How I Ask For Money From the Pulpit

Stewardship Sermon, April 1, 2007

“Stupid Work,” and Other Phrases I Want to Utter On a Daily Basis

I went on a trip a few weeks ago to visit my dear friend Adam in Chicago. The last time I visited Chicago…I guess it was a little over a year ago now, it was the dead of winter. We walked, as quickly as we could, from building to building in the freezing cold temperatures—heads bowed into to the wind, covered from head to toe in hats, scarves, heavy winter coats, gloves, and boots. It wasn’t like that this time. This time the weather was beautiful.

It was one of those idyllic vacations. I got a chance to relax a little, to catch up with old friends, and the food was great. But there’s something else that made it wonderful, something that is a little more difficult to capture in words. I guess one of the reasons I enjoyed my time in Chicago so much was that, well, nobody expected anything of me. I was not thinking about the errands I needed to run, the dishes I needed to wash, the homework I should be working on, and the bills I should be paying. Instead, I was thinking, “What do I want for lunch, and who’s going to make it for me?”

I won’t lie to you—I thought about “missing” my plane and staying on for a few days, perhaps even staying on indefinitely. But, reality has a way of sneaking in when you least expect it. I started to think of all the things that stress me out, all the responsibility that can weigh heavy on my shoulders, and I started to think what giving up that responsibility would mean.

Sure, it’s a lot of work to take care of my two cats, Jessie and Pumpkin. There’s the regular feedings, litter box scoopings, expensive vet trips, etc… But then, when I get home from a hard day, and Jessie jumps into my arms and starts purring, well, you can’t put a price tag on that sort of thing. My cats are worth the effort and expense.

Yes, the seemingly endless household chores I do get very old very quickly, but then, keeping up the house allows me to live with some of the finest roommates anyone could ask for. They’re warm, kind, supportive, and do things like get me medicine when I’m sick. I wouldn’t want to give that up either.

And homework for school, well, I’m ready to give that up, but I wouldn’t want to give up everything school has meant for me. I wouldn’t want to give up the dream I’ve pursued while studying there, or the future colleagues I’ve befriended. Being a minister has been a lifelong call, and I’ve worked too hard to give it up overnight.

I guess I’m saying that while it was fun having no one expect anything from me for a while, it is only when people expect things of me that I have the kind of life-altering relationships, the relationships that have shaped me into the person I am today, the relationships that make life worth it. It seems paradoxical at best, and like a sick joke at worst, that more responsibility can be the key to greater happiness and to living a more fulfilling life.

I have seen the same thing occur for many of you at this church. I’ve seen many of you kind of sneak in on Sunday mornings, unsure if this could be a home for you. It reminds me of people at the beach, gingerly sticking first a toe into the low tide, seeing if they want to commit more of a body part to touching the ocean. Coming to church here can be kind of a testing of the waters.

For some people, these are not the right waters, or at least the waters they are looking for right now. I welcome them, as visitors to this church, and as fellow seekers in the search for meaning. May you find what you are looking for. For others, however, this is the cool, clean water they have been thirsting for. It is a tall glass of iced tea on a hot day, a compass that helps them find their due North. I welcome them as well, as members and friends of this church, and as fellow seekers in the search for meaning.

Those of you who have found a home here, I wonder what it is that makes it home? I’m sure I could ask 100 people and get 100 different answers. For some of you, you found a home here by working with the youth. You saw your child find community in religious education, or you made connections with the youth by being an advisor or teacher. It was through your interactions in the R.E. building that you realized, “this place shares my values,” or, “I really respect the people that go here.”

For others of you, I bet the deciding factor was performing in the choir—finding a comradery with your fellow choir members, using your voice to sing beautiful music, looking out at the congregation and seeing joyful hands of appreciation waving in the air. This church became a place in which your gifts were appreciated.

Still others found community and hope in responsibility by being on a committee, in a TIE group, by ushering on Sunday morning, by providing refreshments to people after the service. There are many ways in which people find joy and greater personal fulfillment by taking care of this place, these people, our community.

Many of you help support this church financially. People sometimes ask me, “Does it bother you to help on the canvass for this church when it pays your salary?” My answer is, “no, because the ministry of this church is far bigger, stronger, and in more places than I could ever be.” That the money raised at this church, the money that keeps this place running, is here to support the ministry of this church. While that ministry pays my salary, it also pays the salary of the Director of Lifespan Religious Education and the administrator who keeps this place running.

The money raised in the canvass for the budget pays for religious education materials so that we may help the youth of our congregation live into their dreams. The budget pays for the candles we use to light the chalice every Sunday. It pays for the folders our wonderful TIE group leaders receive, so that they may facilitate their groups that so many of you feel connected with. Money came out of our budget for the beautiful stoles our choir wears and for someone to come out and tune the piano many of you love so much. All of the reasons people feel connected to this church are, in one way or another, there because someone cared.

They cared about the ministry of this church, whether it be the ministry of doughnuts on Sunday, of music, of small group facilitation—the ministries of this church are supported by the very people sitting around you right now—the people who give their time, energy, and money to supporting the work of this church so that the vital work continues. You, right here, right now, are part of an ever unfolding history of this place, a history that lives in the walls, that has helped shape us into the people we are today. It is through the care and responsibility of people in the past, that we were given the keys to this place, so that we may care for it in the future.

