November 5
To the Editor:

"Bear in mind this sacred principle, that though the will of the majority is in all cases to prevail, that will, to be rightful, must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal laws must protect, and to violate would be oppression." 
     - Thomas Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, 1801.

No one should have to go to bed at night fearing that when they wake up in the morning their country will have become more discriminatory. Yet, that is exactly what happened in Tuesday's election. On Wednesday morning, a minority within our larger culture woke to a new world, where newly gained equal rights had been stripped away from them.

Democracy, for all its wonders, does have a few warts. The biggest is the danger that democracy can be used to allow the tyranny of the majority to oppress the minority.

Ever since Question 1 appeared on our ballot, I have been concerned about its presence there and infinitely puzzled as to how our august state allowed that to come to pass. Matters of civil rights should not be put up for a vote. If we allowed such votes routinely, women would have no rights in our country, nor would people of color or people with disabilities.

Civil rights are Constitutional matters. As Thomas Jefferson states, for democracy to work, equal laws must protect the civil rights of minorities. Otherwise, we open ourselves up for the travesty we experienced on November 3, when the majority of voters -- roughly 90% of whom are straight -- took civil rights away from gay and lesbian people, who constitute approximately only 10% of the population. 

That is an abomination.

Shame on us.

Sincerely,
The Reverend Sylvia A. Stocker
Brunswick

Perhaps you didn’t realize it, but March 12 was Crane Watch Day – the day Nebraska celebrates the arrival of the Sandhill cranes along the Platte River. According to the Nebraska Games and Parks Commission:

Cranes are among the oldest living birds on the planet. Fossil records place Sandhill Cranes in Nebraska more than nine million years ago, long before there was a Platte River, which, by comparison, is only a youthful 10,000 years of age. The landscape then was savanna-like and its inhabitants were more like that of modern East Africa; varieties of rhinos, camels, and elephants long since extinct. Yet cranes survived and watched as American bison, pronghorn, and wapiti evolved on the prairies. Humans now dominate the landscape having replaced the bison with cattle and the prairie with corn and concrete. (http://www.ngpc.state.ne.us/wildlife/guides/migration/sandhill.asp)

Not all change is good, I suppose. Concrete must certainly be a blight on the landscape, compared to all that has gone before. Still, the business of flying north every spring for 9 million years – 9 million years and counting! – is nothing short of stunning.

Some of the cold March days here in Maine can feel a bit discouraging. The more promising, milder days with their drippy warmth can feel tantalizing. Now that we have “sprung forward,” and the days are longer than the nights, I want spring to emerge. I want crocuses, daffodils, warm sun, and snow completely melted!  

When I get to feeling like that, I gain some perspective by remembering a 9-million- year sojourn, a 9-million year courtship with the seasons. For 9 million years, something has made the birds take to flight. For 9 million years, something has allowed the birds to find their way home despite changing landscapes, despite radically new neighbors over the course of time…from rhinos to bison to humans.

Year after year for 9 million years flying north, covering 170-450 miles per day, surging through the skies, then landing like clouds on the Platte River, a half a million birds gather annually for rebirth, renewal, regeneration.

Imagine: yielding to the restless itching to move onward, plying up the roots of winter’s home, taking to the skies, flying, flying, flying… then landing once again. The whole journey involves faith: faith that they will know the way, faith that their springtime home will be there to greet them, faith that the spinning patterns of sun and seasons will always set them right eventually.

Marveling at the birds, we might ask ourselves what propels us forward? What restlessness might cause us to stir towards a springtime of our souls? What are we leaving? And where might our journey take us?What gets in our way? What helps us to lift our wings and fly?

A Prayer for Difficult Times, Sylvia A. Stocker

In the quiet, let us gather our hearts, many hearts beating, many people dreaming, many souls yearning for peace, for freedom from worry, for assurance of a brighter tomorrow.

We gather in difficult times.

Swelling numbers of people unemployed, hungry, afraid.

Swelling numbers of people living under the shadow of war and violence.

We gather in difficult times.

Here, in the quiet of our assembly, here in shared warmth and compassion, just for this moment, may we feel free of our burdens. May we breathe in together, gathering in peace. And may we breathe out together, letting go of worry and fear. (Breathe…)

Just for this moment, may we feel quietness of heart. May we breathe in together, gathering in gentleness. May we breathe out together, letting go of frustration and anger. (Breathe...)

Just for this moment, may we feel held in a community of loving souls. May we breathe in together, gathering in support and caring. May we breathe out together, letting go of loneliness and isolation.

Just for this moment, may we sit together, one community of peaceful, quiet, loving souls, buoyed by our shared strength and spirits. Just for this moment, may we know in our hearts that we are not alone.

One of my esteemed colleagues claims libraries are one of the last vestiges of civilization.

“They’re quiet,” she says, “and people are courteous.”

She adds, “And the whole premise of a library is based on sharing.”

After a week of marked contrasts, I am inclined to agree with my colleague.

Last Tuesday I stopped into the library for a book from which I planned to select a reading for Homecoming Sunday. Yes, trying on a Tuesday to locate a copy of a book I would need for a sermon on the following Sunday was cutting things just a bit close. But the book – Small Wonder, a collection of essays by Barbara Kingsolver – was published several years ago. I was reasonably confident newer books had captured the affections of most readers, and I assumed at least one of the library’s two printed copies of the book would be available.

