LIVING BY CHOICE
by Galen Guengerich
May 4, 2003
In 1945, the celebrated novelist and essayist E.B. White wrote a curious essay–it’s only three pages long–titled "About Myself." It begins like this:
I am a man of medium height. I keep my records in a Weiss Folder Re-order number 8003. The unpaid balance of my estimated tax for the year 1945 is item 3 less the sum of items 4 and 5. My eyes are gray… My social security number is 067-01-9841. I am married to US Woman Number 067-01-9807. Her eyes are gray. This is not a joint declaration, nor is it made by an agent; therefore it need be signed only by me–and, as I said, I am a man of medium height…
I hold Individual Certificate Number 4320-209 with the Equitable Life Assurance Society, in which a corporation hereinafter called the employer has contracted to insure my life for the sum of two thousand dollars. My left front tire is Number 48KE8846, my right front tire is Number 63T6895… I brush my hair with Whiting-Adams Brush Number 010... My shaving brush is sterilized.
And so on for three pages. The title of the essay, as I mentioned at the outset, is "About Myself." One wonders why. It seems an odd title for an essay that provides precious little insight into the self the world came to know as E.B. White–the person who wrote books like Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, and The Trumpet of the Swan. If I had a black dog with cheeks of tan, as White tells us he did, could I write like him? Or maybe if I sprayed my nose with De Vilbiss Atomizer Number 14, or sometimes stopped the pain with Squibb Pill Number 3K49979, also known as aspirin. In other words, if the circumstances of my life were more or less the same as E.B. White’s, would I be the kind of person he was and be able to write like he did?
Not likely. Circumstances tell us something about a person, but often not a lot. Being of medium height will not make you a novelist, nor will having a black dog with cheeks of tan. Almost none of the people who were born in New York City in 1979 can sing like Norah Jones. Wearing cufflinks will not enable you to play piano like Yefim Bronfman, nor will taking a ginseng supplement make you into a CNN news personality. These incidental qualities do not make us who we are.
What does, then? If I say that I am going to tell you about myself, what you expect to hear is something significant and substantive. You don’t want to know what I had for breakfast or the number on my left rear tire or even if I have a left rear tire. You want to know what I hold in my heart–what moves me from within and compels me to act, what frightens me and keeps me awake at night, what aspirations I nurture and what longings I hold close. You want to know about my self.
That’s where the idea of a credo first came from, though it’s not what it means today. In Latin, the word credo is the first person singular form of the verb meaning to believe. Literally translated, credo means "I believe." The most common contemporary usage of this phrase appears in the Apostles Creed, widely used among Western Christians in their worship services. It is repeated regularly by Christians to remind them of the essential doctrines that define their faith. The Apostles Creed goes like this:
I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.I believe in Jesus Christ, God's only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
he ascended into heaven,
he is seated at the right hand of the Father,
and he will come again to judge the living and the dead.I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen.It should now be crystal clear why we as Unitarian Universalists do not have a creed. Even if you and I were inclined to place our faith in a set of beliefs concerning things like the resurrection of the body or which hand of the Father Jesus is seated at, if indeed he is seated and if in fact there is a Father, it’s hard to imagine even two or three of us agreeing on which facts are the essential ones. Besides, creeds like this one relate mostly to other worlds and other dimensions of experience. What concerns you and me in our worship is this world and our everyday experiences–our fears and dreams, our aspirations and longings.
In other words, what we gather here to ponder is not a creed in the modern sense, but a credo in its ancient form. The Latin word credo was derived from two other Latin words, cor, meaning heart, and do, from the verb meaning to give. In its original meaning, cor-do meant "I give my heart." To believe in something is to give your heart to it.
In my view, a credo statement is not primarily about whether you believe the Bible is true or God is spirit or the earth is round. It’s about what you aspire to give your heart to. A credo is an ideal we set for ourselves, a goal by which we measure our conduct and our accomplishments. Because it emerges from the depths of our hearts, it defines who we are–not by describing our circumstances or specifying our beliefs, but by revealing the choices we have made about how we intend to live.
