Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, November 10, 2019

The letter fails, the systems fall, and every symbol wanes;
the Spirit overseeing all, Eternal Love, remains.

I love those words we just sang by Whittier, who lived just up the road from here; how they remind us that things do change and end, things fall apart or fade away. But in the midst of the change and loss, there is a Love that is eternal, that abides with us always. And we  are here to bask in the presence of that Love, to share it and be assured that it abides forever. To be renewed in hope and faith so we can go back out there, stronger and more joyful; “ever singing, march we onward.”

This month we’re reflecting on home, and we need places and communities that feel like home, that offer us renewal and sustenance. Not a place to hide from the world, or from who we are called to be, but home, as a place of peace and joy and hospitality, like we heard in John O’Donohue’s blessing “For a New Home”:

May this house shelter your life.
When you come home here,
May all the weight of the world
Fall from your shoulders.

May your heart be tranquil here,
Blessed by peace the world cannot give…

May there be great delight around this hearth.
May it be a house of welcome
For the broken and diminished.

I hope that this church is such a home; a place of solace and peace; a place of  generous welcome when you come across the threshold here. And if it’s not, if we have failed to live up to our aspiration to be a welcoming, caring faith community, then will you tell us? Tell me, or someone else here, so that we can do better.

Because we do fail one another sometimes. And we need to acknowledge this. We need to confess our faults, and make amends to those we have hurt or disappointed, and seek forgiveness. So we can learn and grow and do better. 

But I worry that in our society, we are not getting better at this; that we are getting worse. Each of us could cite examples of public figures who get caught doing something wrong, and then they hire a publicist and make a lame apology: “I’m sorry if anyone was offended.” But there’s no effort at making amends, the so-called apology is self-serving, just trying to restore their own image. Which is really different from taking responsibility for what you have done. Actually feeling bad about it and trying to fix the harm you’ve caused. That’s how you move on in a good and healthy way.

And it’s hard to do this. It feels vulnerable to give someone else the power; to put your life in their hands, to say, “I am sorry for what I did. Can you forgive me?” We need help to do this hard work of healing and reconciliation, places where this kind of trust and truth-telling is possible. And I hope this church is part of that.

Some years ago, I was in the car, listening to a conversation on WBUR about the difference between British and American culture. “Two nations,” George Bernard Shaw reportedly said, “divided by a common language.” The show was an interesting back and forth between these observers of the two very different cultures on different sides of the pond. 

I wonder about this sometimes. Is America, always on the move, the way it is because our ancestors were people who left home, seeking a better life? Is Britain, the land of tradition, the way it is because they are the people who stayed home? Of course, Britain has, in recent years, been shaped by its own immigrants, to the point that many say curry is now the national dish. 

Anyway, on that radio show one of the Brits said something that I’ve never forgotten. Talking about the differences between the two countries, he said, “Here in Britain, we have had to learn to build on our ruins. You Americans haven’t learned to do that yet.”

One summer during college I went to England, and was was struck to see that in London there were still some bombed-out buildings from World War II. I visited Coventry Cathedral, built in the 14th and 15th centuries, which was almost completely destroyed by German bombs in 1940. Church leaders decided to leave the ruins as they were. They inscribed the words, ”Father Forgive,” on the wall behind the altar of the ruined building. And they build a new cathedral right next to the ruins of the old one. 

When I was a child, we learned in school about the pioneer Daniel Boone, who said it was time to move when he could seen the smoke from his neighbor’s chimney. Our nation has always had the land for people to expand into, and central to our narrative is this idea of the far horizon, always beckoning. You know the saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” How often does this mean, “I can’t take it anymore, so I am out of here!”?

I am not against change, or leaving one place in order to start something new, which can be life-giving and liberating and a way to follow your calling. What I am concerned about is leaving as avoidance, running away the work that is right here, trying to run away from trouble. Because, in the end, it doesn’t work.

Just outside our doors, across the street and down the hill, are these large swaths of land that are now strip malls and parking lots where once there were old homes and neighborhoods. The federal urban renewal program of the 1970s bulldozed those old homes, because they were in disrepair. What if there had been the vision to preserve them, rather than simply erase that part of this city’s history

It’s a lot of work to care for an old home. Above our heads, there’s a 125 year-old slate roof. Those slates are held to our steep roof with 125 year-old nails, and those nails are starting to fail. In my early years here, one member, who has since moved away, said to me, “When those nails start to go, it will be time for this church to give up and let go of this building. Because you won’t be able to afford fixing it.” I didn’t know what to him in that moment. I didn’t say anything. But what I wished I’d said, and what I would say now, is this: “Like hell we will! We will find a way to stay right here, not because this building is a museum we are trying to preserve, but because this is a home for healing and liberation and this city needs us to be right here, strong and thriving and doing what we do!

And when you take the long view, it can be better, and even more cost-effective, to renew and restore and repurpose what you have, rather than abandon it and try to build a new home somewhere else. 

Of course, this image of building on our ruins is a metaphor; I’m talking more about our lives than about this building. “Who you calling a ruin?” Some of you know that this congregation went though a tough time about 15 years ago, and some folks left because of that conflict. But those of you who stayed, who hung in here and rolled up your sleeves and worked to make things better and healthier, look what you, what we, have done! We have worked through out stuff and are stronger and wiser and have a new vitality because you have stayed and done that work, and others have come and joined you.

This is personal for me, because my father was someone who had a habit of running away from trouble. And so I saw the cost of that, to him, and to his family and friends. To the people he harmed, and never made amends to. It started with small things, with cutting corners, with thinking, “Nobody will notice.” And it ended with larger betrayals that caused a lot of pain and suffering.

That’s why I chose Teddy Roosevelt’s words about staying in the struggle, striving valiantly, even when we come up short. This is what it means to be a person of faith: holding out hope in a better tomorrow, doing what we can, while we are here. Not trying to go it alone, remembering that we are connected to one another, that we are here to help others when we can, and to get help from others when we need it. 

It makes me sad when I hear that someone who is suffering is staying away from church; because they don’t want to appear needy, or broken, or God forbid, shed some tears in here in church. That’s why we are here! That’s why we have all these boxes of tissues! We are here to be a house for healing and for hope.

I am on-my-knees grateful for who you are, and that you are here, doing this life-saving work. It’s not easy, and it is why we are here. To bind up the broken and help people to be free. So I send you out with John O’Donohue’s blessing, which describes the home we are building, togther:

May this be a house of courage,
Where healing and growth are loved,
Where dignity and forgiveness prevail;
A home where patience of spirit is prized,
And the sight of the destination is never lost
Though the journey be difficult and slow.
May there be great delight around this hearth.
May it be a house of welcome
For the broken and diminished.

And may we have eyes to see
That no one arrives without a gift
And no one leaves without a blessing.

Amen.