A Love That Will Not Let You Go
Presented to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Huntington
Mothers Day, May 11, 2008
Rev. Paul Ratzlaff
Meditation for Mothers Day
This luscious spring day, redolent with colorful blossoms, affirms the many gardeners who have brought us into flower, especially our mothers who gave us birth and tended the soil that encouraged us to grow, blossom and bring forth children, grand-children, and even, for some of us, great grandchildren. It is fitting that we celebrate the mothers, be they biological or surrogate, who cultivated our growing and maturing.
It’s also important that we are sensitive to those for whom this day might be quite painful – those who have been unable to conceive; those whose mothers neglected or mistreated their children; those who may be estranged from their children; those whose children are at risk from poverty, illness, war; those whose yearning to be mothers goes unfulfilled. Even in honoring those among us blessed with children, and we do wish each and every mother “a happy Mothers Day,” may we be mindful of those for whom this day may evoke a hidden pain.
May our hearts be expansive enough to hold profound joy, yet be mindful of the pain that some among us feel this day. And so I say, “Happy Mothers Day.” Blessed be.
Introduction to hymn, “Bring Many Names”
We have poetry because there are some things in our human experience that can’t be said exactly. We use metaphors to point to these human experiences - to suggest them. But, everybody knows, that they are metaphors and it is a mistake to take them literally or concretely.
For example the Japanese Haiku master, Issa, who lived 1763 to 1827, wrote the following:
From the Great Buddha’s
great nose, a swallow comes
gliding out.
I’ve had the privilege of visiting the Daibutsu of Kamakura, Japan. This statue of the Buddha sitting in contemplation is enormous, some 4 stories high, weighing 93 tons. It is indeed awe inspiring in its grand serenity. Cast in 1252, it was originally housed in a wooden structure that was washed away by a Tsunami in the late 15th Century. It has remained outdoors, exposed to rain, sun, snow and starlight, ever since.
It’s a great pilgrimage site, inspiring reverence in many visitors.
It would be easy to sentimentalize the experience of the statue, but Issa’s haiku achieves a different purpose to my mind. His haiku reminds us: Don’t confuse the stature with liberation. The statue is a thing. For the swallow it’s a convenient nesting site. Appreciating the swallow’s dipping flight, in fact, may be closer to liberation than bowing before the statue.
In a similar fashion, I take pleasure in Brian Wren’s words, “Bring Many Names.” As with other deep experiences, trying to talk about God in human language is problematic. So Wren uses metaphors, human experiences to point to something beyond/within.
I enjoy the fact that he uses the metaphors against convention. Conventionally we think of women as nurturing; men as outside the house working. Wren turns the convention inside out. Lee, who celebrated her 80th birthday with a teenage “Lee” at her side loved stanza 4. “Old, aching God, grey with endless care, calmly piercing evil’s new disguises, glad of new surprises, wiser than despair:” “Wiser than despair,” what a wonderful phrase!
Aside from turning the conventions inside out, I love his overall metaphor of God as an active, participating God. I don’t believe in an image of God like a master puppeteer, pulling the strings that run our lives. I find much more believable an image of God that is a presence in our lives, suffering when we suffer, and enticing us into our best selves. “Great living God, never fully known, joyful darkness far beyond our seeing, closer yet than breathing, everlasting home:”
I invite you to sing this hymn rich with metaphor.
Introduction to reading: Mary, the Mother, at the Cross
In a similar vein of inviting metaphor to work in your hearts, I invite you to contemplate one part of the story of the crucifixion of Jesus as told by John. Clearly the gospel accounts are not history as we know it. Each of the accounts of what happened, and who was there, differ. For example, only in the gospel attributed to John is the crucifixion witnessed by Jesus’ mother, Mary, and by one of the disciples, “The one loved by Jesus.” Early on this was presumed to be John, who was conflated with the author of “John’s Gospel.” These gospels, then, are not intended as history, but as inspiration. I invite you to contemplate the story.
There’s a poignancy captured in Michelangelo’s Pieta in the image of Jesus’ mother being there as her son died. All the disciples, except John in John’s account, vanished. Peter, one of the leaders, actually denied that he ever knew Jesus, when confronted. But his mother, his aunt also named Mary (the wife of Cleophas), and Mary Magdalene remained at hand, enduring the horror of witnessing the crucifixion.
One can imagine Mary’s growing anxiety as her son confronted the authorities of his day. I imagine that she could anticipate where his confrontations would lead. “You said what!” “You said that to our leaders!” “What are you thinking? Do you want to get yourself killed?” “Oh veh, I carried you nine long months, thinking from the angel who announced you that you would be someone successful. Instead I got a mishuganah who wants to get himself killed!”
Yet when it came time, she followed the soldiers to Jerusalem’s city dump where they crucified convicts and trouble-makers. Can you imagine the pain that ripped at her heart as she watched, powerless to intervene, her son die? But she never abandoned him; she stayed to the bitter end. Her love would not let him go.
Here are the words from John, as translated by The Jesus Seminar:
So while the soldiers did this [gamble over the cloth that Jesus wore], Jesus’ mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary of Magdala stood by the cross. When Jesus saw his mother, and standing nearby the disciple he loved most, he says to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he says to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that moment the disciple considered her part of his own family.
Is it any wonder that Mary is such an essential doorway to the sacred for so many in this world?
