GUIDED BY LOVE
March 23, 2003
The Reverend Anne Felton Hines
What can I hold in my hands this morning
that will not flow through my fingers?
What words can I say that will catch
in your mind like burrs, chiggers that burrow?
If my touch could heal, I would lay my hands
on your bent head and bellow prayers.
If my words could change the weather
or the government or the way the world
twists and guts us, fast or slow,
what could I do but what I do now?
I fit words together and say them;
it is a given like the color of my eyes.
I hope it makes a small difference, as
I hope the drought will break and the morning
come rising out of the ocean wearing
a cloak of clean sweet mist and swirling terns.
That poem by Marge Piercy is titled, "Rising in Perilous Hope," and it was read to me a few days ago by a friend and colleague of mine in Columbus, Ohio. She had phoned me to talk about what she might say in her sermon today; this was even before the bombs had begun to drop on Baghdad. I told her I hadn't a clue.
A few hours later I learned, as did all of you, that President Bush had ordered the bombing of Iraq. When I arrived home after a meeting here, I turned on the television and watched as reporter after reporter described with great intensity - even excitement - what was going on there. I felt sick to my stomach.
The next day was Thursday, and as we had promised, this Sanctuary was opened at 9:00 a.m. - thanks to Chuck Moore - and remained open until choir rehearsal that evening, in order for people to light candles and have a quiet place for reflection and prayer. I sat here from around 10:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m., when Mary Gleason relieved me. Sally Nelson-Harb also put in time, as did Bonnie Norwood. It was good to know that anyone in the community could use our church that day. (I wish we could keep it open every day for such purpose.)
I didn't just sit here on Thursday, however. I'd brought my laptop with me, and spent the day writing my articles for the newsletter, as well as putting together my Order of Service for today. And through it all, I kept wondering: "What words can I say" that will help us all through this? What words can I - who is paralyzed with hopelessness and despair - possibly say?
For months now, I - like many of you - have resisted our government's conviction that it would be a good idea to go to war with Iraq; and I have yet to hear one argument that has convinced me otherwise. To this day I believe that such action is unwarranted, unwise, and immoral. It is not so much that some of the arguments I hear aren't sound; they are. But to trust anything that this President and his advisors are doing seems as dangerous to me as trusting Saddam Hussein.
So I have felt nothing but anger, sorrow, bewilderment, and terror this week. I have not understood why people previously opposed to the war are now supporting it; I have found the media coverage - other than KPFK's - extremely disturbing; I am terrified as to what the future holds for us, not to mention for our children; and every time I learn of an American soldier killed, I wonder if it's my nephew, or the child or grandchild of someone else I hold dear.
But I know that most of you have been struggling with these same feelings this past week. What words can I say to help you through this?
I have a friend who had never attended any kind of protest until this situation with Iraq arose. She has become an ardent opponent of this war, despite her husband's equally-ardent support of it. They had agreed to politely disagree - my friend not being someone who likes to engage in conflict of any kind; she is a gentler soul than I.
But she phoned me Friday to say that Thursday, after witnessing the first "shock and awe" portion of the war (a term which offends me more than any other of the Orwellian phrases being used), she completely "lost it." She became so enraged that she began screaming like a mad woman, and finally grabbed a coffee mug and through it across the room, breaking it into tiny pieces. "I scared myself," she told me; "I've never in my 62 years done such a thing." I congratulated her; but I have also checked in with her each day since. I need to assure her that she isn't alone; that many of us are enraged and terrified, and feeling just as impotent as she. And we must keep talking to one another, and holding each other, in whatever way we can.
But I also know that not all of you share the feelings I've described; some of you have supported the war effort, feeling that Saddam Hussein is as evil as Hitler was, and that it is up to the United States - and whoever else will help us - to rid the world of him. And you may be right.
Whether you are or not is not my concern this morning. For I know that just because you may support the President's actions doesn't mean that you, too, aren't feeling fear and sorrow. And I imagine that you feel lonely here at Emerson sometimes, never hearing your position voiced from the pulpit; it may feel unsafe to say how you really feel about the war.
Yet I know that none of you is a "war-monger;" you are not happy about the situation that has developed. Indeed, some of you also have loved ones over there in harm's way, and must worry every time you hear of an American soldier hurt or killed. You can not be sleeping easily at night.
What words can I say that will help you? What can I say to bring us all together in this time of mutual anxiety? I have felt so helpless and inadequate.
So I will tell you a story, shared with me by Mary Gleason. She was talking to her high school class on Thursday - the day following the initial bombing. She was asking them how they felt about the war, and what they might do to lessen their fears.
