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Mere Meandering or Meaningful Movement? The Rev. Dr. Becky Edmiston-Lange, August 19, 2007 In the book of Deuteronomy, Moses addresses the Hebrew people one last time. He tells them that he knows he won’t live much longer and that he will not be able to pass over the Jordan with them, that Joshua will lead them into the promised land. Do not be afraid, Moses says. Be bold, be strong, for God will be with you. Remember you are the children of Abraham and Isaac, Sarah and Rebecca, the children of those to whom the promise was given. And so Moses passes the mantle of leadership to Joshua. And it is indeed Joshua in the vanguard as the Hebrews pass over into the land of Canaan. The story may be so familiar that it’s easy to miss what a huge change is reflected here. But remember that, at this point in the story, Moses has been leading his people for forty years. It was forty years before that the Hebrews fled from Egypt with Moses at their head, crossing the Red Sea into freedom, and entering into the wilderness. An entire generation had come and gone during those forty years. There were Hebrews who had never known any other leader than Moses. This was a huge change indeed. Put yourselves in the Hebrews place. Can’t you imagine that, yes, they did feel some fear and trepidation? And can’t you imagine also that Joshua must have been quaking, at least a little, in his boots? It is, after all, a pretty tall order—to fill Moses’s shoes! It was not for nothing that Moses exhorted the Hebrews and Joshua to be bold and strong. Not simply empty oratory that he reminds them that they are the heirs to the promise which God made to their forebears. You see, during the time in the wilderness, Moses had some experience of how the Hebrew people tended to react to change. Go back forty years to when the Hebrews crossed through the Red Sea. They were no longer slaves in Egypt. They were free at last. At first, they were exultant. But it wasn’t all that long before that first heady taste of freedom began to wear thin and they realized that life in the desert was not all a bed of roses. What would they eat? What would they drink? How would they find their way? God, true to form, provides. God goes before them in a pillar of cloud; makes water to spring from a rock and sends them manna to eat. The text says it tasted like wafers made from honey. But the Hebrews got sick of the manna—a steady diet of honey wafers might get pretty old—and they asked for meat. And so God sends them quails at twilight. Well, it goes on and on. During the forty years that the Hebrews were wandering in the wilderness they lost sight of what it was they were after and why they had set out in the first place. Whenever the going got particularly uncomfortable they looked back on their time in Egypt and in the glow of nostalgia that time seemed pretty good. They forgot how horrible slavery was; how much they had set their minds on freedom; how excited they had been when they first crossed the Red Sea. They remembered Egypt as a time of security, when all their needs were provided for. They started looking around at each other and saying things like “Whose idea was this anyway?” and, “Maybe we should never have left Egypt!” They started to act, in short, like ordinary human beings. Can’t we all identify with those Hebrews? One of the reasons that the Old Testament stories have such enduring power is that the people in these stories are decidedly human. And one thing that is true of human beings is that we don’t always react well to change. Someone once quipped, “the only person who likes change is a wet baby.” Change by its very nature creates discomfort because it puts us in unfamiliar territory. We feel disoriented, lost. We feel dis-identified, unsure of who we are and what we want. We feel disassociated—torn from the roles and relationships that defined our former life. It’s not unusual in the midst of change to also feel disenchanted with the new reality, because the new reality hardly ever turns out to be exactly as we’d envisioned it would be. And it’s not usual to idealize and feel nostalgia for the old reality, to shrink from what the new reality requires of us. And the greater the change, the more likely these reactions. Everyone knows what I’m talking about. Human beings just don’t get through life without having to cope with change, often massive change. Now, admittedly, many of the changes people face are, unlike the Hebrews’ exodus to freedom, unwelcome. Your company is bought by another, for example, and suddenly you are demoted, transferred or forced out. You go in for a routine medical check up and suddenly you’re confronted with the news of a very serious illness. Your spouse comes home from work and announces he/she wants a divorce. Someone you love dies quite unexpectedly. A natural disaster destroys your home. When we face major changes such as these, it is rare not to experience disorientation, dis-identification and dissociation. And it is the rare person who does not feel disillusionment with life itself. It’s tempting to think that the kind of major changes I just listed are rare. But when you really talk to people, really ask them about their lives, you realize that