Joy

Joy: The Creative Human Response

Live Oak, July 21, 2007

Rev. Kathleen Ellis

This afternoon I will be joining half our staff at the annual Southwestern Unitarian Universalist Institute hosted by our Southwestern Unitarian Universalist Conference. [As lovers of long names and shorter acronyms, we call the Institute “swoo-see”; we call the Conference “swuck.”] This year most of our Live Oak staff will be on staff at SWUUSI: Chuck is the Adult Program Director, Rebecca Maze is the Choir Director, Amanda Robinson is teaching a curriculum called Spirit Play, and I will be attending SWUUSI Board meetings every morning and chairing the Ministers’ meetings every day.

You may wonder why anyone would voluntarily go to church camp in southern Oklahoma in July. My husband Jon Montgomery never thought of going until he met me. But we go for the people as much as the program for all ages. Over time we have been exposed to lots of theme talks, workshops, music, and relaxation. We have also developed stronger friendships with folks from all over the Southwest—that is, mostly Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Oklahoma.

In 1989, the Rev. Oren Peterson, known to everyone as “Pete,” gave a series of four theme talks at SWUUSI on the subject of “Joy: the Creative Human Response.” I recently reread his essays, discovered a treasury of stories, and poetry, and decided to weave parts of it with some of my own stories and favorite poems. It’s a gift of joy from a colleague to all of you. The last I heard, he lives in New Hampshire now. First some general remarks, followed by reflections on nature, relationships, and life itself.

To begin with, let me invite you to squeeze a little joy out of life. As the saying goes, if life gives you lemons, you gotta make some lemonade.

Life contains more than just lemons and lemonade, of course. We experience heat, cold, pain, thirst, hunger, and fear on a primal level. Somewhere along the evolutionary scheme of things, Homo sapiens experienced joy—perhaps in response to a successful hunt or harvest—but eventually for the unexpected beauty in nature or the delightful pleasure in relationship. It came in contrast to darkness, depression, grief, fear, and terror.

A good life ideally begins with the basics of food, drink, shelter, and bodily comfort. Once these basic needs are met, we can more easily afford an attitude of joy and optimism. Anthropologist Lionel Tiger is the Charles Darwin Professor of Anthropology at Rutgers University. One of his books, written in 1979 and reissued in 1995 is Optimism: The Biology of Hope. He writes, “People need some means of feeling that the future will be somewhat better than the present—at least not worse.” “Thinking rosy futures is as biological as sexual fantasy.”

He goes on to explain that endorphins, those hormones that reduce the experience of pain and seem to raise people’s spirits, seem to be affected by one’s beliefs. I have since read that endorphins go up whether a person is crying or laughing, which could explain why you feel better after a good cry. Lionel Tiger makes a link between optimism and religion and says, “Clearly, I think religion is a biological phenomenon, rooted in human genes, which is why it keeps cropping up.”

Joy and optimism are not necessarily connected with religion, but they do help us make the best of the life that has been given to us. We have so many choices and challenges, so many opportunities, that every path we take leads us into new territory. We have no way to know if another path might have been more fruitful, so we travel in hope for a good—or at least good enough—life.

Joy greets us from unexpected sources: beauty, accomplishment, pride (in others’ accomplishments), relief, life events (usually long anticipated, such as birth, marriage, confirmation, graduation, learning to walk), and surprise. “Joy and woe are woven fine,” writes William Blake, “clothing for the soul divine: under every grief and pine runs a joy with silken twine.” It can be the sudden beauty that takes your breath away, that takes you outside your own self-absorption.

Profound joy comes from living in such a beautiful world, even when we do get too much rain. One night I was driving back alone from somewhere, when I noticed how lovely the stars were on that pitch-black road. It occurred to me that I should come back some time and do some stargazing. Then I suddenly thought, “What am I waiting for?” I pulled over at the first opportunity and enjoyed my solitary stargazing away from the city lights. Keats said, “a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” but we do have to make a little effort to notice and appreciate it.

In college one year I spent Spring Break on a science field trip to St. John Island. We had spent most of the year learning about the geology, the flora and fauna, and the coral reefs we would see. As soon as we dropped off our tents and duffle bags at the campsite, we ran several hundred yards through trees and burst onto the beach. It was the first time I had ever seen an ocean. … It took my breath away—the sound, the rhythm, the power, the beauty, and yes, the joy of that moment stays with me.

I remember one time standing out on a pier over Galveston Bay. The full moon seemed to hang right over me and my friend Char and blessed us along with the ocean waves. Tears of personal sorrow mixed with tears of happiness as we basked in that luminous night.

Some years later I dragged Jon at 4AM from our comfortable bed in a beachside motel, again in Galveston. We put swimsuits on and walked right out into the water chest deep and held hands as the sunrise did its ordinary job of bringing beauty—and joy—to the world.

Not just oceans, but wooded streams, water skiing on Lake Bistineau when it was as smooth as glass, kayaking on Lake Powell, another sunrise at Bryce Canyon, delighting in the wild Bird of paradise, finches, and parakeets in Australia, hiking in Colorado, feasting on the sight of wildflowers just outside Live Oak, listening to crickets from my front porch swing… it makes a poet sing with joy.

From the poet Frances Reid

“Today I will lease a valley Tomorrow, a mountain; Next year, a desert; A year from now, a river— And all for free.

“I shall hold a lifetime lease On whatever I can see Or touch or hear. All I shall pay is gratitude And wonder For the grandeur I command.”