Suddenly one student brought out a picture he'd drawn the night before, when he couldn't sleep because of his fears. It was a drawing of a mountain, shrouded completely in darkness. Mary told me that there was an eeriness to the picture, much like the effect of a solar eclipse. But breaking through the clouds was one small ray of sunshine, bathing an entire side of the mountain in a golden light. The student called it a picture about the war, but it contained an image of hope; and he offered it to the class as a gift of hope to them as well.
I believe that is what this church can be for each of us - a ray of hope in these times of darkness, no matter our particular view of the war. For those of you opposed to the war, know that this is a place where you can join with others to protest what is happening; to pray for the safety of our soldiers and all the people at risk, especially the children; and to continue witnessing for peace after the war ends. For the end of this war, sadly, will not put an end to all wars.
And for those of you who support this war, know that here your dignity and worth are held sacred, no matter what - that this is a place where ideas are cherished, and feelings held with tenderness. We must all know that honest conversation is welcomed here; that part of our calling as Unitarian Universalists is to speak our truth with love, and to listen with an open heart.
The other day Marjorie Stark and Gail Ringer were discussing what they would do if there were a terrorist attack here, and they couldn't reach one another. They made a list of places where they could meet; the second place on their list was Emerson Church. When I questioned the sensibleness of this - since if an attack has closed the freeways, it most likely will have closed all the surface streets as well! - Marjorie said simply, "I don't know; it just felt right."
This church was near the top of their list for places that felt safe to them; it was one of their "homes" in times of crisis - whether it "made sense" or not.
To where do you turn when you're feeling sad or scared or alone? What is it that sustains you and brings you hope? As I sat down to write my sermon yesterday morning, I got a call from my daughter, inviting me to join her and my son, along with my two grandchildren, at Griffith Park. My first response was that I couldn't; I had a sermon to write on hope and courage, and it wasn't coming very easily. But finally I gave in; and I'm glad I did. I needed to go on the train ride with my grandchildren, and see another child's joy as we blew bubbles into the air. It was a reminder that it is for them and the other children of the world that I witness for peace; it was a reminder that I owe it to them not to get lost in despair. They sustain me and give me courage.
Wendell Berry writes:
In the dark of the moon
In the black of night
In the dead of winter
In flying snow,
The world in danger
Families dying
War spreading
I walk the rocky hillside sowing clover.
What is it that keeps you going - allows you to "walk the rocky hillside sowing clover?" What is it that gives you faith?
Theologian Paul Tillich contended that "Faith is being grasped by the power of Love." Perhaps the best we can do is to remember that in such times as these - as in all times - there is within and among us an abiding Presence called Love, that heals us and gives us the strength to carry on.
It is the power of love that allows us to be present for one another as we wrestle with difficult moral dilemmas. It is the power of love that calls us to continue to work for what we believe is right - even when we think we've failed. It is the power of love that is witnessed time and time again in the aftermath of horrendous tragedies. It is the power of love, says our Covenant, which is our "doctrine." It never dies.
It is important that we remain open to such Love now, for ordinary life does not stop when large-scale tragedy strikes, or war breaks out. Love helps us live in the moment; it walks with us as we tend to what's close to home.
Just a few weeks after the 9/11 attacks, I attended a retreat with the other UU ministers in our Pacific Southwest District. As we went around the circle and shared briefly about our lives, every one of the 35 ministers or so talked about the effect the attacks had had on their congregations. But my "check-in" was a bit different; I spoke of the woman whose teenage son had committed suicide the weekend before the attacks, and the memorial service I conducted three days after. What I'd learned that week, I told my colleagues, was that in the midst of national or world calamities, individual lives go on, with their own tragedies and their own celebrations. Newborn breaths as well as final breaths are taken; the hungry and homeless are still hungry and homeless; people fall in love and people fall out of love; ordinary life does not stop.
As war rages far from us today, the people at the Food Pantry still need our love; the children of our Preschool still need our love; the young men at David Gonzales Juvenile Center need our love; our friends who are ill or grieving still need our love; our families still need our love. Life here goes on, and we are a part of it.
"What words can I say that will catch in your mind…?" I can offer you this prayer by my dear friend, Ann Tyndall:
May you remain true to yourself, to your deepest core of capacity, complexity and creativity….
May you have ears that hear and eyes that behold that true core of being in others, and reach out to it.
May you stay present to your life - the times of ease, contentment, success…, and to the hard times.
May you stay present to the world, its resplendent beauty and its urgent need.
May you trust that in being faithful and present you will tap into reservoirs of strength, help and hope.
May you trust that in the midst of all your brokenness and healing…sorrow and gladness … relationships strong, abiding, frayed, and transformed… during work and play…through your desire to serve the world despite your weariness -
There is hope.
Life unfolds.
Grace breaks in unbidden.
Much is yet possible.
And through it all, as a mystic once said, there is a Love that will not let you go.
May this be what guides and sustains us, always.
© 2003 Anne Felton Hines. All rights reserved.
