by Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

A sermon given September 8, 2002

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

CALL TO WORSHIP

Good morning, and welcome!

May we know once again

that we are not isolated beings,

but connected, in mystery and miracle,

to the universe,

to this community,

and to one another.

Welcome home, on this Homecoming Sunday.

Many years ago, I was vacationing with my sons at a lakeside setting. They were just little boys then, around 9 and 10. I will never forget an encounter we heard that day between a father and his young son. It was a painful encounter and it went like this. Apparently the father had been trying to teach the little tyke to fish, and the lesson wasn’t going well. The father was furious with his son, who couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7, and so there was the father, standing on the pier, shaking a fishing pole, towering over the boy and saying in a booming voice, "You’re not listening! You’re stupid, just plain stupid! Now, say you’re sorry. Say sorry." The boy’s face was red and flooded with tears. He could hardly get his breath, much less speak.

Words count. Words are important. I’ve thought about this boy from time to time and wondered how he is doing as an adult. He would be about 25 now. Does he still hear his father’s voice saying, "Stupid! You’re just stupid!" Has he internalized that message? Or has he been fortunate enough to have other voices in his life, voices that are encouraging, forgiving, loving?

Sound may enter through the ears and go to the brain, but words don’t stop there—the brain floods the whole body with meaning. Words can make us stand straight and tall, to hold our heads up with pride and confidence—or words can make us round our shoulders and look down at the ground, hoping we can hide from the presence of others. Words can heal, and words can make us sick.

I heard a fascinating story on public radio last week. There is a doctor, and I didn’t catch his name, a cardiologist who has focused on the connection between the physiological heart and the emotional heart. He feels that they are more closely connected than we generally think. He recounted an incident that took place many years ago when he was a medical resident, doing rounds with a teaching doctor. At that time, he said, patients who had heart attacks would be kept in the hospital for long weeks, as they healed. So as the doctors were making rounds that day, they stopped beside the bed of a patient who asked the physician in charge, "Doctor, do you think I’ll be able to go home for Thanksgiving?" The doctor chuckled and said, "You’ll be lucky if you’re home by New Year’s." At that moment, the patient—to everyone’s horror—went into convulsions and died of another heart attack. They did not have the means of resuscitation that they do now, and could do nothing to save him.

The student doctor, who is now a teaching doctor, said that this experience affected him deeply, and he began to understand how important it is to practice compassion in medicine—which is the focus of his teaching now—and how important it is to choose carefully the language you use with a patient. He told another story of a patient of his who was desperately ill—in fact this doctor didn’t think the man would make it—but lo and behold, the patient miraculously seemed to get better, left the hospital, and came in for a check-up a few weeks later. He explained to the doctor the moment when the tide seemed to turn for him. He said, "Do you remember the day, doctor, when you were doing rounds and you listened to my heart and you said to the intern, ‘Listen to this heart, how it is galloping?" Yes, the doctor remembered. "Well, I said to myself," the patient continued, "if my heart is galloping, it must be strong! I’m going to be all right." The cardiologist then explained to the radio audience that the last thing in the world you want is a galloping heart—that’s the sign of a heart in trouble. But the patient thought he was getting well, and so he did. The doctor went on to say that he’s not discounting disease and saying it’s all in the mind, by any means—but the words we use can set off an amazing train of events.

Think now with me about your own experience. Are there words that have pulled you down, caused you to shrink, to become a smaller person, rather than to grow into your fullness of being? Are there other words that picked you up, set you on your feet, gave you the courage that you needed in a difficult time?

I remember an incident that took place when I was in the sixth grade. It was just before Christmas, and the school was giving a choir concert to the community. I had just bought the fabric for my little costume—just a square of white to wear over my blouse, with a black bow—and we were doing the final practice at school that day. While we sang, the fifth grade teacher came and listened to us individually as we sang. Her name was Miss Linton—she was a maiden lady, a skeleton of a woman with hollow cheeks and a long thin nose. She stopped, cocked one hand around her ear, and leaned forward to hear me. After a few seconds, she looked up and said to the choir teacher, "You’re not going to let her sing, are you?" And I didn’t sing that Christmas. Now this didn’t crush me for life—I went on to sing in choirs both in high school and in college—but I still remember the humiliation of that day. We can’t afford to be careless with words. Words don’t disappear; they often just dig deeper. They become part of our self-talk. They are the voice of our internal critic.

