by Leela Sinha, Assistant Minister

A sermon given October 8, 2006

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

Five girls died in Pennsylvania last week because someone shot them, execution style.  Five more girls were shot, but so far they have survived.  A principal was shot in Wisconsin, and a girl in Colorado.  Media reports to the contrary aside, we cannot really know why they died.

These are the ones that shock us, because school is supposed to be safe.  There are deaths every day, deaths that touch us because of where they are or who they are or who they could have been. 

It feels like the world is going to hell in a hand basket.  We are six months too early but it feels like our Lent has been handed to us, and it shows.

Some people say that darkness is necessary to help us appreciate the light.  That may be true, but it sounds suspiciously like my parents telling me I needed Brussels sprouts.  “Good for us” leaves us struggling, alone in a world that makes no sense without an external explanation.  There is more.  There must be more.

At the Service of the Living Tradition every year, the General Assembly of the UUA honors the ministers who have died in the past year with a litany of names.  We all stand and listen as the names of the dead are read aloud.  Why would we do this?  Why would we list them and sit with them, death after death, loss after loss, despair after despair?  Because we have to cry.  We have to be open to the pain.

Ivan E. Coyote (One Man’s Trash, p. 21) tells a story about a game called comb ball:

“My cousin claims he invented the game, but I swear it was me. …you need a rat-tail comb…[with a curve bent into the handle,] like a hockey stick, [and] a ping-pong ball…The game was invented to be played in a long, narrow hallway: …each opponent gets on their knees at either end.  You hold the handle of the comb in one hand and bend the comb back with the other, and let go.  The ping pong ball rebounds off the walls and floors…and the other guy tries to block the ball with any part of his completely unprotected body. 

"There were hazards … eventually my aunt stepped in, in an attempt to reduce the casualties.  She tried to ban comb ball altogether, but she was met by such a united front of dismay and pouting that she had to compromise.  We were only allowed to play until someone cried.

“…Of course, this added a masochistic element to the game we all enjoyed.  I would take a stinging shot to the lower lip and kneel motionless in the hallway, breathing deep through clenched teeth.  Everyone would stop, searching my face for any sign of moisture, which would signal the end of the game.  ‘Doesn’t hurt,’ I would whisper bravely.  ‘It doesn’t hurt.  It doesn’t hurt.  Let’s go.  My shot.’ Everyone would let out their breath and continue …Whoever cried ended the game.  Whoever cried sucked.  My aunt would march in and grab our combs and send us outside to play.”

Those were high childhood stakes: if you cried, if you felt it, if it hurt, then everything stopped.  If it hurt then you got sent outside, into the sunshine of a Yukon afternoon.  If you cried you ruined it for everyone.

Here’s the grown-up truth: if you cry, you’re not going to ruin anything.  Scout’s honor.  Even mascara streaks wash off, and no harm done. 

Have you ever made a peanut butter sandwich and added too much jam?  It doesn’t stay cooperatively where you put it; when you bite down it squeezes out the sides, gooey sticky stuff sliding across your fingers and onto the floor.

Sadness is like that.  It doesn’t just vanish; it doesn’t stay tucked-in. Under any kind of pressure it squeezes out sideways if it’s not addressed, and it looks like anger or fear, or plain stubbornness.  And usually when it comes out it makes a mess because you weren’t expecting it. 

We have a choice, though.  We can choose to see it and deal with it up front.  Too much jam?  Scoop the extra up on your finger.  Taste it.  Savor it.  Then add the second slice of bread and you’ll be on your way.