There is a Japanese film from the 1950s called Ikiru, which in Japanese means, “To Live.” The film is about a bureaucrat named Mr. Watanabe, who spends all day every day taking papers from a very tall stack, stamping them, and putting them on top of another tall stack. He lives a repetitive life, his office co-workers nicknaming him, “The Mummy.”

Then one day, he finds out he has inoperable cancer. With only a short time to live, he goes out to a bar and gets drunk for the first time. When he does not find fulfillment in drinking, he asks a women from work out. Still unsatisfied, he sees a rundown and dirty area of Tokyo and decides what they really need is a park for the children to play in. Spending his time and money recruiting volunteers and installing playground equipment, he creates a little bit of beauty in the midst of a neighborhood thirsting for care.

The film ends with him on a swing in the park, singing softly to himself as the snow begins to fall all around him. He sings, “Life is so short / Fall in love, dear maiden / While your lips are still red / And before you are cold, / For there will be no tomorrow.” Mr. Watanabe died on the swing in the cold.

Mr. Watanabe makes me think about what I would want to leave behind. What would I want the legacy of my short time here on this earth to look like? How could I spend my time and money wisely if I want my hopes, my visions, my values, Ikiru, to live?

As you think about your interactions with this church community, I challenge you to think about your hopes, your visions, and your values. What would it take to help realize those dreams in our community? How can we, as the trustees of this generation, find fulfillment in our generosity, and leave a legacy of care for the future? I leave these questions in your capable hands.

Amen.

Denial--Oh, How We All Use It

Working in a hospital, I've been pretty amazed at some of the coping techniques people find to get them through their day. I have seen families ignore or deny their feelings (sometimes for years), try to laugh off their pain and fear, rearrange their lives to take care of a loved one so that they don't have to face their own fear of death, etc... The human capacity to survive is pretty amazing. Recently, however, there have been three situations which have shocked and amazed me, and they all have to do with out and out denial.

The first one occurred at 1:30am in the Emergency Room a few weeks ago. I was paged by a doctor down there because a woman had died, and the chaplains respond to all deaths and code blues (people stop breathing or their heart stops beating) in the hospital.

A 90 year-old woman had been brought in by paramedics when her husband found her passed out on their bedroom floor in the middle of the night. The woman was a diabetic, which can turn into a very nasty degenerative disease. On top of that, the woman had a pulmonary embolism two years ago (a blood clot in the lungs, which would have been a heart attack if the clot went to the heart or a stroke if the clot went to the brain). Basically, this woman was pretty old and sick.

The doctor was great--he was very gentle and kind with the man. He explained what had happened, what they had tried to do, and gave the man plenty of time and many openings to ask questions, etc.. When the doctor asked the man if he and his wife had ever discussed funeral arrangements, the man replied, "No, never--she was so young and healthy!"

Now, I totally get that this man was in shock, and I felt incredibly bad for him...but really? Young and healthy? She was a 90 year-old diabetic who had already had a pulmonary embolism. The gymnastics the mind has to go through to construe her as young and healthy is amazing.

The second case was quite tragic. A 45 year-old woman died of cirrhosis of the liver. She was an alcoholic who drank 1/2 liter of hard liquor a day, and she came from a long family tradition of alcoholics. The woman was so sick, she was yellow. And when I say she was yellow, I'm talking Sponge Bob Squarepants yellow.

The woman was incredibly sick, and ultimately, she went into cardiac arrest (her heart stopped beating), she survived hooked up to machinery for a while, and then she died. Then, her family and friends started arriving.

No one was talking to anyone else in her family, and her friends were quite distant from the entire family. Everyone was in denial that she had been sick. Her best friend kept saying, "She was only diagnosed with cirrhosis last week, how could this have happened?"

Once again, I get that this situation was totally overwhelming, but, seriously? You didn't know she was sick? Really? Not even in the farthest depths of your mind? She was yellow.

The final event occurred on Christmas at about 11:40pm. I was on call, and I awoke from a sound sleep with a start when my pager went off. I headed up to the 8th floor where a patient had just died. Apparently, it wasn't really a surprise to the staff that the patient had died. However, his family was in shock. I knew I'd be there for a while when the wife said, "I know he's 83, that he's had lifelong health issues, that he's had two massive strokes in the last month, and that he's been totally unresponsive for the last week, but I really thought he'd get better and come home!" I ended up being there for 2 hours.

Now, I've never waited with someone I love in a hospital. I've never sat at the bedside of someone I've loved and prayed for a miracle day after day. I've lost people I loved, but I've never had the particular hospital experience. I have no idea what kind of stamina it takes to be there day after day, helpless as ever.

It's amazing to me that people can do that, and it's even more amazing to me how they do that. Sometimes the spirit needs to protect itself by offering up an explanation--I'll just be here until they can walk on their own again, or until the wound heals, or until he is strong enough to come home. People tell themselves that this is a turning point, and that the person is ready to change their diet/exercise routine/outlook on life/addiction patterns to emerge a new and healthy person. People will grasp so tightly to a shred of hope, wishing with every bone in their body that it's true.

It makes me wonder what I hide. If someone can deny that their loved one is old, or sick, or even yellow, what can I deny about myself, or deny about the people I love? What feels too painful to admit or even think about?

I offer up the same questions to you, my friends, family, and fellow human beings. What is it that has always seemed too hard to say or hear? Is there anything you've always wanted to tell someone? Are their secrets or wishes that make you feel too vulnerable to share with those around you?

In this time of New Years and New Beginnings, I wish you ever-widening and deepening self-awareness. You're worth it.