An article by Donna Britt about women and housework has been making the rounds today on Facebook. Basically, Britt writes about the rage that women feel because they continue to do more of the housework while also now engaging in significant careers. Britt's article (really an excerpt from her new book) ends with a realization that the person she has to change is herself--that she's the one making these demands on herself.

I don't necessarily resonate with the rage part, perhaps because I have a partner who does more than his half of the house and child work in our family, but I do resonate with the idea of placing demands on myself that my husband doesn't. Even though we both do housework, it seems to matter to me more; my husband doesn't think much about it if the laundry piles up, knowing that he'll get to it, while I tend to fret and grumble and see the mounting pile of clean, unfolded clothing as some kind of indictment of me as a wife and mother.

Why is that? And more importantly, what can I do about it?

The why has a lot, I think, to do with society and expectations, and probably some to do with my own personality, too. But the solution is what interests me more. Because this is where I think getting religious about things helps.

Religion--or any philosophical system--can offer an alternative to what society says we ought to care about. If I remind myself that my deepest values center around love and dignity for all people, is the laundry really that important? Sure, eventually you want folded clothes...but it doesn't really seem worth beating yourself up if you remember that your goal in life is to live compassionately, not neatly.

Of course thinking of this is the easy part. Remembering it is another story. Good thing my job is reminding people; all I need now is to listen to myself.

True confession time: if you hear my four year old use a curse word sometime in the next few weeks, it's my fault. It was a hectic morning, the baby was fussy, something dropped all over the kitchen floor and...it just slipped out.

And it was definitely noticed. "Why did you just say s---, Mama?" my daughter asked, charmingly mispronouncing the word. "That was a bad word I said," I responded. "I shouldn't have used it and I'm sorry I did. It was a bad word."

The topic dropped easily enough, and I haven't heard it again (and I'm hopeful that the mispronunciation will make it indistinguishable!). But the whole thing has me thinking about the concept of "bad" words...the way what's bad changes generation to generation, how bad words are arresting when we hear them but sometimes so satisfying to say, and what the heck it means to have a word be bad, anyway.

Of course, one reason is cultural mores, and those are strong: check out Carolyn Hax on this topic today and the campaign to pull Modern Family from ABC because of an episode featuring a swearing toddler (which was hysterical, by the way).

I am someone who tends to be relatively bound by societal expectations for behavior--unless, and this is a big unless, I think a justice issue is at play. I don't swear a lot, and I don't want to see my four year old swearing. But I'm intrigued by the idea of what makes a word bad one decade and okay the next, and by the idea that our "bad" words are almost always connected to our bodies or to hell. There's something there about religion and embodiment that's worth exploring!

Just not by my preschooler.

From Barbara Searle, WES Member and Alert Reader!

I am far from qualified to argue with neuroscientists, but nevertheless I think there's a fatal flaw in the kind of argument you reported. The underlying assumption seems to me to be that if we can't find a scientific explanation for a phenomenon now (or can't even imagine a conceptual framework within which an appropriate explanation might be developed) then the only possible recourses are either to adopt a non-scientific explanation (God, or god or whatever) or to deny that the phenomenon exists. There are many serious scientists who are strictly deterministic -- they believe that since such experiences as free will and consciousness must arise in the brain, and they can't imagine how something that arises in the brain could produce such experiences, they don't exist. (Another camp accepts that they exist, but holds that such things are beyond human understanding, an equally useless position, in my view, since if true there's no point in even looking.)

This is very reminiscent of the way many biological observations have been treated in the past. To take just one example, many reputable scientists in the early 20th century denied the reality of genes because they couldn't imagine either how they were constructed or how they could carry out the functions attributed to them. It took both new tools (to allow appropriate experiments to be carried out) and new conceptual frameworks, for it to become obvious that genes are real. (Sort of -- but that's another story altogether!)

In my view, not only is behaving 'as if' a reasonable way to go, but it is betting on the right side!

I just came across an interesting Slate article on evil and neuroscience. Contrary to how I just wrote that sentence, it's not suggesting that neuroscience is evil!