It sounds strange, to suggest that sorrow can be savored.  Perhaps we have to develop a taste for it, like wine.  It’s complicated.  Like wine, too much could be a problem.  Like wine, there are appropriate times and places.  Like wine, it’s a sour, bitter, sweet, complex taste.  But I believe that experiencing sadness is like any other basic bodily function: we need to do it regularly to keep all of our parts in working order.  It’s a relief to feel quiet and safe enough to step into the darkness.  In the Greek myth, Persephone spent part of each year in Hades—the underworld—and she did not seem afraid but her mother, grieving, sent the world into winter.  Greek winter is chilly and rainy and grey.  Sound familiar?  At this time of year the seasons invite us to sit still, to become contemplative, to turn inward…and gathered together, to be safe in experiencing our sorrow.

In our reading today Norris wrote, “Now that…he had really broken, I thought that there would be a chance for him to heal.”  And meanwhile, she prays the psalms.

Norris refers to the psalms often in her writing.  She is relieved that they are raw and human; she revels in the way that they express sadness, anger, and anger at god right in the holy words which mean so much to the way that she lives.  Praying the psalms is not quieting, but it is soothing, precisely because it dips into those deep and sometimes unacceptable emotional wells and pulls out deep draughts of rage and tears and heartbreak.  They are hard words.  They are challenging words.  They are honorable words.  They are forever part of the human story.  The five faces of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) are all there.  So are most other emotional states.  Joy and celebration are certainly part of life—but only in moderation.  All things in moderation.  The psalmists knew this and in their wisdom they comforted thousands upon thousands in ways that empty platitudes never can.

Pain is part of being human. 

It is not wrong, it is not bad to hurt.

It is right to cry when you hear that someone is dead,

even if you did not know that person.

It is right to feel your heart break when another child is shot in another school,

even if you have never lived in that state, in that district,

even if you have never had a child

even if you were home schooled.

It is right.

It is right to honor your grief by simply letting it be for a while.  It is part of your inner wisdom, and you reject it at your peril.  Some research implies that individuals who don’t grieve increase their risk for all kinds of health problems, from headaches to suppressed immune systems.  The difficult side of our emotional lives is as critical to our health as sleep. 

[Sometimes it’s pure chemistry.  Certainly clinical depression can be like that.  Sometimes what’s out of balance really is fixable right away, and we can all be incredibly grateful for the lifesaving miracles of good medical care.  Depression is a different case.

Sometimes, though, there are two layers of hurt.  If you break your arm, a painkiller might help ease the pain, but only a doctor and a cast and some immobility will actually allow you to heal.  Only attending to the pain will allow you to heal, and you will still have to work for it...]

But you don’t have to be overwhelmed.

It’s physical therapy for the soul.  Our culture encourages us to let our sadness muscles atrophy.  That’s risky business, turning off half of your brain.  Eventually, as with all atrophied muscles, you lose range of motion, strength, resilience, and circulation.  Then something happens, someone dies, tragedy hits, and you no longer have the resources.  It hurts more when you’re not prepared to respond appropriately.  Living a whole life is a full-time spiritual discipline, not something you can put down when it’s not convenient. 

In her poem “Wild Geese” (the one that begins, “you do not have to be good”), Mary Oliver writes:

whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination.

You might not be lonely at all,

but if you are,

(and you probably are)

the world still offers itself to you.

Have you ever loved someone who died?

If you have you may remember waking up that first morning,

the morning after your loved one was gone,

the beginning of the rest of your life

but not the rest of theirs,

and you may remember that awful

aching

gap,

and the very real shock

that anyone

or anything

could go on in the face of that loss.

No amount of training

no amount of reading or writing

or anything else

can soften the surprise.

It isn’t logical.

Trauma nurses and doctors and

lawyers who specialize in wills,

and ministers

…even poets stop short

when someone they love

is suddenly

irrevocably

gone.

So why should you pretend to go on?

Why smile?

Why be ashamed of tears?

In the face of sorrow we must grieve.  It is who we are; it binds us: all of us, all around the world, together.

In some parts of India, married women wear glass bangles; when they are widowed the priest comes and breaks the bangles, breaks them with stones so they fall, shattered, from their wrists; lie in shards, irreparably broken.  They are not going to be the same ever again; why pretend?

