June 5, 2005

Rev. Henry Ticknor
Unitarian Universalist Church of the Shenandoah Valley

A Credo for Difficult Times

Sermon topics come to me in many different ways. Some ideas I get from my reading or from the media. Some I derive from the actions of government or issues in the areas of social justice and social action. Others come out of thoughts and comments offered by members of the congregation.

One or two are given to me each year by those whose winning bid at the service auction gives them the opportunity to request that I talk on a subject of their choosing.

But some ideas sort of sneak up on me in unexpected ways. They come out of the blue and when I realize what is happening it's sort of an ah-ha moment that reminds me of the old TV commercial where the character says, "Wow, I could have had a V-8!" This morning's homily comes out of just such an experience.

For several years I have participated in a support group at Fairfax Hospital for those of us who have implanted cardioverter devices, or ICDs as they are more popularly known.

An ICD is a device about the size of a small deck of playing cards that's surgically implanted in a person's upper chest and it has two primary functions. The first is to act as a pacemaker to keep the heart beat regular and the second function is to shock the heart back into a regular rhythm if it beats way too fast as the result of ventricular tachycardia.

Here, let me show you the one I had replaced when the battery ran out a couple of years ago.

Now all of the members in this support group have these devices; although we each got one for a variety of reasons--heart attacks, congestive heart failure, congenital heart defects and so on. We range in age from individuals in their twenties to folks in their seventies and eighties--although middle-aged white males seem to be the majority demographic.

Most of our sessions are spent discussing who's on what medications or what the latest devices can do or, since none of us can go through regular security arches, the experiences we have being hand frisked at various airports.

But I digress. This past week we met to talk about the programs for the coming year and to meet out new facilitator--one of the hospital social workers who specializes in cardiac medicine.

After some discussion, one member wondered out loud if there weren't some new topics that we hadn't addressed. And another responded that yes, we really should discuss end of life issues since, like the Eveready Bunny, our ICDs will keep our hearts beating as long as there is juice in the battery.

So the question then became, well, when is the right time to make the decision to turn the device off.

This prompted another participant to suggest that someday we might want to discuss how each of us copes with a chronic health issue and what sustains us during difficult times. The next thing I hear is this, "Henry, you're clergy, would you be willing to lead a discussion on this?" "Yes," said another. "We've never really talked about how faith and spirituality impact us."

And so it happened in a heart-beat, if you will, that my name was put on the calendar to lead a group discussion on what sustains individuals coping with a chronic medical condition.

My immediate reaction was, "Do you people realize I am a Unitarian Universalist and that my religious views may differ significantly from some of yours to the point of being down right blasphemous?" But as I was wallowing in self-doubt and uncertainty I had a glimmer of ah-ha-ness. Suddenly the question, how do we Unitarian Universalists cope when bad things happen seemed very relevant. What sustains us when all around us is bleak? What carries us through those times we refer to as the dark night of our soul? In short, do we have a credo for difficult times and if we do what might such a statement of belief look like?

The great Yale Chaplain William Sloan Coffin writes that, "Credo--I believe--best translates 'I have given my heart to.'" I like this definition because it makes one consider what are the important aspects of living? What are the aspects of living that we have really given our hearts to? Mary Oliver asks this question at the end of her poem "The Summer Day"

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild a precious life?

Indeed, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? I hope the answer is live it well, live it fully, and live it every day and until life is taken from each one of us. So let me look at some parts of what my credo for difficult times might look like.

First, I believe in awe. I believe that there are times in my life when the beauty of nature, the sound of music, the world as depicted in a photograph or on a canvass, and even the printed word can help me to transcend the here and now; can help me transcend my pain or sorrow and bring release from the day-to-day burdens that would otherwise seem insurmountable.

I believe that often there is beauty in the common world that we frequently overlook. Driving out to church I am almost always surprised by the beauty in the world around me. From the cold winter months when the trees are barren, hawks sit facing the east and the rising sun. Sometimes I think there is a bird of prey for every mile-marker on Rt. 66.

There is the motion of sunlight and clouds on the hillsides. Each of these occurrences serves to assure me that the world is a good and beautiful place and each day I am reminded to take notice of nature as a way to remind me of my place in the scheme of things and to remind me that I am a part of the interconnectedness of all existence.

Does this mean I believe in God? I'm not sure. I know I don't believe in a God that capriciously brings joy to one person and sorrow to another. I believe in the power of human emotions to create our own private heavens and hells and I believe that the compassion of another can lift me out of the pits of my own private despair. And I believe in the universal love advocated by our Universalist forbearers.

