A Service for the Dublin Unitarian Universalist Church
Rev. Susan Ritchie September 17, 2000
This text is prepared as notes for oral delivery only; please excuse resultant irregularities, and please do not quote without permission.
Been there, done that. If cynicism had a motto, that would be it.
Been there, done that: the world is a small and disappointing place that holds no surprises for the sophisticated. Nothing much left to see. Nothing much left to do. Cynicism, as such, is a life-denying, world rejecting philosophy, one that can easily become a radical excuse for noninvolvement. Why should I bother working to clean up the environment when it is already too late? Why should I participate in politics, when it's all just corrupt? Why should I bother voting, when my voice is so small?
And who can doubt that cynicism today is absolutely rampant? You know as well as I do the dismal statistics of voter turnout. You see as well as I do the terrible cost of our inability to truly take collective responsibility for our communities, for our oppressed, for our environment. And as the Rev. Gordon McKeeman wrote in the sermon I shared with you earlier, this trend has been building strength in the past, and will likely gather strength in the future. Each day we receive some new intelligence about both the vast dimensions of the problems we experience, and the relative insignificance of a single human being in relation to them, and often, our response is cynicism.
To use McKeeman's metaphor, if we are just small drops in a bucket that grows in size and dimension every single day, why indeed bother?
Why not indeed? It is easy to understand cynicism, it is easy to understand the place of woundedness from which it comes. The possibility for full-fledged cynicism raises its head with each and every disappointment we suffer. And the onset of cynicism is insidious. Cynicism begins the moment that we notice the disregard or cruelty with which the world treats something we love or love, and instead of rallying against the injustice, we decided that we were wrong to expect so much.
But as easy as it is to understand the human dimensions of cynicism, surely there is another part of us as well, a part that can listen to McKeeman warning us that cynicism is dangerous- dangerous to our own health, dangerous to the world, and dangerous to our theology. And it is this other part of us that I would like to address today-the part of us that regrets it every time we find an excuse not to do something worthwhile-the part that knows, after the New Testament, that even the stones cry when we fail to speak out.
And so today's sermon is indeed, a Critique of Cynical Reason. I have titled it so, for I wish to argue that all the excuses we use to convince ourselves that we are merely drops in the bucket and that our efforts are useless are not only wrong, but irrational. Cynicism, with its heavy reliance on critique, may feel smart, but it is not. Specifically, then, and at the risk of giving a traditional three point sermon, I would like to suggest that cynical reason is incorrect on three counts. One, cynical reason causes us to imagine that we are alone in our efforts to improve the world and ourselves. Two, cynical reason teaches that when we are disappointed with the inevitable corruption of human institutions, the best response is to withdraw from them. And finally, in perhaps the biggest lie of all, cynicism convinces us that only that which is perfect has value, purpose, and meaning.
So, I begin with the notion that cynical reason teaches us that we are alone in our efforts, for here it is that cynicism works some of its most clever deception. When we use cynical reason to talk ourselves out of working for some lofty goal, it is often because we realize that we will not be able to see the task through to achievement. I have talked to so many dedicated, wonderful people, who after years of working for one worthwhile cause or another, drop out, frustrated that the goal still seems so far away, frustrated that enough progress is not being made
But here is where cynical reason proves faulty. Just because we cannot finish a task ourselves instantly or personally does not mean that it is not worth completing. It is interesting, isn't it, that on one hand, we have grown comfortable with the idea of differing everything-everything except accomplishment. You can buy a carpet on credit and defer the payments until the year 2002; you can take out a home loan for 30 years-and yet we act as if anything worth doing needs to be done by next week. It is for this reason that Rev. McKeeman suggests that what we need to do is to become as comfortable with installment achieving as we are with installment buying. We don't have to do it all personally, ourselves, this minute, really.
Besides, when we hurry to resolve social problems, we often just end up making terrible mistakes. In Jewish folklore, there is a tradition of telling stories about the Wise Men of Chelm. The stories are often humorous, for while the Wise Men of Chelm are well-intentioned, they really are not all that wise. My favorite story about this group has the men gathered to try to solve the problem caused by the proximity of the village of Chelm to a waterfall. The residence, unable to swim, where falling in the river that ran through Chelm, and carried over a waterfall. Many people of the area were suffering injuries in this way, so the wise men did the only logical and compassionate thing. They built a hospital at the base of the waterfall.
Haven't we all belonged to organizations that have made this decision? It is an easy one to make, especially when we are in a hurry to cross the problem off our list. Teaching the people of the villagers to swim would have taken quite literally forever, it being an action that would have to be repeated with each generation.
