when confronted with those hesitations, those ‘but’s I find my most uncomfortable moments. And, I must admit, the moments that sometimes open the greatest possibilities. Here, I suggest, is possibly one such window, one such mirror into all our hearts.

This window is dedicated to the memory of Ellery Peabody, Jr. Ellery was born in 1896. He was dedicated within the embrace of this congregation following the rites of Unitarian Christian baptism. He was raised in this congregation. As a child he ran among these pews. He learned his faith within our Religious education program. Possibly his first kiss was stolen up in the tower room of this building. Certainly an important part of his life was lived here in this congregation and from his tenth year, in this building.

And when he was killed in the First World War, Ellery’s parents wanted a memorial, and they chose that window. That difficult window. Certainly, as I’ve studied our history, and know that story, I find myself filled with hesitations. Our child is memorialized there. All our children who have died in the wars, in the struggles, in the difficult shadows of pain and suffering, are caught up, I feel somewhere deep within me, in that window. Here theological identification pales before the reality. Jewish, Christian, atheistic humanist, pagan or Buddhist, all the many flavors of our liberal faith are remembered, are contained, are reflected in that window of grief and suffering and memory.

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to us, as it is, infinite. I am quickly coming to love this building. It is a horrid monstrosity. It is also a wondrous gift to us from our ancestors. Encoded within it is their collective wisdom. And it has become for us a doorway, a window, a mirror into our hearts.

As we seek the ways of wisdom, as we seek the ways to raise our children, to live honorable and just lives, to be the best we dream of, this sacred space, this holy meeting room, can help us. We’ve thrown a dash of color on these windows. May we heed the warnings and not let ourselves rest in an easy identification, a romance with ego and prejudice. Rather, let us engage fully. Let us look deeply. Let us find our own hearts, and the ways to truth, to love and to justice.

The good news is we can do that. And we can do that here.

Amen.