I suppose that not believing in a personal, interventionist God is liberating because I do not spend countless hours trying to find reasons to explain illness, or broken relationships, or personal losses.

I am not spending my time asking, "why me?" "What must have I done wrong?" "Why am I being punished?" Rather than being consumed with guilt, I can use my energy to be proactive about issues in my life. Sometimes stuff happens in each of our lives for no apparent reason; our strength comes from our inner being, not from fear of uncertain outcomes.

I do believe in prayer. Not the kind of prayer that asks for personal favors or even prayers of thanksgiving. I believe in the deep and silent kind of prayer that eventually brings us to an understanding of what is true in life. I believe in the kind of prayer and silent meditation that allows us to give up our burdens and rest for a moment in the loving arms of deep peace. I believe in the kind of prayer that focuses my energy to do what I need to do to live the best life I can. I believe in saying thank you for all the many gifts of life that I enjoy; I also pray for the strength to take care of these gifts.

As one of my favorite writers on spiritual practices has written, the root of prayer is interior silence. We may think of prayer as thoughts or feelings expressed in words, but this is only one of its forms. Prayer can also be the laying aside of thoughts. It is the opening of the mind and heart, body and emotions--our whole being--to what is of ultimate importance in our lives.

I believe in the power of observing the Sabbath. A day disconnected from work, obligations and complications; a day not to have to do anything or go anywhere. A day for rising late or rising early; a day for reading, meditating, listening to music, reading or whatever helps you to put a little distance between the ordinary things in our lives and those things we see as being extraordinary.

A day for being thankful. A day to put away all those thoughts of could've, should've or ought to and replacing them with a realization that this one life, this one wild and precious life is all that we have and on one day a week it is OK to celebrate the life we have.

Perhaps the Sabbath is the day we should remember the words "Give us this day, our daily bread." Give us this new day to be alive and to glory in what Gordon McKeeman calls the miracles of the common way--simple things that are not simple at all; sunrise and sunset, seed time and harvest; for hope, joy and ecstasy; For grace that turns our intentions into deeds, our compassion into helpfulness, our pain into mercy; for providence that sustains and supports our needs, and let us pray, he concludes, let us pray only to be more aware and thus more alive.

I believe in the power of community. I couldn't do this job if I did not believe that souls are healed in this room every Sunday. I believe that our collective spirits are uplifted through the exchange of kind words, gentle hugs, understanding expressed silently in the eyes of another, and not just the awareness that none of us is without pain and sorrow in our lives, but the joy of sharing the stories of our lives and getting to know one another more deeply and more intimately. In this space, in this beloved community, I believe in the power of ritual to heal our wounds and our private pain.

I believe in the healing power of rituals. "Rituals do not always involve words, occasions, officials or a congregation," writes the former UU minister Robert Fulghum in his wonderful book From Beginning to End. "Rituals are often silent, solitary, and self-contained. The most powerful of rituals are reflective--when you look back on your life again and again, paying attention to the rivers you have crossed and the gates you have opened, and the thresholds you have passed over..." As Anne Sexton's poem so elegantly states it:

There is joy in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne" each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon each morning.
The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

And finally, I believe that death is the natural response to living well. Again, to draw from the writing of William Sloan Coffin, "Without death we'd never live. Without discovering the limits of our talents, we'd never discover who we are.... The one true freedom in life is to come to terms with death, and as early as possible, for death is an event that embraces all of our lives. And the only way to have a good death is to lead a good life. Lead a good one full of curiosity, generosity, and compassion, and there's no need at the close of day to rage against the dying of the light. We can go gentle into that good night."

Jane Kenyon describes this inevitable outcome of our lives with these words:

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
all morning I did the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know
It will be otherwise.

I don't know if these few beliefs make up a credo for difficult times or not; but they help me to see my way through life's uncertainties.

There is an old Zen proverb that says we may lack for everything yet want for nothing. The reason for this is simple. Peace, that is, deep inner peace comes not with meeting our desires but in releasing ourselves from the grip they have over us. Those moments of deep peace and understanding that are so elusive and so rare.

My friends, let us gather up these precious gifts: the sense of awe that permits us to transcend the ordinariness of life, those silent moments of prayer and meditation that call us to our better selves; finding the time to rest and renew ourselves; being a part of a loving community; participating in rituals large and small; and finally, coming to terms with our own mortality.

Let us gather them up them up for the precious gifts that they are renewed by their grace, move boldly into the unknown.

Amen and Blessed be