Actually, the article talks about how neuroscientists suggest thttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifhat evil may not really exist--that evil acts can all be blamed on faulty wiring. Extending this idea, some neuroscientists would posit that all that wiring means that we don't really have free will; in other words, "my brain made me do it."

I've been interested in the problem of evil for a while, and wrote two platforms on it: one about evil specifically, one connecting evil to fear. And now I'm really interested in the interaction of evil and free will.

For me, though, the best part of the Slate article is an ethicist's suggestion, toward the end, that we act "as if" we had free will to choose between good and evil. I love the concept of acting "as if" and I use it in my life. I've written here about acting "as if" the world bends toward justice, whether it does or not, and I also act "as if" people are all connected in a deep and spiritual way. And frankly, I don't care much if they are. I like the effects on my life of acting as if.

How about you? Does it work to act "as if?" Or does it feel more important to know the truth? Can we know the truth? What is most effective as you seek to live the life you hope to live?

I do a lot of laundry. Actually, my husband really does the laundry; my job is folding and sorting. The scenario is usually the same: me on the bed, at the very end of the evening, surrounded by a huge pile of clothes--some inside out, some stuck together with that ferocious static cling, some balled up and still damp.

Since I have to fold the laundry one way or another, I figure I might as well do it with some attention to the moment, some mindfulness. Spiritual sorting, if you like.

Here's what I was aware of last night:

I sort socks last, after everything else has been folded. When I first approach the pile of socks, which belong to four different people and range from very tiny and mostly pink to large and mostly black, I have a moment of despair. It's too much, I'll never find the matches, I've reached the limit of my tolerance for laundry. But as I begin to sort, the matches make themselves clear. What once looked like a huge mass of black socks, all the same, start to distinguish themselves--these have a slight herringbone pattern, those have a little pinstripe. As each match is found and set aside, the remaining socks and their matches become clearer. Order emerges from the chaos, and I can see which socks really don't have matches; I scoop them up and put them to the side, where they await the next load of laundry and the hope of finding their mates once again.

How many things in life, I wonder, are we unable to see because of all the balled up socks lying around them? What matches would emerge if we began to clear the clutter, if we matched first the easy ones--the bright pink, the rainbow stripes--and then allowed our eyes to adjust to the subtler shades, to see with clarity the variations presented to us?

A little mindfulness while sorting socks.

Christmas with a four-year-old, I have found, is very Santa-centric. I think my daughter could have skipped the rest of her presents as long as she new the big guy with the white beard had come, eaten the cookie she left for him, and filled her stocking.

The whole thing had me wondering about why the gifts from Santa are always the most exciting, even if they're not the biggest or the most expensive. Of course there's an element of magic and fun which Santa brings. But I wonder if there's not something deeper...something about our worth in the universe.

Our parents (when we're four) have to get us presents, of course...just the way they have to love us. But to receive presents from, and to be seen and noticed and cared for by, this magical and unrelated individual seems somehow more wonderful. My daughter picked up a little from some books about the naughty-nice list, and she was very clear that she was on Santa's good side, and that he'd be sure to bring her presents. Somewhere in there, I think, is an affirmation of her place in the world, her worth as an individual, and the love that the world returns to her.

So how do we tap into that affirmation in a religious community? For some, it's found in a call to connection with God, or with the divine understood broadly as love. For others, it's found in each other--that is, we can be Santa, and affirm someone's worthiness, when we give them our love just for being who they are. Another human being.

I'm thinking about all of this as I prepare for my address on Sunday, focusing on inherent worth and dignity, a key value in both Unitarian Universalism and Ethical Culture. Will Santa make an appearance in my remarks? Maybe so. You never can tell where that jolly guy will show up next.

A member of WES asked today if I would share some of the resources I drew on for this morning's platform, called "Don't Worry, Be Happy!" and addressing the human experience of anxiety and the many different ways that religion tries to relieve us of anxiety.

So...sure! I looked at a lot of sources for this platform, because I wanted to offer a taste of many religious traditions' approaches. I drew from Matthew 6:28-34 in the New Testament, and from the Book of Job and Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew Bible. Both of those traditions, it seemed to me, invited people to see themselves as part of the much larger universe, and to search for a sense of trust as well.

