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What do
you say to someone when you are angry at them? I mean, really
angry, and you want to reach into your arsenal of weapons
for words that will hurt as they hit and poison as they penetrate.
If it's a marriage, you can always drop the "D"
word. That usually gets attention. And if it's not a marriage,
there are words that begin with letters other than "D,"
but I won't enumerate them here. My favorite way of venting
my spleen is with the "G" word ... as in "grow
up" ... "are you ever going to grow up?" ...
or "come back and talk to me when you decide to grow
up." It really gets to people when you question their
maturity. It really gets to me when anybody questions mine.
It would
take hours to list all the things that might be called "marks
of maturity." But no list would be complete without "discipline."
Life is a series of problems, suggests Scott Peck, but without
discipline we can't begin to solve any of them.
So if
maturity is desirable, and discipline is the road by which
one gets there, from when cometh discipline? Ah, says Scott
Peck, that can be taught. There are four tools that can be
used in the acquiring of discipline. And the first is the
tool of "delayed gratification." But what, pray
tell, is that? Well, says Peck, the delaying of gratification
is nothing more than the process by which one schedules life's
pain and pleasure, so as to enhance the pleasure by experiencing
the pain first ... thus getting it over with. It is, Peck
concludes, the only decent way to live.
That idea
intrigues me, for there is much truth in it. "Homework
first, TV later," they told me when I was a kid. It was
probably the first sermon I ever heard on delayed gratification.
Goodness knows, I heard it often enough. "Get the hard
stuff out of the way first." Which, more often than not,
came out translated: "Get the unpleasant stuff out of
the way first."
Several
years ago, I teased you with "the frosting test."
When you sit down before a wedge of cake, where does your
fork go first ... to the corner with the greatest concentration
of frosting, or to the corner with the least? The implications
are obvious. Every day, every life, every job, every marriage,
indeed every human activity consists of some "crumby"
cake and some "creamy" frosting. And the two cannot
always be mixed in the same forkful. Would that they could.
But cakes are not made that way. Neither is anything else.
One can certainly "feast on frosting" first. But
when it becomes repetitive and habitual, one becomes undisciplined
and immature. I think most of us know this.
But, as
with all such lessons, sometimes we over-learn them. We take
them too much to heart, blinding us to whatever truth there
may be on the other side. Which is why I want to confound
you this morning by suggesting there is a case to be made
for gratification ... and something to be said for taking
it where you find it, even in the give-and-take of the here-and-now.
Toward
that end, let me advance several propositions.
Most
of us want to be happy.
Many
of us do not know how to be happy.
A goodly
number of us aren't happy.
Some
of us assume we will be happy later.
A few
us of suspect we will never be happy.
I am not
overly concerned this morning with those who will never be
happy. Their condition is pathological, which is to say that
it resides inside them. Happiness will never come to them
because they will never open the door and let it in. Or out.
Should it knock, they will poison it with guilt, club it to
death with anger, or smother it under blankets of depression.
The Gospel has words to say to them, but they will have to
wait to hear them on another Sunday. But since pathologically
unhappy people do not want to hear words which will make them
feel better, my failure to say them will probably make them
happy (in a strange and perverse sort of way).
I am more
concerned with those who are looking for happiness and failing
to find it, because of their present circumstances. I am also
concerned with those who are not looking for happiness, because
they expect it will only come later in life. And I am most
concerned with those who are finding it, but mistrusting it,
because they fear it will not last. Collectively, these are
the people who are holding out for better times, better terms
and better guarantees.
If any
of this fits you this Thanksgiving, I would commend a careful
reading of the Book of Ecclesiastes. It is a small book, barely
a dozen pages long. They have tucked it into the Old Testament
in a place where no one ever finds it. But there is nothing
like it in all of scripture. On the surface, it sounds like
the cynical rantings of a skeptical man ... one who doubts
God and questions the value of doing good. "What point
is there in working hard?" he asks at the outset of his
treatise. "Generations come, generations go; nothing
changes much."
In one
of his oft-repeated lines, he writes: "Vanity of vanities;
all is vanity." But a better translation of the Hebrew
might substitute the word "puffery" for the word
"vanity." "All is puffery; nothing lasts."
It is to suggest that everything is as a breath of exhaled
air that soon disappears, or a balloon that is in the process
of losing its helium.
