Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, July 3, 2022.
What restores you? What gives you rest? I’m not necessarily thinking about the rest that comes from sleep, as good and needed as that is, but rather, the feeling of being grounded, well-watered, at peace. As opposed to being stretched and stressed, dry and crispy, burned out. On this first Sunday in July, this summer day, I want to acknowledge that we are living in stressful times, and we have been for a while now. Our democracy is in peril, our environment is threatened like never before, there’s division and incivility in our land; there are plenty of reminders of how we humans are making a mess of things. Though the virus numbers are pretty low these days, we have been plodding through this pandemic for over two years now, and it’s pretty clear that it’s not going to just magically disappear. We have plenty of reasons to be tired and frustrated, anxious and worried.
If you are carrying any of that tension, take heart, there’s noting wrong with you—you have plenty of reasons to be worried or upset or anxious these days. But I want to encourage you to not live in that place. It’s not good for you! And the truth is, being worried and getting worked up about something probably isn’t going to help you, in the long run, to address the problem and help fix it.
I’m going to tell you a cautionary tale. At this time a year ago I was feeling so hopeful about things. It seemed like the worst of Covid was behind us, and better days were ahead. And then—the Delta variant came on quickly, and unexpectedly; and there was widespread drought and wildfires across the West, and other kinds of bad news seemed to keep popping up.
Last summer I was hoping to go off to Yellowstone for some hiking and fishing, and I love and need the time I get in that big open country. One guide book says fishing in Yellowstone is like fishing in a church, and it feels like that to me. But last summer’s heat and fires put an end to those plans. I don’t like to admit it, but I spent a lot of last summer worrying about things—about what was going wrong, and what was coming: how we as a church would address whatever that next phase would be. In some ways, it was like a lost summer for me. I’m sure there were some lovely moments, but I didn’t get the sense of rest, of sabbath; I didn’t find the peace and goodness and abundance that this season promises, and that I need.
So here’s my caution: don’t do this! Don’t be like me! Don’t waste your summer on worrying and feeling anxious, especially about things you don’t have much control over! The summer is too short, and life is too short, for that.
The moral of this story is not that you should never get discouraged, or, on the other hand, that you shouldn’t allow yourself to feel hopeful! No, my mistake was that when my hopes were disappointed, I spent too much time wallowing in worry. And that wasn’t good for me, and it didn’t help anyone else.
So what are we, who live in these stressful and anxious times, what are we to do?
The first thing is to acknowledge your feelings. They may be painful, or uncomfortable, or inconvenient, but our feeling are never wrong. They are real, and come to us as signs and warnings, asking us to pay attention to them and give them their due. So when you’re feeling disappointed or angry or anxious or afraid, allow yourself the space to feel the depth of those feelings. They may have something to teach you.
Second, find someone you can share your feelings with. Someone you trust, who can sit with discomfort and pain without trying to fix it or make it go away. So you can talk it through. That’s the thing about pain and loss—the only way out is through. About a year ago I read an article about the pandemic with the title, “We Need to Process What We’ve Lost.” That has stayed with me, and truer words have never been spoken. We need to process what we’ve lost. This is soul work; it is deep spiritual work. How do you think spiritual giants like Desmond Tutu and the Dali Lama got to be so wise and compassionate and joyful? They sat with pain and discomfort, their own and others’, they bore witness to suffering, they took it into their meditation and prayer, they found ways to address it with other people, out in the world.
About a year and a half ago I listened to the audio version of their book, called The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World. I think I’ll read it this summer. I think I need to. Because this is what I’m wondering about today—how do we find peace and joy in the midst of so much tumult and upheaval?
The Dali Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu are not men used to peaceful, easy lives. As a young man, the Dali Lama had to flee his Tibetan homeland with his people, because of Chinese Communist oppression, and they have been living in exile in India ever since. Desmond Tutu helped lead black people in South Africa through the worst years of apartheid, eventually to freedom, and then through the truth and reconciliation process. Both men have borne witness to some of the worst of human behavior: cruelty, hatred, and violence.
