Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, August 21, 2022.
There’s an old Yiddish proverb, which Woody Allen made popular, that goes, “If you want to make God laugh, tell God your plans.” Now I don’t think God really works that way. I don’t imagine God as a master planner up in the sky, but rather as that Spirit, that mystery in which we live and move and have our being. If I was going to humanize God, I’d say God is not out there, far away, laughing at us and judging us, but with us, where we are: crying with us when we’re in pain, laughing and celebrating with us when we feel joy. My prayer practice is one of trying to be in the Presence, trying to come home, to myself and to that Mystery, to just be in that presence for a while.
But if we’ve learned anything over these past couple of years, it’s that making plans is risky, right? Who among us hasn’t had to change plans, multiple times? Things happen, and we have to adapt. Almost a year ago I made plans to go to Yellowstone National Park in early July—I hadn’t been in several years, and I love it out there. Fishing in Yellowstone, one guidebook says, is like fishing in a church, and I love wading in those wild rivers, worshipping under that big sky.
Well, I was looking forward to getting back out there, when, a couple of weeks before leaving, the park suffered the worst flooding in its 150 year history. Roads and bridges were washed out, and things shut down, and like that, my trip was cancelled. I was disappointed, to say the least. But you know, sometimes when one way closes, this makes room for something else.
The week I was going to head West, I drove up to northern New Hampshire and camped and fished for a few days. It was good to get away, though the fishing is not like it is out West. And then, because I had the time, I flew down to North Carolina to visit my mom. She’s 93 years old, and has been living with Alzheimer’s Disease for the past few years. Her short term memory is gone, which presents some challenges, but in some ways this has helped her to live more fully in the present moment. She still remembers lines from poetry and favorite hymns, and she can still tell stories about her quirky grandmother, and growing up in the Depression, and what my grandparents were like back then, stories I love to hear.
Those days I was with my mom, we didn’t do much. She sleeps more these days, and her life is winding down. She doesn’t talk as much as she used to, and seems content to sit and be. We spent much of our time sitting at her table, looking out the window, or out on her porch, listening to the wind in the trees and watching the birds come and go.
On our last day together, this quiet sitting made me think of a line from a poem, which is in one of our hymns. It goes: “What is this life, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare…” This from a Welsh poet named William Henry Davies, and when I started to say that line to my mom, she joined in—she remembered that line too!
I reflected to her how peaceful she seemed—that she seems glad to sit and watch and be. I said, “You know, a lot of folks don’t know how to do this.” And my mom responded, “I think I’m more at peace now than at any time in my life.”
The next morning, waiting in the airport for my plane to board, I was thinking about my mom, and feeling so grateful for our time together, and that she’s doing as well as she is. We’re very fortunate, and you never know how things might change. Even though I felt pangs of sadness on that trip, that her life is more limited and seems to be winding down, even though she probably doesn’t remember that I was there, I left feeling glad and grateful.
What is this life, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare? These summer days are good ones for taking a pause, some time to just be. For doing what brings pleasure and joy. Many of us take time in the summer for trips, near or far, and it’s lovely to get away. Changing your scenery can help change your perspective. But you know what my mom used to say? “The best part of a trip is coming home.”
And I’ve been feeling that this summer—the invitation to come home. We heard this invitation in the song we sang at the start of our prayer time:
Return again, return again, return to the home of your soul.
Return to who you are, return to what you are,
Return to where you are, born and reborn again (Shlomo Carlebach).
Home can certainly be a place, and when we hear that word “home” it can evoke all kinds of memories and feelings, both happy and sad. Homecoming isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes home is a place of unrest, or struggle, or loss. Our lives are both sunlight and shadow, holding on and letting go.
I hope this place, where people have been gathering for so many years, feels like home to you. That this is a place where your soul feels at home. I hope this church community, and this sanctuary, feels like a house of belonging to you, like the one we heard David Whyte describe a few minutes ago. I hope being part of this congregation, and having these spiritual companions, is helping you to find your way home.
I’m thinking about home not only as a physical place, but as a space within; a state of heart and mind and spirit. Home as a way of being; at home in one’s self and in the world. Do you know I’m talking about? Haven’t you had moments when you felt at peace, at one with yourself, and the world around you, and with the mysterious spirit of life?
This is what I mean by coming home. And if you’re like me, you need some of that, especially these days. We live in a time of so much stress and dislocation. The pace of life, and its uncertainty, can be dizzying. We need ways to be grounded, at peace, at home.
You know, I grew up in the South, and southerners have something of a reputation for moving slow, to the point of seeming lazy even. But in these hot summer days, I’m aware that slowing down is sometimes a survival skill. There’s wisdom, on a hot day like this one, in sitting in the shade, doing mostly nothing, with a glass of lemonade or iced tea in your hand!
For many of us, the coming weeks are a transition time. Summer vacation is running out, school will be starting up again, for many life will start to pick up speed. If you have some experience of being at home, in yourself and in the world, if you know what helps you to return to the home of your soul, I expect that will be of use to you in the days to come.
And no matter what the outward circumstances and speed of your life, we are all living in anxious times, and it’s a survival skill to be able to turn down the noise that would pull you off center; to see and remember that there’s more to this world than what’s in the headlines. That it’s still a beautiful world. That there are friends who show up with tomatoes or zucchini, there’s the blessing of evening that comes after a hot summer day, when the crickets start to sing and the stars come out, there’s the grace of making a quiet connection with some one you care about. There’s the peace of an ordinary Sunday: here in church, or via Zoom; or relaxing with the Sunday paper or heading to the beach.
So this is my prayer for us in these days, that we will be at home, in ourselves and in the world. That everyone will feel more of this: more at home, more at peace. That we will remember we do have this blessed, sacred space within, and trust that we can drop down into that space whenever we need to. That we’ll be coming home to ourselves and to our beautiful blue-green earth, coming home to the goodness that is both in us and around us.
Let us end with this prayer, adapted from the Book of Common Prayer:
O source of peace, you have reminded us that in returning and in rest we shall be saved, in quietness and in confidence shall be our strength: by the gift of your spirit bring us home, we pray, to that place where we may be still and know that you are God, where we know that we are all part of your great and abiding love, and that life is a gift and a blessing, now and forever,
Amen.