"Coming and Going" sermon by Rev. Barbara Merritt

Sermon: “Coming and Going”
by Rev. Barbara Merritt
Worship Service of May 2, 2010


First Reading: from 2 Corinthians 12: 9-10

And Jesus said to me: “My grace is sufficient for you. For my strength is made perfect in weakness. Therefore, gladly will I glory in my infirmities, that the power of the Christ may rest upon me. Therefore, I take pleasure in my infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions and in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then am I strong.”

Second Reading: from “The Haunt of Grace” by Ted Loder

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Can a man with a few scraggly followers, and with nail holes in his hands and feet, overthrow Rome and change the course of the world?

Can anything good come out of you with your weaknesses and limitations? The gospel says, “Yes,” if you accept them and throw them in the pot with all the rest of us and our weaknesses and limitations: husbands, wives, kids, all the disabled in the neighborhood, and the welfare moms, the addicts, the homeless, the jobless, the strangely deprived rich, the isolated macho pretenders, all the rest. Do what you can, and that’s commitment. Give what you have and are, and that’s courage. Then it’s about God, and that’s faith, hope, trust. It’s about grace being sufficient, power working through weakness, and through us.

I’m thankful when I’m wobbly . . . and I’m getting wobblier.”

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”—that run-down-at-the-heels no place, that den of dullards, that swarm of zeros. Can some “mere human being” like Jesus, a marginal peasant preacher-healer who doesn’t meet anyone’s rational measure, be someone in whom God comes close? Can anything good come out of the unlikely, the dismissible, the unsophisticated, the irritating, the rejects, the disagreeable, the different, the “lesser,” the opposition?

When we remember how often we’re wrong—(and so remember we could be wrong again), only then might we realize that being wrong is less an embarrassment than an epiphany. Such a realization is a visitation from a larger world than we’ve yet recognized. It’s an occasion in which God moves quietly to stretch our spirits and our minds.

I’m grateful when I’m wobbly. I’m good at pretending to be smart and strong when I really feel inadequate and wobbly. I pretend to be sure and self-sufficient when I really need help, challenge, correction.

Sermon: "Coming and Going"

T. S. Eliot, in the Four Quartets, writes:
“There is a time for building –
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane –
And to shake the wainscot.”

Well, there has been a strong wind for change moving through the First Unitarian Church of Worcester, Second Parish.

Even though we’ve had phenomenally long ministries in this church (making me only number 10 in 225 years); even though I’ve held this job for 26 years – “the times they are a-changing.” With the announcement of my retirement, with the vote in two weeks to affirm the Rev. Schade as your sole minister, this church is undergoing some dramatic upheaval.

T. S. Eliot suggests that the only effective resource when we are facing loss and transformation and the unknown is humility. “The only wisdom we can hope to acquire is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.”

So rather than getting really busy or becoming really anxious, or becoming either ecstatic over the new possibilities ahead or paralyzed with fear, Eliot suggests that we enter into the darkness and the unknown; curious, attentive – stilling the mind to see what will happen next.

He uses the image from live theater of a scenery change, of props moving around in the dark.
“I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights re- extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away –”

In the merry month of May, there will be a rather radical scenery change in this pulpit. You will move from having two ministers to one. You will no longer have a long serving woman minister as part of your clergy. And First Unitarian, which has been reassuringly the same for so long, will be different, entering new and unknown territory.

Of course it is an absolute myth and falsehood that the church hasn’t been changing in constant and dramatic ways over the last 26 years.

Ted Loder quotes from “ The Belle of Amherst. Emily Dickinson reads the newspaper to her sister Vinnie one evening. It goes like this: Emily says, ‘Oh here’s one you’ll love, Vinnie. ‘TRAIN HITS WOMAN ON MILL RIVER TRESTLE” “Cornelia Snell, fifty-four . . . was killed last Wednesday by the Belchertown express as she struggled vainly to free her foot from a railroad switch.’ Her foot, Vinnie! ‘Engineer Grover W. Putnam declared, ‘By the time I saw the poor lady and her dog, it was too late.’ . . . Oh, the dog survived! It jumped clear! . . . Her children are planting an evergreen in her memory near the spot. Isn’t that sweet, Vinnie? Then after a long pause, Emily says in simple wonder, ‘I wonder why she didn’t take off her shoe?’

The question is the same for each of us: What do we need to take off, to let go of, if we are going to live—or begin to?