To say that you believe in your family means that you intend to give yourself to the cause of seeking their good. To say that you believe in love means that you intend to act in ways that enhance the well-being of others. To say that you believe in peace means that you intend to extend the domain of compassion in human relations. These choices define who we are. They set us on a course in life and give us markers to evaluate whether we have made anything of ourselves.
John Fowles, one of the leading novelists of the latter part of the Twentieth Century, wrote many books, including Daniel Martin, The Magus, and most famously, The French Lieutenant’s Woman. His first novel, The Collector, was published in 1962. Shortly thereafter, Fowles wrote a short essay titled "I Write Therefore I Am." In it, Fowles describes how ten years before he had chosen to be a writer–chosen in the existential sense of having deliberately made the choice. He says, "I constantly had to renew the choice and to live in anguish because I have so often doubted whether it was the right one. So I have turned down better jobs; I have staked everything on this one choice… I think, now, that even if the book had not been accepted, even if I had never had any book accepted, I was right to live by such a choice." He concludes, "I am surrounded by people who have not chosen themselves, but who have let themselves be chosen–by money, status symbols, by jobs–and I don’t know which is sadder, those who know this or those who don’t."
A decade later, Fowles wrote a short novel titled The Ebony Tower about David Williams, a young art critic who visits an old painter named Henry Breasley in his rural French retreat. The two are a study in contrasts: one is young, the other old; one is a passive observer of life, the other is an active creator of it; one has mostly let others direct his life for him; the other has relentlessly made his own choices and followed his own imagination. As Fowles tells the story, the young critic’s time in France is his chance to choose a different course, to claim his life for himself.
He ultimately fails the test, and he knows it. When he returns home, Williams realizes that "[the time away] had been a mirror, and the existence he was returning to sat mercilessly reflected in its surface... How shabby [his life] now looked, how insipid and anodyne, how safe. Riskless, that was the essence of it.... [His time in France] had remorselessly demonstrated what he was born, still was, and always would be: a decent man and eternal also-ran." Fowles concludes with young Williams looking among the rooftops outside his hotel window, where in the angles of the roof lines he sees "the collapsed parallel of what he was beside the soaring line of all that he might have been."
What I believe is that a credo is about setting our sights along the soaring line of all that we might become and giving our hearts to following that course. It’s about making choices and committing ourselves to following through. As John Fowles reminds us, it’s also about taking risks and having doubts. In this community of faith, we talk with each other about what we aspire to give our hearts to. In so doing, we set ideals for ourselves and set standards by which we measure our conduct and our accomplishments. These choices about how we intend to live define, at least in part, who we are as people of faith.
What we are here to celebrate today is that Henry, David, Tara and Raymond have make a laudable start along the soaring line of all that they might become. Henry has wisely reminded us that a fulfilling life consists of an ample measure of productive work, along with an equally ample measure of relaxation and enjoyment. David has reminded us of how important perseverance, patience, and love are to our wellbeing, as well as how much we need the support that comes from our family and friends. Tara has wisely reminded us that much of what makes life meaningful comes to us through our imaginations, which make us each unique and give us each our own dignity and worth. Raymond has reminded us of the importance of stories in our human quest for meaning–both stories that are factual and stories that are true, as well as stories that are both factual and true.
Henry, David, Tara, Raymond: I am proud of the courage you have shown and the choices you have made. My challenge to you this morning is to continue to set your sights along the line of all that you can become. Take risks in life. Set high standards for yourself and those around you. Continue to challenge us and make us proud. When you struggle or have doubts, share those too. We’ll do the same. This is how we will make the journey through life: we make it together. This I believe; to this I give my heart.
Recognition:
Henry, David, Tara, Raymond: You have each presented us today with a thoughtful statement of your convictions concerning a certain aspect of the life of faith. In so doing, you have demonstrated your commitment to the aspirations that we share as a congregation–to live with open minds and open hearts, to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. In recognition of your presence among us and your contribution to our worship this morning, I hereby recognize your coming of age as people of faith. Congratulations from all of us, and welcome.