Life Heals: An Easter Reflection
Sermon by Stephen D. Edington
April 15, 2001
Reading: From: Lifecraft by Forrest Church
[This is] the story of Corinna Marsh. Corinna lived in a tiny, grim, and happily cluttered apartment in the Marquis Hotel in Manhattan. Back in the late eighties, when I visited her, I had to run a gauntlet of crack pushers. She had resided in the hotel for decades and loved it. She wouldn't move for anything. Not that she could. Corinna had almost no money.
In her last decade Corinna was legally blind. She had trouble getting around and heard with difficulty. But she knew where everything was, the hanging plants, the teapot, and, most important, her yellow pad on which she scribbled a remarkable body of acid, yet hilarious, verse.
When all the malfunctions of old age assail me,
And skills that I've always depended on fail me,
The best way I found to avoid thoughts of hearses,
Is putting my mind on composing light verses.
We're not talking Hallmark card material here. No sentimental sunsets or rocking chairs on porches evoking the simple pleasures of old age, with Golden Pond in the background. Just humour and honesty, enough of each to make one wince.
How did she do it? How did she get up each morning and affirm life? In one couplet, she gives her own answer. "I am unusually blest: There's so much to laugh at I don't get depressed." Corinna didn't develop her wit as a stratagem for coping with the pains of old age. It was her signature for years. Had you asked her about it, she'd have told you, "Don't despair, It's the only thing Bill Buckley and I have in common."
Over the years these remarkable people--Corinna and William F. Buckley--struck up a curious, very appealing relationship. Corinna was a life-long liberal. To the end of her days, her political opinions remained as strong as they were salty. She had the force of her convictions; she didn't keep them to herself. Disproving the adage that thoughtful people grow more conservative (or more passive) a they get older, over the final twenty years of her life Corinna submitted several conservatively incorrect poems to William F. Buckley's National Review. To Buckley's credit, he published almost all of them. One day he invited her to lunch, "Well Corinna," Buckley said, "I hope you'll tell your liberal friends that I don't bite."
"Sure," she replied. "And I hope you'll tell all your conservative ones that I do."
She certainly did. When I told her about the movie Cocoon, in which a bevy of oldsters recover from the debilities of age and rediscover the pleasures of youth, Corinna's comment was, "Nuts!"... In response to the "I'm not getting older, I'm getting better" crowd, Corinna invoked her own stature of limitations. When I made the mistake of telling her that she was getting both older and better, she told me to grow up.
Corinna died at the age of one hundred. For her tombstone she chose the words, "That's that." Never coming close to fooling herself, she created and discovered meaning to the end of her days...."
Sermon
On this fifteenth day of April in the year 2001 I am very happy to report that the Christmas decorations are, as of five days ago, finally out of my front yard. Last Tuesday the snow had indeed melted to the point where I could pull up the stakes that have been holding down the reindeer and the sleigh, and get the things back up in the attic. It's been that kind of winter, hasn't it? I guess a winter like the one we've just had is supposed to make us appreciate spring all the more, but was it really so necessary? I can still appreciate the spring without enduring a winter like this past one. Of course a winter--or spring, fall, or summer, for that matter--doesn't really care about how "necessary" it is. The seasons do what they do, for as long or short a time as they want to do it, and we human beings just have to deal with it; and, in the end, rejoice in Creation itself.
It was this awareness, in fact, on the part of our earliest human ancestors that their lives and livelihoods were closely tied to the rhythms of the earth and its changing seasons that gave us the earliest celebrations of the season we are now in. Since their relationship to the world of nature was, by and large, considerably more immediate than ours is today, those early ancestors may well have felt a greater sense of urgency in their welcoming of the signs of life back to a seemingly dead earth. For if the earth did not awaken to life, then neither would they. So when they sang or chanted or danced to their own version of "Lo the Earth Awakes Again" or "All Creatures of the Earth and Sky," they were addressing matters that had to do with their very survival. They were appealing to the gods and goddesses upon whom they felt they were dependent for such survival.
One possible origin of the term "Easter" itself derives from one of these goddesses, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of the spring who was called Eostre. The Druids celebrated her return to the earth in the spring as a way of assuring themselves that the earth would once again become fertile and life-bearing and would provide care and nurture for them. The words Easter and estrogen, interestingly enough, probably each originate from the name of this fertility goddess.
The psychiatrist and author, Robert J. Lifton, is certainly correct when he points out that practically all religions contain or are built around certain images or symbols of rebirth or regeneration. This is so, Lifton maintains, because "concern with the problem of the meaning of life in the face of death is common to all religious traditions." This is why resurrection, the renewal of life, the presence of hope, and the resilience of life are common themes among the many religions and faith traditions of humanity. This is also why, I believe, one of the holiest of times in both the Judaic and Christian faiths occur at approximately the same time as those earliest of seasonal celebrations.
