SERMONS 

You Are Here: New Years 2004

When Caleb was quite a bit younger than he is now he caught John by surprise with one of those questions children are so good at asking. “Is it always now, Dad?” The philosopher in my husband was delighted. Here was his big chance! Caleb, of course, didn’t last as long on the subject as John had hoped. However, some days later Caleb reported to his Dad, “Dad, it’s now, like always. And we’re here like always.” Or something like that.

One of the things that makes those questions from our children so delightful is the way they capture quandaries we still struggle with as adults. Of course it’s always now. And of course, here is where we always are. But how often do we really get that? How often do our lives reflect the now and the here?

Last week Stan Bumgarner preached a sermon called “Dragons at the Edge of the World.” He talked about the maps we use in our lives and how some of them prevent us from exploring unchartered territory with their dubious warnings. This morning, continuing the theme of journeys and maps befitting this time of year, I want to consider the importance of locating ourselves.

Every now and then we run across a map or some other guide that proclaims, “You Are Here.” I’m afraid that my lack of directional confidence sometimes leaves me confused, even when I get such a clear marker. I’ve found that knowing where here is isn’t always as easy as it seems. Especially in a mall. All those “Sale” signs look the same to me.

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner tells a story about a night he spent sailing when he learned how difficult it can be to know where here is. Remembering that night, he describes what it can be like.

At such a time, there is only you, the other members of the crew and the boat, patiently working her way through the waves and the night. Deprived of light, the effect of wind and waves can only be felt. The sea seems bigger than in the daylight. After a while, you get confused about where you end and the boat begins and where the boat ends and the water begins.

Ahead of you in the evening lies the last thin strip of twilight, a barely visible line of dark purple separating the upper waters from the lower waters. Then, without any sound of protest, it dissolves. Gone. Now the only visible remains of the terrestrial world are in the distance behind: the slowly sinking, ten-second, white flash from the lighthouse on Point Betsy. That bright burst of light, higher than the horizon, will faithfully continue to provide a line of position. You may not know exactly how far away you are, but you do know, at least, that you are somewhere on that line.

As you sail farther and farther into the empty black, even Point Betsy misses a beat. Like a candle or a life going out, she flickers. Then she, too, is gone. Blackness everywhere. With her, you were oriented. Without her, you are not only alone in the dark, you cannot even be certain where you are.

Sometimes travelers must wander out beyond sight of the beacon—but only if they have other signs to guide them. I really don’t have any idea how it works at sea. In our travel through our lives, though, the beacons along the way locate us. They help us know where we are and how to get where we’re hoping to go.

The trouble I believe we often have is choosing the wrong beacons to use. Locating ourselves by the wrong measures. Which leads us to not really knowing where we are at all. And this is what our new year’s ritual is all about. It’s about letting go of those measures which are not helping us. It’s about remembering what the important measures are and focusing our attention on those.

In my experience, we get distracted most often by our expectations and disappointments in ourselves. When mistakes and as-yet-unfulfilled expectations take center stage in our thinking, they block our view of the “few worthy things” that we hope will guide us on our way. Surely you have experienced how easy it is to focus on negative feedback, obstacles, previous failures—even in the midst of positive feedback, opportunities, and countless successes.

I really shouldn’t use another water illustration—but this is one I’ve experienced personally. When you are kayaking and just ahead there is a large rock that you’d really like to avoid…the worst thing you can do is focus your attention on it. If you focus your attention on the rock, you will surely hit it. Ignoring it can be dangerous, too. You have to know it is there and then focus your attention on the place in the river that will carry you safely on.

You may be familiar with the meditation practice in Buddhism of breathing and labeling thoughts. It’s very simple, really. It’s a practice of following breath, becoming aware of every breath and how it feels. Then, in the midst of this attentive breathing, as thoughts arise, it is recognizing them, acknowledging them, and releasing them. That’s where it can get dicey. Each of those three steps has the potential, surprisingly enough, of tripping us up.

