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August 2, 2009
Ecclesiastes 3:1-12
Matthew 26:36-46
Ephesians 3:14-19
“And the Anchor
Holds… A Sermon on Grief”
“To everything there is a season and a time for
every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die.” So speaks
the author of the book of Ecclesiastes.
One of the
privileges of being a part of a community of faith such as ours is that we see
human life in all its stages and evolutions. It is a joy to celebrate the
sacrament of baptism as we do so often here, and to be a part of that cycle of
birth - to witness again and again the “time to be born.” In the art department
of the White Elephant Sale this year I saw a little embroidered piece that said,
“A baby is God’s sign that the world should go on.” It made me smile.
However, in our community of faith, over the
course of the last year, we have seen a great deal of death. It seems to me,
we’ve seen more of that part of the cycle – the part in which “There is a time
to die.” And because we are, together, a “family of faith,” we have all
grieved.
For many of us, the recent and sudden death of
our friend and colleague, Karen Nelson, came as a great blow to the soul. Karen
was the beloved teacher of many of our youth, and adults, here in this
community. She had a rare ability to infuse her piano teaching with the
infectious joy she herself found in music. She was, also, for several years the
director of our children’s choir. She was loyal to this church and a gifted
contributor to our music program. I will miss her very much.
It is highly unlikely that any of us will live
our lives without feeling the sting of death at some time. Grief is a universal
experience.
There is a wonderful Buddist parable called the
“Parable of the Mustard Seed.” Finding a woman overcome with grief, the Buddha
instructs her to go from house to house throughout the city in search of a few
grains of mustard seed. The mustard seed will heal her grief, he says. But, she
must accept the mustard seed only from a household in which no one has ever died
– not a father or mother; not a child or brother or sister or servant. After
searching from house to house, she discovers that she cannot find a single
household that has escaped the experience of death.
The story leads you to believe that there is some
comfort in knowing that grief is such a universal experience. If that is so –
and I suspect that it is so – the comfort it offers comes only at the high price
of personal experience. Knowing that death is universal does not lessen the pain
we feel when a loved one dies.
Grief is at one and the same time both a
universal experience, and yet, ultimately an intensely individual experience. By
that I mean that no one person’s journey through grief will be exactly like
another’s.
Death sneaks into our lives with the
terrifying stealth of a thief. It disfigures the present and amputates some part
of the future. Even when a death is “expected” or “timely” we are, often,
stunned and bewildered by our loss. And there is no road map that makes the
journey through grief easier, though a great deal has been written on the
topic. The poet Emily Dickinson said,
“I measure every grief I meet
With narrow, probing eyes,
I wonder if it weighs like Mine
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long
Or did it just begin
I could not tell the date of mine
It feels so old a pain.”
Following a death we may feel “in shock” for a
long time. We may feel tired and weak, or disoriented. Often, our sense of
self-confidence waivers. We may feel anger, and sometimes, for various reasons,
some measure of regret. Even after years of relative tranquility following the
loss of a loved one, sorrow can cycle back around and hit us fresh again. I
remember when our first daughter was married and she came downstairs in her
wedding gown, I was suddenly overcome by tears at the thought that my mother had
not lived to see her wedding day. Now, my mother had been gone for 12 years at
the time, and I hadn’t even been aware that she was in my thoughts at that
particular moment. Sorrow can ambush us in exactly that way. The
process of grief is completely unpredictable, because it affects us all so
differently.
I recommend to you a movie made about 15 tears
ago, entitled “Shadowlands.” Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson star in the
movie – which is quite a good recommendation in and of itself. But it is a
wonderful story of the life and love shared by the great British theologian C.S.
Lewis and Helen Davidman. C.S. Lewis was a confirmed bachelor till relatively
late in life, when he married his true soul-mate with whom, for a precious few
years, he shared his work and calling. A prolific author and theologian, he had
written some wonderful treatises on the Christian faith, the most commonly known
being the allegory “The Chronicles of Narnia.” He wrote and preached with
assurance, but when he lost the love of his life, the devastation of the loss
overwhelmed the steadfastness of his faith.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like
fear,” says Lewis. “I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The
same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness… There is a sort of
invisible blanket between the world and me… Tell me about the truth or the duty
of religion and I’ll listen. But don’t come talking to me (now) about the
consolations of religion or I shall suspect you don’t understand.” (Lewis:1961
p.3 and p.25)(Harper restored edition 1996)
Our scripture reading from the book of Matthew
tells the story of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane on the night of his
betrayal. Following the Passover meal with his disciples, he had gone into the
garden to pray. It was dark, and the night itself would have been heavy with the
knowledge of his impending death. The word “Gethsemane” in Hebrew means “olive
press.” And on this night, in the midst of this great grove of olive trees,
Jesus knew the full weight, the full press, of what the ensuing days would bring
to bear.
