|
|
|
|
August 9, 2009Habakkuk 3:17-19
A Sermon on Loss: Even then I shall Exult in the Lord
Recently I read, for the third time, a book entitled “The Giver,” by Lois Lowry. And I confess that on my third reading of the book, its message finally became clear. Some years ago this book received the Newberry Medal for fiction, which is given to a work of outstanding literature written for young adults. So it’s a rather frightening admission on my part: that I’ve had to read it repeatedly to understand it. The story is an intricately crafted tale of a community set apart from the world. In this community all emotions are skillfully managed so that people feel no emotional pain, remember no loss, have no regrets, and ostensibly form no lasting attachments to one another. This is accomplished by the use of medications to control passion and impulse, and a careful selection process by which people are assigned a task for their life work. What a citizen might choose to do with their life is not a consideration since people have no desires or preferences or passions. It is implied in the book that people who continue to display emotion or personal will of any kind are sent out of the community to live in the world beyond – the world where pain can be felt, where mistakes can be made, where sadness and regret and loss are realities. But there in the protected community everything is predictable, manageable and emotionally sterile. The protagonist of the story is a young man named Jonas. He is very bright, excelling in school and in all varieties of mandatory social service. As Jonas approaches adulthood, his talents are assessed by the selection committee, and he is chosen to be groomed for the position of the community’s supreme leader. Ms. Lowry’s inspiration for the book came, at least in part, from the experience of caring for her father who for a time lived in a nursing home, having lost most of his long-term memory. She began to realize that without memory, there seemed to be no emotional pain. And she began to imagine a society in which attachments and regret and remorse did not exist. The story is disconcerting. There were times in the reading of it that I found myself agitated and uncomfortable. I was ill at ease inside such an unnatural world. In the end, though the details are more implied than delineated, Jonas flees from the community, taking with him a little boy whom he feels compelled to protect. And he breaks free into the world of reality, where he can feel pain and sorrow, but also joy and love. I know that not one of us sitting here this morning would wish pain or suffering or sorrow upon another person, or upon ourselves. But I also know – and maybe I should be very, very careful to speak only for myself here – I know that, in my own life, it has often been loss that has enabled me to recognize the gifts I do possess. It has often been in the face of death that I have come to see just how precious life itself really is. It has often been in the face of tragedy that I have seen so clearly the magnificence and transcendence of human compassion. As I write this, I am reminded of the over 2,000 refugees living at Central Methodist Mission in downtown Johannesburg, South Africa; a church community with whom this church has a wonderful partnership. They are, for the most part, Zimbabweans. And the word “dispossession” has, for them, a depth of meaning almost unimaginable for you and me. They were, at one time, living in the breadbasket of Africa. Zimbabwe was a country with a surplus of vegetables, fruits and edible produce more beautiful to behold than I can adequately describe. I remember wandering through a street market in the city of Harare in the late 1980’s and realizing that I had never seen such a riot of color: large, deep green avocadoes; stacks of oranges and grapefruit and lemons; and pyramids taller than I of big, bright red tomatoes. And Zimbabwe had, in the 1980’s and 1990’s, the finest educational system on the continent. In those first years following the end of colonialism, Zimbabwe was a shining star of prosperity within Africa. And now, within her borders just twenty years later, citizens of Zimbabwe are on the verge of starvation. Disease is rampant. Inflation has eroded their currency to the point of absurdity. Rulers who took pride in setting a nation free have now turned into oppressors, wallowing in their own greed. Families have been split apart, forced to send some of their brightest and strongest and most promising members to other countries to try to earn something with which to lessen the suffering. Crowded into the halls and stairways of Central Methodist are thousands of refugees, dispossessed in every way. What meager belongings they still own can be crammed into a plastic bag. Coming from a nation where, formerly, they had plenty: they now know the pain of hunger. They have lost everything. Their fear and their poverty and their frustration, are palpable. But palpable also is the spirit of joy which they seem to find in worship and in community. They sing, they dance, they laugh, they hug those of us who visit them. I tell you, it defies simple logic.
