Resurrection—Some Vintage Murfin Verse for the Vernal Equinox

A newspaper photo in a local weekly paper taken at my job as head custodian of Briargate School in Cary, Illinois when my collection We Build Temples in the Heart was published in 2004.

It was a bitter and blustery day in McHenry County almost 25 years ago when I was walking to the train station to get to work in the next town the line early one cold equinox morning and I was struck with this which was included in my 2004 Skinner House collection We Build Temples in the Heart.

 Resurrection 

     From that frigid morning

                when the fog of humanity

                 hangs palpable before our faces 

                 and that fat red sun 

                 pops before our eyes at the 

                far end of the reaching blacktop, 

    then, when from the highest, barest twig the cardinal sings 

              his whistle in the graveyard, 

             our hearts know resurrection and murmur— 

                 Yes, Yes. 

    We are a cold people in a cold land, 

             and every creeping inch of yellow willow hair, 

             every footprint in newly giving earth, 

             every ratchet tap of woodpecker on lifeless wood 

             resonates with resurrection and nods recollection. 

    It is no wonder that in hot lands,

            perpetual in green, 

           moist and ever fertile, 

          the natives snickered at tales of a hanging god, 

          turned on naked heels, 

          and ran to sensible deities who would not 

          abandon them only to hound them on return 

          with foolish promises. 

    But here, at turning time, 

          our arctic hearts surrender 

          to the sureness of the resurrection that surrounds us, 

          and in the echo of this miracle 

          understand redemption too, 

                in the merciful thaw 

                of our glacial souls. 

    —Patrick Murfin 

Autographed copies are still available from the author for $8.00.  Facebook message me or email me at pmurfin@sbcglobal.net for details.

Considering UUs, Lent, and Sacrifice with Vintage Murfin Verse

These days the Unitarian Universalist Association cheerfully provides Lenten worship materials for congregations and for individual spiritual practice.  It was not always so.

Note—Awhile back I got an e-mail from a reader who found an earlier version of the post below.  He asked, “Wondered why you didn’t have Starbucks on the list?”  The answer was simple:  The poem was written about 2002 before Starbucks was as ubiquitous as it is now.  There are other tip offs to its age.  There were plenty of Volvos in UU parking lots back then.  Today not so much.  There would be hybrid or electrics now.

In 2002 practical, safe, and boring Volvos dotted UU parking lots.  Today there would be Teslas--bought before Elon Musk went MAGA, Focus, or other small green friendly car often smothered in stickers and magnets like this but the messages would be things like "Coexist", "Support Whirled Peas", Rainbow flags, and old Bernie Sanders stickers.

We are well into Lent and I was reminded that there is at least a mild rash of interest in and even observance of the season of personal sacrifice and contemplation of the Holy among my fellow Unitarian Universalists.  It was not always so.

As heirs of the Radical Reformation and step siblings Unitarianism and Universalism as they evolved in the United States instinctively rejected what they regarded as Papish trappings liturgy, and anything that stood between humans and a direct relationship with God.  While in the 19th Century both remained avowedly Christian in the Protestant tradition that meant eschewing the priesthood, Episcopal authority, the mass, saints, the liturgical calendar and holy days like Christmas or Ash Wednesday.

Springing from New England Puritanism, the Unitarians often practiced days of fasting, humiliation, and prayer in times of war or distress, they saw no reason for a special 40-day season.  After all, a good Puritan lived his or her entire life in a kind of perpetual Lent.

The Universalists preferred to joyfully celebrate the bottomless mercy of a loving God who sooner or later reconciled all souls to Him. The contemplation of this universal beneficence was enough to encourage mortal men and women to live virtuous lives to show themselves worthy of it.

Over time both traditions evolved under the influences of Transcendentalism, Free Thought, exposure to world religions via the World Parliament of Religions in 1893, and the explosion of Humanism following the First and Second World Wars.  Both tended to become less explicitly or orthodox Christian, although a wide variety of spiritual practice was found in both traditions.

Nothing could be more UU than a mug for coffee hour, often called Unitarian communion. This one expressed the feelings of many Humanists in the late 20th Century.

By the time the two united to become the Unitarian Universalist Association in 1960 a flinty sort of agnostic Humanism was the dominant strain among Unitarians and flourished to some degree among Universalists.  The larger and more muscular Unitarians soon dominated the united faith and Humanism overshadowed theism in its various guises for the rest of the century.

Humanists denied any supernatural intervention in human affairs and stressed the need for men and women to take charge of their own salvation in a broken world to create a kind of heaven on earth.  That translated into activism in matters of war and peace, social justice, civil rights, women’s equality, LBGTQ+ inclusion, and the environment.

But it also meant a bristling hostility to conventional religion among many.  In some congregations a Minister could lose his/her pulpit for using the “G word,” or citing Biblical scripture.  The old joke was that Unitarians read ahead in their hymnals to make sure that they approved of the lyric.

By the early 21st Century, however, there was a growing restiveness in the pews and a yearning for deeper spirituality largely due to rise of the women’s movement within the UUA which led to the adoption of 7th Principle, “respect for the web of existence of which we are a part.”  That gave rise to a kind a kind of pantheism, neo-paganism, Buddhist practice, yoga, and various elements of New Age Spirituality.  Inevitably it also led to a re-examination of Christian tradition and teaching.

Elements of Lenten practice--not just for orthodox Christians any more.

As an aging generation of Humanist ministers retired, they were replaced by graduates of UU Theological Schools and other seminaries who were more receptive to Christian theology and practice.  Today most UUs still identify mainly as Humanists but are more tolerant of the theists among them and are more prepared to learn from the wisdom of religions including Christianity. 

