warning: this post is about S-E-X

Not long ago, I was studying in a coffee shop in the late hours of the evening.  It’s a beautiful place to read—high ceilings of hammered tin, warm woods, a banistered staircase to the loft-style art gallery above.  It’s also a place with which I have a slightly uncomfortable relationship.

A Little Religion With Your Coffee (it's not just a UU thing)

A Little Religion With Your Coffee (it’s not just a UU thing)

Just being there feels like bordercrossing, a bit—and perhaps it alerts me to some borders within myself.  The large bookstore, adjacent, features the writings of Sarah Palin and Dinesh D’Souza, centerpieces of what I can only describe as a wall of conservatism.  The news rack next to the coffee counter has a guide to “local Christian-owned businesses.”  And the clientele . . . as in the numerous other coffee bars in town, most of us are students of one kind or another—but these students, though they look the same—look like sorority girls, philosophy majors, ultimate Frisbee players—talk with one another differently.

I know this because the line between private and public speech seems to blur a bit in this space.  I keep headphones handy at all times not so much because I must have music while I write, but because I was once, in a different cafe, an unintentional recipient of an entire psychological history, transmitted by an applicant to a local assistance program to his case manager.

It’s an odd dynamic, those of us who share nothing interspersed like conversational hedgerows among those who share everything.  And here, those who share aloud are often talking about their faith.  So it is that I once sat adjacent to a truly engaging, multi-hour conversation between two young women—they may have been 20—about the movement of God in their lives and their sense of life as a spiritual journey.  Wow, I thought—one does not hear this sort of thing every day . . . or even most Sundays.  Another evening I attempted to finish an essay amidst a spirited and silly conversation about old testament justice (wishing, by the end of it, to enact a little “old testament justice” myself).  And many times I’ve found myself reflecting upon my own prayers in light of those being offered nearby; these are generally both stirring in their earnestness and grating in their reliance on “Jesus, wejus . . .” as invocation.

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I was thus not surprised to discover, rising to get some water, that a lively discussion had begun at a table nearby.  The dynamic evolved, even as I watched, from a paired study table with occasional questions or asides to the larger group, to a preach-and-teach session, drawing in even those at surrounding tables.  A man, later identified as a local youth pastor, held court.  Josh was thirty-something, married, parent of an infant, handsome . . . and loud.  And his selected topic for the evening was birth control.

We have begun to talk with one another in our Unitarian Universalist churches about the current focus on Reproductive Justice and what it might mean—and how, for those of us in states advocating for a complete overturn of Roe, we might engage the question politically.  In these discussions, birth control has been mentioned, in fear and anger, as the next frontier of the conversation.  And honestly, I haven’t entirely understood this.  As someone who desires to see major cross-spectrum efforts to reduce our abortion rates by supporting women, families, and best practices in early childhood ed, the assertion that “they’re coming for the birth control next!” has boggled my mind.  In short, why on earth would anyone–on either side of the aisle–argue for something likely to cause more unwanted pregnancies?

While I’ve mentioned that I can be a bit slow on the uptake, I think my incomprehension is partly related to how we have talked in this season—and how we haven’t—about the larger social implications of reproductive justice.  So great is our fear and our rage that we have been ineffective in framing connections between what’s happening to abortion rights, what might happen next with birth control, and what it all means in a larger social picture.  We, smart, savvy, dedicated people come together and, attempting to communicate the enormity of what is changing, find ourselves sputtering “patriarchy . . . control over women . . . turning back the clock . . . GAH!”

This matters, friends.  If I don’t understand–and believe me, I genuinely want to–we face a double challenge in trying to communicate with those who would just as soon remain apathetic or unconvinced. As individuals and as a movement, we have to prod ourselves to ask the larger question of why we might be seeing a coordinated social movement to disempower women, particularly those of lesser means.  And when we do ask, we need to manage our own anxiety, that we might wait long enough to hear the answers, and that we may wrestle expansively enough with them to begin to understand how to work in partnership with others concerned.  We are a gentle, angry people . . . perhaps we could add “curious and questioning” to our social justice repertoire.