But perhaps our social problems are not best greeted with such impatience. Of course impatience is tempting, when so many of us feel a compulsion to work on so many different things. Of course is a bit of a tendency of Unitarian Universalists to imagine that we are personally and individually responsible for all of the world's ills. We may have no doctrine of original sin, but we certainly have some sort of doctrine of original social responsibility. Louisa May Alcott was once asked what it was like to be raised by her father, the liberal Unitarian educator, Bronson Alcott. The question was asked assuming that it must have been wonderful to have such a father-a father who helped to pioneer a new form of education for children-one that insisted that children are educated best not when they are treated very seriously as moral beings, and as thinking persons. But Alcott's answer was a little surprising. She said actually, it was hell-hell, because she came to believe so much in her own responsibility, that all of the world's burden's became hers alone to solve.
Indeed, the array of responsibilities that we take on is staggering. Homelessness, economic injustice, racism, sexism, homophobia-the environment, global peace-the list is almost without end. Here, too, though, we perhaps need to slow down and listen to another voice. A voice that reminds us that we are not alone in our efforts to better our situation. A voice that allows us to leave some problems to some other people.
Last Thursday, I was sharing with one of the spirituality groups the work of Meg Barnhouse, a Unitarian Universalist minister who came to the ministry after a very long career as a waitress. Not surprisingly, she argues that everything she needed to know about ministry she learned first waiting tables. Her most important lesson? It was in learning when to say "that is not my table hon" when someone not assigned to her asked for some special favor. Meg argues that waiting tables is like the work of the ministry: both, she suggests, are about delivering nourishment from an unseen source. And feeding and serving the people properly will always depend on not spreading your personal resources too thin. There needs to be a confidence that someone else is indeed looking after the other tables.
Cynicism, though, tells us we are alone. Cynicism looks around and sees only those who are not helping, causing us to imagine that those who are not helping will never help. Cynicism causes us to forget that often, as soon as we plunge in, others follow our example. And here I would like to turn to my second point, which is that part of irrationality of cynicism that it imagines that the best response to the inevitable corruption of human systems is to withdraw from them. And this is where the ancient and the modern versions of cynicism are very different. For the ancient philosophy of cynicism was actually a philosophy that insisted on the importance of social engagement.
Diogenes is often credited with being the first Cynic of this type. Of course, we all know the story of Diogenes, walking through the streets of Athens, searching, without really expecting to find, a single honest man. In light of this story, Diogenes certainly appears to be a cynic in the modern sense of the word-as if he woke up one day, cranky about living in one of the most exciting times and places ever, determined to prove the beauty and glory of ancient Athens false. But I think we forget too quickly the other stories about Diogenes, stories which make his reactions a little more understandable.
Diogenes was indeed a philosopher in Athens in the time of Plato-in fact, he was only about 15 years Plato's junior. Diogenes was terribly concerned that Plato's reputation was causing people to fall in love uncritically with his most inane pronouncements. So Diogenes performed a series of stunts, designed to try to get people to claim back their own critical abilities. When Plato proclaimed that human beings were just bipeds with out feathers and he received much positive attention for the cleverness of this remark, Diogenes decided to take action. He pulled the feathers off a rooster and delivered the featherless biped to Plato's school, to ask what people thought of Plato's human being now.
But it was not just Plato's celebrity status that concerned Diogenes. More than anything, he was worried about the effect that Plato's idealism was having on the people. In short, he was concerned that Plato was causing people to fall in love with a beautiful idea of the good, and that in the process they were forgetting how to live good lives. Desperate to make the point that humans are not just collections of ideas but also beings with bodies who live actual lives, Diogenes at one point even resorted to urinating openly in the public square just to remind people that they had not only ideals, but bodies. We might wonder some at his methods, but the message, I think, is still powerful.
For Diogenes reminds us that it is impossible to be good in the abstract sense of the word. If you totally withdraw from human association because it does not meet your high standards, that does not make you good. It is impossible to be good by yourself. For virtue must not just exist as an abstraction-virtue must be embodied and lived. Goodness is a result of relationship. It is impossible to be good alone, but is it very possible to be a good friend, a good neighbor, a good citizen.
And here we come across something very important to our Unitarian Universalist tradition. In many ways our tradition has expressed this ancient philosophy of cynicism by saying to each an every theological abstraction-very well, but does this help us to live more virtuous lives? Throughout the centuries, we have demanded that goodness not simply be a concept about which one speaks, but a way of life that one lives.
Although of course, even our institutions are imperfect. Somewhere along the line, we also became very good at the more modern form of cynicism. Somewhere along the line we also got really good at the art of critique-of learning to articulate very precisely our suspicion of both ideas and institutions. And because of the shortcomings our critique revealed, we began to feel it was ok to withdraw. We began to risk our congregations for the sake of our individualisms.
