SHELTER FOR THE BIRDS OF HEAVEN
Reflections on Social Justice

19 October 2003
James Ishmael Ford

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The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which is the least of all things; but when it is sown into the earth and grows, it becomes a great bush, and under its shadows the birds of heaven may take their rest.
Mark 4:31-32

Today, let’s have a conversation. Let’s explore the nature of faith and works. Let’s explore why and how we engage the hurt in the world. Let’s engage what it means to follow this old and mysterious way of liberal religion, a path of insight into the human condition, into that hurt and the possibility for healing. Let’s explore what it is we are about as Unitarian Universalists.

Perhaps you’ve heard the story of the man who died and went to heaven. Quite a place, heaven. And adding to his good fortune he arrived just in time for the most recent of the endless parties that while unmentioned in the sacred texts of the world’s religions, turns out to be a major feature of the heavenly calendar. Anyway, the greats of the past as well as the rest of humanity were there, all shmoozing at the great mother of all cocktail parties.

The man was having a magnificent time having found himself exchanging jokes with Groucho Marx, Edna St Vincent Millay and Socrates. After Edna shared one slightly off color joke, he laughed so hard that his cola shot out through his nose. While coughing and recovering his composure, he noticed a large guy sitting by himself in a corner, nursing a beer. He leaned over to Socrates and asked, “What’s the story with him?” Socrates whispered back, “Oh, that’s Martin Luther. He’s been sulking ever since he arrived here and learned it was works after all.”

Works. The great spiritual divide in the western tradition, perhaps the perennial spiritual question of how we are saved, how we find our true meaning in life, can be formulated as paths of faith or works. Is the spiritual quest about our inward experience, the unbidden movement of the spirit? Or is the spiritual quest about what we do in the world? Luther, you might pick up from the joke even if you weren’t already aware of it, was the great champion of faith alone.

That’s why he hated the Epistle of James, probably written by Jesus’ brother, which asserts, “Faith without works is dead.” Which, in fact, as it includes faith with works I suspect is the truest statement. Our hearts and our minds and our hands are all created to be used. As Marge Piercy sings to us: “Greek amphoras for wine or oil,/ Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums/but you know they were made to be used/The pitcher cries for water to carry/and a person for work that is real.”

So, let’s talk about that real work. Let’s explore the nature of our lives, what gives us depth and meaning, and how best it might manifest. To do this I want to tell a story in three parts then reflect a little on a parable of Jesus’. And then let’s throw the conversation open.

The first part of the story: I’m sure many of us, certainly those of us with an interest in Social Justice work, mostly know. It’s haunting and sad, and points to real concerns. One day a woman from the village was standing by the river. And she saw a baby floating in the water. She let out a shriek, dived into the water, swam out, grabbed the child, and swam back to shore. The next day another villager also retrieved a baby from the river. By the end of the week the villagers had pulled a dozen babies out of the water.

It was hard work. It was exhausting work. And it never seemed to end. Finally the elders of the village decided they needed to send someone up to the headwaters to see what was going on. Because no one had ever gone to the headwaters, and because they knew it was a dangerous trek, they decided to send a band of a dozen of their finest young women and men to find the cause of this terrible thing that was going on.

Well, that’s the story in its first part. It is, I suggest, a question somewhat similar to that of faith and works, even though it appears to present simply as a question about works. It has to do with where we give our attention. Do we attend to the immediate needs around us? The hungry neighbor? The homeless family? Or, do we seek out the reasons for these ills and devote our time and energy to that concern?

Here’s the second part of the story. Months went by. Finally singly and in pairs half the band returned. The rest, to the endless grief of their families, were never heard from again. The first of the scouts said, “Some miles upstream the river branches, and its impossible to tell which of its three arms is the true source. Several of us chose one branch and followed it for many miles. The way was hard and my companions died so I continued on alone. Eventually I came to a place where they were throwing babies into the water. It was a community who had organized themselves around commerce, and anything that interfered with profit was thrown into the water, including many, many babies.

Another couple stepped forward and said, “We followed a different branch, also suffering those awful losses among us, when finally we came to a place where people were also throwing babies into the water. Theirs was a community tightly organized in the name of the people, although everything regarding the common good was decided by a leader, who declared for the good of the many some babies had to be thrown into the river.”

