Rev.
Paul Beckel
First
Universalist Unitarian Church ~ www.uuwausau.org
December
19, 2004
The
great sea has set me in motion
set
me adrift
moving
me like a weed in a river
The
sky and the strong wind
have
moved the spirit inside me
till
I am carried away
trembling
with joy
I
broke something today.
And
I thought to myself,
"I
ought to break something
at least once a week,
just to remind myself
how fragile life is."
Welcome
Welcome.
And congratulations. I am delighted that you could make it. Getting here wasn’t
easy, I know. In fact, I suspect it was a little tougher than you realize.
To
begin with, for you to be here now trillions of drifting atoms had somehow to
assemble in an intricate and intriguingly obliging manner to create you. It’s
an arrangement so specialized and particular that it has never been tried
before and will only exist this once. For the next many years (we hope) these
tiny particles will uncomplainingly engage in all the billions of deft,
cooperative efforts necessary to keep you intact and let you experience the
supremely agreeable but generally underappreciated state known as existence.
Why atoms take this trouble is a bit
of a puzzle. Being you is not a gratifying experience at the atomic level. For
all their devoted attention, your atoms don’t actually care about you—indeed,
don’t even know that you are there....[1]
I, on the other hand, do care about you. I do notice—and appreciate—your being here. And
I know that there are many others here who care as well. Because we know that
our lives are transient... so our presence with one another cannot be taken for
granted.
We
light our chalice today in memory of Peter Langlois. Peter was the son of Al
and Betty Langlois, members of our congregation since 1947. Peter died
yesterday at age 59.
New Member Ceremony
We
joyfully welcomed 12 new members into our church community.
Prayer
I
am the wind that breathes upon the sea,
I
am the wave on the ocean,
I
am the murmur of leaves rustling,
I
am the rays of the sun,
I
am the beam of the moon and stars,
I
am the power of trees growing,
I
am the bud breaking into blossom,
I
am the movement of the salmon swimming,
I
am the courage of the wild boar fighting,
I
am the speed of the stag running,
I
am the strength of the ox pulling the plough,
I
am the size of the mighty oak,
And
I am the thoughts of all people,
Who praise my beauty and grace.
From The Black Book of Camarthan, an
ancient Welsh text
Reading
Peter’s
death brought to mind this reading of Henry David Thoreau. Peter learned from
his father Al about the power of direct experience of the natural world. Just after graduating from UW Madison, Peter
spent three weeks in the Canadian wilderness, living off the land, living
deliberately.
Why
should we live in such a hurry and waste of life? We are determined to be starved before we are
hungry. I wish to live deliberately, to
front only the essential facts of life. I wish to learn what life has to teach,
and not, when I come to die, discover that I have not lived. I do not wish to
live what is not life, living is so dear, nor do I wish to practice
resignation, unless it is quite necessary.
I
wish to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, I want to cut a broad
swath, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms. If it
proves to be mean, then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and
publish its meanness to the world; or if it is sublime, to know it by
experience, and to be able to give a true account of it.
Sermon
Theology is a game. A game in which we play with
words in a vain and glorious attempt to capture what cannot be captured—in nets
as loosely constructed as human language.
Today
I’d like to play with two words: “Transcending Transience.”
"The
living tradition we share draws from many sources.” Among the sources we turn
to for inspiration and sustenance is “Direct
experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all
cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the
forces that create and uphold life.”
Direct
experience of that transcending mystery.
I
consider myself a skeptic. A humanist. But this does not mean that my life has
been devoid of direct experience of that transcending
mystery: Moments of purpose, moments of understanding, moments of “yes.”
·
floating alone down a remote majestic
river;
·
being in love;
·
the birth of my children;
·
musical, theatrical, and athletic peaks;
·
recognizing, even as an outsider, the
depth of love within families I've known;
·
becoming an insider in cultures that were
once foreign to me;
·
overcoming illness;
·
receiving unexpected generosity;
·
good fiction, poetry, and humor....
