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In his amazing sermon last Sunday, Ben Pratt said that a sermon should consist of 3 points and a poem. So here’s my poem. It’s the last stanza
of a poem by W.H. Auden called Precious Five -- the whole poem iswritten to his five senses, and this is the culmination:
Be happy, precious five,
So long as I’m alive
Nor try to ask me what
You should be happy for;
Think, if it helps, of love
Or alcohol or gold,
But do as you are told.
I could (which you cannot)
Find reasons fast enough
To face the sky and roar
In anger and despair
At what is going on,
Demanding that it name
Whoever is to blame:
The sky would only wait
Till all my breath was gone
And then reiterate
As if I wasn’t there
That singular command
I do not understand,
Bless what there is for being,
Which has to be obeyed, for
What else am I made for,
Agreeing or disagreeing?
Bless what there is for being. Which means, for those of us who are over 60, bless this third -- and last -- part of our lives, and which means for
all of us, bless it all, bless the journey through life, even though it’s going to end...even though it hurts and is hard sometimes...and
even though sometimes it’s scary to look over the next hill.
Bless what there is for being. I was struck this time when I read the poem by the separation Auden makes between himself and his senses...I
could -- which you (my senses) cannot -- find reasons to roar in anger and despair. So much of our suffering comes from inside our heads: fear
of the future...grief over our losses...and also just anger at the horrors of the world. And so much of our contentment comes from just
savoring the present moment...a bright blue sky, the warmth of my heating system, the sound of music, the taste of something delicious,
the smell of the earth, or of my cat, or my stew...Holding someone’s hand...
Bless what there is for being. That’s the work of our lives. Sometimes it’s easy to do...as when we’re in touch with those precious 5
senses and the gifts we receive through them. Or in all the wonderful times and moments when things are going well, when we have meaningful
work to do and people to love, when our bodies are being kind to us, when those random acts of kindness and mercy and justice that the world is
full of seem to be in the ascendancy, when our worries seem minor.
But sometimes it takes discipline, to “bless what there is for being,” and I guess that’s my topic today.
I really didn’t want to be preaching this sermon. When Gretchen[1] called me in December, first she asked me to come
preach at St. Mark’s, which I was happy to do. Then she told me it was to celebrate and honor 3rd Agers (and that one reason she asked me was
that Paul and Susan just aren’t old enough), and my heart went down into my stomach and I looked for reasons to change my mind.
I don’t like being in my 70s, and I’m afraid of death and what might lead up to it. And not so much afraid of death as just sad to think
of leaving. I haven’t really tapped into the benefits of being older. I don’t feel particularly wise, and in fact, I don’t think wisdom is a
function of age. My grandkids have wisdom about many things. It is nice to have more time...but the “discipline” of using that time
well is...well...a discipline.
The word “discipline” comes from the word “disciple.” A disciple is someone who has chosen who her teacher will be and then practices what
she learns. So for me the journey from last December to today has been, in part, about learning to bless my age, learning -- or beginning
to learn -- what it means to rejoice in, or in spite of, being older.
A friend put it this way, talking about her retirement from teaching chemistry:
I will never outgrow my passion for science and chemistry, my enjoyment of children, affection for dogs and the people they travel with, the way
science and religion inform each other, and a deep appreciation of how these all weave together to make us laugh and enjoy life even in times
when reason might argue that joy and laughter are out of place.
Laugh and enjoy life even in times when reason might argue that joy and laughter are out of place.
She reminded me that aging doesn’t take away many of the best parts of life and that it is simply dumb to forget the things that I laugh
about and enjoy...and there are so many...
When I began thinking about this sermon, the first thing I did was to moan and groan about it to my friends. That comes pretty naturally to me,
but I think it’s also part of my discipline -- my work of staying true to what I see as God’s Word. Trust your friends. Trust other people.
If you don’t know what to do, ask someone. Ask a lot of people. The world is full of angels -- God’s messengers.
Another friend reminded me that I had made a baptismal promise to believe in new life. That was quite startling. I had not thought about
baptism that way before, but she is quite right. Baptism tells us that we are reborn in Christ. We become, literally, new people.
(I once frightened a young child by talking to her about her new family, the church -- she thought I was trying to her away from her
parents!) In Baptism we are born into our eternal selves, into the radiance of Christ, into the truth of God in the world. And to
believe in something is to trust it. That’s what “belief” means. My fundamental baptismal promise (like yours) is to trust that
life is much deeper and broader than 70, or 7 or 17. There’s a definition of God that I like...God is “the endless creativity of
the universe”...I am -- you are -- born into “the endless creativity of the universe.” Every moment is new.
And when I am feeling gray and discouraged and old, my work is to remember that, in whatever my practice is...prayer or reading or
coming here, to church. Our liturgy is about remembering...We tell a story when we celebrate the Eucharist, “on the night Christ died
for us...” What he did...bread and wine to feed our new lives...death and Resurrection to tell us how things really are.
When my heart went down into my stomach during Martha’s phone call, and I looked for reasons to change my mind, I didn’t find any.
The Quakers have a phrase, “way will open.” And my husband once said, about prayer, “I used to think that when you had a problem, you had
to either solve it or push it under the rug. But prayer is a third way. You just let your question sit there, and eventually God works it
out with you.”
So I stayed faithful, and low and behold, Gretchen sent me some liturgical materials from Episcopal Senior Ministries that opened my eyes
(my heart)... “Help us to remember that long life is a gift not granted to everyone.” I had not thought of that before. That 71 is a
gift, not a burden.
“We thank you for the gift of memories.” Again, something I hadn’t thought of. Inside my head, I am not 70, or 7, or 17...I am all of
these, and all the richness of my life is not lost to me. And finally...
“Help us to remember that the precious moment is this moment.”
Bless what there is for being.
Isaiah, this morning, sums up life in God. Both how irrelevant age is, and what God does for us. (Interesting that the lessons today
are not specially chosen for a celebration of older people...they are the lessons appointed for today, the lessons all the churches are
using.)
God gives power to the faint,
and strengthens the powerless.
Even youths will faint and be weary,
and the young will fall exhausted;
but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,
they shall mount up with wings like eagles,
they shall run and not be weary,
they shall walk and not faint.
[1] Through some form of mindlessness, I called Gretchen Willson “Martha” in this sermon when I preached it. Gretchen was one of the angelic messengers in the journey that this sermon was for me.
