Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, March 26, 2023

“Sing out praises for the journey,” we just sang. This month we’ve been reflecting on the journey, and its invitation to step across the threshold, to cross over from what is familiar, to head into futures yet unknown. And I wonder, how you imagine your journeying? As an adventure, that you’re eager to embark on, singing praises as you go? Or are you more inclined to face the journey with some fear and trepidation, because it’s so unpredictable and uncertain?

Among almost all the prophets in the Hebrew scriptures there’s a pattern, that when God calls: they respond with disbelief, “Who, me?” they ask. And I love the very human way the reactions from these heroes of the faith. “Not me!” they say. “You must be mistaken—I could never do this,” But a true calling is nothing if not persistent. So when Moses names all his shortcomings, why he’s not the right person for the job, and finally realizes that God isn’t going away, he surrenders with a whimper, “O my Lord, please send someone else” (Exodus 4:13).

I resisted my call to ministry because I was afraid. Of what I could lose, of what it might cost. But that call kept tugging at me, kept nagging at me, until one night I finally said, “Ok. I will go.” Though I didn’t know anything about the path, or where it would lead. And in that moment of saying yes, my fear was replaced by a calm clarity. But back then it never occurred to me that I might actually love it. 

It’s very human, especially for those of us who have relatively comfortable lives, to resist change and transformation. But isn’t this what we are made for, and why we are here. The other night one of you reminded me of the old saying about the church, that it exists “to comfort the afflicted, and to afflict the comfortable.”

For most of my life I have faced the unknown with some amount of trembling and trepidation. And this is part of our nature, isn’t it? Our minds are not always helpful, and in my older age I’m finally learning not to trust all the thoughts that come out of here! Hundreds of years ago the English poet John Milton wrote,

The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n (from “Paradise Lost).

Early in the pandemic, when we were were separated and trying to figure out how to stay safe and still be connected as a church community, our national church office started providing some online resources, and one was a recording made by the choirs of three churches in Brooklyn, 140 people, each in their own Zoom boxes, offering a beautiful rendition of the hymn, “How Can I Keep From Singing?” It moved me so much, and was one of the things that gave me hope and kept me going in those days. It’s in our hymnal, but the last verse they sang isn’t, and that verse has stayed with me. I’ve been listening to it in my car lately, and singing along:

I lift my eyes. The cloud grows thin; I see the blue above it.
And day by day, this pathway smooths, since first I learned to love it. 

I carried plenty of worry and dread in those early years of the pandemic. And I imagine some of you did too. It’s wonderful that we are in a better place now. But I expect many of us are still carrying experiences that we haven’t processed yet, or made meaning out of yet. And one way to do is by telling our stories. Which we’ll be doing here this Wednesday evening. We’ll have vespers at 6, followed by a simple meal, and then start sharing our stories at 7. If this appeals to you, I hope you can join us.

Those lines from that hymn have been in my heart lately:

I lift my eyes. The cloud grows thin; I see the blue above it.
And day by day, this pathway smooths, since first I learned to love it.

How many of us go through our days looking down, muttering to ourselves about what’s annoying or aggravating, addicted to the bad news on TV or doom scrolling through our phones? When we have this ever-present invitation to look up, and look around, and see that, even with all its problems, it’s still a wonderful world. That we have been given this day, and these lives—how are we going to spend them?

What if we made a practice of looking up? And looking into the eyes of those we love, and those we are trying to love, and even into the eyes of strangers too? What if we would take time each day to pause, and listen for the call of that Mystery all around us, the Love that knows our name?

Here’s my testimony: that as you quiet the worried and fearful voices in your head, as you look up and around and listen for the voice that is your own; as you learn to love the journey that you have given, the path will smooth before you. 

This simple line from a hymn has really helped change my perspective. As I’ve looked at my life, and some of the things I tend to worry about or dread, I’ve started to ask myself, “What am I afraid of? Why am I looking at this so negatively?” And I’ve discovered that I actually love and am grateful for most of these things I have been given to do. 

And day by day, this pathway smooths, since first I learned to love it.

There is plenty of suffering in life, and none of us get to escape it. But how often to we make it worse by our own negative thinking? “Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?” By worrying, “What is wrong with me?” The answer is, “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re just human. And some pain and suffering is part of being human.”

I see this season of Lent as a journey, that begins in the dark of winter, that invites us to do our own inner and spiritual work in order to get ready for the promise of Easter and spring. I love how Jan Richardson reminds us that, on the journey, we need to remember who we are, and whose we are:

If you would enter
into the wilderness,
do not begin
without a blessing.

Do not leave
without hearing
who you are:
Beloved,
named by the One
who has traveled this path
before you.

Isn’t this why we come to church? To be reminded that we are part of a great and abiding Love, that will never let any of us go. And we need to be reminded, don’t we?

Do not go
without letting it echo
in your ears,
and if you find
it is hard
to let it into your heart,
do not despair.
That is what
this journey is for.

This is what this journey is for: learning to love these lives we have been given, leaning to love ourselves and our companions. learning to love the whole world. 

Starting back in January, about 25 of us have been taking a class called “Transforming Hearts,” which is about becoming more welcoming to transgender folks. On the surface level this is about things like pronouns and bathrooms, which are important. And on a deeper level it’s about opening our doors and our hearts wider and wider. Doing the work of making our church a place where everybody belongs. And working to make that true out in the wider world as well. 

My hope and vision is that as we do this work, we will become a community of liberation, where everyone feels more and more free to live into who they are called to be. Where we are a beacon of welcome for those our society has hurt and scorned, where we live out the best of our Universalist theology with its simple profession of faith: nobody left behind. Where we proclaim and practice the doctrine of original blessing, articulated so beautifully by Jan Richardson:

I cannot promise
this blessing will free you
from danger,
from fear,
from hunger
or thirst,
from the scorching
of sun
or the fall
of the night.

But I can tell you
that on this path
there will be help.

I can tell you
that on this way
there will be rest.

I can tell you
that you will know
the strange graces
that come to our aid
only on a road
such as this,

that fly to meet us
bearing comfort
and strength,
that come alongside us
for no other cause
than to lean themselves
toward our ear
and with their
curious insistence
whisper our name:

Beloved.
Beloved.
Beloved.

My spiritual companions, since we are surrounded and held and supported by such a great Love, how can we keep from singing? Since we have these journeys that lie before us, ever beckoning, how can we keep from singing? Since we have this call, to learn to love this path we are traveling, what can we do but be singing?

Amen.