He continues
on: "Man has no superiority over the beasts, since both
come to the same untimely end." Or: "In my own brief
life, I have seen that a good man perishes in spite of his
goodness, while men of wickedness endure in spite of their
wicked ways." And who can forget his most famous warning:
"I have seen that the race is not always to the swift,
nor the battle to the strong, but time and chance happen to
them all." Now I ask you, does anyone else in the Bible
talk like that?
Who is
this man? Well, `tis hard to say. There are those who claim
that this is the work of Solomon. There is a school of thought
that has King Solomon writing three books of the Bible. When
he was young and in love, he wrote the semi-erotic love poetry
of the Song of Songs. When he matured and turned his mind
toward making a living, he wrote the practical wisdom of the
Book of Proverbs. And when he grew old and cynical, he voiced
the futility we read in Ecclesiastes. Were that so, I could
understand it. As a young buck, I had to monitor my speech
for undertones of eroticism. Now that I am a not-so-young
buck, I have to monitor my speech for overtones of cynicism.
But it
is virtually certain that the writer is not Solomon. Even
his pen name ("Koheleth," in the Hebrew) is not
really so much a name as a title, meaning "one who convenes
the assembly." But while we cannot know his identity,
we can surmise certain things about his life. At one time
he was rich ... and may still be at the time of writing. Certainly
he is wise, perhaps even a respected teacher of his time.
Moreover, he is a man of faith ... even a God-fearing man
... one who trusts that God has his ways, even if man is totally
incapable of understanding them.
Yet he
is frustrated because his riches, his knowledge and his faith
can take him only so far. He laments: "I know that life
must have some meaning, but I cannot grasp it. I have been
permitted to see pieces of truth, but I can never see truth
except in pieces. I can contemplate things eternal, yet I
am a creature of time ... a prisoner of time. And sooner or
later, time will pin me to the mat for the count, just as
it has pinned everybody else for the count. Some early. Some
late."
"Who
can comprehend God? Reality lies beyond my grasp. And deep,
so deep, who can discover it?" It is a complaint that
reads very much like a prayer. But then, so do my complaints
... read like prayers, I mean.
I suppose
there is something of the cynic in Ecclesiastes. He seems
to take satisfaction in puncturing the balloons of the pious,
whose answers he has tried and found wanting. But I find myself
joining with a number of others who see him as a man more
hungry than cynical. I see him as a man crying out: "Am
I set on earth for one brief moment, merely to keep the species
alive and then get out of the way of the next generation so
that it, too, will be able to reproduce, grow old and die?
Has God planted within me a hunger which cannot be satisfied
... a hunger for meaning and significance?"
Ah, but
let me tell you, that (in the midst of his frustration) the
writer has fashioned an answer. It is one to which he returns
on six separate occasions. "Go," he says, "eat
your bread in gladness and drink your wine in joy. Enjoy happiness
with someone you love. Whatever is in your power to do, do
it with all your might. Be content in your work. Cast worry
from your heart. Enjoy your years, however many there may
be."
At first
glance, it doesn't sound like much. It carries a tone of resignation,
as if advising us to put a happy face on a bad situation.
It is not all that far removed from: "Eat, drink and
be merry, for tomorrow we may die." But, even if that
be the case, do not dismiss whatever truth may be found there.
Tomorrow we may die. So the question becomes, can we learn
to live in the face of that fact in ways that will generate
meaning for us, and pleasure in us?
If logic
tells you that life is a meaningless accident (says the author),
don't give up on life, give up on logic. If logic tells you
that, in the long run, nothing makes a difference because
we will all die and disappear, then don't just live in the
long run. Learn to savor the moment, even if it does not last
forever. More to the point, learn to savor the moment, precisely
because it will not last forever. Moments of our lives can
be eternal without being everlasting.
Can you
understand that? Can you see how moments of our lives can
be eternal without being everlasting? A moment can come, and
it can be so precious ... so priceless ... so pregnant with
meaning ... that even though it comes in time, goes in time,
and cannot be frozen in time, it hints at something that lasts
forever. I'll bet every one of you can close your eyes and
remember something ... some place ... someone ... that fits
that description. I'll bet you can remember a word ... a look
... a touch ... perchance, a kiss ... .that may have happened
years ago, or may have happened yesterday. Which may not have
lasted long at all, but (in another sense) has lasted all
these years and is still going strong.
"Go
eat your bread in gladness and drink your wine in joy."
Do not always hold out for better times... better terms...better
guarantees. There may not be any. For time and chance do happen
to us all.
