ayzavian

Andrea Ayvazian, dean of religious life, presented these thoughts at an MHC millennium lecture series held December 3.

As you know, I am a member of the clergy. And in ministerial circles there is a saying that "Pastors always give the sermon they need to hear." And I think I have done that with this lecture. As we approach the millennium and I sneak up on fifty, I think I need to hear the little speech I have prepared for tonight.

I would like to begin with one of my favorite stories. It's about A.J. Muste, a legendary pacifist leader of the mid-twentieth century. During the Vietnam War, which he strongly opposed, Mr. Muste and some of his friends stood with candles out in front of the White House every night in silent vigil to protest the war. One December night, a cold rain was falling and A.J. Muste found himself in front of the White House vigiling alone. A reporter passing by stopped to talk to Muste. "You know," the reporter said to Muste, "your standing here, alone in the rain with a candle, is not going to change the world." "Oh no," Muste replied, "I don't do this to change the world, I do this so the world won't change me."

What relevance does that story have for us? And why is it important now, at the turn of the century, at the turn of the millennium. First, the relevance of the story. "I don't do this to change the world, I do this so the world won't change me." "...so the world won't change me."

As we age, the world does change us--in positive and negative ways. The positive changes would be easy to recount; it is the less positive, subtle changes that I want to name and discuss. I believe that these changes are slow, incremental, almost imperceptible until you look around one day and realize that you have lost something precious. Let me explain.

I believe that there is an indiscernible tug in our society that pulls us quietly but relentlessly away from the idealism of our youth. The pull, which I call the "undertow," draws us from idealism toward cynicism, from connection and community toward isolation, from a willingness to be bold and take risks toward a desire to feel safe, from extremes to moderation. By undertow, I mean that undetectable force that moves one along with the current of society.

The undertow rarely involves one big dramatic decision or life-changing moment. Instead, it consists of a series of moments, a series of small decisions, seemingly unimportant steps that are increasingly motivated by things like comfort, status, prestige, and pride. In other words, the undertow pulls us toward money, things, and ease--and in the process often mutes our passion for justice, our cries for peace, our work for equity, our commitment to community, and our desire for simplicity. The undertow is real and strong and, in my opinion, not named often enough or combated with adequate vigor.

But there is hope--there are those who have resisted this subtle pull, those who have not been swept along with the undertow. I am thinking of A.J. Muste and some contemporary heroes of mine --old hotheads and crones like David Dellinger, Grace Palely, Peter Seeger, Ron Dellums, Howard Zinn, Gloria Steinem, and William Sloane Coffin. When I think about how they have resisted the undertow, I realize that they all carry a vision that they keep alive in their minds, and they move toward their vision each day. It is their vision of a better world that pulls them toward their work for change rather than allowing them to be complicit with society's values. These women and men, and others like them, have managed to hold tight to the core values that guide their life work. Consequently, after many decades, they are still talking about nonviolence, liberation, social justice, human rights, compassion, and peace.

And my message tonight--for you and for myself--is that we can stay true to our deepest longings, our core values--the values that motivate us to take risks and work for a better world. We can stay true to those values, but we must be frank and recognize that it is not easy. It is not easy in the face of a bull market on Wall Street, not easy when kids arrive and suddenly minivans seem to call out your name, not easy when you've worked all day and don't want to drag yourself to some community meeting on some local issue in some church basement, not easy when getting ahead means fitting in, not easy when standing and making that controversial comment in the PTO meeting makes you feel self-conscious.

My hope for the new millennium is that despite the inevitable pressures we experience as we age, we make an ongoing, consistent witness with our own lives to the values of peace, freedom, and fairness. The important word in that sentence is consistent. My friend Ken Jones, an African America man who speaks on antiracism issues all around the country, says that around issues of race his white allies are not called to be perfect, just called to be aware and committed to taking steps--consistently--to confront racism.

There is a well-known nineteenth-century hymn that I love that speaks to this issue. Actually what I love is the fifth verse, and actually, in the fifth verse, what I especially love is one word. The hymn is "For All the Saints," and the fifth verse is as follows:

My hope for us is that we will not retreat from idealism, but be brave again and again to hold onto our vision of a better world and move toward it each day. Move toward it with faith and conviction.

Of course, there are things we do that we know will make a concrete difference--efforts that might actually change the world. But we must also do some things so the world won't change us.

In 1982, I began a witness that I thought--with the solidarity of tens of thousands of others--would actually change the world. The witness was war tax resistance. Since 1982, I have publicly withheld a part of my federal income tax every April to protest the swollen United States military budget. At first, when the Internal Revenue Service audited me, assigned an IRS agent to my case, visited my home and my bank, and took my car, I felt that my action was making a difference. It cost them more to get my withheld taxes than the actual taxes themselves. I found it a powerful witness, and I encouraged others to join me. But as the years have marched on, I have found that others did not join me. It is in fact, a fringe witness, with probably 10,000 people nationwide engaged in it. The IRS no longer sends an agent to my house or to my bank, they just withdraw the back taxes and the penalty and interest from my account via electronic mail.

But I remember A.J. Muste, alone, in the rain, with his candle. "Oh I don't do this to change the world," he told the reporter, "I do this so the world won't change me."

My war tax resistance is clearly not changing the world. Even I have gotten the message. It is an expensive nuisance and an ongoing problem. But it is a very useful inconvenience that keeps my feet to the fire and counters my desire to walk the dog and sit on the couch for the rest of my life.

The undertow--that pull toward apathy, conformity, materialism, and comfort--feels especially urgent to me right now because I believe the underside of our increasing awareness of the world as a global village (which is a good thing) is a growing sense of the insignificance of the individual to make a difference. With problems as enormous as global warming, ethnic cleansing, nuclear proliferation, and the population explosion, we have become overwhelmed and we feel helpless--which often leads to a feeling of being anesthetized--numbed into silence and inactivity.

When I was growing up, there was a sense that one person really did make a difference. In fact, it seemed that that was the only way change came about. We had the examples of Gandhi, Parks and King, [Lefowenza,] and Vaclav Havel.

But that sense of the power of the individual diminished in the 1980s and 90s. The media coined the term the "ME" generation, and the message was care about your own creature comforts, get ahead, and don't worry about enormous problems that you cannot fix.

It is that feeling of disempowerment that makes me choose the undertow as the topic for my millennium lecture. I want to combat the subtle, but prevalent notion that one person cannot make a difference.

One person and one person and one person and one person is all we have to make a difference. We may not tackle the whole problem --I think there is wisdom in the bumper sticker "Think Globally, Act Locally" --but by organizing with friends and neighbors, we have and we can and we must and we will make a difference.

I have been aware of the undertow for well over a decade. But I feel particular urgency in it now because I think the undertow has increased in strength in the past twenty years and, in response, a pervasive feeling that an individual is too small and powerless to make a difference has intensified.

We must make the undertow--that which is invisible--visible. We must name it, condemn it, give examples of it, and draw strength from persons and communities that reject it.

And individually, we must recommit, and recommit, and recommit ourselves to those useful inconveniences that keep us honest and brave, so we are willing to hold a single candle in the rain.

There was a man who stood before God. The man's heart was breaking from the pain and injustice in the world. "Dear God," he cried out, "look at all the suffering, the anguish, and distress in your world. Why don't you send help."

Hearts are Brave