Sermon by Rev. Alan Taylor
Preached at Unity Temple Unitarian Universalist Congregation
September 12, 2004
Sermon:
I walked into the room and saw
a teddy bear. And then, I saw, lying on the bed, a young man with blue eyes,
sandy brown curls, and freckles. As our eyes met, a smile broadened across his
face. He told me his name is Josh. I introduced myself as Alan, the chaplain.
For this was in San Francisco General Hospital, where I served eight years ago
as a chaplain on the AIDS and Oncology floor. Josh told me that he was awaiting
a spinal cord operation to relieve him from headaches. He welcomed my company.
We joked and quickly we developed a warm rapport. He told me that his headaches
are due to the onset of AIDS. He then said that his three best friends had
recently died of AIDS. We talked about issues of rooted-ness, love, and loss. He
said, pointing out the window, “See those hills? At night, I look watch the
lights of cars weave down the same road that me and my friends traveled hundreds
of times before.” He said that now that he’s lost his best friends, he’s scared
of getting close to anyone. At the end of our conversation, I asked him if he’d
like to pray. He said, “No not now, but pray for me this evening.” “What do you
want me to pray for?” He said, “Pray for all the lost souls—and think of me.”
Pray for all the lost souls. I can’t do that at times without thinking of
myself.
Being lost is a natural state of the soul. It is a part of
the human journey to lose our way. “Midway into life's journey,” Dante begins
the Divine Comedy, “I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had
lost the path that does not stray.”
A whole people, a whole society can be lost. Getting people
to pay attention to one another, let alone really work together, is a most
challenging task. During the six years I lived in the Bay Area, the single most
important event that brought people together was the Oakland Hills fire. I won't
ever forget being able to see the fire from my front porch, hardly two miles
away. Shortly following, I bicycled to some of the devastated area. Whole
hillsides were nothing but lone chimneys on cement foundations. I came across
melted cars and everywhere the smell of ashes. In response to this destruction
came a collective generosity that was as out of the ordinary as the fire itself.
People of all colors were suddenly homeless and in need of support. The response
of the East Bay community was one of generosity. People put other people up in
their homes. There was an outpouring of food and clothing. And the basic
goodness of humanity shone forth. And, then, within a few weeks, the immediacy
and visibility of the need passed. The people of the East Bay returned to the
routine of their private lives. Over the subsequent years, I heard a surprising
number of people lament the fact that the opportunity to help one another and
interact amidst all different types of people was gone. Two people even said,
they would welcome another disaster! It is painful to think that it takes a
catastrophe for many people to contribute to their society. There was plenty of
need in Alameda County before the fire, and there is plenty now. We have a
social convention that tells us not to get into anybody else's private business.
That doesn't make the longing within us for meaningful interactions go away.
What made the wake of the Oakland fire so meaningful was the opportunity to be
generous and the experience of genuine encounter and true community.
A week ago Tuesday, an inspiring member of this
congregation died. Sandy Loevy was well loved by many and despised by a few for
his central role in drafting the policies and plan for an intentionally diverse
community. Since then, Sandy has been an advocate for small businesses,
particularly those owned by women or minorities. He was passionate about helping
people who were up against challenges. And he had an uncanny ability to accept
the strengths and limitations of both other people and himself. For example,
Johnny Colman, and African American, owns a trucking business that has only one
truck, the one he drives. Sandy helped him to develop a business plan and adapt
to the changing demands of licensing and the market. Because Johnny’s job was
driving a truck all day long, the only time he had to talk at length was at six
in the morning. Sandy, said, “No problem, just let me know ahead of time when
you want to call, so that we don’t think there’s a family emergency.” Over the
years, a friendship emerged that heartened them both. Johnny called last week, a
couple days after Sandy died. Judy shared with him the sad news, and Johnny,
through his tears, expressed how Sandy made possible his success by believing in
him, helping him to see the potential that Sandy saw.
When I met with the family, I learned that Sandy himself
was once himself a lost soul. At age sixteen, he lost his parents and his
brother disowned him. Sandy had no idea what the future might hold, as he
drifted aimlessly ahead in grief and fear. A friend of Sandy’s told me that when
Sandy married Judy 42 years ago, he was literally repotted in a family and
environment where he could flourish and bring forth his gifts. An inveterate
optimist who looked to the best in others, Sandy held faith that every human
being holds divine seed within them. What he had experienced became his modus
operandi: to foster opportunities where others can nourish and bring forth their
gifts. He walked with people from all walks of life. Despite his extreme
modesty, he was a social reformer.
Sandy lived out of a theology that is at the heart of our
faith tradition. His story embodies the theology of William Ellery Channing.
Channing repeatedly insisted the human soul can grow, that each human being has
the potential for bringing forth gifts that bless the world, whether in small
ways or large. Channing likened religious education for children and adults to a
garden, where each person is a like a flower or plant who has his or her own
unique gifts to discern and bring forth those gifts. For Channing, religion was
not a matter of beliefs or doctrine, but instead he saw religion as an activity,
as a process of cultivating the potential of divine seed within community. “In
ourselves,” Channing argued, “are the elements of the Divinity.”
