Listening for the New Story

Part of a Month-Long Series on
"What Does it Mean to be a Person of Deep Listening?"

Deep listening in upstate New York at this time of year is difficult. The truths that life speaks are not at all easy to hear. Right along side the bursts of beautifully colored leaves and the stunning sunsets, lie reminders of loss. The brown broken leaves that blanket the ground caution that it's all very temporary.

In this sense, I've always found fall to be the most honest of seasons. The comfortable stability of summer promises that fun, ease and enjoyment will go on and on. Spring's pervasive blooming and triumphant resurrection says that everything can return, be put back right, just the way it was. But fall treats us like adults and talks to us honestly about death. "I will take what you have," it says. I will try to do it slowly, with warning, but one day, I will ask you to let go.

Again, it's offered to us gently, but the message is clear. And as much as it leaves a chill in the air, it also seems a kindness-a type of gentle warning, a way of Fall saying to each of us, "Please, be prepared."

And yet, we never really are.

It was raining the other day, when I went to visit my Dad at his rehab center. When it rains, fall's voice is especially clear. The clouds mute the colors. The rain makes mud, so you have to watch where you are going, and thus can't help but notice all the loss laying on the ground. My father's mood matched this inescapable focus on endings.

Prior to this week, his mood has been upbeat, giddy almost, even proud. About three weeks ago, the doctors officially declared him to be "weight bearing." In other words, they said it was finally ok to start putting weight on his once broken pelvis and his now steel-reinforced spine. "You can start walking now, Chuck," they said. And walk he has. So much so, the physical therapists have had to constantly tell him to slow down and pace himself. Progress doesn't have to happen all at once-they've had to remind him over and over again.

"Oh but it does," he's shot back in his optimistic, booming preacher's voice. "I want to get back to my Barbara." "We've got the goats and the woodshop waiting for us back home. And Barbara's got her gardens. So let's get to it."

And that's when the social worker called me.

Time for another family meeting she said. "We're worried about your dad. He doesn't seem to have a realistic understanding of things." And so there we all sat in the conference room: me, dad & six professionals--all of them exceptionally kind but also honest. "Mr. Tayler, your primary job now is going to be taking care of yourself. You do know that right?" In between there was talk of walkers and oxygen tanks and how it will be a while before putting on socks will be a minor chore. All of it ending in a falling leaf.

"You do understand that your wife's Alzheimer's is progressive? And that it's certainly gotten worse just over the months you've been here. This has us all worried. And so we -as a team-have decided that we're really not comfortable releasing you until we have a plan in place for 24 hour home care for you both."

The lead nurse went on: 'You do know that you're no longer going to be the primary caretaker of your wife, yes?-at least for a very long time?" And then with great gentleness: "And maybe never again?"

My father was quiet. For a long time. No jokes. No changing the topic. No way to change the topic really, with five professionals and your son all sitting there saying the same thing. "Yes. I understand." He said--in one of the shortest responses I've ever heard come from my father's mouth.

And then with no drama: "It's just we've been partners for 40 years. We help each other. I'm just not sure how else to be."

I will take what you have, fall says. I will try to do it slowly, and with warning, but one day, I will ask you to let go. Things will, in time, come to an end. Please be prepared.

And yet, what does that mean? To be prepared? There's the rub this morning.

And it's a rub we all share. All of us have our stories. Many of you have ones very similar to my father's. That's why I share it this morning. We need to constantly affirm for each other that we are not alone or without others that can relate. And even if it's not exactly the same as my dad's, each of us has a story with a similar narrative arc. Maybe it's not partnership or mobility we've lost, but it's something: a job, a lifestyle, kids at home, our health, our hearing, a best friend, custody, even time for your art, for your passion. Whatever it is, we all know what it means to be a deep listener of bad news, of hard news, of endings.

But the problem is, that's where we so often get stuck. It'd be nice to be prepared, to know the next step--the proper response--but it's just not that clear. It's just not at all clear what to listen for beyond the message, "It's over."

One of you came to talk with me about this very thing this week. A cascade of troubles had hit all at once: health problems, medication mix-ups--all leading to job problems--and all this on top of a long-term struggle of trying to hold depression at bay. "I'm looking at a lot of loss," my friend said. "And I'm trying to hold on, but-boy--I'm not at all clear how that's done."

And then came the really hard part, not so much for him, but more for me, and us: "I have friends of other religious stripes," he said, "who are telling me their tried and true mantra: 'When things get hard, tie a knot and hold on.' For them the knot is Jesus, or God--a deep faith that some plan is in place. But, Scott, I'm having trouble figuring out what Unitarian Universalism's knot is. I mean I love the acceptance and the freedom and all. I like all the thinkers and readers. Debating with people around here is cool. But I'm kind of falling apart, man. And I'm listening for people to tell me what to hold on to. And I just can't hear it."

Now the first thing to be clear about is that my friend wasn't asking for the one right way. This is not a sermon about or against our UU commitment to individual conscience, diversity or freedom of thought. Indeed, my friend wasn't trying to escape any of that. Freedom and diversity is why he's here. He doesn't want anyone to do his thinking for him. His issue is much more straight forward: He just wanted help. And he feared we had nothing to say.

Which, friends, makes this a sermon not only about how we need to listen more deeply, but also speak more clearly. Because we do have something to say, right? We do have help to offer. Help that, not only my friend, but each of us needs to count on this place to remind us of over and over again.