Again, from Ted Loder: “a little girl riding home from church asked her father, ‘Daddy, why does the Bible always say, ‘And it came to pass,’ and never says, ‘it came to stay’?”

Well, how would you answer? The reason is because nothing ever comes to stay. Change is inevitable.”

But it is a nice myth, a reassuring myth, a comforting myth that while the whole world spins and changes and surprises, the church will be a constant. Oil spills in the gulf, water pipes bursting in Boston, suicide bombers in Times Square, Wall Street scandals – at 90 Main Street we will just repeat our covenant, say the Lord’s Prayer and enjoy great music!

I think what has surprised me most, after my announcement that I was retiring after 35 years in the parish ministry and 26+ years here, was your surprise.

And then, while celebrating our 225th, it became clear to me that those of you present here this morning will be telling the stories to the generations that follow about what went right here (and what went wrong here during Rev. Merritt’s ministry. You’ll point to the oil portrait in the Bancroft Room and tell stories! You will be the historians and the meaning makers.

So I decided I’d give you my version of the story.

Human beings like to idealize, like to blame, like to tell all kinds of amazing stories. But in our covenant, we pledge “in the spirit of truth.”

So, I wanted to share some of my understanding of what was true upon my arrival here; my decision to stay and my decision to leave. Not that any of us actually understand the truth of our own story (or anyone else’s) but it is very human to try.

How I got here was Wallace Robbins, the 8th minister of the parish. The UUA, our national association, did not put me on the “approved” list. I was (as it was explained to me by the head of the Department of Ministry) completely unqualified. He explained to me that I was too young and too sensitive and too emotional – i.e. no women’s names would be included on the approval list sent to Worcester!

But Wallace had asked a few of his friends who the “up and coming” new ministers were, and my name kept popping up. So the search committee took a risk and interviewed an “unapproved” (and unrecommended) candidate: me. And they liked me, and I loved the church.

When I found out I was pregnant (before the congregation made the decision to call me), I told my husband, “I can turn down any church in the country, except Worcester. That is my dream church.”

Why? Because you had a long tradition of spiritual depth.

Because you wanted to grow (Indeed as a congregation you had a change in the culture; you knew that if you did not grow and pull together, the church would close.)

Because I was awed by the beauty of the sanctuary (and still am.) Though having to paint it a few times was a challenge. And I am glad I lived to see the chandelier polished.

This church took a huge risk calling me – 26 years later, I think we can safely say that things turned out well, for the most part.

Which brings me to how I came to stay. Twenty-six year ministries are unusual. And I had no intention of staying this long. I am, by nature, a wanderer. The longest I’d ever lived in one place before Worcester was eight years. (And three years before that.) I have also always been quite ambitious, for good or ill. I love new challenges, changes of scenery, new territory to explore.

And then in 1998, I suddenly became “a hot property.” Having given the keynote address at General Assembly, having a lot of writing published in the national UU World, being a leader in several denominational initiatives, suddenly, I was getting invitations practically every week to go to a new church, and virtually all of them were larger churches with greater prestige and offered bigger salaries.

Why did I say “no”? More importantly, why was it so easy to say no? The answer is simple: It was your fault. No upgrades were possible when it came to the parish ministry.

First. The people in this congregation were (and are today) first class, imaginative, creative, deeply spiritual, bright, energizing – dear. Not everyone! (and not everyone has ever been all virtue and light.) But there have always been enough individuals who were spectacular in my book (deeply flawed and weak and wobbly, of course), but spectacular, none-the-less. I will name six and keep the list to those who have either departed this world, or this town (in order to protect the spectacular people here today and the fragile egos of the current congregation.) If you have known any of these people you’ll know how lucky we were to walk with them for a season, and how you won’t find better, anywhere. Maybe as good (maybe), but not better. Six names: Helena Sarty, Ken Waugh, Sara Glenn, Mary Melville, Don Sansoucy, Peter Levine (and this list could go on and on.)

Now, there is a dark side to this observation that there are wonderful people in this church. And that is: there are also members here who have driven me straight up the wall – people with whom I have never agreed on any subject. The Rev. Parker Palmer assures me (and you) that such individuals are guaranteed in any church. Indeed, he claims that they are essential to the blessing of the place – part of what makes us a sacred and beloved community. From these troublesome individuals we learn good boundaries, we learn self-differentiation. We learn we are not here on earth to please everyone, or to like everyone. (We are here to use our gifts in service to God, in service to the highest values we understand.)

