“The Road to Tzedakah”
Rev. Greg Ward
Unitarian Universalist Metro Atlanta North
March 26th, 2006

Meditation:
Becoming a Unitarian Universalist was, for most of us, an important commitment.  Like our forebears when we went looking for a faith to make a pledge of our participation, we didn’t choose the biggest religion.  Or the most powerful.  Or the most popular.  Or the easiest.  We didn’t make a commitment based on the great prestige it brought.  Or because it promised guarantees of our place among the saved. 

We also didn’t choose this faith because we knew that once we were part of it we could let ourselves go – that within the shelter of at least a modicum of religious convention, we could allow our ethical thinking to slip.  We didn’t come so we could bask in the luxury of a faith that makes no demands and holds no expectations. 

No, most of us became Unitarian Universalist because we wanted to make a commitment to people who shared a great and storied role within the free faith tradition.  Now, there may be some of you who might claim that you are a victim of a great misunderstanding as to exactly what was meant when we told you that you were becoming part of the ‘free’ faith tradition.  So, you especially will find today’s sermon enlightening. 

“Free” as in ‘free faith’ has little resemblance to the way the rest of our society likes to use the word, ‘free.’  When I typed ‘free offers’ into the google search engine it came up with 1.45 trillion responses.  When I added the words Unitarian Universalist, the number plummeted to less than 1% of the original number of entries.  The lesson to be learned here is that when you’re Unitarian, to believe in the ‘free’ part, you have to have a lot of the ‘faith’ part.

Still, even though we are an incredibly bright and committed community of folks, we continue to confuse the parts about our faith that are free – like our sources of wisdom, our use of reason, or conscience in forging ethical precepts that guide our lives to goodness and love – and the parts that call for us to pay a price.  And I am frequently surprised at our reticence to talk about- even mention – anything having to do with the latter.  I would like you to ponder this top ten list of things that are surprisingly absent in conversations overheared in our churches or among our members. 

10. Honey!  We don’t want to be late, today is the canvass sermon!

9. Let’s not stop at Starbucks this morning – all I have is a hundred and I want to make sure I get to put it in the plate.

8. I don’t like to sit in the back – it always takes so long for the collection plate to get back there.

7. Just because we already tithe, you won’t keep us from giving more, will you?

6. I don’t understand why we don’t have the canvass more often!

5. I think the church should have a policy that says we get to sit closer to the front if we pledge more.

4. I miss the good old days when tithing really meant something.

3. Dad, we decided that we should stop our cable service so we can give more to the RE program.

2. I don’t understand why we spend so much time talking about our politics around here – we should spend more time talking about our money.

1. Hey!  Who do you have to know around here to get on the finance committee?

These are funny.  But do we ever stop to think about the high price we pay for the privilege of not talking about these things?

Sermon:
There are a few things that call us to pay a pretty high price in life.  But there are few things that carry a price greater than the act of falling in love.   My own life recently, stands as an example.  Up until just a few months ago, I would have found it hard to believe that I could feel such a deep commitment to writing rather large checks for items I had, in the past, considered rather inconsequential.  I am happy to say I have been re-educated as to the proper place of such impulses in my life.  

One item for which I wrote out a rather large check recently is carpet.  Now, I have needed new carpet for some time.  But the trouble with this justification is that the carpet I recently purchased is not for my house.  It is for my fiancé’s house.  I did not even have a category within my budget to write down such an expense.  I had to create an entirely new column in my ledger of expenses to explain such an entry– and the many others just like it.  I have called that column ‘the price of commitment’ column. 

Some would say that it is better to write the checks and not dwell on such things.  But I have found my attention has inexplicably been re-directed to exploring the meaning of such things.  I have realized that falling in love and the cost of such commitments are demanding more and more of my attention.  So I have come to realize why they so often refer to it as ‘paying attention.’  . 

This is not unlike other times I have fallen in love and other experiences that led to costly commitments.  I can think of lessons I learned when I was six.  And again at 10.  And 14 and 18.  These episodes share a number of similarities to my current situation in that I found myself more excited about my life and the person I was becoming.  And also encountering new commitments that came with unexpected price tags - important and sometimes painful lessons. 

The situations I want to talk about this morning have to do with the commitments forged not with special persons.  But special places.  They are all times I fell in love with – and forged unexpected commitments to – my church. 

I was, I think it is safe to say, one of those weird kids who actually looked forward to going to church.  I knew every cobblestone of Neighborhood Unitarian Church in Pasadena.  I remember the older ladies after church who tried to pinch my cheek.  My teachers who tried to get me to be quiet.  My friends dads who shot hoops with us.  And I remember some of the things they did that made me feel different – better – about myself and the things I developed a loyalty to.

One instance in particular occurred on Easter Sunday when I was six.  A few of us were pulled aside from the regular Easter egg hunt held for all the other kids.  We were brought to a different part of the church property and let loose to hunt for Easter baskets.  These were hidden on the grounds and contained all kinds of stickers and jellies and candy.  They also contained a surprise item.  Deep in the plastic grass of each basket was placed a plastic egg.  Inside the egg was a name.  The name of a shut in within the church.

