Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

November 12, 1995

"If things are really to exist for us, they have to penetrate within us. Hence the necessity of being naked. Nothing can enter into us while armor protects us from wounds and from the depths they open up."
--Simone Weil

One day about 15 years ago I was driving down a highway about 60 miles an hour, and the next thing I knew I was in an ambulance, partly conscious, calling out my children's names. I fell into a black nothingness again, and when I began to open my eyes once more, I saw white walls all around me--I was in the emergency room of a hospital. A friend was holding my hand. It was a work day. She should have been at work. But she came to the hospital to stand by my bed and hold my hand until I regained consciousness. It turned out that I was all right, but I didn't know that at the time. I will not forget her patience, her vigilance, her care. I needed a friend, and she was there.

Friendship is a unique relationship: it is unlike blood relations, for you have no choice over those; it is unlike marriage, for marriage ties you to another with legal and social bonds. Friendship you choose out of your desire and your desire alone, and so if a friendship lasts, it must continuously be chosen. Out of that freedom of choice comes the extraordinary quality of friendship. You know that your friend has chosen to be with you because he wants to, and for no other reason. You feel special, and you are. You feel wanted, and you are.

The philosopher Montaigne spoke of a particular friendship this way: ". . . our souls mingle and blend with each other so completely that they efface the seam that joined them, and cannot find it again. If you press me to tell why I loved him, I feel this cannot be expressed, except by answering: because it was he, because it was I." Why are we drawn to a certain person? It is often a mystery. "Because it was he, because it was I." We are not compelled to friendship by the perfection of the other party. Not at all. We may be drawn to one with an ungainly body, or to one who must always search for the right word, or to one who has not been particularly successful according to the world's standards. No, we are not drawn by perfection, but rather drawn by some quality of character that connects to our soul need, some dark, unfinished place within. In the presence of our friend, we both feel a kind of wholeness that escapes us otherwise.

Friendship, then, is not about self-improvement, but rather about the unfolding of the sacredness at the center of each of us. Self-improvement has to do with analysis and ego and directed action, force of will, whereas the unfolding that I mention has to do with a respect for the unknown, with a faith that the divine potential within us will show itself and make us anew.

What intimacy does for us is to simply make a nurturing space for the natural development of what is already there. Our friends do this by "being with," without judgment. Oh, yes, a friend may disagree or take exception to a decision or to a behavior, but these exchanges exist within a container of love that is so nourishing that differences enrich instead of threaten. Nell Noddings in her book entitled Caring says that a friend is one who "listens us into being." Listens us into being. Do you have a friend like that? One who has the capacity to really hear, to be present in such depth and openness that you begin to say what you never knew was in you to say? You begin to hear yourself being wise or witty, and you marvel at the splendid person you have become in the presence of your friend. In such company, we feel blessed; we feel ourselves like a thirsty plant that has been watered at last, with every pore soaking in new life and vitality.

A few weeks ago a new friend was speaking with me about a painful relationship that she was trying to mend. I listened for a few minutes, and then pleased with myself for having so quickly analyzed the situation and come up with a solution, I laid it on her. Essentially, her expectations of her friend were too great, I said. Her face fell, and I knew that I had done her no favor. She said, "I feel judgment in what you just said." Then my face fell. I had not wanted to judge my friend. I told her I was sorry. She said, "You know, if you can just listen compassionately, I will find the answer within myself." She was right.

In a moving sermon, Paul Tillich speaks of separation and discord within the individual and how it is healed: he says, "The depth of our separation lies in just the fact that we are not capable of a great and merciful divine love towards ourselves. We are separated from the mystery, the depth, and the greatness of our existence." The answer to this separation is love, he says. Tillich continues, "When the old compulsions reign within us as they have for decades, when despair destroys all joy and courage, sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying: 'You are accepted. You are accepted.'" It is that kind of acceptance that we find with a true friend, who acts as a way station for the Divine, in loving us without judgment.

One of the best openings to intimacy and the life it brings is soulful conversation. Conversation is not the same as chatting--chatting is polite talk about nothing, which at best is a social lubricant and at worst is a defense against all that is true within us. Soulful conversation has no goal, other than relationship. It wanders where it will, and is bound by no rules except that the parties must be present, caring, and open. Conversation while walking is an especially restorative practice. There can be long periods of silence while thoughts are filtered through our understanding, and talking is interspersed with reflection. We all need someone to share memories with, someone to trust with our dreams. We often do not know the meaning of these memories until the past is recollected into a coherent form for another. We often do not know our dreams until they manifest themselves in what we thought was idle conversation with another.

I have spoken of the many blessings of friendship--and yet why is it that true friendship is so rare and precious? What is required of us to have such friendship be a part of our lives?

To begin with, we have to make friends with ourselves. Inevitably, there are parts of each one of us that lie in the shadow, that are denied and therefore neglected. Sometimes these various aspects of the self are in conflict, the one with the other. For example, in my own life, the playful child suffers from my neglect. If I keep her in the shadow, she begins subversive activity. She will hide my pencils at times. "How can I write? I have no pencils." "Gotcha!" she exclaims. I glower. "Not funny," I answer. Once in a while when she's really feeling angry, she will touch my brain with amnesia, and I will "forget" a task I promised to do, or a meeting I was to attend. How does she affect my friendships? When she is not allowed to play, the adult in me may become judgmental of those who do play. Spontaneous play in others may give rise to anxiety in me.

We feel lonely at times for no other reason than that we've cut off parts of ourselves from our consciousness--the fearful self, the grieving self, the angry self, the playful self. And out of that loneliness comes neediness, not a fertile ground for friendship. When we deny parts of ourselves, we will find ourselves wanting others to make up for what we've held back. They are reduced to a function, and they feel it.

So, first of all, to be a friend, you must make friends with yourself. Another requirement is the opening of the heart. Easy to say ! Marge Piercy writes:
We are not different not alike
but each strange in our leather bodies
sealed in skin and reaching out clumsy
hands
and loving is an act
that cannot outlive
the open hand
the open eye
the door in the chest standing open.

You will discover in every friendship and intimate relationship that this other person is other-than, different-from, not-you. If one of you is a man and the other is a woman, you may be mystified, confounded, incredulous. Scientists are now beginning to discover what we casual observers have always known--men and women really do come from different planets. Biology really does count! If you need someone, of whatever gender, to absolutely confirm your beliefs and behaviors, to see the world just as you see it, then you will be distressed and will begin to withdraw from your friendship. But if you are able to keep your heart open, then you stand to learn what you can never learn outside a close relationship. You will be pushed and stretched in ways you never anticipated--and you will allow this, because the container of trust is there, supporting the two of you. You are not demanding that the other change--that's not what friendship is about. Rather, you are making a loving space, a holy space, where transformation can occur.

Friendship demands time, something hardly anyone seems to have enough of these days. Often we cruise along in our lives, taking our friends for granted, and then we end up in the hospital emergency room or going through a divorce or a job loss, and we understand anew how significant those relationships are. We suddenly need a place to go where we can feel safe, where our vulnerabilities will be respected and treated with care. We need someone we can call at 4:00 am, whether we ever actually make that call, or not. If we cherish relationships all along the way, when these devastating losses appear--as they do in every life--we will have a refuge, a place to retreat while we are healing. We also need those with whom we can share our triumphs--big people, people who are comfortable enough with themselves not to be jealous or resentful when we get a promotion or when we are admitted to the college of our choice or when we fall in love.

Friendship requires faithfulness, requires loyalty. "Stand by me," we say to our friends, "and then I can carry on." Above all, be honest with me, for without that, how can any relationship have integrity? I'm remembering one relationship with a woman friend that went bad for me. It was, alas, over a man. But when I think about it, it was not really over a man. It went bad because of dishonesty. Let's call the man Fred. Fred and I were keeping company, and I kept noticing that he and my good friend Susan seemed to be attracted to each other. I asked each of them outright--more than once--if they wanted to date the other, and both said absolutely not, that they were friends and only friends. I actually asked them so often, that maybe they began to think it was a good idea to see each other. Anyway, one day I called Susan at her office, and her secretary told me she had gone to Boston for two days. Then I called Fred's office, and his secretary told me he was gone to Boston for two days. So I lost two friends. I was hurt and angry for months and months. Finally I just got tired of being angry and forgave them--turns out that they really were right for each other and they're still together after 12 years. But my relationship with Susan was never the same. I didn't have to have the man, but I had to have the honesty. The container of trust had been broken.

