We, Us, Ours

Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, June 25, 2023.

One thing that’s been saving me lately is listening to church music in my car, and singing along; hymns and choir anthems mostly. You know, when you do this, these programs start making suggestions! And one day that suggestion was a version of Amazing Grace, sung by Judy Collins, a recording I’d never heard. On the first verse she’s singing alone, a cappella, her voice clear and beautiful. But not unlike so many other recordings of this popular hymn.

But in the second verse, other voices quietly come in, not singing the words, just the notes, staying in the background behind that solo voice.

Then, on the third verse, those voices join in singing, and it sounds like a church full of people, lifting their voices together, 

Through many dangers, toils, and snares, we have already come,
Twas grace that brought us safe thus far, and grace will lead us home.

And tears filled my eyes. Not just because it was beautiful, but because they were singing together, making harmony, and in this version they changed the words from I to we, and from me to us. And this was, for me, a reminder that I have needed lately, that we are not alone; that we have one another, and that grace does abide. 

Judy Collins made this recording at the height of the Vietnam war, and the folks singing with her weren’t professionals, but amateur singers who were her friends, and you can hear that they sang this in a church. She says, “I didn't know what else to do about the war in Vietnam. I had marched, I had voted, I had gone to jail on political actions and worked for the candidates I believed in. The war was still raging. There was nothing left to do, I thought ... but sing 'Amazing Grace’.”

So she sang. And she didn’t do it alone. The power she touched is the power that comes when we move from I to we, from solo to chorus.

I’m someone who needs a certain amount of quiet and solitude. But in these recent months, when our life in this congregation has been so much, so full of both holding on and letting go, both celebrating and mourning, it’s obvious, isn’t it, that we need one another? 

And this is something I love about church—that we are here to hold open a space for gathering and connection, especially when its most needed. Where it’s obvious that we are here to show up for one another. I’m sure you can think of a time when you showed up for someone who needed you. And a time when someone showed up for you. And  what a difference this makes.

Life in community can be messy and inefficient and frustrating. Have you ever said, “I should just do this all by myself”? But we are made for one another. This is something our society, with its culture of heroic individualism, tends to forget. We could learn from the African philosophy of Ubuntu, which says “a person is a person through other persons.” 

Archbishop Desmond Tutu would say if you have Ubuntu “you are generous, you are hospitable, you are friendly and caring and compassionate…. We belong in a bundle of life…”

This is one reason I love church—because it’s not a solo enterprise! We are in this together, in this bundle of life. And our gatherings, whether on Sunday morning, or at other times, reminds us of this. That we each have a part to play. 

I used to work as a freelance photographer, but from the start I had no desire to be a freelance minister. I needed a community, for support and to be accountable to. I just had no idea, back then, that the community would be you, and how much of a blessing you would be.

Lindy Thompson, and her family are active members of the Methodist church in Franklin, Tennessee, and I love how she describes church on Sunday. She writes,

I might be exhausted and the children might be cranky,
but I will be going to church on Sunday.
Don’t know who is preaching, doesn’t matter –
the sermon may be helpful or not, holds my attention or doesn’t –
it’s the singing.
I go to sing.

I get up,
get clean,
get dressed,
possibly get mad (at not-ready kids, at empty coffee pot, at traffic)
get going,
get there,
get seated,
get comfortable,
get focused

and when the music starts,

get saved.

It’s the singing.
I go to sing.

It’s the willingness to stand if you are able,
the common agreement on page number,
the voluntary sharing of songbooks with people on your row,
even ones you rode there with –

but most of all,
it’s the collective in-breath before the first sound is made,
the collective drawing upon the grace of God,
the collective, if inadvertent, admission
that we are all human,
all fragile,
all in need of the sustaining air, freely dispensed,
all in need of each other to get the key right and not sound discordant –-

it’s the hidden life-celebration
in the act of making a joyful noise,
all together.

We don’t even have to sound that good.
Singing together still brings home
the we-ness of worship,
the not-alone-ness of life in God,
the best of all we have to offer each other.

When we are singing, I think that I might actually be able to forgive you
for being so terribly human,
and you might be able to forgive me
for being so terribly not there yet,
and we might be able to find peace now,
not postpone it for some heavenly hereafter
but live and breathe it today,
drawing in the grace of God,
voicing out our need and hope and gratitude and longing.

When we are singing, I can feel the better world coming,
and if I get to be a part of it, you do too . . .

so sing with me,
and we’ll make our way down that blessed road together,
collectively better
than we ever thought
possible. (Lindy Thompson, “I Go to Sing”)

Thanks, Lindy Thompson, for lifting up the promise and the blessing of a plain old Sunday morning, the invitation to be part of this funky and beautiful thing called church, this image of singing as a symbol for our life in community.

I know that people have reason to be skeptical about organized religion these days; that too often faith communities have failed to practice what they preach, have held back progress, have harmed rather than healed. When people gather in groups there’s always the possibility that they will make things worse, not better. Gathering together can amplify our human weaknesses, can increase our dysfunction, can multiply our prejudices. You know this.

And yet, joining with others, people can build and sustain communities that offer hope and liberation, offer places for healing, redemption, and reconciliation. We’re not perfect here, but this is what we’re trying to do and be: a community of the Spirit, where we hold open this space for you to become more fully who you were born to be, to together we can help heal and bless our world. 

Sometimes we talk about our church as like a family, but there can be a danger here. You know, families can be dysfunctional! And if a community becomes too cozy, it can be cliquish, and closed off to newcomers. Even if that’s not the intention of the insiders, it can still be the effect. The Transforming Hearts class we ran here last winter invited us to take a deeper look at our church culture, to pay attention to what’s under the surface, and this is something healthy families and communities do. To regularly engage in some self-examination, and  ask others, especially newcomers, to share their perspective. “What is your experience here? How are we doing at walking our talk?”

This morning I want to lift up the blessing and promise of community; what Lindy Thompson calls the “the we-ness of worship, the not-alone-ness of life in God.” You may want to translate this a bit, but isn’t this why you are here? To be reminded that you’re not alone? That you have human companions, and also, as our Universalist faith says so plainly, we are part of something larger, a great and abiding Love that will not let us go.

We each have our individual callings, and our own particular work to do. And there is so much that we can’t do or be all on our own. There is so much that needs a community. A place where we come together, combining our talents and our gifts. What you do here, in so many beautiful ways. Like feeding the hungry. Renovating this building and making it accessible. Filling this sanctuary with song. Gathering around a grieving family, and feeding people after the memorial service. Holding open a space for a minister in training, companioning her for two years, and then, when the time comes, blessing her on her way, and letting her go. And so many other, often hidden, things.

My spiritual companions, let us be grateful for what we have; this present moment, and these companions. But let us not get too comfortable or complacent here. Let us be ever looking for ways to stretch and grow, to be open to new people and new possibilities. Let us be ever on the way toward we, and us, and ours.

It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more. (Marge Piercy, “The Low Road”)

Amen.