That’s a silly story. Scientists are nowhere near being able to construct artificial people. In fact, I’d be impressed if they could invent a computer that didn’t crash constantly! All the same, it does bring to mind the awesome complexity of the world in which we find ourselves, a world that, science tells us, existed for five billion years before humans as we know them existed, in a universe perhaps three times older still. As much as we learn from the scientific method, as our information about nature and human nature increases exponentially, we are nonetheless humbled by how many questions remain. We inhabit a human body of trillions of cells and a galaxy of such immensity a traveler trying to cross it at the speed of light would need many times the length of civilized human existence so far to finish the journey. All this we try to understand with brains that are often baffled by the 1040 Long Form!

Humanity has always faced the essential mystery of being. In response, we have developed myths, religions, and philosophies to try to make sense of it all. Ask any obstetrician and he or she will assure you, babies are not born with guides to the universe. What we learn we must learn for ourselves.

And, even those who believe in God (and not all of us do) even believers would probably take issue with a God who simply “sits” in “heaven” and makes chit chat. Those of us who pray, I venture, find the process a bit more subtle and mysterious.

Our readings this morning touch upon mystery, not as an end but as a beginning. Twenty-five centuries ago, the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu wrote, “The tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.” The word “Tao,” might be translated “way.” It is how Taoists refer to the natural course of the universe, which humans can cooperate with or resist to their peril. Language, the great teacher tells us, is insufficient to capture the richness of being and experience. Even Chinese writing, with its thousands of pictograms and their subtleties of nuance is not up to the task.

To demonstrate, if I were to ask you to describe everything about this room, how long would it take you? You would need to talk about the stained glass windows, when they were constructed, where, and by whom. Who transported them? For what reasons? How did every person arrive here this morning out of the myriad possible places they might be, given a different chain of events in their lives? Where did each stone in this beautiful church come from? How many millions of years did the rock form in the earth? Where did each molecule of nitrogen, oxygen, or water come from? How many millions of lungs did each pass through before reaching yours? You or I could spend the rest of our natural lives seeking a complete answer to such questions, but, in the first fraction of a second, the room would already have changed.

If such trivia prove demanding, what of the big questions, the ones about how we came to be, where we’re going, and why?

May Sarton, the late poet and Unitarian Universalist who wrote our second reading this morning, touches upon the existential dread that sometimes accompanies our contemplation of what she calls, “the huge, deep Unknown.”

It’s little wonder, then, that so many throughout history have eagerly sought to set down exactly what this life means; who, what, or whether God is; what happens when we die; and how we should live. Often such assurances are accompanied by a swagger all out of proportion to our ability to explain such things definitively.

Shakespeare, that wonderful humanist, captures such blind arrogance in the character of Dogberry, the lawman with the confused tongue in “Much Ado About Nothing.” (In Kenneth Branagh’s version from a few years ago, Dogberry was played by Michael Keaton). An overarching theme in the play is the trouble that words can get us into. In fact, the title of this play on words is itself a play on words. Many in Shakespeare’s day would have pronounced, “Much Ado About Nothing” as “Much Ado About Notin’,” a reference to the various notes, letters, and other writing that drive the action in tragic and comic ways.

Constable Dogberry only half comprehends what others say or even what he himself says, but that doesn’t stop him from confidently pontificating. In one scene, Dogberry and his companion, Verges, are in the house of the noble Leonato. They have apprehended the play’s villains and wish to inform Leonato, but first go ’round and ’round in their convoluted speech. “Neighbors, you are tedious,” says Leonato, to which Dogberry replies, “It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.” A crowning moment comes a moment later when Dogberry “explains” a great deal: He says, “A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they say, when the age is in, the wit is out: God help us! it is a world to see. Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men are not alike; alas, good neighbour!”

Dogberry’s ineloquence makes us laugh. But he’s hardly unique. Whenever any of us try to set out in words our thoughts and feelings about ultimate reality, it’s easy to fall into unconsidered repetitions of the ideas of others, wishful thinking, unexamined premises.

The greater the certainty with which such proclamations are made, the more room for error—and humor. I’m reminded of a passage from Al Franken’s latest book in which he takes on some of the extremes of the Religious Right. Referring to the Rev. Pat Robertson’s TV show, The 700 Club, Franken writes, “[Robertson will] say something like, ‘There’s a woman in Ohio who’s just been cured of her diverticulitis. Praise God!’ And you think it’s you! “Only, it’s not you. It’s a woman in Cincinnati. But you think it’s you. So you eat a bowl of nuts. And you die!” Franken goes on, “See? That’s why I don’t think Pat Robertson thinks through everything he’s saying. And frankly, it doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, if God can tell Pat Robertson that it’s a woman, in Ohio, and it’s diverticulitis, and it’s been cured—why can’t he tell Pat Robertson the woman’s name? And her address? It makes no sense whatsoever.” [1]

Fundamentalist Christians, of course, don’t have a monopoly on spurious claims or gullibility. In the mid-90’s, I was doing my ministerial internship in Plattsburgh, New York, way upstate, somewhere between nowhere and the Canadian border. Plattsburgh isn’t exactly a happening town, so, to meet people and indulge my curiosity, I attended, for a while, what might best be described as a New Age group. We met in one of the members’ homes. They were all very nice people and I enjoyed being with them. But I had to laugh once when the hostess of the group lent me (not that I’d asked to borrow it) a videotape. She explained to me that it was a film about a certain contemporary seer who had insights into a number of changes the planet was about to undergo. To be polite, I agreed to take it home and watch it. One of the seer’s predictions had to do with the submersion of the State of California under the Pacific Ocean. He even had full-color maps to show how much of the Golden State would go the way of Noah by what date. The only problem was, the dates he named had already passed by the time the hostess had lent me the video! Perhaps a better person than I wouldn’t have pointed that out when I returned the tape….

