John Ockels, a lay-leader at the Red River Unitarian Universalist Church in Denison, Texas, preached this sermon decrying the “Theology of Running Away” two weeks ago to his congregation. He challenges the notion of religion as constant searching, and encourages us as Unitarian Universalists to put down roots, “Kudzu-style.”

And I, for one, say “AMEN.” How about you?

Shall We Dwell At the River?

by John Ockels

This morning Iʼm here to criticize what I call “The Theology of Running Away.” Enough already with the theology of Singing the Journey, This World Is Not My Home, running-all-over-creation-chasing My Elusive Dreams, and nostalgic floating around in a boat, never quite docking, never quite engaging. “I’ve been sailing all my life now, Never harbor nor port have I known.” Please. Enough with all that. Enough with the theology of always being on a journey. Itʼs officially wearing me out.

This morning I want to argue for an end to all that Hank Thompson “Iʼm Moving On,” “We are going, heaven knows where we are going, Woyaya,” Christopher Columbus, thereʼs a better world over yonder, “Go West Young Man,” Herman Hesse Journey To the East, somewhere over the rainbow, life must be better somewhere else or sometime else stuff. Forget all that. Makes me tired just to think about it.

This morning I want to argue for a radical theology of loving where you are, staying put, spreading out, putting down roots … and taking over. Like a plant. And doing so successfully, like a successful weed. In short I want to argue a theology based on radical engagement where we are standing right now. A theology based on observing how plants interact with their surroundings, not one based on continued roaming predator behavior. A theology of taking over like a weed. A theology of Kudzu.

This is the theology of “Yes, kids, weʼre finally there now,” burn the boats, knock the bottoms out of the canoes, take the wheels off the covered wagon, enroll the kids in school, register to vote, join the PTA, start a cable network public access show, run for office, and buy a burial plot in the local cemetery. This is the theology of here and now. Radical in the best sense of the word: rooted. Like a plant. Rooted. And spreading. Kudzu-style.

Instead of a theology of seeking home, its time for a theology of being home. A theology of keeping the hearth to replace the theology of predatory wandering.

And it’s good to be preaching the end of the line, we’re-home-now, because three truths thereby emerge. The first truth is this: the reality is that we are home, here. We can relax. Journeyʼs over. We made it through. And as we unhitch the horses and take a look around, we sense truth number two: the folks where we live need us. Badly. They need our ethics, they need our wisdom, they need our caring, they need our passion, they need our sense of freedom, they need our lessons of respect for others, they need our demonstration of commitment to the earth, here and now, and they dang sure need our theology. And, they need our leadership.

And we need them. They are our neighbors. Our other-half. The ones weʼll work with and love to birth the future.

For there is no “we” and “them.” Thereʼs just us together in what is shaping up to be a difficult time ahead, difficult economically, difficult socially, difficult culturally and difficult spiritually. And how our community will deal with all this and emerge is very much still undetermined, still up for grabs.

And the third truth is that, to paraphrase the words of the philosopher quoted in the Order of Worship, “we are in the world-of-Texoma, and only in the world-of-Texoma will we know ourselves.” This is true for us as individuals, and is especially true for us as a congregation. Only by being deeply engaged in the life and times of Texoma, will we come to know our capacity, will we come to know the range of our own magnificence.

Can I get an amen on that?

But weʼll never engage adequately in our community until we get the Theology of Running Away our of our hearts and replace it with a Theology of Being Home and a Theology of Engagement, like the spiritual beliefs practiced by Kudzu. Whatever place the Kudzu seed falls, within a few years becomes its absolute natural habitat. It fills the space, whatever else is going on, and becomes an overwhelming presence. Radically engaged. Impossible to eradicate.

And, really, this will be so very, very good for our community. For just to be candid about it, I canʼt imagine how anybody in Texoma could possibly be better off by not interacting with us.

Can I get an enthusiastic amen on that?

