A sermon given September 10, 2000

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

OPENING WORDS

Good morning! Welcome to this new church year! It’s good to see familiar faces and new faces, and to know that we are together here once again in this community of love and of hope. Come, let us worship together.

The Sabbatical rhythm—six days of work followed by one of rest—is woven deeply into the fabric of the Judeo-Christian tradition. In fact, it is a part of every religious tradition. The very first story in the Hebrew scripture moves to a climax on the seventh day: having created the earth and everything upon it, God rests, blesses this day, and makes it holy. God takes pleasure in what has been made. The scripture reads, "And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good." God shows no regrets: God doesn’t say, "It was very good, but it should have been excellent." He doesn’t say, "Gee, you know, I could have done a little better with the composition of the giraffe"—I’d better do some more work on that tomorrow." No, all is well. It is good enough. It is time to rest.

Keeping the Sabbath is not a practice for most of us these days, but that is a recent change in our culture. I don’t know what it was like when you grew up, you folks over 50, but in my little home town in N. Louisiana, we kept the Sabbath. No places of business were open--that is to say, except Pee Wee’s filling station, catty-corner from the Baptist church, where you could buy gasoline and bootleg whiskey. Church was open, though, and we attended Sunday School and the worship service in the morning, and on Sunday evening, my friends and I went to Training Union, followed by another worship service. I lived with my grandparents, and they were strict about behavior on Sunday. I was not to wear shorts; I was not to play cards—that was the devil’s game anyway. And they didn’t want me to go to the movies. That, I rebelled against, and I took my 15 cents—a dime for the movie and a nickel for popcorn—to the local cinema and saw Rock Hudson and Jennifer Jones in A Farewell to Arms.

Blue laws go way back. Let’s take golf, for instance. Some of you may consider golf a religious experience, but even as late as the 20^th century, there were laws against playing golf on the Sabbath.

The clash between religion and golf started as far back as 16^th century Scotland. As many of you know, golf got started at St. Andrews, Scotland. It was on December 18, 1583, that the church’s local ruling body, the Kirk Session, recorded the first incident of golfers summoned to court for playing on the Sabbath. Golf became so popular, though, that the Church of Scotland had trouble controlling even its own elders. Eventually the law was loosened, and golf was banned only during the sermon. I guess I could live with that.

Keeping the Sabbath holy is of course one of the ten commandments—the fourth, to be exact. It’s ironic that God gives us a gift—a day of rest—and then has to make it a commandment, so that we’ll take it seriously. I guess human beings have always had a problem with resting. But really it goes deeper than that: we are reluctant to make space for the Holy in our lives. Undoubtedly, this is the commandment that most of us break the most often. In fact, we even plan to break it. We get our list out for Sunday. I’ll fix this, I’ll shop for that, I’ll finish that report, etc. Can you imagine planning to break any of the other commandments? You wake up in the morning, and you say to yourself, gee, I think I’ll steal something today, or tell a few lies, or maybe I’ll just covet my neighbor’s wife. Is there any other commandment that we break, and then feel virtuous about it?

So why is it so hard for us to stop, to breathe deeply, to do--well, nothing?

Well, to begin with, work is seen as a professional plus. It is in fact prestigious to talk about how many hours we work: "I worked 60, 70 hours a week," we hear people say. Oh, they moan and groan about it, but there is a touch of pride in their voice. If, on the other hand, someone admits, "You know, I really don’t want to work 40 hours a week. I want to have more fun, then we think slacker. Now this sounds like the voice of my younger son, Madison, who has made it clear that he does not want to work hard. I’m starting to get nervous about that, since he’ll have about $100,000 in debt when he finishes law school. He did an internship in New York this summer, where he observed that the young lawyers worked from 9:30 in the morning until 10:00 at night, every work day. They go to sleep, get up, do the same thing the next day. They are rewarded well—with a starting salary of $140,000. They have nice apartments, and they get vouchers for expensive meals—like $50 for lunch, for example—but their lives are not their own. Madison says that many of them save no money at all. This is the American prototype of success, of the good life. Make a lot, spend more than you make. My son is not interested. Thank goodness.