Then I looked at Buddhism and Taoism, drawing especially from the Tao Te Ching in a great translation by Stephen Mitchell. I found so much wisdom in the Tao Te Ching; two phrases that especially resonated were "The Master stays behind; that is why she is ahead. She is detached from all things; that is why she is one with them. Because she has let go of herself, she is perfectly fulfilled.” and “Fill your bowl to the brim and it will spill. Keep sharpening your knife and it will blunt. Chase after money and security and your heart will never unclench. Care about people’s approval and you will be their prisoner. Do your work, then step back. The only path to serenity.” These traditions call us to let go of the need for control and to try to experience ourselves as both separate from and somehow also one with the whole universe.

At the very end of platform I quoted from Roger Walsh, a psychologist who wrote a really practical (think workbook) guide to spirituality that can appeal to many different theological viewpoints.

So there you have it! Some of what I drew on for this morning's platform. But what I REALLY want to know is what you think about it. How do you deal with anxiety in your life? What practices, resources, and ideas do you have to share?

You know those family stickers people put on the back of their cars? You can get a little mother, little father, kid playing soccer, baby, even your dog and cat. I find them entertaining to look at while I'm stuck in traffic.

But they get me thinking about how we define family, who we put up there on the back of our car. My daughter, when talking about her family, sometimes includes her grandparents and her cousins, and always includes our cat Mara, who died two years ago. Those people would not all fit in our car, and it would be really bad if we toted around a deceased animal. But in some way that is clear to her, they are part of our family...and I guarantee that if we had family car stickers they'd need to be up there.

So what makes up a family? The people who drive in our vehicle? Our children, grown up and moved away? The friends who join us every year for Thanksgiving? How about single people--they may be the primary person in their car, but their sense of family surely includes folks who don't happen to drive around with them all the time. Who would you need to include in your family stickers?

I often say the best platforms are conversations--and this morning a member of WES shared a comment with me during coffee hour that I wanted to keep thinking about and share with you.

First, she had a great quote which basically sums up part of my platform. It's attributable to Susan Jeffers: "Feel the fear and do it anyway." Love it when seven words say what I took 15 minutes to get around to!

But more, I loved what this person said next. She thought--and I agree--that what we're talking about when we talk about being scared and doing it anyway is really courage. Courage is so often seen as getting past fear or being brave without fear, but I think it's much more about experiencing fear and standing up, moving forward, taking a challenge on anyway.

What do you think? What do fear and courage mean for you?

Apparently I do most of my philosophical musings in the car, because here's another post about traffic.

Or perhaps it's not philosophical musings, it's really just moments of annoyance. Although I don't have a terrible commute, it does have the usual hassles of people cutting me off, or zipping over the one-way bridge when I'm clearly the next in line, or obliviously not pulling forward when there's a lot of space in front of them and it would make the traffic pattern so much better.

Ahem.

Why do these things drive me so crazy? They're hardly major transgressions, and I imagine the people doing them are just not aware, or late to pick up a child, or any other number of very reasonable excuses.

I think the trick is that I have to imagine, though...that I don't have a chance to ask the people driving, or really to have a relationship with them at all. We're so much more able to forgive transgressions--large and small--when we have a solid relationship with the person transgressing. And we're better able to understand the context and realize that perhaps it's not a transgression after all!

All of this is what makes me an avid rear-view mirror waver. I wave when I'm let in to a line of traffic, or when I accidentally cut someone off and I'm sorry, or really anytime when I feel a tiny bit of relationship building might be helpful. Want to join me in my waving campaign?

For the past few weeks, my daily commute has taken me past a house with ever-increasing signs in the yard: cat missing! White Himalyan lost! Please call! Reward! Even their minivan had its windows covered in pleas to call them with information. Like anyone, I've felt bad for the folks who lost their cat, especially one they obviously cared so much about.

Today as I drove in to work, I saw a new sign. "Cat found!" it read, "through Craigslist!"

First of all, it was nice to hear about something good happening on Craigslist. But even more, it was nice to hear about something good happening for the cat people--to hear the very happy end of the story. It made me think about the many times that we share only the bad parts of stories, and forget to fill people in on the good.