For an assignment at Seton Cove several years ago, I wrote my own reflection on a flower with four blossoms as though I were the flower:

“I am four beauties upon a stem, Multi-faceted, multi-dimensional, Reaching toward the sun. I am the color of delight, I am the vision of strength, I am the touch of delicacy, I am the form of grace, I am the dream of beauty, I am the existence of mystery, I am dying and ever reborn, I am a blessing and blessed with life, I am worthy of notice, I am the joy in all Who pause in wonder before me.” … (2003)

In that same class we read Laura Telford’s poem, “Everyone stops for Beethoven’s Ninth.” It reminds me how important music is to my sense of joy—classical, folk, bluegrass, jazz, so many emotions can be evoked through instrument and song. I am particularly grateful that so many musicians have enhanced today’s service. Thank you all.

Art, architecture, work, geometry, poetry, religion, and myriad creative endeavors benefit from the joy of living and the joy that comes along with healthy relationships. Elbert Hubbard said, “One can bear sorrow alone, but it takes two to be glad.” Yet sometimes it is in sharing sorrow with one another that we find even greater joy in happy times together.

Most of us learn about joy and sorrow first within the family.

“Sam Keen, in ‘The Passionate Life,’ reminds us that: ‘We were, are, and always will be members of a family. We are embodied in a network that includes mother and father (present or missing) and the families to which they belong, stretching back in time beyond the memories of our grandparents and spreading out to include a web of uncles, aunts and kissing cousins. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, carefully and carelessly, the warp of family will run through the tapestry of our days. The gifts and wounds we bear can be traced back to the ways in which we were cherished, encouraged, ignored, repressed, abused. Whether our families were good or bad, weak or strong, they imprinted us with our earliest self-images and expectations about the world.—Every family represents a challenge and a difficulty, a given that must be accepted and transcended if we are to grow into independent selfhood and beyond. –It is within the bonds of kinship that we may learn the practice of kindness and the potency of forgiveness.”

Into this church we bring our family history, for better or worse, and begin to forge a beloved community of friendship and joy. Last night Chuck and I were privileged to officiate a family wedding—the family of Brian Winkelmann, Dawn Marsalis, and her daughter Alasen Hogan. For Brian and Dawn I said, “Out of the world of men and women, they have found and chosen one another. Today they ask us to recognize and honor that choice, and to join them in celebrating their joy and future.”

And after they said “Yes,” to one another, I reminded them that “Joy and trouble attend every 'Yes' in our lives, and so it is with marriage.”

Alasen made her own promise to help the family’s success and happiness. Brian promised to love her as his own for all of his life and presented her with a necklace, given in love.

It is our task as a church community to support them and every family, whether your household includes you alone, or you live with a cast of thousands. You will have your friends, the family of your choosing as adults.

George Eliot wrote, “Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with the breath of kindness, blow the rest away.”

The joy of friendship that builds into community life helps each of us find more joy within ourselves. Then we will go out into the world with more confidence; we will strengthen those original friendships, and if we should live long enough, we will become mentors to yet another generation following in our footsteps.

Life doesn’t come to us. We have to go out and meet it. It takes courage, a sense of adventure, the willingness to risk and fail. When we embrace the struggle, we learn something about our own strength and perseverance.

You may have been following the progress of Kit Manchester. Patty Bissar used to work for her at a bird supply store. Kit had been an avid bicyclist and a strong proponent for safety. But on a training run a year or so ago, she flipped over her bike and landed on her head. No one saw what happened and she doesn’t remember, but the helmet was all that separated her from the concrete. For months, she has struggled to make even minor progress. Every word and every movement has been a triumph and a joy.

It has to make you think: how vulnerable we are to accident, illness, and ultimately, death. Last night I attended the wedding reception honoring Dawn and Brian. Since this sermon was on my mind, I couldn’t help but look around at all the happy people and realize that eighty years from now most of us will be dead. Eighty years ago other couples celebrated their weddings with romantic vows and heartfelt wishes from their friends, colleagues, and brand-new family members.

Joy comes to us through our living: active, expectant, courageous, hopeful, and loving. Yet in the end, all will come to an end. In the face of death, we celebrate life. When Lady Bird Johnson died, tears mixed with gratitude for her incredible legacy of beauty and environmental awareness. She recognized something that too often we fail to notice: that we owe something to the world as rent for the space we have taken up.

Without death, life would be interminable; health would be questionable. I heard about a woman who had no more than 3 months to live—an aggressive illness would take her long before her time. So her family staged their own celebrations—her birthday, a Thanksgiving homecoming, and Christmas with a tree and all the trimmings. She died soon after, but her family had filled her dying days with the joy of living and they have some beautiful memories.

Thornton Wilder’s memorable play Our Town includes the death and burial of the character Emily Gibbs, who dies in childbirth. She has the right to go back in time to relive one day, so she chooses her twelfth birthday. All she can do is watch the festivities—she cann’t talk to or interact with her family so finally she is ready to go back. In frustration she exclaims to her escort, the stage manager,

“I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another. I didn’t realize. All that was going on and we never noticed. . . . Take me back up the hill—to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. . . . Goodby, goodby, world. Goodby, Grover’s Corners . . . Mama and papa. Goodby to clocks ticking . . . Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths . . . and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you! . . . (Then, asking the stage manager:) Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?”

Joy comes when we least expect it, as it did to me last night. My son Rob, who has lived in Tokyo for four years, called me Friday night, and we talked on Skype, a free long distance computer program. As we caught up on our lives, I told him about my sermon and invited him to contribute to it. So by way of email, Rob weighed in on the topic of joy, and wrote,

“how to make Joy: One Part relaxation Two Parts work Two Parts time for self Two Parts time for friends One Part flexibility Two Parts sleep One Part eating mix these all up throughout the day, throughout your life.”

The unexpected joy was that he showed up at our house last night. He had called me just to make sure I would be around, never letting on that he would see me the next day. We’ll be driving up to SWUUSI together. And so I light one more candle of joy … for my son Rob.

Blessed be