Recognizing a thought or feeling for what it is can be very difficult. I have many thoughts and feelings I’d just as soon disguise—even from myself. Once recognized—the next step is acknowledging them without judgment. Oh, that’s jealousy. Or, I know you, you are fear. Ambition. Competitiveness. Greed. Or whatever. Doing this without judgment, even with kindness toward ourselves, is important. The minute we get mean, the minute we start to fight with ourselves over what we’re feeling, the minute we scowl, at a thought or a feeling—a part of us retreats again into its carefully constructed hiding place within us where it can grow.

The value in this practice, I believe, is that the only possibility for releasing feelings or thoughts we’d like to release is if we recognize and acknowledge them. If we cover them up, pretend they’re not there, dress them in some fancy denial—if we take any of these approaches, then we’re sure to be stuck with them.

Or another way to say this is that the only way we’ll get where we hope to go is if we know where we are. “Oh, that’s jealousy.” You Are Here.

In Tibetan Buddhism there is a story told of a crazy man who knows where he is.

One evening Milarepa returned to his cave after gathering firewood, only to find it filled with demons. They were cooking his food, reading his books, sleeping in his bed. They had taken over the joint. He knew about nonduality of self and other, but he still didn’t quite know how to get these guys out of his cave. Even though he had the sense that they were just a projection of his own mind—all the unwanted parts of himself—he didn’t know how to get rid of them.

So first he taught them the dharma. He sat on this seat that was higher than they were and said things to them about how we are all one. He talked about compassion and shunyata and how poison is medicine. Nothing happened. The demons were still there. Then he lost his patience and got angry and ran at them. They just laughed at him. Finally, he gave up and just sat down on the floor, saying, “I’m not going away and it looks like you’re not either, so let’s just live here together.”

At that point, all of them left except one. Milarepa said, “Oh, this one is particularly vicious.” (We all know that one. Sometimes we have lots of them like that. Sometimes we feel that’s all we’ve got.) He didn’t know what to do, so he surrendered himself even further. He walked over and put himself right into the mouth of the demon and said, “Just eat me up if you want to.” Then that demon left too. The moral of the story is, when the resistance is gone, so are the demons.

Resisting is like denying where we are. And if we aren’t clear about where we are then it will be very difficult for us to get where we’re hoping to go.

You Are Here. That’s the first step. It often means facing difficult things. Recognizing and acknowledging, so that letting go will be possible.

But without a sense of where we’re going, knowing where we are will not be particularly useful to us. I really like the way Victoria Safford challenges us in the reading Elaine shared earlier. What are the “few worthy things” toward which we are moving? With checkbooks to balance and deadlines to meet and carpool and everything else it can be pretty hard to remember those “few worthy things.” Or even to figure out what in the world they are. This is the second step.

And it goes round and round again for us. Just like the year. We catch sight of the beacon and then we lose it and then we focus in again and then we discover another beacon. It’s a process that never ends.

Today, as we make room for this new year and it’s potential in our lives, let’s remember that releasing things that aren’t so good for us requires that we surrender some things we thought we wanted to hold onto and also that we face some things we are resisting. Let us take a few moments to locate ourselves, so that we can move ahead.

Let us start this new year with this emptying, preparing ourselves to be filled with growth and goodness. If you wish to participate in this ritual, take your string and in the silence awaken in your mind something you would like to leave behind with the old year. Tie a knot in the string. Perhaps for some forgiveness you’ve been seeking. Accept it and move on. Or some forgiveness you’ve been holding back. Offer it and move on. Tie a knot in the string. Maybe you’d like to leave behind a resentment, or an old dream. Tie as many knots as you’d like. For regret, broken relationship, loss, disappointment, whatever fills you so that you may not receive the gift of the new year. After our silent meditation I will invite you to come forward and place your string in the fire. Let the fire consume the knots you’ve made. Let go of them.