This happens online, especially. Who writes in to say that a doctor's office wait time was pretty reasonable? Or that the TSA employee was very nice, all things considered? In our personal lives, too, we all have that friend that we complain to about our (fill in the blank: mother, co-worker, neighbor, spouse). Do we also call them up to say that today that person was completely normal and actually rather considerate?

I'm pledging to remember to tell the good news, the happy endings. To post signs letting all the commuters know that the cat was found.

Last night I was privileged to share the invocation--with a local rabbi--at a candlelight vigil with DC Vote. Six members of WES joined me there, and whttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gife all stood in witness as budget negotiations took place in the White House, budget negotiations that will almost surely include riders on the DC budget from congresspeople whose districts are nowhere near our city.

Like this vigil, much of my justice work occurs at night and is part of the ongoing work of the Washington Ethical Society; that is, it involves lay leaders and the whole community is invited to take part. But sometimes I do justice work by day, showing up at a council hearing or a clergy gathering to speak my mind.

I wanted to share with you some daytime justice work I did a couple of weeks ago, when I spoke at a DC Council hearing about hate crimes. The incidence of hate crimes against members of the transgendered community has risen sharply in DC, and the violence is tragic and disturbing. Here is my testimony, from the Human Rights Campaign blog.

I spoke this past Sunday about what it is that we're "doing" on Sunday morning--about why we gather. As usual, my favorite part of the platform is hearing everyone's responses, either during Community Sharing or afterward during coffee hour. And as usual, the responses were all different.

Actually, I think they were especially different this week, and that has me thinking about the very different things we bring to--and take away from--our Sunday morning experiences together. I know some WES members and visitors come for the music, while others far prefer the meditation. Some wish we had the greeting of one another for much longer, and others find that time awkward. Some can't wait to hear from everyone during community sharing, while others would rather slip out at the beginning of that segment. Some love the platform address best of all...but they're divided about whether they like it when we talk about intellectual and philosophical issues or about social justice issues of the day or about pastoral concerns.

In other words, we are a diverse bunch of people, and nowhere is this more clear than in our reactions to various elements of Sunday morning. Still, we keep coming together. What does all this diversity mean for us? Should we expect to like every part of Sunday morning, every Sunday morning? What is the point of Sunday morning, and does it have to do with enjoyment at all?

I'd love to hear from WES folks about these questions, and maybe find some times for us to talk about them in person. What do you all think?

I'm teaching a class at WES right now on humanism in world religions--although the best part of this particular class is the side discussions we get into! At the very end of our last session we started talking about the human need for justice. Not "social justice" kind of justice but "you ran that red light you ought to get a speeding ticket" justice. We were thinking about how many religions offer justice in the next life (as in reincarnation and the karmic system) or in a place beyond life (as in the heaven and hell model).


For those of us who don't subscribe to either of those systems...what do we DO with our very human, very real need to imagine that there's justice in the world? Not just for people who run red lights, but for people who do really terrible things. Or for really great people who seem to catch bad, or even tragic, breaks in life.

I wonder if the answer isn't in our internal experience of the world. When I see a really terrible driver, running red lights and refusing to stop for people in the crosswalks, I imagine that they must not be a particularly happy person. Have they already created their own hell? And is that kind of justice enough? Or, even if it's not enough, is it all we get?

Plenty of questions...post some thoughts of your own!

I've been thinking about the Occupy DC (and sister) movements. I got a chance to visit Freedom Plaza when marching for voting rights last weekend. And it preparation for my platform this Sunday, I've been doing a lot of reading about the national movement--what it wants, what it means, what it tells us about America.

The movement will just be a small part of Sunday's platform, but I have a feeling I'll be thinking more about it in the weeks and months to come. In the meantime, I wanted to share the blog of a WES member who spent a night camping in Freedom Plaza this past week.

Somehow as I think about this I keep coming back to something a college friend said. From a former Soviet Socialist Republic, Irina was a tiny person with a strong accent and a very different experience in the world. As we talked about politics in America, she pointed out that eventually Americans could change the system. "If they don't have enough bread," she said, "they will revolt."

At the time I thought she just didn't understand how America worked, that I couldn't quite see the revolution for bread happening here. Now I wonder if she wasn't just ahead of her time.