Of Service and Joy     12.14.25

Good morning gracious ones, and welcome to the Sedona Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I welcome you in the name of the ancestors, on whose shoulders I stand, and I welcome you in the name of all that is holy and sacred for you.

It is indeed an honor and a pleasure to be able to share this space with you on this beautiful morning. I honor the sacred land on which we stand. The land of the Apache, Navajo, Hopi and Yavapai people.

My appreciation for the principles of Unitarian Universalism are best summed up in the welcoming words adapted from the unitarian church of Dublin, Ireland, and I quote: “we do not ask what you believe, or expect you to think the way we do, but only that you try to live a kind and helpful life, with the dignity proper to a human being”.

Welcome, all who believe that religion is wider than any sect and deeper than any set of opinions, welcome all who might find in our in this fellowship – friendship, strength and encouragement for daily living. “otherwise we say…it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing”

This morning I am reminded of a story about the first couple I ever married 30 years ago…1995 before I was a minister.

Lance was a pipe carrier and sun dancer in the Lakota tradition and one of my teachers about the red road…lodgekeeper…he asked me to marry he and Michelle and he told me how to become an instant – digital minister. He was of Indian (as in India descent) and their wedding was a blend of Indian and Judaism traditions. Long pointed shoes and a huppah on a beach. His name was Lance Rabindranath Ramroop.

Rabindranath.…I had never heard that name, that word before… and 30 years later today I will share a sermon featuring the words of Rabindranath Tagore*

The Bengali poet, philosopher, mystic, and Nobel Laureate who once wrote:

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy.

I awoke and saw that life was service.

I acted and behold—service was joy”

There is a question that lives quietly inside almost every human heart. It may whisper rather than shout, but it never really goes away. It follows us through our good times, through our disappointments, through our moments of contentment, and even through our prayers. The question is this:

Why am I here?
Not just, “what do I do for a living?” Not just, “how do I survive?” But, “what is my life for?” Why am I here?

Across centuries and cultures, mystics, poets, prophets, and teachers have answered that question in many ways.

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy.

I awoke and saw that life was service.

I acted and behold—service was joy”

Those three lines may be among the simplest and most profound spiritual teachings ever written. They carry the entire arc of human awakening: from dreaming…to seeing…to doing… and finally—to discovering that joy is not found apart from service, but through it. I recall Muhammad Ali’s quote about service:

”Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth.”

Tagore’s first line… “I slept and dreamt that life was joy.” So many of us begin our lives in that dream. We imagine joy as something that will arrive someday—when we achieve enough, earn enough, become enough, or are finally loved enough.

Joy, in this dream, is a destination. A reward. A finish line. We are trained to chase happiness the way we chase success. We are taught that joy comes when conditions are perfect:

When the kids behave.
When the body heals.
When the debt is gone.
When the world settles down.
When justice finally arrives.

In this dream, joy is fragile. It depends on circumstances. And so, naturally, it keeps slipping through our fingers. Tagore does not mock this dream. He simply tells the truth about it: we dream that life is joy. And dreams, while beautiful, are not yet awake.

Second line… “I awoke and saw that life was service.” This is the moment of awakening. The moment we realize that the purpose of life is not simply to feel good, but to give our lives away in meaningful ways. This is most times not a gentle awakening. It comes through loss. Through injustice. Through heartbreak. Through bearing witness to suffering we cannot un-see. We wake up when we realize:

That children go hungry while we eat in comfort.
That elders are forgotten while we scroll on the internet.
That the earth is crying while we argue.
That entire communities, marginalized communities is the current term, that entire communities, are crushed while we debate.
And suddenly, joy is no longer the main question. Responsibility is.

What is mine to do? Where am I needed? What suffering touches my conscience so deeply that I cannot look away?

Like when I saw the murder of George Floyd. This is the sacred discomfort that wakes the soul. But here is the danger: many people wake up to service and stop there. They become exhausted, bitter, angry, or burned out. Service becomes obligation instead of offering. Justice becomes duty instead of devotion. And so, Tagore does not stop with awakening.

