Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church

December 20, 1998

There is an alive mystery and presence about the sermon topics I choose. Tom and I choose these topics the spring before the new church year, so that Mark Slegers, our music director, can have a chance to search for appropriate music for each theme. The interesting thing is that the sermon topic always seems right for where I am, spiritually and emotionally, when it comes time for me to preach it. But I wonder about the topic for today, "Surprised by Joy." We have just had an ill-conceived and ill-timed war; the President has been impeached; and to top it all off, the Speaker of the House-Elect has resigned, declaring that he is an adulterer, information which has been revealed to us by Larry Flynt, publisher of Hustler magazine. Has everybody gone crazy? This is a holiday season which is full of darkness, full of sadness, and I’m not much in touch with the joy.

Lately, I have been waking up each day feeling that a pall has settled over my days. I am not depressed, but I am grieving. I go through my morning routine. I pray, I do my yoga, I do my Buddhist meditation, I pray again. It seems more important than ever to me to stick to this way of opening my day, because of my sense that so much is out of kilter and there is so little I can do about any of it. I know more surely than ever that I am not going to change things, save people—all that I in my pride like to think I can do. No, I am caught in circumstances over which I have little control.

After my prayers, I go downstairs and make myself a good breakfast, as I do each day. Eating, sleeping, exercising, praying—these are the ways I keep myself strong, almost as though I am in training for an athletic event. I go out on the front porch and bring in the N.Y. Times and the Oregonian, and I read as much as time allows me that day. I read that we are impeaching our President, who has had a sleazy affair and then lied about it and then denied that he lied. He did not lie. He misled. He misled his wife Hillary and his daughter Chelsea and he has misled his staff and he has misled the American people. And now Congress is divided almost entirely along partisan lines as they have impeached our President.

What is the message that we are sending to our young people? What are our boys to think about the place and purpose of females in their lives? What message is being sent about truth-telling? About taking an oath? About the integrity of our elected leaders, who—contrary to their lofty statements—are clearly engaged in a political battle over power, instead of genuine ethical concerns? How could our young people not feel morally abandoned by their elders, by those who should be giving them guidance as they grow towards adulthood? Where will they find their heroes? Their ideals? At this critical time, we who work closely with children—family and extended family, teachers, ministers—must give them the support and direction they need.

Back to the paper. I continue on with my reading, and I read that we have at least temporarily stopped our bombing of Iraq. In defiance of international law, we bombed a country for what it might do, rather than for what it has done. Innocent civilians have died, and more will die, in a country in which the population has absolutely no control over who rules. A country which has suffered immeasurably under the sanctions that we have imposed, losing some 4,000 children a month because of lack of medical supplies and proper nutrition. As a military strategy, bombing Saddam Hussein into submission has not worked and will not work. And in terms of his "weapons of mass destruction," it’s far too easy to take them underground. We have undermined the fragile Mid-East peace process, as the Palestinians wonder at our actions, and we have made ourselves more vulnerable to terrorist attacks. For these wrongheaded purposes, our President and top military advisors have placed American servicemen and women in harm’s way. I have a son in the service, and I made a call, as I know some other parents in this congregation did, asking, "Are you all right? Will you be deployed?" I know that at least one family in our church has had a son on one of the aircraft carriers, in the midst of battle.

This war was conducted, we should note, in the midst of the holiest season of the year. Right now, we are celebrating Hanukkah, the festival of lights, the Feast of Dedication. Christmas Eve is this Thursday. And Ramadan, the holy month of dawn-to-dusk fasting for Muslims started this weekend. Muslims have been particularly incensed that the bombing of an Arab country would take place on the eve of their holy season. The theme that these religious observances have in common is hope and renewal. That the old hurts and mistakes and sufferings will pass away, that newness of life will enter the world once again. The deep and hurtful irony of having a war during this holy time seems to be lost on the President and the Pentagon.

And then as if this national anguish were not enough to weigh us down, I have to say that we are experiencing a lot of illness and loss in this congregation. We have been fortunate so far in my tenure here—the ministers have done few memorial services for a church of this size. But now time is catching up with us. Some of our precious elders are nearing the end of their lives. They are missing from Sunday services now, and I know they will never return. I accept the inevitability of their deaths, but I carry the weight of it, nonetheless, as do all of us who know and love them. And then we have had so many, many congregants suffering with cancer, and several of those have terminal cancer. These are people who will die an untimely death, which is harder to accept than a death from the ravages of time and age.

"Surprised by Joy." You know, maybe the topic is a good one, after all. Maybe it’s just exactly the right topic. Because you see, that’s what this season is all about. The Hanukkah story: having only one drop of oil, when you need seven. And then the miracle—you get eight drops. You get more than you need to see you through the night. And then the story of Christmas: in the dark of night, far from home, in a borrowed stable—in the midst of fear and isolation—then comes the birth of one who shows us the immensity of God’s love. Well, how do you get from here to there, Preacher? That’s what you promised in the sermon title. That’s what we want to know.

