Rev. Joseph Boyd
I saw a play on Broadway while I was in New York this last week, and it was a play about holding history. It was called the Lehman trilogy, about the family origins that led to a 600 billion dollar financial firm in New York City that went bankrupt in 2008. It tells the story of three brothers who come to America from Bavaria, Germany. Three Jewish brothers who are given new names upon entering New York. I won’t spoil the play for you, but it did get me to think about the themes of what it means to be an American, what is worth pursuing, and the many ways each and every one of us who live in this country are complicit in things we never take the time to notice. I heard someone say that immigrants are more American than anyone who was born here. I think what they meant by that was a theme that occurred in the Lehman trilogy: America is not a place, it’s an idea. It’s a vision, it’s a hope. Nobody has that idea etched in their mind more than immigrants who come to this country, hoping to carve out a life here that is impossible where they came from. There is a great scene in the play that shows how this idea of America can turn from fun and inspiring into mania. It’s a scene when all the Lehman brothers are doing the twist, the famous dance from the 1960’s. All the brothers are in their dark trench coats and boots, their clothing from Bavaria, and they are doing the twist together in unison. The Broadway audience is laughing: it’s funny, it’s unexpected, it’s novel, and it’s contagious. It’s a dance that makes you feel good: it makes you feel good to do it, it makes you feel good to watch it. But then again something happens that’s unexpected. They’re reveling in doing the twist, having a great time, and they won’t stop. They keep dancing the twist, and they get older as they keep dancing. 60 yrs, 77 yrs, 90 yrs, 100 yrs, 120 yrs, 140 yrs. As they age, they can’t stop doing the twist. They can’t stop for a second. It quickly turns into mania, into horror mixed with comedy and pity. We’re a go, go, go, culture. And that’s fun, and it’s inspiring, and it feels good. It feels good to be on the move, and it feels good to watch people on the move. It’s inspiring, it’s fun, it looks attractive. But the play asks a critical question in a roundabout way: Is it possible to stop? And if it’s not, what does our life become, what does our culture become? If we need to keep going no matter what, what kind of human culture are we becoming?

It’s a great question in the context of a pandemic, and it’s good timing for this Broadway show to open. It’s a time when most people I talk to are ready to move on, ready to get started again, ready to get moving, ready to get back on the dance floor. And that’s inspiring, it’s fun, and I have to confess, it feels good. But I think the lingering question from two years ago still haunts us: Who are we becoming in our very active lives, unaware of the consequences of our very active lives, our very active wants, our very active desires for motion, for fulfillment, for prosperity. It seems as an American empire we are becoming caricatures of the aspiration that has inspired us for centuries. We are beginning to look manic, out of control, addicted to movement, no matter what the cost, even to ourselves.

The reason I went to New York was to participate in a ceremony for my Zen teacher who many of you have met, Daiken, who was being honored as a Roshi, a distinguished teacher in the Zen Peacemaker/White Plum lineage. It is the same lineage as Maezumi Roshi, who I talked about a month ago in regard to ceremony. Maezumi Roshi empowered his first American student, who grew up in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. His name was Bernie Glassman. November 4th was the second anniversary of his death, and this ceremony was held on the same date as a way to hold that history. Maezumi Roshi gave Bernie Roshi the charge to make Zen Buddhism a practice that was understandable for Americans. He was charged with making this ancient and noble practice that originated in India, then China, then Japan, into something that had a distinctly American flavor. And he did. He became an entrepreneur. He raised capital and started multimillion dollar businesses that had a social mission and would be of benefit to people.

He used Newark, New Jersey as his base, at that time the least prosperous place in Westchester county and began by opening a bakery. He had no idea how to bake a cake, and neither did any other people who surrounded him in the Zen world. So they learned. They started with recipe books, and then they adapted the recipes and made it their own. They had an open hiring policy in Newark, which meant anyone who came in who said they wanted a job, got a paying job. There were no interviews, no background checks. They started work as soon as they arrived, and they were given a two week contract to see how they did. If they showed up every day on time, even if they didn’t know what they were doing, they were hired permanently. Once people got hired, the people in Newark had nowhere to put their kids while they were at work. So Bernie raised capital, worked with the city and the mayor of Newark and city council people and opened up a daycare center which was free.

And then he learned that many of his workers were homeless or couch surfing and had nowhere to live. So again he raised capital, worked with the city, with politicians, other non-profits, and he bought an apartment building. He gave his workers the opportunity to own their own apartment, by giving them a reasonable rent in relation to their income. And then the AIDS crisis happened, and he learned that many of his employees had issues with substance abuse. So again he raised capital, worked with the city, with politicians, and he opened up a free medical clinic that offered substance abuse counseling as well as treatment for those with HIV. Bernie was given the Buddhist name Tetsugen and previous to this had a shaved head and wore robes. Through the course of all these activities, he just became Bernie, a guy from Brooklyn. He grew a beard, let his hair grow out, and wore everyday street clothes. He smoked cigars, ate corn beef sandwiches, and lived an ordinary life like most Americans. Except the appearances were somewhat deceiving.

