This is a sermon I gave in church on September 13, 2009.
Salvation Moments
Laura Perry
READINGS
The first reading is by the
ageless poet, Rumi:
I
am not from the East
or the West, not out of the
ocean or up
from the ground
My place is placeless,
a
trace of
the traceless.
I belong to the beloved,
have
seen the two worlds as one
and
that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner,
only
that breath breathing human being.
– Rumi
The second reading is by Dawna Markova:
I
will not die an unlived life,
I
will not go in fear
Of
failing or catching fire,
I
choose to inhabit my days,
To
allow my living to open to me,
To
make me less afraid,
More
accessible,
To
loosen my heart
Until
it becomes a wing,
A
torch, a promise.
I
choose to risk my significance:
To
live.
So
that which comes to me as a seed,
Goes
to the next as blossom,
And
that which comes to me as blossom,
Goes
on as fruit.
I
knelt on the 4x4 hard yellow tile squares with my blue and white nightgown
pooled around me. The orange bottle with the childproof safety cap was
difficult to remove with my badly shaking hands, but eventually I pried it off.
Some pills tumbled to the floor. I picked them up. They stuck to my sweaty
palms. Their medicinal smell tanged in my nose and I was acutely aware of the
sound and feel of the air conditioning whirring and blowing around me, lightly
moving my hair. Tears streamed down my face. Was I ready? Was I prepared for
what would come next? I could feel the tiles pressing into my knees, the grout
making grooves in the skin, the pain exquisite. My feet were growing numb. I
was lightheaded. But I was determined to finish this one last task.
With
a deep, unsteady breath, I took the pill bottle in my left hand and ever so
slowly lifted my hand above the toilet bowl with its own distinct smell of
disinfectant and bleach, and – one by one at first – let the pills fall into
the water. Soon it became a cascade. When the bottle was empty I panicked… I
tried in vain to fish some of the already-dissolving tablets and capsules out
of the bowl, but to no avail… they were gone. Many years’ worth of collecting a
multitude of medications meant to end my life were gone with a flush of the
commode. I had done what I had set out to do. I had set myself along a
tentative but determined new path looking toward hope and faith. And somehow, I
had found salvation.
Hope
and faith can be such nebulous concepts, and so hard to pin down sometimes.
Hope can be as small as a breath, and faith as tiny as a sliver of light in the
pitch. But these things are not to be underestimated. For a person who has
looked into the shadow of death, faith and hope can be lifesaving and life
affirming moments of salvation. We don’t speak much of salvation in the Unitarian
Universalist tradition – at least not in the traditional sense of the word. It
is frequently too full of baggage from other faith traditions many of us have
left behind. But salvation comes in many forms, and, I would argue, that faith
and hope are but many facets of that beautiful, transformatory word.
One
of the definitions of salvation in the mother of all dictionaries, the Oxford
English Dictionary – and the one I find most striking – is “to be independent
or self-reliant in striving towards one’s goal.” Keeping in mind the more
sacred overtones of the other meanings, I don’t think this definition says
anything about self-service or crass ambition… but rather of faithfulness and
service in the pursuit of a goal – and a worthy goal at that. With that in
mind, salvation takes on a whole new meaning and a completely different basis
for faith and hope. Let’s explore it…taste it… tuss it out.
Different
faith traditions *do* look at salvation and the ideas of the transformative,
the admission into bliss, quite differently. But when you boil many of them
down to their essential elements you can begin to see a merging, a blending of
similarities that overarch and transcend. In Sukhavati Buddhism, as I
understand it, salvation is a state in which “each and every person stands
peacefully… tranquilly, right here in the present, in the here and now” – the
follower moves constantly toward of the goal of transcendence. In Judaism there
is a belief that by doing right and good – by moving closer to the goal of perfect
will with the right and good works of Creator – they are moving toward
attaining salvation – any personal gain is a side effect of that work toward
that goal. Sikhs believe that by pursuing the goal of an honest life and
meditating on God you will attain salvation. Note that each has the elements of
honesty and decency – and even purity – in pursuit of goals. And in our own
tradition, I found three separate yet intertwining definitions. (how apt):
A.
Karl M. Chworowsky says that "Unitarians believe in "salvation by
character." They hold that as man develops a society where moral values
and spiritual insights are treasured, man will find the road to peace, justice
and brotherhood. God's help is not likely to come to those who cast all their
burdens on the Lord. There is practical wisdom in the saying: "God helps
those that help themselves." (Karl M. Chworowsky, What is a Unitarian?)
B.
Jack Mendelsohn believes that "Unitarians speak warmly of salvation also,
but in terms of character. We prefer to think of it as an achievement dependent
on deeds rather than creeds" (Jack Mendelsohn, Why I am a Unitarian)
C.
