I’d like to read to you another selection from Day by Day, the source of today’s responsive reading. It’s an anthology published by Beacon Press, which is a department of the Unitarian Universalist Association. In this excerpt, Joseph Wood Krutch, who was a native of Knoxville and a biographer of Henry David Thoreau, tells the story of a teacher who asked of his students two questions.

The first question written on the blackboard was, “Which of the required readings in this course did you find least interesting?” Then, after members of the class had had ten minutes in which to expatiate on what was certainly to many a congenial topic, he wrote the second question: To what defect in yourself do you attribute this lack of interest?

Krutch also once observed that, “There is no conceivable human action which custom has not at one time justified and at another condemned.” I think a corollary to that would be that there are any number of human actions for which one can draw both justification and condemnation at the very same time. I’d like to examine one such custom today – that of going to church.

Here, in what some call “the buckle of the Bible belt,” I think it’s accurate to observe that we are surrounded by thousands of people who regard attending at least one worship service a week not only justified but mandatory. At the same time, here in twenty-first century America, it’s also not that rare to encounter militant areligionists. I specifically don’t use the term “atheist” because there are plenty of people who don’t believe in a God or a presiding spirit, who nonetheless recognize that it’s possible to belong to a church – even a non-Unitarian Universalist church – without being a slave to superstition and tradition. There are, however, people who simply cannot understand why anyone who’s heard of Newton and Darwin would want to waste a perfectly good Sunday morning lighting candles and listening to a lecture, and they can be every bit as condescending and infuriating as the people who insist your life is worthless if you haven’t surrendered it to Jesus Christ.

All of that said, I do have to confess that it can be a real struggle getting myself to go to church. There are so many other places I could be on Sunday mornings, especially given how many things I don’t manage to get to on my “to do” list during the rest of the week. I could be reading a book, or writing a letter, or trying a new recipe, or even simply getting more sleep. There are also times I really resent the fact that going to church means missing breakfast with my husband, not to mention the fact that my favorite show on NPR is broadcast right at 11 a.m. A friend of mine recently pointed out that, when I talk about services at my church, half of the time I start out talking about how much I hadn’t felt like going to church that morning. Many times, what gets me there is the fact that I’ve promised someone else that I’ll show up, whether it’s to sing in the choir or to lead the hymns or to sell grocery certificates during social hour.

The important thing, however, is that once I’m actually there, I’m fine. First UU of Nashville is a great church – I love my minister, and the congregation is packed with amazing, talented, passionate people, some of whom I’m now lucky enough to call my friends. The reason I do talk and write about the services is because, most of the time, I find myself really glad that I went, and I come away eager to share the stories and insights that I’ve collected there. Some of the stories are just plain funny, such as the time the minister started to preach on “The Wisdom of Wild Things” and a robin flew right into one of the sanctuary windows with a really loud thud.

And then there’s moments where I’ve found my heart both squeezed and expanded in ways I hadn’t expected. Some of my favorite moments at church have come from the song “Come, Come Whoever You Are,” one of the hymns we sang earlier. A couple years ago, the songwriter Nick Page was the guest performer at First UU one Sunday. At the 9 o’clock service, our music director divided the congregations into two sections in order to sing the round. I’m not sure if Nick did this on purpose or not, but he’d chosen the third or fourth entrance, which meant he was still singing “ours is no caravan of despair” when the second group reached the end of the round, and the singing ended with a soft flurry of giggles, and in its way, that seemed really appropriate and touching. At the 11 o’clock service, the sanctuary was packed, so we sang it in four parts. This might sound sentimental or cheesy, but to hear that song sung by a hundred lilting, twining voices – I could feel my heart lifting, shedding the heaviness it had carried and cradled all through the course of the week.

Ours is no caravan of despair, come, yet again come. It’s a powerful affirmation, especially in these days when there is so much in this world to infect us with despondency and cynicism. It’s a favorite hymn of William Sinkford, the president of the Unitarian Universalist Association. During one of his speeches at this year’s Mid-South District Assembly, he started to sing it -- and then added a descant, which I’d never heard before, but in which half of the room immediately joined in, rumbling out the words, Though you’ve broken your vows a thousand times, though you’ve broken your vows a thousand times. . .

Though you’ve broken your vow a thousand times, come, yet again, come. For me, one of the more interesting slams against organized religion is that it’s little more than an organized cop-out – that if there’s a God who forgives everything, that if there’s a place where you’re always going to be sheltered, that people use that as their “Get Out of Jail Free”card. And there are indeed people who do that, and there’s also the sad, heartbreaking fact that there are churches that are neither welcoming nor forgiving in deed or creed.

But even a church that says “come, come, whoever you are” cannot be all things to all people all of the time - and it’s a particular challenge for coordinators of Unitarian Universalist worship. There have been times when I’ve personally needed to supplement what I’ve found to be the relative informality of UU worship with a solid dose of temple, and there have been other times where I’ve sat in my pew at 1808 Woodmont, mentally resisting everything in the minister’s homily and feeling utterly isolated, in spite of being surrounded by friends and friendly strangers who would be more than willing to connect with me if only I would let them. In other words, sometimes the warmth of community isn’t adequate for my spiritual needs, and sometimes it even gets in the way, such as when I find myself whimpering at the hint of yet another meeting, or the fact that a congregation of our size – or perhaps a congregation of any size – is going to have its share of “challenging” people.

There are “challenging” people in every denomination, of course. There’s an Anglican bishop who not too long ago described “the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church” as a “glorious rag-bag of saints and fatheads,” and I think that’s not a bad description to apply to the body of congregations that comprise the Unitarian Universalist Association. Certainly the fatheads and the saints are capable of driving me crazy – and I’ve personally been classified as both, so please don’t think I’m aligning myself with one category or the other.