Workers of my generation achieve and display our identity through labor, says Mark Liechty, professor of anthropology: He writes, "Most Americans labor to consume and to construct the self." Who we are is what we do. In Europe, he points out, there is more of a separation between identity and work. I had to think about his words. I don’t think I labor to consume, I think I work chiefly out of joy—but I confess I work partly to construct a self. So I am a minister, I am a writer. I’ve always believed at some deep place that if I were not working, I would not, could not, be loved. Actually what I’ve found in practice is that working hard is not a path to love—in fact, overwork tends to push the possibility for love out of one’s life. Another confession: I work for diversion. You see, to sit down for a quiet moment is to open the door to all my demons: fear, sadness, guilt. Work keeps them at bay. I’m still struggling with this one, but I’m finding that pleasure pushes out sadness, that love can pull me out of fear.

Historically, the Sabbath was the day when Israel celebrated its freedom from slavery, from the compulsion to work. The Israelites were no longer considered just machines for producing bricks and building pyramids. They were persons, persons made in the image of God. On the Sabbath, the people did not work, and yet they were fed. On that one day every week, they remembered that their worth lay not in their own productivity, but in the love and grace of God. "The Jews keep Shabbat," someone said, and the wise response came, "No, Shabbat keeps the Jews."

Some people work hard to get more things—and then discover that they have to maintain their things, and so there goes the endless cycle: shopping, storing, fueling, fixing. I like what photographer Richard Avedon did. He decided that his life was too cluttered with things, most of which he didn’t need or want. So he removed everything—every stick of furniture, every piece of clothing, every work of art, everything—out of his house, and then discerning carefully, brought back into his home, one at a time, only those things which truly fed his spirit.

There is, of course, the reality of the workplace these days. The husband and wife in a typical U. S. household are now working 500 more hours a year than they did in 1980. Absenteeism due to job stress has tripled in the past five years. And why is this so? One reason is that some companies have found it more profitable to ask employees to work overtime, rather than hire additional workers, who would then have to be paid benefits. I asked one woman who was clearly exhausting herself why she worked so hard, and she said, "My boss works this way himself, and he insists that I do, too. If I don’t, there are forty other people waiting in line to take the job." We need to ask ourselves some questions. Who decided that we should work 50 or 60 hours a week? Or, for that matter, 40? To what end? Who is profiting from our labor? Are we? Are our children? Are our families really better off with this kind of work load?

It’s so easy for someone else to set the agenda for our lives, whether it’s an economic system or echoes of our parents’ voices or role expectations that we fall into, without questioning. I want to share with you the story of a young woman who came to my office for counseling last week. And I do, incidentally, have her permission to share this. A beautiful young woman, she nevertheless looked old beyond her years that day. She was trying to decide whether or not to stay with her job, and her mother—a Unitarian Universalist minister in a distant state—suggested that she talk with me before she made her decision. Knowing how I sometimes give too much advice to my own grown children, I told myself, "Now don’t tell her what to do. It’s her decision." And this was the story she poured out. She had been sent to Washington state by a political party machine to work for a particular candidate. She took the job because--well, it was something to do over the summer, and she wanted to see the Northwest. But as it turns out, she hates politics, she doesn’t particularly like the candidate she’s working for, she doesn’t like her boss, she’s not being successful at her telephone polling compared to the other workers, and the hours? Well, the hours are 9:30 in the morning to 10:00 at night, seven days a week. The pay? $100 a week. She looks sad, distressed. Her dad wants her to stay with the job. "Why?" I ask.

"Because you just don’t drop out things," she answers, and hangs her head.

"Do you know what you would like to do if you left?" I ask. Her face softens, her eyes turn bright.