In the meantime, I finally began to understand, crossing borders in a coffeeshop, what I couldn’t quite get within our own movement.  Youth Pastor Josh said, leaning back in his chair and raising his arms for emphasis, “There are only three reasons for using birth control: fear of God’s will, covering for sin, and selfishness.”  One of the young women at the table began to challenge this, and Josh, gesturing a “down” motion with his palm, talked over her, saying, with an indulgent chuckle, “Wait, now.  I’ve been through this same thing with the young ladies on our Israel trip, and also with my wife, who was unchurched and had to come to these things gradually.  Let me explain.”  His explanation centered, unsurprisingly, on the obligation to trust that what happens is God’s will, paired with the assertion that the sole purpose and entire responsibility of sex is to create new life.  Later that evening, I posted the “three reasons” quote on Facebook, and a lively discussion followed, raising several points, of which I’ll deal with only one today: in avoiding a larger conversation about sex, we are allowing a discussion about birth control to frame our views of our sexuality, rather than vice versa.

Back in the midst of the in-person discussion, I didn’t have to wonder about the connection from the coffee house to the state house: Josh moved the conversation quite effortlessly toward a series of political actions.   In the OB exam room, no one should be able to ask if a pregnancy is planned—no one can plan pregnancies; that’s God’s job, and the question is a first step toward abortion counseling.  And we need to think very carefully about what it’s saying when we make birth control widely available—it shouldn’t be.  Birth control should be an option of last resort.  (Have we heard this before?  It’s what I believe about abortion . . . and I find myself wondering where I got that.)

Temptation

It’s hard to see within the confines of a conversation like this, but the move to limit access to birth control is indeed about controlling and enforcing social norms—and that happens because we allow our thinking to be defined by someone else’s agenda.  I think there is something we can do about it.  It’s something apolitical, yet purely seditious.  It’s risky, but only in that it asks that we confront our own shame, and step out from behind it.  It’s free.  And it has the power to make a difference.

Friends, I think it’s time to talk honestly, frankly, and (here’s the social-norm-busting piece) publicly about sex.  To say that sex isn’t just about procreation.  To remind ourselves, and our policymakers, that it never has been.

Further, we need to assert that this statement is a religious one.  Sex within the context of a committed relationship is not only sanctioned, by sanctified—required, in fact—by the Talmud.  While procreation is certainly a sacred element, and one key purpose within this ethical framework, there are other purposes as well.  Spiritual and psychological unity of spouses, celebration of the gift of physical presence that God has bestowed upon us, a living opportunity for practicing whatever principles call us to value another’s happiness as well as to respect and care for ourselves.  Rabbi Shmuley Boteach celebrates these ideas, encouraging couples to remember and recognize the importance of their shared sexual life, in his book Kosher Sex.  And he’s not alone—a number evangelical Christian writers have made a similar argument (see, e.g., Intimacy Ignited, by Linda Dillow and Lorraine Pintus, together with their husbands, or the blog Hot, Holy and Humorous).

Woman's panties hanging on white background the cross brooch

Why, then, as a people of a less-restrictive faith—and one particularly concerned with reproductive justice–do we not address the often-unspoken cultural rules underlying the “3 reasons for birth control” argument?

In a sex-positive culture, it’s possible to recognize that are many reasons for birth control, and to separate a practical, effects-based conversation from a larger, ethics-based conversation.  Our culture, on the other hand, is sex-phobic.  As a natural and inevitable part of life, no social strictures are going to make sex disappear; we simply force it underground.  We hear from the exceptions, the extremes, the ethically challenged . . . and we pretend like sex belongs to them, instead of to each of us.  Could Unitarian Universalism and related movements take a meaningful stand to challenge this?

A few years ago, I read an argument that the unspoken reason for continued social resistance to normalizing homosexuality is because talking about it openly violates a key social rule: don’t require others to actually envision your sex life.  The topic is so deeply personal that it makes us uncomfortable—and in a way that seems almost innate–to speak publicly about sex in any real way.  It’s amazing, but words alone are sufficient to make us feel like intruders in a private space, or to draw us into unwanted intimacy.