Inevitably, that has led some to examine traditions like Lent as personal spiritual practices.  Lenten themed prayers or meditations, sermons, and small group discussions are easily found online.  While Lenten practice is far from widespread, it is no longer an aberration.

About 2002 as those changes were just getting underway, I was moved to write a poem for a service at the old Congregational Unitarian Congregation in Woodstock, Illinois–now the Tree of Life Congregation in McHenry.  It was included in my Skinner House Meditation Manual, We Build Temples in the Heart published two years later.  Since then, it has occasionally popped up in services at other congregations.

Despite its length and structure, I have often called this my Zen poem.

What Unitarian Universalists Should Give Up for Lent if They Observed It, Which They Don’t, Most of Them.

 

Pews without padding, Nature Conservancy calendars.

Volvos, polysyllabic verbosity,

herbal tea, austerity,

National Public Radio, unread books in fine bindings,

isms:

    Liberalism, Buddhism. Humanism,

    Marxism, Feminism, Taoism,

    Vegetarianism, Conservationism, Transcendentalism,

    Atheism, Consumerism, Sufism,

    for Christ’s sake, Libertarianism,

Joys and Concerns, pretension,

committee meetings, Habitat t-shirts,

potluck tuna casserole, black-and-white films with subtitles,

petitions, sermons, tofu and brown rice,

drums, theology,

season tickets to anything but baseball,

liturgical dance, poetry readings,

pride:

    Pilgrim pride

    pride of intellect

    pride of lineage

    pride of lions

    the pride that cometh before the fall

bistros, pledge drives,

advanced degrees, spirituality,

coffee hour, sensible shoes,

philosophy, choir rehearsal,

arrogance, animal sacrifice,

gender-neutral hymnals, learned clergy,

natural fibers, string quartets,

whiteness, turquoise jewelry,

recycling, self-congratulation,

acupuncture, bird-watching at dawn,

yoga, Common Cause,

God, doubt,

egotism, self-denigration,

yesterday, tomorrow.

 

—Patrick Murfin

 

Poems for Frigid January—Murfin Verse Revisited

"Thus old Orion does his somersault/ across the heavens..."

Today we blow the electron dust from the blog archives for two January entries with poems.  The first from this date way back in 2013 can be copied exactly as originally presented—the conditions described are virtually identical today except for an inch or more snow cover. 

It’s the second really cold night of the year here in McHenry County.  Still no snow on the ground but the weather guy on one channel says that if we cross our fingers and toes we could get a dusting tomorrow and the sleeveless weather babe on the competition sweeps her arms gracefully in front of the green screen and agrees. 

I stepped on the porch to crush some cans for recycling and took in the night sky.  There was a light thin and patchy haze through which the brightest stars and planets could be seen and the past-full Moon high over the house shone in a frosty halo. 

Once several years ago on an even colder night I was taking the garbage and recycling out in the wee small hours of the morning to the curb for pick up.  It was one of those crystal nights.  I looked up. 

  

Suddenly the Stars 

Suddenly the stars 

     unseen since god knows when— 

     explode against the Arctic night. 

  

No blank shelf of stratus bars them, 

     no haze or mist obscures them, 

     no scudding cirrus race the wind to hide them. 

  

The fierce orange glow of pollution 

     cannot obscure them. 

  

Thus old Orion does his somersault 

     across the heavens, 

     ursine dippers pivot, reel 

          upon bright Polaris’s steady blaze, 

     forgotten constellations process 

          with timeless dignity, 

     long –lost Milky Way splatters half across the sky. 

  

Once folk knew these stars, 

     measured life blood by their glow, 

     fixed on them for certainly against death and chaos, 

     steered by their light where no marking showed he way, 

     found their gods among them, 

          and sacrificed to them in sacred duty. 

  

But years have passed, 

     these stars unseen, unrecognized, 

     nor even missed 

     amid a world of roofs, electric lights, 

     other things to do, other lives to lead— 

          until this night, 

               when they come a calling 

                    and change everything. 

  

—Patrick Murfin 

 

This poem appeared in a slightly different form in We Build Temples in the Heart published in 2004 by Skinner House Books of Boston.  Autographed copies are available upon request for $8 including postage. Post a request in the comments or E-mail pmurfin@sbcglobal.net with your request and a mail address. 

Two years later I woke up in a near panic over this: 

Process, you ask.  How do you create a poem?  Here’s one way.  Pathetic when you think about it. 

Two years later I woke up in a near panic over this. 

Process, you ask.  How do you create a poem?  Here’s one way.  Pathetic when you think about it.

                                     A vintage douche bag ad. 

 

The Poet’s Nightmare  

 

I wake up in a drenching sweat                   

  

                        distraught 

            for want of a word      

            for a douche bag. 

  

No, not some low life idiot— 

            the thing 

            that hung once 

            in the bathroom 

            that smelled of lavender 

            where stockings dripped 

            from the shower rod 

            and steam misted 

            the pink flamingo decals 

            on the mirror. 

  

I need the word that will not come 

            with consuming urgency. 

  

It has a place in a line of verse 

            spelling itself out 

            in hand carved wooden 

            Gothic type blocks 

            on old linen paper. 

  

A hundred times it seems 

            that it is almost there 

            ready to fall into 

            its urgent place. 

  

And vanishes. 

  

—Patrick Murfin 

January 22, 2015 

3:43 am 

 

                                          German Gothic woodblock type font.