"Oh, yes!" she says. "I would like to go to England. There’s a program I could apply for—but I’d have to drop out of this job and earn some money."

I forget that I was not supposed to tell her what to do. "That’s a no-brainer," I say. "Drop out." She gets that worried look again. I say, "Look, your boss is telling you that you’re not doing good work, and you are miserable, and you don’t care whether this candidate wins or not—so why are you staying?" She answers, "I don’t want to let anybody down. And besides, I’m afraid. I don’t know what’s out there if I leave this job."

I muse on her remark. "I don’t want to let anybody down." ANYBODY. Well, I’m thinking, you are going to let people down, if you live long enough. Probably lots of people. The question is, are you going to let yourself down. I look at her with some intensity, and I say, "Look, whether or not you stay here for a few months longer is not a big deal—this decision is not really a critical one, as life decisions go. But the way you approach decisions, now that is critical. I’m going to tell you something that I want you to remember for the rest of your life." She gets very quiet, and every part of her is focused on what I am to say. And I say to her, "Don’t let anybody else set the agenda for your life. Life is too short. You’re young, and you think you’ve got all this time—well, you don’t. The years go by so quickly. Other people will want you to do what they want you to do, for reasons of their own—your dad, your friends, your boss, your boyfriend. Hear them out, but when the time comes to decide, pay attention to what you want. Pay attention to your body. What deadens you, and on the other hand what makes you feel alive and passionate? Go with what gives you life." I pause. "Now let’s talk about the issue of fear. It’s easy to fall into a pattern of just hunkering down in your own little rut, because of fear. Some people go on like that their whole lives. Do you know people like that?" I ask. She nodded her head, her eyes wide. "Well, don’t be one of them," I said. So much for my "non-directive counseling."

Without time to reflect, with no list, no agenda, no clocks and alarms, without that empty space, we can easily lose clarity about what is essential. We are then at the mercy of the "ought’s." We ought to be the best worker, the best parent, the best spouse, the best son or daughter. We need to be a knowledgeable investor, a decent athlete, a proficient lover. We ought to meditate, floss our teeth, keep the house clean, the lawn mowed. There is never be enough time to get everything done—and you know what? There never will be. There is only enough time each day to be present to that day. There is only enough time each day to live that particular day with gratitude.

Neglecting Sabbath can be deadly--literally. Wayne Muller writes of his experience. "I am close to death," he writes, "infected with streptococcal pneumonia . . . . I breathe only with great difficulty. I am on an emergency schedule: every four hours, someone comes and gives me <medicine> to inhale. Then I am tilted upside down by a respiratory therapist, who pummels me on my back and sides while I lie with my head below my feet. They are trying to make me cough up the phlegm that is choking me to death.

"A month earlier, I had been living a typical life," he continues, "at least for me. I was seeing patients in psychotherapy, running Bread for the Journey, and traveling around the country, lecturing and teaching. When I was at home I served as the chaplain in the AIDS clinic in Santa Fe, and I was also finishing a book while trying my best to be a good husband and father. A month earlier, I had put a quote from Brother David Steindl-rast on my bulletin board. Life, he said, was like the breath: we must be able to live in an easy rhythm between give and take. If we cannot learn to live and breathe in this rhythm, he counseled, we will place ourselves in grave danger." If Muller had only known how true these words would be for him.

He recovered, and he learned something about keeping Sabbath. He writes, "If we do not allow for a rhythm of rest in our overly busy days, illness becomes our Sabbath—our pneumonia, our cancer, our heart attack, our accidents create Sabbath for us."

Even if we stop short of a grave illness, when we don’t allow enough rest, we have this subtle sense of undernourishment. We can’t take in the beauty of the day, the touch of the friend, all the good that comes to us that could refresh us and give us new strength. When we’re so tired that we don’t remember who we are, then even when we try to do good, says Muller, we do good badly.