Falling in love with any one or any activity usually comes with an unexpected price.   Something that invariably promises an education in the meaning of commitment.  The deal we unknowingly entered into that day was that whoever discovered the basket was to go visit the shut in. 

Looking back, it was a rather brilliant program.  Shut ins signed up to have children visit them, which they loved.  And the children learned all about a part of the church we never knew existed. 

I learned that church contained people I never actually saw.  Because they never actually came.  Not because they didn’t want to, but because they couldn’t.  And I learned about Edith Morantz.  How she didn’t get out much anymore.  And why.  About her three grown daughters and the joy she had raising them.  The places they had been.  And the unexpected things that happen along the way.  Like cancer.  And loneliness.  And the difference that is made in the smallest gesture of just showing up.  I didn’t learn more than I wanted to.  Just more than I would have had  I not allowed myself to fall in love just a little.

That kind of education – the price that comes with falling in love – happened again and again.  When I was 10 I made a commitment to help the church move to a new location and was surprised to see group of people actually cry because they had to leave a place they loved.  I was even more surprised to be one of those people who cried.  And perhaps most surprised to learn you could love a new place just as much.

At 14 I made a commitment to field test the About Your Sexuality program – the precursor to today’s OWL.  I still remember discovering the fine art of ‘paying attention.’  And the friends I made in that class that I still know today.

At 18 I made a commitment to bridging into the young adult community of the church – and the promise they asked me to make to remember the things I learned there.

But all of those things were like lessons from a passing fancy compared to the education in commitment I received when I turned 23.  I was just about to graduate school and the associate minister of the church where I had grown up –the man who took me to visit shut ins as a kid – was now the Senior minister at First Unitarian of San Diego.  I was coming to terms with what it meant to be in the real world and make big life decisions on my own.  Seeing him again – and experiencing a church community – brought back something I hadn’t realized how much I missed.

When they advertised a ‘new UU orientation’ I was surprised with how compelled – how determined I was to join.  Become a member – this time on my own.  I showed up on the appointed evening with great excitement.

Now, for the life of me I can’t remember anything they covered in that orientation.  But I remember with sparkling clarity what happened right after the people who wanted to join identified themselves.  In less than thirty seconds I found myself sitting face to face with the chair of the canvass committee. 

I learned two very profound things that evening: first, when you join a potluck you are expected to contribute food.  Second, when you join a congregation, you are expected to contribute money.   I found that they had a real sense of humor about the first lesson.  And much less humor about the second. 

In one brief conversation I discovered that there was an entirely unexplored side to the free church movement I thought I had grown up in.  I was told exactly the number of things the church had to pay for and what it cost to run a place like that.  I could remember seeing my mom put some cash into the collection plate now and then, but these people were talking serious money. 

And all of a sudden, it all made sense.  Not just the price of falling in love with something or the unexpected costs of commitment.  But how, for so long, so many people – most of whom I didn’t even know – had paid the price for me to have a place that offered community and companionship and the lessons of commitment.  And gave me the chance to learn about love without counting the cost.

With a newfound sense of what commitment was really all about, I joined the church that night.  I realized that being part of a free faith meant aligning myself with others out of my own free will rather than out of someone else’s.  It meant that making a new column in my ledger and accepting ‘the price of commitment’ was far more meaningful than continuing to believe my belonging to something had no actual value.

In joining the church that day I pledged $150.00 a year.  Not very much.  But considering my budget was $500.00 / mo. – and most of that was from student loans – it seemed like an incredible stretch.  But if someone would have told me where that first pledge would lead to – or what I would get back – I would never have understood.

My story is not all that uncommon.  I find a lot of people don’t really understand how churches work.  Or where they’ve historically found support.  And the real meaning of the ‘free church movement’ from which we came.

In the Jewish tradition from which we emerged, the word most associates with charity or giving is Tzedakah.  Some might be familiar with the idea of Tzedakah box usually kept at the alter of a temple or by the door of people’s houses where support could be offered by free will to help the poor.  It was part of the temple’s mission to help those who couldn’t help themselves.  But it’s important to note, even thought most people think Tzedakah to mean, ‘charity,’ it is really a derivation of the word, tzedek which means, ‘justice.’

In the early days of Judaism, the temple was not just about religion.  The temple was the center of all civic and economic life as well.  People came to the temple for news, for education, to trade goods, to do their banking and commerce.  There was no offering or pledging to speak of besides Tzedakah which went to the poor.  To meet the need for upkeep or supplies or to pay the priests, the temple simple excised a tax on all the commerce that happened there – generally thought to be 10% or a tithe.  For anyone who was ever curious as to why the priests did not applaud – but rather turned on Jesus - for turning over the money tables in the holy temple, it was because he was threatening the system of operation – and their cut.

Despite the tirade, the Christian communities which emerged from the Jewish tradition maintained similar practices.  Only instead of the practice of commerce, their support came from the practice of communion.   But in the early days of Christianity, the communion was not just bread and wine, but an entire love feast – open to all.  There was no organized religion to supply the elements so they were brought by the people.  The worship service was, in part, a gathering of all the offerings – which is where the tradition became part of the service.