Sermon: “A Love That Will Not Let You Go”
When I was in my 40’s, with two young children at home, I used to think like the joke last week suggested. A Catholic priest, a Protestant minister, and a Rabbi are asked when life begins. The priest replies, “At conception.” The minister? “At birth.” The Rabbi? “When your child graduates from college and the dog dies.” I used to think, “If I can just get them launched – get the last college bill paid – then I’ve done my job.” But I had a sobering experience. I learned a life-changing lesson from one of the elders in the congregation I was serving at the time. I led a weeknight vespers, a small group that really bonded in sharing from their lives. One evening in the sharing of joys and sorrows, this lovely older (late 70’s) man, with tears running down his cheeks, shared his concern for his son, age 47 (older than I was at the time), who had lost his job, and was at risk of losing his marriage. Witnessing Harry’s agony registered in my soul. I realized as never before: parenting never ends. A parent’s love never detaches.
Now, of course, not every parent loves like Harry. There are parents who really do abandon their children, and even abuse them. But, for most, that image of enduring parent’s love is elemental. And even for those who have survived such abuse that yearning for a constant, reliable parent’s love is profound.
There’s the wonderful children’s story, Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown. Perhaps you read it to children in your care. Remember? The young bunny keeps coming up with fantastic ways of escaping from his mother. “I’ll run away.” “I will run after you.” Little Bunny says, “If you run after me, I will become a fish in a trout stream and I will swim away from you.” To which mother bunny responds, “If you become a fish in a trout stream, I will become a fisherman and fish for you.” Remember the wonderful illustrations by Clement Hurd showing mama bunny with her line and creel standing in the stream fishing? On the end of the fishing line is a carrot. Little bunny continues, “If you become a fisherman, I will become a rock high above you.” And mama bunny assures her child that she will be there. Finally, after a series of runaways, when little bunny gives up on the idea of running away, mama doesn’t scold him for thinking such thoughts, nor does she suggest “I won.” She gently offers, “Have a carrot.”
This classic story, ostensibly for children, contains an essential teaching for our spirits.
There is a love that will not let us go.
What am I talking about? I’m talking about a love that is so inherent that no matters what happens in our lives, we know that we are loved. Perhaps, like Job, our wife and children have been taken from us, our friends desert us, our bodies fail us – but still we know that there is a love that will not let us go. When we struggle to express our faith, we point to the metaphor of a reliable parent’s love.
Like the story of the Runaway Bunny, the Psalmist proclaims this love:
Whither shall I go from thy spirit? Or whither shall I flee from the presence?
If I ascend up to heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me
- Psalm 139:7-10
In Buddhist thinking, there’s an understanding that aging, sickness, and death are inevitable. Truly comprehending that does not lead to despair, however, but to compassion. That is just another way of pointing to the love that will not let us go. In emptying ourselves of the mistaken notion that our egos endure, we expand into a consciousness that is characterized by loving and being loved.
I’m thinking of the classic testimony of someone in recovery. “I should be dead, but thanks to God’s grace, I am living.” “I did everything in my ego’s power to overcome my addiction. But only with the support of greater love than I had within me was I able to begin and maintain a process of recovery.” “I don’t pretend to be able to articulate what that love is, but I have experienced it! I’m alive today because of a love that would not let me go.”
Now I know you well enough to know that some of you have not experienced that love authoritatively for yourself. I know that others may not have experienced it directly, but yearn for it. And I know that some of you have experienced it, and feel a profound gratitude for that love.
I also know that some of you would scoff at the yearning to experience such love. I’ve read Freud. I’ve read the atheistic existentialists. I have been attracted to their explanations for the yearning to experience such love. And yet… And yet, I find power in the metaphor, a love that will not let us go.
Here I return to our Universalist roots. Our Universalist forebears trusted that God was so loving that God would never abandon creation. God would persist until all were restored to God’s presence. God’s love would never let go.
Here’s one of the trickier parts of this mystery. God – this love that will not let us go - works through us humans. There’s an old teaching story about a pious Christian who was stuck in a flood. As the waters rose about his house, he climbed on the roof, praying, “Oh Lord you know that I have been faithful. Please rescue me from this flood.” A rowboat approaches to take the man off the roof to safety. But he turns it down, “God will save me.” As the waters continue to rise, the man prays with more desperation, “God, save me!” A helicopter offers to lift him away, but he still refuses, “God will save me.” As the flood waters approach the peak of the roof, he cries out, “Oh, Lord, how can you abandon your faithful servant?” To which an exasperated voice breaks from heaven, “I’ve sent you a boat and a helicopter.”
The atheists and agnostics among us see these acts of love as human deeds, nothing more. But some among us see these same acts as indicating a love that pervades the universe. Some of us pray that we might be used by that love to act in this world. “Dear God, help me understand how I may best live the love that you have brought to me.” Of course, God depends on willing partners, but partners are there because of God’s love. What motivates the emergency workers, willing to power their boats through rough flood waters, filled with debris that can sink their boats, until they have rescued every living thing? What motivates the helicopter pilots to risk their lives in order to fly in the storm that threatens their personal safety? What motivates a first responder to run into the towers, when everyone else is running to get away? What inspires an AA or NA sponsor to be willing to confront again the agony of addiction in order to support a newly recovering addict?
On the one hand, you can say, “It’s nothing more than human compassion, explained by that person’s unique story of needing to help others.” On the other hand, you can say, “It reveals the love of God that will not let us go.”
As a Unitarian Universalist community, we do not insist on one way to understand it. We do unite in celebrating acts of love, however we frame them. What counts is not the metaphors we use, or lack of them, but the acts that we perform. Do we respond generously when we can make a caring difference in the lives of others? Do we stay present to another who is hurting? Do we willingly enter into another’s world when they are in pain? Do we rush to get away? Do we look after our own safety and comfort? Do we move toward the fearful one? The one at risk?
Are we ones who devote our lives, as much as we are able, to being agents of the love that will not let us go? |