So on that note, here’s the part that may cause some of you to go out-of-body.  If you can, I encourage you to stay with me, and to think about what you might say about your own life—about your own relationships.  A healthy sex life is a very important part of my adult, monogamous, family-centered relationship.  It bolsters and deepens the bonds of our marriage; that’s critical during these years of less time to talk and more chaos, of balancing less money with more decisions to make.  My husband and I are are two halves of a unified whole, and not in a way that could ever be true of a platonic friendship.

The state’s interest in marriage as a building block of society has been recognized again and again; I tell you, though: if we want healthy, functional families, we also want healthy adult sexuality, and political decisions that move us away from that possibility are likely to have unintended consequences.  And there’s more: my husband’s and my truth is that our sex life has been saving, for both of us.  If we truly trust God’s vision for humanity, rather than “fearing God’s will,” in Josh’s words, shall we not accept that in healthy sexuality God has given a great gift to us?  Shall we not celebrate this rather than seeking to subvert (and, inevitably, to pervert) our sexual identities?  Where’s the trust in that?

Sex, and sexuality, are part of the human condition.  They are part of relationships.  They are, potentially, a truly excellent part of marriage.  And you know what?  We needn’t apologize for that.  But we do need to speak up for it.  While this conversation may feel innately uncomfortable, I don’t believe that’s really the case.  There are people who would like us to see sex as dangerous, and bad, and something to be carefully regulated lest we lose all control.  Some people also feel this way about food; we fortunately have enough sense not to ask that they dictate dietary policy for the rest of us.

I have a right and a responsibility (born of self-love) to a healthy sex life.  The current political situation in my state seeks to take that away from me, and I think it’s time to speak out.  Those of us accustomed to merely sitting adacent to public dialogue, wearing headphones in the coffee bars of life–most of us, in other words–might be the ones from whom we all need to hear.  So let’s keep talking about abortion.  And yes, let’s talk about birth control.  But let’s also find a way to talk, individually and in the collective, about sex, and what that looks like in real life, and why it matters.  That’s what’s underneath all of this, friends . . . and our implicit don’t ask, don’t tell policy around the subject is allowing the terms of morality to be defined in a way that works for almost no one.

Thoughts?  Go.

j

how can I know another’s heart?

This is a post guest-written by a friend, Mandie, who shares her own experiences and perspectives about abortion in response to this post.  For more of Mandie’s words about parenting, faith, and life in general, go here.
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I volunteer as an escort at a local women’s health clinic that twice a week provides abortions. My job is to shepherd women into the clinic — walking them from their cars to the door and making small talk to help drown out the shouts of the protestors.
Even after weeks of this, I never quite know what to say. Every word of chit-chat seems crass when I know how wrenching the decision to end a pregnancy can be. And even for the women who are confident that they are doing the right thing, walking through protesters into that clinic, knowing the social stigma that awaits them when they return to the world, is just plain hard.
 

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One cold Saturday morning, I arrived at the clinic before the doors were unlocked. The protesters were already setting up with their thermoses full of coffee, their rosaries at the ready. Idling in the pull-up driveway was an old, boxy sedan full of people.In the front seat were a man and woman looking to be in their 40s, heads bent toward each other, talking softly. Crammed in across the bench seat in the back were four exuberant children, who appeared to range in age from about 3 to 9.

As I walked up to try the clinic door, the woman got out and the car drove off. Since the door wasn’t actually open yet, we had to stand there for a few minutes, waiting, with the eyes of the protestors upon us, as cold as the air.

“I’m sure this looks really great,” the woman mumbled, “me coming here with my kids.”

Oh, Honey.

My heart nearly burst with sorrow for her — sorrow that she had to make this choice, sorrow that she felt ashamed and unsafe even with me, whose job it is to be supportive of her and protect her from those who would shame her.

I wished I could wrap my arms around her, that I could take her cold hand in mine and pass on to her the love and compassion I was feeling. Instead, all I could do was look at her and say, “Honey, I am SO not judging you.”

How could I know another’s heart? How could I imagine the circumstances surrounding her decision? Without that knowledge, how could I possibly judge her?

What must have brought her to this place?

Did she look at two lines on a plastic stick and cry because she and her husband were already barely able to care for the four living, breathing, children full of personality and love that they already had, because while another baby would fill her with joy, it would leave them without the resources to care for any of them?

