UUC: Rev. Christine Brownlie: What I Believe but Cannot Prove

A sermon delivered at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation (Blacksburg, VA), September 9, 2007, by the Reverend Christine Brownlie.

About a year ago, I was browsing through the displays at our local independent bookstore when I noticed a book with an intriguing title: What We Believe But Cannot Prove edited by John Brockman, the creator of a Web site “Edge” <edge.org>. The book is a collection of essays by thinkers from a variety of disciplines who responded to a question posed by theoretical psychologist Nicholas Humphrey.

A few responders dodged the question with discussions of the meaning of “proof” or “truth” or “reality”; how we know what we know, or the limits of science. But most of the respondents shared their un-provable beliefs that were based largely on personal experience, observation, or long-held hunches. All of these beliefs were, at least for now, un-provable. To give you some idea of the scope of these un-provable beliefs, I offer this brief and random run-down of some of my favorites:

I found these essays fascinating stuff to read and ponder. It led me to consider the same question:

The more I thought about this question, the less it seemed that I could actually prove very much at all. There are any number of things that I believe or accept as true, but which I can’t prove to be true. I accept many ideas simply on the basis of trust in those who seem to have a far greater understanding of some field of knowledge than I do. For example, I’m willing to say that I believe in the Big Bang or dark matter, or that trans fats are really bad for me. I believe these things based on the claims of people who are seen as reliable by — well — whom? (How does someone earn the title of “expert” anyway?) But I have to admit that I can’t offer an accurate, elegant proof for most of the things I believe to be true.

This is the case not only for theories on cosmology and concerns about healthy foods, but for my foundational beliefs about life. I hold firmly to a number of ideas that I cannot prove., and I think that this is true for most of us. We struggle with questions that can’t be examined under a microscope or tested in a double-blind study. We seek to understand the meaning of our own lives and of the human condition: Who am I? Why am I here now? What can I trust in life to help me become a healthy and fulfilled person? Your answers might be very different from mine, but we hold on to our own thoughts because we believe that they are true, even though we can’t prove them.

Let’s start with some basics. I believe that I exist as a unique and finite creation in the universe. I’m not a character in the dream of a god or some other being — and neither are you. (At least I think so.) I recall a story I read once about a farmer who fell asleep and dreamed that he was a butterfly. When he awoke he wasn’t sure if he was a man dreaming about being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming that he was a man. I remember laughing aloud when I got to the end and then being very quiet for a long time. But let’s move on.

I believe that we are beings with free will, although that freedom is shaped and constrained by our physical being, our mental capacity, and the social/cultural constructs that have shaped our personality. This became startlingly clear to me several years ago, when a young child asked me if I had always wanted to be a minister or had I ever thought about being a dolphin. Rats! I thought, if only I’d known that dolphin-hood was an option. Of course it isn’t, but this charming exchange offered a lesson that I continue to ponder. I take it as a Zen koan that reminds me that the possibilities available to me at any given moment are likely to be far greater than my ordinary ways of thinking allow me to see.

I believe that free will is one of the hallmarks of human nature, and it sets us apart from the other animals — though I can’t prove this either. And I believe that it is our free will, the ability to make choices about how we live our lives — how we treat other people, how we respond to the joys and the suffering that we encounter — that calls us to recognize the “inherent worth and dignity of every person.”^¹

Some of you will recognize this phrase because it is the first of our Unitarian Universalist “Principles.” If you think about it for a minute or so, you might wonder how anyone who is paying attention could make this statement. But I do. I believe in the inherent “worth and dignity” of every person despite powerful evidence to the contrary. This evidence comes from the news media, TV programs, and, from experience. Then there’s my own behavior that is sometimes just plain mean and nasty. Despite the wealth or convincing proof to the contrary, I hold on to this statement of faith in my brothers and sisters because it reminds me that each of us is much more than the surface we present to the world through our words and actions. Yes, I believe that evil exists, and that nearly everyone is capable of doing terrible things given the right set of circumstances. But I hang on to my faith in this idea of inherent worth and dignity of every person, even though I can’t prove it. If I were go let it go, this loss would make a profound difference in my sense of connection to the human race and my willingness to face the full reality of who I am as a human being.

I believe, but cannot prove, that my actions and attitudes have the power to change the world. I question this belief almost daily as I dutifully carry my cloth bags to the grocery store, or give to some cause that sometimes feels overwhelmingly hopeless, or hold the door for a young person who fails to thank me. Now and then, I notice that another shopper has given up the plastic bag habit or someone holds the door for me, but there are times when I feel downright discouraged.

Then I remind myself of the story of the 100^th monkey that I know through Ken Keyes, who got it from another writer: Lyall Watson. In his book Lifetide, Watson claimed to describe the observations of scientists studying macaques on the Japanese island of Koshima in 1952. Some of these monkeys learned to wash sweet potatoes, and gradually this new behavior spread through the younger generation of monkeys through observation and repetition. Watson claimed that the researchers observed that once a critical number of monkeys on this island were washing their food, this previously learned behavior instantly spread across the water to monkeys on nearby islands. That very important monkey who created the tipping point for this spontaneous transmission of a new behavior was called “the hundredth monkey.”

