Sermon, July 10

Sermon, July 10, 2005

“The Little Things”

I’ve been struggling with this sermon for several weeks now. Ideas come to mind. But somehow they just never feel right. I was going to do a sermon on, “Things I hate”. I intended to include topics like self-righteousness and hypocrisy. But for some reason, the first thing that springs to mind when I think about things I hate is lima beans. My parents made me eat them when I was young. I still carry the scars deep within my soul.

Another sermon I thought about would explore the current, “unholy alliance” between wealthy conservatives trying to reshape the economic landscape of America (I think they have some sort of feudal system in mind) and the religious right, who are trying to re-shape the moral landscape of our nation and become the American version of the Taliban. Now there’s a big topic.

But somehow that didn’t feel quite right either.

The temptation I face, of course, is that part of me wants my last two sermons to be broad, profound statements of truth; sermons that will pierce to the very root of our existence; sermons so full of insight that theologians everywhere would tremble.

But I don’t have anything like that today.

All I’ve been able to think about lately is little things and the difference they make in all our lives.

I went to see Nancy Haskell at the hospital the other day. She told me how overwhelmed she was by the outpouring of care from the church. I must have heard five times about how Steve showed up at the Haskell’s house at eight o’clock in the morning to see how he could help. A simple little thing, like going over to see how you can help, becomes a profound statement to someone in need.

And I thought about how a simple phone call, a card, an offer of help; speak more loudly and clearly than the most skillful sermon. I thought about how a small bouquet of flowers touches the heart more deeply than the most profound poetry. And I thought about how a hand held in a time of trouble, a tear shed with a friend; are music more moving than the finest symphony.

How often we think that life is all about something really big. Like ending world hunger or advancing peace in the middle east or writing a best seller or going platinum with your new album.

How often we fail to see that the meaning of life is found in the day-to-day interactions with family and friends.

When I was young I used to think that for my life to have value I had to do something really outstanding. You know, like become president or win a Noble prize or be so rich that I could end poverty in entire third world nations by simply writing a check. At the very least I was hoping to be bitten by a radioactive spider, become a superhero, and devote my life to fighting crime.

Somehow these things never happened. I guess there just weren’t enough radioactive spiders around.

As I’ve grown older my perspective has changed.

When I was in college I remember my psychology professor telling us that only sixteen per cent of all Americans consider themselves successful. That raises the question of what is success. Is success found in the externals, in things like how much money you make or how far up the corporate ladder you climb? Then few of us are successes.

Then I thought about Nancy Haskell again. I thought about how easy it is to love her. As far as I know, she isn’t the retired CEO of a Fortune 500 company or a best selling author or a former Senator. But she is an honest, caring, loving person who has always been there for those who needed her. Maybe that’s what it means to be a success.

And what gives a person value?

I thought about the young man I used to mentor who still calls me at least once or twice a day. We probably spend ten hours a week in conversation. Sometimes he apologizes for taking so much of my time, but I always reassure him and explain that I love to talk to him. Why do I love to talk to him? Let me give you a hint.

When he was younger his girlfriend dumped him. She was his first love. He was devastated, but he continued to be in love with her. Several years later she called him up and said she wanted to get together again. He was ecstatic. A short while into the revival of their relationship, she let him know she really needed some money. He immediately emptied his bank account and gave it to her. But when he called her the next day she didn’t pick up. Nor did she answer or return his calls over the following days. After a while it became clear that she had just used him.

But afterwards he said something to me I’ll never forget. He said, “I would rather be the kind of person who helps others and gets burned, than be the kind of person who doesn’t help others because they are afraid of being used.”

He was nineteen years old at the time. He had already made that kind of decision about the type of person he wanted to be. Is it any wonder that I love to talk to him?

Let me ask the question again, what gives a person value?

Is it money or power or prestige? Or is it being the kind of person who will empty his bank account to help someone, get burned, and be ready to do it all over again? Is it to be the kind of person who refuses to let the world and the betrayal by others eat away at their principles?

I have friends who struggle with the question of what makes them valuable. Somehow they feel their self-worth is wrapped up in what they achieve. When their dreams collapse, they become bitter or angry or depressed. And I can see them struggling to find some new way to reach whatever arbitrary level of success they have set for themselves. I can see that they feel worthless because their lives didn’t turn out the way they thought they should.