Did she cry because she was physically and emotionally exhausted by the demands of motherhood, and another pregnancy — another baby, another child — would be a burden too great to bear, would break her completely, and leave her family without the glue they so desperately needed to hold them all together?

Maybe she stands here next to me after facing the choice between carrying her pregnancy to term and leaving all of her young children without their mother, or terminating the pregnancy before it was much begun?

Maybe she rejoiced at the positive result and eagerly attended all of her prenatal appointments until the day the doctors told her that her baby was severely malformed and would almost certainly be stillborn if the pregnancy continued.

Did she think everything through again and again, agonizing over it until she finally decided on what she felt was the best option in the worst situation?

Abortion providers screen their clients with paperwork, watchful for warning signs of coercion. They ask women to check yes or no for a variety of questions, and one is “This is my only option.” How many women check that box knowing full well that the other options available to them are few, and none will truly help?

This woman standing next to me, with cold hands and warm eyes, what will she face when she leaves this place, a little relieved but also broken-hearted? Denial that she could be experiencing Post-Abortion Stress Syndrome, a condition that doesn’t actually exist because, after all, women are no more likely to suffer emotionally after an abortion; after all, a fetus isn’t a person, isn’t worth mourning. A mouthful of shame and attempt to convert her into another weapon of anti-choice protest, because after all, she is living proof that abortion hurts women, so she should try to prevent others from making the same choice she made; after all, if there’s no choice, there’s no pain.

Who will see her as the woman, the human being, that she is? Who will respect her decision and her pain?

Perhaps if abortion weren’t so stigmatized in the first place, if so many lines weren’t drawn in the sand, if women weren’t made into political pawns by this debate, she wouldn’t be quite so emotionally scarred. Perhaps she would feel safe telling her story, and allowed to heal without losing her identity.

A final note from Mandie: If you would like to speak to someone about your experience after abortion, or if you are considering abortion and would like spiritual counseling without moral judgments, you can contact Faith Aloud for free and confidential counseling by phone.

an intermezzo about abortion

“There aren’t ‘women who have abortions’ and ‘women who have babies.’ Those are the same women at different points in their lives.” — Rachel Atkins, PA, MPH, Executive Director, Vermont Women’s Health Center

My children are the joy of my life. I love them more than I would have imagined possible; they add depth and meaning to my days and challenge me to seize the moment, to see the good, to be true to my best self far more effectively than anything else ever has.  That these things are true, and that the idea of having another child, at least right now, is impossibly frightening, is one of those strange paradoxes of life.  My husband and I have our hands full in every possible way. The past year has been very interesting around here, and in the midst of it, I took a pregnancy test, got an unexpected result . . . and I cried.

And eventually, I thought the unthinkable—the dark whisper that comes after, “I cannot be pregnant right now.”  Or, I halfway thought it, only to be overwhelmed by fear, guilt, shame . . . in the hours between taking that test and talking with my husband, I felt something like despair.  I knew that in even thinking about ending a pregnancy, I was turning away from my faith in God.  And I knew equally that my marriage, while wonderful in many ways, had been strained to the limit by our two career, two commute lifestyle, a series of significant (and horrifically expensive) health challenges and an ongoing, soul-gutting lack of sleep best employed in the context of a gulag.

Having a third child is an expensive proposition by any measure, but in this reality, it felt like the true cost might be my soul.  And of course, I worried about that fairly literally on the other side, not because I believe in eternal damnation, but because I believe that we are responsible for our decisions, and there was no potential cost that made this one feel defensible.

In short, I didn’t feel free to think about abortion.  I also didn’t feel like I could talk about my fear and internal struggle, not anywhere, but particularly not in the context of church.  In the Christian church, I’d find platitudes and guilt . . . and in the Unitarian church . . . I wasn’t sure. And after some soul-searching, I decided not to find out.

Ultimately, it wasn’t fear of God, but fear that I would not, could not be heard on my own terms in the Unitarian context that kept me silent.  I was afraid I might lose UU as a safe space for my family—not because I’d be shamed for considering an abortion, but because I might be encouraged to, in a way that would let me know, irrevocably, that my own spiritual experiences are not taken seriously by this religion.

