COMING FULL CIRCLE, COMING HOME

Introductory Sermon by the Rev. Melanie Morel-EnsmingerFirst Unitarian Universalist Church of New OrleansSunday, September 2, 2007

This morning I want to introduce myself to you, to tell you about myself, and to explain why my being here is both coming full circle and coming home. By birth, I am a New Orleanian, 5 th generation Creole/Irish on my father’s side. My father was a union organizer; my mother, a union secretary. In addition to union work, they were also in-volved in civil rights; to protect us, my parents raised us Catholic even though neither of them were.

I don’t know how to communicate this so it is intelligible, but early on, I felt “called.” My father was on the committee to desegregate Orleans public schools, and I watched TV as Ruby Bridges, only a year younger than I, walked into Franz School amid the violent protests by angry whites. An inner voice said, You need to help her. At this same time, I had feelings during Mass that I did not understand. You should be doing that, I thought as I watched the priest. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a priest, I felt like I ought to be, that I needed to be. I learned the hard way to keep these feelings to myself. (It wasn’t until much later that I recognized that stuffing down spiritual yearnings is not a good way to deal with them, any more than stuffing any emotion is a good idea.)

After 8 th grade, I joined a Catholic group called a “community” – an innovation allowed by Vatican II. The Community of Christ Our Hope, met in Xavier University’s chapel, and gave me a glimpse of a new kind of religion. Lay people helped create the Mass, with folk and rock and jazz music and secular readings. The Community was, in effect, nearly a Catholic UU congregation; while Catholic doctrine was still present, it was almost ignored – so you won’t be surprised that eventually the bishop cracked down. When the end came, I felt betrayed and disillusioned. I left the Catholic Church or, as I like to say, it left me.

I put my sense of call into politics and justice work, which became my “church” for the next decade. That work – against the war, for women’s and gay rights, in support of farm workers, against nuclear power, for healthcare accessibility for poor people of color, for the election of the first black mayor of New Orleans – made me feel like I was on the side of the angels, and the friendships I made were powerful reminders of how community should be. There were moments during those years when I felt part of something large and important, but there was always something missing I could not name.

In 1982 I got married and had a baby. That’s easy to say, but my spiritual long-ings turned it into a ritual. With a midwife, I planned a homebirth with all the fervor of the newly converted. When my son was born, I felt connected with all women throughout history who had ever given birth.

The new baby brought back all the old questions. We decided to find a church, one that would give our son answers we didn’t disagree with too much, and where we wouldn’t feel too much like hypocrites. The trouble was, neither of us knew of such a church. We went to the Times-Picayune religion page and prepared for a systematic search for a church home. One caught our attention, where Stephen’s dad had once heard Ashley Montague speak, and where I had arranged a forum during the mayoral campaign. (I had a family connection with that church I did not then remember – years before, my older sister had been married by Rev. Albert D’Orlando.)

The next week, we showed up at 1800 Jefferson, too early and way over-dressed. It was August 1983; Rev. Mike McGee was on summer leave. The lay-led service, on William James, was interesting, and folks at Coffeehour were friendly. We took home a ton of pamphlets, and the systematic church search ended.

Two years later, I was diagnosed with cancer, underwent surgery – and spiraled into depression. I could not have more children; I had given up a job I ought to have loved, and I was afraid. My life had no larger purpose. Was there nothing sacred I could commit to? 1 st Church gave me hope and strength and connection, and when a search began for an administrator to prepare for the minister’s sabbatical, I thought, having recently resigned as manager of the Laura Ashley at Canal Place, If I can run a store with a million-dollar budget, I can handle a church with a budget only 1/10 that.

I was hired, and I confess: I over-functioned. After a while, in addition to my reg-ular duties, Mike McGee relied on me to pick readings and hymns for his sermons, and I led a service or 2 when he was out of the pulpit. Soon he was half-jokingly calling me the “assistant minister.” I thought it a shame I had not found UUism before I married and had a child; maybe I could have been a minister.

In early 1986, “Cakes for the Queen of Heaven” was published and 1 st church was among the first to get it. In the course, I learned that many of the rituals and holidays I loved were pagan in origin, and I saw how the pervasive voodoo influence on New Orleans could be incorporated into my new UU spirituality. I became an enthusiastic UU pagan. I joined the Covenant of UU Pagans, and later served on the CUUPS board. I also attended the first WomenSpirit weekend at The Mountain, the UU camp and conference center in North Carolina. It was transformative. When I arrived at the airport, my hus-band asked how it went, and I could only blurt out, “I want to be a UU minister!” To his eternal credit, he replied, “What a wonderful idea!”

I tried out my idea on everyone, waiting for someone to say it was stupid; to my surprise, no one did. Mike McGee smiled and said, “I was waiting for you to figure it out.” Folks at 1 st Church supported me, and my political friends were also affirming – if a little confused. My family was positive, and at my 20 th high school reunion, even old schoolmates said good things.
But UU seminary was expensive and far away. The alternative was a local seminary, and with the encouragement of 1 st Church’s new minister, Rev. Suzanne Meyer, I chose Loyola Institute for Ministry, and in 1989, my spiritual search made its first circle as I entered a Catholic institution to become a UU minister. Being part of LIM was one of the happiest times in my life.
Christianity had reentered my life at my first General Assembly, when I heard UU Christian ministers preach. I saw how liberal Christianity was not just part of UU history, but a living presence; I also saw it was radically different from my childhood Catholicism. I realized I could be Unitarian Universalist, pagan – and Christian too. I joined the UU Christian Fellowship, and later served on the UUCF board and as president.

