Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, September 12, 2021.
It has been a lot, hasn’t it, these past eighteen months? Some of you have been on the front lines, in one way or another, and most of us have has less risky and less dramatic pandemic journeys. But it has been disrupting and dislocating and hard for everyone, right? As one observer put it, we have all been through a “sustained, slow-motion collective trauma.” And it’s not over. Though with the vaccine I trust that we are moving in the right direction. This is something to take seriously, to face and deal with, as best we can. And to cultivate hearts and souls still capable of kindness, gratitude, and joy. Which is why we are here.
And it is good to be here, isn’t it? I am so grateful that you are here, and that others will be joining us for worship later online. Today feels like a turning point, a threshold, a moving forward, and I’m so grateful for that, and for you all! None of us know what tomorrow holds—the pandemic has certainly taught us that. But we have today, we have this moment. Which, in the end, is the only moment we ever really have.
We just heard our choir sing “This hope that we make, together.” I’ve been so touched by and grateful for all the ways we have stayed together, stayed connected, have kept making and sharing hope, have kept caring for one another and for our wider world, over these many months we were apart.
It hasn’t been easy, I know. A few weeks ago, I was emailing with one of you after the Sunday service on Zoom. And this person wrote, “I enjoyed the service this morning - it made me feel homesick.” And that really struck me. I appreciate this person naming this; we haven’t had the chance to talk about it yet, but we will. And I think I know how she feels. Because this summer I found myself feeling homesick too.
Do you know that feeling? Of sadness, of dislocation and lostness, missing something that maybe you didn’t even know you needed, until it was gone? It’s not an easy or pleasant feeling, but it certainly opens you up. Have you felt any dislocation or longing, any homesickness or heartsickness lately? If so, you’re not alone.
When I was feeling this way, I wondered, “Homesick for what?” For some sense of normalcy, I think, for some hope that things are going to get better. For some evidence that there is more good out there than the headlines tell us. For some beauty and peace, even some joy! Those things we don’t want to live without; that we can’t live without.
And here we are. I know the church is not the building, but it is so good to be here together. There is a Spirit here, I think it comes from what has happened here, in this place, over the years. The spirits of those who have gone before, they are with us; the tears and laughter that have been shed and shared here, it’s like they are stuck to the walls. Can you sense them?
Central to our faith tradition is the understanding that the sacred does not live in the church building, it can be found anywhere, and direct experience is a key way we encounter that holy and fathomless mystery. Our water communion ceremony comes from the fact that we usually encounter that mystery out in the world, under the wide sky, in the tiny details and the vast expanses of our beautiful blue-green Earth. The water you brought today is a tangible symbol of your direct experience of the holy.
The reading that Tori shared a few minutes ago—it makes me think of you, and this place, and the grace of gathering on a Sunday morning:
Somewhere, there are people to whom we can speak with passion
without having the words catch in our throats.
Somewhere a circle of hands will open to receive us,
eyes will light up as we enter,
voices will celebrate with us
whenever we come into our own power.
Community means strength that joins our strength
to do the work that needs to be done.
Arms to hold us when we falter.
A circle of healing. A circle of friends.
Someplace where we can be free.
At its best, the church offers this kind of community, where we are safe and free, where we come into our own power, and then reach out and help do the work that needs to be done. Where we open our hearts wide and go deep into the fathomless mystery.
This pandemic, it has cracked me open. In recent months I have felt more vulnerable and more open, more unsettled and, at moments, more hopeful and more free. Starhawk’s words are speaking directly to me right now: I am longing to go home to a place I have never been. A new place where I feel more openhearted, and more courageous; more at home, and more free. What about you?
This is not a physical place I’m seeking, no, it is an inner space, it’s a way of being. I think of an old woman I once knew, who said in her old age she wanted to be less of a worrier, and more of a warrior.
What I’m talking about, what I’m longing for, is the way home. The way home to my truer, deeper self, the way home to God, that fathomless mystery. Like Rilke is talking about in the words at the top of our order of service:
I love you, gentlest of Ways,
who ripened us as we wrestled with you.
You, the great homesickness we could never shake off,
you, the forest that always surrounded us,
you, the song we sang in every silence,
you, the dark net threading through us…
There are so many ways to be in touch with this source, this mystery, that is at the heart of things. Silence is a good place to start, or meditation, or prayer. Journaling can help; so can reading the mystics and other spiritual guides. Getting out under the sky is good, doing physical work is too. And gathering for worship!
The way home is not a single path; there are many ways. We are each invited and compelled to search our own hearts and find and follow the path this is our own. And the way home it’s not an individual journey We certainly travel some of the way in solitude, but the journey will draw us into deeper connection with others. We find companions on the way.
So if in these days you are feeling disoriented or overwhelmed or homesick, take heart—you are not alone. Perhaps these uncertain days are here to help open us up, to invite us and compel us to do the work we need to do, to get ready for what lies ahead: more depth, more connection, more freedom, more joy.
May this be our hope, our faith, and our intention: to be on the way. All we kindred pilgrim souls, making our way home. Together.
Amen.