And George Marshall similarly says, "We are concerned with the ethical
relations and understanding of life, not about the salvation of souls. For us,
salvation is by character; religion is a matter of deeds, not creeds; and this
natural world is the center of our lives." (George Marshall, Why I am a
Unitarian)
http://www.biblebelievers.com/greathouse_b1.html
All
these faith traditions – Buddhist, Jewish, Sikh, Unitarian Universalist – are
charitable and kind paths toward salvation. Loving paths. Hopeful paths.
These?
These I understand and draw from now.
But back then?
For
years I despaired. This was the mean, cold reality of hard tiles and bottles –
what seems like eons of clandestine rendezvous late at night in the
fluorescent, flickering light of badly wall-papered bathrooms in a long string
of apartments with nubby beige carpets. I was an atheist without faith, a
secular humanist without creed. And a human being with too much to bear. The
ideas of peace, tranquility, and hope… those similar, convergent, optimistic
paths of the many faiths… they were not my reality. All I could see were black
and white possibilities, none of them promising. This was not the quiet peace
of a person who has lived a full life and is ready to let go in gentleness.
This was an agitated, angry place – a lonely, bitter, yawing abyss.
Yet
through it, oddly enough, I held to a version the Prayer of St. Francis,
changed to fit my circumstances and beliefs, adapted from Alcoholics Anonymous.
It is printed in your order of service. I often hummed the hymn under my breath
as I went about my day… a hymn I didn’t actually hear again for many, many
years. Not until the death of Princess Diana, to be honest. But again, another
story for another time.
Make me a channel of peace;
that where there is hatred, I may bring love;
that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of
forgiveness;
that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;
that where there is error, I may bring truth;
that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;
that where there is despair, I may bring hope;
that where there are shadows, I may bring light;
that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.
Grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be
comforted;
to understand, than to be understood;
to love, than to be loved.
For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.
It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.
It is by dying that one awakens to life.
I
wanted so dearly to understand where this anger, this agitation – the discord,
despair, shadows, sadness, doubt – where it all came from. I wanted all these
things. I also wanted to be a gentle, giving, loving person… a peaceful person.
Instead I felt pierced by knives, stung by wasps, unlovely and unworthy. And I
grabbed hold of that ending. It is by
dying that one awakens to life. People say that for as many people as there
are in the room, your words will be interpreted in at least as many different
ways. So it was for me with the words of St. Francis. Whether as adapted here
or in the Anglican or Catholic hymn – in which he is attributed to say “awakens
to eternal life,” he talks about
transformation through dying. Through those gentle – even high church Christian
– words, I found hope – strange and bent as I interpreted them in some ways.
But I came to find – much, much later – that I had utterly misunderstood that
last line.
Here’s
where it gets difficult for me – and for you. The threat and reality of suicide
and suicidal ideation is not an easy thing to face. Most of us have faced it in
friends, family, acquaintances, no matter how close or distant. I am not
talking about assisted suicide – that is an issue for entirely another time,
and another conversation. What I am talking about is something that is born out
of intense despair and, usually, depression. It is also most of the time a very
silent, very personal, and very hidden thing; in most states even attempting
suicide is a crime. Further, in many faiths the act is an unforgivable sin
which severs all ties to the Church and the community, even in the churchyard
and in their concept of eternity. In my opinion this creates so much stigma
around the ideation and the possibility that many people will never seek the
help they need – or find recourse with friends, family or therapists who may be
able to help them. Yes, some people cry out for help – but many never do.
I honestly don’t know if I did or not until I
sought help by myself one day, kind of as a bolt out of the blue. I made a
wager or a promise with myself: 30 days with the psychiatrist with some
noticeable improvement … or else. I know I was depressed – but, as most of you
know, I tend to be very sunny, too. Which face to believe? (and no, I am not
depressed now… don’t fear for that).
But,
as the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention say,
“Everyone feels sad, depressed, angry
or guilty sometimes — especially when the pressures of jobs, school, family,
and friends build up. But for most people these feelings pass with time. Other
times, though, feelings of sadness or hopelessness do not go away. These
feelings may begin to affect many areas of a person's life and outlook. Someone
who experiences these very intense feelings of sadness, depression or
irritability may begin to think about suicide.”
What
can we, as compassionate human beings and partners in faith and love do?
According to the CDC and the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network, DO talk with
a suicidal person seeking help – don’t isolate them further; talk with them
about their stress and feelings and problems they are facing. But, NEVER bear
the burden of helping this person alone. Ever. It cannot be up to you alone to
assess and help someone in this situation – and people who have done this say
that the intense guilt they have experienced if their loved one or friend does
commit suicide is a grief almost too hard to bear. Tell someone – whether
another friend, loved one, doctor or minister – what is going on. Third, CALL
on a local first responder or the National Suicide Hotline (1.800.273.TALK).
And, ENCOURAGE the person to get help – no matter what.
