Bright Beginnings

The Morning Reading—“In the Beginning” by David Whyte

Sometimes simplicity rises like a blossom of fire
from the white silk of your own skin.

You were there in the beginning.
You heard the story,
You heard the merciless and tender words
telling you where you had to go.

Exile is never easy and the journey itself leaves a bitter taste.
But then, when you heard that voice,
you had to go.

You couldn’t stay by the fire,
you couldn’t live so close
to the live flame of that compassion.
You had to go out in the world and make it your own
so you could come back with that flame in your voice,
saying “listen . . ..
this warmth, this unbearable light, this fearful love . . .
It is all here, it is all here.”

The Sermon—“Bright Beginnings”

Somehow, it was the dog that knew it first. We’re not sure how he realized it, but as the dawn broke into that early autumn morning, as the sun snuck its skinny fingers through the gaps in the shutters, Janice opened her eyes and saw him, watching her. Barnsby, her old retriever, fur still as gold as the sunshine that now filled her room. Barnsby sat on the floor, his head resting on the bed, right next to hers, his eyes never moving from her own. Janice got the distinct impression that the dog had been there throughout the night, watching her. Somehow, she knew he hadn’t moved from her side, even when her husband got up before dawn to shower and eat his eggs and head to the office. All through the rest of morning, it was the same thing. She made her breakfast; she called Joe to say hi; she half-watched thirty minutes of The Today Show, she sat with her cream and coffee on the back porch and read the front section of The New York Times. Barnsby remained glued to her, brown eyes intent, seeing beyond to something no one else could perceive.

An hour later he was still watching her, when it began. When that first fiery contraction shot through her belly, when her water broke, when she called Joe to say “I think the baby’s coming, now!” Barnsby never left her side. And when she rode off to the hospital, Barnsby watched until her car vanished around the corner. Somehow, it was the dog that knew it first. Somehow, it was the dog that sensed new life was stirring, shifting ground. There, in the beginning, something was watching over them. There, at the beginning, they were not alone.

Beginnings are mysterious times. Beginnings are shrouded, saturated with the unknown.

Whether we are beginning a new book, another week, beginning a family, or a school year. Whether we are beginning a job, a relationship, another chapter in our life journey; Whether we are beginning to question something, beginning to understand something, beginning to accept something. Whether we are beginning to explore a possible church home, beginning our retirement, beginning our role as grandparents or great grandparents, or even beginning our dying process—we are all at the onset of discovery. In a very real way, all beginnings are a birth, our birth into something new.

As poet David Whyte writes:

When you heard that voice, you had to go . . .
You couldn’t stay. . .
You had to go out in [that] world and make it your own

Hearing the voice. Not staying put. Going out. Making it our own.

We stand together at such an auspicious moment. We stand together at a birth. This is the birth of another chapter in our congregation’s long history, a history begun in 1827. This is the birth of our new ministry, together. This is a time pregnant with meaning making. This is a time of wide-open imagination and broad-winged hope, a time to dream again a truly possible dream.

I’ve always loved the word: liminal. And this is a liminal moment. Liminal traces its root to a Latin word meaning “threshold.” It is derived from the English word limen, which means: “the threshold of a psychological response.” Today, this morning, we stand together at the threshold of response.

See, beginnings don’t just happen to us. They invite participation. They demand our response:
A new baby opens her mouth and cries for attention.
A new book calls us to open its cover and turn to page one.
A new understanding carries an impulse toward a change.
A new ministry asks us to do more than sit back and watch what happens.

David Appelbaum writes: “At each stage of life’s way, both outer and inner, a door must be opened and boldly entered. This door, more often than not, is obscurely marked, or not at all. We must remain vigilant. If we do not . . . opportunity dies. Life itself may hang in balance.” (Parabola, volume 25, number 1, p.5)

One of my favorite stories growing up was about how I was almost born in the front seat of my mother’s car. One early January afternoon, she felt the birth pangs, she felt me begin my journey into the birth canal. And she knew I wasn’t going to wait any longer for new life to begin. Suddenly, my life, her life was hanging in balance. She boldly opened the car door and got in.

What doors do we need to open and boldly enter? How, exactly, is our new ministry together being born?

First of all, this birth can’t happen on it’s own. Childbirth—and church birth—should happen through community, and with communication. Doctors, nurses, midwives, doulas, partners, all work to ensure a child enters the world as safely as possible. A mother is not left alone in the birth process. Neither should a minister, or a congregation, enter our birth process independently. We need to talk together, to listen together, to participate together, to dream together, and to create together. This new ministry will take root and will hold for years and years and years if we want to make this happen. If we find a common vision of what we hope from each other, if we name a common direction we both want to head, then we will walk warmly as one.

