Come, come Whoever you are.
Welcome to each of you, welcome to all of you.
Come and be refreshed.
Come into this community of caring
Caring is a calling. We are all called.
Come, come, whoever you are.
Thank you for inviting me to participate in this evening’s service. I begin this a tall tale.
It was a dark and stormy night. Those of us in a small boat on a rocking sea were fearful. The winds blew hard, the sea was boiling. The boat and all of us in it seemed doomed—And even though all that we hold as Holy was with us—present—right there in the boat. . Even though there were other boats with us. (Yes, there were others all around us), we were terrified. What was going to happen to us? This story, based on Christian scripture, is a metaphor for life. There are times in our lives when it feels like things are falling apart. When loss strips our days of joy, when death robs us of someone we love or violence shatters our sense of security. When injustice leads us to the brink of despair. Where is the hope for the world?
I suggest we listen to each other. We need to hear the stories of people who have known despair and rediscovered joy. My opening is an ancient story with a universal theme. “Chaos comes quickly. We are fearful.”
I have read a story like this one with my hospice patients as they navigate the rough waters of terminal illness. It is a story that reminds us that we are all in the same boat when it comes to rough waters—and we can help each other navigate our own troubled waters, even to the end of life. And I will share that ancient passage from the story teller Mark.
Mark. (4: 35-41)
On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, Let us go across to the other side. And leaving the crowd behind, the fishermen took the carpenter with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” The wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still not faith?”
Chaos comes so unexpectedly. Not all storms are calmed so instantaneously. There is no promise of safety in life as much as the promise that we are not alone.
I’m certain we have all experienced turbulence in life. And though I don’t know your fears, I do know fear.
I’ve had my own dark and stormy nights—times I didn’t remember that I was part of something larger—times that I didn’t know of my connections to the Universe. I have had times of loss, depression, grief. . . times of not knowing what to do. I have prayed to keep afloat during the dark days of depression, and I have learned I am not alone in my grief, even in my loss of my father through suicide and my son in a terrible bicycle accident.
Oh, it is easy to be courageous when life is calm. But in the chaos and storms of self-doubt and confusion, we have to depend on others. I am very human and now I know that these times of darkness can be times of inspiration, of hope. I know now suffering makes one more sensitive to the pain of others in the world. I experience the sacred when I am open to life. Or am opened by life.
Perhaps you have had a time when it feels like the earth is moving under your feet. The winds of change, the fear of going under, the times of crisis, the darkest hours. Where and to whom can we go? We long to hear the words “Peace! Why are you afraid?” We must not forget about those in the other boats with us—those that journey along side. Who are those who have offered you presence and help? Who is in your convoy? Sometimes our vision is blocked and we cannot see that those who offer help and inspiration are close by.
Perhaps you’ve heard the story about the great flood and the man who was praying on his roof-top. When a police officer comes in a boat with a life jacket, the man refuses to go and leave his roof, saying: “I am waiting on God to answer my prayers.” A second offer comes from a man on a raft who throws a rope, the stranded man refuses this help too. The third invitation comes from a helicopter hovering nearby. When our friend is asked to board, he replies “only God will save me. I trust he will answer my prayers.” The flood overtakes the fellow and he drowns. We see him next at the Pearly Gates, where he asks the Lord “why didn’t you answer my prayers?” And the Lord says—“Look—I sent you the police, a raft with room for you—I even sent you a helicopter—what do you want!!”
The moral of this story of course is that help is near-by. We need each other. We can and must accept help from others. We can find and provide help through listening and hearing the stories of others. Witnessing Life—with a capital L. I believe we are God’s hope for the world.
We are all moving along in life, and even those sad times, those stuck times, contribute to the whole of Life. Bring to mind a rough time—do you remember how you got through it? Perhaps you’re thinking of a friend who came through a dark time. Have you talked with him or her about it?
I find hope in the darkness in the stories I have heard. These stories are like handholds—I can reach back and in remembering the stories, find inspiration for the present time.
I will never forget Helen. You see in my former life I was a coordinator of educational programs for older adults. Helen and I were on a bus in Seattle going to the ballet one afternoon. She sat across from me—a 79 year old woman from Wisconsin . I commented that she must like the ballet since she looked so happy. She said. “My daughter died 8 years ago after a long illness, my husband died unexpectedly two years later, and last year I lost a breast to cancer. After a heart beat, she looked directly at me and with a big smile—said “and Here I am!”
Helen--A woman who had experienced deep loss, could see the joy of just being alive and doing what was life-giving to her. Resilience. Transformation. She showed me Life after death is possible; joy after suffering is probable; and life is made to be lived, especially after tragedy and disappointment. Through telling me her story, she came to be one of those in my convoy—one whose story I rely upon for hope.
