LETTING GO

LETTING GO&= #8212;III

A Sermon by Kenneth W. Phifer, Delivered at Firs= t UU Congregation

June 5, 2005

Letting go is part of every human life.

We have to let go of childhood, for example, and move = into youth. We quickly leave youth behind and become adults. Then we wake up one morning and find we are middle aged. Eventually we reach the point where we= are confronted by the golden years of senior citizenship, presumably because we= are old.

Knowing when to accept our entrance into this august c= lub is important. I have been studying up on it in recent months, for obvious reas= ons. Here are a few tips from a little publication called “How To Know You’re Growing Old.”

“Everything hurts, and what doesn’t hurt, doesn’t work.

Your children begin to look middle-aged.

You join a health club and don’t go.

You know all the answers, but nobody asks you the ques= tions.

Your mind makes contracts your body can’t meet.<= /p>

You regret all those times you resisted temptation.

You’re startled the first time you’re call= ed ‘Old-timer.’”

While not every one of these applies to me, I certainl= y can identify with enough of them to realize that my being on Social Security and Medicare is not a mistake. It is a good time for me, at least, to review wh= at I know about letting go.

As I have been doing for the past quarter century, I w= ill share with the members of this congregation what I have learned because you= are involved in the process of letting go as much as I am. In less than three months, my status here will change from Senior Minister to Minister Emeritu= s, from active full-time ministry to retired minister.

The question for us all to answer and keep on answerin= g is how we can best let go of each other

Let me suggest several things that I think important, = things I have previously suggested, albeit in somewhat different form, when we were forced to let go of our relationship with the building at 1917 Washtenaw. E= ach of these suggestions applies to many different moments of letting go, not j= ust this one.

First, we can let go by holding on. It sounds contradi= ctory, but it really is a very impor= tant first step.

Holding on does not mean that we cling desperately to = that from which we are to be separated. Holding on is not an obsessive clutching= at what is now part of the past. That kind of grip only makes us miserable.

Think of a lost love affair and how sad it made us whe= n we had to part. Think how much more miserable we would be if years later we are still mourning that loss, unable to move forward in our lives because we are grasping so tightly to w= hat is no longer real.

Holding on as a first step to letting go is about remembering how much we have loved that which we are giving up. Holding on means that we bring back to our minds the achievements we have had together, the sweet times of pleasure, the joys of getting through hard times by shar= ing, the lessons we have learned in engaging the world.

Holding on is about learning what we can reasonably ta= ke with us into the new life before us and what it is we need to set aside.

Holding on is about understanding the love we feel for= one another, making sure we consciously celebrate that love, and then finding a place in our memory for that love to dwell permanently.

Hannah Coulter knew how to do that.

Hannah Coulter is the main character in and the title = of Wendell Berry’s most recent novel. She is a young farm girl who falls= in love with Virgil. They are married and have a few months together before Pe= arl Harbor brings the Un= ited States into war and takes Virgil away to battle. Their plans for living together on a farm, fixing up an old house t= hat needs much repair, raising a family, enjoying one another through the years, all these plans have to be set aside while Virgil fights for his country.

In 1945, word comes that Virgil is missing in action. = Hannah never learns exactly what happened to Virgil, but after a couple of years i= t is clear that he will not be coming back.

She is courted by Nathan and accepts his proposal of marriage. They begin a life together that will stretch over more than half a century, including the raising of three children and the reclamation of a f= arm on which they lived and worked all the days of their lives.

Never through all these years she has with Nathan does= she forget Virgil. Her oldest grandchild is even named after him. She holds on = to the special memories of that former time, understanding very clearly what s= he had, however briefly, and what she has lost. But she does not live in the p= ast. She lives with Nathan very much in the present.

At the end of her life, Nathan having died, her childr= en living away from her, she remains an essentially happy woman, holding on to= the love of the two men she married, letting that love remain with her in the present time, but never trying to live in “the good old days.”<= /p>

I feel about my parents, both deceased, the way Hannah Coulter does about her husbands, full of love and memories that are very mu= ch alive in me, but fully aware that they are both gone. I live with their spi= rit a part of my life without uselessly wishing to go back in time. It cannot be done, and only frustrates us when we try.

The wisdom of holding on even as we let go applies to = many situations in our lives: graduating from high school or college, moving to a new house and a new neighborhood, taking a new job, ending a relationship. Holding on to sweet memories and important learnings and even beneficial ha= bits keeps us from being bitter about letting go and reminds us that there are m= any good ways to live and many good people to work and live with.

Respect the past. Live in the present. Move on.

You are helping me to do that with the very kind words= that so many of you have spoken or written to me. I have tried to do that for yo= u in my annual report and in sermons and even in my retirement announcement. As = long as I have power in my mind and my body, I will hold on to you without ever trying to hold you back. I will be blessed in those memories.

