by Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

A sermon given March 20, 2005

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

CALL TO WORSHIP

Good morning!

We come here this day

To acknowledge the best that is within us,

To vow once again to live out of our truest values,

To make love and compassion the guiding forces of our lives.

Come, let us worship together!

People are storytellers—people in all cultures, in all times, since the beginning of art on cave walls—people tell stories.  Why is this such a universal practice?  We have to tell stories, I think, for otherwise we would be lost.  We are exiles moving from the unknown at the time of our birth to a brief time of living on this earth, and then back to the unknown.  We have discovered so much, learned, invented so much—and yet all our knowledge is no more than a single speck of sand upon the vast beach of time and space.  We tell stories because our experience seems arbitrary, random, and stories give structure to that experience.  We live in mystery, and move in uncertainty, and we are driven to make meaning, and so we tell stories.  Stories like this one:

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth./ And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.  And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters./ And God said, Let there be light: and there was light./ And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness./ And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.  And the evening and the morning were the first day.”

And another story, from the Buddha:  There was a man traveling across a field, and this man encountered a tiger.  He fled, the tiger after him.  Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge.  He looked up and saw the hungry tiger above; trembling, he looked down into the deep crevasse below.  Only the vine sustained him.  Two mice, one white and one black, started to gnaw away the vine.  The man saw a luscious strawberry near him.  Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other.  How sweet it tasted!

“Call me Ishmael,” and we are drawn into the great American novel Moby Dick, the story of a man whose gigantic ego destroys everything in its path.  And then there is the folk story that begins, “Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl named Cinderella.  She was very poor, and her wicked stepmother made her sweep the cinders from the hearth . . .”  The Prince, of course, saves her from her fate, and they live happily ever after. 

So long as there is birth and death, and the long season of questioning in between, so long as people suffer and reach for love, so long as people want to find a path for right living—that is how long stories will be told.

Many of us have found that telling our own stories can be a redemptive experience—that is to say, our own stories can give meaning and direction to our particular lives, can deepen us emotionally and spiritually, and in the telling can help to heal old wounds.  You see, the child we were is with us still—we never leave that tiny, fragile child completely behind.  And especially when that child has been hurt or frightened or disregarded—and who has not?—that experience is internalized: it becomes part of our very flesh.  Even when the initiating event has been long forgotten, the memory is stored there in the subconscious—and our lives come to be directed from that powerful undercurrent, more than we would want to believe.  So one reason for telling our story is bringing to consciousness that which has been repressed—denied, because at the time it happened, perhaps we were not strong enough to deal with it.  But as adults we are, and we need to.  Why?  Because we want to choose, and not be driven by our less conscious motives—and in a contest for dominance between the conscious mind and the subconscious, the subconscious always wins.   

And then another reason for telling our story is that when we do so, we have an opportunity to see themes which emerge—maybe we begin our narrative, and we see that it is full of whining and blaming and self-pity.  There it is, plain to see, on the page, or to hear in our voice.  We realize that we’re not happy with this version of our story—and we begin to reframe our experience in a more positive way—not to romanticize it or deny it, but to own it as an adult, not as that fragile child.  Sometimes we may begin to recall memories that have been long out of our conscious minds.  As you tell that story about the whipping you got for stealing the apples that you didn’t steal, you may remember that you actually did steal the apples.  You’re able to claim the deed now. 

And another consideration: whereas your daily life may seem to drift along without a particular direction, a story demands a structure, a theme that will unify it, a turning point perhaps, and then a denouement, an ending that brings everything together, more or less.  And so when we put our story into words, we are asked to make sense of our experience—not necessarily to overtly explain our experience, or to defend our behavior, no, but simply to structure towards meaning.  That’s plenty enough. 