So now comes the "how to" portion of the sermon—well, how are we going to change? It’s kind of like the old joke about how many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb—only one, but the light bulb has to want to change. Maybe you need to burn out or get really sick before you’ll surrender to the needs of your body and the needs of your spirit. That was my approach at one time, and I do not recommend it. Certainly you will not receive much support from our particular culture, which is grounded in competition and material success. You will have to become profoundly counter-cultural, in fact.

I’m really pleased about the willingness of vice-presidential candidate Lieberman to maintain Shabbat, even with his pressured existence. I can’t imagine that he has received a lot of understanding throughout his political career when he says he cannot be available on Saturday. But he has gone his own way. I think he has made us all re-examine this practice of setting aside some time as holy time.

But how to start. Start small, says Muller—too much at one time and you get the bends. You could even start with some deep breathing for 30 seconds. Really. It’s enough to break the routine rush. Take a Sabbath hour, or even half hour. Go somewhere away from work, somewhere you haven’t been perhaps. Take a walk with no purpose. Believe it or not, the very purpose of the Sabbath is to have no purpose. Then Muller uses the word "delight"—"its sole purpose is delight," he says. "Let the fruit of the peach run down your chin." Delight does not include paying bills, making lists of things to do, thinking about people who make us angry. Delight could include visiting an art gallery, singing, dancing, gardening, riding a bike around your neighborhood.

The bike riding is what I’ve been doing recently. The last time I rode a bike was when I was 16, and I found out that they’ve changed quite a lot since then. You can’t sit on the seat and touch the ground with your feet. Before I figured this out, I crashed three times. One time was in front of some kids whose mom pointed to me there in the gravel and said to them, "You see, children, even grown-ups crash sometimes." I’m glad I was a comfort to these children. Fortunately, because of the cut of this garment, you cannot see the bruises. But I’ve got the hang of it now, and I love feeling the wind blowing through my hair as I ride.

Take some risks! Risk appearing foolish or even lazy. Risk offending someone who thinks you’re way too old to be doing what you’re doing. Like the Rev. Ron Cook, who is a minister in Australia. When his wife died, he decided he needed to get out of the cloistered church arena and into the world. So he joined a motorcycle club for people 40 and over. Actually, you have to be over 50 to be a full member, and over 40 to be a junior member. The job of the junior members is to help the older members onto their bikes. Their motto, he says, is "Grow Old Disgracefully."

Shabbat, or Sabbath, is a gift, a gift designed to restore us, a time when we let the cares and concerns of our lives fall away, where work is put aside, and we exist just to be and for no other reason. We can just delight in being alive, we can enjoy the pleasures of the senses—the smell of the blossoms, the chattering of the squirrels, and yes here in Oregon, the patter of the rain on the roof. We can breathe deeply and give thanks for all the blessings of our living, the blessings that we may have forgotten about in our understandable preoccupation with work. Keeping the Sabbath is not just law—it is an opening that that makes space for the Holy in our lives. The law, the Commandment, just clears the path; it is the soul that must respond to the gift. And that is your choice and my choice.

Once at a funeral at a black Baptist church, the preacher consoled the mourners by saying that the person who had died had gone on to that place where every day is Sunday. Now what could that mean? "Shall we gather at the river . . . ." If death restores us to Perfect Love, which I believe it does, then we can experience a part of that Love right here on earth. It’s about giving in. It’s about giving up. It’s being willing to lie in the arms of God.

So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

We know, O Spirit of Life, that we are made to work and to create, but not just to work and create. We are also made to lie down in green pastures, to walk beside still waters. May we allow you, Holy One, to restore our souls, to move us into the joy of deep rest. Help us to be willing to turn off the computer, close the office door, darken the TV screen, and surrender to the gift we are so reluctant to accept. Amen.

BENEDICTION

Go now, and take the gift of this Sabbath day. Fill it with laughter, joy and praise. And rest, sweet rest. Go in love and go in peace.

Copyright 2000, by Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell.  All rights reserved.