T.S. Eliot says it this way, in his poem from the Four Quartets, (“East Coker”)
“To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. In order to arrive at what you do not know, You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance. In order to possess what you do not possess, You must go by way of dispossession.” (Eliot 1971:p127)
I often think about that last line from T.S.Eliot when I am in the midst of the poorest of the poor, “In order to possess what you do not possess, you must go by way of dispossession.” It is as if they are able to see and feel and appreciate that which is transcendent and eternal. And perhaps it is, at least in part, because their view is not obstructed by possessions. In the gospel of Luke, a parallel story is told this way, in the form of a parable: “There was a rich man whose land yielded a great harvest. He (said to) himself: “I will pull down my barns and build them bigger. I will collect in them all my grain and other goods, and then I can say to myself, “You have plenty… enough for years to come. Take life easy, eat, drink and enjoy yourself.” (Luke 12:16-21, abridged) (In other words, the rich man believes he has arrived at the place where he can sing that song, “Don’t worry. Be happy.”) What he doesn’t know as he sings that song is that his life is to end that night, and all his possessions will, ultimately, do him no good. He has mistaken plenty and prosperity, which he does possess, for peace and joy and life. It seems to me that loss, and change, are an unavoidable part of the tapestry of our lives. When we love someone, there is always the risk of loosing them – loosing them to death or loosing them to some factor in which the course of their life takes them away from us. There are lots of things we cling to for security – the home we love, the pet who keeps us company, the old rocking chair grandpa loved. But these are really “things” that can disappear from our landscape. And the barns in which we store some bountiful harvest, or the mutual fund in which we store up savings against some unforeseen circumstance? Well, I don’t need to tell you what can happen to those forms of security. One of the most challenging changes in the tapestry of our lives, I believe, is the loss of our physical strength or prowess. This can be brought on by the onset of disease or the weakness that can come with age. I can’t tell you how often I have heard an older person say something like, “My body just doesn’t have the strength or the energy it used to have.” I can feel the sadness in that statement. And yet I can also tell you that I have known a number of older folks whose grace and wisdom and dignity have seemed to increase as their physical strength decreased. I have known people in the throes of illness whose witness to faith and courage was an inspiration. And their lives have lessons to teach us all about grace and nobility and dignity and strength of character.
There is a verse in our closing hymn which means a lot to me. It’s a hymn I sing sometimes to myself when I feel the need for consolation or encouragement. Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see. O thou who changest not, Abide with me. It has always seemed comforting to me to be reminded that in the midst of whatever chaos or struggle or pain we might find ourselves, there is that which is unchangeable – that upon which we can rely – that upon which our “anchor will grab hold” – that which offers real security. Sometimes people in the midst of turmoil and pain will ask why God has allowed a particular challenge to enter their lives. I’ve always believed that God is not the author of the book of our lives – we are our own authors. We write our own story, for the most part; though chance, or the environment around us, write a significant part of the script. But God is there, with us and beside us and within us – always. Unchanging. Reliable. Strong. Attentive. And patient. When I was a small child, I spent a few weeks every summer with my maternal grandmother, who was a devout Baptist – but also a lot of fun! She was an elocutionist who could recite a vast array of poems and entertain me with hours of story-telling. And she knew her bible so well that we worked at memorizing verses as we hung out the clothes in the morning! On a board in her kitchen, there hung a simple, little poem, which we committed to memory.
“God hath not promised skies always blue, flower-strewn pathways all our lives through. God has not promised sun without rain, Joy without sorrow. Peace without pain. But God hath promised Strength for the day. Rest for the labor Light for the way, Grace for the trials, Help from above. Unfailing sympathy, Undying love.” (from Salesian Missions of New York) I would not want to live my life in a place where pain and loss and struggle, joy and love and passion were removed from the tapestry of life. But I do want to live my life, always, with the words from our hymn echoing through my heart and mind, “O Thou who changest not, abide with me.” I want to know that all the strength of God, all the wisdom of the Almighty, all the forgiveness of the All-Merciful, and all the grace of a God who authors an ocean-depth of compassion, remains with me, and abides with me, always. “O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
Amen.
Carleen R. Gerber First Congregational of Old Lyme
|
|
|