Let me tell you a story, a parable, if you will. The story comes from educator Parker Palmer, who is a Quaker. And I will tell it in his own words. It concerns the time he took the outdoor challenge program called Outward Bound. He says, "I took the course in my early forties, a time of life when monsters abound . . . . A gossamer strand was hooked to a harness around my body, I was backed up to the top of a 110-foot cliff, and I was told to lean out over God’s own emptiness and walk down the fact of that cliff to the ground eleven stories below.

"I remember the cliff too well. It started with a five-foot drop to a small ledge, then a ten-foot drop to another ledge, then a third and final drop all the way down. I tried to negotiate the first drop; my feet instantly went out from under me, and I fell heavily to the first ledge. ‘I don’t think you quite have it yet,’ the instructor observed astutely. ‘You are leaning too close to the rock face. You need to lean much farther back so your feet will grip the wall.’

"That advice, like the advice of some spiritual traditions, went against my every instinct. Surely one should hug the wall, not lean out over the void! But on the second drop I tried to lean back; better, but not far enough, and I hit the second ledge with a thud not unlike the first. ‘You still don’t have it,’ said the ever-observant instructor. ‘Try again.’

"Since my next try would be the last one, her counsel was not especially comforting. But try I did, and much to my amazement I found myself moving slowly down the rock wall. Step-by-step I made my way with growing confidence until, about halfway down, I suddenly realized that I was heading toward a very large hole in the rock, and—not knowing anything better to do—I froze. The instructor waited a small eternity for me to thaw out, and when she realized that I was showing no signs of life she yelled up, ‘Is anything wrong, Parker?’ as if she needed to ask. To this day, I do not know the source of the childlike voice that came up from within me, but my response is a matter of public record: ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

"The instructor yelled back, ‘Then I think it’s time you learned the Outward Bound motto.’ Wonderful, I thought. I am about to die, and she is feeding me bromides. But then she spoke words I have never forgotten, words so true that they empowered me to negotiate the rest of that cliff without incident: ‘If you can’t get out of it, get into it.’ . . . .

"That is why we must sometimes ride the monsters all the way down," says Parker. "Some monsters simply will not go away. They are too big to walk around, too powerful to overcome, too clever to outsmart. The only way to deal with them is to move toward them, with them, into them, through them."

So we’re riding the monsters right now. I’m not going to give you some glib message, some sentimental message of false cheer. Ride the monsters on down. On the other hand, I do not believe that’s the end of the story. We are, in the midst of it all—if we can really be in the midst of it all—surprised by joy. You know all those fairy tales that end, "And they lived happily ever after"? These classic tales are full of abandonment, betrayal, death—full of monsters, not sweet and sappy at all. The characters live happily ever after, after they have been through all the perfectly horrible stuff that happens to them. After the wicked stepmother. After they have been turned into frogs. After they have been captured by the witch and kept in a cage. After they have been asleep for 100 years. After all that, they find love, they find fulfillment. "Give me everything mangled and bruised, and I will make a light of it to make you weep," writes Deena Metzger, "and we will have rain and we will have begun again."

Another story. This one of a handsome young man, a high school and college athlete, who developed a cancer in his right leg. Two weeks after the diagnosis, doctors removed his leg above the knee, saving his life, but ending forever the life that he had known, a life of beautiful women, fast cars, personal recognition. After the surgery he began to drink heavily, to use drugs, to alienate his former admirers and friends. He was referred to group therapy.

At the second meeting the leader of the group asked him to draw a picture of his body. He drew a rough outline of a vase. A deep crack ran through the center of it. He went over and over the crack with a black crayon, gritting his teeth in a rage, tears in his eyes. It was clear that this broken vase could never function as a vase again. The leader took the picture, folded it up, and put it away for another day.

In time the young man’s anger begin to change in subtle ways. He brought in a newspaper article about a motorcycle accident in which a young man had lost his leg. Over the next month, he brought in other such articles. He always judged harshly those who had tried to help the injured, and finally he asked to meet some other people who had suffered losses like his own. Within a few weeks, he had begun to visit young people who had problems similar to his.

He found that he could reach these patients in ways that no one else could. The surgeons, some of whom had watched him play college ball, began referring more and more patients to him. As he began knowing the doctors personally, his respect for them grew. Gradually his anger faded, and he developed a kind of ministry there on the hospital wards.

It was there that he met a young woman who lay in a deep depression after losing her mother, her sister, her cousin to cancer, and then having another sister develop cancer. This young woman had had both her breasts removed as a precaution, and she was only 21 years old. He tried everything he knew to reach her, but without success. He made jokes. He got angry. Finally he unstrapped the harness of his artificial leg and let it drop to the floor with a loud thud. Startled, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Once one of the best dancers on his college campus, this young man began to hop around the room, snapping his fingers in time to the music. She thought he looked so funny. "Fella," she said, "if you can dance, maybe I can sing."

