Reunion
A sermon offered by Rev. Kathleen C. Rolenz
West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church
Rocky River, OH
Sunday, August 29, 2004
T
en years ago, when the notice came in the mail of my 15th high school reunion, I told the walls of my apartment that I would not be caught dead at my high school reunion. Ten years ago I had graduated from seminary and had recently been called to serve a church in Knoxville, TN. I had moved on from the days of Ellet High School, long ago. I didn’t want to look back—I was looking forward, ahead, to a future in ministry with friends and people that didn’t include the ones I left behind in 1979. But something happened this year, when I wrote back and said yes. Call it—curiosity, perhaps—call it vanity—call it what you will, but I decided to attend my 25th high school. “Reunions” provide us with the opportunity to reflect on who we have been and who we are now. It gives us the chance to consider the various strands of our life, being woven from the past, into the present, and then extending on into the future.
This morning’s hymn, “Dear Weaver of our Lives’ Design” says it so beautifully: “Dear weaver of our lives’ design whose patterns all obey; with skillful fingers gently guide the sturdy threads that will survive the tangle of our days.” In fact, this summer has actually involved three “reunions,”—General Assembly in Long Beach, CA, our trip to Gimli, Manitoba for the annual Arnason reunion, and then, the aforementioned 25 year high school reunion. This morning, I want to reflect on those three experiences, beginning with General Assembly.
For those of you who don’t know what General Assembly is—or haven’t yet attended one—General Assembly (also called GA) is our annual gathering of the tribe of Unitarian Universalists. GA is the place where were do the business of the denomination, pass resolutions on Social Justice issues. At GA we hear top-notch national speakers on a variety of topics—we reconnect with old friends and make new ones—we stay up too late and wear out our shoes running from one exciting workshop to another. GA is a kind of moveable feast—for it is seldom in the same city twice. It’s an annual reunion with not only people, and ideas—workshops and worship—it’s a reconnection to the larger moevmement of Unitarian Unviersalism. All to often when we find a UU Church we think “this is it. This particular church is all I need to know about Unitarian Universalism.” When you go our annual reunion, you realize we are part of something much larger than ourselves. This week I touched a newborn baby’s forehead with water from our water communion ceremony. I told him “you enter now into the stream of life, and with this water, into the Stream of West Shore Unitarian Universalists who have contributed to this water for years.” When you attend General Assembly, you step into the stream of a liberal religious movement—a movement that will survive the tangles or troubles of any one particular church. It behooves us to know about our denomination’s history, traditions, and women and men, both famous and obscure, who have added their voice to the faith that keeps us free. Our understanding of “reunion,” then, is not so much about ourselves or our need to be known, but rather a way to reminded, through this annual connection, of the values we cherish and the religious truths by which we aspire to live.
GA of course, is different than a family reunion. As many of you may already know, Wayne and I go to Gimli, Manitoba every summer—the same two weeks to spend time with his family. This year the big family event was the marriage of Wayne’s cousin Kim and her fiancé Rick. Wayne had been asked to perform the ceremony and we were all invited to a large, family reception afterwards. There were over 150 relatives there; many of whom I have met every year but don’t remember that my last name is not “Arnason.” Some of my relatives remember that Wayne and I are ministers, but most aren’t quite sure what we do. And as for my part, I know most of their names, and their children’s names, but I too, can’t remember from year to year exactly where they live or what they do for a living. We’re not in each other’s lives all the time, and yet, I sense, the yearly pilgrimage to Gimli is important to both of us. Why? Why bother reuniting with people you don’t really have all that much in common with? Is simply because they’re “family” enough?
Before answering that question, I want to be clear about one thing. I realize that not all family reunions are as easy and congenial as with my Canadian relatives. Canadians for one thing, are just so darn nice. Even the license plate holders say “Friendly Manitoba!.” I know that for some of you, reunions with your siblings or parents or extended family is to be avoided for one’s own sanity. For some families-- scarred by intolerance, abuse, alcoholism, addiction, adultery—or whatever the dysfunction, reuniting with one’s relatives is not a pleasant experience. That is the topic for another sermon, if you’re interested. What I am interested in is, aside from having a nice time, can our time spent with family reunions point us to a deeper meaning ? I think it does. My step-daughter, Sarah came over to me during the reception. She had been placed at a table with cousins her own age—cousins with whom, as a child, Sarah had tried to befriend with no success. They were too emeshed in their own lives in Winnipeg and Gimli and Sarah was a seasonal outsider. They didn’t know how to talk to her, so her cousins essentially, snubbed her through her growing up years. I asked her how it was going at the table with her cousins. She said “I know my cousins and I are not close, but I know that they are really glad I’m here.” She paused for a moment, “It’s not really about me—I represent something to them…I represent our past—and their childhood…and I’m a part of that past.” I realized then, that our presence in Gimli every summer, perhaps your presence at some obligatory gathering is not really about us—it’s not really about you. Our presence is largely symbolic. Our lives play a larger role. Robert Walsh wrote words that we know to be true: there is a living web that runs through us to all the universe, linking us each with each and through all life…” Our presence matters, even when we don’t think it does. We don’t think anyone will notice if we don’t show up—if we quietly drop out of something or ignore an invitation—but our presence matters because we are part of a larger story—a larger whole—a bigger truth. We may know that intuitively—we may agree with the “web of life” metaphor, but how difficult it can be to show up for something simply because our presence there matters.
