Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, October 13, 2024.
A couple of weeks ago, I was driving north from here up into New Hampshire, heading from Plaistow into Atkinson, and all of a sudden I was on a stretch of that two-lane road where there are trees, a solid mass of trees, on both sides of the road, and they arch over the road, making a leafy canopy overhead. For a stretch of at least a few hundred yards you are literally surrounded by trees, above you and around you. Our dear church member Delight Reese for many years lived a little farther up that road, in Hampstead with her husband Don, until she died in April of 2020. Well, Delight had a name for that stretch of trees; she called it “The Cathedral.” And it is just that—a place that feels holy and special and good, a cathedral of trees.
When I am among the trees, (Mary Oliver wrote)
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
Who among us doesn’t need some saving, some goodness and gladness? My question for you is this: are you getting enough of that?
This is our sabbath day. Or at least it used to be. The idea of sabbath—a day set apart for rest and rejuvenation, time to turn away from work and toward spiritual things, a time for family and friends, for relaxation and ease—this is still needed, maybe now more than ever, but it’s hard to find. Because our society has lost any kind of shared sense of sabbath. If you want it, I’m afraid you have to find it for yourself.
I hope you get some sabbath time by coming to church. An hour to just be is a good way to begin a day of rest and renewal. I hope this hour of communion with others and with the Spirit sets the tone for a day that will feed and restore your soul.
We have a midweek gathering that feels like sabbath to me. It’s on online group called “Writing as Spiritual Practice,” and it started during the pandemic. At 8 am on Wednesdays we gather on Zoom for an hour of mostly silence, with a bit of talking at the beginning and the end. Last Wednesday, as that big hurricane Milton was bearing down on Florida, one of us mentioned that she’d been doing some vacuuming in her house, and had been struck by what a simple joy and privilege it was to have a dry and safe home in which to do a chore like that. This kind of mindfulness is what we’re after, isn’t it? In a world, and in lives, swirling with worries and fears and so much to do, to be able to be present to this moment, and find purpose and joy in it.
I’ve been thinking about the poem we just heard, and its call to be “Among the Trees,” and Mary Oliver’s faith claim about being there, in their midst:
“I would almost say that they save me, and daily.” Do you know what she means? Mary Oliver certainly had her own struggles in life, and you hear this in her work, in which she wrote her way toward her own healing and salvation:
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
You know what she’s talking about, don’t you? About the pain of life, and feeling discouraged, and yet—you know there’s goodness in walking more slowly, bowing down to the little wonders that come when you open yourself to this moment, this place, this embodied life.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It's simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
It’s such a simple invitation. And a counter-cultural one these days. When so many of us are busy, and tired, and worried. Worn down by carrying so many things. When you’re stretched and overwhelmed, it can feel annoying to hear that simple invitation to slow down and go easy, right?
But that’s what’s needed. And it is simple. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Because there are these voices in our heads and in our lives saying, “Do something!” When what’s needed is to be still for a moment, or two, or twenty.
This is what people seeking a deeper experience of life have sought and practiced through the ages—whether you call it prayer or meditation, or some other name, or none—it’s being attuned to a different wavelength, a more grounded ways of being. It’s what the psalmist was talking about: “Be still and know that I am God.” Or as Gandhi said, “There is more to life than increasing its speed.”
It’s obvious that making time for what feeds your soul is a good thing, and getting out in nature, whether that’s among the trees or by the water or out under the sky, this is probably the most popular and most common way that people find peace and solace. It’s good medicine for the soul.
And you can’t do it all the time, can you? You have a life, by which I mean cares, and work, and commitments. And it’s good to have these things. What would our lives be without them? The blessing of a sabbath day is that it’s different from the other days. It’s a needed and necessary respite from everyday cares.
This is what one of my heroes, the outdoor writer Tom McGuane, was thinking about when he wrote, “I’m afraid the best angling is always a respite from burden. Good anglers should lead useful lives, and useful lives are marked by struggle, and difficulty, and even pain.”
I’m all for leading a useful life. And also for days spent among the trees and on the water. What I want to suggest to you today that those respites from burden don’t have to happen only out there, in nature. Mountaintop experiences are great, but they can be few and far between. We need ways to find solace down here, in the places when we spend our days. You can have a life of prayer or meditation anywhere, and it’s best as an everyday practice.
I hope you can see that it’s entirely possible to imagine that invitation to be among the trees as moveable feast; that you can invite and invoke this blessing anywhere, and anytime.
Can you imagine yourself, while vacuuming or picking up the kid’s toys, saying “I’m vacuuming among the trees. I’m cleaning up, among the trees.” How about, “I’m commuting to work, and still, I am among the trees. I can sense their lightness of being, and feel it within myself.”
Mary Oliver wrote about a time when a friend of hers, who was monk and a bishop, smiled at her and said, “Put yourself in the way of grace.” She is saying to us, “Place yourself among the trees. Picture yourself among the trees.”
This is my simple invitation to you today—to put yourself in the company of what blesses and sustains you. To put yourself in a state of heart and mind where you can be still and know that, even with all its troubles, life is good. Where you can trust that there is at the heart of life a force, a source that is always for love and for justice. And while there is around us injustice and evil, that is not the whole story. As Rev. Rebecca Parker proclaims,
There moves
A holy disturbance,
A benevolent rage,
A revolutionary love,
Protesting, urging, insisting
That which is sacred will not be defiled.
If for nothing else, this is what we need religious community for—to hold up this promise, this hope, this insistence, that good does triumph over evil. That in the end, Love does win. Or as the mystic Juilian of Norwich, who lived through the Black Plague, wrote, “All shall be well.”
To be a person of faith these days, it helps to be something of a mystic. To be open to finding the mystery in the ordinary things of this world. In a child’s face, in the night sky, in the presence of a friend. It is my faith, and my experience, that the holy presence we call God is everywhere. And the place we meet God is always in this present moment.
My prayer is that you will be in touch with the power of the Spirit,
that you will trust your own worth and worthiness,
that you will put yourselve in the way of grace,
that you will take heart, and take courage,
for the living of these days.
For the living of these days.
Amen.