a sermon by Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

Given at First Unitarian Church, Portland, OR

Sunday, Jan. 23, 2000

The concept of intimacy has been with us for a very long time. The first recorded use of the word intimate was by one J. Heyward, a knight, in 1635. Derived from the Latin intimus, it means "inmost," or the deepest and most profound that is within us. So for centuries—and my guess is for all of human history—we have known that we need to connect with others in this closeness of person, that such connection is necessary for our very being--but in post-modern culture, we find real intimacy harder and harder to come by. Why is this so? How could we have let this dimension of our lives become so rare and elusive?

But before we speak of the why’s and wherefore’s of our loss, let’s define more completely what intimacy really is and why it is crucial to our well-being. Being intimate involves engaging ourselves in what is real, what is true, what is closest within. It involves self-revelation, affection, acknowledgment of the other as who he is, not what we would want him to be. Paradoxically, we must be able to be alone in order to be intimate, for we must have some sense of self before we can share that self. And we must be willing, most of all, to risk being who we really are with another. We are each of us trapped within our own mind and body and consciousness, and we try to break those bounds with the crude tools we have at hand--we try with language and touch and sensation, to at least partially bridge what is unbridgeable. We join our inescapably private life with another such life in the space between us, where meaning lies. It is imperfect, we will be misunderstood at times. But besides the food we eat and the air we breathe, it is quite literally what gives us life.

Intimacy does not have to do with the formal bonds of relationship. You can be in a marriage with no intimacy. You can have sex with no intimacy. You can have kinfolk—brothers, sisters, even mothers and fathers--with whom you cannot be intimate. On the other hand, you can have a friend with whom you can share your secrets, a co-worker who supports your values, and with these people you may be able to find intimacy. You can even find moments of intimacy with people you don’t know—someone sitting next to you on a long flight, or with the clerk in the check-out line at the grocery store, or with a homeless person on the street, if you’re willing to be really present to that other—if you’re willing to enter into Buber’s "I-thou" relationship, just for a moment. The "I-thou"—that recognition of the sacred in another. Naturally, you cannot be fully present to all people all the time—that would be exhausting. These special moments come by choice and they come by grace.

Intimacy over a period of time leads to love. Love must be grounded in the reality of the other, and that reality is revealed through these times of intimacy. I am especially privileged as a minister to be with people at the most profound moments of their lives—when they lose a spouse, when they are in crisis, when they decide to marry. Oftentimes someone will come in for a counseling session, sit down in the chair opposite me, and just begin weeping. Sometimes they say, "Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry." And I say, "This is the place for crying." And then they tell me of their pain, and I find that they are beautiful to me and I am loving them. Why? Because this level of real is just so rare and so endearing.

Many of you know St.Exupery’s little prince. In this scene from that story, the fox and the little prince have a conversation, a conversation which lays out before us the path and pleasures of intimacy:

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."

"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."

"What does that mean—‘tame’?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties."

"’To establish ties’?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . . . If you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. . . . . Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me!"

Perhaps the most problematic kind of intimacy is that which includes sexual intimacy. This can be the most fulfilling and complete of all relationships—but it is frightening, because just as the potential for great pleasure is there, there is also the potential for great pain. This closeness draws us like no other. I have wondered at the power of it. It is not just desire that is so compelling. I believe that this relationship recapitulates our earliest love relationship, that with our mother. In the womb, we are enfolded and literally all our needs are met. And in our earliest days and weeks after birth, we enter into a symbiotic relationship with our mother, in which our very survival depends on her milk. We are held in her arms, and we feel safe. We will never come close to this kind of physical intimacy again until we partner with one we love. And the loss of that love can threaten our very sense of survival—that is how powerful it is. So we look for it and we often fail and we look again.