Now, Iʼd like to pause here for a little confession about the recent discovery of a very minor quirk in my personality. Itʼs even possible that you share it in yours. When I think about all my past days of intense journeying and chasing my own elusive dreams, I notice that at just about every step along the way my life was enriched by my encounters with my fellow-travelers. Even those encounters that were deeply wounding at the time, were eventually miraculously transformed into food for my own growth. Either directly or indirectly, I benefitted from every encounter. I suspect that most of you have the same feeling about your own life. We all had plenty of unexpected, often plain weird twists. “What a long, strange trip its been,” indeed. But one of great emotional and spiritual progress all along the way, too.

Can I get a possibly slightly reluctant amen on that, but an amen nonetheless?

Now hereʼs the quirky weird personal part: When I think of those fellow-travelers with whom I no longer journey, those past partners, colleagues and friends from whom I moved away, I seem to feel a touch of … well … pity … for them. I mean, how could anyone possibly be better off without me in their life?

I know, I know. Thatʼs disturbing. But, ever have feelings like that? Ever admit them?

And it gets worse. Thereʼs bad karma earned from depriving others of the experience of oneself, too, right? How could anyone ever get over the loss of me? And what guilt I have amassed in depriving others of me! And like all guilt, this has to be expiated or be choked on.

Fortunately there are medications one can take to counteract the effects of such an enormous ego. Or you can spend a lot of money dealing with these issues with licensed professionals. Or you can simply be blessed enough to turn-over the Ten of Swords in a Tarot reading, as recently happened to me. These therapies all have the same effect, if you take the cardʼs message to heart. This is the card some call, “All Done and Paid For” and carries the concept that all karma amassed from past bad actions … in past lives and this one … all your karma has been paid in full by your most recent acts. Think about it: Because of whom you have become, youʼre paid up. Stop worrying about the past; youʼve paid for it.

This isnʼt so much the Christian notion of universal forgiveness from God … although that is clearly true also, and one of our UU historic core beliefs …, nor the theological notion that Jesus picked up the tab for your transgressions by dying for your sins. No, this is the notion that a cosmic accounting has been made and its been determined that, through your actions, youʼre actually now paid-in-full for your own sins. Youʼve paid by the quality of your own life decisions youʼre making right here, right now. Youʼre paid-up. Your Karma is exhausted. Stop running. Stop fleeing your guilt. Youʼre done with that.

The ego remains, of course, to be worked on in other ways. But the guilt of the past can be quieted. Quieted by meds. Quieted by counseling. Or you can simply accept the message of the Ten of Swords that youʼve paid your debt, in full, and get on with it.

Now, Iʼll reluctantly admit that Iʼm perhaps on shaky grounds when I assert that people canʼt possibly be better off without me. But something that may be hard to swallow when attributed to an individual, may easily be true when attributed to a group … a group like us here in the room today.

So let me get back on point by asserting again: the Texoma community will be better off for knowing us, without question. In fact, it would be a grievous sin to deprive them of that experience. The deeper the encounter between us and our fellow citizens, the better for them. Isnʼt that true? Well?

Therefore, as a congregation and as individuals this is a time for radical engagement. A time for injecting our unique gifts more deeply into the life of our community.

Itʼs a time for growing our roots deeper into the North Texas soil, like another healthy plant with unique gifts, the Crimson Clover. Youʼll know these as the beautiful red plants that cover the roadsides and fields of our area, in bloom now. They are very pretty, but to see whatʼs really going on, you have to look beneath the soil. There youʼll see this plant busy magically transforming the nitrogen gas of the air into a form that can be used by the soil. And they are not messing around with this either: they are out there fixing about 100 pounds of nitrogen per acre this Spring. Like us, Crimson Clover grows well in soils of low fertility. Like us, Crimson Clover literally makes it possible for things to grow in soil that is otherwise incapable of supporting life. And like us, itʼs pretty. And, Iʼll admit, like us, itʼs a little tough to digest, under some circumstances.

How does one transition from a Theology of Journey to one of Staying Put?

Pretty much it’s a two-step process. Step One is easy: you simply have to stop running away from the here and now in your heart. And Step Two is also easy: you just have to engage your surroundings with your body, like when you were a kid. Just let the nature that is your body do its thing, become a child in your exploring again, like Jesus advised. Just like you did the first time. Itʼs the ceaseless seeking thatʼs unnatural, not the dwelling.

