Today’s reading, the poem, “What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade,” by the poet Brad Aaron Modlin, is loaded with wisdom about living a full and meaningful life. As a refresher, here’s how it begins:
Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer.
The poem is a paean to the art of being present in our own lives, of paying attention, of appreciating the plentitude that is our inheritance, the abundant possibilities swimming underneath the surface of every moment, courtesy of the simple fact that we are alive. The beauty in the smallest of details of this amazing life, if only we would notice them.
And it sounds wonderful. Who wouldn’t want to experience more meaningful moments? The Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu wrote that “If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future, if you are at peace you are living in the present.” Who wouldn’t want to be at peace? The answer is a bit like when Mahatma Gandhi was asked what he thought of Western civilization, and Gandhi replied, “I think it would be a good idea.”
I think being at peace would be a good idea, too. But to be at peace means to be able to practice presence, to live in the now. That has never been easy, and it certainly isn’t getting any easier. That civilized Western culture Gandhi referred to still eludes us. The pace of life often feels frenetic with our multiple scheduling apps and our sensibilities are pounded by uncivil public discourse and plenty of violence in our culture, Our attention spans have grown shorter, which is no accident: In the 1970s, 60-second commercials gave way to 30-second commercials, which gave way to 15-second commercials in the 1980s. Now ads are seconds long and they show up everywhere in our lives. There’s an army of influencers and algorithms out there pushing messages into our faces. We hit the “skip” button on a YouTube ad as soon as it appears.
Like the frog in the pot of boiling water, our ability to focus has been eroded without our noticing. No wonder it can be hard to stay present, to listen to someone else speak without interrupting or mind wandering, to read a book cover to cover, to watch an entire show on TV without checking your phone.
So to find meaning in pumping gas or notice that peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer might just take a little work. Especially since even gas pumps play ads.
But it is work we must take up if we are to continue to grow, to live our Unitarian Universalist values, and, frankly, to stay sane in the months and years to come. More than that, though: To live in the present especially in these times is an act of reclamation, reclaiming our spirit … an act of resistance, resisting the temptation to despair, which is what the oppressors out there want us to feel … an act of groundedness, standing firm, holding hands and holding fast to our ideals.
It is work we must take up and it is holy work. For every moment we insist on living fully and meaningfully, where we are present for one another but also for ourselves, is a holy moment. For in that moment we are standing on holy ground. And holy ground is solid ground.
I first heard the expression, “holy ground” in the Bible, in the Book of Exodus, when Moses first meets God for what will become a long and fateful relationship. In the story, Moses is on Mount Horeb, watching over his father-in-law’s sheep like a good son-in-law, when he is startled to see a flaming bush. The bush burns without being consumed, and a voice from within says to Moses, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”
Now, you are probably familiar with this story. And I would say, maybe too familiar. Even if we weren’t raised in a particular faith, many Bible stories are so omnipresent in our culture that we take them for granted and forget how dreamlike they are, how otherworldly. Think of the parting of the Red Sea, for example – I mean, an entire sea splitting down the middle to its very bottom? What did that even look like? The Red Sea is really long and really wide – 1,400 miles long to be exact, and 221 miles wide at its widest point. And it’s deep – really deep, roughly two miles deep at some points. Who could make such a trek on foot? We hear these Bible stories not realizing we are living in a dream, we don’t even think about what the dream really looks like, and we overlook what the dream is really trying to teach us.
The dream of Moses and the burning bush is a case I point. I think we miss out if we see this as a story only about standing in reverence before the Lord, for it is true that in ancient Palestine removing one’s sandals was a form of humbling oneself in submission to someone else. But I think it may also be a story about what it means to be standing on holy ground, and more than that, that it isn’t necessary to be staring at a burning, talking bush to be standing on holy ground.
Because these ancient dreams have hidden clues, hidden treasures to point us to a deeper wisdom. In the book of Exodus, when the fiery bush says to Moses, “Remove your sandals,” I’ve read that in the original Hebrew, the word for “remove,” galah, is the same word used to refer to an animal shedding its skin. And therein lies a bit of wisdom, the kind the Bible contains by the bushel. “Shed” your sandals … shed your skin … shed what you thought you knew, shed what you are comfortable with … and let the moment be a dream that can teach you. Be vulnerable. Be open to the moment. Try not to take control. Try not to obsess about the past or live in the future. As the Zen Buddhist would say, tomorrow does not yet exist.
Years ago, I traveled to Japan on business. I was working for a marketing agency and our client, a Japanese company that made hospital lab equipment, invited us to come experience their culture. One night, our hosts took us to a restaurant where when we walked in, we had to remove our shoes. We dined in stocking feet. It was interesting to me to see my clients, in essence my bosses, sitting cross-legged in business suits on tatami mats with their toes wiggling through their socks. I also noticed that while during the day they were very businesslike, but cordial, here our clients were very informal, jolly and boisterous. They had shed their skin. This was further evidenced later in the evening when we were taken to a real karaoke bar and client after client got up to do his best Elvis impression.
The Japanese custom of removing one’s shoes when entering a space such as a home or restaurant is partly because of a cultural emphasis on cleanliness, but it is also for a psychological need for peace in the soul … you leave the worries and stress of the outside world behind as you enter a quieter place. You shed the outside distractions.