This birth process also needs gentle voices to encourage it. You need to know one thing: I am not here to yell at you. I am not here to chastise you. No one yells at a newly born child who has been just placed in his or her arms. I am here to love you. I am here to love you. I am here to hold you. I am here to laugh with you, and to cry with you. I am here to learn with you, to talk with you, to eat with you, to pray with you, and to build with you. I am here to listen to you. I am here to dedicate your children, I am here to bear witness to your marriages, and I am here to bless your passages into the mysteries of death.

I will not tell you what to do, but I will bring my ideas, my perspectives and experience. It is my hope that just as I am open to you, you will be open to what I might share.

I believe being your minister is a sacred trust. For the last two months, I have begun my morning time of meditation and spiritual practice with one prayer: May I embrace my ministry with gratitude and with joy. May I embrace my ministry with gratitude and with joy. I am grateful to have been invited into your community. I am grateful you chose me. I am grateful I chose you. And I will work hard to see that the years we spend together are filled with much joy.

But we also need to be honest about new birth. Birth often brings joy, but that is not all. Birth always comes with a complex mixture of emotions. Any change in our life brings necessary loss. I remember my friend, Maryann telling me, “I was prepared to fall in love with my baby boy—and I did, long before he was born. But I wasn’t prepared for the feelings of sadness. The life that I knew before, the life that was so familiar, was no more. Nothing felt exactly the same. I missed Friday nights with just Bob and me at the movies. I had to mourn not being able to live just for myself. I had to mourn not ever having enough sleep again. Sometimes, I wish we could go back to before.”

A new ministry can also bring a complex mixture of emotions. Joy and excitement are the most obvious. But I imagine some of us here today are missing Doris’ gentle, wise, and loving presence. Other s of us still feel the painful parting of Robin and her ministry. Some of us just wish Jane was back in the pulpit again. And why not, she’s one of the best! And some of us here today have no idea who any of these people are. All of this is natural to feel at a time like this. And I imagine that there will be many different reactions to me as your minister. Some will be joyful. I will be exactly the minister you were hoping for. Enter, rejoice, and come in! For others, I’ll end up being ok, maybe not exactly what you wanted, but you’ll remember the church is more than the minister, it is the people and the programs that endure, and that will sustain you. And for a few, my ministry may not satisfy you. You’ll have different wishes or needs. You might decide that this place is no longer where you choose to be. All of this is natural at the birth of new ministry.

And then there are the growing pains. A new child can make a home suddenly feel rather tight as everyone tries to accommodate yet another person and personality. The rooms can seem smaller, and everyone’s focus shifts to the new life that is cooing, or pooing, in the crib. The excitement of new ministry can also bring its own growing pains, as it often attracts new visitors, and new members, to a church. Suddenly the pews can seem tighter, and there are all these new persons and personalities at coffee hour. And this is really exciting: our open and affirming religious message is touching people’s hearts and minds. And then we have to decide what we’ll do. Will our focus shift to the new life that might be standing in the corner in community hall, wondering how to fit in. Will we keep to what is comfortable, what we already know, or will we turn and welcome the stranger? Will we examine together how our church can better integrate new friends and friends into our spiritual community? Will we look at the church through their new eyes, or will we let them do the work, and leave them to figure out how to break in our social circles? We can be intentional about caring for each other. Our church can remain a place of comfort and renewal for us all.

A birth is also sweetened by the presence of Grandparents and other elders. This new ministry needs the experience, the support, and the counsel of the elders of this church. I need the experience, the support, and the counsel of the elders of this church. You have kept this place vibrant and alive for so many years. You have sacrificed, you have sweated; you have given long hours and great love to this, your beloved spiritual home. I value what you have done. I value what you continue to do.

But any elder will also tell you: when a baby is born, there is always more work to be done. And so, roles change. The little four-year old is suddenly a big sister, and has to take on chores in order to help. In doing so, she becomes a real part of a family. This is true here, as well. Although this is my second Sunday in the pulpit, I’ve been working for five weeks, now. And I’ve noticed something. I’m seeing a lot of the same faces at some committee meetings and on the volunteer lists. So like at any birth, this is the perfect time for some of the younger members, some of the newer members, to step up and take something on. It doesn’t have to be big, but couldn’t it be something? Sign up for the New UU Class. Get involved in the Social Action Committee. Volunteer to be a greeter at the front door. Join a small group for spiritual reflection. And those of us already taking on responsibility might want to create easier openings for our new friends to step into. It is not always as easy as we think. For all of us, a door must be opened and boldly entered.

Someday, we will all look back at this time. And we will say:

Somehow we knew it. We sensed new life was stirring.
There, in the beginning, we knew we were not alone.
We heard the merciless and tender words
telling us where we had to go
saying listen. . .
This warmth, this unbearable light, this wondrous love

It is all here, it is all here.

May it be so. Blessed be. Amen.

Copyright 2005 Rev. Tim Kutzmark