But it wasn’t just the congregation (though that was the primary reason I stayed.) I also stayed for the music. More than a few visitors have observed that we have one of the best choirs in the United States and one of the best music directors.

And I stayed because here I have always had complete freedom of the pulpit, and a congregation that was eager for complexity, depth and challenge.

Finally, I have stayed because you have continued to take risks. You called me. You called Tom. You’re always willing to try new things. In 26 years I have never been bored.

When I was a teenager I thought I would marry a poet and live in Boston. Instead, I have lived in Worcester and my own attempts at poetry have been few and far between. I’m about to show you why.

In 1998, frustrated by the flood of invitations to go take my ministry to another church (apparently the UUA thought I was less young, sensitive and emotional), I finally became irritated by a series of search committees refusing to take “no” for an answer and calling me multiple times. I wrote the following poem to the head of ministerial relocations. It is written in the classical tradition of Dr. Suess’ immortal poem, “Green Eggs and Ham.” I prefaced the poem with these words: “I though I had made it pretty clear that I am not in the market for a new church!”
I do not want one on the coast,
I do not want one southernmost,
I do not want one in Duluth,
I do not want one; that’s the truth!
I do not want one in a jam.
I like the church where-in I am.

I do not want another flock,
I really like the one I’ve got!

I only want to make it clear,
I hold my parish very dear.

I do not want to move my kids,
I do not feel a crisis “mid”,
I cannot ask to uproot my spouse,
I do not want to change my house.

(There’s more, I’ll just skip to the last verse.)

I’ll never eat green eggs and ham,
Because a vegetarian, I am.
But if this church should fire me,
I’ll eat these words, in front of thee.

I’m surprised and delighted that you never fired me. I was completely convinced you would fire me. (And Tom, they are now running out of time.)

Instead, I have made the decision to retire.

Why retirement? Why now?

Let me focus on the personal reason, which is primary. If I had to boil it down to one word, that word would be “Fallon,” the health plan, or what I imagined was a health plan. My youngest son’s terrible bike accident in January of 2009 was a devastating blow to my son and to our family and to me as a mother. But then, to have Fallon deny any further medial treatment through a dishonest and deceitful health insurance policy, broke my heart and broke my spirit.

It was bad enough being told by the surgeon that my son would die without immediate and extensive medical treatment in the next six months. But the next blow was to find out that if we didn’t come up with $65,000 cash in six months, he would die. So we somehow raised the money, wiping out a lifetime of saving. And then, I found out something far worse. That approximately (and conservatively) 30,000 people do die every year in the United States from treatable medical conditions that health insurance companies refuse to cover. 30,000 families are grieving the death of their loved ones because they couldn’t come up with the cash.

Leadership (especially religious leadership) is a great privilege. But there are tsunamis – personal, medical and individual circumstances – that sweep away the emotional agility and resilience that are essential to doing this work.

And this minister got swept away. By the end of last summer there was nothing left of my strength, my confidence, or my fighting spirit. Fallon defeated me. (Or perhaps, stated more accurately; the American system of health care defeated me.) I had given all I had – heart, mind and soul. There was nothing left to give.

Back to T. S. Eliot, a few lines:
"And what you do not know, is the only thing you know.
I said to my soul—be still—and wait without hope
for hope would be hope for the wrong thing . . .
There is only the fight to recover what was lost.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
As we grow older—the world becomes stranger
The pattern more complicated."

In that complication and darkness and wobbliness—the scenery shifts. Not just for me, but for all of us. My coming and going is not different from yours.

What brought you to this church? To your work? To your various communities and relationships and commitments? What has prompted you to stay? To persist? To keep trying? And when do you let go? Is it at the moment of weakness or the moment of strength? As Emily Dickinson asks, “If your foot is caught in a railroad track, are you willing to sacrifice your shoe?”

In a world where the scenery is always shifting, where we are constantly entering into an unknown future, can we trust that out of this terribly complicated mix of strength and weakness, danger and opportunity, that something good lies ahead for each of us?

As Alicia sang so beautifully this morning: “I don’t mind the gray skies, they’re just clouds passing by. With God’s blessing, we can make it through. (Through all the scenery changes.) We can make it through all the way to eternity.”

In both our coming and our going we are given these amazing opportunities to build, to engage, to serve, to bless one another on our way. Just remember, the story is not over for any of us.

I close with Eliot’s words.
"We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning."