Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

September 8, 1996

An ancient Rabbi once asked his pupils how they could tell when the night had ended and the day was on its way back.

"Could it be," asked one student, "when you see an animal in the distance and tell whether it is a sheep or a dog?"

"No," answered the Rabbi.

"Could it be," answered another another, "when you can look at a tree in the distance and tell whether it is a fig tree or a peach tree?"

"No," said the Rabbi.

"Well, then, when is it?" is pupils demanded.

"It is when you look on the face of any woman or man and see that she or he is your sister or brother. Because if you cannot do this, then no matter what time it is, it is still night."

"Making a noise greater than ourselves." These words from Kathleen Norris's poem that Tom just read to you are ostensibly about a choir--about the tenor with no character, the wobbly bass, the complaining soprano--about all of these very human, very flawed choir members coming together to "make a noise greater than themselves." "It's the willingness to sing that surprises me," the poem begins, "but our quite ordinary voices carry us over." Now of course our choir is different--they do not have ordinary voices--furthermore, all of our tenors are of good character, none of our basses ever wobble, and our sopranos never complain--right, Mark?

I love this poem--you see I think it's about something much larger than church choirs--it's about community: about the realities and difficulties and differences--and ultimately about the joy and fulfillment--that come from being part of a community. We gather together, bringing just who we are, nothing more or less, and yet something magic happens--"now we are changed," Norris says. What does she mean? In what way are we changed? What allows us to make this larger noise, to blend our own very individual lives and pursuits into something greater than ourselves?

Let me tell you three stories.

This summer I went to Seattle for the first time, for a short business trip, and I stayed in a bed and breakfast on First Street, in the middle of the Market area. I was enjoying wandering around and poking in little shops--and of course scoping out what good food might be available, as I do in every new city I visit. It was there, right on First Street, that I noticed a small restaurant with the sign "The Ragin' Cajun." There was a newspaper food review taped to the window, explaining that the chef had trained with the famous cajun chef Paul Prudhomme in New Orleans. Since I had lived in New Orleans for 7 years and had actually eaten at Prudhomme's place, you might imagine how excited I was to discover this place--good Cajun food!

I went in and was seated in one of the red vinyl booths. The young chef was there, yes, just like in the newspaper picture--handsome, smiling, hair pulled back in a pony tail, working the stove, stirring, flipping, chopping, for all he was worth--but there was a strange kind of silence, too. I soon discovered that neither he nor most of his servers could speak. They were deaf, and they were signing to one another. It was still early, and so the place was just beginning to fill for lunch. I noticed that one entire table near the front window was taken by other deaf people, who were excitedly signing to one another, obviously enjoying their conversation. I was beginning to wonder if I would fit in here.

But that feeling soon left. Just at that point a speaking waitress came over to me and told me about the specials. Other customers, speaking and non-speaking, began to crowd in, many of whom seemed to be "regulars." People obviously enjoyed the food--the gumbo, the red beans and rice--but something more was going on. It was crowded and maybe a little too warm on that summer day--but people were, in a word, happy to be there, signers and speaking folk alike. I noticed an African American couple, older folks, standing and waiting, so I invited them to join me in my booth. We ate that lucious food and traded stories about Alabama and Louisiana. This wasn't lunch--this was an experience! Somehow magically we all became a community during that lunch time together. Here I was in a big, strange city, and I didn't feel alone. I didn't really know any of these people, and I knew next to nothing about deafness and signing, but I knew, on a heart level, that I was not alone.

Later, in my room, I reflected on my experience. What was the source of the magic? Certainly not the excellence of the food alone--though that was a strong element. The chef--young Delchambre--was going all out for his customers, and I knew that. Maybe it was the quite ordinary but comfortable booth--or the height of the ceiling, which made crowded seem just cozy. But what was the source of the joy that was so evident to all? The many signers had a place that welcomed them as they are. I thought that must have been a rare and precious thing. But as a matter of fact we were all welcome there, all accepted, without question. There were well-off people who could afford the shrimp etouffe and people without much money who had just beans and rice. There were Southerners like me who knew Cajun food, and Northerners who wanted to sample Louisiana cooking. There were people of different races. Maybe it was the spirit that animated the young chef with the smiling eyes: "Whoever you are, you are welcome. Come, come and be refreshed."

A second story.

A woman, tired after a long day at work, headed for a favorite coffee shop. On her way she stopped by a newstand for a copy of the New York Times and then by a bakery for a small bag of cookies. She looked forward to enjoying a good pot of coffee and reading her paper. The coffee shop turned out to be crowded, and so she had to share a table with a man who, thank goodness, was also reading his paper. The waiter brought her coffee, and she sat back and began to relax. From behind her newspaper she reached into the bag of cookies on the table and took one. The man at the table did the same--took one of the cookies! She lowered her paper and glared at him. He seemed not to notice. A few minutes later she reached for another cookie. Then, astonishingly, the man also reached for another cookie! She couldn't believe it. There was only one cookie left in the bag. She moved to take it, but the man got there first. Speechless with rage, she stared at him. He lowered his paper, smiled, broke the cookie in two and offered her half. Well! She folded her paper, grabbed her coat, left money for her coffee, and stomped out of the coffee house. She couldn't believe it! . . . the nerve of some people! . . . what is this city coming to? Fuming, she walked toward the subway, rummaging in her bag for carfare. And what did her hand come upon, unopened and untouched? Her bag of cookies!

