Pilgrims in a Pilgrim Church
Gloucester Unitarian Universalist Church
Reverend Janet Parsons
September 29, 2024
Part One: Lonely Voyages Into the Unknown
I love to picture the scene in my mind’s eye: a traveler from England whose ship had gone aground, walking along a dirt path in what is now New Jersey, encountering a farmer of great faith who had built a small meetinghouse in case preachers came, so that a service could be held. The farmer, Thomas Potter, somehow recognizing that John Murray was such a preacher. And after much protesting, John Murray agreeing to preach that coming Sunday, as long as the winds held steady and the ship aground on a nearby sandbar couldn’t set sail. We’ve told the story many times, of how Murray had resolved to put his entire past life behind him and to never preach again, how he finally agreed, and how, as soon as he finished, on that day, September 30, 1770, word was sent from the ship that the winds had shifted, the ship was afloat, and it was time to depart. It’s called the first Universalist miracle. Perhaps the only Universalist miracle, in this naturalist, humanist tradition.
But perhaps not. We tell this story often, beginning with Murray’s misery in England, but usually as we tell it, the story begins on a sandbar in New Jersey. But let’s step back a bit, to the time before John Murray set sail, beginning his pilgrimage, with a lonely voyage into the unknown.
Murray wrote openly of his despair in his autobiography. He had been broken, first by his loss of livelihood after his conversion to Universalism, and then by the deaths of his first wife and infant child. The debts had mounted and he found himself carted off to what he called a ‘sponging-house’, the last step before debtor’s prison. He prayed for death. He wrote, “…my life seemed devoted to misery, … and I thus passed weeks and months, verily believing that I should thus finish my days, which I cherished a soothing hope would soon be numbered.” (The Life of Rev. John Murray, p. 185.). And then, he met someone from America, and grew interested in voyaging here. We might think of this as a fresh start, but in fact, John Murray only wanted to disappear. He had no plan, no real destination. He refused letters of introduction. He wrote, “I had nothing in prospect but a kind of negative happiness. I did not mean to commence a voyage in pursuit of bliss, but to avoid if possible a part of my misery.” (Ibid., p. 187.). Not a pilgrimage, as we would think of it, but a way to escape; a voyage of desperation.
So perhaps the Universalist miracle is not the ship remaining aground until after Murray preached. Perhaps the real miracle is redemption. Resurrection. For somehow, in those days waiting in the company of an ardent Universalist farmer, it was not just the wind that shifted, but Murray himself. He preached, the ship set sail for New York City, and he preached again.
Most of us know the rest of the story, as Murray traveled and preached, and met more and more people hungry for his saving message of a God that offered love, not punishment. Gradually he gained a sense of purpose, and he was reborn.
As John Murray gained strength, and purpose, and courage, he became a powerful and charismatic preacher, who seemed “never to be at a loss for words.” (Charles Howe, The Larger Faith, p. 4.). I have often told the story of the time when he was preaching in Boston, and an opponent threw a rock through a window that landed at Murray’s feet. He picked it up and said, “’This argument is solid and weighty, but it is neither rational nor convincing.’ Then, laying the rock aside, he announced, ‘Not all the stones in Boston, except they stop my breath, shall shut my mouth.’” (Ibid.)
On another occasion, a Calvinist minister whose last name was Bacon objected to Murray’s preaching. Some of Bacon’s supporters left, and came back with eggs that they began throwing at Murray. “…he responded, ‘These are moving arguments, but I must own at the same time, I have never been so fully treated to Bacon and eggs before in all my life.’” (Ibid., pp. 4-5.)
We’re given this glimpse of a man afraid of nothing more in his life, and apparently even enjoying himself. A Universalist miracle of rebirth: may it come to all the pilgrims who find themselves alone on a voyage who need it.
Part Two Growth: A Pilgrim Church
“We Do Not Stand, We Move”
Imagine, for a moment, if our church services were exactly as they were when this building was new, back in 1805. There would have been the flickering of candlelight. Hymns were sung, but there were no instruments until a bass viol was purchased in 1814 and “not without considerable opposition, however, at such an innovation.” (Universalism in Gloucester, Richard Eddy, p. 48.) Hymnals existed, although they were just small collections of lyrics, with no music.
Imagine. A church cannot remain static: it must adapt and evolve with the times. And more than the trappings change: a church’s theology must also adapt as our thinking and our circumstances evolve. It must, and it does. We heard the words of the eminent Unitarian theologian James Luther Adams a few minutes ago, who wrote, “(A church) bursts through rigid, cramping inheritance, giving rise to new language, to new forms of cooperation, to new and broader fellowship. The church of the Spirit is a pilgrim church on adventure.” (James Luther Adams, I Call That Church Free)
Both Unitarians and Universalists have shared that spirit since their founding; that sense of being pilgrims, forging ahead on a journey. Back in 1921, Lewis Fisher, the dean of Ryder Divinity School in Chicago, made this statement: “Universalists are often asked to tell where they stand. The only true answer is that we do not stand at all, we move.” (John A. Buehrens, Universalists and Unitarians in America, p. 142.)
