Burning Bowl

Rev. Meg Barnhouse

January 1, 2012

Your life is a sacred story. That story didn’t begin with your birth, it began before that. You began with your grandmother, with your Uncle Jim, with the stories told at the supper table, with the family fortune that was won and lost, with the lifestyle they had, and the one they felt they should have had. By the time the story of your birth, your adoption or your fostering unfolds, already much of who you are is in place.

A sacred story has miracles, trials, lessons, triumphs and tragedies. Each life in this room has all of those. You make your own life as you go along. You made seventeen choices a day that shape where you are now. Did you know those choices were part of your sacred story?

Among the choices you make are what to hold on to and what to let go. That is what we are doing this morning. I am going to ask you to think about what you want to hold onto as you move forward into this year and what you want to let go. It might be an event, a habit, something you regret. Sometimes we hang onto things because we think we have to – that if we let them go we will dishonor the parent who taught it to us, or that it will make us a bad person if we don’t keep punishing ourselves for something we did. Maybe we keep hold of things just because we don’t know that we can let them go. Or sometimes we think we’ll hurt someone if we let go.

The Bridge

A Metaphor

There was a man who had given much thought to what he wanted from life. He had experienced many moods and trials. He had experimented with different ways of living, and he had had his share of both success and failure. At last, he had begun to see clearly where he wanted to go.

Diligently, he searched for the right opportunity. Sometimes he came close, only to be pushed away. Often the applied all of his strength and imagination, only to find the path hopelessly blocked. And then at last it came! But the opportunity would not wait. It would be made available only for a short time. If it were seen that he was not committed, the opportunity would not come again. Eager to arrive, he started on his journey. With each step, he wanted to move faster; with each thought about his goal, his heart beat quicker; with each vision of what lay ahead, he found renewed vigor. Strength that had left it since his early youth returned, and desires, all kinds of desires, reawakened from their long-dormant positions.

Hurrying along, he came upon a bridge that crossed through the middle of a town. It had been built high above a river in order to protect it from the floods of spring.

He started across. Then he noticed someone coming from the opposite direction. As they moved closer, it seemed as though the other was coming to greet him. He could clearly see, however, that he did not know this other, who was dressed similarly except for something tied around his waist.

When they were within hailing distance, he could see that what the other had about his waist was a rope. It was wrapped around him many times and probably, if extended, would reach a length of 30 feet.

The other began to uncurl the rope, and, just as they were coming close, the stranger said, “Pardon me, would you be so kind as to hold the end a moment?” Surprised by this politely phrased but curious request, he agreed without a thought, reached out, and took it.

“Thank you,” said the other, who then added, “two hands now, and remember, hold tight.” Whereupon, the other jumped off the bridge.

Quickly, the free-falling body hurtled the distance of the rope’s length, and from the bridge, the man abruptly felt the pull. Instinctively, he held tight and was almost dragged over the side. He managed to brace himself against the edge, however, and after having caught his breath looked down at the other dangling, close to oblivion.

“What are you trying to do?” he yelled. “Just hold tight,” said the other “This is ridiculous,” the man thought and began trying to haul the other in. He could not get the leverage, however. It was as though the weight of the other person and the length of the rope had been carefully calculated in advance so that together they created a counterweight just beyond his strength to bring the other back to safety.

“Why did you do this?” the man called out. “Remember,” said the other, “if you let go, I will be lost.” “But I cannot pull you up,” the man cried. “I am your responsibility,” said the other. “Well, I did not ask for it,” the man said. “If you let go, I am lost,” repeated the other.

He began to look around for help. But there was no one. How long would he have to wait? Why did this happen to befall him now, just as he was on the verge of true success? He examined the side, searching for a place to tie the rope. Some protrusion, perhaps, or maybe a hole in the boards. But the railing was unusually uniform in shape; there were no spaces between the boards. There was no way to get rid of this newfound burden, even temporarily.

What do you want?” he asked the other hanging below. “Just your help,” the other answered. “How can I help? I cannot pull you in, and there is no place to tie the rope so that I can go and find someone to help me help you.” “I know that. Just hang on; that will be enough. Tie the rope around your waist; it will be easier.”