My internal critic is strong, and I fight with her, argue with her. She lists for me the things I have failed to do. She nags me to be more responsible. She tells me that I am overweight, and that I really have to lose 10 more pounds or I will never, ever be loved. I have to give it to her—she has helped me to be successful, because she relentlessly pushes me to such high standards. But I’m never good enough, never smart enough, never pretty enough for her. Truthfully, I’m getting sick and tired of putting up with her, and she’s losing influence fast. Another voice is coming to the fore, drowning out her voice. This voice—and it must be the voice of God, though it comes to me through people who love me—this voice says, "You’re good enough—not perfect, but then only God is perfect, so stop trying to play God. And about your body—it’s not cute and little like Doris Day, but hey, you never wanted to be like Doris Day—you’re more like Sophia Loren, so enjoy it. Enjoy your largess. And responsibility—you’ve overdone that sense of responsibility thing all your life. Maybe you need to try ‘easy’ for a while; maybe you need to try ‘joy.’"

Sometimes it’s the words that are not said that are the problem. Several years ago on Mother’s Day, I preached a sermon entitled "An Open Letter to My Children." I have two sons, both young adults, and in this sermon I shared with the congregation the advice and counsel I wrote to my sons. Not that they asked for it—but they got it anyway. I told my sons, Kash and Madison, what I thought about all the important stuff of life—about money and sex and love and forgiveness, and so on and so forth—and then I ended with this paragraph: "The last thing I want to say is the most important. No matter where you travel on this wide earth, no matter what trouble assails you, no matter how big a mistake you think you have made—you will never be alone. My love will be there with you. You will always be my sons, and I’ll always be your mother. I’ll always love you, I’ll always be on your side."

I noted that with this sermon came an amazing outpouring of emotion from the congregation—it was what we call in the business a three-hanky sermon. Why all this feeling? As people came through the line to greet me after the benediction, they said things like, "I only wish my father would have told me that he loved me"; or "I wish my parents had written me a letter like that." These are the words people are literally dying to hear, as the poem by Hafiz says. "Why not become the one/ Who lives with a full moon in each eye/ That is always saying,/ With that sweet moon/ Language,/ What every other eye in this world/ Is dying to/ Hear."

On last September 11, high in the air, from inside airplanes and in the top stories of skyscrapers, doomed men and women used their final moments to say goodbye to those they loved. Some updated listeners on developments, like seasoned reporters, a few asked for advice, but almost all the calls were, in the end, love letters. Brian Sweeney, 38, left a message to his wife Julie, on the answering machine: "Hey, Jules. It’s Brian. I’m on a plane that’s been hijacked. It doesn’t look good. I just want to tell you how much I love you. I hope that I can call you again. But if not, I want you to have fun. I want you to live your life. I know I’ll see you someday." Eight minutes later, Sweeney’s plane crashed into the south tower of the World Trade Center.

Elizabeth Wainio, 27, on Flight 93, spoke for 11 minutes with her stepmother Esther Heymann. "I’ve got my arms around you, honey," Esther said. "I love you."

"I feel them, and I love you, too," Elizabeth said. They were quiet for a moment, then Elizabeth thought of her family and said, "It just makes me so sad knowing how much harder this is going to be on you than it is for me." After a period of silence, she said, "I should be talking. I’m sitting here being quiet, I’m not even talking." "We don’t have to talk, we’re together," Esther said. Words of caring, words of reassurance, words of faith.

I’ve just read portions of a book, Among the Heroes, by Jere Longman, a reporter for the New York Times—it’s the story of United Flight 93, the story of the passengers who fought back as terrorists attempted to take over their plane. The passengers ultimately thwarted the attempt, bringing the plane down in a field near Pittsburgh. It’s fascinating reading, learning about the lives and personalities of these courageous people, seeing their pictures, trying to piece together what happened on that fateful day.

We don’t really know precisely what happened, of course, but after looking at the available data, Jere Longman made some educated guesses. One of the most telling pieces of data is the voice recorder retrieved from the plane. In the final minutes of the flight, says Longman, the recorder picked up "a desperate commotion, a feral struggle, rustling and scuffling, grunting, a groan, shouts in English and Arabic, the sound of crashing dishes and breaking glass. . . . . At 9:58, the final battle for control of the plane began. The passengers are coming, trying to get into the cockpit, the hijackers are telling each other to hold the door." "Stop him!" Someone shouts. "Let’s get them!" one of the passengers yells. The hijackers can be heard praying: "God is great." Near the end of the tape, muted voices grow louder, the scuffling continues. A final rushing sound is heard, and about three minutes after 10:00, the tape goes silent.

