Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, January 23, 2022.
I love hearing our choir, in these recordings they’ve done for us! I can picture their faces, and Lisa leading them, and I look forward to when we can be back together in person again. But whether apart or together, we are doing this, aren’t we?
And I don’t take that for granted. In the early months of the pandemic, I worried about us: how do we do church when we can’t gather in person? Around that time, at a pastoral care team meeting, Sarina Ryan said something that really helped, and has stayed with me. Talking about the ways we were finding to connect. the ways you all were reaching out to one another, Sarina said, “I would say that we are stronger now than we ever have been.”
Where I come from, there’s an old saying: “Rough weather makes good timber.” Haven’t the challenges and trials of these past years made us stronger? Haven’t we learned how to be more flexible and adaptable? Haven’t we learned some new skills and maybe some greater patience too?
That song the choir just sang, it’s a good prayer for these winter days, isn’t it?:
Darkness, soothe my weary eyes, that I may see more clearly.
When my heart with sorrow cries, comfort and caress me.
And then my soul may hear a voice, a still small voice of love eternal.
Darkness, when my fears arise, let your peace flow through me.
(Dark of Winter, by Shelley Jackson Denham).
This is the invitation and the promise of this season: that if we are present to it, we will find peace and unexpected blessing in what is, right here, right now. Even when things are hard. Especially when things are hard. This is what the philosopher Albert Camus was talking about when he said, “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”
One of the gifts of struggle and adversity is that it can help you to dig deep and touch into strength you didn’t know you had. Hasn’t that happened to us, in a bunch of different ways, over these past couple of years? Think about it—are there ways that you’re stronger now than you were two years ago? And aren’t there ways, like Sarina noticed, that we as a congregation are stronger too?
We live in a society that promotes individualism and independence, that tends to see strength as heroic individualism. You know, like the Marlboro man. Or in sports—commentators like to focus on the star, the quarterback who’s the hero, like Tom Brady, back in the day. But what about the rest of the team? Don’t you think those offensive linemen who protected Brady trained as hard as he did? But no one made a documentary about them!
On TV and in the movies that hero, that symbol of strength and power, is usually a lone individual. But is this how the world really works? Don’t things go better when we combine a healthy respect for the individual with the understanding that we need one another, that we are in this together? We have different gifts and abilities, and whether in a family, a congregation, or a nation, life goes better when everyone has the chance to live into and share their particular strengths and talents.
There’s nothing weak about acknowledging that someone has gifts that you don’t have! There’s nothing weak about asking for help. Do you remember the children’s story about the little red hen? Who keeps saying, “I can do it, all by myself!” Does that seem like strength or wisdom to you?
This morning we heard Dawn tell the story of Jesus feeding the multitudes, with only a couple of loaves and a few fish. It’s a miracle story, and if we hear it literally, we might ask, “How is this possible?” But what if it’s a symbolic story, of how people felt in the presence of Jesus? How his faith in God’s power, and his compassion for others, made hungry people feel satisfied in his presence. Is it possible that Jesus, who couldn’t individually feed all those people, inspired them to recognize their interdependence and to feed one another?
Some folks see interdependence as weakness, as neediness, but who among us doesn’t need others? And how is pulling back from others, saying, “I can do it all by myself!” a sign of strength? Is refusing to care for others something we should ever aspire to?
Isn’t it a sign of strength to admit that you don’t have all the answers? That you can’t do it all by yourself? Isn’t it a sign of strength to ask for help, and to offer your self in service to others?
The stubbornness in our country about wearing masks and getting vaccinated is a sign of this tension we live with all the time, between individualism and interdependence. Those who see masks and vaccines as impinging on their freedom say the rest of us are like sheep, passively following the lead of scientists and medical professionals. But those unvaccinated individualists are 17 times more likely to end up in the hospital, and 20 times more likely to die from Covid. What kind of strength or freedom is that?
The limitations that we are living under these days, they can feel restricting and demoralizing at times. Who among us hasn’t felt like hemmed in, powerless, at the mercy of circumstances beyond our control? Following mask mandates, and staying home, waiting for things to get better, these may seem passive acts. But think about it—aren’t they signs of your strength and character and caring? Aren’t they forms of community service? The sacrifices you are making, and the patience you are showing, the depth of soul that I hope you’re finding as you make your way though this winter—I hope you see all these as signs of your strength and courage.
These days I find myself wanting to write a love letter to you all in this congregation, for all the ways you are carrying on, all the quiet ways you are being people of faith and courage in these trying times. I’m humbled and inspired by the diverse ways you are being who you are, and doing what you can; for all they ways you are doing your work and living your lives, facing the challenges of this winter of separation and uncertainty.
I want to want to praise you for your perseverance, and your prayers, for your hard work and your good humor, for how you keep caring for one another, and for our world. For the strength you are bringing to these days.
Do you remember March 15, 2020? By my count, that was 97 Sundays ago. It was the first Sunday we didn't have in-person church because of the pandemic. It was also the Sunday we were going to launch our first capital campaign in over 20 years. It’s a testament to you, and to our campaign team, that we didn’t wait until things got better—we pressed on in this effort, in the middle of a pandemic, to make our building accessible, and renovate the upstairs, and fix the roof overhead.
I’ve been so heartened by how well we’ve done, by how generous you have been, and lately, by the fact that there are now little holes in the floor and ceiling of the Murray Room, the first steps in making room for our new elevator! We still have work to do, which you’ll hear about at our congregational meeting in a few minutes, but we will get there. How can we not? And when we do, this will be a testament to our shared strength, and before you know it, we will be celebrating the completion of this project, and we will be saying, “Look at what we’ve done, together!”
“Community means strength that joins our strength,” Starhawk says. “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.”
This is our calling, to be a welcoming, caring faith community. And this is who we are. Isn’t it good? So, how can we keep from singing?
Amen.
(For the final hymn, we sang along with this beautiful version of How Can I Keep From Singing?)