This is unfortunate, as I have rarely felt so acutely in need of spiritual guidance.   I was terrified—and my terror at the situation was compounded by fear of becoming an unwitting case study for those determined to view “crisis pregnancy” as solely a medical decision or even a political statement.  I feared being ideologically manhandled by people whose devotion to their cause makes it difficult for them to acknowledge the toll that “choice” can take—even where that choice seems the more survivable one for the members of our family living outside of the womb.  And I realize now—I realized then; irony is bitter—that I had helped to build the ideological walls that entrapped me.

By framing the issue in black and white terms, by choosing a “side,” and then choosing another; in agreeing, tacitly or explicitly, to be identified as part of a group differentiated from another group on the sole basis of my thoughts about abortion, I had left myself precious little room to manage the actual events of life.  By reducing this life circumstance to an “issue,” my response to it was equivalent to a “statement” . . . unless I’d prefer to remain anonymous.

In the end, it wasn’t a decision we had to make.  I wish I could tell you I was entirely happy about that.  I wish I could tell you I wasn’t.  The reality is, it was a terrible, scary, confusing few days . . . and I’m still confused about these issues, it still scares me to think of becoming unintentionally pregnant, and it continues to feel terrible to weigh quality of life (mine, my husband’s, and our children’s) versus actuality of life (an unborn child’s).  The best thing I can say is that I have a deeper understanding of how incredibly complicated and fraught these decisions are—not unlike end of life decisions, which in some ways this is—and greater empathy, on both sides.  I hope that this more nuanced picture of reality enables me to respond more creatively as a participant in our ongoing dialogue about abortion.

Partly this means a change in the way I envision the conversation.  It also impacts the way I engage with the social justice piece of reproductive health.  Thus, as part of our family’s inaugural Chalica celebration this year, we made a donation on day 2 to celebrate justice, compassion, and mercy. I considered our local battered women’s shelter, the rape crisis center . . . and Planned Parenthood.

After careful consideration, I chose Planned Parenthood—not because I feel any less conflicted about the moral issues we confront in the abortion debate, but because the work that they are doing to allow women to lead healthy and productive lives—and here I am talking about basic and essential preventive health care, friends—is simply not being routinely provided by anyone else.  In fact, in many communities it is no longer being provided by anyone at all, and there is every indication that this trend will continue.  This is unacceptable; it is, in fact, an sign that we have lessened the humanity of women in poverty.  I felt a bit strange, but also proud, making this donation, and the same mix of pride and apprehension in posting about it on my facebook page.  I may have lost a few “friends”—or not—but the world continued to turn despite my embrace of a messy take on morality.  Nothing of note changed . . . except for me.

In this conflicted, messy, imperfect action–in recognizing the humanity on all sides of this conflicted, messy, and imperfect discussion–I took a small but significant step away from polarity.  What started with my wallet—and believe me, I experienced no small amount of cognitive dissonance making this donation; I really did have to force myself—ultimately brought my heart along for the ride.

I am not somebody’s pawn in this conversation.  And as it turns out, you don’t have to be, either.  How often do we paint ourselves into a corner of a discussion that shouldn’t have corners in the first place?  Why do we let others define the terms of our thoughts and opinions on some of the most nuanced issues we confront?  We step into the midst of a polemic that we had no role in creating (most of us, anyway), mentally check one of two boxes available, and accept the entire adhesion contract that the movement—whichever movement—places into our hands (if it is not instead shoved down our throats).  It will take a conscious, informed effort on each of our parts, but what if we simply stop allowing the discussion to be framed this way?

Another option: a continued challenge toward self-reflection and a renewed commitment to self-responsibility—including the insistence that this right extends to others.  As above, allowing each woman to manage her own life leads to decisions that are messy, imperfect, and conflicted.  Thus, the greatest challenge of all might be a quiet one: the inner work that allows us to accept this.

Perhaps we could call this the theology of life.  We seek the ideal, we acknowledge what is real, and we render unto each other the terrible, wonderful power to make decisions for ourselves.  Ultimately, we do this not because we know things are going to work out the way that we want them to, or because we are entrusting others to make the same decisions that we would make, but because, in the words of Nelson Mandela, “to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”

To that end, this past week, I went farther, making a donation—and a significant one, for our family—to the Peggy Bowman Second Chance Fund.  Our church has contributed to this fund at least once per year for as long as I’ve been a member.  My family, on the other hand, has contributed never.