Voices from this final heroic struggle could not be positively identified, but I would like to tell you about one of the passengers who was most likely a leader in the counter-attack. His name is Todd Beamer, a 32-year-old account manager for a software company. At 9:45 he withdrew the phone from a seat-back and reached Lisa, a customer service supervisor for the airline. Todd spoke to her in a soft, calm voice, explaining that three people, two with knives and one with a bomb, had hijacked the plane. He said he was fine, free to talk. Then his voice went up. "We’re going down, we’re going down. No, wait, we’re coming back up. We’re turning around. Oh, Jesus, please help us." Todd asked Lisa to recite the Lord’s Prayer with him, which she did, and then he began to recite the 23^rd Psalm. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me." Words to live by.

Todd told Lisa about his family, his two young sons, David and Andrew, and his wife, whose name was also Lisa, and who was expecting a third child. "If I don’t make it out of this, would you please call my family and let them know how much I love them?" he asked. "Of course," Lisa said.

At one point in his career, Todd traveled nearly half the days of each month, but lately he had cut back to four or five days a month, remaining in sales rather than advancing into management so that he could spend more time with his sons. The family had a number of pet sayings. When it was time for the kids to put away their toys, or put on their shoes for a trip outside, Todd would call out, "Let’s roll!" It was one of his favorite sayings.

Todd was able to maintain phone contact with Lisa, and he told her that a few of the passengers were going to "jump" the hijackers and try to get control of the plane. "Are you sure that’s what you want to do?" Lisa asked. "At this point, I don’t have much choice," Todd said. "I’m going to have to go out on faith." "I’ll stand behind you," Lisa said. "I’m going on faith." "I’ll stand with you." Words to live by.

They talked more about their families. She lived in Oak Brook, Illinois, and he had lived in nearby Wheaton. They both had two kids. He told her he was on a business trip. He thought about calling his wife but did not want to upset her if he didn’t have to. "I just want to talk to somebody and just let someone know that this is happening." This horror—both in the twin towers and in the airplanes—by and large did not make people hysterical, it made them lonely. What emerged was a terrible longing for connection.

Lisa heard then, in her words, "an awful commotion," men’s voices raised and women screaming. Todd seemed to turn away from the phone to speak with someone else. "You ready?" he said. "Let’s roll."

I reflect on Todd’s life. His wife described him as a man who could always figure out a way to get things done. As soon as Todd was around, she said, you always thought, "Okay, everything’s going to be all right." I wonder how Todd was brought up. I wonder if his dad put him to bed at night when he was a little nipper, just as he did his own sons. I can’t imagine that he was told he was stupid. No, I can imagine that his parents let him know that he was a good kid, that he was capable, that he could handle things. Apparently he was brought up in Sunday school and there he found scripture whose words gave him strength and direction. He believed that his actions could make a difference, and he refused to sit by and just let things happen to him and to others.

I think about our own lives, yours and mine. About the words we use, or fail to use. Words are imperfect instruments: they narrow experience even as they name; they can be terribly misunderstood, for connotations differ from person to person. But imperfect as they are, they are what we have. They can slash like a sword and leave a wound that lasts for a lifetime. Or they can be the balm of Gilead, soothing the pain of our living and giving us hope to go another day.

God doesn’t speak aloud to most of us—for sure, God doesn’t speak to me. But I do know this—if the Holy One is to speak, it will be through me—and through you and you and you. Take care with your tongue. Engage both mind and heart when you speak, for your words have great power. Every single day is an opportunity to practice speaking, to notice how we use words. What do you tell yourself about yourself? Be kind to yourself, be loving. You are a child of God, no less than anyone else. And how do you speak to others? The clerk in the store, the waitress? Your words will be a measure of your spiritual depth and maturity. Make your words be words you can live by, words that give life to all who cross your path. So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

Creator God, we ask for forgiveness for our careless speech. For the times we spoke without thinking, and hurt another. We ask for forgiveness also for our omissions, for not speaking when speaking would have made a difference, for not speaking when an injustice was being done, for not telling of our love when the love was there. We ask that you would lend us sensitivity in our use of language, that we would listen well, that we would respond out of loving kindness, to the end that this world might be a less lonely place because of the way we gift it with our words. Amen.

BENEDICTION

As I stand before you today, please know this, my people—I love you very much. This love is what holds me to you and to this great work that we do together. And now as you go from this place, may you vow to be the voice of the Beloved, the Holy One, in every word you speak.

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Copyright 2002, Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell.  All rights reserved.