Now, I’m not ruling out the possibility of paranormal revelation. I’m only saying that it seems to be a tricky business, not to be entered into lightly. Sometimes you bet all your money at the horse race on lucky number seven—and he comes in … seventh.

But there’s also a very different approach to discovering the unknown. All the way back in ancient Greece, there were philosophers who held skepticism as a virtue. Demokritos, the so-called “laughing philosopher” and a founder of atomic theory, said, “Nothing exists except atoms and empty space, all else is opinion.” The Roman Philosopher Cicero said of the Pagan religions of his day, “Popular theology is a massive inconsistency derived from ignorance...the gods exist because nature herself has imprinted a conception of them on the minds of humans.”

Widely acknowledged as the greatest of such skeptical inquirers was Socrates, on whose shoulders rests the edifice of Western philosophy. Socrates exhorted his hearers to, “Know yourself!” His example was always to learn with questions and take nothing at face value. I think he would fit in well here. As I look around the room, I see many people who have the gift of questioning.

There’s a joke that goes, “What do Unitarian Universalists celebrate on December 25th?” Does anyone know the answer? “Socrates’ birthday!”

Yes, tradition places the birth of Socrates at the Winter Solstice, just like Jesus’ is said to be. That’s simply a way of saying, in religious symbolism, that they each brought new light to the world, just as the sun begins a new cycle of ever increasing daylight at the Solstice. Both Socrates and Jesus were regarded as more than human after their deaths.

There are other ways these two founders, one of Western Philosophy, the other of Christianity, were similar. Both were charismatic public figures who gathered students or disciples around them. Both were skeptical about parts of the religious establishment of their respective societies and died at the hands of the powerful as perceived troublemakers. Socrates did not believe in his city’s gods. Jesus said that the following of the details of the Jewish laws were unimportant compared to the power of universal love in one’s heart and actions.

Though labeled as heretics by some, both Jesus and Socrates seem to have had an unusually close relationship with God as they understood God. Socrates spoke of a daemon, d-a-e-m-o-n, within him that guided him through life. The Greeks conceived of daemons as supernatural beings that served as intermediaries between Gods and humans. Jesus was often in communion with a deity he called Abba, or father. Were these teachers in touch with supernatural forces? or had they learned to open parts of their own minds most people do not?

We might see Jesus and Socrates as the titular heads of two streams of thought and practice through Western history. I would contend their influence continues to be felt as strongly in Unitarian Universalism as anywhere else.

Much ado has been made in recent years about a difference of opinions, perhaps even of orientations, between two loosely drawn “camps” within our Unitarian Universalist faith. These are often called Humanism and the New Spirituality.

Humanists generally do not believe in God or Gods. They hold that reason and the scientific method are our best guides in understanding ourselves and the universe. They emphasize living a moral and ethical life without the necessity of a belief in God.

Those in the New Spirituality camp generally emphasize more intuitive or mystical ways of knowing. They tend to believe in a God, Gods, Goddess, or some form of higher power.

Both Humanists and the New Spirituality movement are very large contingents of our Association. And, in very many congregations, these camps come to disagree at best.

Several people, including Richard Webb, Don Ehleben, and Shaw Stuart, have suggested some aspect of this three part series of services on this important issue to Unitarian Universalism, its future, and yours. I hope you can attend all three services. The second service will be next week and the third will be two weeks after that.

I will leave you this morning with a memory. Perhaps it has echoes in your own story.

I was in my early twenties. It had not been long since I had left the Mennonite Church of my upbringing. I had left because the fundamentalist theology in which I’d been raised did not provide answers I could fully accept. According to this tradition, if one did not have a definite belief in God and Jesus as derived from a literal or near-literal reading of the Bible, one had no hope. I didn’t know if I had the strength of will to leave that all-encompassing system of belief.

It was summer and I was in my parents’ neighborhood outside Philadelphia. There was a golf course near their house. My mother and I used to walk by it when I was small.

One night, I walked out into the dark, warm air and walked through the woods to the golf course. There was a bench on the edge of it, and I lay down on it.

Above me, there were stars, beaming their light, it reaching me across light years of space and years of time. And I looked at it. And I looked at it. And I didn’t know if there was a God up there. And I didn’t know if there was a heaven up there. And I saw the stars.

And they twinkled for me.
And I felt peace.
And I did not know anything.
And I was alright….

Notes:

[1]	Al Franken, Lies And the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (New York: Dutton, 2003), p. 278.