Unlike my Planned Parenthood contribution, this isn’t something I can rationalize by explaining that I’m covering costs for preventive care; someone who believes in it more can foot the bill for abortion services.  No, I made a donation that will help pay for abortion expenses for a woman in a personal and financial emergency.  And I have to tell you: it hurts a little.  This is true despite what I shared with you earlier—and I think it’s because, at its heart, this isn’t what we pretend it is.

Abortion isn’t an issue.  It is rights and lives and real people clamoring for recognition of worth and integrity.  It is balancing that which cannot be balanced.  I continue to stretch myself, and it continues to hurt a bit because this isn’t a process that makes things feel less fraught or somehow numbs me to reality.  There is a woman out there making a choice that ends a possibility for another human being, and I am helping to make that choice possible.

For me this awareness touches both a great sadness and a great mystery.  That sadness and mystery too often go unacknowledged—because we know there is power in this pain, and we fear it.  But let’s acknowledge it, just as we acknowledge that there is wonder and revelation in allowing for human freedom, whatever great things or terrible wreckage that freedom may leave in its wake.

It could be a choice.  It could be a child.  And, just maybe, it could be your family.

If so, I’m trusting you to make your decisions, and to live with them and make sense of them, in the best way you know how.  I simply don’t know what else to do.

fewer lines in the sand, more listening (part I)

Recently, the Rev. Tom Schade published a series of posts suggesting that today’s political conservatism is wholly inconsistent with the values of Unitarian Universalism.  To those who claim both allegiances, Schade says “Show your work”—how do you get from your faith to your politics?  I take issue with this, not because I don’t think the questions are valid, but because I’m not persuaded that it makes sense, given the number of ethical and practical conflicts that we all live with each day, to level these challenges at one particular group of UUs.

Maintaining right relations—with each other, with our communities, and with the broader world—is demanding, soul-searching work.  But it’s not work that belongs most particularly to one group or another—it’s the work of all of us.  And so, perhaps we can say, to conservative UUs, to liberal UUs, and to everyone in between: Tell your story.  Explain your reasoning.  Show your work.  And then listen, in a spirit of honest curiosity, as we consider the answers.  What does our religion require of us, individually and together?

As we examine these questions—stepping up to the plate ourselves–carefully and respectfully, freely and responsibly—we create the safe space that might allow others to do the same.  This is valuable, as those who choose to worship among us have self-selected, perhaps more than they consciously know, to invest some effort in the task of living spiritually-connected lives.  As Unitarian Universalists, we are not the Nones–those who have opted for a life of secularism–but a religious people who have entered into a covenant that includes invitation to spiritual growth.

So let’s provide that challenge to grow, and Rev. Schade has highlighted some areas where discussion in our congregations might be helpful and illuminating.  But let’s also accept that the invitation to self-examination, and the discoveries that follow, are going to change not just the one we think needs to be changed, but us, too.  In talking openly with those with whom we disagree, we will be made different, and we need to be.  Not because we need to believe in equality of opinion, as individuals or as a movement, but because we believe in the power of stories to shape the world–and to reshape our perceptions of it–and we each must tell our own.

On that note, here is a little piece of my story, as it relates to opinions, values, politics, and our relationship to and with the Infinite.  Our minister–let’s call her Jane–occasionally posts an article or meme related to a social justice issue on her publicly-accessible facebook wall.  One recent post was about abortion; I responded to it explaining that I don’t think the discussion needs to be all-or-nothing on either side, and that I, for example, am both pro-choice and a supporter of the codification of some fetal rights.  Conversation up to that point had been a range of “Amen!” and “Rah-rah!” comments about the original post.  After my response–cue crickets.  (Jane respectfully acknowledged my post and looked for areas of agreement, but the silence from other participants felt deafening.  On the whole, I wondered if it was perhaps shameful in UU circles to even frame the issue as two sets of rights to balance, rather than as an outrageous usurpment of one.)