When you dredge up those early memories, you will put yourself in a context—in a family, in a place.  There is no you without those who birthed you and raised you; there is no you without a cultural context, a language, a class distinction, and so forth.  The past is always, always carried into the future, and the shadow of the past is always falling on the present.  Writing is the process of shining a light into those shadows, and when you do so, there is often an awakening of consciousness.  Sometimes it is a veritable explosion of consciousness.  It was so in my own life.

I was a young wife and mother when my awakening happened.  I was living in Lexington, KY, married to a surgeon, a good man, and was a stay-at-home mom with two young sons.  I had plenty of money, a beautiful home, friends.  But I began having mysterious headaches, which the doctor said were psychosomatic.  He sent me to group therapy.  I also decided that I needed to get out of the house, to take a class, because my brain was turning to mush from disuse—I badly needed some strokes, and I had always been good at school.  So I signed up for a creative writing course with Wendell Berry.  Wendell was teaching at the University of Kentucky and was just becoming well-known at the time. 

For my first assignment, I did an essay on examinations—it was the first subject I happened to think of.  I was confident I had written well—I knew about sentence structure and punctuation, and I had a way with words.  But at the end of the next class session when Wendell returned our papers, there was not a single mark on my paper, not the A I had expected, not any grade at all—Wendell had written at the top of the paper only five words:  “Give me something of yourself.”  I stood there clutching the paper in my hands, big tears welling up in my eyes, and then tumbling out.  I was embarrassed, Wendell was ill at ease.  But I had no words, just tears.  I left the classroom.

All that semester I wrote various kinds of papers, mainly articles for the local newspaper—one of them being a review of Wendell’s latest book, The Memory of Old Jack—“Ha, take that!”  But I could not do what he had asked: “Give me something of yourself.”  Then the night before the final class, I decided to try.  I stayed up all night typing a 19-page autobiographical piece on my old Remington portable, the one I got for high school graduation.  The last couple of pages were done with my older son Kash sitting on my lap.  I didn’t have time to read over the paper even once before getting ready to leave for class. 

But then, a major problem—the baby sitter didn’t show up.  What to do?  At that moment, a strong feeling came over me, one that I could not deny or resist—something told me that I had to go to class, no matter what.  It was December, and snowing outside.  I put the two boys in their snowsuits and put them in the back of the red Volvo station wagon and drove to the hospital.  I took them up to the fourth floor, where their father was doing surgery, and I said to the nurses, “Dr. Sewell is going to have to take care of his children this morning.”  I don’t know what drove me to take this step.  I’m a good girl.  I never do things like this.  I just knew I had to be in class that day.  I knew the children would be fine—the nurses were saying, “Oh, how cute, oh, they’re so darling, etc, etc.”

We sat in a circle in that writing class, and my place was just to the left of Wendell.  “Who would like to read this morning?” he said. “Marilyn?” and he gestured to me.  I said, “Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe.”  And he went all the way around the circle.  Well, it was final exam time, and no one had anything to read.  So Wendell said, “Well, let’s try again—Marilyn?”  So I reluctantly agreed to read my unedited manuscript.  I read through the whole 19 pages, never taking my eyes off the script, and crying the whole time.  I read about my depression, about my failure as a teacher in Liverpool, England, about my love for my students, about the birth of my first child, and on and on.  I gave Wendell, I gave all of the students that day, something of myself, as honestly as I could write it. When I finished, I threw the paper at Wendell, and I said, “Here—here’s what you wanted.”  And I looked up, and the students were all crying, and each one came over and gave me a hug and left the room, in silence.  Wendell’s eyes were a bit moist, too, but he only said, “Don’t let yourself think of this as finished.”

And of course it was not finished—it had just begun—my new life, that is.  I had written about my anger, my sadness, my deep love, my longing, my failures, my mistakes, my generosity, my courage, and my fear—I had written about all that I was, and I was accepted, not because I was smart or pretty or a leader, but because I was a real human being, I was accepted just as I was and loved for what I was—I had made friends with the person inside, and the judge in me had quieted down, and the lover had been released.  I knew when I left the classroom that day that the old order had been overturned, and I could never return there.  I continued my work with Wendell, doing independent study, and once I remember saying to him, “Wendell, you changed my life.”  He would have none of it.  He said, “No, I didn’t change your life.  You changed your life.  I just asked you to use words well.”