It was part of his teaching. He was ordinary, but his insight and activities were extraordinary. He saw that Zen Buddhist practice, much like Unitarian Universalist practice, must be actively engaged with the world, engaged in working directly with our neighbors, with our communities. He used capitalism to benefit those who had difficulty gaining access to the promises of capitalism.  Over the course of his time with the bakery, called the Greyston Bakery, he partnered with Ben and Jerry’s and was given the contract to make all of their brownie fillings. This contract meant he needed to hire hundreds of employees. He hired them all from Newark. He hired anyone who wanted a job: no interview, no background check. His main teaching was the interconnected nature of all life, all living creatures. And the teaching I took most to heart is that if you want love, if you want enlightenment, don’t turn away from suffering. Go and meet it, see what you can offer, even if it seems small or insignificant. Always see what you can offer.

Bernie was Jewish, and he went on regular trips with groups of people to Auschwitz where he would invite the children of holocaust survivors and the children of German SS officers. And they would sit, eat and be with one another for 10 days, honoring those who lost their lives there. He was a clown, and he learned how to clown from someone who went into refugee camps to clown with the children. Again, see what you can offer. Even if it’s a smile. He kept a red nose in his pocket, and if he was sitting in a board meeting or in a circumstance where he felt people were getting too serious, he would take it out and put it on.

So we all did that in Coney Island, put on a red clown nose, a way to honor Daiken, a way to honor Bernie’s memory, a way to honor the transmission of Buddhism from East to West. A reminder not to take ourselves too seriously: play, dance. For years, I’ve been unsure why I would study Buddhism: I never saw myself as being the idea of what I thought a Buddhist was.

But when I went to be part of this ceremony I met people from all over the world who were dedicated Buddhist practitioners who you could not have picked out as Buddhists: CEO’s, entrepreneurs, school principals. People were using the path of awakening outlined by the Buddha to serve their communities, keeping the social good of all in mind with their activities. Actually I was the one of the most traditionally religious people there: someone who has a congregation as a Unitarian Universalist minister. I felt a sense of connection and recognition. I was surrounded by people who were bold, dynamic, and very human, humble. I recognized them, and they recognized me as someone who studies in this lineage. We were doing the same work in our own way as Americans, even though some are now in Mexico, the Dominican Republic, in Europe. I felt truly embraced and encouraged, recognized for what I’m doing, what we’re doing, and encouraged to continue. That’s the power of history, of recognizing lineage, in my opinion.

I felt a sense of being part of something much larger than myself, a thread that began long before I was born, and is now threaded through my life. To feel that is truly empowering, strengthening, and encouraging.

I feel so grateful to be able to be in this context, in Youngstown, with such a rich history and stories of the human spirit. In the Order of Service I included a photograph of an Italian family living in a slum on East Federal Street in downtown Youngstown in the early 20th century. Bill Lawson, a local historian, said that most likely they received food and basic necessities from what is now the Rescue Mission. They were recent immigrants who no doubt came to Youngstown to discover America, and even though they lived in hard scrabble circumstances, you see that they’re smiling. They’re smiling because America is not a place, it’s an idea. It’s a vision, it’s a hope. I think it’s a worthy hope. It’s a hope that we may be able to live our lives in prosperity that we may be able to build a life for our children, where they will see higher vistas and gain greater opportunities than what we were given.

I think this thought, this hope, is what America is. This thought is not bound to this land, this history, this place of both accomplishment and disappointment. It’s a global thought: an aspiration to be liberated, to be free, to finally have some place we can land after being out at sea for so long both literally and metaphorically speaking. This is a thought that is still alive in this place, and I think it’s important we be skillful with this thought and aspiration. I think the energy that comes from this thought can lead to mania, to pitiful circumstances, or it can be fuel that can be used for the greater social good, including the earth. When this thought becomes self-centered, this energy and aspiration in time turns into mania, it requires us to deny the suffering of others, and it makes us predatory, people who seek to reap benefit and prosperity at the cost of others. But with a reminder from a community like this, I think we can learn to expand this vision, so we can try to avoid that fate. We can use the resources we have, the resources of this place, to love one another.

We can awaken the aspiration to be inventive, and find new ways to host and be there for each other. It is amazing what we can do together. I remember from Bernie Roshi to offer something. Don’t waste time judging whether it’s a lot or a little, whether it will make a difference or not. Don’t waste time trying to calculate the benefit. If you sense it will have some benefit, just offer it. Some days it will feel like we have a lot to offer, some days it will take a lot just to offer a smile to someone. But whatever we’ve got, offer it. Love is abundant here – in this place. In Youngstown, in this country, in this world. Holding history reminds us of this reality of abundance. We receive abundance from those that offered their living to inspire our own, and those who have lived and been in this place, can inspire us to dance: not just for ourselves, but for the whole of life, for everyone.