I remember looking for love when, as a young woman, I took my first job as an English teacher in New Orleans. I knew no one in town except the man I was planning to marry—but I broke the engagement and found myself alone in the city. Months of loneliness went by: my life consisted of going to school, preparing lesson plans, and grading papers. Boring. Finally I decided to take action. I sought out the help of one of the very first computer dating services in the nation. This was the deal. I had to fill out an extensive questionnaire, send that in, plus $8.00, and then I was guaranteed the names of three men in the New Orleans area who were compatible with me. I was pretty excited about the possibilities here. So I sent my stuff in, and I waited. A month went by. Two months. Still I didn’t hear from the computer. Four months went by, six months. I was about to give up when the letter finally came! I ripped it open, and the computer had written just a simple sentence: "We are sorry to inform you that no one in the New Orleans area is compatible with you." "I knew it—I knew it!" I said to myself. And they didn’t even return the $8.00. I wondered for years why I got that answer. Looking back, I think it was because I checked the box on the questionnaire that said ABSOLUTELY NO SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE.

Well, times have changed. But people are still looking for love in all the wrong places. Garrison Keillor writes an advice column on the subject, and his advice in this particular column is surely hopeful for Unitarian women. A man writes in for help. He begins:

"Dear Mr. Blue,

I’m a sportswriter from Northern California, now living in a Midwestern city, and my once happy social life has hit a losing streak. There was the recent divorcee who sent me dirty e-mails after our first date . . . . There was the lanky Russian emigree turned redneck. There was the voluptuous bartender who jumped me on our first date, then blew me off when I told her I’m not that kind of boy. What’s to be done? Move back West? Quit dating?

Gathering Dust

Dear Gathering,

You are hanging out in the wrong place, maybe in a sports bar with giant-screen TV and free stale popcorn with that yellow napalm topping, and so you have encountered a covey of aggressively needy women who need to throw themselves at men in order to distract them from the Bears game. Try a new location, like the Unitarian church. Not a redneck in the bunch. Unitarian women are sexy but incredibly thoughtful and sensitive and also passionate about ethics. They won’t try to jump you on the first date; they’ll want to know how you feel about economic justice first. They are not voluptuous because they often fast in protest of something or other, and when not fasting, they eat things made from tofu and exotic mushrooms. You will need to learn to folk dance and sit through lectures on American foreign policy by speakers from third world countries, but this is a small price to pay for happiness. If you can’t find Unitarians, try Methodists. They’re Unitarians trying to pass for Christian."

Well, that’s the advice today from Lake Wobegon.

Maybe we go after intimacy because instinctively we know we need it. Scientific studies have begun to strongly suggest that those who have intimate relationships in their lives are healthier and live longer.

Let me tell you about Roseto, a small town in the eastern part of Pennsylvania. Something strange was going on there. They smoked as much as people in nearby Bangor. They ate similar food, and they went to the same doctors and hospitals. Yet they seemed all but immune from heart disease—their death rate from heart attacks was significantly lower. Why? Well, Roseto was characterized by a very tight-knit social life. Founded by immigrants from Southern Italy, it had many three-generation households with strong commitments to both church and family. But all that changed in the 1960’s, and when these traditions eroded, so did Roseto’s health. By the mid-70’s the residents were as mobile and anonymous as other Americans—and just as prone to heart disease.

Another telling study. California researchers followed 4,700 residents of Alameda County for 10 years, starting in 1965. At the beginning of the study, the participants checked off their key sources of companionship and estimated the time they devoted to each. Over the course of the study, the people who reported the least social contact died at nearly three times the rate of those reporting the most. Since that time researchers have studied men, women, soldiers, and students all over the world. And the same pattern keeps turning up. Women who say they feel isolated die of breast and ovarian cancer at several times the normal rate. When volunteers were exposed to a cold virus, the most isolated got sick at four times the rate of those with the most social ties.

Growing evidence supports Dr. Dean Ornish’s thesis in his book Love and Survival. He writes: "Love and intimacy are at the root of what makes us sick and what makes us well. I am not aware of any other factor in medicine—not diet, not smoking, not exercise—that has a greater impact." Social isolation keeps the autonomic nervous system on constant alert, and that kind of stress affects the immune system. On the other hand, companionship gives us an opportunity to share feelings that otherwise would fester. Texas psychologist James Pennebaker puts it very scientifically—he says, "If you don’t talk out your traumas, you’re screwed." Think about it. What happens when we begin to feel loved? Somehow our suffering subsides. Our deepest wounds begin healing, and we start to feel safe enough to relax and let our bodies restore themselves to health.

