The Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Salem, Oregon

UUCS Sermons
Sermon by the Reverend Richard R. Davis

In his middle age the Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy reached the pinnacle of success – his great novels had been greeted with widespread acclaim, he had more than adequate wealth, high social status, a loving wife and family.   He had everything his heart had ever desired, and in response, he fell into a deep spiritual crisis.  Why?  Because he realized – deeply, fully, existentially - how insubstantial and fleeting it all really was.  He was a great artist, blessed with extraordinary imagination and sensitivity, but now these artistic gifts focused his awareness on the painful reality of his own situation. He could see that eventually, death would snatch everything away from him.   No matter where he looked he could only see the skull grinning at the banquet of life, the grim reaper hovering over everything.  He just couldn’t shake these morbid thoughts.  

You can read all about Tolstoy’s spiritual crisis in his autobiographical work “The Confession,” or - and this would be my first suggestion - you can read how he integrated the insights from this crises and its resolution into his remarkable novella “The Death of Ivan Ilych.”   I first read this story as a young man, and it led me toward the ministry and the humble spiritual hero of this story has continued to inform my understanding of what ministry is all about.  

            In this story Tolstoy gives us an overview of the life and times of a successful judge – Ivan Ilyich, in good standing in high society.  His life is pleasant and comfortable, but a minor injury slowly develops into a mysterious illness that begins to drag him, kicking and protesting, writhing in pain, ever closer to death’s door.   

As his progressive illness pulls him away from his comfortable bourgeois life, all those who have shared this complacent life with him – family, friends, colleagues – begin to distance themselves, proving how true is the axiom “Laugh and the world laughs with you.  Cry and you cry alone.”  They feign sympathy but it is painfully evident to Ivan Ilych that they regard his suffering as an unpleasant, distasteful, foreign intrusion into their own comfortable lives.  Ivan Ilych realizes that no one really understands his plight, and furthermore, he shamefully realizes how he, too, before the onset of his illness, was just like them –  superficial, complacent, oblivious to the suffering and struggles of others, oblivious to the reality of the human condition.  

            So Ivan Ilych is forced to face an uncomfortable truth in stark solitude -  he is going to die.  Yet in the midst of his suffering Ivan Ilych is attended by a young lad – a peasant by the name of Gerasim.  Unlike the other figures in this story, Gerasim is not disgusted by the unpleasant physical manifestations of Ivan Ilych’s illness.  He faithfully stays by his master, nursing him, comforting him, cleaning up after him, and he does not avert his gaze from the reality of death.  He tells his master “We shall all come to it someday.”   Which is to say, unlike all others, this young man does not distance himself from Ivan Ilych but acknowledges that we are all really mortal beings floating in the same boat to the same destination. 

Ivan Ilych slowly begins to realize that he is seeing the embodiment of true love and true compassion in the person of Gerasim.   Witnessing this example and honestly facing his own mortality, he is transformed and comes to life spiritually.  Thus there is a sublime paradox in this story -  Ivan is not really alive until he begins to face the reality of his death.  Facing this reality makes him a real, deep, genuine person.  In a word, this is a story of a spiritual conversion.

            Now “conversion” is one of those words that is not often used in liberal religious circles.  There is a tendency to think of it as being a sudden, dramatic change in one’s theological views, such as when people say that they have had a conversion experience and “accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior.”  Yet that’s a rather constricted view of what conversion can be.  

A century or so ago the British writer D. H. Lawrence was being pressured by his mother to convert to Christianity, and he received a letter from her minister urging him to do so.  In response, Lawrence wrote “I believe one is converted when first one hears the low, vast murmur of life, of human life, troubling one’s hitherto unconscious self.  I believe one is born first unto oneself – for the happy developing of oneself, while the world is a nursery, and the pretty things are to be snatched for, and the pleasant things tasted; some people seem to exist thus right to the end.  But most are born again on entering maturity; then they are born to humanity, to a consciousness of all the laughing, and the never-ceasing murmur of pain and sorrow that comes from the terrible multitude of brothers and sisters.” 

Ivan Ilych has a profound, dramatic version of this kind of conversion – it’s the kind that comes from personal experience – often painful experience – not from abruptly adopting some particular theological belief system.

