Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, January 28, 2024.
That hymn we just sang is based on words from the book of the prophet Isaiah:
“Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?” (Isaiah 55:1-2a)
These words, written about 2500 years ago, are the voice of God talking to Isaiah, telling people there is spiritual food available, so why spend your time and money on what does not satisfy? I picture myself scrolling through my phone, and wondering, where did that half hour go? And why am I still hungry, and restless, and unsatisfied?
We’re in the middle of winter right now. Whether it’s cold or unseasonably mild, we’re in this particular season of short days and long nights, and I wonder how you’re spending them. For some it’s a struggle, I know; but I actually love the winter, and its invitation to be at one with the darkness, as best we can; to slow down and go inward and inhabit that space for a time. You heard this in the song the choir sang, that says the dark of winter offers us an invitation:
Darkness soothe my weary eyes, that I may see more clearly,
When my heart with sorrow cries, comfort and caress me,
And then my soul may hear voice, a still voice of love eternal,
darkness when my fears arise, let your peace flow through me. (Shelly Jackson Denham)
We’re not hermits or monastics here; we live in this world, with jobs and families, Zoom meetings and youth hockey games. We live in a time when there is so much upheaval: violence and tragedy every day in Gaza, dystopian dysfunction in the body politic, increasing polarization between ordinary people.
And in this same world babies are born, and people celebrate anniversaries, and artists create new works, and choirs sing songs. And you come to church. Thank God you come to church! I don’t know for sure, but I think you come because you are looking for some solace, some companions, some nourishment for the living of these days. And together, we do our best to offer that here.
In this conversation about shared ministry, or shared caring, or shared sharing, today I want to ask about you about your soul, because those who care for others need care themselves; those who serve need to tend their own souls too.
So I ask—are you getting enough rest these days? Are you experiencing any joy? Any gratitude? Have you checked in with your soul lately? Is it well-watered, or is it parched, and needing some care and love?
If these questions spark something in you, would you be interested in getting together this winter for some soul care, and spiritual companionship? A time to nurture and nourish and strengthen our selves, so we can share our gifts with others. Let me know, ok?
Many of us are stretched thin by life. We have a lot of balls in the air, a number of commitments that keep us busy. There is a breadth of life that is good, and challenging, and satisfying, isn’t there? Until it gets to be too much. I’m not suggesting you chuck it all, and become a hermit. Life is to be lived, as fully as we can, while we’re here. There’s a saying in sports: “Leave it all on the field.” When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder if I did enough, or gave enough. What about you?
One could think that immersion in the busyness of life could keep us out of the depths. But that doesn’t seem to be how it works. Immersion in the breadth of life, within some healthy limits, can also invite us into the depths. All you need is some time to reflect; some space and intention to contemplate, meditate, or pray on and over your active life.
These dark winter days are good for that—they invite us to slow down, to stop for a time, so we can hear that still small voice of love eternal. Robert Frost offers us an image of this: headed home on a winter evening, he stops to watch the woods fill up with snow. Can’t you picture that soul-satisfying scene? In the breadth of life, he finds this fleeting moment of depth. And it’s enough:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
What might your stopping by woods look like, in these winter days? It could be just taking time to see that the ordinary moments in your day are holy ones. Watching your baby sleep, eating dinner with your partner, visiting or calling a friend.
I am aware right now of a number of people who have suffered tragic losses, and others who are facing difficult circumstances. This is part of the cost of being human, and some of us get more pain and struggle than others, but none of us are immune from it. When we get pushed down to the ground, how do we respond? Hear again Psalm 130 (version by Christine Robinson):
Out of my depths, O God, I cry to you.
Are you there?
I know I’m far from perfect,
but if perfection were required,
who would pass muster?
So, I wait and I hope;
like a sentry waits for the morning.
Help me to stay alert, and keep an open heart
for whatever comes.
In my morning prayer, I often find myself saying these lines, a mashup from two psalms: “For You alone my soul in silence waits, more than the watchers wait for the morning.”
There’s something good and holy about waiting, and it’s pretty countercultural these days. It can take time, in our noisy world, for your soul to come forward. It can take time to touch your own depths, and hear your own calling. It also takes companions, and a community, what John O’Donohue called “soul friends.” Which I hope we can help you with here.
The shared service we are encouraging and inviting here begins with being in touch with your own gifts and limitations. Sensing your own desire and call to serve, and then following that call where it leads. Which can be like many of our human pilgrimages—a shadowy and meandering journey, in which you feel lost and discouraged at least some of the time. In which you wonder, “Am I on the right track? Am I doing this the right way?” But if you keep on, if you keep your heart open, you will find companions on the way, and you will experience what pilgrims through the ages have discovered—the paradox that it is in getting lost that we are found, it is in journeying through the dark that we do find our way toward the light.
We live in such a striving and purposeful culture, that it’s good to remember that these spiritual gifts are not so much to be achieved, as they are to be received. This seems to be the message that our friend Jesus kept teaching, in the days when he walked the earth. I’m thinking about his sermon on the mount, when he addressed those common people who were following him, because they sensed in him a life and vitality that they desired. They wanted what he had, but still, he told them:
“You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.
“You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house” (Matthew 5:13-16a).
Dear spiritual companions, please hear me: you are the salt of the earth; you are the light of the world. We are here to be salty in our own beautiful ways, so we will help spice up this church and our world. We each have been given a light. And we are here to share it, to let it shine. So that our different and diverse lights will brighten up our world, and will encourage and inspire others to uncover their lights, and let them shine too.
Let us be people who enter into the breadth and the depth of life; who are at home in the dark, and in the light. Who know that we are here to share that light; to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
Amen.