This tradition continued until the 4th century when Christianity was absorbed into the ‘Holy Roman Empire’ and religious offerings came under a system of church administration.  By the 7th century civil and religious law were merged making church tax a mandatory fee collected by the state.  The selling of indulgences – the price one paid to gain admittance into heaven – came on top of that.

This is where our ancestry emerges and the first appearance of the ‘free church.’  But contrary to what you might think, the free church does not describe how people avoided paying mandatory fees to the state’s official church.  Those were paid under threat of imprisonment or falling into slavery.   The free church was comprised of those who, in addition to the tithes imposed by the state, tithed again to a religious community of their own choosing. 

The free church was composed of those who fell in love with the idea that they could decide – for themselves – what to believe and how to practice such beliefs.  The free church was built by people who fell in love with the idea of using their individual reason to interpret scripture and organize a religious community who supported those interpretations.  The free church was for people who fell in love the privilege of determining what religion their children would be taught instead of abdicating that responsibility to the state.  The free church was for people who fell in love with the task of religion and were willing to pay for it.   The free church was anything but free.  And that’s what we are still part of today. 

There are a few things that call us to pay a pretty high price in life.  But there are few things that carry a price greater than the act of falling in love.  

When the people of this church who signed on to serve on the canvass team got together this past week we did talk about the cost of commitment to this ‘free church.’.  Like the canvass chair who talked to me before my first pledge, we went over exactly how not free it is to be a member of this church.  We went over the basic facts – that it costs over $850.00 a day to run this free church – which we figured was almost $6,000.00 a week.  We talked about how the responsibility to pay for all that freedom is spread across 106 individuals or families. 

And because I am a pragmatic person, I was proud of how we came to terms with responsible side of this ‘free and responsible’ search we have committed to.  But to be honest, I was more proud of the fact that we started out both of our meetings by having everyone talk about what it was that they fell in love with about this church.  Because I believe until we really come to terms with being in love with this freedom, these ideals, the programs we’ve built and the people who make them what they are – before we talk about our love for what we have here – we can’t possibly understand price of commitment or the privilege it is to pay it.  When we understand how much we love this place, then our commitment to it ceases to be the Tzedakah of charity and becomes the Tzedek of justice.

This is where it would be good to talk about fair share giving.  But before I do that I need to share something with you.  Last night when I got home from the Heart’s desire auction, I went to the computer and found that this sermon – every word of the finished draft – was accidentally erased the folder.  I actually cried.  I had never cried over a sermon before but I did last night.  And it wasn’t so much because I had to stay up writing it again.  It was because I knew that this community was about to struggle and sweat and work it’s hardest to do what needs to be done.  And I wanted to show up with  my absolute best and applaud you and say how, in spite of how much it asked of you, how capable of it I know you to be.  And I was suddenly afraid that I couldn’t offer my best – or my fair share.  Or even what was needed.

So you know what happened?  The obvious – and unremarkable part – is that I worked through the night to write another sermon.  More worthy of note however, is that as I was struggling and sweating and working to do what needed to be done, Liz stayed right there with me and showed me her absolute best, telling me that in spite of what was being asked, she knew I was capable of what needed to be done.  And I wasn’t afraid.  Okay… I was a little afraid. 

And in all of this, I realized two things: I love this congregation even more than I had dared to admit.  And I love this woman I’m going to marry more than I dared to imagine. 

When I think of falling in love and the unexpected impulses of commitment such feelings lead to, I am no longer surprised.  Nor am I surprised to learn that such commitments can lead to the writing of rather large checks.  I have, for the last couple years, given 7% of my income to UUMAN.  What does surprise me is all the moments like this that make me feel like you deserve more.

But what has become very clear to me is that when I look at something I love, it seems unfathomable how I could have the kind of relationship I want with it without giving my fair share. 

Maybe that’s just me.  And it’s okay if it is.  That’s what I need to do to feel good about my relationship – for my commitment to match the love I feel – and maybe even match the greater love I strive to feel.  That is the faith part of this not so free faith.

Remember that when you talk to your canvasser, the goal we all have is not only for this place to be to us what it needs, but for us to be to it what we need. – the goal is to understand the love we feel and make a commitment we can feel good about.  

I hope that come this July 1st, when all of your commitments to this place take effect, you will step into the kind of relationship you have been hoping for.

I know I will.  July 1st is not only the first day of our fiscal year, it is the first day of my married life with Liz. 

It’s important to me that it happens here – in a UU church – the place where I was dedicated, came of age, became a member, was called, ordained and installed – where every one of my most important commitments was made.  This commitment needs what all those commitments had – to be surrounded by you and the love and integrity and commitments that I’ve come to trust most.

And I hope that in all the things I fall in love with – in all the commitments I make, I will have the courage to live as you have helped me to live – fair share till the end. 

To the Glory of Life.

Copyright Wardswords, 2006