I am speaking here both historically and personally. Historically, I am thinking of such persons as Ralph Waldo Emerson, ordained a Unitarian Minister, but who left the church because it was at that point in history, a little more conservative than he was. His critique of the existing church was accurate, brilliant, and motivated by the highest ideals and a profound theology. And yet, I can't help but wonder what might have happened had he not struck out on his own. What might the world, what might Unitarian Universalism look like today had he continued to articulate his ideas from his pulpit and push the envelope from within the organization? Emerson's thoughts and words had a lasting effect on American literature and philosophy. But what might have happened if only he had worked with others to realize his many visions?
I speak with such emotion about Emerson only because I know myself what it feels like to withdraw, to give up, to give in. As a graduate student, part of my work involved the critique of institutions, and boy did I become good at it. So good at it that I couldn't think of a single organization for which I wanted to work. Organization A was diverting too much of its resources towards sustaining itself, and not enough towards helping other people. Organization B was plagued by an incompetent and perhaps even downright crazy leadership. Organization C supported many things for which I stood, but articulated their support in ways that seemed unnecessarily hostile to other points of view. And so I existed for a couple of years, trying to be good in a total vacuum-apparently trying to find a group with which to volunteer, but in practice, merely providing myself with an endless chain of excuses.
Then I finally realized that the question was not whether or not the organization was perfect, but whether or not it would be improved by my participation.
And here I want to mention my final critique of cynical reason. Cynical reason images that only that which is perfect can have meaning, or good purpose. You know sometimes, people will point out to me either the failings of Unitarian Universalism or even the shortcomings of our own congregation, and expect me to be shocked. I'm not shocked. Indeed, to be honest, I bet I can tell more stories than anyone about the imperfections of our religious organization, both near and far. And yet none of these stories are to me an impediment of my deep love and commitment to this tradition and to this place. Why?
Well, in just about my favorite Annie Dillard story, she tells of the time that she was at a writer's retreat along the Pacific coast, and thereby unable to attend her usual church. She is an Episcopalian by choice, saying that she prefers high church-she prefers, that is churches with an established liturgy, where the same words are said over and over in each worship. She argues, quite convincingly, that getting in touch with our ultimate concern is dangerous business, and best to use a tried and true path.
But the only church in the area of the writer's retreat is Congregational, and so she decides to risk it. Used to a formal worship, this church both scandalizes and touches her. The church itself was lots of linoleum and artificial flowers, the minister spoke conversationally, dressed in his shirt sleeves, the day that Annie was there, a very awkward young girl got up to sing an secular song about mountains. And it is in reflecting on the obvious weaknesses and failings of this church that she the words that have become for me, something of a mantra for me: Surely, she says, there is no greater sign of God's forgiveness and mercy than that the church should be allowed to exist. I find this simple statement so comforting. Surely, there is no greater sign of God's forgiveness and mercy than that the church should be allowed to exist. What it says to me is that yes, our efforts are bumbling, awkward, and sometimes just completely wrong, but that somehow, in spite of the mistakes, it is critical that we continue to make the effort.
Yes, every organization we might even consider belonging to will eventually betray its own highest aims. Yes, it is pretty much guaranteed that all human organizations, even those devoted to the most sacred causes, will eventually manifest within itself both the best and the worst of human behavior. But none of this is an excuse-it is not an excuse not to join in, and it is not an excuse not to try to work as hard as we can for what does matter. Rather, it is a reminder...a reminder that any time we make the cynical decision that the world does not justify our own best efforts, we in fact, diminish only ourselves, and the sacred within ourselves.
NOTES
The title of today's sermon, and the inspiration for using Diogenes as a positive example of cynicism comes from Peter Sloterdijk, Critique of Cynical Reason, trans. Michael Eldred (1983; Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987).
Rev. Gordon McKeeman's sermon "On Being a Drop in the Bucket" is found in Kept Afloat By A Millstone: A Selection of Sermons by Gordon B. McKeeman(Akron: Unitarian Universalist Church, 2000).
Annie Dillard writes, "...nothing could more surely convince me of God's unending mercy than the continued existence of the church..." and "I often think of the set pieces liturgy as certain words people have successfully addressed to God without their getting killed." Annie Dillard, "Holy the Firm," The Annie Dillard Reader (New York: Harper, 1995): 446, 447.
Meg Barnhouse, "Waitressing in the Sacred Kitchens," The Rock of Ages at the Taj Mahal(Boston: Skinner House Books, 1999).