Hold on!

Secondly, learn how to let go.

Part of letting go is accepting the losses that are fo= rced on us about which we can do nothing.

As children, our parents may have moved us from one ho= use to another or one town to another. Spending a lot of time moaning about the new school and old friends being too far away to play with is useless. Only by recognizing that there are some situations we cannot control and trying to = make the best of it will we be happy.

When I was 11 years old, my parents moved from Nashville, Tennessee to Kansas City, Missouri. I was miserable, until I got to spend three weeks of my dad’s vacation alone with him as my parents’ way of trying to help me get over the blues. It also helped that a very lovely girl across the street took an interest in my welfare. By the end of the summer, I was quite content to li= ve in my new home.

By the following summer, when we returned to Nashville for a v= isit, I had many friends in my new town and a bundle of experiences that my old cla= ssmates had not had. I felt myself to be much more sophisticated than they were bec= ause I had lived in two cities and they were all one-city kids. I silently rejoi= ced that I had been forced to move.

That was vanity or a psychological defense mechanism, = but there was still a measure of truth in it: I learned how to give up places a= nd people I care about and accustom myself fairly quickly to new circumstances= .

So many things in life force us to let go. Every few y= ears we have elections and some politicians are voted out of office, which means they have to let go of the power they have had to influence legislation. Th= eir followers then have to let go of them as leaders because they no longer hold office. In such situations, men and women have a choice to accept the termination or to spend their time bemoaning the wrongness of what has happ= ened to them.

Richard Nixon became the president because he overcame losing the presidential race in 1960 and the governor’s race in California in 19= 62. Bill Clinton lost the governorship of Arkansas and came back to win it again and later become a two term president. What b= oth of these men learned was how to accept an outcome they didn’t like and find practical wisdom in their defeats so that later they could win office again.

The same process can apply in our work. We can lose a = job we really like. We can bemoan our loss and remain bitter, or learn what we can from the experience to help us get a different job or to come to enjoy the = work we are now doing.

Sometimes we are forced to let go of something we real= ly value only to discover a new or a greater value in the new situation. Letti= ng go of the old is important.

In our situation here at First UU, I’m the “old” that has chosen to let go, and the congregation has alrea= dy graciously accepted my retirement—unanimous but for one vote at the January congregational meeting. By doing that, you have freed yourselves to= be able to move on, and freed me as well to do the same.

Sometimes we do not really have a choice about letting= go.

Sometimes we can choose whether or not to let go of something we treasure.

What better example of this than parents who watch the= ir children grow up and then leave home. They are so vulnerable and needy in t= he early years, but sooner or later we have to let them go to the store by themselves, decide what clothes they will wear, and who their friends are g= oing to be. Just as we did, our children must grow up and leave. We must let them go.

Madge Macy was a pioneer woman in Kansas in the late 19^thand early 20th centuries who eventually settled= in Chicago, where I met her at <= st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Third Unitarian Church, in the early 1970’s. She was the mother of three children and wrote poetry in her = old age. This one was published when she was 85.

“He was mine alone

from that first second

until the miracle of birth.

I saw his father bending over him.

I let him go.

Holding his chubby hand in mine,

he walked to school.

At the gate he slipped from me

and entered alone.

I let him go.

I watched him grow,

mother’s boy still.

Ranging himself beside his father,

he said, “Us men.”

I let him go.

I sent him cupcakes in his laundry case

and eagerly awaited his letters.

His studies now beyond my comprehension,

physics, chemistry, mathematics.

I let him go.

He met the girl he loved

and went away to make his home

devoted to a wife and babies

and his profession.

I let him go…”

That says so much about what it is like to be a parent, wisely choosing at each appropriate point to let our children go so they can choose their own path, make their own mistakes, learn their own lessons, rejoice in their own accomplishments.

It was this kind of letting go that I did when I decid= ed to retire this summer. I have enjoyed being minister here more than words could say. I have been challenged constantly so that I might grow. I have felt lo= ved so that even my worst mistakes were simply absorbed into congregational life without judgment on my worth as a person.

I said in my retirement announcement in January, thoug= h, that the time had come for me to step down from this position. The congrega= tion is ready for change, having completed its 15-year project of moving and put= ting up a new building. I too am ready for change, most of which has come upon me with age and the attendant small ills that flesh is heir to with the advanc= ing years.

I also want, very much want, to spend more time with my family, Tawnya and our children and grandchildren. The demands of the senio= r minister position, at least as I have understood those demands, do not make that eas= y. So I have chosen to retire at the best moment I could think of for both my interests and yours. Letting go is not easy for me, but I believe this is exactly the right moment and appreciate every gesture of support for this decision that I have received from you.

