A parable for Homecoming Sunday. The minister noticed little Alex was staring up at the large plaque that hung in the foyer of the church. It was covered with names, and small American flags were mounted on either side of it. The seven-year old had been staring at the plaque for some time, so the minister walked up, stood beside the boy, and said, "Good morning, Alex." "Good morning," replied Alex, who was still focused on the plaque. He asked, "What is this?" "Well, Alex, it's a memorial to all the young men and women who died in the service." Soberly, they stood together, staring at the large plaque. Little Alex's voice was barely audible when he asked, "Which service, the 9:00 or the 11:00?"
Welcome to the (9:00 o'clock) (11:00 o'clock) service. We'll try to keep you awake and alive with parables of home - parable - a short narrative with a message.
It may have been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, but it was a busy summer in the Bristol Hills. One of the long-time residents of Baptist Hill has moved and is clearing out her house to sell, and it is a big job. Her name is Hazel Gilbert - and she is my mother. This is a personal parable about homecoming and homeleaving.
Many of you have been there and done that - emptying a family house after many years. It is not easy. Until this summer, however, I had no idea how hard - or important it was, how full of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, recalling childhood, summing up a life.
This house that has been my mother's home for 68 years was built by my grandfather and great-grandfather in 1872. A house that old is not only a "stuff" collector, but it is also a memory collector, and I've had some "moving" experiences there this summer. One day a tattered picture dropped out of a pile of papers - a boy of perhaps 8 or 9, who looked strangely familiar, sitting on the front porch holding a lamb in his lap. Frisky was my favorite pet. I was going to raise a flock of sheep. I didn't know I couldn't do it with one lamb. How crushed I was when Frisky died. That picture itself was a parable of tragedy in a boy's life and reminded me that childhood is not preparation for life - it is life itself.
In cleaning out one closet I found my old scout uniform and managed to put on the shirt - it was a trifle tight. But what memories flooded back when I remembered Troop 58 and our exploits as we showed up much larger troops from the big cities of Canandaigua and Geneva. It was while attending the National Boy Scout Jamboree in 1951, wearing that shirt, that I decided to become a minister.
Last week my mother happened on another picture - a group of school children with their very young-looking teacher. There they were - as I struggled to name them - the friends of my childhood. There I was in the middle with a smirk of a smile on my face. I shamelessly reminisced about our little one-room schoolhouse on Baptist Hill with its outhouses - one for boys, one for girls - which we delighted in tipping over at Halloween. Our schoolhouse, the one where we huddled around the stove in winter to keep warm, is now someone's home - and one I pass on each drive to Baptist Hill. No remodeling can erase those memories.
Another favorite picture retrieved was one of my father behind our old hand cultivator with me hitched like a horse to the handles. I pulled, and he pushed, and together we dug up our garden. It was a revelation to learn that I could do a man's job.
One warm and sunny summer afternoon I was there alone with my camera. I wanted to record every angle of the house - the old clapboard barn - my mother's lovingly planted and carefully tended flowers - the inviting bird baths - the tree which held my swing. I thought the picture taking was for my mother, but I knew it was for me too. Before I knew it my tears made it hard to focus. A Kodak moment of another kind. I foresee a torrent of tears when I leave that sacred place of my childhood, leaving home for the last time.
But they were wonderful tears - clear and purifying - full of memory - full of joy - and there was no holding them back. Nostalgia washed over me and cleansed my soul. It was a moment worth saving - one of those experiences when you see life whole - not as a series of random events - but part of a pattern. Past and present and future had converged. I was home again and it was good.
Do you remember Robert Frost's comments on the meaning of home in "The Death of the Hired Man"? Old Silas has come home to Warren and Mary to die. She is moved to pity and takes him in. Warren is not enthusiastic and says mockingly:
Home, yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he's nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.
Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.
But home is much more than the place where they have to take you in. It is the soil in which you grow - it shapes the very essence of who you are. Home is not a house, no matter how much you remember every nook and cranny, no matter how full of memories each room is, no matter how securely it sheltered your growing up. A house merely provides a protective shell for people to nurture and love one another.
