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We Need One Another

Preached by Allison Palm

November 13, 2011

Whose are we? Not who, but whose? This was the question I grappled with along with other seminarians at a retreat last spring. The exercise stemmed from UU minister Victoria Safford’s contention that you cannot be a person by yourself. She says that “the ancient question, “Who am I?” inevitably leads to a deeper one, “Whose am I?” – because there is no identity outside of relationship. You can’t be a person by yourself. To ask “Whose am I?” is to extend the question far beyond the little self-absorbed self and wonder: Who needs you? Who loves you? To whom are you accountable? To whom do you answer? Whose life is altered by your choices? With whose life, whose lives, is your own all bound up, inextricably, in obvious or invisible ways?”

I would add to this list that in considering whose we are, we must think not only about who needs us, but also about who we need. This was the part of the exercise that challenged me the most. Though the first things that came to my head when thinking about whose I am were often names of family, friends, and loved ones, there was something in me that resisted speaking those names aloud. Instead I opted for saying that I belonged to the universe, to the trees, or to my responsibilities. I reflected on this for several weeks afterward. What made it so hard for me to admit that these relationships were also part of my identity? Why was it easier for me to say I belonged to my responsibilities rather than my relationships? Why did I resist declaring that I might, every once in a while, need someone?

I don’t think that I am alone in this resistance to naming my need for others. It can be terrifying to admit that we belong to other people, to say that our identity is all bound up in our relationships with others. Our culture is so based on individuality and self-sufficiency that to say that we can’t be human on our own seems like an admission of failure. In this community in particular I’ve seen excellence held up like a shining star—that which must always be sought after and that which must always be achieved. And while this is certainly a worthy goal, is it not a bit much to be asking ourselves to always be excellent? And might it not be true that sometimes excellence cannot be achieved alone?

There is an old story that tells of a little boy who is having a difficult time trying to lift a heavy stone. His father comes along and seeing him trying—and failing—to lift the stone, asks him, “Are you using all your strength?” The little boy looks at him impatiently, and says, “of course I am!” “No, you are not,” responds the father, “I am right here waiting and you haven’t asked me to help you.”

What if our strength were measured not by what we can do alone but by what we can do together? How might that change our idea of caring, and of being cared for?

During the Youth Group’s retreat at Karme Choling this fall, we played a game. We stood in a circle and counted off by ones and twos. First the ones were asked to go into the middle of the circle and strike a pose as a statue. Next the twos were asked to go in and find some way to support the ones. We then left the center one group at a time, first the ones, and then the twos. Then we swapped roles, with the twos going in first, and the ones following to support them.

There were several things that struck me about this simple exercise. First there was the fact that it was so scary to be a one—you had to put yourself out there, strike a pose, and you never knew if someone was going to come in to support you or not. It was a vulnerable position to be in—you had to think: if I stick my arm out to the side or stand on one leg, is someone going to come in and help me hold it up, or will I have to do it all on my own? And the more basic question: am I going to look completely ridiculous doing this?

Being a two could also be hard. If all the ones simply stood up straight with their hands at their sides, it was really hard to offer them support. It was when they put themselves in one of those scary, vulnerable positions that the twos were able to find some way to support them. It was when they put themselves out there and asked for help that it was the easiest for the rest of the group to give them the help they needed.

Doesn’t this sound a lot like real life? Think about how much easier is it for us to support others when we know what they need—or even if we simply know that they are in need.

The other piece that struck me in this exercise was that once the ones went away, the twos were the ones who looked rather silly. They were holding up arms and legs that were no longer there. Without those who needed support, the community was incomplete.

This is what I would call interdependence. Each person in the group had a turn at offering support and at receiving support. Each person was an important piece of the whole no matter which role they were playing in that moment. And each person was essential to keeping the community complete. Each person was individually in a pose, and yet the pose meant little unless you looked at it as part of the whole—as part of a community of caring and being cared for.

This is what being part of a religious community is all about, and is a big part of what makes religious communities a countercultural force in our wider culture of independence and self-sufficiency. Our society has privatized suffering, putting it behind the closed doors of confidential psychotherapy sessions and making it taboo to answer anything other than “I’m well,” to the question of “How are you doing?” While psychotherapy and other such tools are certainly useful, and ought not to be condemned, the support of a caring community is just as important to healing. Keeping our suffering strictly confidential exacerbates it, leading to feelings of isolation, and preventing us from bringing our whole selves into community. Religious communities such as this one are here to help combat this isolation, to help remind us that we are not alone in our need for one another.

Just think for a minute about some of the things we do here to support a culture of interdependence. The Candles of Concern and Celebration that we light at each service are one of the most obvious. There are few other places in life where you get a chance to speak freely what is on your heart without fear that you will be judged as complaining or taking up too much space. Our Lay Pastoral Care Team is here to offer a supportive ear whenever you need one. And the Caring Connection has plenty of helping hands on deck to provide meals and rides whenever that is what is needed most.

Yet offering care is only one half of the picture. It is much like a foundation with no building to hold up. It is the twos standing there supporting invisible arms and legs after the ones have left the center of the circle.

Asking for help is about telling the truth of our human experience. It is affirming that we do indeed need one another. Rather than an admission of powerlessness, asking for help helps us begin to move out of powerlessness. In any twelve-step program, for example, admitting that you have a need is the first step to addressing that need. All transformation and healing begins with a cry. Healing happens best in community, but it cannot happen unless we trust in that community enough to let it hold our pain.

Let me tell you one more story. I have to start by saying that my school, Andover Newton, is known for being very pastoral. There’s a joke that if you even frown on campus, they’ll be ten people surrounding you within a minute, hoping to try out their newly acquired pastoral care skills. While this is, of course, a bit of an exaggeration, it is an incredibly caring community of which I am often grateful to be a part. I have, however, just as often been guilty of not trusting that community enough to accept their care. And there are times when my head doesn’t want me to accept their care, but my heart has other ideas.

I am thinking in particular of one day in my Hebrew Bible class last December. It was the middle of my first finals week in seminary, I had gotten some bad news the night before that I hadn’t had time to deal with yet, and I was not a big fan of my Hebrew Bible class, by which I mean, I despised it. Needless to say, I was not in a particularly good place that afternoon. When it finally got to break time in the middle of class, a friend who was sitting next to me turned to me and asked that simple, but loaded, question: “How are you doing?” In my head I responded that I was doing just fine, but apparently my heart had other ideas. I took one look at her kind face, realized she genuinely cared about how I was doing, and promptly burst into tears. In the moment, I was terribly embarrassed, especially when some other friends noticed and came over to where we were sitting. But this embarrassment turned to gratitude when these four women surrounded me, each laying a hand on my knee or shoulder. They didn’t ask me to explain, they simply held me in circle of caring, and I let myself be held. By the time the tears subsided, I was so glad that I hadn’t just told my friend that I was fine.

With this in mind, I have a challenge for you all today. I want to challenge you to take one step towards trusting in this community to hold you in your joys and in your sorrows. In your conversations during coffee hour today, I invite you to ask that simple, but loaded question: “How are you doing?” and I challenge you to answer it sincerely, remembering that when we ask that question here we are asking it sincerely.

We come together in religious community in part to remind each other that we need one another, to let our concerns and celebrations be held with equal care—that the sorrows might be lessened and the joys might be multiplied. We come together to surrender our whole selves to this sacred community, and to the holiness that dwells above, below and among us, and to know that only when we give our whole selves can we really embody the interdependent web. We come together to be reminded who we are and whose we are. We come together to be saved, and to save each other, again, again, and yet again.