As I read these stories I wondered; could I lay my life down for
others in this way? Certainly, I would do so for my daughter, but beyond that, would
I feel the urge to protect those in a group? Could I feel such a great sense of
community? What does it mean to have community? Is the water test of any
community the degree to which you would stand up to evil to protect and even
sacrifice for those within? Or is it a
community which gives you the sense of courage to fight against injustice? Or
is this fearless commitment to another yet again something else – a sense of tribe
perhaps?
Community I understand – indeed many Unitarians will say that it
is this is what they value about their ‘faith’, its sense of community, of
individuals with a shared sense of the world and how we engage with it. In the
best of circumstances, a community lends itself to caring, support, and a commitment
to certain ideals. But, I wonder, is
that enough to drive such sacrifice? Or, is the difference in our interaction
within a group a reflection the difference between our place in a tribe and our membership in a community?
Perhaps what compels us to act in an extraordinary way is this sense of our
tribe, but what allows us to survive day to day is our sense of community.
The word tribe translates from the Greek phyle meaning, ‘race of
tribe of men, united by ties of blood and descent’ You may recall the related
word ‘phylum’ from your biology 101 taxonomy class; phylum was the level of classification below kingdom and
above class (read
from that what you will). A tribe is distinct,
separate, related, and shared by a few. It is a socially, ethnically and
politically cohesive group. Conversely, a community is bound by association of
locality, it is of the commons, it resides in the public sphere and is shared
by the many. By extension it represents fellowship, union, and is rooted in the
notion of a common people, that we are equal at some level. In a 2014 article by
David Nassim1 he describes a community as a group that is interest
based, where as a tribe is group with an instinctive relationship.
A community then is bound by a framework which allows for both
diversity and equality of its members whereas a tribe re-enforces the
similarity of its members and highlights what sets it apart from others. As human beings we may live (and need to live)
in communities, but we often find ourselves drawn to tribes, to those who
affirm some aspect of ourselves. A tribe provides a profound and unique sense
of identity. Is this then the root of
that fierce willingness to protect? Does capacity to risk so much derive from the
sense of self that is located in the tribe? Is this why I can envision myself risking my
life to protect my daughter, who is a member of my tribe, but not so much the
guy who drives down the block at 4 am with his radio blasting, who may be a
member of my community?
For several years now I have been friends with an Orthodox Jewish family who live in a nearby neighborhood. I have attended many a holiday and religious celebration in their home. During these occasions I feel as though I have stepped into a different time and place; no one is looking at their cell phones, there is no television, no radio. In respect of their customs I dress modestly though they have assured me many times that I should feel free to be comfortable. I am surprised how, in an odd way for me, this mode of dress is freeing. I am not seen for what I look like or wear, but simply for who I am and what I do. In dress, at least, I was like the other members of this tribe, even as I know that I am not of them.
Despite the oft muted colors of the women’s clothing, and the
men’s dark suits and black hats the mood at these gatherings is rarely somber; indeed
there is often laughter, much talk, and the men frequently break into boisterous
and joyous song. Talmudic tales of wisdom are shared, and of course, there are many
prayers. I have heard some of these prayers so often that, even lacking fluency
in Hebrew, I can mouth the opening words; Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu. The soft rhythm of the words pours over me; I am transported to a sepia toned world; a shtetl in Poland, the Dohany Street Synagogue in Budapest, I am surrounded by a timelessness.
Though I know I am not truly a part of this tribe, when I visit their home I am always greeted with joy and fed well. The Rabbi and his wife always ask after my family and inquire after my well-being. Though an outsider my presence is accepted here, even embraced. WHen I leave I carry their warmth and grace with me.
One day, on my way home from work, the weather suddenly turned very bad. Heavy snow and ice made the roads almost impassable. I had to drive past the Rabbi's house to get home. Afraid that I wouldn't make it safely all the way home I contemplated stopping and staying there overnight. But it was Friday and Shabbat would begin soon. I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt Shabbat uninvited I struggled on. Later, when I told the Rabbi's wife that I had considered this she said to me 'But of course you should have stopped, you are always welcome here'. Her words were a gift to me.
A few weeks ago I attended a memorial service at the Islamic Society of Great Valley Forge in a tribute to the lives lost at the Christchurch Mosque in New Zealand. Before I entered the Mosque I wrapped a shawl around my head in a poor imitation of a hijab; as with my Orthodox Jewish friends, I desired to be respectful to my hosts in their home. However, after entering the building the greeter assured me that it was not necessary to cover my head, insisting (as had the Rabbi) that I should just feel comfortable. Yet I left the shawl on and soon forgot I was wearing. In a small way my ersatz hijab connected me to the women of this tribe.