hardly anyone is immune to major upheavals. One of the things you quickly learn when you become a minister is just how much change the average person has to deal with in a lifetime. In fact, I’m sometimes astounded with how much life asks of us and I marvel at how people—people like you—have managed to cope with so much change—and not just coped, but thrived, led productive, meaningful lives in spite of what life has thrown at you. Of course, not everyone fares so well. Many people founder in the face of major upheaval. What is it that makes the difference? One major ingredient is having a network of support, other people who lend an ear, lend a hand, give you a shoulder to cry on. Innumerable studies show that the stronger one’s network of social support, the greater the chances of dealing successfully with the stress of major change. And it is not just that we need other people to lean on. It is not just the assistance they offer that helps us cope. Other people help you remember who you are, at your core, even in the midst of change. People who care reflect back to you your inner strength; remind you of your inner resources. They help you recapture a sense of yourself as the protagonist of your own life, rather than a victim of external forces. And that points to another key ingredient for successfully negotiating change. People who fare best understand their life as having a meaning that transcends the immediate travail. Those who thrive are able to construct a narrative about their life that is guided by higher purposes, sustained by deeper values, than simply enduring whatever happens to them. And so no matter what curve balls life throws, they will remain true to those higher purposes and deeper values. And this can be so even when survival is not possible. Haven’t you all been witness to those who died as they lived, true to their inner lights, praising life and love, in spite of their own demise? A third key ingredient for successfully negotiating change is to adequately mourn one’s losses. Only through acknowledging the losses, can you move on. While the core of who you are remains the same, change does mean loss—of some sort or other. Things are different. And whenever there is loss, there is sadness, grief. And it does no good to pretend otherwise. When we pretend that there is no grief, we stay stuck in the attachment to the old. We think if only we could go back to the time before, everything would be alright. But, there is no going back. And, paradoxically, when you allow yourself to grieve, to feel the sadness, you can incorporate within yourself the positive attributes of what was lost and thus be freed to move forward with greater power. How, you might be wondering, does all of this relate to the Hebrews? After all, the examples I gave of the changes people face—losing a job, illness, death of a loved one, etc.—are all examples of changes life foists upon us. But the Hebrews weren’t forced out of Egypt. They chose to leave Egypt behind, didn’t they? Yes, they did. And this brings us to a very important point. Because even freely chosen, ardently desired, changes bring discomfort—feelings of disorientation, dis-identification, dissociation—and, yes, disenchantment. And so even when we initiate the change ourselves we may still shrink from what the new reality requires of us, idealize and feel nostalgic for the past. Can’t you all think of examples from your own lives that show this to be true? Newly marrieds, for example, can sometimes idealize their single state, when they didn’t have to always consider the needs and desires of their partner when making a decision, forgetting that there were often times when they were single when they yearned for companionship. Or when the first child enters school parents may look back wistfully on the long intimate hours spent at home watching them grow and forget just how long those hours could sometimes seem. When you start a new, demanding job, you may idealize your old position, forgetting how constrained and underutilized you felt in that old job. We are not unlike the Hebrews who, upon gaining their long desired freedom, still had to wander through an uncomfortable wilderness time. Whether change is welcome or unwelcome, to navigate it successfully, it is still imperative to remember who you are and the narrative to which you will be loyal—to recall what calls to you out of the depths; what abiding values and greater purpose you want your life to show. That’s why Moses reminded the Hebrews that they were the children of Abraham and Sarah, the children of those to whom the promise had been given. Yes, a discomforting change was about to happen, he said, but remember you are the ones with minds set on freedom, you are on your way to the promised land, and surely that must be the vision that commands your loyalty. Why all this talk about change? For two very important reasons. First, change is inevitable. Life never stays the same. Everyone is always, to some degree or other, in the process of coping with change—some freely chosen, some forced upon us by the fickle arm of fate. Whatever else the congregation of Emerson church is, it always and inevitably will be a congregation of individuals navigating changes. In fact, it is just when