Hope begins in the dark.
And now I learn that truth again and again as I work with people at the end of life. It is a joyful career I have been led to embrace. Often it is in the darkness of death that I see the light of life. Relationships heal, forgiveness is given and received, the good of life is named, and gratitude shines forth.
Roy is my first hospice patient. His story includes a love of nature and time with family. He labored to build a life. He had some very hard financial times. When I asked him, “what you would you change about your life?” He said, “I wouldn’t change anything that has happened to me. I would change how I reacted to it.” Wisdom from a man at the end of life.
And there was Mr. Moore who I met at the hospital. His treatment did not cure him; he was given comfort care. I happened to be taking a shift at the hospital, staying in the overnight chaplain’s room. The beeper woke me up at 2am . I responded to the call by phone and the nurse said, “Come to the 5th floor. Mr. Moore wants someone to pray with him.” I had been sleeping soundly after a long day, so in my waking I grumbled to myself—“don’t those nurses know how to pray!” And then I put on my clothes and brushed my teeth and went to the floor. The patient was an 80 year old man who was very ill. I stood by his bed and called his name softly, “Mr. Moore, Its Marcia, your chaplain.” He opened his eyes slightly and looked up at me. He asked--“Will you help me remember God?” He was in the midst of a great storm and needed to remember he was not alone.
What a gift I received as we breathed together, held hands and noticed the value of being together. We talked of his garden, his dog Skipper, and of his home. We talked about the ways he was connected to life. He remembered the music of his boyhood church. He had left the church, but he knew God had not left him.
At 2am one Sunday morning, an old man helped this cranky chaplain remember what is important. He gave me an opportunity to wake up and take notice. When I left his room, I too felt connected to life —and I felt gratitude. I added Mr. Moore to my Convoy. He helped me to remember God. Hope begins in the dark.
And then there was Tom. Tom had a heart attack when he was on vacation. When I met him, he talked about what happened when he was in Hawaii . He said the people at the hotel and airport were to so very kind in helping him, and as he talked a tear ran down his cheek. “Oh, Tom,” I said, “you are very touched by the kindness of those who helped you.” “No,” he said “I used to be the one who helped.”
In his darkness, Tom told me how hard it is to give up being the helper—being the one who does for others. This was indeed a great loss to him. I added Tom to my convoy. He helped me to remember to receive help and be grateful when I can give it. From Tom I learned to think about the value of interdependence, recognizing that goodness can be given and can be received. And that it is receiving that is the hardest!
I heard an interview on NPR the other day when Terry Gross asked the man, a writer of poetry, about his life at age 90. “I look for the glee in each day,” he said, “and I am grateful for being allowed to live one more day.” Mmm—allowed. I heard that word more clearly than I’d ever hear it before—allowed to live another day. It is the wonder of life, the ordinary every day that is the miracle: your child’s bright eyes, your neighbor’s hello, you co-worker’s funny joke, the stars in the sky. Wonder happens when you can notice some of the goodness of life.
I believe in miracles—the ordinary miracles of an ordinary day. And I hold gratitude very close—for it is my prayer and my blessing. “To pay attention,” says UU minister Robert Fulghram, “is to sanctify existence.”
What can we do to help those in darkness?
We can be the light of hope.
We can listen deeply to the stories of others.
We can open our eyes to possibility and learn to receive help.
We can reflect and tell our own stories, losses, connections, turning points, challenges, places of darkness and hope.
Wait, watch, work, listen, reflect.
We can show up and try to do the right thing and trust that the dawn will come.
Enlarge your capacity to see hope in the darkness.
Be grateful for the darkness as well as the light.
Albert Schweitzer, a member of the UU Church of the Larger Fellowship, writes that “Sometimes our light goes out but is blown into flame by an encounter with another human being. Each of us owes the deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this inner light.”
My inspiration comes from the life and death of my own son, Matt, from the words of Jesus, and Buddha, favorite poets and writers--and the stories of Helen, Mr Moore, Tom and other hospice patients and families. And I am grateful.
“Life is a miracle, and death is a fact,” writes Rev. Joseph Barth who headed the UUA Dept of ministry. Use that miracle for all it is worth.
As a community of faith we can be part of the convoy on the rough sea, offering peace and hope. We can travel with compassion and equanimity. And we can remind each other and ourselves that what is Holy is in our boat and that indeed there are many others in our convoy. This is life is indeed holy ground.
So be it Amen.
Benediction: Hold Hands and stay for the postlude after the benediction.
Of the spirit
Nothing comes to birth
May we feel the call to be a blessing to each other.