Unfortunately, we are a people growing more and more isolated. In 1900, only 5 percent of U. S. households consisted of one person. The proportion grew to 13 percent in 1960, and it stands at 25 percent today. Community meetings, card games, dinner parties, shared family meals—all of these are in decline. We’re too busy, we say. The Harris poll has measured what they call the "alienation index" for 33 years. That index has increased from an average of 29 in the 1960’s to 52 in the 1970’s, peaking at 67 in 1995. In this year’s survey, one measure in the poll--the percentage of people who feel left out of things around them--increased 13 points to 46 percent.

What is causing this increased isolation? Social structures have radically changed, of course. We move frequently, and we find ourselves in huge anonymous cities. Perhaps we have gone to a new city for a job, as many have done in Portland, as I did eight years ago, and found that I did not know a single person in the city. The first thing I did was to go out and get myself a therapist—not because I had mental health problems—but so that I would have somebody to talk to. I had to buy intimacy. That’s what a lot of psychotherapy is, these days.

And then there is the effect of technology on our personal and social lives. First we noticed little changes. People began pumping their own gas—everywhere except, thank goodness, in Oregon. The bank put up ATM’s and discouraged face-to-face encounters. Bigger got to be better—that is, more efficient—and our little neighborhood pharmacy went out of business, so we started going to Walgreens, where we saw a different pharmacist every time we went.. We have voice mail, answering machines, and strangely now people make a decision whether or not to answer when they hear the voice of their closest friend. Society is perpetually concerned with avoiding intimacy.

It would be redundant to say that computers have revolutionized our society. People telecommute instead of showing up at an office, where they might have to encounter bothersome and unpredictable flesh. E-mail connects us with friends and relatives instantly, all over the world—a miracle! And yet, the handwritten letter is rare, and the telephone call is just inconvenient, so even the voice is missing. We can shop on-line, so we don’t have to deal with those messy trips to stores and waste our time actually touching things, feeling textures, leafing through books, smelling the baking bread--experiencing the sensuality of the concrete world. Our world has become a virtual world.

This way of being is creeping over into our most sacred rituals. My biggest problem when I do weddings is the guests who come with huge cameras around their necks, determined to get all the best shots. I have done weddings in which bulbs were flashing all over the place, in which guests would stand up in front of other guests to get better angles. I now ask the ushers to warn guests not to take pictures during the ceremony. Sometimes they do anyway, and I have been know to hesitate between the holy words and glare at them. I even had a recent request to take photos during a memorial service. Some people would rather have a virtual experience than be present for the real experience. A sign of the times.

And if there is alienation in the larger culture, there is surely alienation, fragmentation, in the family, as well. The Religious Right is always talking about the breakdown of the family, and you know, they are right. I don’t care for their analysis or their regressive solutions. But they are right in pointing out that there is a problem, a problem which liberals have largely ignored. With both men and women working, we haven’t figured out a way to adequately care for children. Huge societal problem. Prosperous parents too often give their children things—fashionable clothing, CD players, even cars, in high school—things, but not their parents’ company or caring or values to guide them in this confusing and complex society. Children grow up wise to the ways of the world and innocent of the wisdom of their elders. Members of the family come and go, connected not by meals, conversation, games, and such, but connected by wires—the wires to the TV sets and CD players and computers in their homes—and so really they are not connected at all.

In our homes, we lock our doors and use security systems. Some of us live in gated communities with private security forces. The world seems dangerous, and so we raise our windows in our air conditioned cars, turn up the volume on the stereo system, and move in our own little bubble through streets that we no longer take responsibility for. This is an age in which there has been a massive transfer of resources from the public to the private sector, and we are divided from our brothers and sisters and no longer see that we have a common destiny. And we wonder why our public schools are suffering? And we wonder why prisons are filled to overflowing? We are experiencing the triumph of private life over the public good, the public good that makes a civilization worthwhile. There is no such thing as a satisfying intimate life for any one party or one family in the midst of others’ pain, for their pain will bleed over into our own lives, and ultimately we will learn that our sense of belonging comes from our connection to the larger scheme of things, not just to our own personal happiness.