Because of our non-credal nature, and because there isn’t a liturgy common to each and every congregation, community is one of the defining attractions of a UU fellowship, saints and fatheads notwithstanding, and it’s sometimes difficult to explain to non-UUs what exactly differentiates our services from a glorified neighborhood meeting or an elaborate consciousness-raising circle. Let’s be frank: some UUs don’t need a church that’s more than that. For instance, there are members of First UU who are regulars at the lunches and dinners and classes, but who very seldom show up for services - you’ll see them slip into the social area right when the benediction is being given. They’re stalwarts when it comes to rallies and vigils and marches and walks. Nonetheless, they don’t get enough out of communal, conventional worship to make time for it.

On the other side of the coin, the debates within our denomination over theological expression seem to me to be increasing in both intensity and scope, spurred by President Sinkford’s calls for a Unitarian Universalist “language of reverence,” and fueled by the frustration of Unitarian Universalist Christians and other theists who feel that “non-credal” has come to mean “anti-credal” and anti-God in UU discourse. Over the past couple of years, some of them have left the UUA to form the American Unitarian Conference, which makes explicit mention of God in their religious and governing principles. Other people who continue to identify as Unitarian Universalists choose to raise the issue in their sermons and in their weblogs and other public forums. Last summer I participated in an ordination where the speaker insisted that (I quote) “ministry needs to include theology,” saying that gatherings such as the ordination for which we were gathered were otherwise what he would call “merely a very attractive farce.” I have heard variations of this statement at other services and gatherings.

While I don’t quite agree with such statements – the either/orness of them – I do think it useful to recast them as questions, Jeopardy-style: “Why go to church, particularly a Unitarian Universalist church?” Why not study at home, with our own books, on our own time? Why not keep prayer private? Why not meditate alone? Why not just go hug a tree or cook breakfast or sign up for Greek lessons or get more sleep? Why not simply give the time and money to one of the many non-profits begging for volunteers and resources? Why complicate spirituality with rituals and with symbols and, with committees?

Of course, since you yourselves are here today, you already know some of the answers to some of these questions. Some of you may be asking if these questions even matter, to which it’d be tempting to reply, “to what defect in yourself do you attribute this lack of interest?” The word “defect,” though, implies that there’s a right answer. I do believe that these questions need to be asked, but I don’t believe that you flunk the test if you answer “none of the above.” Many of my nearest and dearest do in fact choose not to attend any church, and some of them are the most moral, decent and loving people you could possibly hope to meet, just as some of the smartest and most successful people I know never completed college.

That said, I do think that if and when a person finds the right church for them, it can enrich their lives in the same way that the right college broadens the minds and hearts of its students. Just like churches, there is no one school that is perfect for everyone. One of my favorite twelve-year-olds recently asked me if I thought she could get into Harvard, and I told her that the question wasn’t only whether she’d be right for Harvard, but whether, in five years, Harvard would be right for her. Some people need the intimacy of a small school, and others find that they are best able to flourish at a university the size of a small republic. It’s settling on the most appropriate combination of programming and history and location and aethestics for that particular individual, always bearing in mind that schooling can open only the doors for which the student is willing to turn the key.

Ironically, I say this as someone who cut classes way too often during my four years in Chicago. Even when I liked the professor and the readings and my classmates, and that was true more often than not, there were lots of times I chose to catch up on sleep or finish homework for another class, or just to wallow in the kinds of drama teenagers tend to wallow in. At this time of year, though, I tend to get a bit wistful, even though I’m really glad not to be in school. I don’t miss tests, I don’t miss labs, and I definitely don’t miss student housing. I don’t miss being eighteen, either. The kind of nostalgia I have is really more for the energy and excitement that’s palpable at the start of a new term – when so many things are possible and shiny and new.

And for me, that’s part of what draws me to church. At its best, like a college or university at its best, a church provides its members and friends and visitors with a space where it’s permissible to ask both basic and difficult questions, including “why are we here at church?” and “why are we here?”, period. More important, especially with that second question, a Unitarian Universalist church provides a space where it’s safe and sometimes even essential to say, “It depends,” or “I don’t know the answer” - where it’s possible to acknowledge the existence of mysteries and desires and compulsions that don’t necessarily fit with the cut-and-dried and easily-stacked responses that the everyday world so often demands from us.

And yet, as with a college or university, a church best serves its members not by denying the existence or worth of the outside world, but by strengthening their ability both to cherish this world and to change it for the better. Through fellowship, a church can provide yearned-for allies and companions. Within the structure of worship, a church can offer both comfort and context.

When I travel, I like to visit other Unitarian Universalist churches – I’ve been to services in Amsterdam and Atlanta and Arizona, as well as in Boston and Colorado and Detroit - and some day I’d like to work through the rest of the alphabet. Seriously, though, I’ve found that visiting the other churches and attending the services at General Assembly has helped clarify to me why I make time for communal worship, and why I show up even when I’m not singing in the choir.

One reason is that it’s really hard to sing a round by myself. At home I’ll sometimes start part one on my piano and sing part two, but it’s definitely more satisfying singing this stuff with other people. The second reason – the one that makes me truly appreciate both my alma mater and my church – is that, much as I enjoy learning and meditating on my own, I am limited by the questions I know how to ask. The gift of communal study and of communal worship is that they expand the possibility of revelation well beyond the boundaries of individual experience. At their best, they can raise questions you hadn’t known you needed to ask, and offer answers you didn’t know you wanted to hear.

So come, come, whoever you are, with both your heart and your mind; come, yet again come. Thank you for letting me share some of my thoughts with you today. Blessed be.