Not long afterward, some members of my church were socializing together before a meeting, and the topic of the anti-abortion movement in the U.K. came up.  Opponents of abortion reportedly staged silent vigils across from women’s clinics, handing out leaflets to women who passed by.  “Those people are just crazy!” exclaimed one member, and the others nodded their agreement.  My husband replied that he didn’t think it was that the protesters were crazy, but that they were living their values—different, but strongly-held—in a way that made sense to them.  Crickets again . . . and then a hasty change of subject.

I share this example because it is one in which my husband and I hold what is—so far as I can tell—a fairly moderate view [namely, that abortion should be safe, legal, and an option of last resort, one particularly eschewed after the point of viability] in terms of the range of opinions in our society, but which is an extreme view in the context of Unitarian Universalism. I will share more about this, from a different perspective, in my next post.  For the moment, a few words about how my take on abortion fits with my larger faith—my response to the calling to account for which Rev. Schade speaks.

I arrived at this opinion—having spent much of a decade information tabling for Planned Parenthood—through my experiences of pregnancy, childbirth, and pregnancy loss.  It is a view dictated by my heart and my soul more than by my head, and it’s been both challenged and supported in my journey since then.  I have researched and written in the special education context in support of fetal rights—and the rights to life, dignity, and bodily integrity of all who cannot speak for themselves.  Far from conflicting with my UU faith, it is my deep concern for the inherent worth and dignity of ALL people that leads me to reflect upon and speak about my own views on abortion, counter to prevailing UU opinion though they may be.

Do my fellow congregants agree with my thoughts about this?  I’m not sure, as we haven’t found a space or format in which we can really discuss it [aside: this space is sorely needed, as are the willingness and practical skills to engage, and it’s not just UUs that are missing these–it’s our society], but my guess is no.  Should I be called to account for my reasoning should I decide to stand and speak for what I believe to be just and humane?  Definitely.  But do I have a higher burden of obligation to do that than someone speaking on the other side, simply because my opinion is less common in this faith?  What presuppositions do we make about the values and scruples of those who reach different conclusions—and what do those judgments say about us, as a movement?

To those who would assert that this calling-to-account of some members is not because their opinions are different, but because the opinions conflict with our principles, I ask: how do we get from “our principles” to the intolerance of some theological beliefs within individual UU congregations?  How do “our principles” guide our blindness to the empty plate at our own congregational table, or inspire us to do first for ourselves and share with others what is left over?  They don’t, of course, but our congregations deal with both of these issues–or in some cases, choose not to deal with them–constantly.

I suspect that we each struggle, at least insofar as our eyes and hearts are open, to discern the meaning and the imperative behind our values, and to live in accord with that.  That’s part of why we need religion–it’s hard to live a life of worth and decency without examining our choices.  Thus, the hypocrisy we’re talking about today is just easy pickings–it’s visible, and it’s about “someone else.”  Just this once, let’s skip the low-hanging fruit and see if we can go deeper into what matters.

The reality is, those who disagree with us are, in general, not crazy.  They are people, often people who care deeply about the same sorts of things that we care about, who have arrived at different conclusions.  But a common reaction—perhaps even our default reaction, these days—is to view those people as “the other,” and to see them only through the lens of our disagreement on an issue.  And there are tangible benefits to doing this.  First, fear of the Other can unify a group into a cohesive Us like nothing else—for an extreme example of this, consider the instant national unity, from the mountains to the prairies to the halls of Congress, after 9/11.  Further, it feels good; righteous outrage stimulates the pleasure centers of our brains, and makes the complicated, headache-inducing dilemmas we face everyday seem much simpler.  And while it’s disappointing, we UUs are not immune to this simplification-by-way-of-Other . . . sometimes it is even preached from our pulpits.  (Perhaps this surprises you—I hope it does, actually, as that might mean it is rare—but I have seen it happen.  And friends, it is ugly.)

Drawing a line in the sand.  An old metaphor.

Why is this call to establish [and enforce?] a UU line in our politics happening now?  Is it necessary?  And where else might we choose to go in the call to deepen our commitments to living our spiritual principles?

More on that soon.  In the meantime, I’d love to hear your thoughts on any or all of this discussion.

j