Being at home has much broader and deeper meanings for the whole of life. It is more than nostalgia for the house of our childhood, it is a sense of being at home with oneself no matter how we stumble; at home in our bodies no matter how frail; recognizing the dual realities of having to live as best we can and knowing we will die anyway; at home in nature - sensing kinship with the world in which we are but one creature among many; at home in the cosmos - being blessed with a feeling that we have a right to be here - to occupy sacred space and precious time for a cosmic instant.
It can be humbling - being at home. I think of a New Yorker cartoon of an everyday scene that could have been taken from anywhere. The caption: "The Milky Way: Detail."[1] We are but a detail within a detail, and that is all right. We have cosmic permission to be here - to enjoy it all. Trust me.
Garrison Keillor tells parables about his mythical home - Lake Wobegon - with unfailing wisdom and gentle humor. We know the places and the people because we have been there - in our own Lake Wobegon. For me it was Baptist Hill - a tiny hamlet nestled in the Bristol Hills which still inspire me as they roll on into the horizon. Garrison wrote, "Found paradise. I said I would and by God I have. Here it is, and it is just what I knew was here all along. Well, I guess that's about it. I'm happy to be here, is all."[2] So am I.
We have a church school curriculum called "Being at Home" - formerly The Haunting House." I rather prefer the latter term - it is far more poetic, even though somewhat confusing. The introduction reads: "Pause now, look back on your years of living in homes. Unlock your memory and imagination. Close your eyes ... remember ... remember a curtain blowing at a window ... car headlights moving across a dark wall ... the worn hollow of a favorite chair ... the smell of sizzling bacon ... the creak of a swing. Remember a hiding place, a crying place, a place with friendly people. How did you feel there? What did you do?"
A church can be a home, too, a spiritual center which helps us orient ourselves in a seemingly rudderless world. It is no substitute for the family, but it can be a second home where we try to find ourselves and our place in the scheme of things. Pause now, look back on your years in houses of worship. Unlock your memory and imagination. Close your eyes ... remember ... remember the majestic sound of an organ that told you this was a special place ... remember candles at Christmas ... lights flickering against a dark wall ... remember the hush of expectancy ... remember children being brought into their new world ... remember lovers exchanging vows ... remember the times of growing up when people, once children, occupied pew and pulpit ... remember the touch of hands when you were hurt ... remember voices of encouragement that sustained you through the dark night of suffering ... remember that glorious sound of a choir singing on the first Sunday of fall - remember the joy of reunion. Remember? How did you feel there? What did you do?
I remember - I remember the Baptist Hill Universalist Church - a second home in my childhood, a place where I was valued and nourished - forget that it is now the United Church of Christ. I loved the people then and I love them now. I remember First Unitarian Church in Cleveland, scene of my first ministry - remember my bumbling and stumbling ... and their forgiveness. I remember the ivy-covered Unitarian Church in downtown Ithaca, a scene of tumultuous times during the late 1960's. Remember? How did you feel? What did you do?
What did I do? I came home. No matter how much we wander, no matter how far we travel, no matter how wide the waters of the world we traverse, there is always the longing to come home - not where they have to take you in - but where they want to take you in and hear about your pilgrimage.
Life is about homecoming and homeleaving - for we can never completely stand still. Life just keeps coming at us - we cannot freeze the instant, no matter how precious. We cannot live in the past however much we cherish it. We live in a precious present and we have a future before us - long or short - it does not matter. We cannot but be happy to be here - here where we count, where our stories matter, where the parables are of our own making.
This church is a place carved out of time and material and hope in which people can live and learn, love and serve; a sacred space where we are free to be who we are and to do what we can for others, holy ground where matters of consequence are considered. Here is a space in which one finds comfort in time of stress, celebration in time of depression, hope in time of fear, people in time of loneliness, healing in time of brokenness.
May each of you find in this place and in this space a home for your spirit, so that in your wanderings, near or far, it will always be good to come home again.
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