Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, July 14, 2024.

My friend Kim Crawford Harvie just retired after serving the Arlington Street Church in Boston for many years, and not long ago we were in a meeting together, and she was talking about the changes retirement would bring. And I said, “You know, if you’re looking for something to do, I could teach you to fly fish. It would be fun,” I said. And Kim said, “Honey, I’m a vegan.”

“Well I don’t eat them, I put them back,” I said. I’m a vegan,” Kim said. “I mash down the barbs so they hurt the fish less and are easy to release,” I said. She just looked at me…. “Oh, ok,” I said, finally getting it.

I admit that there is a certain amount of karmic debt I must be incurring by fishing, and pulling them through the water after they eat my fly. But I do it as carefully and gently as I can. And I love it so much. 

I was out in Yellowstone last week, and it was lovely. The fishing was good, and being out there in that country, which is pretty much the same as it’s always been, except for a few roads and buildings here and there; being out there is sublime, there’s beauty everywhere you look. I have a guide book that says “Fishing in Yellowstone is like fishing in a church.” I’ve learned that hiking to fish is almost as good as the fishing itself. Walking through that Western landscape offers time and space for silence, and long thoughts, and I’m so fortunate to be able to do it. 

One day on the way to the river I remembered these few words from the writer called Sparse Grey Hackle; this is his reflection on not-catching fish:

“Soon after I embraced the sport of angling I became convinced that I should never be able to enjoy it if I had to rely on the cooperation of fish. Fortunately, I learned long ago that although fish do make a difference—the difference—in angling; catching them does not; so that one who is content to not-catch fish in the most skillful and refined manner, utilizing the best equipment and technique, will have their time and attention free for the accumulation of a thousand experiences, the memory of which will remain for one’s enjoyment long after any recollection of fish would have faded.”

It was a blissful week out there; I met some nice people, and plenty of fish. There was all kinds of weather, from freezing cold hail to thunderstorms with whipping winds to warm sunscreen days. I like traveling alone out there: each day brings the joy of deciding what trail to take, and where to fish, and when, finally, to start heading back. I lose all track of time—the days are long and leisurely, and at the same time seem to pass quickly.

Something good about spending that time alone is that I start hearing the chatter of my own mind. I think our minds are doing this most of the time, talking to us, or trying to; but it’s easier to ignore that inner voice when you’re busy, paying attention to more pressing things. Those of you who practice meditation or centering prayer, you must know this. Our minds are chatty little things!

The walk to my favorite stream in Yellowstone is about two hours long, which provides ample time to daydream, and let my mind wander. And to listen for, and hear, that inner voice which is so easy to ignore or dismiss.

Here’s my confession—that out there in that place where I had every reason to be happy and contented, and I was, most of the time—I also noticed times that I was worried or afraid. Not about things like bears on the trail, or the state of our nation, which I was blissfully unaware of in that land of spotty cell service. No, my inner voice was worried about small things, mostly—the nagging concern that a summer thunderstorm could wreck the fishing for a day or more, which does happen out there. Or the realistic fear that after hiking a long way, another angler might have beaten me to my favorite spot! Or, God forbid, that I might come all this way and not catch anything! I’m still working on the not-catching thing.

I know that these are shallow fears and worries. But I hope they illustrate my point—which is that I can carry around these negative thoughts and unfounded fears, even when there’s no real reason to do so. What my brother in law the lawyer would call “assuming facts not in evidence.” 

I wonder how many of us do this—assume or decide how things are going to be, before we ever get there? How often do we assume the worst? And how much does this limit our understanding and our experiences? How often do we fail to trust that there is goodness and grace around us, and expect things to go well, rather than fearing they will go badly?

Don’t you think this was human condition that Jesus was talking about when he asked, “Why do you worry?” And his answer reminds me of how I feel in the presence of this wide and wonderful world: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.” This must be why fishing in Yellowstone is so good for my soul—out in that wide country, under that big sky, I’m reminded that it is still a wonderful world.

Way back in 1903 President Theodore Roosevelt and the naturalist John Burroughs took a two-week camping trip in Yellowstone.These men had different personalities, but were united by a love for the outdoor life, and were friends for 30 years. Burroughs was a contemplative, and you hear that in these words he wrote so long ago:

“The forms and creeds of religion change, but the sentiment of religion—the wonder and reverence and love we feel in the presence of the inscrutable universe—persists. Indeed, these seem to be renewing their life to-day in this growing love for all natural objects and in this increasing tenderness toward all forms of life. If we do not go to church so much as did our parents, we go to the woods much more, and are much more inclined to make a temple of them than they were.”

Burroughs says this kind of nature love, which has a distinctly religious value, does not come to those who are “wholly absorbed in selfish or worldly or material ends.” Or, I could add, to the angler who’s too worried about catching. Riffing on Jesus, Burroughs said, “Except ye become in a measure as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of nature.”

What he’s talking about is a sense of wonder, of awe (as Josh beautifully preached about last Sunday), a willingness to keep one’s mind and heart open for what lies ahead, what’s around the next bend. The invitation is to live life, as best you can, with hopeful expectation, and a childlike enthusiasm: “Who knows what might happen?” In all the doom and gloom of these days, couldn’t we use more of that?

This isn’t always easy, especially when you’re facing difficult things in your life, as some of you are right now. But has worry ever helped promote healing, or happiness? Does fear? What if we replaced some of our worry with wonder, with awe, with a bit of humor? There’s no shame in worry or fear—and it’s no good to hold it in—you need to let it out.

In the the middle of one of his poems, Wendell Berry offers a confession, that speaks to our human condition. Picture him out in a field where he farms in Kentucky, and hear his words:

“To the sky, to the wind, then,
and to the faithful trees, I confess
my sins: that I have not been happy
enough, considering my good luck;
have listened to too much noise;
have been inattentive to wonders;
have lusted after praise” (“A Purification”).

What might you confess, and want to change? What is holding you back from living your life in this moment, and in these days? What might you let go of so you can be more glad, more grateful, more connected, more free?

One of my best friends is our former neighbor Dan. He’s such a true blue friend that he makes a monthly contribution to our church, even though he’s never been here. It’s as a way he shows his support, and I’m grateful. Dan is a funny guy. Years ago a new coffee shop opened nearby, and at the start they had one of those banners, across the front, “Now Open!” So that’s what he started calling that place, and years later, he still does. And we all know where he’s talking about. “I’m stopping by Now Open. Want me to get you a coffee?”

I wonder, what if we could imagine ourselves with a little invisible banner hanging across our foreheads, that says, “Now open!”? Or above our hearts: “Now open.” This could be a good way to describe this church, and our UU tradition: now, and always, open. 

So shouldn’t this be how we try to live out these lives we have been given? As open as we can be. In these days, open to what may come. Trusting that there is around us abundant goodness and amazing grace; just waiting for us to open up, and notice, and embrace, and enjoy.

Now and always,
Amen.