The time of Passover, the celebration of the movement from bondage to freedom, as told in the legend of the Jewish Exodus, and which we remembered and observed here this past Thursday evening, corresponds to the celebrations of the release from the bondage of winter and the deliverance into the hope of spring. When the powers that be--or were--in the Christian church set the date to observe the resurrection of their founder, Jesus of Nazareth, as told in the accounts, stories, and legends of the Christian gospels, they not only used a variation on the name of a pagan goddess, they also tied the date itself to the movements of the earth, the sun, and the moon. The Christian Easter, which is today, is observed on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox--just in case you were wondering.
I offer all this not to minimize or water down Passover, Easter, or any other such observance; but rather to point out that whatever particular names and practices are involved, what happens in our hemisphere at this time of year is a universal human, and earthly, event. One of my colleagues in the UU ministry, the Rev. Mark Harris, puts it very well when he notes: "(We) Unitarian Universalists celebrate the many resurrections of this season. we celebrate the glories of the earth when birds take to wing and crocuses force their way through the crust of snow to announce the arrival of spring. We celebrate the untold number of courageous individuals and groups who sacrificed their lives to liberate others from oppression and create a more just and loving world. We celebrate the ability of the human heart to overcome terrible personal tragedy or handicap and affirm once more the ability to love or excel when many others would have given up hope. Easter celebrates the times of witnessing, experiencing, and creating the resurrections of human life." Very well put, I feel. To Mark's fine words I would add that this is a time to remember and affirm one of the more hopeful promises of human, and earthly life; one I've stated in the two words that make up my sermon title for today: Life Heals.
To state these words, however, to is also acknowledge their counterpoint: Life wounds. Without wounds the idea of healing actually has little, or no, meaning. We can affirm the healing power of life only as we are aware of how it can wound us as well. In this season of rebirth we can see the point and counterpoint. Crew members who had been detained in China after--according to reports now being made--thinking for several harrowing moments that their aircraft was doomed and that they'd have to take their chances on bailing out, are now reunited with their families and loved ones. Whatever their individual faith stances may be, this is an Easter moment for all of them. We had our own very moving Easter moment here two weeks ago when Emily Burr came forward to light a candle of joy to mark her continuing recovery from a neurological episode that could just as well have claimed her life.
We also know that over the past couple of weeks many homes, and even some lives, have been lost due to the tornadoes and floods that have been visited upon certain parts of our country. Whatever the calendar may say, this is not an Easter time, or a healing time, for persons touched and affected by these kinds of tragedies and losses. For persons who continue to struggle against the weight of oppression and injustice, Easter moments may still seem far off. For those whose countries remain war torn, the healing has yet to happen. On a more personal level, for those who are in the aftermath of a loss, particularly one that has left issues unresolved, it may not yet be time for a resurrection. Life wounds and life heals, and generally does so on its own time and on its own terms.
I think one of the reasons that crucifixion accounts of the New Testament--to turn to them for a moment--have the kind of power that they do is that beyond whatever religious doctrines they have come to spawn, they provide a metaphor for the deeper human experiences of being wounded and experiencing loss. As I've said on other occasions, the idea that Jesus died in order to somehow bear and atone for the sins of humanity--mine included--is something that makes very little sense to me, even as it is one of the central tenets of the Christian faith. It's one of the reasons why I cannot quite put the Christian label on myself.
But as a metaphor or symbol for the reality of life's capacity to wound and to inflict loss, the crucifixion accounts still work for me on that level. The accounts, to stay with them for just a bit longer, are also instructive about our human response to wounds and losses--to the loss of hope or the loss of certain dreams and expectations. The disciples and other followers of Jesus, in this story, thought they knew where their lives were going; they thought they knew what the plan was, which was that we'll just continue to be a part of this man's ministry. It seems to be working. Then the plan, and the one whom they thought was the man with the plan, is suddenly no longer there. Well, now what? Now where do I go? Now, what do I do? While our own wounded moments may not be as devastating as theirs reportedly was (or maybe they are), it is a rare individual who makes it through this life without encountering such moments, and without being confronted by such questions as these.
Let's do a little Bible study for a few minutes here. (Such things are permitted in Unitarian Universalist congregations. Really, it's OK.) The earliest written of the New Testament gospels, the gospel of Mark, actually ends with these kinds of questions being asked. The gospel of Mark, upon which the books of Matthew and Luke are essentially expansions and adaptations, tells of no actual resurrection. There are women who come to the tomb to anoint the body of Jesus after it's been laid to rest. But they cannot find anybody--that is to say, any body--anywhere. A rather ghostly figure, so the story goes, appears to them and tells them that Jesus, or the body of Jesus, in no longer there. According to most reliable Biblical scholars the very last words of the original Gospel of Mark read, "Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb." In other words, they got the shakes and ran off--end of story.
In many versions of the Bible a resurrection account does provide the conclusion for Mark's gospel, but that account is written in such a different style and language from all of the rest of the Book of Mark, that it appears to have been composed much later in order to bring Mark's gospel in line with the other gospel texts that were being written, and which were proclaiming a risen Christ. But the original text of Mark ends on the same note as we generally find ourselves when life has painfully wounded us or dealt us an especially difficult or troubling loss, or thrown us a curve ball we just didn't see coming: "Trembling and bewildered" and wanting to flee--somewhere, anywhere.
