First Unitarian Universalist Church of New Orleans
Sunday, May 31, 2009
I dedicate this morning’s sermon to Clyde Davis, member of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Cherry Hill for over 50 years, who died on Monday at age 100. He knew how to live a good and full life with limits.
Unitarian Universalism is sometimes thought of – quite incorrectly, as it happens – as a religion without limits. Although that is a gross distortion of our liberal faith, it is certainly true that many Unitarian Universalists resist the very idea of limitations and strictures, other than those freely chosen. But whether we like it or not, all our lives are limited, even the lives of UUs. Everybody dies. But this necessity does not have to be cause for grief or complaint – life with limits can be the open door to creativity and community.
Once Duke Ellington was asked how he composed and arranged his music, and he replied that it was good to have limits. He explained that because his trumpet player could reach certain notes beautifully, with ease, but not certain other notes, and as this was also true with his trombonist and clarinetist and all the other musicians in his orchestra, he had to write his arrangements within those limits. Ellington felt this was a good thing, and spur to his creativity.
In the same way, for all of us, the fact of death – our knowing that we will surely die – sets the limits within which we compose and arrange our lives. If we take our cue from Ellington, it is the very presence of death in our lives that sets the limits without which love and connection would be meaningless. Just as the limitations of the musical instruments and the people who play them force the composer to make certain decisions, the limitations of human life force us to make the crucial choices and decisions that shape our characters and define who we are. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, in our Reading this morning, calls death the key to human life and its ultimate meaning. Our lives will end – whether we like it or not – and therefore the decisions we make about how to live our lives and relate to others living theirs matter – they matter immensely.
My mentor and friend, Suzanne Meyer, who was minister of this church several years back, thought a lot about this paradox, about how it is the fact of death that gives our lives meaning, and she once related in a sermon how her work with people with AIDS in New Orleans helped her to more deeply appreciate life's brief beauty:
…I have known several individuals who say that their lives following their diagnoses of HIV infection have been qualitatively better and more emotionally rewarding than when they enjoyed good health and took long life for granted. Many of them did not describe themselves as being religious in the conventional sense or having a strong belief in an afterlife, nor did they appear to be 'Pollyannas.' What they did have in common following the diagnosis of HIV was the determination to live life to the fullest within the limits.
For the majority of those I have known who were diagnosed with HIV, living life to the fullest did not mean dropping everything and running off to Tahiti, or adopting a hedonistic lifestyle, or even making a radical change in the external circumstances of their lives. Rather for them, living life more fully and more deeply meant continuing with their ordinary lives in much the same way as they had prior to diagnosis – but with one key difference: Many of the petty irritations that rob the joy from most lives were eliminated…
…Several told me that for the first time in their lives they were even willing to really risk themselves to the vulnerability of loving another person, knowing full well that time was not on their side. There seemed to be no value in holding back…or restraining the impulse to say, 'I love you.'
In the face of death, life can no longer be lived on the surface -- even the smallest, most mundane activities probe the depths of character and feeling. Even when there are only a few years left in a life, there can be more life and more love in the moments we do have. These are lessons they all claimed to have learned from living with a lethal disease…
What Suzanne observed in people living with HIV and AIDS I have seen in soldiers and others who have faced dire situations. Death is not the only limit we have to deal with -- there are chronic conditions, finite resources of money, strength, and time, and of course the aftermath of trauma and disaster. Faced boundaries and limits, relationships are truer and closer. There doesn't seem to be room for holding grudges, storing up resentments, counting up emotional injuries, and wasting time in damaging, unproductive relationships. When you are up against life's limits, when you are consciously aware of your own likely death, as my sister Lili would say, you don't "sweat the small stuff." There just isn't time. There's no time for pettiness, for clinging to anger and bitterness. There is no time left even for cheap sentimentality. What there is time for are the small, delicious delights of being human and being alive:
•being nuzzled by a beloved pet or child or lover;
•savoring a good cup of coffee, a glass of wine, or the sweet taste of cold water;
•listening deeply to favorite pieces of music;
•enjoying to the fullest the physical, spiritual, musical, and culinary joys of a local festival;
•viewing a beautiful sunset over the Lake or at the Gulf;
•deeply inhaling the wondrous smell of bread baking or favorite foods cooking;
•savoring the crisp feel and squirting juice of a ripe apple.
You all could make your own lists of Life's simple and deep pleasures. Even the simplest times of companionship and fellowship shared with loved ones take on added significance when we allow ourselves the conscious knowledge of the limits of our lives. In our finite existence, there can be – there are! – infinite possibilities.
I am often asked after leading a Memorial Service if I find that to be the most depressing part of being a minister. I have to say that, on the contrary, I find those duties to be among the most inspiring and life-affirming aspects of my ministry. No matter how often I participate in the sacred ceremonies surrounding the death of a human being, I do not become numb or depressed or morbid. Instead I find myself lifted up, given a priceless gift by the bereaved families and friends who have shared with me. In their stories, in their memories, in their affirmations of continued relationship, I begin to see a model of how to live life within the limits as fully, richly, and compassionately as possible. My own life seems more vivid, more intense, and considerably less cynical for the examples I have received from dying and bereaved people.
In a life with limits – like my life and your life – we should learn to savor small gifts. Just as a piece of music is composed of single tones blended together, so is human life not so much about the big events and triumphs and achievements as it is about small, unbearably sweet moments. The fact is, we are all living with a fatal disease and it will get us – every single one of us – in the end. The important thing is not how fast or how slowly that "end" gets us, but what we do with our limited lives in the meantime.
I close with words from Unitarian Universalist minister Dick Gilbert:
We live within limits.
We compose a life out of finite time.
We sing the melody of meaning in cathedralled space,
Working out a distinctive tune.
We walk in harmony with all that is,
In cosmos and community.
So might this be! AMEN – ASHÉ – SHALOM – SALAAM – NAMASTÉ – BLESSED BE.