These
have been transcendent experiences
for me—moments when the fickleness and insecurity of life become
unimportant. Times my skin tingles or
the tears flow or my whole body shakes with appreciation. Times when things make sense. Or, even if
they don’t make sense I grasp the being of things, I grasp the being of BEING.
And I feel connected to it all.
"Transcending
Transience" has two possible meanings which are very different from one
another. You can look at these two words together as a verb phrase, meaning: to transcend transience—to go beyond the
things of this world that do not last.
You might expect to hear about that kind of transcending transience in a
typical church.
And
even if this isn't a typical church, I can support the idea of
"transcending transience"—in the verb form—when it means, on a
personal level, moving beyond my weaknesses, reaching new levels of insight or
maturity. I can support the idea of
"transcending transience"—going beyond
what is temporary— when it means, for
our congregation: living out our mission; teaching the generations; going beyond
our own expectations of ourselves..
We
do transcend this moment when we
pledge to support this congregation even into the unknown future. When we tie
into the hope which is the continuity underlying our 134 year
history.
Transcending
Transience. We can also look at these two words as a noun phrase. What kind of transience? A transcending transience. That is, acknowledging with Thoreau that
if we are and can only be transient, let's make it the richest transience
imaginable. A full, complex life... cascading with enriching experiences,
ennobling deeds, absorbing ideas, and challenging ideals.
This
way of looking at Transcending Transience—as a noun phrase—may seem more
familiar in UU circles, where change itself can be considered holy. Where we celebrate
transience each year by releasing a flower mandala into the Wisconsin
River... where we know that we cannot step more than once into any flowing
stream.
May this place be a
place for both direct experience of
that transcending mystery... and for the spirit to swat at the mystery with our
humorously inadequate nets.
***
Peter
Langlois loved words. Like his sister Annette, whose poems you may have read in
our newsletter, like his father Al, who died a few months ago, Peter was a
writer of distinction and a consummate wordsmith.
Peter’s
letters home from Vietnam—published in the Record Herald—were riveting. But
when he got home he didn’t talk much about his direct experience of war. He did
tell his mother about a captain who served with him, a man he truly respected,
who kept up the troops’ morale by insisting that they “would get out of there
alive.” Peter told Betty that this captain went scouting with a mine-sniffing
dog one evening. They did not come back alive.
Of course
we don’t make it out of here alive. We all know that our lives are transient.
And yet, hope, and a sense of purpose
are so essential to our making it from one day to the next. So what do we do? Peter used his words. When he was not in the
field, he was put to work writing letters to parents to notify them of their
children’s final acts of service. When he came home, with a leg full of
shrapnel and a purple heart, he became a journalist, a Channel 9 news anchor,
and then for many years a speech writer.
A
few months ago I watched Peter and Annette, side by side, for hours...preparing
their father’s obituary. They were giving their all to defy death with a lasting tribute to Al. Maybe they were
so determined to leave something that would endure because they felt so keenly
the transience they were facing themselves.
Twenty
years after his exposure to agent orange in Vietnam, Peter, like many of his
fellow soldiers, began to experience debilitating symptoms that no one could
explain. He outlived many of his peers,
but yesterday, after 15 years of struggle, he died of a rare cancer.
What
do we say to the mother of the last person to die for a mistake?
There
is nothing to say that can make sense of it.
But
in the face of transience, especially in the face of transience wrapped in
senselessness, we can say (if we dare) we can say that we will not acquiesce to
the possibility that life is meaningless.
We know that life will pass, but we will not let it pass us by without
seizing every opportunity we can.
Peter
lived like that. The last thing he did before enlisting was to take his
extended trek into the Canadian wilderness.
Some of the neighbors wondered out loud whether he was planning to come
back. He came back.
The
world needs people willing to transcend despair, transcend pain, transcend
unfairness, hopelessness, and meaninglessness. The world needs people who will
transcend absurdity, and the countless wrongs that we witness. So, knowing that
we cannot transcend transience... we can say that we will do everything to make
this the best damn transience imaginable.
We
can. We must. We will. Blessed be.