Am I suggesting this morning, then, that we throw out our TV’s, our computers, our answering machines? Well, maybe the TV. No, but I am suggesting that we be thoughtful in how we use technology. Our criteria for using these devices should shift. Thus far we have been asking the wrong questions. The creators and purveyors of new technology ask but two questions: "Is it possible?" and "Will it sell?" These are questions without any redeeming social value, other than the market. Consumers ask: "Can I get more information this way?" "Is this method more efficient?" "Is this entertaining?" But these questions are not the core questions we need to ask—because you see beneath all the wiring, the same human need for connection remains. So perhaps we should ask: "Is this device a diversion from my loneliness?" "Does this device help me form and maintain relationships?" "What kind of knowledge do I really need, and what is superfluous?" "How does this particular technology affect my relationship with the natural world?" And how about this one: "Does this device help me keep my heart open?"

Because intimacy is so hard to come by in the larger culture, we tend then to demand too much from our marriages and partnerships. No relationship can carry this burden. In the not-too-distant past, people married not just because everybody married, but because it was too hard not to be partnered. Women couldn’t support themselves financially, for one thing. And people who settled in more rural areas tended to be part of a long-lasting and intimate network of relationships, both family and community. Life was harder. People died younger. You were not just married to a person, but committed to a way of life. I can’t really imagine a farm wife in the middle of the Depression years saying to her husband, "Honey, I just have to have more intimacy."

But just that phrase is used overwhelmingly today. A romantic partner must be all things to us: lover, friend, intellectual companion, playmate, and parent. A lot of partnerships break under the load. Back to computer dating. Those personals ads, if honest, would hint of these overweening expectations. One from a woman might read something like this: "WANTED: brilliant and fun-loving guy who can lift me out of my depression and make me believe life is worthwhile again. Also helps if you are a great cook." Or a man might write: "WANTED: sexy thing, intelligent but with low self-esteem. Be short. Be blonde. With you, I could boost my ego and self-confidence."

Trouble is, people are not commodities. We can’t get one off the shelf, and we are not going to find one who will "meet all our needs." Where did we ever get the idea that all our needs should be met? Not since the womb. That’s not what it’s about.

So this dimension that we need so desperately in our lives, this dimension of intimacy, this soul connection, eludes us so easily. What should we do, then, to create the intimacy that we need? How do we overcome the fear? How do we struggle with a culture that works so assiduously against closeness? Well, that is the subject matter of next week’s sermon. I invite you back then.

But today let me leave you with this thought. Human life is not about getting new toys. It’s not about the Dow Jones average. It’s not about winning. It’s not even about "being my best self." It’s about loving. Really. It’s as simple as that. I wish that all of you could go with me and be a fly on the wall when I plan memorial services with families. Nobody says, "Hey, Joe made a mint." Or "This guy—wow, was he efficient!" No. They say things like this: "I remember so many evenings when Dad threw a football with me, until it was just too dark to see the ball." Or they might say, "He laughed from way deep inside—he loved life so much." Or maybe the tears just flow, and the widow looks at me through her tears, and says nothing, and yet I know she’s thinking how much she will miss this man she adored, the one who told her his stories, his longings, his fears, and she knows how empty her bed will be.

No, intimacy isn’t easy. Our intentions get twisted, our voices distorted. It doesn’t always work. But we keep trying. We keep trying because we long to touch that center, that depth, in another—and we long to have it touched in us. We keep on trying because that’s where our true story resides, and if our story falls untold, we are nothing. We will not have lived.

May we choose to do what is the hardest thing to do in this world, but what is the most essential. May we choose, in spite of all our fears and frustrations, to keep our hearts open. It’s really, you know, the only way.

So be it.

PRAYER

Spirit of Life, we struggle daily against loneliness, against isolation. In our emptiness, we are driven to diversion, but the longing remains. Help us find a way to make our lives less fragmented and given more to the common good. Let us know how much we need one another. Every day we are tempted by our fears to dismiss our hearts. Bring us back again and again to the center where true life is found.

Amen.

BENEDICTION

May the love you need come your way, and may you have a heart that is open to receive it. Go in love and go in peace. Amen.

CALL TO WORSHIP

Welcome to our worship service this morning. May those of you who come with a weary spirit find some measure of peace. May those who need to be inspired have your hearts lifted up. May those who come to learn and to explore a new faith, may you find this fertile ground. Come let us worship together.

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