But when they would get together, Tutu, who died last year, said they were like schoolboys, cutting up and making jokes. That these two busy and important men, spiritual icons of our time, came together to talk and and create a book about joy; this is a testament to the importance of their subject. It’s a testament to the fact that our capacity for joy, especially in challenging times, is a sign of our spiritual depth.
I know from experience the bitter disappointment that can come when something I wanted, something I’d hoped for and looked forward to, doesn’t come to pass. And you do too. Who among us hasn’t had this happen over the past couple of years, when so much has been interrupted and cancelled? Archbishop Tutu speaks to this in the reading we heard this morning:
"Despair can come from deep grief,” he says, “but it can also be a defense against the risks of bitter disappointment and shattering heartbreak. Resignation and cynicism are easier, more self-soothing postures that do not require the raw vulnerability and tragic risk of hope. To choose hope is to step firmly forward into the howling wind, baring one's chest to the elements, knowing that, in time, the storm will pass.”
To choose hope, he is saying, is to risk being disappointed. And what’s the alternative? To live lives of resignation, complaint, and worry? Who wants to do that?
At the start I asked what restores you, and what gives you rest. Do you know? I hope you do, and I hope you are getting enough of that these days. Because to live openheartedly in our troubled world you need to be able to find grounding, and peace, and joy—not in the great by and by, but in the painful and messy and often beautiful—if we will notice—present.
I was talking with one of you the other day, and I mentioned that I was an introvert, and this person was surprised. “But you seem to enjoy being with people,” she said. “I do,” I replied,” but I’ve learned that when I need to be restored, I need some time alone.”
That’s the easiest way to determine if you’re an extrovert or introvert—what do you do when you need to be restored? If it’s going to a party or a family reunion, then you’re an extrovert. If it’s something solitary, then you’re an introvert. We’ll all on a spectrum; it’s not either/or. I love Sunday mornings here, the quiet moments and the connections we share, and the coffee hour conversations afterwards. But by the time I leave, I’m usually ready for some quiet. For some of you, you’re just getting started, and you leave here looking for more people to connect with! My point is, we’re not all the same, and that diversity is good. It’s essential to know yourself—what you need, and then make sure you’re getting it.
I hope that just being here, coming to church and being part of our weekly gathering for worship, is good for your soul. It certainly is for mine. And at this time of year, I find myself remembering Emily Dickinson’s poem, which begins,
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –
There are many ways, and many places, to keep the Sabbath, to touch into the depths that will nourish and soothe your soul. What I want from this summer is spaciousness—time to just be, to move slowly and think long thoughts. What about you—what do you want from this summer? Anybody want to say that out loud?
One thing I wish for all of us is this: more joy. Wouldn’t things go better all around if we could be more joyful people? And the way to find this joy, the Archbishop and the Dali Lama say, is to open our hearts, and care for other people. To see that there are others with problems even greater than our own. To see that we humans are connected, and have more in common, than we know. To live with more love, and less fear. With more gratitude, and less worry.
Hear again the Archbishop’s words about joy: “Discovering more joy does not, I'm sorry to say, save us from the inevitability of hardship and heartbreak. In fact, we may cry more easily, but we will laugh more easily, too. Perhaps we are just more alive. Yet as we discover more joy, we can face suffering in a way that ennobles rather than embitters. We have hardship without becoming hard. We have heartbreak without being broken.”
This is the way of openhearted and courageous living that is needed in these days. And it makes me think of a hymn, which has been in my heart these days. It’s old one, written back in 1930, during the Depression, between the World Wars, not exactly an easy time either. This hymn (“God of Grace and God of Glory,” by Harry Emerson Fosdick, here’s a nice recording) is plea and a prophetic call to the Holy, to give us strength and wisdom and courage, for the facing of this hour, and for the living of these days.
May this be our prayer, in these days we have been given:
Source of love and source of wonder,
On your people pour out your blessing and your power.
Help us to have open eyes and open hearts,
ready to give and receive help, ready to sing out our joy and praise.
For the living of these days,
Amen.