In a devastating blow, in May of ‘91, my dad died. That summer, I completed a chaplaincy at Baptist Hospital and was chosen as intern at Cedar Lane, one of our largest churches, in suburban Washington, DC. At the end of December, I left home and family to do 6 months away as an intern minister.

In mid-January, my mother collapsed and died of cancer in just a few days. The Cedar Lane congregation and my supervisors there were a great comfort to me, as were my colleagues at Wesley Seminary, Rev. Suzanne and my 1 st Church friends. Then, seem-ingly out of the blue (but not if I had been paying attention), Stephen’s father asked for a divorce. Losing in rapid succession, my father, my mother, and my marriage, I relied for sanity on my faith and my UU community. I will always be grateful to 1 st Church for the love and care I received at that painful time.

My internship over, I came home in July of ‘92. I finished my last semester, graduated with honors, received fellowship from the Ministerial Fellowship Committee, and got divorced. In January, I began a part-time ministry with Our Home Universalist Unitarian Church in Ellisville, Mississippi, and that fall I threw myself a “New Life” party to celebrate graduating, starting ministry, becoming single – and turning 40.

In February 1993, First Church celebrated its 160 th anniversary and my ordination in a ceremony that included denominational officials, my internship mentor, professors and friends from LIM, Revs. Suzanne and Mike, and all my family and friends. I was then called to the UU Church of Chattanooga; y’all sent me off with a jazz party. During my 9 years at Chattanooga, the church became more theologically diverse, retired a long-standing debt, 2 former presidents discerned a call to ministry (both now serve UU con-gregations), and we joined regularly with an African-American CME church for service projects and worship. Also during that ministry, I served on the Black Concerns Work-ing Group, later the Jubilee Working Group, leading anti-racism workshops for UUs around the country.

In 2002, I was called to the UU Church in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, a Philadelphia suburb. The church had just built a fabulous new building after fire destroyed their cramped sanctuary 6 years before, and their beloved minister had died. It was too much change for a church to absorb in a too-short period, and the ministry was at times difficult, though much was accomplished. (Ask me sometime about why I was interviewed by Al Jazeera!) One of the best things about my move there was that I met and married a wonderful man, and now we are grandparents. I’ve asked Eric to introduce himself by sharing a special song this morning.

(“Where were you when the water came through?” Pt. 1)
Where were you when the water came through? I know where I was. As Labor Day 2005 approached, I was glued to the TV, watching the reports of the hurricane in the Gulf. Urgent phone calls were made to family and friends, and tears were shed in worry well before landfall. In the panicked and chaotic evacuation of the city, 2 of my sisters had to drive hundreds of miles east to get west, and Eric and I stayed online and on the phone, trying to find them motels that were not already full of displaced New Orleanians. When Katrina hit, I thought, as I guess most of you did, that we had dodged a bullet. When the news came of the water in the streets, I wept bitter tears for my hometown, my family, and my home church, all beloved to me. The 504 area code was useless, and there were frantic attempts to find loved ones.

(“Where were you?” Pt. 2)
I eventually found my sisters and brother and the friends I searched for – they were in Houston, Austin, Lafayette, Baton Rouge, Atlanta, Arkansas, Oregon, and California. I watched helplessly as New Orleans and the Gulf Coast drowned. In Cherry Hill, well-meaning folks advised me not to watch it, that it was too upsetting. But since I could not come home, all I could offer was my witness. And so, despite the pain, I watched and witnessed and wept, and every night, I dreamt of New Orleans, and you.

You know all that; you lived through it and it was worse for you than it was for me. But here’s something you don’t know: I am somewhat known in the UUA, for my anti-racism work, teaching Leadership School, speaking at SUUSI, Ferry Beach, The Mountain, and GA, known even for my hats and especially for being from New Orleans. As you suffered your diaspora and were disconnected from your homes and work and each other, the Cherry Hill church was flooded with calls, with UUs I knew and UUs I didn’t know, calling, saying, “Aren’t you that minister from New Or-leans who wears hats? Do you know how your family is, do you know how the church is? What can we do to help?” The outpouring of love and care was tremendous. With the opening of the Volunteer Center, you experienced that love and care firsthand. But before they could reach you, they reached me.

(“Where were you?” Pt. 3)
When I was here for Jazz Fest, I read in the Times-Picayune a quote from one of their staff photographers, Elliot Kamentz, that struck me like a lightening bolt. He said,
The fact of the matter is, everything I believe, how I view the world, everything I have accomplished through my work and how I live my life, I owe to New Orleans. To turn my back on her now, like she was nothing more than a one-night stand, would be criminal.
Without New Orleans and without this church, I would not be who I am. I know whose I am, and I know a debt is owed. Through all my sojourns, this city and this church have ever been in my heart. However far from you I was physically, I was always close to you spiritually, treasuring my experiences here, and lifting up what I knew of you as an example to other UU churches and cities (something not always appreciated!).

You see this? It might look like a simple music stand, but in reality it is the his-toric pulpit of Rev. Theodore Clapp, who eloquently preached the liberal gospel to the people of New Orleans in good times and bad for over 35 years. In the nearly 15 years since my ordination by this church, I have always considered being in this pulpit to be among the greatest privileges of UU ministry. To stand here now is one of the crowning moments of my life and ministry. My gratitude to you knows no bounds. In love and joy and hope, I have once again come full circle, and I have come home.

AMEN – ASHE – SHALOM – SALAAM – NAMASTE – BLESSED BE!