I tell you my story because it is my witness to the power of words.  I tell you not because I think all of you should become writers—that is not what the story is about.  The story is about the power of self-revelation.  It is about being honest before witnesses and having those trusted witnesses hear and confirm your truth.  The same thing can happen in psychotherapy, or with close friends who have the depth of character and the courage to hear, or in a writing group.  The witnessing piece is important, to close the circle.

It is a dangerous endeavor, this using words well.  So be forewarned. As one of my writer friends says, “Just choosing the right metaphor sometimes can change your life.”  You have heard my witness.  All the changes were not easy, not for me and not for others.  This is not a fairy tale where everyone lives happily ever after—it is a messy human story.  But it is my story, and the only story that has integrity for me. 

I tell other people’s stories frequently—they are called eulogies, and I tell them at their memorial services.  Every one of you will have such a story told about you, either formally at the church or informally, at some more inauspicious place.  In my long experience as a minister, let me tell you about the sad stories and the happy ones, the grown children who are bereft at the loss, and those who are left content.  The adult children of the parent who could never face up to his or her life, who never gave the children what they needed perhaps because that parent never was fulfilled, the parent who compromised to avoid every confrontation, or gave way to addiction, or had multiple affairs—these are the parents whose memorials have a tragic tone.  Jung says that children are driven unconsciously to compensate, dragging the burden of their parents’ unfulfilled dreams into their own lives.  And the children, at whatever age, find it hard to let go of such a parent—they are forever hoping that that parent will change, will give them what they need, and now with death, that hope is forever dashed.  Love your children, but live your own life, and let your children live theirs.  Those parents’ lives can be celebrated at death.  And I find that they are.

As I said, it is a dangerous endeavor to tell your story.  But to do so is not only redemptive for us, but for those who hear our story—just ask those who have shared their stories in small group experiences here at the church or in our retreats.  When I share personal stories from my own life in sermons, I tremble, I’m always fearful, especially in church—but I find that my story ends up being some variation of the story of so many others, because I’m just a human being, and we all go through so much of the same stuff in our living.  It makes us feel less alone to hear others’ stories.

And yet each story is unique.  You don’t have to be a great writer to tell a fascinating story—each one of you has at least one great story—your own—and if it is authentically told, it will be beautiful—trust me.  I encourage you to find ways to tell it, if you are so inclined.  We hold retreats here in our Adult Education program, and I hope we can offer some writing classes this next church year.  In the meantime there are other writing classes and groups in other settings, and I would encourage you to seek out such a group.  Nowadays some people who are moving into their older years are writing their autobiographies for their children and grandchildren.  What a gift this kind of thing is!  That’s what your children want—they want your stories.  Don’t wait until you are not afraid, because that time will never come.  Don’t wait until you are wise enough, because telling your story is a path to your wisdom. 

The piece that Kate read earlier from Susan Griffin was called “Naming.”  Before we name something, for all practical purposes, it does not exist.  As we name, as we order, we move with more clarity and light.  We discourage the unconscious judge and make way for the lover in us to flourish.  May you name, may you tell your story, may you find yourselves beautiful and good.  For so you are.  So be it.  Amen.

PRAYER

Holy One, give us the courage to look within, to tell the truth about ourselves, first of all to ourselves, and then to others.  Give us the faith that the new life we wish for will be ours.  And when we go through the shadows and difficult places of life, sustain us through it all, that our story may just grow richer and deeper.  Amen.

BENEDICTION

As you leave this place today, I charge you to use words well, that you may live well, and love well.  Amen.

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Copyright 2005, Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell.  All rights reserved.