"It's not the usual knot," I told my friend. "I can't tell you that there is a higher power that stands over and above life, with the ability and will to ensure that each of your struggles are overcome. I can't even tell you that there is a mysterious force within life that has your particular troubles in mind, but I can tell you that life is full. Not so full that it will prevent or reverse endings, but full enough-always full enough--to prevent endings from ever shutting out new beginnings. Our spiritual task in the midst of loss, Unitarian Universalism tells us, is to hold on, and listen for and look out for those new beginnings-to look for the overflow, so to speak--to listen to the new story being offered. That's our knot. To hold on to the faith that a new story will emerge after an ending and that we are all capable of hearing its call."

And of course as I was speaking to my friend, I was also speaking to myself. If there is such a thing as a UU out-of-body experience, I was having it right at that moment with my friend. Because while it was clear that "minister Scott" believed what he was saying, "son Scott" was hearing it as if for the first time. I sat there realizing that my body and heart just didn't feel what my mouth was saying.

And isn't that true for all of us when we face loss and radical change?-when the last leaf falls? We, in a sense, go deaf. We lose the ability to hear any sign of the new story. It's as if the sound of "the end...the end...the end" drowns everything else out.

Which of course adds even another dimension to this sermon: reminding us that when it comes to facing loss, the phrase "a person of deep listening" is almost meaningless"--that is unless it is accompanied by the idea and reality of "a people of deep listening."

Another way to put this, friends, might be to say that we rarely can tie our own knots. We depend-in so many ways--on each other to tie the knot for us and shout out-over all the other noise--over and over again, "Hold on to this! You can hold on to this! Stop listening to the falling leaves. Hear the new story."

A church friend recently said to me, "I worry, Scott, that you're taking on too much of your dad's depression. I haven't seen you smile on your own in a long time, other than when your role or the public situation requires it. Where's your hope?"

I didn't like my friend right at that moment.

As someone who prides himself on helping others tie knots and being a promoter of the irrepressible sources of goodness and grace all around us, I was embarrassed to be caught in the act of losing my faith-not only my faith in the new story, but also my belief that we all need help.

She then went on to help me tie my knot in a particularly clever way. She said, "You know what I think? I think you need to go back and read all the sermons on grace and life's abundance that you, Kaaren and Jen have given over the years.

And so I did.

And, you know, what I noticed most was how many stories I have stolen from all of you--how many stories all three of us ministers have stolen from all of you. It's made me realize that this pulpit is not really the mouthpiece of the ministers but rather the mouthpiece of our collective life together. A few Sundays ago, Jen lifted up the gift of us listening to each other-through our small groups, friendships and lay pastoral care. What I want to lift up today is the great gift of the stories we share with each other-the way, with our stories, we re-open each others' ears!

And while there were many stories that re-opened my ears, the story that stuck with me most is the one a soul matters member shared. It was a story she heard on NPR, about a young man who was in a car accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. I won't recount all the details of his story today. Rather what's important for us this morning is to hear how he transformed his relationship with his body.

You see, for a long time, he saw his body as betraying him, as an enemy whose only communication was "no" or "I can't." It simply wouldn't do what he wanted. But over time--with the help of friends--he slowly began to see that it nevertheless continued to allow him to do much, just differently than it had helped him before.

This is how he describes his perspective today: "I'm no longer angry with my body. I'm grateful for it. I'm now awed by how much it has absorbed and how it has, for me, continued to move towards living... I've learned that my paralyzed body didn't stop talking to me. It just changed its voice. It went to a more subtle whisper that doesn't have as much clarity. It's quieter now, but also sweeter.-in the sense of refusing to stop."

"I've learned that my paralyzed body didn't stop talking to me. It just changed its voice."

That line brings me full circle today, back to fall's voice-back to the fullness of fall's voice. Because, in truth, it-just like life itself--doesn't just say, "I will take," it also says "I will continue to give--just in a different way."

Fall isn't just life's way of saying that the leaves will eventually tumble; it's also life's way of saying that beauty always sits there just above the mud and mess!

Again it's honest with us. It's honest in saying that this beauty won't be the beauty we started with or the beauty we want to always stay, but there will be beauty nonetheless-a new and different gift, a new and different story, if only we're willing to look and listen for it.

My dad is right. Tragedy has walked into his life. It has taken the partnership that he has treasured for 40 years. The wife who could take care of him and who he could take care of is gone. The partner who could stay focused on his stories and converse with him about those stories is no longer within reach.

But the same disease that has taken my mom's focus and mental coherence has also left behind a child-like playfulness that was there all along but was never previously as pronounced as it is now. Now she teases, smacks your rear-end when you turn to go, enjoys bursting into song and sharing the various cheers she did as a pom-pom girl in her youth! She has no interest in long or complex conversation, but she does like to play!

She also hasn't lost the desire to hold dad's hand and take long walks, to caress his hair and say how lucky she is to have such a good-looking guy by her side.

One story has ended, but a new & different story is trying to be heard.

My father's task is to hold on and listen for it.

And in our stories of loss and change, that's our task as well.

So...Stop listening to the falling leaves; Hear the new story. Stop listening to the falling leaves; Hear the new story!

Because, it's there!

Amen.

Scott Tayler, Parish Co-Minister
October 18, 2009