The late
senator Paul Tsongas was one of my heroes. In January of 1984,
he announced to the people of Massachusetts that he would
not stand for reelection to the Senate. Paul Tsongas was a
rising star. People were often heard to link the words "Tsongas"
and "White House" in the same conversation. But
Paul Tsongas had his reasons for stepping down. "A few
weeks ago," he said, "I learned I had a form of
lymphatic cancer that could, if I was careful, be contained
but not cured. It has forced me to consider that there are
some things I would rather do than write my country's laws
or get my name in history's books ... things like watching
my children grow up."
After
he made his decision known, a friend offered congratulations
on making such a difficult choice. To which Paul Tsongas responded:
"It was only a difficult decision until I realized I
had never heard anybody say on their deathbed that they wished
they had spent more time at the office." No one redeems
us from death. But we can be redeemed from the "shadow
of death." Which is to say that death will come, but
it needn't block the light. "Go eat your bread in gladness.
Go drink your wine in joy."
With that
decision, Paul Tsongas put some distance between himself and
death's shadow. Alas, however, he couldn't ultimately separate
himself from death, which tracked him down and tackled him
for a loss. Our loss.
As death
did, last Friday morning, to Bob Talbert. Tackled him for
a loss, I mean. Wrestled him right to the turf, just when
it looked like he might wrinkle free of its grasp ... leaving
us "moanin" on Friday, just like it was Monday.
You can't
keep a good man down, of course. Which will preach. Because
I intend to preach it (a week from Tuesday) when Bob's friends
... how could there be any strangers ... will gather in this
sanctuary to commit the stories to memory, and the man to
God.
Part of
what we're going to remember is a man who could take what
everyone else called "ordinary" ... hold it up to
the light ... twist it and turn it, this way and that ...
and find something in it that was funny, lovely, or (occasionally)
holy ... although Bob might not have called it such. As a
columnist, he gave us (his readers) the ultimate compliment.
He paid attention to our lives. And then wrote about them
as if they truly mattered.
Our Jewish
neighbors have several holidays. Some of which are known to
us. Some of which are not. Among the lesser known is Succoth,
which is the remnant of an old harvest festival. It recalls
the days when the Israelites were farmers. It is, to be sure,
a prototype for our American Thanksgiving. Devout Jews celebrate
Succoth by building a small annex or lean-to onto their homes.
It is just a few boards, really, interlaced with some branches.
Jews invite their friends to sit in it, eating a little fruit
and drinking a little wine. It is a celebration of things
that do not last in a little hut that does not last. The winds
of autumn will soon blow the shelter to the ground. The fruits
of autumn will spoil if not eaten quickly. The friends of
autumn (who come to eat and drink) may not be with us as long
as we might like. For Succoth always comes in the fall. Summer
is over. Light is less. Dark is more. Leaves have divorced
themselves from the trees. Evenings whisper with the chill
of winter.
But Succoth
comes as if to say that the world is full of good and beautiful
things ... food and drink ... flowers and sunsets ... friends
and time for sharing them. But these are things that need
to be enjoyed right away because they will not last. They
will not wait for us to finish other things in order to get
around to them. We "eat our bread in gladness" because,
if we don't, it will rot ... or we will. Ironically, the assigned
text, designated for annual reading in the Synagogue during
the time of Succoth, is the Book of Ecclesiastes. Let me read
just a bit more as I close.
Remember
your Creator in the days of your youth,
Before
evil days come, and the years approach,
When
you say: "These give me no pleasure."
The
day when those who keep the house tremble,
And
strong men are bowed;
When
the women grind no longer at the mill,
Because
day darkens at the windows,
And
the street doors are shut.
When
the sound of the mill is faint;
When
the voice of the bird is silenced,
And
song notes are stilled.
When
to go uphill is an ordeal.
And
a walk is something to dread.
Yet
... yet
The
almond tree is in flower;
The
belly of the grasshopper is heavy with food,
And
the caper bush bears its fruit.
My friends
... my increasingly dear and precious friends ... in the midst
of what you lack, be attentive to what you have. In the midst
of those who have hurt you, be attentive to those who have
healed you. In the midst of tears, be especially attentive
to laughter. Learn to recognize moments that are eternal,
if not everlasting. Then drink their sweetness dry. Go eat
your bread in gladness. Go drink your wine in joy. For if
you do ... if you really do ... happiness and gratitude will
come naturally from you, and fit comfortably on you.
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