Living in community binds us together; tears and fury are tribute to the strength of our bonds.

Several summers ago there was a drug raid in Alberta, Canada.  Four members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were shot—killed in the line of duty.  Half a continent away in the capital city, flags flew at half staff for a month.  The whole country was in mourning.

Maybe the Canadians are soft.

Maybe it’s okay to be soft. 

People are dead; people are dying.

Just two weeks: five girls in Pennsylvania, a girl in Colorado, a principal in Wisconsin. 

People are dead.

Children are dead.

Soldiers and civilians are dying overseas.

People die in our cities every day.

Why are we not all in mourning?

We do not have to be afraid of the pain.  It is not sick or wrong to sit with it, to live in it, to experience it.

If you sidestep, stuff it, avoid it, or bottle it up, then you’re really asking for trouble.  You’re setting yourself up for failure.  You’re waiting for the day when it doesn’t fit because the bottle is full, the bag is stuffed, when the pain and despair are everywhere…

Sometimes they are everywhere anyway.

Sometimes it sneaks up on you.

Sometimes you couldn’t have prevented it if you tried.

But you increase your odds of being stuck if you don’t practice. 

I’ve noticed that people kayak here.  Kayaks are to Portland what cross-country skis are to Minneapolis.  And when people learn to kayak, they sometimes learn a maneuver called rolling. 

It’s not a complicated idea: if you flip upside down in a kayak, you can flip right side up again without getting out of the boat.  You start by recognizing your tools: your boat, your paddle, your weight, your hands.  Then you learn to use them.

Learning to roll a kayak is not something you usually want to do in whitewater, with rocks rushing by your head.  It is not something you do halfway through a six month open water sea kayaking adventure.  It is not something you do under stress, or anytime when you can’t get dry and warm afterward.  Usually people learn on clean shallow flatwater on a warm and sunny day with an instructor standing in the water to assist.

Learning to roll a kayak is a lot like learning to manage despair.  You don’t want to learn in rough waters, in a storm, when the end is not in sight.  And pretending that there will never be water rough enough to tip you over isn’t just a lie, it’s a dangerous lie.  It places you at risk; it also could hurt anyone else who shares your journey. 

These are rough waters we’re in.  It’s time we learned to navigate them.  We don’t have a calm lake, but we do have support.

The first step is this: don’t panic.

Have you noticed that times are challenging, difficult, stressful?

If you are not feeling challenged or under stress, you probably have already learned this first step.  Don’t panic.

But don’t ignore the world, either.  That will not help. 

Next, you get to feel.  Pick the safest place you can and drop into the experience.  The water’s cold; that’s okay.  You must remain aware that the water is cold; when you accept it as normal, then you risk losing your grip on hope.  Know that the water is rough and cold and the rocks are dangerous.  That’s okay.  Feel cold.  Feel nervous.  Feel tossed around.  Know that this is not the way it should be.  Know that it is anyway.

Notice: you’re not dying.

Notice: you have choices.

Notice: your instructor’s legs, in the water beside you.

Choose to be upright.

Feel the support, use the tools,

Work for it,

Roll.

In Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town” Emily has her famous “Goodbye World” monologue—a second chance at grieving what she has left behind.  But right at the end she asks, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?”

…and the answer comes from the stage manager, “No.” (pause) “The saints and poets, maybe they do some.”

He leaves us longing to be saints and poets, to make sense of our lives while we live them…but we already are; we already can.  Life is three-dimensional—we are wedded to this way of being, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, in health, in joy and in sadness—and if we allow all of it, we will step deeper into life.  If we all expect rejoicing when something good happens, grief when sorrow comes, if everyone lives into all the dusty corners of possibility, then our society will be begin to change.  Imagine that.  We need not leave ourselves with regrets.  Let it come.  Let it all come.  Live it all, for this is the only life we lead.

Blessed be, and amen.

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Copyright 2006, Leela Sinha.  All rights reserved.