So in true friendship, it is fair to expect certain qualities like honesty, fidelity, loyalty, caring. But sometimes our expectations may become demands and may begin to look like control. When that happens, we lose the freedom that makes friendship voluntary and spontaneous. The other party does not feel loved for who he is, but only for what we want him to be. Our agenda becomes changing our friend, and in the face of that judgment, the friendship begins to wither and die. On the other hand, understanding and respecting the limitations of that other person nourishes relationship.

Friends stay with us through good times and bad, and then when the time comes, they say goodby. About this time last year I lost a good friend to death. We had been close at one time--he was my teacher, therapist, my mentor, my confidant. He wanted to be more, but I said no. I had a limitation that he respected. It didn't change his love for me. And then I went off the California, and he went ahead with his work in Michigan. Neither of us wrote regularly, but we sent letters now and then to stay in touch. His never failed to be rich and full and caring. Years passed. I sent announcements to him at watershed moments: graduation from seminary, ordination, Ph.D., the publication of my first book, and then the last, my installation as your minister here at the First Unitarian Church.

It was when I was taking off my robe after the installation ceremony that I saw him. Standing there in the robing room, grinning broadly. I could hardly believe it! He had come all the way from Michigan to surprise me. I took him home with me, where he stayed for a couple of days, and we caught up on each others' lives. I knew he had had cancer, and now heart disease--but he still looked good. We talked and talked and talked. About faith, about death, about politics, about cities, about our children, about our abiding love for each other. I still had my limitations, and he still respected those limitations. I knew there was nothing I could ever do to make him stop loving me. And that this love had nothing to do with my opinions or my choices. It had to do with the essence of me, with who I was. I was absolutely free, and I was absolutely accepted.

I didn't want to think that he would be gone soon. So I denied that probability. "Neil will always be here," I convinced myself. "That piece of my world will be secure." But the fact is that he had come to say goodby. He never actually said the words--but then, that was not his way. Every time we had parted before, it was always, "Catch you later." No big deal.

Sometimes it is only after a friend has gone that you know what you had. I think about him more often now than when he was living. So I guess in that sense, he will always be with me. You see, it is so rare, that kind of freedom, coupled with that kind of love. It is friendship of the most profound kind.

Friendship comes to us not because we deserve it, not because we seek it, not because we consciously develop it: it comes to us by grace and grace alone. Through intimate friendship, we enter into the mystery of being. Where it will take us, we can never know; we can only trust in the goodness of our friend and the sacredness of the process. The path of friendship is like the movement of a mighty river, sometimes smooth, perhaps at times tumultuous, other times blocked, but always moving in depths we never guessed were there.

Friendship, at least in this world, comes to a close, either by death or by circumstance, and even when it has an early ending, we must honor the gifts we were given. We must never say, "that one, she was never my friend, I will forget I knew her," or "he, he was never a real marriage partner, what a mistake." No, we must go forward in gratitude for what has been. Do you remember the woman I spoke of, the one who was beside my bed in the hospital? She is the same woman who went to Boston with my man. One and the same. And I honor her for what she gave me, such as she willing and able. And I love her still.

Friendship, in which we freely choose and we are freely chosen, is of the Divine. We taste the depths of it when we lose it; our longing is not just for the one who is gone, but for the Absolute Love that one represented, that connection with the everlasting love that holds us secure, in the midst of every storm and strife. To enter into this river of being, we give up our ideologies--we cannot say love should be this and this and this. Love is simply what it is. We open ourselves to the Mystery, in gratitude. Our lives sing with thanksgiving.
So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

O Great Mystery, we stand in awe of the gift of friendship. We remember this morning those friends who have blessed us along our way, and we fill with thanks as their names and faces come before us. We acknowledge that we often fear coming close to another--and we ask for courage to be vulnerable, even in the face of certain loss, for through the touch of others, we shall surely feel the touch of God.
Amen.

Copyright © 1996, Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.