Fearing that his arms could not hold out much longer, he tied the rope around his waist. “Why did you do this?” he asked again. “Don’t you see what you have done? What possible purpose could you have in mind?” “Just remember,” said the other, “my life is in your hands.”

What should he do? “If I let go, all my life I will know that I let this other die. If I stay, I risk losing my momentum toward my own long-sought-after salvation. Either way, this will haunt me forever.” With ironic humor he thought to die himself, instantly, to jump off the bridge while he was still holding on. “That would teach this fool.” But he wanted to live and live fully. “What a choice I have to make; How shall I ever decide?”

As time went by, still no one came. The critical moment of decision was drawing near. To show his commitment to his own goals, he would have to continue on his journey now. It was already almost too late to arrive in time. But what a terrible choice to have to make!

A new thought occurred to him. While he could not pull this other up solely by his own efforts, if the other would shorten the rope from his end by curling it around his waist again and again, together, they could do it! Actually, the other could do it by himself, so long as he, standing on the bridge, kept it still and steady.

“Now listen,” he shouted down. “I think I know how to save you.” And he explained his plan. But the other wasn’t interested. “You mean you won’t help? But I told you I cannot pull you up myself, and I don’t think I can hang on much longer either.” “You must try,” the other shouted back in tears. “If you fail, I die!”

The point of decision had arrived. What should he do? “My life or this other’s?” And then a new idea. A revelation. So new, in fact, it seemed heretical, so alien was it to his traditional way of thinking.

“I want you to listen carefully,” he said, “because I mean what I am about to say. I will not accept the position of choice for your life, only for my own; the position of choice for your own life I hereby give back to you.”

“What do you mean?” the other asked, afraid. “I mean, simply, it’s up to you. You decide which way this ends. I will become the counterweight. You do the pulling and bring yourself up. I will even tug a little from here.” He began unwinding the rope from around his waist and braced himself anew against the side.

“You cannot mean what you say!” the other shrieked. “You would not be so selfish. I am your responsibility. What could be so important that you would let someone die? Do not do this to me!”

He waited a moment. There was not change in the tension of the rope. “I accept your choice,” he said, at last, and freed his hands.

– Edwin H. Friedman

Ritual for the New Year

(Adapted from litany by Rev. Joan Kahn-Schneider)

We pause now on the edge of the New Year –

a time to reflect. Like Janus, the god for whom January was named, we glance back at past joys and sorrows

That what has past can guide us

Toward what is yet to be.

Let us reflect for a moment on some of the things that happened to us and our world in 2011.

First – think of the good things. What are you proud of?

What were your gains and accomplishments?

What were some of the special blessings of (year)?

Consider those things for which you are grateful

What would you like to take with you into (year)?

You have two pieces of paper in your order of service.

On one piece write your hopes, dreams, your wishes, your goals for the coming year.

Time to write

We come to the opening of (year) also with regrets – events from the past year that you would like to forget – to put behind you – disappointments,

opportunities missed, losses, failures, unwelcome burdens.

Things you said or did that you wish you hadn’t said or done.

Things you didn’t say or do that you wish you had

Things you want to let go

Angers and fears and regrets

Hopes unfulfilled

And now, on the other paper, write those things you want to dispose of

I invite you now to put the paper with the things you want to keep in a safe place. (Perhaps you would like to take it home and put it on your refrigerator — a reminder of your good intent and good resolve.)

And now come forward if you wish bringing with you those things you want to dispose of as together we let go of all that we wish not to take with us into the New Year

The Burning

Emptying ourselves of those things which make us anxious and render us stingy with our love, we invite the spirit of Janus – the spirit of good beginnings to fill us and to cast the light of hope upon the year ahead.

“May what you have released here be forever gone from your spirit and cease to trouble you. May you be relieved and renewed, ever mindful that love is always more powerful than fear, and that compassion is the key to freedom from resentment.”

Rev. Victoria Weinstein