"Our Time"

READING
"Prayer"

Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl themselves, each a miniscule muscle, but also, without the way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-infolding, entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by minutest fractions the water's downdrafts and upswirls, the dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into itself (it has those layers), a real current though mostly invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing motion that forces change - this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself, also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go. I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never. It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.

From "Never," by Jorie Graham. (New York: HarperCollins, 2002)

SERMON

My ten-year anniversary here is a significant event for me. In parish ministry, ten years is a venerable span of time, suggesting both mutual acceptance and mastery of survival skills. It is also significant to me because it is the longest time I have ever stayed in one place.

By the standards of this congregation, however, and the ministry of my predecessor, Ernie Pipes, I am barely broken in. Ernie served this church as settled minister for thirty-five years, and as minister emeritus he has already passed the ten-year mark. We are all so fortunate to have his long-term commitment to guide us as an example. Most of all, I am the lucky one. For I knew very little about how to stay in one place very long when I first landed here ten years ago.

In the early years of my ministry I was restless. I got bored; I wanted to move on. I wasn’t ready to learn what it means when you stay in one place and grow old together.

I knew that ministry was about staying, not leaving; that it was about knowing and being known; about forgiving and being forgiven. I knew that ministry was about the passage of time, about letting the cycles of life enfold us in our community, about people coming and going, about holding on and letting go – instead of always being the one to come and go, not staying long enough to be held or missed. I knew that then, but couldn’t quite let myself do it. Now I have and you have, and this is the moment to look at what we have together.

In the children’s story, titled "I’m in Charge of Celebrations," a girl celebrates anything she wants – even something as precious and irreproducible as a rabbit watching a triple rainbow. That’s the kind of occasion we have here: personal and local, its meaning whatever we make it. It’s about us and our time, precious and irreproducible.

Ministry is essentially a relational activity. The tools of the trade may be high aspirations, lofty concepts, transcendent values, and abstract ideals, but really, when you come right down to it, what we work on is a relationship. The longer we stay in one place, the deeper the relationship grows. A sense of commitment and trust develops, and with it the mutual acceptance that allows us to do our work.

The work changes over time. A certain familial aspect invariably sets in. And we make mistakes. We learn, sometimes in ways we’d rather not learn, what it means to be human.

Whether deep or fleeting, however, all relationships possess some similarities. Years ago, I did a series of radio talks while serving a large downtown church as an intern minister. The radio talks drew some attention, and a few people called the church wanting to meet me. At the time, the fact that I was a woman minister was probably of greater interest than what I had to say, People were curious.

I agreed to meet one of the callers, a woman about my own age. It sure was strange when she told me how disappointed she was. “You’re not what I expected,” she said. “I thought you would be blonde.”

Despite the best ministry training that money could buy, I found myself unable to understand what that was all about. Now, so many years later, I realize that the pastoral relationship is part real, part imagined, and the work involves both parts. What is real is how knowing and being known make us all more human. What is imagined is what we cannot know about each other, but want to, and the wish that people could be the way we want them to be.

In any long term relationship, including the relationship of minister and congregation, we learn that we cannot know everything. We also learn that people never are the way we imagine or wish them to be; they are who they are. In good relationships, the real wins out over the imagined. Who we are is good enough to do the work we need to do together. Mutual commitment nurtures acceptance and in that acceptance, we grow and become more truly ourselves.

These are the truths that come out over time, over the days and years blending together into memory and small changes stretching into larger cycles. In the poem she titles “Prayer,” Jorie Graham writes, “This is the force of faith. Nobody gets what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing is to be pure. What you get is to be changed.” She writes of the passage of time, noticing that powerful forces work on us, toss us around, and despite our helpless condition, make us free.

I got what I wanted, ten years ago. I wanted to be the minister of this church, and when your search committee called me and offered me the opportunity to come before you, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. But how could I know what I would get? And how could you know?

This is what Jorie Graham is saying: we cannot know. And we cannot go back.
There is only the infinite current and the forward thrust of time. You cannot stay in the same place, ever. “What you get is to be changed.”

What we get is also the work we share, noticing the infinite current, the forward thrust of time, and the way we change, together. How that looks also changes from moment to moment. What I see now is the wonder of humanity, the possibility of growth and healing expressed in individual lives over time and carried out by us into our troubled larger world.

I think of a member of this church, now moved away, who sat in my office and told me his story, a painful narrative from childhood on, and how he allowed himself, in the safety of this congregation, to face the truth and become whole. “The truth really does set you free,” he told me when he said goodbye.

I see us weathering our ups and downs together. The currents of life, the “motion that forces change,” as Jorie Graham put it, can carry us farther than we wanted to go. One place we can always return is here. There is strength and solace in that continuity.

And I see us taking the time to notice what is beautiful and worth celebrating in life. If it’s a green cloud, or a rabbit watching a triple rainbow, or a new year that does not begin until we are ready to start over: our job is to notice, to appreciate, and to remember. What I see today is the value of our relationship, of the goodness inherent in acts of kindness and forgiveness, extended in faith, towards each other. What we got was to be changed. In me, the change was for the better. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but so important to say. And as long as I’m in charge of celebrations, I will always remember, and be glad.