Alas, both were out. A recorded copy – on cassette tapes, a medium I cannot easily play – was available. Desperate, I pulled the cassette version from the shelf, and headed to the desk to check it out, wondering where I would acquire a tape player and when I would carve out time to listen to the cassettes, find the appropriate passage, and transcribe it, word for word.

At the desk, I told the librarian my sad tale. She did her own check, discovered that indeed both printed copies of the book were out, and entered an inter-library loan request for me. Then she asked, “When do you need it?”

“I need it for a sermon I am preaching this coming Sunday,” I answered.

“I own that book. You can borrow my copy. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.” she replied.

My jaw must have dropped halfway to my knees. I knew the librarian by sight, that’s all. She seemed to know I was the minister of the church across the street, but beyond that she had no reason to trust me with her book. Moreover, surely she was aware, as I was, that I could walk to the bookstore a couple of blocks away and purchase the book if I were that desperate for it.

Her spontaneous generosity touched me deeply. As we made arrangements for me to pick up the book the next day and I gushed my thanks to her, I mentioned the excerpt I was planning to use. She smiled and nodded both appreciatively and knowingly. Evidently it was a passage she loved, too.

Sure enough, the librarian phoned the next day to let me know I could pick up the book. I fairly skipped across the street to retrieve it. The remainder of my day was taken up with several hours of meetings. So it wasn’t until much later, when I finally had a chance to sit down with the book, that I discovered that the librarian had not only loaned me her book, but she had also placed a bookmark in the chapter I sought.

A book, a book mark, an unexpected spontaneous generosity – sure signs of civilization.

By contrast, also last Tuesday the Navy’s Blue Angels arrived in town preparatory for the weekend air show. For several days the citizens of Brunswick and surrounding towns endured screaming, thunderous practice and performance sessions. In the church office, we instinctively covered our ears and ducked when the planes flew over. No matter how much we reassured ourselves (“They’re only practicing. They always fly just above the church. Everything is fine.”), the planes made a terrifying noise. And they raised a terrifying specter. They are warplanes, after all, no matter how they dress themselves up.

At home, things weren’t much better. My house is right behind the air station. When the Blue Angels flew overhead, the china rattled in the cabinet, my bones shook in my body, and my nerves became quickly jangled. My little cat Molly darted around the house, trying to hide from the frightful noise and vibrations. But, of course, there was nowhere to hide.

Lots of people love the Blue Angels, and I don’t blame them. For a while I watched them practice on Friday. Their flying is amazing, artful, stunning. To master such precision flying, the pilots must commit themselves to more hours of training and practice than I can possibly imagine. And the teamwork required to produce their performance is truly inspirational.

Still, as I tried to carry on with the business of my daily life last week, I experienced the Blue Angels as an intrusion more than anything. They reminded me of all the people I’ve met in life who are too loud and domineering, take up more than their appropriate share of space, and are oblivious of the needs or existence of others. They reminded me, too, of humanity’s brokenness – of the countless times through the centuries when communication has broken down and human beings have resorted to violence to solve problems.

In one week, I experienced the contrast of the quiet helpfulness and generosity of a librarian in the public library and the overpowering presence of military aerobatics. If I had to choose one to represent a last vestige of civilization, the library would win, hands down.

When I was little, my father and grandfather used to take us to the ocean to dig clams. Now, clamming is something you do only at low tide, and – if you were my father – only on weekends and in good weather. So our clamming expeditions were rare and exciting. I remember navigating the squishy, wet sand and aiming my shovel at the puckery places where my father told me to dig. I remember the smell of the ocean, the feel of the salty breeze on my skin – and the plunking sound the clams made as we tossed them into our metal pails.

When we got home, my grandmother – with my mother’s help – baked clam pie. I remember the family circled around the dinner table, the pie being ushered into the room, and the awed hush that enveloped the family when the first fork-full of clam pie hit our taste buds. My grandmother’s clam pie was out of this world!

Now, so many years later, the memory remains. Back then, working side by side with my family members, I was doing a great deal more than excavating clams. There at the ocean’s edge, while the generations of my family worked side by side, I was experiencing an act of creation in which everyone’s contribution counted – even mine, the littlest member of the group. I was beginning to form the building blocks of relationship and community. I was learning how to open my heart.

Some years ago, my grandmother died. And, when we were cleaning out her house, everybody said, “I want the clock,” and “I want the dresser,” and “I want the sewing machine.” And I said, “I want the recipes.” I searched four boxes packed to overflowing for my grandmother’s clam pie recipe until eventually I found it. And this is what it said, more or less: ‘Double crust, enough for large pie dish. Clams. Sauce for clams. Salt and pepper. Bake in moderate oven until done.’

Ultimately, I don’t suppose there is a recipe for our small planet. Not a specific one, anyway. It all depends on the people, the life forms, the circumstances, and the tools we have available to us. It’s a kind of improvisational cookery. We have no control over most of the elements. We have to work with what we have. That’s the challenge and that’s the beauty of it.

Dough, shaped roughly into a ball, enough to create a whole planet. Dot with families, communities (including UU churches), nations, all humanity, all living things, enough to make a world. Infuse with creativity, curiosity, and all yearnings of the heart and soul.