people are experiencing a major life transition that they are most likely to seek out a religious community. Part of our role as a religious community—part of who we would be to one another and to those who come through our doors—is to be a people who care, people who will lend an ear, lend a hand, give a shoulder to cry on. We must be that presence that communicates “even in the midst of this you can thrive.” We must help people do their necessary mourning and, at the same time, remind one another who we each are and the higher purposes to which we would give our lives. In a host of myriad ways—through our worship, and education classes, our small groups and fellowship circles, our community service and social witness—this congregation must help people construct a narrative for their lives which is guided by high purpose, sustained by abiding values—a narrative that helps us all move forward with grace and power. An equally important reason for talking about change has to do with the internal life of this congregation as a whole. This congregation, no more than any one of us an individuals, is not static. And this congregation is, even as we speak, in the midst of a major change. Emerson is now 47 years old and over the last few years, we, as a congregation, have experienced the death of many founding and long standing members. To be sure, there are still quite a few people who joined in the early years who are vigorously active in congregational leadership—and thank God for that. But, truthfully, the mantle of leadership is shifting. And, so the question becomes, how will we navigate this major change? First, it is imperative to acknowledge the change and allow ourselves to grieve. We can and should acknowledge the sadness we feel at the death of so many beloved members. By grieving their loss we can internalize their best qualities as we move forward into the future. We must grieve their loss because we are now in the position in which they once stood. When you think about those people and the role they played at Emerson—Andy Delaney, Margaret and Tom Nickerson, Margaret Kaye, Rudy Weichert, to name only a few—well, it can seem a little intimidating. They were giants in a way—comfortable with leadership and leading Emerson. To think about filling their shoes might come as a shock, not unlike the shock you experience when your own parents die and you realize that you are the one in the vanguard now. But our Emerson forebears probably did not think of themselves as giants. They just did what they thought needed to be done to establish and guide this new Unitarian Congregation. They were motivated by the heritage of our faith—the faith of Emerson and Parker, the faith of Clara Barton and Susan B. Anthony. And they were motivated by potent dreams—that Emerson would be a haven of religious liberalism on the west side of Houston, a significant voice in the wider community for reason, freedom and justice. It was the vigor of their dreams and the seriousness with which they took their faith that gave those forebears their power. And now it is our turn, all of us, to take up the mantle—“what they dreamed is now ours to do.” Of course, we must make the dream our own, fashion it to the reality of our time. The circumstances of this decade are not the same as those of the 1960s. And this congregation cannot stand still. Change is a given in any vital system. But the greater clarity we have about what we truly cherish as a religious community, the greater grace we will have in navigating change. We have the choice of the narrative that will inform our behavior. We can look back on the past with nostalgia, bemoan the fact that we are in the midst of change with all its accompanying discomfort. Or we can construct a narrative that says we are about the business of creating Beloved Community where any and all might find acceptance and strength; a narrative that says we are on our way toward building a Promised Land and any discomfort we feel is far outweighed by the power and seriousness of our vision. During our sabbatical, Mark and I spent a lot of time thinking about Emerson’s vision. There are some features to that vision which are essential to the two of us: that Emerson must be about creating a future which is earth centered, humane for all people, and inevitably compassion-filled and justice making. But the vision is not Mark’s and mine alone to cast—it requires all of us together. And that is why the Re-Start weekend with our District executive, Sue Smith, on September 15 and 16, is so important. Everyone is invited for Friday night; Saturday is mostly for those in leadership. But is vital that as many of you as possible attend. And that applies whether you have been here from Emerson’s inception or if you have just now decided that this could be your spiritual home. Because all of us here now, no matter when we entered, we are the Joshuas. We are the children of the Wiecherts and the Kayes, the children of Parker and Anthony. And it is our turn to take up the mantle, to hope their hopes and seal them true, to reach heights of which our forebears only dreamed. Be bold. Be strong. For we are the children of the promise. And we are on our way. |
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