He left most of the disciples at the outer edge of
the garden, but the three who knew him best – Peter, James and John – he took
with him into the garden.
““Distress and anguish overwhelmed him. And
he said to them, “My heart is ready to break with grief. Stop here, and stay
awake with me.” Going on a little farther, he threw himself down and prayed, “My
Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me. Yet not my will but thine
be done.””
Three times Jesus went off by himself and knelt
to pray, overwhelmed by anguish, and each time he returned to his friends only
to find them sleeping. All he had asked was that they stay awake. Stay
on guard. He needed to know that they cared, and that they felt some measure of
anguish along with him.
Each of us will, at some time in our lives, find
ourselves in our own Garden of Gethsemane. With the full press of sorrow upon
us, we will be overwhelmed by anguish.
Each of us will, at some time in our lives,
stand beside a friend or loved one who is overwhelmed by grief. We will most
likely feel quite powerless, and wish there were some great words of consolation
or healing that we could pronounce. But all we will be able to do at that time
will be to stand beside them and stay awake – keep watch – show them that we
care and are willing to try to share their sorrow.
When I was a child, my family did a lot of boating
on Long Island Sound. My Dad was a seasoned sailor. It always seemed to me
that he had an innate wisdom about the sea, and a self-confidence that other
sailors and relied upon and admired. I never knew a storm, or an engine failure,
that caused him to panic.
I remember quite clearly a time when a fierce
squall came up in the night, and our anchor dragged. With thunder and lightening
all around us, with the rain pelting the decks and limiting our visibility, the
poor vessel was tossed about by the storm, and it dragged, slowly and steadily
toward the shore. We could gauge the distance to the rocky beach only when the
lightening flashed.
My father started up the engines. I urged him to
let me go out on the forward deck and begin to haul in the anchor. I wanted to
do something, but he told me to stay inside where it was safe. Resolutely he
stood at the helm with the engines idling. He “kept watch.”
He knew that the harbor was large, and that there
was plenty of scope on the anchor line. He knew that it was very likely that the
anchor would catch hold of something new - some rocky terrain on the bottom -
and that the engines would most probably be unnecessary. But he stood ready and
alert, keeping watch.
When the anchor caught hold, you could feel the
whole boat pull herself taut against the anchor line and right herself into the
wind of the storm. The boat remained secure.
The story of the boat dragging anchor in a squall
is a good metaphor for the process of grief. The storm of grief tends to make us
feel as if we are helplessly tossed by waves and buffeted about by forces beyond
our control. We who grieve need to remember that the anchor of our faith will,
eventually, hold.
Those who want most to help are really best
advised to keep watch nearby. Their patience and calm and love are more
important than their skill.
Slowly but surely, we who grieve will work out our
own course through the grieving process. And we must be ever so patient with
ourselves, for the journey through grief is often slow and tedious. But, as
time passes, we will catch hold of some memory, or some wisdom, or some kindness
that will turn us again toward life and beauty. We’ll see the bright colors of
the maple trees on an October day and we’ll find ourselves smiling because we
remember how much the person we’ve lost loved the brilliance of autumn. We’ll
feel the warmth of the earth under our bare feet and smile because the person
we’ve lost loved walking barefoot in summer.
Little by little, grief becomes easier to bear.
Little by little, smiles come with more frequency than tears. Grief is a complex
and lengthy process, and an occasional ambush-by-sorrow is always possible. But
over time we “right ourselves” into the storm, and the anchor of our faith takes
hold.
Grief is hard on the person who grieves, and
it’s hard for those who feel that they can do nothing but stand by and keep
watch. The community of friends who gather at the edge of the garden is very
important, because their presence, their steadfastness, their willingness to
“stand watch,” calls us back to love and life. This I know for sure: no one, not
even Jesus, would choose to bear their grief alone.
Would you join me in prayer,
Loving God, whose mercy knows no bounds, we ask
that thou wouldst shed thy light and thy love and thy grace upon all those whose
lives have known the burden and pain of grief and loss. Help us to know thy
healing in the voice of a friend, in the reassuring words of scripture, in the
great music of our faith, in the majestic beauty of thy natural world, and in
the gentle and constant company of this community of friends. Help us to be
comforted by our memories of good times shared in the past. Help us to be
sustained by thy constant and abiding presence beside us, beneath us and within
us. And for the sake of those we have loved and lost, help us again to turn to
life, for it is often in the presence of death that we come to know the deeper
meaning of life itself. Knowing that the highest tribute to those we have lost
is gratitude, allow us to claim each and every day a prayer of thanksgiving for
the blessings that have been given us in the spirit of our loved ones now passed
within the veil. Encourage us with thy wisdom, empower us with thy might, and
lead us forward toward toward the light of thy countenance. We offer this and
all our prayers in the name of thy Son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ,
Amen.
Carleen R.
Gerber
First
Congregational Church
Of Old Lyme
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