Keyes uses this story to support his claim that the same thing cam happen with human beings who are trying to change the world. All we need is to get to the critical mass of people holding a belief or taking some action like using cloth bags and suddenly, like magic a mysterious force field is strengthened so that the new behavior or belief is picked up by everyone. As some of you know, later investigation disproved the claim that the new potato washing behavior was mysteriously picked up by monkeys on other island, but that doesn’t mean that Keyes’ idea is false. To me, it validates my faith that every effort matters. After all, you can’t be the 100^th monkey unless someone else became the 14^th monkey or the 83^rd monkey. At any moment any one of us might become the 100^th monkey, that extra bit of energy and example that creates enough attention oe momentum or whatever it may take to create a paradigm shift in the culture. Yes, I’m aware that this shift can be for better or for worse. But knowing this, makes me more conscious of what I do and the consequences of even seemingly small deeds. But I can’t prove that I’ve ever been the 100^th monkey — or even the 47^th.

And then I have to ask if my good deeds will count for anything after I’m gone and forgotten. Does death rob my life of meaning? Is life just a pointless charade?

I believe that death is necessary for the evolution of the species and is simply the cost of being human. Biologist Ursula Goodenough, the author of The Sacred Depths of Nature, tells the reader that death is inevitable as organisms evolve from single cell to multi-cell so that their cells become specialized. She writes,

“Death is the price paid to have trees and clams and birds and grasshoppers and death is the price paid for human consciousness, to be aware of all that shimmering awareness and all that love.”

The reality of my death does not alarm me, because I believe that knowing that my life will end makes each day more precious and meaningful. I don’t expect to find myself in a glorious heaven after my heart stops beating and my brain grows quiet. Instead I believe that my individual consciousness will cease to exist after my death. I believe this, even though I’ve read some interesting and even compelling accounts of “near-death” experiences that claim otherwise. I know people who are certain that they have lived “past lives” and who expect that when their present life end that they will return again. Since neither theory of what happens after death can be proven, I prefer not to argue, but to listen and to contemplate what might be different in my actions and my spiritual life if I held a different belief. If I carry the spider outside instead of smacking it with the bug swatter, will I have a better chance of returning to this life as a higher being?

Having confessed that I don’t believe in an afterworld, you may be wondering if I believe in a God. I do, but not in the traditional definitions of an all-powerful all-knowing, unchanging, sky god who alternately threatens and rewards human beings depending on how they play the game. This God makes no sense to me, but neither does no God. My own intimations and life experience tell me that there is a “something” that is larger than my life, larger than the world I live in, something that is that is trustworthy and enduring.

Unitarian Universalist Frederic John Muir says that God is the enduing center, the process that keeps all of life working. It offers us healing and the possibility of transformation. Muir believes that this center can be found in many human activities from science to the arts to loving relationships. He finds this center in nature, and he calls it Cosmos. He acknowledges that for some, this enduring center is a puzzle and maybe even nothing more than “mumbo-jumbo.” But for others, it is a gift that makes all things new.

For me, this enduring center, this source of All-that IS, is a center of healing, transformation, creativity, and love. It is a well that I can go to in times of loneliness, despair, or grief, and I can find solace and renewing hope. It does not protect me from pain or tragedy, but it helps me pull through. If I become discouraged and lose my sense of purpose, I invoke this sacred presence and am calmed and reminded that I am connected to the All. When I am feeling small, peevish, and mean, I call upon this source to set me back on the path I want to follow. And when I am filled with deep gratitude or great joy, I can breathe my thanks and know that I am heard.

It does not love me as an individual, yet when I meditate or pray, I can feel flooded and washed with love and called to greater love in my own life. It is not separate from me, but like the Great Tao, it is in all things. It cannot be named or explained, it simply IS. I know it through experience, reason, and the writings of many others who have drawn from this enduring center. I call it by many names: Spirit of Life and Love, Great Mother, Source of Creation, Mother-Father God, and Mystery are just a few.

Why call this God? Because I believe, but cannot prove, that this source of creativity and goodness is at the heart of All That IS. It is my answer, at least for now, to my religious quest for meaning and a reliable spiritual home for my life that is trustworthy beyond anything else. When everything else in my life is lost to me, when the people and institutions and things I count on have forsaken me, this enduring center of creativity, love, and goodness stands firm and saves me when all else is lost. Is this a construct of my own mind? Of course! But so are all my ideas and theories about life and who I am. Can I prove it? Only by the life I live every day.

What do you believe but cannot prove? What gives meaning to your life and courage to continue on when life is harsh, lonely, and confusing? What dances with you in times of triumph or joy? Writing this sermon, examining my beliefs, and asking myself why I believe them has been challenging — frustrating at times. Over and over I’ve asked myself if I really believed what I wrote. There were many times when I deleted whole pages. To be honest, I’m still not satisfied with my efforts. But I take comfort in the observation that an unexamined faith is not worth having and I will continue to challenge and question myself. I invite you into the same work in the expectation that as you examine your beliefs you too will struggle, question, and delete. If you are willing to hang in there through this process, I hope you find that your faith becomes stronger, more honest, and more useful to you as you face all that life holds for you day by day.

1 There was an objection to this statement because it seems to disregard the worth and dignity of all sentient beings. My cats would assure you that this is not so.