That third line…” I acted and behold—service was joy.” Not dream. Not theory. Not belief. Action. “I acted,” he says. “and behold—service was joy.” This is the great paradox of the spiritual life: that when we stop chasing joy directly and give ourselves to something larger than ourselves, joy rises to meet us. Not shallow happiness, not momentary pleasure. But a deep, steady joy—the kind that can coexist, that can live with sorrow, that can survive disappointment, that can endure even in a broken world. This is the joy of belonging to purpose. Now let us be clear about something very important:

Tagore is not glorifying self-erasure. Service is not about disappearing. It is not about neglecting your own soul. It is not about saying yes when your body and spirit are begging you to rest. True service is not self-destruction. True service is self-expression in its most sacred form. Another way to say it is this: service is not what you owe the world. Service is what the world is pulling out of you because of who you are.

Tagore also wrote: “The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.”

Our gifts are not separate from the world’s needs. They rise from the same sacred stream. The joy of service is not dependent on outcomes. You may not see the fruit of your labor. You may plant trees whose shade you will never sit under. You may speak truth into a world that does not listen – not yet. But the joy remains—because it is rooted not in success, but in fidelity. That is in faithfulness. Not in winning, but in participating. Not in certainty, but in commitment. This is the joy that sustained:

Abolitionists who never saw freedom in their lifetime.

Civil rights elders who marched knowing they might not survive.

Parents who love children through addiction and illness.

Caregivers who show up day after day without applause.

This is not excitement. This is holy endurance.

We live in a culture that constantly asks:
“What do you want?” “What do you need?” “What will make you happy?” And these are not bad questions. But when they become the only questions, the soul begins to shrink. Service heals us because it:

Pulls us out of isolation. Breaks, dare I say, kills the illusion that we are alone. Reminds us that we belong to something larger than our fear. When we serve, we stop orbiting our own anxieties and begin to move in the gravity of love. And there is relief in that. Deep relief. Our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship is not just a place to think deeply. It is a school for service and therefore a school for joy. Like delivering meals on wheels. We gather not only to comfort one another, but to equip one another. To ask together:

Where is our community hurting? Where is our city struggling? Where is the earth groaning? And what are we called to do about it? Not because we are saviors. But because we are neighbors. Not because we are perfect. But because we are present. Sometimes we may imagine service as something large and dramatic:

Protests. Programs. Movements. Missions. And yes—that matter deeply. But some of the holiest service happens in places no one ever posts about:

• Sitting at a hospital bed.
• Calling someone who is lonely.
• Apologizing when you would rather defend yourself.
• Showing up when it would be easier to disappear.
• Choosing kindness when cynicism feels safer.

Tagore also once wrote:

“i asked god for strength, that I might achieve.
I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked for health, that I might do great things.
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.”

Better things. Not bigger. Not louder. But truer. Let us be real – there are days when service does not feel like joy. There are days when it feels like:

• Too much.
• Too slow.
• Too invisible.
• Too costly.

Tagore does not deny that weight. But he reminds us that joy is not the absence of burden. Joy is the meaning that makes the burden bearable. When you know why you are carrying something, your back grows stronger. The joy of service does something remarkable. It does not just make the world better—it changes us. It softens our certainty. It widens our compassion. It humbles our ego. It strengthens our courage. It teaches us patience with one another. It trains us in the slow, difficult art of love. And love—real love—always costs something. But it always gives more than it takes.

This sermon is not an argument. It is an invitation. An invitation to stop waiting for joy to arrive someday. And to step into the joy that is already waiting. Where you ask? Inside your capacity to serve. Not all at once. Not perfectly. Not heroically. But faithfully.

May you wake from the dream that joy is something you must chase. May you awaken to the truth that your life is needed. And may you act—gently, bravely, imperfectly—until you discover for yourself that in giving your life away, you have finally found it.

Amen. May it be so. Blessed be. Ashe’