"Into The Light?"
by
The Rev. Dr. Mark Ehman
November 04, 2001
Four weeks ago I reminded everyone
of a holiday that we had missed—Confucius’ birthday. Today I want to alert you to a holiday that is yet to come.
My theory is that, if we anticipate the holidays, we will be
appropriately prepared for them and they will not slip by without our
notice, leaving us embarrassed and regretful.
No, the holiday is not Christmas.
(There are still 51 more shopping days until the jolly old elf
loads his sleigh). No, the
holiday is not Thanksgiving. (There
are still 17 days until our family gatherings and Jean Porter’s
fabulous feast of pheasant and figs in Hobart Hall—the pheasant will
probably turn out to be turkey.) There
are at least two religious holidays that occur in early November.
One is the Muslim fast of Ramadan—a holy month we have been
hearing much about in our media these past few days.
But the second—the one I wish to direct our attention to—is
the Hindu festival of Diwali, which begins this year on the 14th
of November. In the ancient
calendar Diwali marked the beginning of the new year—the end of
summer, the completion of the harvest and the closing of accounts.
Indians were now ready to “turn over a new leaf,” to welcome
in the winter and to make a fresh start.
The celebration of Diwali lasts for five days, spanning the
appearance of the new moon in the months of October/November.
This year the new moon occurs on the night of the 15th,
so Diwali runs from November 14-18.
Now why should we be interested and concerned about Diwali?
India is half a world away.
Its traditions and ways of thinking seem so foreign to us.
After all, we’re Americans, we’re Unitarian Universalists,
we’re 21st century realists.
Why should we focus on a celebration that is rooted in the
distant past, that reveres gods and heroes whose names are
unpronounceable, and that includes rituals which seem to the pragmatic
western eye to be outmoded forms of expression?
Two reasons come to mind immediately.
First, in our middle school religious education class our youth
are studying about other sacred traditions.
Among these is the Hindu tradition, with its array of gods and
goddesses, its temples and societies, its practices and festivals.
We UUs believe that it is important for our youngsters (and our
oldsters) to learn about religions other than our own because it helps
us understand why people believe the way they do.
And, as it states in the opening of our hymnal, UUs endeavor to
foster the “wisdom from the world’s religions which inspires us in
our ethical and spiritual life.”
If we really believe that, then we ought to know something about
the festivals of the great traditions.
Second, and not unrelated to this, is the fact that there is a
growing number of Indians in southwest Florida.
On Friday evening there were 75 people, young and old, attending
the India Association bhajan or song fest in Hobart Hall.
If we wish to be good neighbors, if we wish to be inclusive
Americans, if we wish to be welcoming UUs, then we should make an effort
to learn as much as we can about the customs and observances of people
who are in our midst, but whose spiritual path is different from our
own.
But, beyond these, there is a third reason.
We may discover that the sacred times of ancient peoples offer us
some profound universal lessons. Sometimes
we cannot see the forest for the trees.
Sometimes we cannot grasp the meaning of human experience from our perspective because we are too
close to it, too influenced by our presuppositions, too limited by
habitual thinking. If we
earnestly desire to form (and re-form) community in our world, we may do
well to abandon our perspective (at least for the
moment) and look at the world’s problems and possibilities through the
eyes of others. It may be
that their eyes, their expressions, their tears and their laughter will
teach us something that we have missed in our own quest for spiritual
enlightenment.
So what does Diwali teach us?
What is Diwali? Its
name means “rows of lighted lamps.”
During its celebration candles and clay lamps are lit in homes
and in shops in order to welcome the goddess Lakshmi, patroness of
wealth and good fortune. Special
meals are prepared and gifts are exchanged.
Old accounts are closed and new ones are opened.
Fireworks and revelry punctuate the more auspicious occasions of
worship and reverence. The
first day of the festival is a day of preparation.
The entire house of the Indian family must be cleaned, washed
down and whitewashed. (One
does not invite a goddess to dinner in a dirty house—especially the
goddess of wealth). Women of the family sweep the doorstep and draw symbolic
designs on the ground, welcoming the good and warding off the bad.
Throughout the five days the lamps are lit, indicating that the
light of a new year will overcome the darkness of the old, that
knowledge will overcome ignorance and that life will triumph over death.
On the third night, in certain parts of India, people indulge in
gambling. An old tradition
relates the story of a goddess who on this night played dice with her
husband—and won. She then
decreed that whoever gambled on Diwali night would have good fortune
throughout the year.
