When Forrest Church found out he had cancer, he was given six months to live, and according to this writings said he was being offered “the final exam.” His view of religion was that the final exam is how you are able to face your mortality, your limits, the great unknown. On a personal note, he felt it was the test of a minister, that everything we do is ultimately about this great wilderness, this great mystery, the most basic fact of our lives. He’s not the only one who thought this way. The first time I began Zen practice in Oregon, I met a monk and priest named Rev. Judy Meiko, and I asked her what her practice was about. She looked at me straight but with an open face, and said as if she was telling me the sky was blue: “I’m preparing for my death.” I visited the small priory she lived at when I visited Portland a few weeks ago, and I learned she had died the summer before. When the new monk told me this, I felt an odd sense of comfort and peace. I knew she was preparing for that. But I think preparing for death is exactly the same as planning for life: as Lennon said it has other plans for us.

Forrest Church’s plan was to stay on as Minister for his last six months, and share his journey with his congregation: the physical journey, the emotional journey, the spiritual journey. He wrote the text we read “Love and Death,” during that time. He said it was good he wasn’t a perfectionist, because he didn’t have much time to write it. The funny thing is that he kept outliving his prognosis. Six months came and went, and a year and half later, he said in a sermon: “I feel kind of sheepish still being here. Don’t worry, I really am dying, I just don’t know when.” Isn’t that true for all of us? I heard a story that in private someone asked what it was like, knowing he was going to die soon, and that everyone in his life knew that too. His answer was unexpected: He said it was great actually. He found people quit bothering him about little things. He said he was finally able to be present, to show up for his life, because he didn’t know exactly how many more days he would have. He wrote the book “Love and Death” to share a theology that has helped many: that in the end all that matters is the love that we give away, and that love that we give away will certainly outlive us.

I’ve had my own thoughts about what it means to live during this time, and to my surprise, I found death plays a role in how I feel and think about that question. I was in Portland, Oregon when Roe v Wade was overturned, and I had, probably like some of you, the visceral experience of witnessing myself and others who felt they were being thrust into the wilderness: a wilderness with few protections, no protection, support, or infrastructure. With the continued shootings, I’ve talked with many, one who expressed the feeling quite well: like being on a sinking ship. That we are living during a time of breakdown, loss of protection, loss of what we expected civilization and government to be, even though we felt we had low expectations. There’s a palpable sense that no one is looking out for the most vulnerable, and we are all in the end left to look after ourselves. This outlook understandably leads to a lot of stress, trauma, and more violence – that in the end we are on our own in this vast wilderness. But I had a thought that is not new, but it was new for me, and it’s been helpful in helping orient myself. I’d like to share it with you.

When I was in Oregon, the wildfires had already started, and I heard from friends who were trying to predict if their house was going to be safe, and for much longer. There was a real cultural sense in Oregon of the vulnerability of the land, and the impermanence of it, wondering how much longer anyone can live here. And the thought I had was: Yes, this place is vulnerable – it is vulnerable to the actions or inactions of us and numerous other factors. And the second thought was: I’m vulnerable too, and I’m temporary. I’m vulnerable to the world, and the factors of that world. And everyone else is vulnerable too in a very specific way based on their circumstances: where they live, race, gender, family history. But no matter how much money or protection there is, that vulnerability is true, our temporariness is true. But then came this thought which was not a new one, but new for me: That temporariness, that vulnerability, is the only way that love is possible. Not sentimental love, not idealized love, but actual love.

If we weren’t so vulnerable all the time, every minute, love would be only a pretty idea. We would truly be islands, self existing, and we might want to love our neighbors, our world, but the only way to actually share that is vulnerability, the fact that we are porous literally, taking in and giving to the world, without even being aware of it. The only reason we’re breathing is because of that openness, because we can take what is being offered, and in return offer back something life giving – the breath of life. We live in a world that tries to get us to manage that vulnerability by staking claim and ownership. “That’s my breath. I’m putting it into a savings account, so I can have it later.” Our actual experience is we’re sharing, and we don’t even know we’re sharing. There’s no such thing as my breath and your breath. The only way we can do that is if we artificially cut ourselves off – literally holding our breath, cutting ourselves from the healing, necessary power of the world, of our community.

 

And that experience gave me a response to the crisis that I know many are facing right now: What’s the point of activism? What’s the point of doing anything if progress is only an idea not a reality? Why show up or try to change or offer anything, if it can be changed so quickly? I think those questions are all spiritual questions, and their pragmatic ones. Why do any of this if death can take it – death of our planet, death of our long held protections, death of our ideals.

And the feeling I had very palpably when I was in Oregon, that I still have this morning, is that I don’t offer what I can because I think it will guarantee the world will be saved. I offer what I can because I love the world, and perhaps that is what saves it. I love a world that is vulnerable, and perhaps temporary. I don’t love a person less because they are temporary. I don’t love myself less because I’m temporary. I actually love them more. I offer whatever I can, wherever I can, because I love the world, I love myself, and I love our community.