Since its beginning in the 1770’s, Universalism grew rapidly, spurred by its hopeful message of a loving God who would not condemn people to an eternity of hellfire. This message was the equivalent of an earthquake in conservative religious circles, and it caught on quickly. But as the 19th century wore on, that message of universal salvation became more and more common among the mainstream Protestant denominations. Universalism began to lose its momentum, partly because it was no longer the only denomination offering love and hope, but also because it had largely been a rural movement, and with rapid industrialization, there was a great migration to the cities. Churches began closing, and numbers dwindled. Perhaps Universalism was a religion that moved, but in what direction? What was the mission? Where was the spirit blowing? It wasn’t always clear, and the denomination continued to shrink.
However, Universalist clergy were often outspoken liberals, and their theology was full of pilgrim spirit. Clarence Skinner was a pacifist during World War 1, and moved well beyond traditional Christian belief. He advocated a global humanism, and believed the role of religion was to ‘transform this old earth into the Kingdom of Heaven.’ (Howe, p. 98.) Clinton Lee Scott, who served this church in the 1940’s, also evolved to emphasize humanism, and was the only Universalist minister to sign the 1933 Humanist Manifesto. By the 1930’s and 1940’s, leaders were beginning to look beyond Christianity. Universalist National Superintendent Robert Cummins wrote: “Universalism cannot be limited either to Protestantism or to Christianity, not without denying its very name. Ours is a world fellowship, not just a Christian sect. For so long as Universalism is universalism…the fellowship bearing its name must succeed in making it unmistakably clear that all are welcome: theist and humanist, unitarian and Trinitarian, colored, and colorless. A circumscribed Universalism is unthinkable.” (Buehrens, p. 169)
The pilgrim spirit never did lead to one world religion, as the leaders had hoped. Well, not yet, anyway. But ultimately it did lead to merger with the Unitarians in 1961. And Universalism lives on, enshrined in the creation of our Principles and Purposes in the 1980’s and now in the new core values, with their vision of God as Love at the center. A pilgrim spirit of adventure – always looking toward the future, while learning from the past.
As James Luther Adams urged us, “I call that church free which is not bound to the present, which cowers not before the vaunted spirit of the times. It earns and creates a tradition binding together past, present, and future in a living tether, in a continuing covenant and identity, bringing forth treasures both new and old…”
The story of a pilgrim church is not yet written.
Saying ‘Yes’
We turn now to ourselves; we who follow the message of this pilgrim church: that life is change, and that we are called, invited, to continually move forward in this stream of life in which we live our days.
“An invitation arises,” wrote our poet. (White Dove, by Danna Faulds). But does life always invite us to turn, to face the future, to take big steps into the unknown? Is invitation the right word, or does sometimes life issue more of a demand, or a summons? In looking at definitions for invitation, one word jumped out at me: provocation.
For in fact, those life-altering moments are often not welcome. A catastrophic injury, for example, that takes our mobility, or our vision. We are provoked into a new reality. And maybe we feel that it would be easiest to refuse the invitation, and to give up.
John Murray, brought to the sponging house, had no money to pay for a bed to sleep in. And yet, he had no will to leave, to ask for help, to find a way forward. He curled up on the dirty floor. But he didn’t stay there.
Our Unitarian and Universalist forebears, a hundred years ago, could see that they were in sharp decline. In this current era of lack of interest in religion, we can well imagine how painful this must have been. Did they see themselves as responding to an invitation, or were they starting to feel desperate, sticking their fingers into a hole in a dike, seeking a path forward? In the true spirit of a pilgrim church, they continued to move, to evolve, to eventually merge into a new religion.
I think of the immigration crisis, not just at our southern border, but throughout the world. Certainly migrants are seldom invited to start life over in a new place. I am always reminded of the harsh poem by Warsan Shire, which begins: “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark…you only leave home when home won’t let you stay.” (Warsan Shire, Home)
We can’t always recognize the moment when a dire situation might suddenly open and allow us a glimpse of an invitation, or when our hearts may open and our vision clear. Perhaps the opening never happens. But it is in these moments, if we see them, when the true invitation emerges – the invitation behind the provocation. The invitation that is faith.
Too often we confuse the word ‘faith’ with ‘belief’. But faith is not doctrine, it is not fixed. Much like hope, faith can seem to disappear for a time, and then tentatively begin to speak. And when it does, it extends to us an invitation. An invitation to speak up, even if our voice shakes. An invitation to open ourselves to a new practice of meditation or prayer. An invitation to pause and hear a small voice inside telling us it’s time to move, or confront other needed life changes.
Maybe you think you have no faith, if you don’t consider yourself religious. But maybe you have faith in science; that the sun will rise, and the seasons will change. Maybe you have faith in the strength of community; people coming together to hold each other and help.
Pilgrims might feel forced – provoked – to step forth into a new life. But behind that, maybe wordless, is faith in the movement of the stream of life flowing forward, never behind. To turn toward daylight; to save your own life.
May the stories of our founder and of the pilgrim spirit of our church offer us the faith we need to always answer ‘yes’ to life.