While
there are many other aspects to this elaborate festival, this may be
enough for our purposes. I
hope that you have been able to discern that Diwali is India’s
“festival of light,” that it is a time of joy as well as
seriousness, and that it symbolizes the hope and renewal for which the
human community longs. What
does all of this mean about how we may come into the light? What
does Diwali teach us about spiritual fulfillment?
What should we do in order to effect happiness in our lives?
I believe the answer is simple:
1) clean our houses, 2) light our lamps, and 3) roll the dice.
Clearly, I am employing these imperatives in a metaphoric sense;
however, sometimes it would seem that literal practices are necessary in
order to awaken in us the deeper meaning that is intended.
So it will do us no harm, a week hence, to literally clean our houses, light our lamps
and roll the
dice.
When my mother set herself to cleaning house, she left no corner
untouched. All the carpets
were taken up, carried outside and draped over the clothesline.
Then came the project of beating them to get out all of the grit
and dirt that had accumulated over six months.
(Carpet beating was my job.)
All of the curtains were taken down and
washed. All of the
woodwork and wooden floors were scrubbed—usually with a mixture of
water and lye. Finally, the
windows were washed—inside and out—and any loose panes were puttied
firm, so that they would not rattle on a cold winter’s night.
Then the house was ready to be lit and decorated for winter.
However, when I speak of “cleaning our houses,” I am
referring to the preparation of our mental and spiritual habitations as
well. These must be cleared
of the psychological and moral clutter which darkens our lives.
The weight of this psychological and moral clutter is
overwhelming, because it is our tradition.
We are immersed in it; we are nurtured by it; we are acculturated
to it. It is so
overwhelming, that, at times, we would prefer to live in the dirt and
darkness of religious belief, than in the light of spiritual wholeness.
John Shelby Spong, the highly controversial Episcopal bishop, in
his recent book recounts listening to a sermon by a young woman who was
attempting to clear the clutter and clean her house.
Her particular sticking point was the creed of the Christian
church. How could she, a
young woman about to enter the ministry, continue to affirm and
represent the creed? Because
the creed, in her view, had made “’our traditional religious
dwelling places no longer habitable.’
Yet this creed, and the definitions that arise from it, are so
powerfully present in our emotions that even when we judge it to be a
destructive document that is killing our very souls, still it whispers,
‘You cannot leave. You will be lost if you wander.
You must stay where you are.’
But we cannot stay. The
price is too high. These
creeds have given us a God . . . ‘who caused the death of his son, the
damnation of disbelievers, the subordination of women, the bloody
massacre of the crusades, the terror of judgment, the wrath toward
homosexuals, the justification of slavery.’”
Now I know that some will respond to the young woman by saying:
“But I’m not a Christian.
I gave up the creed long ago.”
However, such a response misses the point.
The issue is idolatry, and the question is:
What idols do we harbor in our spiritual houses?
What icons darken our religious dwellings?
What theological clutter is hidden in the deep recesses of our
souls and prevents us from moving into the light?
Is it a set of religious scriptures?
Is it an antiquated moral code?
Is it a beloved minister? Is
it a list of principles? Is
it a popular philosophy? Is
it immersion in the activities of the church?
Whatever the answer, we may rest assured that spiritual
life—human life—cannot flourish until this penchant toward idolatry
is overcome and our souls are made ready for the light.
But now suppose we have mustered the strength to smash our idols.
Suppose we have cleaned our “houses.”
Now it is time to light
the lamps.
But what lamps shall we light?
The goddess Lakshmi is the deity of beauty, prosperity and
wealth. Who among us does
not wish to be attractive, to be successful and to have lots of money?
Surely we could not resist the temptation to wish for these
during the coming year. However, I believe that, given our time and our place, it
would be auspicious for us to light the lamp of liberation. By
lighting it, not only may we
come
into the light,
but others as well may share in its illuminating power and freeing rays.
We Americans count liberation as a part of our cherished history;
but much of the world (including many in America) is not liberated.
We UUs proclaim religious freedom as the cornerstone of the
liberal tradition; but many religious people (including some UUs I would
suspect) do not feel free enough to openly express their chosen
spiritual path and lifestyle with the larger community—e.g., gays and
lesbians, pagans, those who suffer in silence lest they be judged
spiritually incorrect by the controlling group—to name a few.
I was struck this past week by a report coming out of
Pakistan—a report of an Afghani woman who is endeavoring to minister
to her refugee sisters in exile. Many
of these refugees are widowed and have little hope of surviving in a
society that denigrates and marginalizes women.
This leader, however, is teaching the widows how to read,
instructing the young girls in marketable skills and sharing her meager
knowledge of health and medicine. But
what struck me most about this courageous woman was her appeal to the
coalitions and alliances most likely to form the next government in
Afghanistan to include a significant number of women in the
decision-making process and in the new government.
