Service No. 2 -- Jan. 22 @ Philly UU

There's something very strong in me that is wary, even fearful, of crowds. I much prefer to be somewhere few others want to be. Maybe the more people are around the less I feel I'm going to be able to offer. Those others are bound to be more outgoing, more attractive, more perfect for the group's hopes and needs than me. And practically everyone I've ever met makes friends more easily than I do, so it's hard not to imagine becoming that strange guy in the back who keeps showing up but never talks to anybody.

The Universal Unitarian service this past Sunday was extremely crowded. Again they asked newcomers and visitors to stand and introduce themselves, and again I was too intimidated. So another dozen bright-eyed, confident candidates for inclusion stepped ahead of me, into the warmth of wantedness, pehaps even neededness. And I felt like shit again.

But at least I wasn't alone; my family was there with me. The more I think of it, though, the more I realize we probably weren't good for each other in that situation. We share many of the same traits, socially, and so we all -- myself, my mom, my dad, my sister and even my little month-old-niece Miriam -- just stood there, cloaked in a self-defensive diffidence that will never, ever get us what we want, no matter what that might be. Even my father, whose natural inclination is to be friendly and outgoing, gets sucked into the vortex of our collective fear. My dad is the kind of guy who will step onto most any common ground, however unstable, when meeting a new person, whereas the rest of us -- especially my mom and I -- tend to dwell on differences in that same situation. It gets cold and lonely on that solid ground, but I was not surprised when my dad did not stand up and set the outgoing example. He's just not in that kind of place right now.

Perhaps fittingly, the sermon was about Emerson's ideal of self-reliance, and its modern UU interpretation into a call to interdependence. The worship associate read a poem that contained the line, "Forever I forgo the yoke of man's opinion." Now, I could interpret that as a confirmation of my nature, that I should not seek the approval of others by wishing to join or be wanted or needed, that my diffidence is perfectly just. I should not care to be accepted or welcomed, but carry my life on my own shoulders. Who cares if I arrive alone and leave alone and never speak to anyone in the interim. I am my own man, reliant on no one.

But the message of the sermon, delivered by the visiting minister from the Germantown UU church, offered that the self-reliance that Emerson advocated is no longer an ideal way to go through life, and that its virtues have grown stale. "I feel that, dog," said something inside me. In the wisdom of far too much loneliness, I choose to see it another way. That self-reliance ought to grant me freedom to offer myself to interdependent relationships regardless of others' opinions, or -- more to the point -- of fear of others' opinions.

Of course, it's all pie in the sky until the moment I actually reach out to be reached out to. Thanks to my sister for insisting we stay for the coffee/tea gathering after the service on Sunday, but we made precious little use of it, huddled in the newcomer's corner talking to each other, despite the fact it was the third or fourth time we'd all been there. In fact, the church president came over to make small talk and wondered why we were still considering ourselves visitors. My thought was, "Because that's what we feel like," but I didn't say anything. I just sipped my tea, smiled politely. I'm in some kind of limbo between first contact and meaningful relationship, and I never wished so hard for the hard sell. It would make things so much easier if someone just came up and said, "So what's it going to take to get you to drive home in this beautiful church today?"

The service was gorgeous, if not quite as overwhelmingly so as the Christmas Eve and Martin Luther King, Jr., services. The highlight was the choir's haunting rendition of the song "You Are the New Day," which I've heard before but never in person. Even days later, I can still hear the notes being sung and remember the tingle at the back of my neck. It's not often that you have an experience that you consciously try to hold onto, but by the end of that song there wasn't another single thought in my mind.

Next week, I think I might try to go alone, wherever I go. I have not been to a service alone yet, and i wonder if the leaps of faith might not be easier to make my myself. I don't know. The Philadelphia UU is scheduled to talk about its future, near and far, this coming Sunday. This would be an important, can't-miss kind of thing if I were sold on joining up. Because I'm not, it's almost like sitting in on the family meeting of a new friend. I'd feel superflouous at best, and at worst uncomfortable.