The funny thing is, they have raised wonderful kid; kids who go out into the world feeling loved; kids who go out into the world confident and secure. And everyone likes and admires my friends. I can’t count the times I have turned to them for advice and comfort, and they have always been there for me.

But they don’t see what they give to others. They don’t see why others love them. They don’t see what makes them valuable. So they struggle on.

I don’t know why we feel like our value is wrapped up in external achievements. Perhaps it’s because we are raised on literature about great men (and it’s usually men). Perhaps it’s because our culture worships superstars, and finds little value in the day to day heroics of raising a family and caring for your neighbors.

Even in our spiritual traditions, the emphasis is always on people who have achieved something far beyond the norm.

If you were raised catholic, you grew up with the stories about saints and martyrs. You know, the people who would smile and sing hymns while they were burned alive. I don’t know about you, but if anyone sticks me on a rotisserie, I’m not smiling. Maybe we need a more attainable idea of what’s spiritual.

And then there’s the Buddha. According to the legend, when he finally reaches enlightenment, all the trees and flowers in the land suddenly bloom. That’s pretty intimidating stuff. I can’t even keep a geranium alive.

Maybe we need a spirituality that’s about stopping to help some senior citizen change a tire. Or driving a neighbor to the doctor, or making a meal for someone who’s lost a loved one. Maybe we need a spirituality that’s about making sure our kids never leave the house or hang up the phone without hearing that we love them. Maybe we need a spirituality that makes a real difference in people’s day-to-day lives, not one that gets everything blooming out of season.

Somehow the language of greatness has been twisted, somehow our vision of what makes us valuable has been distorted. Somehow we have forgotten what is really important.

Some years ago I met the son of a very successful diplomat at the UN. This bright young man had spent years drifting from one graduate program to another. He would almost complete one, then would suddenly change his mind and launch out into some new unrelated area of study. He was fortunate that his parents had the money and the patience to indulge this.

But after a while it became clear that the reason he kept switching fields of study was that he was afraid that if he really entered a profession, he might not be the success his father was, he might not live up to his parents’ expectations. So he never really tried anything and never had to face his fear of falling short.

I wondered what was a more valuable thing for his father to do? To achieve a high position at the UN, or to give his son freedom to do what he loved, the freedom to be himself, to not have to reach a level of success that was probably beyond his grasp. Wouldn’t it have been nice if his father had given him the freedom to be average? It’s tough on a child when their parent’s hopes outrun the child’s abilities.

Of course, his father could have done both. But what was the more important task? What was the first thing he should have made certain he did? I think it was to make sure his son had the emotional foundation to be happy in life.

We may need another way of computing worth in our culture. A way that focuses on meeting the daily needs of those around us, rather than exclusively focusing on external achievements. Maybe we need to compute our worth on how well we love our children, on how well we love our neighbors.

And I mean “neighbors.” Just about every sermon I have ever heard on the commandment to “love your neighbors as yourself” tries to expand the idea of “neighbor” to include at least five or six billion people.

But I think that Jesus and the many other rabbis who taught this principle were thinking locally, not globally. They were thinking about the person down the street, the co-worker. They weren’t trying to change the world from the top down. They were trying to start a little brush fire that they hoped would spread.

It’s good to achieve what we can in life. If you can change the world, go for it. But I think for most people, the final meaning of their life is found close to home; in family, friends, and neighbors.

Sometimes I think about facing God when I die. I think about what God might ask me. Of course as Universalists we know everyone passes the exam, but I still sometimes wonder what kind of questions might show up on the test.

Somehow I don’t think I’ll be asked about what I published or what appeared on line thirty-six of my 1040 tax form. I don’t think God will ask me if I won an election or set a new record in the hundred meter dash. Those things would be fun, of course. But I’m not sure they are essential to establishing whether I lived a life that was worthwhile.

No, I always imagine that God will ask me just one simple question; “Did I care for the people that came into my life?” I won’t be able to answer yes, because sometimes I’ve failed and failed miserably. But I will be able to answer, “I tried; and when I failed, I tried to do better the next time around.”

Return to Sermon Page

Return Home