Now, we should note that nature is pretty well without divisions. We accurately speak of ecosystems rather than individual “plants.” One life-form interacts and merges with another to create an impenetrable web of existence. The interlocking web of life. Thereʼs not much you can do to prevent your body from interacting with the other instances of nature with which it is engaged. Oxygen in. Carbon dioxide out. Ohm. Uncontrolled interaction. Food in. Waste out. Ohm. Your waste becomes food for bacteria, and right on down the line. Ohm. Ideas in. Creative acts out. Ohm. Love in. Hate out, if the system is damaged. Love in. Love out, if the system is working properly. Hate in. Love out, with growth and enlightenment. Ohm. You can only stop your own interactions with other occurrences of nature by taking your body somewhere else. And then the process begins anew in that environment. Ohm. You can slow your interaction with other nature by becoming a recluse. Stay inside. Donʼt talk to anybody. Get in a metaphorical coffin. Donʼt relate. Avoid surprises. Check-out through drugs, drink, food, t.v., work. Ohm. Or, you can increase your interaction with other nature by simply interacting more. By being open to possibilities. By saying “Yes” habitually rather than “No.” Ohm.

But will the rest of creation like us when they really know us? Sure. Whatʼs not to love about us? And I also can guarantee that some will see us as life savers. And weʼll be startled by the responses we get when we engage on a deeper level.

For example, few weeks ago, I taught a class in Royse City, a rural town of about 3,000 just east of Dallas. The students were local police and code enforcement officers and we were discussing ways they could use Texas criminal law to reduce pollution where they live. After the class, I was talking with a local code enforcement guy, young (mid-30s), quick, smart, kinda red-neck looking, and the subject of religion came up, in the most innocent manner. I think I had mentioned that I needed to get back to Grayson County for a church board meeting that night, expecting the standard question, “What church do you attend?” and the usual semi-weird conversation following. However, instead of asking my affiliation, he volunteered his own, blurting out “Iʼm a pagan myself. I believe in the earth gods and goddesses. My wifeʼs a pentecostal, and it just drives her nuts. But Iʼm a pagan. Been one since high school.” “Yʼall have kids?” I asked. “Yeah. We just show them both ways. They can make up their minds when theyʼre bigger.” I was stunned. All I could manage to say was, “Too bad thereʼs not a Unitarian Universalist church over here. Yʼall could all go together and everybodyʼd be happy.” There he was, an Unapologetic Pagan in Royse City. Heʼs willing to witness about his faith to anybody, anytime. And because of who he is, the locals seem quite fine with accepting him as he is. Kudzu theology. He is expanding to fill the eco-niche available for him. Or maybe the word is theo-niche.

Dwelling means becoming more and more deeply involved in our surroundings. Becoming more of a presence, both as individuals and as a church. Remember when you were a child, and remember the magic familiarity of the house you grew up in? We knew it so well, we could move around every cranny blindfolded. We knew it all, and we knew the entire neighborhood, too. It was a time of magic: Often we forgot ourselves, we were so integrated with our surroundings. When we could get the adults occasionally to join us on a summerʼs evening for a game of hide-and-seek, it quickly became boring. Not having spent every waking hour for years exploring the neighborhood, they were literally clueless where to look. They didnʼt know about hiding in the hedge by Baselʼs house (“Look out for the new wasp nest!”), nor did they know the easy way to get up the old pecan tree in front of Dickie Laneʼs house (”Remember that morning when it just fell over?”). And who hasnʼt suffered the shock of going back to the old neighborhood, only to be struck by how small everything has become. How empty of life it is. When we were integrated into our place, noticing each plant, knowing each short-cut, knowing every dog by name and disposition, knowing what was stacked in the back of every garage, knowing which lawns to lay in on summer evenings to watch thunderclouds, and which to avoid because of the chiggers, climbing on every roof, rooting through every storage shed, crawling through storm drains, hiding behind every rock, we used our bodies to make our space ours. When we did all that and knew all that and were all that, we were at home. In our place. And we spread there like Kudzu. And life was good. And we were vibrantly engaged and alive.

When we were kids, what integrated us into our rooms, homes, yards, streets and neighborhoods very much were our bodies, not our minds. We used our minds in school. Remember the physical libration of the last day of school, when we were out for the summer? In the real world we used our bodies, truly the “cutting edge of reality,” as Merleau-Ponty said elsewhere. We were “… in the world, and only in the world did we know ourselves.”

And then we learned in our heads, little by little, that our place was too small, that there were other ideas, other people and other places to go to. And we were first mesmerized by the thoughts of other locations … and this quickly gave way to loving the journey itself. And we were off.

[Pause]

Weʼve been trying to get back home every since, but we literally canʼt go home again. Looking for home in other people. Looking for home in other places. In other experiences. Always on the journey. Physically, spiritually, endless questing. There is a cult Christian song about being a missionary roaming in the world that speaks to this with the words, “Who knows where our bodies they may find?”

Well, Iʼm here this morning to tell you that its time to answer that question thusly. “Theyʼll find my body in Grayson County, or Fannin County, or Bryan County. And Iʼll be spread-out, Kudzu-style, with tentacles reaching deeply into every aspect of life here.” That may be true of us individually, but it is certainly true of us collectively. When later generations search for the bones of Red River UU, they wonʼt have far to look. Theyʼll be around here someplace, deeply spread-out, Kudzu-style.

We were “… in the world, and only in the world did we know ourselves.”

And this is still the secret. Only in the world will we know ourselves … again. Only in the world will our cares fall away … again. Only in the world, will we be who we truly are … again. But here an issue arises. To the degree we’re engaged with the world, the world is engaged with us. We were our old neighborhoods. Mutual interdependence. All of life, in all places, are in it together. And all are subject to the same molding powers. As Dylan Thomas said:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

We’re all subject to the same life forces. And we are our original neighborhoods. Or as Edward Casey points out, “Where something or someone is, far from being a casual qualification, is one of its determining properties.” Will we transform Texoma, or will Texoma transform us? Already we speak of self-censuring in fear of losing our lease if we become too radical. What is this but evidence of our being transformed by the Spirit of Texoma? Or, more correctly, by what we think the Spirit of Texoma might be.

So it boils down to this. If we burn the boats and knock the bottoms out of the canoes, if we commit to having our graves here, we’d better be instructed by the Kudzu as well as Crimson Clover. In our engagement with the people, customs, and levels of hope (is there evidence of community hope?) … in our engagement with our neighbors, we’ll be changed, as will they. Let’s make sure they’re changed more. If interlocking natural processes are to contend, let’s make every effort to assure that ours is the one to prosper. Rather than concede community ignorance, let’s be the force that creates an educated population. Rather than endure oppressive political oligarchy, let’s be the force that creates wider local democracy. Rather than accept religious intolerance, let’s be the force that causes a rebirth of spiritual wonder … we can call it the Texoma Renaissance and it will go in the history books. Rather than tolerate continued racial injustice, now emerging yet again in community interactions with the new-Hispanic community, let’s create a place of notorious racial harmony and interaction. Rather than witness continued environmental degradation, let’s create a place where nature is honored as our Mother. And rather than witness continued ethical confusion, let’s just decide now that the dominant ethics of the community will be that expressed in our seven principles. Are there better ones of which I am unaware?

In short, having decided that we’re going to end the journey and put down roots, having decided to stop gathering at the river and start dwelling here, let’s expand like weeds into every corner of our environment. Let’s just naturally unleash our magnificence and power to make sure that the community unfolds along the lines of a progressive vision of the future. Let’s create a future of radical inclusivity, of radical hospitality, and of radical democracy. And let’s decide right now to have a good time doing it. For if you think the journey to the river was fun, the dwelling part will be an absolute hoot!

Source: “Shall We Dwell at the River?” by lay-leader John Ockels, preached at the Red River Unitarian Universalist Church in Denison, Texas on April 27, 2008. Used with permission of the author. Thanks to the Rev. Jennifer Innis for the submission.

Highly recommended additional reading: the Rev. Burton Carley’s “The Way Home.”

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