But getting the shakes and running off is not, or at least does not have to be, the end of the story after all. Let's continue with our Bible study for just a tad longer. Three years ago there was a PBS series than ran on most of their channels called "From Jesus to Christ." It basically made the same point that I did last Sunday when I compared Jack Kerouac's writing of his novel Visions of Gerard to the formation of the New Testament gospels. They both involved the beatification or deification, of an earthly figure who-- following his death--came to be greatly loved and revered by those who knew him and who came after him; and who believed that in some sense, he was either still alive or was a living presence in their lives. It was in the faith and in the writings of the first and second century church that an itinerant Jewish teacher and religious reformer, who had the great misfortune of being seen by the Roman authorities as a political revolutionary, and who got himself crucified for it, becomes the resurrected Christ.
To say that the earthly Jesus became mythologized as the risen Christ is, to my way of thinking, a true statement. To dismiss the whole account of his life, death, and resurrection as worthless on that basis is, again to my way of thinking, short-sighted. Recall again the late Joseph Campbell's wisdom with respect to mythology. A myth, he reminded us, is not primarily about something that happened "out there," or "back there," somewhere; rather it's a truth about what's going on "in here" right now. And the in-here, right-now truth of the crucifixion and resurrection legends or myths of the New Testament is that Life wounds and Life also heals. It's not that our individual lives will go on forever and that we're never going to die; but rather that in the course of our finite lives we will experience wounding and healing; we will experience deaths and resurrections. And being open to both; and being able to live with and through both, are what gives our lives their meaning.
The resurrection accounts, or myths, say to me that being bewildered or scared, and wanting to run off somewhere in response to being wounded or to being dealt a loss, doesn't have to be the end of the story after all. A part of the story, certainly--perhaps even a necessary part of the story--but not necessarily the last chapter. Though our personal lives may be finite, Life itself can bring renewal and resurrection and healing to those lives many times over before they are through. This, I feel, is why the Jesus story or legend could not end on a note of bewilderment and fear and of running scared.
While a personal God is not a part of my personal theology, I do believe in a Creative Power that is at work, or can be at work, both in our lives and beyond our lives. (I have no objection, by the way, to any who wish to call such a creative power "God.") Let me go back once again to the words of my ministerial colleague, Rev. Mark Harris, as he links this idea of a creative power to that of healing and resurrection: "If we believe in a creative power which shatters the icy tomb of winter with the life-giving miracle of spring, we have seen a resurrection. If we believe in a creative power which moves tens and then tens of thousands of people to cry out against the injustices of society, enabling the downfall of hatred and prejudice, then we have created a resurrection. If we believe in a creative power within each human breast which enables us to break the bonds of personal pain and know the hope of new tomorrows, then we have experienced a resurrection."
Just a couple more quick points now. When I say that Life heals I do not mean to say that we are to simply be passive recipients of it's healing work. Yes, sometimes a resurrection can be visited upon us, catching us unaware; and it's a joy when that happens. In the case of new life returning to a seemingly dead earth we can indeed only await its arrival and then rejoice when it comes. But to affirm Life's capacity for healing and renewal also calls for an active openness on our part to that healing potential, and it calls us to be agents of our own resurrections. Sometimes its easy to remain so encased, or so entombed if you will, in our own fears, doubts, and hesitations that we keep healing and renewal at bay. Amanda McBroom speaks to this in a very beautiful and haunting way in her song "The Rose." And if she never wrote another word in her life, she may well have said all she ever needed to say with these words:
"It's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking that never takes a chance.
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give.
And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live."
Life heals, and resurrections occur--but we have to let them in.
This in closing now. When I first read Forrest Church's story about Corinna Marsh it didn't particularly strike me as having an Easter theme, enjoyable as I found it to be. But as I read it over a couple times more I realized that I was reading about someone who, with the help of a poetic sensitivity and a redeeming sense of humour, was able to keep faith, and keep faith deeply, with life however much it may have wounded her. With little money, decreasing sight, and living in precarious surroundings her spirits were, as Forrest tells it, unflagging. She was an anti-romantic when it came to aging, and refused to mellow out when it came to her politics. She could give as good as she got, as her lunch date with Mr. Buckley demonstrated. Dr. Church's final assessment of his friend Corinna Marsh was, "Never coming close to fooling herself, she created and discovered meaning in her life to the end of her days."
That is something I'd be extremely gratified to have said of me when my own earthly life is summed up. It is both the challenge and the promise of living: That we can indeed create and discover meaning until the end of our days. In the course of that living there will be wounding and healing, deaths and resurrections. If we can be open to both, and willing to live in and through both then we, too, may well create and discover meaning until the end of our days.
On this note, I wish each and all of you a blessed and happy Easter.
