Sermon

INTRODUCTION: The Rev. Forrester Church has a friend “who has given up alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, eggs, meat, milk, and studiously avoids exposure to the sun. He eats oat bran for breakfast, takes mega-doses of vitamins C and E, rides his Exercycle religiously, and never uses his microwave.” So, is it worth it? Here’s what His physician told him: He may or may not live longer, but it will certainly seem longer!

The Rev. Church goes on to say that, “The hard truth is, we all will die of something. Vegetarians die, joggers die, even people with low cholesterol die. One can do everything imaginable to play the right numbers, to change the variables in our human equation, but at best, it’s only an extension.”

Which leads to his definition of religion: “Religion is our human response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die.” Let me repeat that: “Religion is our human response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die.”

But before unpacking that statement, let me briefly introduce you to the Rev. Dr. Forrester Church, Senior Minister for 30 years at All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church in New York City, and now their Minister of Public Theology.

First, it’s impossible to speak of Forrest Church, without mentioning his father, Frank Church, who was, as some of you may recall, the U.S. Senator of Idaho from 1957 to 1981. When elected to the U.S. Senate at age 32, he was the fifth youngest senator ever to serve in the U.S. Senate. Ironically, however, in 1947, ten years before the senior Church became a U.S. Senator, he was diagnosed with testicular cancer and given only months to live. Fortunately, he went to another physician who administered x-ray treatments, resulting in 37 years of influential and fulfilling life.

Having had that experience, Senator Church said that his life was such a chancy proposition that "the only way to live was by taking great chances." He served three terms in the Senate and was one of the most powerful and productive senators of the era – the first Democratic senator to speak out against the Vietnam War, the influential chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee both before and after that war, and an unsuccessful candidate for president. Three years after leaving the Senate, he died of pancreatic cancer at age 59. It’s his son, Forrester Church, whom we are focusing on today, as disclosed to us in his latest book, Love & Death.[2]

Forrest received his bachelor’s from Stanford, as did his father, and his master’s and doctorate were from Harvard. He went to minister at All Souls at age 29, at a time when All Souls had fallen precipitously in membership and attendance. Under his leadership, it became one of the largest and most influential pulpits in America. He has written 24 books, a frequent guest on radio and television, and Kay Montgomery, executive vice president of the UUA, calls him “the most quoted Unitarian Universalist of this era.”

All was not peaches and cream, however. He went through a messy divorce, which was much publicized in the New York media, and he also had a drinking problem that he overcame only a few years ago. But none of that compares to what happened to him in the Fall of 2006.

In October of that year, Forrest was diagnosed with esophageal cancer and told he had from three to six months left to live. He stepped down from his post as senior minister at All Souls, but he remained on staff.

Fortunately, his cancer went into remission after his esophagus was removed in November 2006, but 15 months later – just last February, in fact – tumors were found again. Once more, Forrest was given no more than six months to live.

Eight months later, he’s still alive. In fact, on the 30^th anniversary of his ministry at All Souls, only two Sundays ago – September 30^th – Forrest delivered what may or may not be his last sermon — for the fifth time! As he began his remarks, he said, “After two or three poignant farewell sermons, I’m almost embarrassed this morning to be seen upright.”

He can only guess as to what has granted this extension. He suggests that it was the chemotherapy, or the experimental treatment that he recently started, or the surgery that removed his esophagus (miraculously not altering his voice). Perhaps it was God’s will, or his own. Perhaps it was the love and prayers of his admirers, or the 2,000 letters of supporters.

Regardless, chemotherapy and the operation whittled 45 pounds off his frame, but he has since regained 15 pounds. His skin is rubbed raw by a rash, his mouth is filled with sores and he has lost feeling in his fingers and feet. “It’s all just stuff; it doesn’t matter,” he said.

He has, he states, come to a deep peace about death. “My life feels like it is concluding; this period has the feeling of a coda to it. I feel I’ve done what I needed to do. I look back without regrets, and I look forward without fear. I’ve never been more in the present.”

So what does a man whose date with death has been fast forwarded, now say to us? What does he have to say about living? In the shadow of sundown, what words for the sunrise? In these intrusive moments of mortality, what glimpses offered of immortality? One of the things which comes across clearly in his book is this:

Can you remember ever losing your job? It’s all you could think about, wasn’t it. Unfortunately, more and more are having that experience. These are truly difficult times for the unemployed. Remember the lost love? It consumed your every waking moment, and even your sleep. And what about the bad diagnosis at the physician’s office? It devastated us. We couldn’t function.

Responding to that, Forrest describes life as a window with an enormous number of window panes. Only when we stand back and look at the entire window, can we see the whole. Each pane only serves to provide an up close perspective into the different dimensions of our lives…our job, our vocation, our companion, our family. Most panes, we can see through clearly, though some may have a tint or tone to them, or have a few scratches and patches.

But imagine that one of the panes suddenly grows cloudy. As a consequence, we have to get up closer and closer to it, so as to see through. We may even need to press our nose up against the frame trying determinedly to make out what’s on the other side.