I
would add a few things. Be kind. Listen. Be compassionate. Be unafraid to sit
on the floor and cry with them. Listen. Touch. Smile. Don’t contribute your own
stories unless they are short, relevant and to the point – and perhaps not even
then. Listen. Hold hands. Listen, listen, listen. Walk outside with them –
sometimes fresh air and a change of scenery helps change a perspective – though
that is not a panacea and will not last for long – you should always follow the
four steps the CDC outlines. Listen. And listen. There is a reason good
ministers do so well in pastoral care; one of the best things they do is that
they listen exquisitely well. We are blessed with a minister of that ilk.
I
was three months into therapy when I so tentatively and timidly opened that
bottle and poured the contents away. It took me quite a while to let go of the
concept – the tether – that had in some ways given me a form of twisted hope
for so long. Up to even my waking moment on that sunny morning, I had been sure
and secure in the knowledge that I had power over my life and death in the form
of that bottle, and that comforted me. *I* could decide. *I* could move forward
– or not. But that morning, I woke up and something had changed. Maybe it was
in that moment that I finally started to understand the last line of St.
Francis’ prayer. It is by dying that one
awakes to life. My maternal grandmother had died the previous September. My
much loved Great Aunt Lila had died a few days before. And my Great Aunt
Audrey, born in 1903 and the great family Teller of Stories and Keeper of
History was in hospice. I had been overwhelmed by so much grief. But I started
to see that this was all part of a cycle – birth, growing, decline and death –
and somehow, that morning, I realized I was in a growing cycle, just starting
to assume the full responsibilities of adulthood. Life. It didn’t require *my*
death to awaken to life… it just required that the cycle come, well, full
circle as a right and just part of the universe.
I
am still in that growing cycle. And while it has its full measure of grief and
sorrow, I embrace it fully and joyfully.
So…
what does this have to do with faith, hope and salvation? That day, that
morning, that moment… with the drop of each capsule and tablet, with each
splash, with each slow slide into the cool water, each rainbow dissolve, I
began to hope. Fear was there in great measure, too. But hope… that tiny little
piece of unquantifiable magnificence began to find a home, nestle in, and very,
very tentatively reach out. Hope is a very shy thing in moments like that… so
very tentative… but by the time I pressed the silver lever and the surprising
roar of the commode finished the job, hope burst forth. I shook. I could hardly
breathe. But I had done something worthy of hope.
Faith?
That was a lot longer in coming. Cynicism is a hard habit to break, so I did
what any geek would have done and took a Belief-O-Meter test online (great test
for cynics, let me tell you!) and came up as a Secular Humanist first and an
Atheist a tight second. I had expected the atheism, but the Secular Humanism
surprised me, so I went exploring… and after a great bout of stubbornness and
insistence that atheists simply don’t have creeds and job titles, I found that
I could add a full-fledged creed to my hope… and faith was born. And that creed
that came out of the joyous practice and honest life of secular humanism? I’ll
be doggone if secular humanism as I practice it isn’t awfully close to the
Prayer of St. Francis in its fundamentals. Funny how that worked out.
Today
I have come to a place of deep inner peace I could never have imagined at
thirty. The sun – barely peeking through then, now shines from within, and it
is a glorious thing to experience. Even in times of deep sadness, there is
something tempering it – something I could never have imagined, and something I
cannot fully describe. As Khalil Gibran wrote, “Your joy is your sorrow
unmasked. And the self-same well from which your laughter rises was often-times
filled with your tears.” Gibran spoke truly, for I find those same words
expressed in faith and hope – through good times and bad. I see faith and hope
in Alex. In a rose. In the dying wishes of both my grandmothers. In the smile
of the homeless man who got lunch and a chance to chat yesterday instead of
chump change and a derisive word. In the changing weather. In the attempts –
and sometime successes – of my students to write essays. In the absolute wonder
of the universe. In this very room.
I
strive now from that dark place toward good and just goals, and in the
understanding of faith, hope and love. Does that meet the Oxford English
Dictionary definition of salvation? Somehow, I think it does. Through kindness
and love, there was a path out of intense sadness and into a beautiful world I
only thought I had seen through the lens of St. Francis’ eyes. But the eyes
through which I see it now are my own, and the world around me is truly a
wondrous thing.
It
took me a long time to get up from those hard yellow tiles that bright,
blue-skied afternoon in Memphis so many years ago. I wore the painful creases
from the intersections of the grout the rest of the day, choosing simple shorts
and a comfy t-shirt instead of long, covering pants. As I contemplated the deep
grooves in my knees I marveled at what had brought me there, to that decision,
and that moment. I saw new life and new hope. My faith was tiny – but doesn’t
it always start with just a glimmer? Those small, precious, intangible things
were my breath and my life. And they were my salvation.
Salvation.
What a great Unitarian Universalist word.
Amen.
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