. The most heart-breaking confession I ever heard was from a woman who had tried to commit suicide. She honestly believed that no one would miss her—that she was so shallow and timid and had done so little with her life that she could quietly slip away and no one would care. Imagine how shocking it was to her when neighbors to whom she had hardly spoken showed up with flowers—the car mechanic who used to tease her sent a card signed by all the employees--the church members who mowed her lawn and took out the garbage when she was in the hospital. She had no idea what a hole she would had created by trying to extricate herself from the web of life. And those around her—even those who didn’t know her as a close personal friend, showed up, because their presence said both figuratively and literally, “you matter.”
Reunions are like that. They remind us that we matter.
My high school reunions didn’t matter much to me, until now. They’ve been having them every five years—a practice I thought ridiculously excessive. I didn’t go the prom or graduation ceremony, because I had graduated from high school in January and had already begun attending Kent State. My own pattern has been when I leave something—I leave it. I don’t linger and I don’t look back. The past is the past. Done and gone. I remembered that I had three close friends in high school but after I left, I never contacted them again. I hadn’t spoken with them in 25 years. I knew one was a teacher, currently looking for work; another had gone on to act, direct and write plays. I had heard that my best girlfriend from high school was a security guard at Oneill’s in downtown Akron, but Oneill’s had closed a long time ago, and I had no idea what happened to her. After sending in my registration and money, I fumed and fretted about why I had committed myself to going. Why was I bothering to do this now? What difference did it make if I went or not—and to see people I didn’t have that much in common to begin with?
What I discovered about reunions are that they aren’t so much about sitting around and talking about the good old days. They are actually a sobering encounter with oneself. When in life do we take the opportunity to reflect on the pieces and parts that comprise our days? When can we step back from our daily self to look at the continuum of self—the self that is influenced by but not limited by time or circumstance? In plain English—do people change all that much from their essential nature? Do we change all that much? I desperately wanted the answer to be “yes.” From an observers perspective, I was surprised to discover that, for the most part, the answer is “no.” By and large, the people who attended their 25th high school reunion were doing the same types of things that they did in high school—some more successfully than others. The geeky kid who wrote sports columns for the school newspaper is now dressed better and making a lot of money for the Boston Globe as a sports writer. The hyper-active girl who smoked cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom still smokes and talks too fast and is just as devoted to her kids as she used to be to her high school boyfriend. The introverted science fair winner is now a Chemist at Lilly in Indiana. The young woman who used to open her parent’s home to every stray soul and classmate from a dysfunctional family and who would just listen--became a minister.
I was struck by how, externally, people had not changed all that much—and yet, who can see the inner life of others to measure the internal change that comes with life experience? How can we , as the hymn poet wrote, “discern in us our richest hues—show us patterns we may use to set our spirits free?” “Change alone is unchanging” wrote Heraklietos (Herak-Leh-tos). A reunion is really the desire to reunited with ourselves, to hold up who we were to the light of this day—to view the rich hues and patterns that compose our lives.
I was asked to do one thing at the high school reunion. I was asked to read aloud the names of my classmates who had died—say a “little prayer or something for them” the organizer told me, and then say grace. Perhaps you’ve had this experience too—perhaps more often than you wish—of reading someone’s name and their face appears in your minds eye, and you realize that they’re gone—never to return. I stood before my classmates and read…”Joyce Smith…” ….thinking to myself…that large-boned girl who sat in the library and read during lunch…died of a drug overdose. Another name…Bill Pekar…killed in a car accident in Alaska. Still more names…Susan Wilber…died of breast cancer at age 32, a dozen or so more names of people not at the reunion and no longer part of the stream of life. The room was quiet as I suspect all of us were remembering them—some we had known since kindergarten. Many we played with, fought with, got lost in the woods with. It was a reminder of a different kind of reunion echoed by the words often heard on Ash Wednesday: “remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
In the moment of silence, that felt like hours, years passing by—I wondered where my classmates had gone. What reunion had they found? For some, their final reunion was to be one with their God. For most liberal Christians that I know this doesn’t mean an encounter with the pearly gates or harp-strumming angels. It means to be absorbed into an unfathomable mystery—an all-embracing Presence—a Limitless Love that has been described simply as “God.” Rudolf Otto calls it “mysterium tremenendum,” or the Tremendous Mystery—both an awe-inspiring and difficult to comprehend experience of the Holy.
Maybe reunion with God is not a metaphor you would use. Perhaps, then, our final reunion is simply with nature. While staying in Gimli, Manitoba this summer, Wayne and I had some friends visit us from St. Paul, Minnesota. This couple, also a husband and wife co-ministry team, brought with them the cremains of the father of one of their parishioners. Lionel Barker spent some of his childhood in Gimli. His parents were the original owners of the town bakery. He loved Gimli and Lake Winnipeg, and his last request was that his ashes be scattered over the lake. His children were living in the States and no plans to go to Gimli—probably ever. So, there his ashes sat, on the mantle for a year a half, until my friends happened to mention they were visiting us in Gimli. “Would you mind,” the daughter asked them, “taking my father’s remains and spreading them into Lake Winnipeg?” “No, of course” my friend Jan said. So they crossed the border to Canada—cremains in tow without any questions asked—and one perfect, sunny, Sunday afternoon, we asked cousin Larry to take us out on speedboat as we cruised for the right spot. Larry maneuvered the boat to face the shores of Lake Winnipeg, and there we tossed out handful after handful of finely powdered dust of the back of the boat. “Remember you are dust…and to dust you shall return.” I said. After the box was empty, there was an awkward silence. None of us quite knew what to do next. My cousin Larry, not a religious guy, intuited a spiritual moment and said “we need some music.” He pushed in a CD of James Taylor singing “You’ve Got a Friend.” There, with the wind gently blowing and the waves dissolving the dust before our eyes, Taylor crooned “you just call out my name…and you know wherever I am…I’ll be there…yes, I will…you’ve got a friend.”