The other survivors came forward. One, who had followed the third branch of the river, said she saw a community where people threw babies who were differently colored than the rest into the river. Another reported on that same branch how he found a community where girl babies were thrown into the river. Each report could break your heart.

We look at the causes of suffering in this world and we see all the ills of human philosophies and institutions. How did that old joke go before the fall of the Soviet empire? Under capitalism people oppress people. Under communism the opposite is true.

And so the third part of the story. Finally the villagers decided they needed to find the real cause, the source of the river. Since there were three branches, they picked the three strongest and cleverest survivors of the original band and sent them off.

A year passed. Somehow all three returned. The first gave her report, “I found the spring from which the first branch flows. At the headwaters people don’t belong to communities. Each person is completely consumed with their desires. For some it’s sex; for some food, for other’s alcohol; while for others it’s things. But, no matter how much of what they want that they get, these people don’t seem ever to be satisfied. It was like visiting hell.”

The second gave his report, “I, too, found a spring where the second branch began. The people around this spring were constantly fighting. They seemed consumed by anger at each other and resentment with each other. They couldn’t organize a community either, as they took violent offense at each other’s slightest disagreements. I, too, thought this was hell.”

Then the third gave her report. “I, also, found a spring at the head of the third branch. Here everyone talked past each other as if they weren’t there. Each person would give little speeches about how things really were, and what was what. But no one else paid anyone else any attention. They were all so caught up in their own opinions that they wouldn’t talk to each other, only give those speeches. It was maddening. And, like for our other scouts, I thought I’d visited hell.”

As Pogo declared all those years ago. We’ve met the enemy. And he is us. The source of the babies in the water, I suggest, more than economic policies, although those are part of the problem, more than social inequities, although those are a part of the problem; are mostly our own endless wells of grasping, of aversion and of certainties. At least this is what I’ve found as I’ve followed the river in my own life.

I remember during the Vietnam War, when a lot of babies were thrown into the river, attending a protest in Berkeley. As we were gathering in the morning a couple of us stopped and spoke with a policeman briefly about something. I no longer remember exactly what. What I do remember was he was friendly, not much older than I, and clearly a little uncomfortable with what was setting up. Maybe with the energy in the air, maybe with the ever growing crowd; who knows?

Nonetheless, he made an attempt to be friendly. Later, as the demonstration continued, as the chants and yells and speeches continued, I found my own energies rising and I joined with other young people beginning to roam the outer limits of the demonstration; when I came across the young cop standing at the top of the stairs leading up to Sproul Hall. Some other youths were “Seig Heiling” him. And I joined them. Later, when the blood cooled, I remembered his earlier friendliness, and I wondered about what caused me to act so cruelly in the name of goodness.

And here we come to the parable of the mustard seed. I’ve been fascinated with this story for years. It occurs in Matthew, Mark and Luke. In both Matthew and Luke that mustard seed when it’s planted grows up to be a great tree. I don’t know how many of us in this room are familiar with mustard. Well, mustard seeds don’t grow into trees.

I doubt if it’s surprising, but the oldest version of this story is probably the one in Mark. “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which is the least of all things; but when it is sown into the earth and grows, it becomes a great bush, and under its shadows the birds of heaven may take their rest.”

I need to engage the hurting person right in front of me. I need to engage the policies of my government that contribute to hurt. I need to engage the parts of my person that feed the cycles of suffering. A lot of work, no doubt. The good news, however, is that like that mustard seed, if we take on the task, if we attend both to the problems in the world and our own complicity, then some glorious, if perhaps small seed is planted. And if we continue to cultivate it, it really will grow into a great bush, and will become a shelter for the birds of heaven. At least that’s what I think.

But, this is meant to be a conversation.

So, what do you say?

Congregational sharing

An old sage said the authentic way is like a gold bar, you cut it at the beginning and it is gold, you cut it in the middle and it is gold, you cut it at the end and it is gold. As we struggle together, I hope our faith in ourselves and each other is revealed. In our willingness to be present, in our willingness to share a little time and effort, a seed is planted.

And, I suggest, as we cultivate that plant, something precious births into the world: hope, and love, and possibility.

Amen.