The young woman became his friend, encouraging him to return to school and study psychology. Eventually she became his wife, a very different sort of women from the ones he used to date before his surgery. Long before this, though, he said goodbye to the group that had helped him through to his recovery. On that day the leader opened his chart and found the picture of the broken vase the young man had drawn two years before. Unfolding it, she asked him if he remembered the picture. He took it in his hands and stared at it for a long time. "You know," he said, "it’s really not finished." The leader extended a box of crayons to him. Taking a yellow crayon, he began to draw lines going from the crack in the vase to the very edges of the paper. Thick, radiant lines of light. He was smiling. Finally, he pointed to the crack and said softly to the leader, "This is where the light comes through." Face the monsters down, and the light shines through. It’s a spiritual law of the universe.

Whether we face the personal tragedy of accident or illness; or the pain of betrayal of one we trusted; or we become part of a national tragedy of a war, we will, if we live long enough in this world, have our hearts broken. And do they heal? Not fully, not ever. But in the cracked and broken places—that’s where the light shines through. So, it would be more accurate to say that our hearts are not just broken, they are broken open. We walk in the world forever after with more depth, more sensitivity, more compassion. Our pride of position, our sense of entitlement, are gone, replaced with humility and thanksgiving and true caring. Our love affair with the world begins with a broken heart.

In this season supposedly so filled with cheer, we may find cheer is hard to come by. And we need to be OK with that. We need to ride this through. For me during these cold and dark times, times when all answers, all hope seems to fall away, I sense that I am deepening, that some hard places in me are being softened. I can’t fix it. I know I need to stay with it. The days are simply what they are. I’ll take them as they come, without demanding that they be different.

I know also that during these hard times people draw on resources they never knew were there. We don’t know what courage, what endurance, what faith we have, until these qualities are called forth from us. We see with different eyes, note the beauty that has before been unacknowledged, unappreciated. A piece of music reaches a place within that has never before been open. For me, right now, I am so much more conscious of the preciousness of life, of the importance of relationship. I am deeply thankful for the members of this church who’ve been here faithfully tending the garden of our souls for 30, 40, 50 years and longer. And never have I understood so deeply how terrible a human invention war is.

On last Wednesday when the missiles began to rain down on Iraq, we decided to have a vigil here at the church, which we did, from 7:00 to 8:00, after our mid-week worship service. We had maybe 20 to 25 people, mostly from our church and a few from the larger community. There was a sense of despair and hopelessness in our little gathering as we began. But as we prayed and sang and spoke, people began to understand that the witness of our words was important. That our prayers and songs helped our resolve to grow. That we could increase our efforts to bring a peaceful world to our children, some of whom were there that evening. I know that we can do more in our church towards this end, and I hope that those of you who are interested will meet with Kate in the Channing Room when the service ends, as Tom announced earlier. I think back to the 60’s. Yes, the people can make a difference. We must.

Even in the midst of the hardest times, we are surprised by joy. We are relieved by humor, and we laugh even through our tears. I like the story of the man who slipped away from the side of his aged and treasured mother who lay on her deathbed. "See you later," he whispered. And as he turned to go, he heard her say, "Alligator." She was ready. She was helping him let her go.

Sometimes when I am feeling in a particularly dark mood, not wanting to speak to anyone, a stranger in the grocery store will remark on the artichokes and change my day. Or I’ll happen upon a sunset that knocks my socks off. Or I’ll see the lights of Portland by night as I drive, and I fill with thankfulness that I live here. Or I will turn to a country music station and hear a perfectly awful sentimental song and cry my eyes out and feel better. Or I’ll go to a movie—a good one, like two I’ve seen recently: Celebration and Life Is Beautiful, movies in which truth is told, making the world seem a little more orderly, as art can do.

These glimpses of joy and flashes of thanksgiving connect me with the larger spiritual truth that there is a holiness and a joy in the universe that is greater than I can conceive of and that is always there for me to draw upon, though sometimes I feel separated from it. I am reminded of a tunnel I used to go through in Berkeley, the Solano tunnel. When you’re traveling west in that tunnel, you always come to a point where the tunnel goes dark for a moment. Completely. You just have to trust that you’ll be able to see again.

Shall I tell you where there is comfort, where there is joy? There is joy is knowing you have been present as your life unfolds. There is joy after your weeping if you weep for that which is worth weeping for. There is joy in the amazing beauty and courage of human beings. There is joy in our continuous striving to live up to the best that is within us. Against all odds, all over the world, we keep speaking, we keep singing, we keep praying. "O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant." Come, and ye shall be satisfied.

So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

Spirit of Life, we come before you this day needing renewal, needing hope. Too often we feel unsteady, divided, fearful. Hold us close during these dark and cold days. May we comfort one another, and may we never lose sight of the beauty and goodness in ourselves and in others and in this world.

Amen.

BENEDICTION

May you be surprised by joy, over and over again, in this holiday season. Go in love and in peace.

OPENING WORDS

  I will light candles this Christmas—

Candles of joy, despite all sadness,

Candles of hope where despair keeps watch.

Candles of courage where fear is ever present,

Candles of peace for tempest-tossed days,

Candles of grace to ease heavy burdens.

Candles of love to inspire all my living,

Candles that will burn all the year long.

--Howard Thurman

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