Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, May 26, 2024
Earlier this week I was in a meeting with a couple of you, and one of you said something that’s stayed with me since: it was something like, “I’m aware of how our church is a refuge for people these days—it certainly is for me—and that’s good, and important, and needed.”
As we wrap up this month of reflecting on “repair,” today I want to talk about this—about refuge as a necessary ingredient for repair. But first I want to say thank you to Taffy and Aiden, for the beautiful and important ways of repair you offered in your sermons, about the healing process of grieving a huge loss and how you can eventually start to fill the empty space that loss brings; and the needed repair that comes from reading the Bible through the lens and perspectives of people who have been harmed by it, notably queer folks who read the Bible as a text of liberation.
Repair does need a certain kind of space in which to happen, doesn’t it? Physical repair requires a workshop, or the right tools. Emotional repair needs an open mind, one flexible enough to be changed. A willingness to try on new ways of living and being. A space where you feel held enough, and safe enough, that you can take the risk of starting to heal.
Today I want to offer up a praise song for you good people, here in this church community, and for the grace I sense flowing in our midst. Because you have created a container here in which healing and repair can and does happen. Often quietly, almost invisibly, over a stretch of time, but I know this is true. That because of you, this is a house of hope and healing.
I see you as a place and a people like what John O’Donohue describes in his blessing that was our reading this morning. Like the kind of home everyone needs:
…a safe place
Full of understanding and acceptance,
Where we can be as we are,
Without the need of any mask
Or pretense or image.
…a place of discovery,
Where the possibilities that sleep
In the clay of our souls can emerge
To deepen and refine our vision
For all that is yet to come to birth in us.
This morning I ask you to reflect on what needs repair: to ask yourself , what needs repair in me? What needs repair in my family, and in this congregation? And once some some repair projects come to mind, where do you want and need to begin?
Zooming further out, you could ask, what needs repair in this city, and nation, and in our world. So much, right? Where can I, where can you be be part of health and healing for the wider world?
This is a worthy and important work to reflect on, and be in conversation about—not just what is broken, but what am I going to do about it? How am I going to mend and heal what has been torn asunder?
In the short term, you might want to come be part of a conversation we’re hosting on Tuesday, June 4 at 7: a panel discussion with Jewish and Muslim community organizers about the crisis in Gaza.
There is plenty of fear and despair these days, isn’t there? In the wider world. and in our own hearts. We need places for hope and healing, we need way stations where we can stop and refuel and be renewed. We need refuges. Some of you love going the the Parker River Wildlife Refuge over on the coast. It’s not just a refuge for birds, is it? It’s also a refuge for people. A place that feeds your soul. You’re not going there just to see a new variety of bird, are you?
Thee are refuges in the world that feed my soul—I think of wild places with rivers running through them, also a monastery where I’ve sat quietly in the chapel, and slept in their guest house. Also our back yard, at any time of year, but spring is especially sweet. And, of course, this place and you people. I hope it’s obvious how much I love it here, and love you.
When you’re lost or struggling, it helps just to know there are these places of refuge, doesn’t it? Just the idea that they exist can help. There are wild places I may never get to visit, that I still love thinking of, and picturing in my mind’s eye.
A couple of weeks ago the choir sang a song that began with a somber tone and words evoking the shadow side of life:
This dark stormy hour,
the wind, it stirs.
The scorched earth cries out in vain…
We all have times of darkness, discouragement, despair. It’s not bad to spend some time, all by yourself, in the shadows. But not too much! After naming the pain, that song shifts:
But music and singing have been my refuge,
And music and singing shall be my light.
A light of song
Shining Strong: Alleluia!
In time of trouble you need people you can call on, and count on, people who you refuge, and some light. This is why congregations like ours exist, right? Not the only reason, but an important one. As
This year Clare and I have part of an online class and conversation led by our New England Regional UU staff, and one day the leader asked me, “Do you think churches are for organizing and leading people so they can band together and go out and change the world? Or is the church more of a place that people can return to, where they are renewed and refreshed so they can then go out and change the world in their own ways?
I said that I thought it was both—church as social justice and change advocate and organizer, and also church as a refuge for people whose souls are weary, a place of respite and inspiration for the journey. I’ve continued to ponder this in the weeks afterwards, and still think it’s a both/and. But I find myself leaning more toward the role of church as a refuge. Maybe because I’m more of a pastor than activist. But there are plenty of good organizations out there that know how to rally people to a cause, how to pull folks together to effect positive change. And they need our participation and support.
But there aren’t so many places that are about tending and caring for your soul. About offering the promise of the holy: spiritual food and the sustenance of companions, people who know you name, and your story. Places with rituals celebrating life, and death, and time in between. A community that invites you to bring, as we sang earlier, your longing, thirsty souls.
You know, the words of that hymn come from book of the prophet Isaiah, chapter 55. Like most prophets, he’s channeling the voice of God, who says,
Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!…
Why spend your money on what is not great,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?…
You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
At its best, the church and scripture put us in touch with a loving and life-giving Spirit that wants to remind us that we good enough already, that it’s ok—actually good and blessed—to rest, that we are all part of a great and abiding Love.
The writer Anne Lamott lifts up what she calls her “funky little church” as a place that gave her what she couldn’t find anywhere else: “a path and a little light to see by.” She says, “When I was at the end of my rope, the people at St. Andrew tied a knot in it for me and helped me hold on. The church became my home in the old meaning of home – that it’s where, when you show up, they have to let you in. They let me in. They even said, ‘You come back now.’”
I hope you sense that here—that you belong, that you are part of our shared ministry of presence and companionship, of seeing and being seen. I hope that here you’ve found a spiritual home. A place to be stretched, and a place to rest. A community that offers sustenance and connection, that helps bring you into the way of grace.
That’s what a refuge is—a place or state of being where you feel safe, but not just that; where you can rest, but not only that; where you can let down your guard and be opened to that amazing grace which is all around.
Let us be people who know we need a refuge, so we will seek after, and find it. For the care of our souls and of the world. And in this refuge we call church, let us embody John O’Donohue’s blessing as our calling, and our prayer:
May this be a house of courage,
Where healing and growth are loved,
Where patience and dignity prevail;
A place where patience of spirit is prized,
And the sight of the destination is never lost
Though the journey may be difficult and slow.
May there be great delight around this hearth.
May this be a house of welcome
For all who seek refuge from the storm.
And may we have eyes to see
That no one arrives without a gift
And no one leaves without a blessing.
And may the grace of God abide with you, though storm and struggle, in light and in shadow, and bring you safely home.
Amen.