What a revolutionary idea! And
what a gutsy woman! She has
certainly lit the lamp of liberation; and, once lit, no amount of
repression or exploitation will be able to extinguish it.
Just as I am thrilled by these signs of freedom, I am disturbed
by other events that threaten freedom—most notably the so-called
Patriot Act of 2001, which already is producing negative effects on our
society. I am old enough
(as some of you are) to remember World War II and the Japanese
internment camps. I am old
enough to remember the McCarthy era and the fear that it inspired in the
hearts of Americans—even in a Midwesterner like me.
I am old enough to remember the race riots of the late 30s and
early 40s and the freedom marches and protests of the 60s in which law
often got in the way of freedom and tried to stamp it out.
We cannot afford to repeat the past, to allow a cloud of
suspicion to threaten our open society, to tolerate invasions of privacy
simply on the basis of association or innuendo.
If we do, then we are lighting the candle of freedom in one
moment and blowing it out in the next.
If we do, then the critics of America are right.
We say one thing, but do another.
I would hope on Diwali night that we might light the lamp of
freedom and vow in our hearts to let nothing extinguish the flame.
What is true of American society in general is also true of
churches in particular. Denominations
love to control from the top down.
Churches love to manage spiritual life.
I am reminded of the story that Fyodor Dostoyevsky tells in The Brothers Karamazov. It
seems that Jesus returned to earth during the time of the Inquisition.
As he walked along the streets of Seville in Spain, he observed a
funeral procession coming out of the great cathedral.
A little girl has just died and her parents are grief-stricken.
Jesus promptly mounts the steps and raises the girl from the
dead. The crowd marvels and the parents are overjoyed.
But the Grand Inquisitor is in the audience and summarily has
Jesus thrown into jail. At
night the Grand Inquisitor enters the jail and confronts his prisoner:
“Why did you return to earth?
We, the church, had everything well organized.
Confessions were being said; indulgences were being purchased.
But you had to return and mess it all up.” After the conversation Jesus is released by the Inquisitor,
but only on condition that he will never again return to earth.
In his philosophical commentary Dostoyevsky notes that the people
had relinquished control of their spiritual lives to the church; and in
so doing, they had lost their freedom. May we as religious people, as UUs, as human beings never
fall into the trap of the controllers.
lean the house. Light
the lamps. Finally, roll
the dice. I have never been
to Las Vegas. I have no yen
to go. Yet I recognize that
much of what we do in life (maybe everything) is a risk.
We have no assurance when we rise from our bed in the morning
that we will see the setting sun in the afternoon.
We have no guarantee when we embark on a venture that it will
turn out the way we hope. We
have no certainty when we enter relationships that they will live up to
our expectations. What we do have is an inveterate and an incurable hope.
Tony Curtis once remarked to Cary Grant (in one of those
second-rate movies): “I
don’t know where we’re headed, but wherever it is, I’m sure that I
can work a little better deal than the one I’ve got now.”
I think that sums it up pretty well.
The future is unknown, but we are ready to “roll the dice.”
We could, of course, refuse to act.
We could retreat into our houses on Diwali night and say “Let
the devil take the hindmost.” We
could turn our backs on the suffering of the world and ignore our
responsibility of creating an harmonious, compassionate and universal
community. We could, as UUs, lapse into despair, saying that we are only
155,000 among a total population of 6 billion, or in Lee County, that we
are 300 plus amid nearly 450,000. We
could respond in this manner; but if we
did, we would not “roll the dice.”
We would not be ready to act against the injustice and
oppression, against the ignorance and violence, against the disease and
helplessness with which our world presents us.
So, be ready to gamble on Diwali.
Clean your house. Light
your lamps. Roll the dice.
The light shines in the darkness
And the world is not the same.
The light shines in the darkness
And we wonder whence it came.
The light shines in the darkness
To brighten up our way.
The light shines in the darkness
And night turns into day.
The light becomes our beacon
Our hope and our good friend.
The light is our protector
On which we can depend.
The light fills us with courage
To be more than what we are.
The light inspires our spirits
To reach the farthest star.
We cherish now this moment
In which we see the light;
Our blindness is transformed
Into unrestricting sight.
But now it is our duty
To endeavor and to dare
This light of blessed knowledge
To kindle and to share.
For when we, by our efforts,
To others pass the fire,
We keep the light from going out
And do their lives inspire.
So when we leave this earthly mist,
And wander realms divine,
We may, with utter confidence,
Know that the light doth shine.
Om! Shanti, shanti,
shanti.
© 2001, "Mark A. Ehman"
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