Once inside and seated we were welcomed by the Iman, who gave a short speech. This was followed by several more presentations by various spiritual leaders, including our Unitarian minister Neal Jones, a Rabbi, a Christian minister and even a member of the school board. After several speeches there was a break for prayer and I was then invited to follow the women upstairs to be with them during prayers.
At first it seemed slightly voyeuristic to watch others pray. After a few moments though I allowed myself to just sit there. I listened as the men's voices, coming from across a transparent divider, filled the room. Their tones were exotic, deep cries that touch an ancient chord within me. Seduced by the sound of their voices my memory took me back to Spain, to the Alhambra, the Islamic palace in Granada. I saw once again the dusty earth, the blue grey mountains in the distance, I heard the rustle of the silver green leaves of the ever present myrtle bushes. I sensed the calming trickle of the fountains, felt the steady heat of the sun and was again captivated by the interplay of shadow and light in the mosaic tiled rooms. Though I was sitting in a Mosque in Devon, Pennsylvania I felt those prayers echoing through the Spanish landscape, down into the valleys and up into the mountaintops.
I did not know what they were saying in their prayers, I did not know the meaning of their words, yet I felt the touch of them. As with the Orthodox Jews the sounds and rhythms of the words moved, me, they resonated at a place within.
At the end of the evening I was talking with two members of the Mosque, a man and his wife. He asked me about Unitarianism and suddenly, the little I knew of Unitarian history and the seven principles vanished from my mind. 'What is a service like?' he asked; I clumsily tried to explain 'there is music, and quiet, and a sermon'. The man continued, in deepest sincerity, to try to understand what it meant to be a Unitarian, to be of a faith with no creed. He was a hungry pupil, eager to learn another's customs - and I, a poor teacher.
Finally, exasperated by my own inarticulateness, I shake my head and say, 'it's not about a given belief, it not about the service. It's what I hear in the music, what I hear in the songs of my Orthodox Jewish friends, in the Christian chants, what I hear in your prayers. I hold my hand to my heart - 'it is what is in here, it is this. This is what is holy, no matter what you call it, no matter what name you give it, this is what is holy. Everything else does not matter. He smiles at this and nods his head.
I don't know that I helped him to understand a single thing of Unitarian history or background (indeed I am sure I did not), I don't know that explained anything at all about a Unitarian service. But, I think he understood what we share, I think he understood heart.
As we part ways, he says 'Come again, you are welcome here'.
I think back on the evening and am struck by the embrace of our hosts, of that word that reverberates over and over in all these places. 'Welcome' said the Iman; 'You are always welcome here' said the wife of the Rabbi; Whatever you believe, whoever you love.....you are welcome here begins a UU service.
Welcome; one word, two syllables. So powerful. So simple. It means to greet gladly and yet it means so much more. It is the thread that connects tribes to create community.
Tribes are a part of human existence; it is not unreasonable to bond with those with whom we have common interests, beliefs, heritage. But we also need communities, those with whom we share laws and lands. Tribes are often insular but communities, communities must be porous. Communities can stretch from tribe to tribe, even across the globe. For us, as humans, to thrive we must allow for that kind of exchange, we must have a fluid, open and porous community. We must be welcoming, not only as visitors but as compatriots. It is only in this way, in this diversity, that we not merely survive but that we experience joy, that we heal, that we grow.
The consort of Pericles was a woman named Aspasio, whose name means 'welcome' in ancient Greek. Her house was famous for inviting strangers in, attracting the likes of such thinkers as Socrates. To fully welcome, however, goes beyond the exchanges of the mind (though they are mightily important) - to reflect the deepest meaning of her name Aspasio's house had to also stand for the exchanges of the heart, of that which is holy in each of us.
Welcome. Enter here, share with us, let us talk of that which is in our heart. Let us discuss the holy, let us think together, let us learn and question and break bread. Let us sing and pray (however you may pray), let us talk of children and family. of fear and hope and of our dreams. Let us speak of love and pain, life and death. Let us be together. Let us conquer the darkness as a community.
Sometimes, sometimes, to welcome can be dangerous - to allow another to enter can be a risk. They may hurt you, they may steal from you, they may break your heart and sadly, yes, they may even kill you. I recall the words of the man who greeted guests at the Christchurch Mosque; he said 'Welcome brother' just before he was killed. But, if our answer to such tragedy is to shut our doors, to close our hearts, then we become as tribes in a wilderness, without community. We become isolated groups who look to the 'other' as the enemy and we weaken the very fabric of humanity. Worst of all, we let the darkness conquer us.
We have a choice - we can welcome the other or we can create a barrier between our tribes. We can share our love or feed our fear. It is to us to decide.
What do I beleive? I believe in love.
I believe 'you are welcome here'.
© Madelaine E. Sayko 2019, All rights reserved
