Turn, Turn, Turn
A SERMON BY REV LINDA A HART
In the turn of the seasons, for most of the time I can remember, I have loved spring the best. I’m a sucker for the hopefulness of the season, the resurrections that are so plain in view, the plants reviving and returning, the effusion of green leaves, what gets rolled away, birth, newness, and all that. Asked once by a beloved university professor what represented my theological position, I told him that it was spring. It’s the sort of thing that we’re likely to say at 20, and it was right for me – still is – I have a deep trust in possibility and promise, in the capacity human beings have for transformation, even in the darkest times.
It’s true, too, that back in that day I would have said that autumn was next in line for me for favourite times of year. I love the scent of autumn, and the crispness of the leaves underfoot, and the coolness of the air after a hot summer. Well, that was back in that day when I lived somewhere that had summers with 40° C days, and the turn to cooler days was a welcome relief. Living for a time in New England, I came to appreciate the dazzling colours of the autumn: the vibrant red of the maple trees, the golden hue of the ash, blazes of orange splashed across a mountain.
As time has gone by, though, I have shifted a bit, and I think now that I’d have to say that autumn is my favourite time of year. It is perhaps in some measure that boisterous sense that Mary Oliver speaks about, about the spiced residues of the summer fullness that draws me in, and the sense of coming restfulness that has always permeated the autumn for me. Even when I lived in Vermont and we would be invaded each year by ‘flatlanders’, as we called them, the people from away who would come in the cars and clog the roads to see the foliage. ‘Leaf peepers’, we’d mutter under our breath as the traffic slowed to a near stand still. And even with all of that, autumn as it moves towards winter has a sense of slowed pace.
‘Turn, turn, turn’, Pete Seeger sang, quoting Ecclesiastes. For every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. In my younger life, I think I was drawn to the promise of spring, and as I age I am more enamoured of the promise of autumn. In spring the purpose is the freshness of life, what is new, what is born. With spring comes Easter, the central event for most mainline Christian faith communities, the celebration of life that springs from death, the promise of life eternal that comes from the God that rises again and again.
In autumn, it is the promise of harvest, a wiser moment, perhaps, it is reflective, drawing in, considering what promise there might be because of, in spite of all that has come in the time of growing. It is the time for the Days of Awe, the central holy days for the Jewish community during which all are asked to spend the month of Elul – the name of the month in the Jewish calendar that precedes those holy days – in reflection, taking time to make whatever amends are needed before coming before God to repent for the wrongs and be granted life again.
This week I was deeply moved by an essay I read about coming to the High Holy days especially in light of the two executions that took place in the US this week, and what it meant for one young Jewish activist to enter into the reflections of this time of year. Joanna Ware’s blog is Queeringjew. I will share some extended excerpts from her work, and offer commentary.
First, this:
“I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that both you and your people may live.” (Deut 30:19)
This passage of Torah is read during the High Holidays. It comes as Moses is about to lead the Israelite people to the promised land, and the people are reminded of the obligations they agreed to. They are reminded that they are in a covenantal relationship with G!d and each other, and that there are consequences to their actions, whatever they may be. To say that this piece of text resonates with me is something of an understatement. I have it tattooed on my wrist. Well, specifically I have u’vcharta b’chayim - therefore choose life – on the inside of my left wrist. For me, it represents the ethical framework by which I try to live my life. Choosing life is about choosing to act in the interest of growth, possibility, potential, abundance, and becoming. It is about what I see shining through the Torah – an obligation to act toward justice, to act with compassion, humility, and forgiveness
(Later she comments: ‘I put the tattoo of that piece of text on my left hand for a reason. As a right-handed person, my left side is weaker. So I put a reminder there, because in critical moments, applying our ethics is rarely about the easy, clear cut choices.’)
I think I’ve never seen such a succinct and eloquent description of what it means to choose life and the implications of it. It is this call that I think I respond to in the coming of autumn, that call to choose life as the earth turns toward the fallow time, as we are reminded of the ‘momentary bright pastures’ of our lives. Claiming the promise of new life in the spring is surely powerful. How could we deny the potency of life emerging.
But the power of claiming this, the power of choosing life in those difficult moments, the power of choosing life when considering all of what has happened to us, all that we have done and all that has been done to us, as the leaves begin to mould, and the days darken, is saying yes to all that is holy and healing and blessed. We are bid to choose life: ‘to act in the interest of growth, possibility, potential, abundance and becoming.’ To choose to live out the ‘obligation to act toward justice, to act with compassion, humility and forgiveness.’ All the while, we choose this, we turn toward this, knowing that acting from our heart, from our deepest truth, applying what we hold most dearly to be true comes not from those moments of clear cut choices, but from the less distinct, and is forged of our weakness, our vulnerability as well as our strength.
There is more than this, though. Jo Ware’s words again:
During Elul, we are not simply expected to ask for forgiveness from the people we love and care about. There are not conditions on our reflection, responsibility, and repentance. It is not only the likable, upstanding, righteous person who deserves just, ethical, compassionate treatment. We are expected, during Elul, to do that kind of deep digging that allows us to summon both the courage and vulnerability it requires to ask forgiveness of those we may not like or care for; to demand of ourselves that people we find despicable be treated with compassion and justice. It is, perhaps, only through that kind of radical compassion that we can transform our world.
This is, as they say in the US, where the rubber hits the road. Here’s the centre of it for me: ‘We are expected...to do that kind of deep digging that allows us to summon both the courage and the vulnerability it requires to ask forgiveness of those we may not like or care for...’ The courage and the vulnerability is what is demanded of us: the deep digging, the humility of knowing all that we have done, the courageous act of standing without pretense or guile, open to another. It takes my breath away, makes me tremble in fear, and in the same instant, I think that Ms. Ware is exactly right: ‘only through that kind of radical compassion...can we transform the world.’
It is choosing life. May it be written on our hearts and our hands.
Trembling and breathless, yes, when one thinks about the full demand, but even incomplete and badly done, even if we cannot find the way to step up to the task, but can only contemplate that we might, in some future day, make the slightest turn toward this kind of life, to think that sometime we might have the courage and vulnerability to offer such forgiveness, to ask for such forgiveness, even if it is a long way off, still that turning, that choosing gives us a gift of life. Ms. Ware says:
Our choice, then, is to turn toward gratitude and hope, and away from pessimism and apathy. We can choose to let this defeat bury us in doubt, powerlessness, and stagnation. Or we can choose life. We can choose to move in the direction of possibility. We can resolve that the deep, sharp, penetrating pain of injustice pushes us to action, rather than turning us to despair.
This autumn time of turning offers us new life, even amidst the falling leaves, the dying plants, the movement toward rest and dark of winter. In this turning may our purpose be to choose what of life we can, and the cherish it, this gift, this breath, this day.
Choose life. May it be written on our hearts and our hands.
Amen.
Prayer:
Spirit of love and of life,
spirit of compassion,
we lift up our hearts this day.
In gratitude:
blessings of the colour
of autumn,
the weak sun of the turning season,
the opportunity to gather in what is good,
and to choose life in this dying world.
In hope:
that the opening of our hearts
in small part or more,
may help us to live more truly,
have courage, be willing to be transformed
by whatever love may come our way.
Abide with us in these days,
strengthen us when we falter,
and show us the beauty
the glory
the wonder of it all.
This day and every day,
Amen.