And so we have a second food story--but with a difference. Not that there's anything wrong with settling down into some welcome silence and having your own undisturbed coffee and your book or paper. But here was an opportunity for the creation of something new between two people, strangers each to the other. One reached out with a smile and his bag of cookies to share, and the other couldn't even begin to understand how to try. She was into ownership, propriety, rules of conduct. My cookies, my cookies! (Can you hear the primeval two-year-old voice?) If she had been joined by a friend, surely she would not have begrudged the friend a cookie. But a stranger had no right. A stranger was other , in a separate world from hers, and that's the way she wanted to keep it. All the possibilities for relationship went unrecognized. What were her thoughts, I wonder, when she realized that the cookies she ate were given her freely, ungrudgingly, by one whom she had disdained? Would she ever be able to receive the spiritual gifts of a stranger? Would she ever understand that, just under the skin, no one really is a stranger? That everyone is lonely? That everyone hungers and everyone must be fed?

And yet a third story. This one from the New York Times a few years back.

Fifty Black and Hispanic drug dealers from a prison boot camp in Chicago were sent to help 200 white farmers and factory workers save their town in Niota, Illinois, from flood waters. The town was desperate for help to fill sandbags and pile them along the levee. Most of the inmates had never seen a levee before. An inmate named Yance said that until boot camp he had only made one trip outside of Chicago, to Springfield with his eighth grade class, and had never seen the Mississippi. "When I got close to it, you know what I did?" he said. "I dipped my hands in it, and ran it over my face. I didn't know when I'd ever get the chance to do that again."

Yance, who grew up in a housing project, recalled, "When we first got there, I was telling my friends, 'Watch this--how long before someone calls us nigger?' We was waiting, but it never happened. Here everyone was helping each other." The boot camp inmates threw sandbags from 8 a.m. until dark, for nine days straight, stopping only to eat and sleep. One of the residents--a man named Farr with three sons--commented, "They got our respect when they showed us how hard they worked. They were so young. I just kept thinking, "They could've been mine."

And the inmates, in turn, began to think that the town could have been theirs. "At first it was just work," an inmate named Ramirez said. "But then I started caring. I said, 'Let's stack these right.'" On the levee, inmates worked shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of Niota. "They brought us Pepsi," said Allen Church. They let us sit down in the shade and drink from their water hose. They were just nice people. That's what made you want to do more. When you saw the looks on their faces--all they cared was that you were there." Every day in Niota, it seems, was Thanksgiving. "They gave us roast beef and chicken dinners," said 19-year-old Maurice Redmond. "Meat loaf, apple pie, as much as you wanted," said Joe Moton. "And they thanked us every night."

The inmates and the residents of Niota lost the fight against the river. The town went under water. They lost that fight, but they found each other. Back at boot camp, the men kept talking about Niota--the people in Niota, the food they ate in Niota, the songs they sang in Niota. One day they found themselves choking up over a card that had arrived at the boot camp barracks. There was a picture of roses and a message: "With warmest thanks to each of you, from your Niota family. You'll never be forgotten."

The superintendent of the boot camp, John W. McCorkle, is a 6-foot, 5-inch Vietnam veteran who dresses in black, rarely takes off his sunglasses and shouts at inmates when they forget to call him sir. But McCorkle cried openly over the levee. "I told them, 'You're a man, you can cry anytime you want to,'" he said. "I always knew boot camp kids work hard. But they amazed me. They were throwing sandbags and smiling, and I asked them, 'What are you smiling for?' They answered back: 'We're saving lives, sir!'"

"We're saving lives, sir!" These words out of the mouths of drug dealers from Chicago? What kind of transformation comes about when people are genuinely respected? How is it that when people are fed and thanked and given important work to do, they do it, gladly? What kind of redemption is possible when people join together to work for something greater than their own needs?

Stories--stories to ponder. Stories that make us think.

Let's think for a moment about our church, our spiritual community. We have institutional challenges before us this year--challenges that are formidable--challenges brought to us by our rapid growth over the past four years. Basically, we're out of space. As Moderator Jim Zehren told you earlier, the Board met in retreat this past weekend and set plans to move ahead and expand our facilities. This is a momentous decision, for it will give us the wherewithal to carry out our mission: to provide a spiritual home for ourselves where we can be nurtured and renewed, and to be a voice for liberal religion and a social change agent in the larger community.

What a task, what a job! And how will we do this? What will the process be like? I'll tell you how we'll do it. We may have to wait in line to be served, but eventually we'll make room for all. The people who eat beans and those who eat shrimp will sit side by side and talk. We'll share our cookies and smile at the stranger. We'll treat one another with real respect, even when we disagree. We'll fill our sandbags and lift and lug and pile them along the levee of our dreams. And then we'll sit down in the shade to rest and share our chicken and our apple pie. We'll weep because we can't contain our gratitude, and when they ask us why we're smiling, we'll say, "We're saving lives, sir, we're saving lives." All our faults and frailties will be forgiven and forgotten, we'll be changed--we'll become a community making a noise, a joyful noise, so much greater than ourselves. So be it. Amen.


PRAYER

O Spirit of Life, we are willing to go forward with your work in this world. But we ask from you clarity, that we might follow in the path of your highest will. And we ask courage, that we might not shrink from the task which you have placed before us. And we ask for tenacity, that we will not falter when the job lies still unfinished. In all things be our guide and stay. Amen.

Copyright © 2000, Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.