Sometimes letting go is not a choice. It is forced upo= n us. What matters then is how we confront that new reality, what we learn from i= t, how we go forward.

Sometimes we choose to let go because it is the right = thing to do.

Learning how to let go is an important value.

So is having a vision of the future.

That is not an easy thing. We like to follow comfortab= le, established routines. We like to know with some degree of certainty what is going to happen, who is going to do what, how things will get done and that they will be done.

When we let go, that is a guarantee that at least some= of our old ways will have to change. Because there are no tea leaves or reveal= ing palms that will really tell us what the future holds, we have to start with faith that we will be able to plot a good course and develop new patterns of living that will stand us in good stead.

Such faith is grounded in a knowledge of the past, the= past of other people and our own.

When a loved one dies, if we have not had much experie= nce with death, it may seem well nigh impossible that we will ever be able to emerge from our despair at our loss. Then a card arrives from someone who h= as been through this same experience at about the same age with the same responsibilities on her shoulders. Without pretending that any two situatio= ns are the same and without dismissing the terrible hurt of such a moment, the correspondent shares her own ways of coping until better times come.

The day may come when we are the one who reaches out a helping hand, renewing the faith of another person in her own ability to get through the crisis.

When Peggy or I ask for people to write cards to those= in a bad moment of their lives, it is for this reason: so often, those cards hel= p to renew the recipient’s faith and give them the courage to carry on.

Sometimes we need to look back on our own lives to rec= all ourselves to faith in what we can do.

It may be remembering a time of great illness or disab= ility in our teenaged years, and how we came through that experience.

It may be calling up the courage we showed as a single parent with small children in the wake of a nasty divorce.

This congregation, as it faces the transition of the n= ext several years, has a remarkable history on which to draw. In our 140 years,= we have met in five different buildings, each move demanding from us great car= e in planning and execution, each move getting just that.

We have survived the devastating years of the Depressi= on and the Second World War, when our membership was as low as 30 people.

We came through a crisis time in the Vietnam War years= .

Our accomplishment in moving to this land site and com= pleting this building is quite wonderful. We did all this despite legal, financial,= and personnel challenges of a truly daunting kind, all the while continuing to = grow in membership, to grow in programming, to grow in outreach efforts, and to = grow in our spiritual depth and understanding.

Or consider if you will, and you should, that my minis= try of 25 years was preceded by Erv Gaede’s 18 years, Ed Redman’s 17 years, and Harold Marley’s 13 years. That record makes clear that thi= s is a stable congregation, unlike one I know which has not had a minister stay longer than seven years in over a century and the average length of stay is five years or less. Our congregation’s record also points to good wor= k by the search committees in finding ministerial candidates who fit the profile= of this congregation.

This congregation has a right to have faith in itself = and in its wise choice of a new settled minister.

The vision that this congregation specifically has for= the future will be developed over the coming several years, but surely it is sa= fe to say that it is grounded in the words we speak every Sunday morning: that love is the spirit of this congregation and service is its law.

Just think for a moment on the power of those words an= d the fact that we really do try to live them.

Think further on the power of the remaining words of o= ur Affirmation: that this is our covenant with each other, meaning that we bind ourselves to one another by free choice in that covenant.

We covenant to dwell together in peace no matter how m= uch we may disagree with one another about important or trivial questions,

We covenant to search for truth in love because we kno= w that truth is beyond any of us fully to know and that love must always be our gu= ide if we are to live well.

We covenant to help one another because none of us is sufficient unto ourselves; we all need the support of others in the congregation.

We want the world to be a good place, a happy place, a= just place, a peaceful place. We try to live that way as a model for the world a= nd because it is a good way to live.

The vision of this congregation will surely grow out of these deep commitments that we have to humanity, to the natural world, to o= ur past and to our future.

With faith in this congregation grounded in our histor= y and a commitment to a noble vision of how life might be well and justly lived, = this congregation will unfold a plan for its mission and its purpose in the years ahead that will make this season of letting go seem just the right thing to have done at this time.

Letting go asks of us first that we hold on.

Letting go means to live with those changes we cannot control and bring about changes that are good for us.

Letting go means having faith and developing a vision = for our future grounded in our history and traditions.

May we all find in these ways of letting go the means = of making this time of transition good for us as individuals and good for us a= s a congregation.

BIBLIOGRAPH= Y

1.Melody Beattie, THE LANGUAGE OF LETTING GO, Hazelden, 1990.

2. Wendell Berry, HANNAH COULTER, Shoemaker and Hoard,= 2004.

3. Kenneth W. Phifer, HOLD ON: GETTING THROUGH TOUGH T= IMES, The Castellio Press, 2001.