That’s like life. We become desperate: Forget the rest of the panes…forget the whole window…we only want to see through this pane. We lose all sense of proportion. Because we can’t see clearly through this pane, our entire world feels as if it has gone to black.

When those kinds of things happen, they become the only pane in the window…the only thing we can see or feel that is important. And that pane is clouded, opaque, unclear, hurtful.

But maybe, there’s another way to look at it, Forrest suggests. To illustrate that possibility, he quotes from the movie, Titanic. During their fateful first and last journey, young Jack Dawson is invited to dinner at his new girl-friend’s first class dining room, rather than the fourth-class one to which he was normally privy. One of the first-class table guests haughtily asks, “Well, Mr. Dawson, where do you live?”

He responds, “My address is the Titanic.” When they all seem to pooh-pooh that notion, he says, “I have everything I need here with me: the wind, the sun, the ocean, and the pleasure of your good company.”

Forrest responds, “He was not making too much of nothing…he was making at least something of everything.” Let me repeat that: “He was not making too much of nothing…he was making at least something of everything.” He was, as it were, not forgetting the rest of the panes in the window.

Forrest quotes the 17^th century divine, the Rev. Jeremy Taylor, who after having all his earthly goods taken in a politically motivated legal action responded, “What should I do now? Let me look about. They have left me the sun and the moon, fire and water, a loving wife, and many friends to pity me and some to relieve me.”

Regardless of the diagnosis and the prognosis, Forrest says: Don’t forget the big picture.

I go to the hospitals in Lee County quite often. In fact, there are special parking places provided for clergy. I’m always honored when I’m requested to visit someone, and without fail, I’m uplifted by each visit.

But that’s not always the experience for some of us who aren’t used to hospitals and sick people. Sometimes there can be a sense of uneasiness on what to say or do. Forrest gives a sensible list for us to consider, based not only on his years of hospital visits as a minister, but also his experience as a patient for an extended period:

a. Sit down. Otherwise, it will look like you’re poised to leave at the first opportunity.

b. Touch her or him. There is something special in the touch of another person. That’s why, for example, massage therapy has long been shown to have a healing dimension to it. We all have a skin hunger, and touching is an important need for each and every one of us. So when you visit someone in the hospital, touch her or his brow, run your hand down their arm, hold their hand.

c. Find a leading question to ask, like, “This must be difficult.” Or, “You must be missing home cooking.” But follow their lead, not yours.

d. Don’t stay too long. Sometimes five to ten minutes, sitting down, holding hands, can be just about right.

e. Don’t say “Everything will turn out fine.” Instead, tell her you love her, and even let him see you cry. But know this: There is almost nothing you can say that will make things worse, as long as your words are filled with love.

f. Be kind to nurses…nurses are heroes. (By the way, how many nurses, active and inactive, are here this morning?) Heroes, every one.

So how does all of this apply to those of us here this morning? Remember, we started out with a question, namely, what does someone who has been given a death sentence, have to say about a life sentence – that is, when life is extended? His answer? Don’t live your life with unfinished business. And how do we do that?

1. Begin here…as we are…now…doing what we can…with those who are closest to us. Forrest says, “We reform to have better lives, not better deaths – the latter is just a bonus.”

2. Turn the page on the past: If we are trapped in our story, revise the script. Don’t keep going back over the page or pages we don’t understand; turn the page and travel on. Some issues don’t deserve a life long struggle. Move on. Don’t waste anymore time on them.

3. Clean up your slate: Place a statute of limitations on your “to do” list. Don’t burden your life down by carrying over little failures from day to day. Start with a clean slate.

4. Destinations are overrated: It’s the journey that matters. Live with gratitude for the life’s journey you have.

5. Dream possible dreams. Set out to climb a single hill, not every mountain. We can’t do everything, and we shouldn’t try. But that which we can do is ours for the doing.

On opening his new store, a man received a bouquet of flowers, which made him smile at someone’s thoughtfulness. But when he read the card enclosed, it expressed “deepest sympathy.” While puzzling over what to make of it, his telephone rang. It was the florist, apologizing for having sent the wrong card with his flowers.

The storekeeper said, "Oh, that’s all right. I'm a businessman and I understand how these things can happen." "Unfortunately," added the florist, "I sent your card to a funeral service." “Oh? What did it say?" asked the storekeeper. "Congratulations on your new location," was the reply.

We will pause for 7½ minutes of brief questions as a part of our Conversation Café. The Service and Support Council will provide microphones for you to speak into.

[1] A sermon presented October 12, 2008, as the second in a sermon series entitled, “PROFILES IN COURAGE: What the Lives of Others Teach Us About Living in Difficult Times,” followed by the Conversation Café of All Faiths Unitarian Congregation, meeting at the Crestwell School, 1904 Park Meadows, Ft. Myers, FL, with the Rev. Dr. Wayne Robinson, minister.

[2] Beacon Press (Boston 2008).