In other words, you enter a kind of holy ground. Sanctuary. It could very well be that whenever we set aside the noise of the outside world and pay attention to what is before us, whether it is a friend needing to talk, the musty fragrance of autumn leaves, the soft whisper of a breeze wafting through an open window, or yes, the sacred act of pumping gas, we are standing on holy ground.
And why is that? Once again, the Exodus story of the burning bush offers us a clue. After Moses removes his shoes and averts his eyes, God instructs Moses to go to the Israelites and tell them God is going to deliver them from their Egyptian enslavers. And when Moses asks, okay, but when they ask me who is this God—what is his name—what do I tell them? God says, “I AM WHO AM. Tell them I AM sent you.”
“I am.” You heard that phrase earlier in today’s reading. It was in the poem. Among all the learnings missed by staying home, Brad Aaron Modlin writes, “The English lesson was that I am is a complete sentence.” It’s an interesting choice of words, “I am.” But also very intentional, I think. A poet never chooses words randomly, and so here Modlin is using one of the most famous phrases in holy scripture to add a kind of depth charge underneath the surface lines of his poem. A sonic boom.
Yes, “I am” is a complete sentence like the poem says, but it’s really a whole lot more. It’s how we know for sure that this whole scene takes place on holy ground. For God names the essence of his being, and lo and behold, it is … simply being. “I AM sent you.”
Think of an ordinary moment in your life. Say, for example, that after service today you meet someone at coffee hour. You introduce yourselves. Now, you don’t say, “My name is I AM.” I mean, if we all did that, we’d all be wearing the same name tag and it could get confusing. But imagine thinking it as you are standing there talking. I AM. Right now. I am here in the moment. Not, I wonder when the game is on later. Not, am I missing out on a more interesting conversation over at the next table? I AM. Imagine driving home later today and you’re waiting at a traffic light. Instead of grabbing your phone to check email or finding a radio station, imaging just thinking, I AM. You don’t have to add an adjective. Not I am … tired. I am … happy. You don’t need to do that. You don’t have to add another verb, like “need.” I need to stop at the store. I need to plan what to do with the rest of life. You don’t need to do anything. Just … I AM.
Two words. Two syllables. Three letters. The name of eternity. The state of the universe. And now, right now, the state of you. I AM. You are. We are. Not I will. Not I’m gonna. Not I wish I hadn’t. Not oh, my god, what’s gonna happen. I am just being.
Now, please don’t think I’m offering this is the cure-all. I offer this up because part of my job as a minister and preacher is to convert ancient wisdom into modern knowledge, and not just knowledge for knowledge’s sake, but knowledge that has practical applications. News you can use. And boy, do we need some good news right now.
And the good news is this: When you stay present, when you are I AM, you are walking with the gods. You are standing on holy ground. Many of us feel like the ground beneath our feet is shaky right now. For some of us, it’s because of the recent election, some of us because we are experiencing illness, ourselves or in our family, some of us may be having economic woes. Some of us may simply be doubting ourselves. All part of being human.
But even the gods only get sixty seconds in a minute to be fully present. Even the President only gets sixty minutes every hour to enjoy the fullness of being. I call it the democracy of time. Each day we all get the same amount. You can spend your 24 hours obsessing about your self-image and crowd sizes, or you can focus on the size of your heart. You can seek love and approval in the most twisted of ways, or you can give love and approval freely. You can use your power to harm, or you can use your power to heal. The powers that be get the same minutes and hours we do. And we have the power to be, too.
It's important to remember that when it comes to the hours in a day and the moments within those hours, you have what everyone else has, no less and no more. No more, but no less. When you fill those moments with your presence, everyone ought to be removing their shoes, for they are standing on holy ground right along with you.
The message here today is this: Never underestimate the power you wield to fill any moment with you. Be the burning bush and say, I am. I simply am. As today’s reading said, it is enough. It is also // your choice.
I assure you that if, in those moments where you are really focused on the practice of presence, and feel your fullness, that if you think back on your life, you will realize you have had many such moments. Today is not the start but a continuation. Only now as you go, if you have shed your shoes, shed all that you know, and take full advantage of your Unitarian Universalism, which at its essence is about feeling alive, you might see:
That it has all been holy
That your livelihood, your daily work, has been holy
That who you love and how you love … is holy
That your dreams and desires are holy, too
That your successes have been holy and your failures even more so, for the fact that you are here now is proof that during your times of failure the ground did not give way … holy ground is also solid ground (it just happens to vibrate a lot)
As you continue to look back on your life … and back, and back … it is all holy ground, all the way back to the day you inched your way down the birth canal, like a child on a summer’s day, inching her way down the slide at the playground … and oh, that was a good day, the holiest of days, for that was the day the one and only you came to this one tiny ball in all of creation, and with your first tiny cry declared, I AM. You were meant to be full.
I close with these words from William Henry Channing, one of our Unitarian Transcendentalist forebears, who captured the simplicity and splendor of presence in one sentence. He wrote:
To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common — this is to be my symphony.
Good and loving people, every moment awaits you. Let the music play.
Amen, and blessed be.