Channing was once asked about when his conversion to
Christianity took place. Actually he was asked, according to my colleague, Roy
Phillips, whether he had ever experienced conversion. Channing responded, “I
should say not …” But he elaborated, “not unless the whole of my life may be
called, as it truly has been, a process of conversion.” Channing believed the
religious quest was to become ever more like God, and that God was that imminent
tug within all reality beckoning us to bring grace forth into the world through
acts of beauty, kindness, and social reform.
Nearly two hundred years ago, this was groundbreaking
theology. As historian David Robinson notes, there are enormous consequences for
the religious life if we see religion as a process and the human soul as divine
seed. First, the human soul is not depraved but of God, And second, as a seed it
is not powerless or stuck. Instead the human spirit has a sacred potential
within it and that potential can be developed and expressed.”
This foundational theology of American Unitarianism obliges
our congregation to reflect how it serves the function of assisting people to
bring forth their own gifts. Here at Unity Temple, this congregation has come a
long way, and, I believe we can more fully embody our theology and more
creatively embrace the modus operandi that Sandy Loevy lived by within his own
life.
To get at what I’m talking about, let me tell you about
another dear man to me who died recently. Herb Pockell was a member of the
congregation I served in the Seattle suburb of Woodinville. When I was there,
Herb walked with a walker. As the congregation was in the midst of constructing
through volunteer labor its own church home, Herb and his wife Jane thought
there was nothing they could do to help, for how could an elderly couple be of
use on a construction site? Herb was persuaded to come out on a regular basis
and he was put to work with jobs that he could do while sitting down. Jane
brought lunch for the volunteers, and lunch was a time of good cheer and
fellowship. It took awhile for her to see that, in the spirit of community, her
gifts were as important as nailing together frames, laying sheetrock, or
installing plumbing or electrical systems. I witnessed the Woodinville
congregation honor and bring forth the gifts of all, a shining example of our
theology that embodies the call to cultivate a community that affirms the worth
and dignity of every individual. In congregations, it is far easier to cultivate
true community than in the wider society. The connections that occurred in
Oakland during the fire were largely fleeting. Here, they can be not only
sustained but sustaining to those whose a part of them.
I have noticed that many people don’t think they have much
in the way of gifts when it comes to fostering community. Please know that your
gifts are not simply talents or skills. There are many other gifts that can be
brought into the service of helping others. Challenging life experiences enrich
us with some of the most powerful gifts of the spirit. When have you failed and
what did you learn? How have your limitations caused you to creatively make use
of your possibilities? When have you known the anguish of losing your path and
finding yourself disconnected from that to which you are called? I’d like to
suggest that in every life that knows struggle, disappointment, agony, and
uncertainty, there is a goldmine of wisdom to be found—much more gold than any
life that’s presented as complete, together, and without challenge.
Dante found himself in a forest midway through life’s
journey. Dante was a great Italian statesman who in the midst of a brilliant
career, when he was banished. It was in the height of his worldly success that
he lost his way. Then, when living alone and estranged from his people, he wrote
his epic poem, The Divine Comedy.
Perhaps all of us have gifts that are waiting to be
cultivated, that each and everyone of us have divine seed latent within. How
shall we tend our congregation to make it an ever more fertile garden,
nourishing young and old alike?
For me, the question comes down to Rebecca Parker’s query:
“What will you do with your gifts? Choose to bless the world.” She continues,
“The choice to bless the world can take you into solitude to search for the
sources of power and grace; native wisdom, healing and liberation. More, the
choice will draw you into community, the endeavor shared, the heritage passed
on, the companionship of struggle, the importance of keeping faith, the life of
ritual and praise, the comfort of human friendship, the company of earth, its
chorus of life welcoming you."
At San Francisco General Hospital, I saw Josh two days
after our first conversation. His operation had rid him of his headaches and
restored his energy. He was in a great mood, and so we joked and bantered about.
Suddenly he stopped and asked me, "How do you grieve the loss of the person who
would have been your partner if he hadn't died of AIDS?" I didn’t think I had
anything to offer him as I had no idea what to say. But in reality, I offered
him a gift. I listened. In the next half-hour he told me what he needed to do to
grieve. Later that day, when I was gone, another man on the ward died. His
eight-year-old son was there. The nurses didn't know what to do with the wailing
child. I am told Josh came out of his room, and sat with the boy for over an
hour and gave him his teddy bear. Josh told him "It's okay to cry.” He let that
boy know that he’s not alone, something that Josh, and each and every one of us,
must remember time and time again. Josh left the hospital without his teddy
bear, but with much more than relief from his headaches. Such life is ours to
share if we dare to be genuine together.
Blessed be. Amen.
© Copyright 2004 Alan C.
Taylor, All Rights Reserved.