 

These three are the same life, the same breath, the same predicament. I now understand the old hagiographic story of Martin Luther: What he would do if he was told the world will end tomorrow? His answer according to legend is: He would plant a tree. He would sow hope. That’s a spiritual response.

Why will we offer assistance to anyone seeking reproductive care? It’s because we love the world, and we love our community. If things get easier in the future for folks, that’s wonderful, and we’ll celebrate that. And if things get worse, the path doesn’t change: We don’t need to do what we do for a prescribed outcome, because we think we can outrun vulnerability. No, we do it because we love the world, a world that is vulnerable, a world that may be temporary. I could be strange, but that inspires me to offer more. I’m drawn to loving the world, offering whatever I and we as a church can, for no other reason than we love the world. And I think the most basic and potent form of love is attention.

I don’t offer attention because I think it will lead to solutions or strategies. It might but that’s not why I offer attention. I offer attention, because I love the world, and attention is the most basic and potent form of love. Especially when things feel hopeless or disappointing, that is when attention and love are needed more, not less. We don’t abandon a person on their deathbed because they may not be here tomorrow. No, we pay special attention to them, because we are finally living reality – the reality that all of this, including ourselves, is very precious and temporary. And that makes meeting this moment more poignant, more true, full, and invigorating. We can feel we are on the edge – the edge of life and death – on the edge of the wilderness. In that moment, it becomes clear. We do what we do for the moment, to show our appreciation for all that is part of this moment, we love the person in front of us, we love the world. That is sufficient unto itself.

 

We all get opportunities to love the world, all of us. Even when we’re on our deathbed, we can love our caretakers, nurses, our own temporary bodies. It is not a special skill to love the world. It is built into us, it’s what makes us who we are. I’ve come to the thought that this is a no matter what kind of thing. If things turn out how we would hope, the path is clear: we offer attention and we love the world, we offer what we can: celebration sometimes. We do it just as much for ourselves as for others. It reminds us what we’re really about, and it shows us how to navigate the wilderness. We’re courageous enough to love an unpredictable, unstable, vulnerable, temporary world. And as a community, there is enough encouragement to actually do this, to live this, to embody this each and every moment of our lives.

There is always an opportunity to show love and appreciation, and it’s felt most acutely when it feels the stakes are high, and everything is threatened. And in the midst of that there are surprises, sometimes really wonderful surprises.

I’m looking forward to marrying Randy and Achilles after service today. It’s the perfect example of deciding to love each other, come what may. It’s a wonderfully deep practice, whether we’re married or not. To love each other, and love the world, come what may. And when we face our own limits, we love ourselves and our limits. That’s part of loving vulnerability, part of loving that which has limits, that which is temporary, including ourselves. There is nothing in the way of love, nothing at all. Even our cynicism, anger, even despair can be hugely impactful and positive, if we are reoriented to practicing loving attention, no matter what. There is nothing we need to manage or do away with.

At General Assembly this year, the theme was “Meeting this Moment.” What I learned at General Assembly was something I needed to be reminded of: We can’t think our way or strategize our way into this moment. If we try to figure it out, we will be here the rest of our lives, trying to figure it out. That’s not a bad thing.

 

Meeting the moment is developing the ability to show up knowing we have very little if any understanding, and being willing to show up anyway. We don’t need to wait to figure anything out, before we commit to showing up for our lives and for eachother. If anything, that can get in the way. We show up for life, because we’re given a life. And we don’t know what it means, and no one else really does either. And that is not in our way. We can show up and love the world, and learn how to love better through our mistakes. Another thing I learned from Rev. Meiko was one day when I asked her what her life was like: and she said “one continuous mistake.” I didn’t know at the time that this is a line from a  famous sutra, but I was still touched by it. She said, no mistakes, no practice. I took that to mean if we feel we are managing okay, doing well enough, we’re closing ourselves off from learning. Maybe it’s time to let more of the world in, to show up where we usually don’t show up, and find out for ourselves about what it means to live, what it means to die, what it means to love.

 

Nobody is an expert in living, and thankfully we don’t need experts. We just need courage and commitment. The commitment to love the world in all its reality: vulnerable, temporary, fleeting, and precious. It’s really precious to be here. It’s really precious to be here with all of you. But it’s not so precious, that we should hold ourselves back. Give ourselves back to ourselves. Give ourselves to the world. Give ourselves to eachother. One continuous mistake. And we do this again and again not because we are trying to get out of the wilderness to someplace else. We do this because we love even the wilderness, we love our life, we love our world, we love the precious opportunity to be here for now.

Topics: Love