"Everything Changes, Everything Passes"

The earliest writings that form the foundation of western philosophy

        survive only in fragments.

They are obtusely organized,

        ranging from declarations that the world is made of "ever-living Fire"

                that "becomes a liquid sea,"

                        to the more familiar observation

                                that you cannot step into the same river twice.

The author, known primarily to those who studied Plato or read Homer,

        was a nobleman named Heraclitus,

                who lived in Greece about 2500 years ago.

 

Much of his work is archaic.

Yet what remains relevant is the theme to which he returns,

        the notion that "all is flux,"

                not just the ever-flowing river 

                        or the ever-living fire,

                                but the ever-changing human being.

We are never the same,

not even for one moment after the other.

 

The wisdom traditions of many cultures 

dwell on the reality of change.

The author of Ecclesiastes –

        who lived about two hundred years after Heraclitus –

                ruminated that "a generation comes and a generation goes,"

                        and there is a "time for every matter under heaven."

He tells us we should accept the changes of life,

        each in their time,

                good and bad;

                        accept the changes,

                                inner and outer;

                                        accept the changes,

                                                there is a time for every one.

 

The tale from Ethiopia puts a finer edge on the experience of change.

In it, a man's life passes from bondage as a slave

        to great good fortune as a king.

He treats each transformation   

        as an example of how everything changes;

                suffering passes and so does joy;

                        and nothing lasts forever.

With philosophical detachment

        he maintains dignity as a slave

                and benevolence as a king.

 

These philosophical treatments teach the disciplines of acceptance,     

        calm,

                and even distance 

                        in meeting the changes of life.

But poise, dignity and detachment do not come naturally

        upon change,

                which we so often experience as loss.

Even the expected adaptations of life –

        going to school,

                starting a job,

                        setting up a household –

                                are not as benign as they appear.

September always arrives with a wave of memories for me.

As a child I dreaded starting the school year.

I enjoyed learning,     

        but I hated the regimentation and structure of school.

It still makes me feel sad to see young children 

        trudging off to elementary school

                with their backpacks and appointment books.

 

And each September some fresh insult would remind me

        of how poorly I adapted to rigidity and routine.

The one I think of now

        is the year I had my first pocketbook, 

                an essential female accessory.

On my first day of seventh grade – 

        in a new school, what we then called junior high,

                I was carrying for the first time in my life

                        a purse of my own.

The purse represented all the changes the new school required:

        the end of lunches at home with Mom;

                a need for money;

                        a place to stow the growing number of things

                                a young girl needs during the day;

                                        a fashion statement to my peers.

So of course the first thing I did with my new purse 

        was lose it.

Not accustomed to keeping it with me,

        I left it behind in the school auditorium 

                after our morning assembly.

By the time I realized it was gone,

        the auditorium doors were shut, 

                locked up tight.

There I was, new at school, without my purse,

        vulnerable and bereft.

 

I don't remember any real consequences to losing my purse.

Somehow it found its way back to me.

I suppose I should interpret that as evidence

        that junior high was a kinder and more humane experience

                than I like to recount.

 

What I do remember is

        that is one of the ways I learned

                that change is loss.

When everything passes,

        it goes somewhere:

                it goes away.

Consolations for this truth are not so easy to find;

        and while acceptance may be necessary,

                it is not the first response any of us will ever have.

We must take in the reality of our experience

        in stages;

                grieving the loss,

                        making an adjustment,

                                adapting to an altered world:

                                        this is what we do first.

Later, much later,

        we may notice that we have accepted 

                what has happened.

 

The wisdom traditions have taught us that life is change;

        but we must teach ourselves

                how to live with it.

Each September, while recalling my back-to-school traumas,

        I also remember with fresh appreciation

                how a community such as this church

                        can help us learn to live with change.

Change is all around us here,

        especially these days,

                with new members and visitors,

                        new staff,

                                and eventually a new building and spaces.

We have our own adjustments to make.

 

But as a people of faith 

        we are familiar with loss and starting over;

                this is the territory of religion and community;

                        this is the bond we share.

This is why we exist:

        to mark each change 

                and to feel deeply its effect on us;

                        to grieve, to welcome and to grow

                                within the unceasing flux of life.

In contact with each other,

        we learn how to grow from change

                and nurture the possibilities that arise unexpectedly, 

                        even from loss.

 

Some changes in life,

        like my seventh grade purse,

                do not help us to grow;

                        they only make us feel vulnerable

                                and out of step.

But life offers many different kinds of change.

Some of them offer us 

        growth and renewal,

                strength to move forward

                        and live life more deeply and vividly.

Time may teach us acceptance,

        but community teaches us growth.

 

Everything changes and everything passes,

        and there are few constants in life

                other than this.

Yet humankind fashions hope

        that somewhere, 

                beyond our view,        

                        change is guided by a steady, unseen hand

                                or spins around a center that holds us all.

I have that hope myself.

But I wouldn't be surprised if the only certainty there is

        in the fast moving river of life

                is that if we choose to do so,

                        we can learn and grow

                                from almost anything that comes our way:

                                        and that when we do,

                                                the universe shifts just ever so slightly

                                                        and becomes a better place.

And so I place my faith in learning and growing,

        in the work of this community and others like it,

                human congregations bearing witness to change

                        and living more deeply 

                                simply because we gather together.