This kind of conversion is an awakening from a dream of isolation to recognize the commonality we share, and seeing this commonality, you become more compassionate, more understanding.  I am reminded of a spiritual exercise recommended by Buddhist teachers wherein with everyone you encounter, you think to yourself:  “This person too has problems, This person, too, has known sorrow: This person, too, will grow ill, old and will someday die.”  The purpose of this exercise is not to be morbid but to awaken a spirit of compassion for all beings. 

Suffering and mortality is something we all have in common.  Another thing folks have in common is the tendency to avoiding mentioning them – because these are distasteful, unpleasant, and downright frightening realities, when you get right down to it.  Yet, the paradox here is that the more these realities are ignored, the less likely we are to live full lives, to be genuine, to connect with one another.   Frankly, I’m no great fan of suffering, but our human response to suffering can serve to deepen our awareness and our compassion.

Consider the Exodus story of the ancient Hebrews – (bible scholars say that its historical validity is in question, although there is could well be a kernel of historical truth in it.  But whether this ancient tale is literally true is beside the point – it conveys spiritual truth).  The Hebrews were slaves, and they knew suffering – the lash of the whip, grueling labor from dawn to dusk, a meager diet, no hope for a better life – it was a harsh life.  They suffered, and they remembered how this felt.  And knowing how dreadful it felt, they resolved – in their better moments – not to cause others to suffer as they had suffered.   To be honest the Hebrews had a fairly poor track record here, and they were guilty of many of the same social injustices as Pharaoh and his gang.  Yet the Hebrew prophets would not let them forget their experience of oppression and their resolve not to inflict such suffering on others.   An ethic of awareness and compassion was encoded into their spiritual DNA.  Even when they tried to forget, deny or betray this ideal they couldn’t forget it was there.   As Jewish theologian Amy Jill Levine notes:  “Biblical ethics is grounded in the experience of slavery.”

Over time this ancient Hebrew ideal became formalized into the Jewish concept of “tzedakah” – righteousness and justice.  And this abstract ideal of tzedekah translates into the active, compassionate principle of “tikkun olam” – which means “to repair the world.”   What a lofty, lovely, transformative concept. 

Now according to their advertisements the Maytag washing machine repairman does not get many calls, and he is slowly withering away in boredom.  But anyone who takes the roll of repairing the world seriously surely must be aware that the calls are coming in all the time - a lot is broken.  Greed and hatred and cruelty and indifference and tragedy and all manner of other ills breaks down many lives, many hearts.   You know that to be true.

In fact, I would argue that a recognition of such brokenness is encoded into the spiritual DNA of Unitarian Universalism.  Both halves of our movement were founded by those who experienced theological rejection or outright banishment for their views.  And that’s not just our history.  It’s our continuing story. Whenever new members talk about why they choose to join us many will tell stories of feeling rejected or excluded from other places because of their honest beliefs or because of who they were.  We know how it feels to be shut out, and it isn’t a good feeling.  That is why we resolve not to inflict such suffering on others – it’s why we welcome free thinkers, gays and lesbians and bisexuals, it’s why we champion the rights of excluded, maligned minorities.  Our Unitarian Universalist ethic is grounded in the experience of being excluded.  Having experienced such brokenness we hear a call to repair that for others as we can. 

Our experience of our own suffering, our recognition of our own mortality can lead to a spiritual crisis.  In fact, it will for each one of us, sooner, when we can respond to this creatively, or perhaps only later as we lay dying.  But crises can present opportunities for genuine change, for a deepening awareness that others suffer, too, and this recognition leads to compassion – compassion for those whose lives are broken.  Suffering (including psychic varieties) and intimations of our mortality can serve to ground us in a recognition of our common humanity and play a role in our personal transformations, bringing us to true spiritual life. 

And so the years of my life pass by, and I think more and more how I spend my days.   My vision has changed over the years.  It’s as though a softer romanticized lens has been taken off my spiritual gaze, and I tend to see a grainier, grittier image.  I seem to notice more suffering around me.  Perhaps it’s an occupational hazard of the ministry when rarely a week goes by without encountering some pain and sorrow.  Or perhaps its just a function of looking deeper into the nature of life, seeing beneath the bright facades.   This is not to say that I don’t also see a deep down beauty to life, but I also see how suffering is woven into the fabric of life.   I also see how my response to that suffering poses one of life’s great questions.   And then, I remember a young peasant lad from an old story I love, and how I am inspired by the way he lived with such an open heart, how he was willing to be with someone who suffered, and minister to him.   And I know in my heart, that this figure from a work of fiction is showing me the true way.