Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, November 5, 2023.
Last Sunday we remembered those who have died, both recently and long ago. We created an Altar of Remembrance, with our photos and other symbols of our loved ones. And now this week we begin a month with the worship theme of “grief and mourning.” Which we were doing last week, right? And I wonder if some of you are thinking, “That’s a lot of grief!” Maybe too much grief?
One of my mentors in ministry, Rev. Mark Belletini, had a long and beautiful ministry in Columbus, Ohio. Before that, he served in San Francisco, in the height of the AIDS crisis, ministering to men, some of them his friends, who were dying from that awful disease. Years later, Mark said some words I’ve never forgotten: “A portion of every day can be productively spent in grieving.”
He’s talking about actively engaging with the losses of our lives. As opposed to packing them away, trying to forget about them, as if that is even possible. When we consider grief, most of us think of our beloveds who have died. And that is a particularly acute kind of grief, which takes time and work to live with, on a schedule that is not your own. Grief takes its own time. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
There are other things in our lives that we could grieve. The end of a relationship, the bitter disappointment of a betrayal, the loss of hope. The realization that you are mortal, that most of your life is behind you. The decline in health and vitality, the awareness that you won’t get everything you long for.
How many of us are grieving, in these days, for the suffering and loss of life in Gaza? For the pain and destruction being done in the name of peace, justice, and God? What about the violence and the trauma in our nation, the dysfunction in our families and society? Don’t we have so much to grieve? One could spend part of each day productively in grief.
You might say, “But why? Life is sad enough and hard enough already. Why make myself even more depressed?” Because grief comes to us whether we want it or not. You can try to banish it, but it will keep coming back; visiting you in your thoughts and in your dreams, maybe showing up in your body too. Grief is an invitation, and a demand, that we look at the brokenness and pain of our lives. That we tell the truth; that we are hurting and suffering, that we have plenty to mourn. There’s a whole book of the Bible called Lamentations.
Mark Belletini wrote an essay about his experience of grief, and how exhausting it can be: “Sobbing takes it out of you physically. It works the muscles and alters the breath. It tires the bones. The whole effort to focus on the ordinary needs of life—food, laundry, and so forth—in the midst of grief can feel as though you had just spent three hours running… or lifting weights… I deliberately made taking naps as much a part of my day as eating supper or brushing my teeth…
"Grief has often worn me out, while restoring me to myself at the same time. But the one does not seem to come without the other.”
In my own experience, grief opens me up, and pushes me down; to my knees, to the ground. It forces me to slow down and stop, where I can hear the the voice of the Holy. It’s what the choir sang, that ancient wisdom from the Psalms: “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).
I recently heard a story on the radio, told by a woman named Heather Harper. She was expecting another child, but one day the baby stopped moving and an ultrasound confirmed her fears, that her little baby had died. After she gave birth to him, they named him Desmond and had a small graveside service to bury his body. Heather says the weeks that followed were the hardest of her life. But eventually she forced herself to leave the house, and one of the first places she went was church.
She says, “Many people were afraid to speak to me or look at me because I know they didn’t know what to say. One Sunday I was so overwhelmed that I stepped out of the chapel and I sat down on a sofa in the foyer just to be alone for a few minutes. Not long after this a woman came out and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. We didn’t speak to each other or even look at each other. In the silence between us in the foyer, without looking at me, she said in a loud and clear voice, ‘My baby died 35 years ago, and not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of her. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you are grieving for too long.’”
“I was too shocked and overcome to speak; all I could do was nod. Her words were what I needed to hear in that moment of my life. I needed to know that I would never be the same again, and that it was normal to be that way. That I wasn’t broken, that there was nothing wrong with grief, no matter how long it lasted. And most of all, she let me know that I wasn’t alone.” (Listen to her story here.)
This is why I love the church, and still believe in the church, not because we have all the answers, but because we promise to hold open a space where we can see and companion one another. Where we will be present to one another, even when we don’t know what to say.
Grief pushes us down, and it opens us up. It reminds us of what really matters. It can cause us to draw close to one another. It can help us to lean on one another, and to lean on God. Like the spiritual we sang:
Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;
Kate Braestrup is a UU minister and chaplain for the Maine Wardens Service. She’s often the person who notifies the next of kin when their loved one has died in the woods and waters of that state. She says that when people hear the terrible news, they almost always end up on the floor. An important part of her work is helping them get to the ground safely, and then accompanying them there. After a while, Kate says, they start to get up. Their grieving is just beginning, but they start to get up.
This is what we do. We go through life, being brought to the ground, and getting back up. Being hollowed out by sadness and loss, and then, allowing or inviting some hope, some joy to come in to our broken open hearts.
Isn’t it just perfect, and wonderful, that on this day when we are opening ourselves up to grief, that we’re about to have a party? This is what we do. And we need to celebrate, don’t we? It’s kind of like the gatherings that often follow a funeral—we embrace and eat and even laugh. We affirm that life is still in us.
This is what we do. We get pushed down, we get opened up, and still we rise. Through it all we are held, and companioned; held up by human care and by the love and grace of God, And so we carry on, ever singing, ever singing our songs of love and praise.
Alleluia, and amen.