Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, August 8, 2021

I wonder how you’re doing in these days. Are you having a good summer? Are you getting what you want and what you need from this season of warmth and light?  How is it with your soul, in these days when the pandemic is lingering on, and our future again looks uncertain?

I ask, because it’s been a kind of strange summer for me so far. And I imagine I might not be the only one. I’ve felt more unsettled, and less able to just enjoy this summer, so far at least. There’s a lot on my mind, and maybe there is on yours too.

I’m aware, in these days, after so many months of pandemic worry and uncertainty, and with the future still unclear, it’s so important to find moments of light and grace, times of peace and joy. I hope you will find some of these saving moments in these August days. I know I need them, and I trust you do too. 

And of all the seasons, summer is meant to be enjoyed, isn’t it? I think of ripe tomatoes and time on or near the water; ice cream stands and freshly-cut grass. A comfortable spot with a good book, maybe an afternoon nap on a warm day. Are you getting enough summer joy these days?

I love a line from an old Presbyterian catechism, which asks, “What is the chief end of humankind?” In other words, why are we here? And the answer, loosely translated, is this: “The chief end of humankind is to glorify God, and to enjoy that mysterious presence forever.”

I do believe we are meant to live joyful lives. But sometimes we get in the way of joy. And life gets in the way too. Sad and bad things happen to everyone. In our interconnected world, we learn about tragedies that happen around the globe. I sometimes wonder, “How can I be happy when there is so much suffering in the world?” I know many of you wonder this too. But the thing is, our being joyless doesn’t help those who are in trouble or in need, does it? Joy is infectious—if it’s in us, we will quite naturally bless others with it too.

In his book, The Snow Leopard, Peter Matthiessen describes a trip deep into the Himalayas, which becomes for him a spiritual pilgrimage. When he finally gets the chance to meet the lama of a monastery high in the mountains, Matthiessen wonders aloud how this old monk must feel, stuck there alone, with crippled legs, that will keep him from ever leaving. When his question is translated for the monk, Matthiessen says, “This holy man of great directness and simplicity, big white teeth shining, laughs out loud in an infectious way. Indicating his twisted legs without a trace of self-pity or bitterness, as if they belonged to all of us, he casts his arms wide to the sky and the snowy mountains, the high sun and dancing sheep, and cries ‘Of course I am happy here! It's wonderful! ESPECIALLY when I have no choice!’”

That’s what I want to be when I grow up—someone as wise and free and joyful as that lama happily stuck on that mountain. 

There has been so much deferred joy during this pandemic, to say nothing of all the suffering, loss and grief. I’m wondering if I need to set aside at least one of these summer days to try and feel, as deeply as I can, the pain and loss and disappointment of the past year and a half. I do believe that doing our share of mourning is part of what helps us to lead more joyful lives.

I clipped out an essay from the NY Times about a month ago, by Emily Esfahni Smith, called “We Need to Process What We’ve Lost.” She suggests writing down your own pandemic story, noticing its key themes, and reflecting with others on how this time has changed you. She asks, “As you come out of the pandemic, what sort of life do you want to lead? What sort of person do you want to become?”

She says facing suffering head-on isn’t easy, or something that’s encouraged in our culture. Telling your story or changing it takes time, and can be painful. But it’s necessary, she writes, “if we want to move past the brokenness of this difficult year toward a newfound sense of wholeness.”

That’s what I want and need: to move past the brokenness of this difficult year toward a newfound sense of wholeness. More freedom, more peace, more joy.

A couple of years ago our daughter Emma gave me a book of poems for my birthday, which she lightly annotated to recommend ones that I might use in worship or preaching. And she printed out a few other poems, folded and inserted them among the pages, as more little gifts. One of them was the poem from Mary Oliver you heard Joanna share a few minutes ago. On that folded sheet of paper, Emma underlined those first two lines, “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don't hesitate. Give in to it.” And she wrote there in the margin, “Sounds like a sermon to me.”

It is certainly a sermon I need to hear right now. And maybe you do too. We need as much joy as we can get, don’t we? The paradox is that we don’t often find joy by running after it. Rather, we have to let it come to us. 

The invitation is to live our lives, and do our own work, and follow what we love; to pay attention to what we’re moved by and called to do, including what is hard and even scary. To live your life, one day at a time, as best you can. And, when joy comes, and it will come, to savor it and be grateful for it, to bask in it, and share it.

Let’s hear again Mary Oliver’s wisdom about this, in her poem, “Don’t Hesitate”:

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don't hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that's often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don't be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

How often do we experience joy and let it pass too quickly, unnoticed? How often do we feel a flash of joy but a stern and judging voice within says, “You have work to do,” or “What have you done to deserve this joy?” 

When this happens, we could ask, “Who are you, you killjoy within?” We can choose to accept and embrace our joy, to receive it as the gift that it is. To bask in it, and not be afraid of its plenty.

We are living in uncertain times. There’s plenty that’s beyond our control. So what do we do? 

We keep on living our good lives, reaching out to others, helping build up the Beloved Community. And we make room for what feeds and sustains us, for what brings us joy. We remember, and we have faith that there is a fountain, a life-giving Spirit or Source that is very near us, and always there for us.

This is my prayer, in these days: Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace. Show us your goodness and your joy, so we can bask in it, and be blessed by it. Now and forever,

Amen.