On Disappointment

Liturgical Materials for Sunday the 3^rd of November, 2002

Mark Belletini, Minister, and Wendy Fish, Associate Minister
First Unitarian Universalist Church of Columbus, Ohio

Opening words [Next] [back to top]

We are here,
children of this beautiful earth,
to feast once again on hope's rich bread,
instead of certainty's dry crumbs.

Love, hearth-fire of our heart,
kindler of our dreams,
pose to us now the questions
to which our lives will serve as answers.

(together) And may our reason and our passion keep us true to ourselves, true to each other,
and true to those shared visions of what we can together become….

Sequence [Next] [back to top]

The voting booths are being set up
here and there,
but yellow leaves torn from golden oaks
take no notice.

They just reflect the light and tumble.

The shouting at football games,
the shimmering parking lots crowded with fans,
all fill the fall,
but the light now falling from stars,
bright against the early evening sky, is mute.

After all, it has traveled far and far and far,
and is older than our games, or our cars,
and in some cases, older than the first fires that brightened Jericho and even older than the invention of the alphabet.

We may have passions about candidates, or cynicism about them that chaps our bones, but now I want to be aware that the Hocking Hills were there before either my passion or my cynicism had a name, and will be there a thousand million years afterward, still burnished gold by falling leaves, and silvered by starlight.

In the brief minute of silence now arriving,
let our busy and passionate and worried lives
give way, if for but a moment, and yield to the enduring hills, enduring stars and enduring and reliable brightness of autumn leaves.

(silence)

Knowing that our relationships precede
both our theology and our politics,
we call to mind those folks who have shaped our
theology and politics, our yeses and our nos,
our sadness and our joy. We imagine their faces before us, or we say their names aloud, to make
their presence sharp for a time.

(naming)

9: AM

Like words, music can call to the enduring hills and prairies and skies that are greater than us,
and remind us of the context of our lives.

11 AM

Like words, music, too, addresses the
world of our lives, both this week's election and
the enduring hills that outlast us. May the music
steady us, as much as silence and words do, for the days ahead.

First Reading [Next] [back to top] is a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye of San Antonio Texas, a Palestinian American whose poems often talk about her family up-bringing. In this case, the poet uses not the Arabic of her family gatherings, but a word common in her home town. The title is Adios, from her first book, written in 1980, "Different Ways to Pray."

It is a good word, rolling off the tongue
no matter what language you were born with.
Use it. Learn where it begins,
the small alphabet of departure,
how long it takes to think of it,
then say it, then be heard.

Marry it.
More than any golden ring, it shines, it shines.
Wear it on every finger till your hands dance,
touching everything easily,
letting everything, easily, go.

Strap it to your back like wings.
Or a kite-tail. The stream of air behind a jet.
If you are known for anything,
let it be the way you rise out of sight
when your work is finished.

Think of things that linger: leaves,
cartons and napkins, the damp smell of mold.

Think of things that disappear.

Think of what you love best,
what brings tears into your eyes.

Something that said adios to you
before you knew what it meant
or how long it was for.

Explain little, the word explains itself.
Later perhaps. Lessons following lessons,
like silence following sound.

Second Reading [Next] [back to top] is also a poem, from the late Oregon poet William Stafford, written 8 years ago. It's called:

It's All Right

Someone you trusted has treated you bad.
Someone has used you to vent their ill temper.
Did you expect anything different?
Your work - better than some others' -
has languished, neglected.
Or a job you tried was too hard,
and you failed. Maybe weather or bad luck
spoiled what you did.
That grudge, held against you
for years after you patched up, has flared,
and you've lost a friend for a time. Things
at home aren't so good; on the job your spirits
have sunk. But just when the worst bears down
you find a pretty bubble in your soup at noon,
and outside at work a bird says, "Hi!"
Slowly the sun creeps along the floor;
it is coming your way. It touches your shoe.

Sermon: On Disappointment [Next][back to top]

Mark: It seems to Wendy and me that the old doublet of certainty… death and taxes… wouldn't lose any steam if we grafted a third concept to them, namely, disappointment. After all, it is hard to imagine anyone living an entire life, let alone an entire day, without having to face disappointments, either great or small…

Wendy: Disappointment in others or disappointment in ourselves. Disappointment in our children, or in our parents, or in our friends.

Mark: Disappointment in elections or disappointment in our national policies.

Wendy: Disappointment in a new musical album, or disappointment in a highly praised film.

Mark: Disappointment in a crucial football game or baseball series, or disappointment that a cold weather front finished off the comfort of garden work.

Wendy: Disappointment in the explosive state of the international world, and disappointment in the slow pace of any peace process.

Mark: Disappointment in our society's treatment of the homeless, or disappointment in our local Columbus area understanding of racial profiling.

Wendy: We can experience disappointment with family members or strangers, with lovers or the lovelorn, with small shops or giant corporations.

Mark: We can experience disappointment with our own goals, personal or professional, or we can experience disappointment with highly touted products or professional care.

Wendy: We can be disappointed when someone who promises to call, doesn't, when those who say they will show up, don't, or when a friend comes to town and you only have a hour of their time because they have so many other people they want to see.

Mark: Closer to home, some could feel disappointment in something that happened, or didn't happen, here at the church. Some are even disappointed in God, the God of their youth, who one day let them down, or dared to fade away.

Wendy: We might be disappointed that it has taken so long for the new construction to get started, or feel disappointment that so much of life elsewhere has to be lived up in the air.

Mark: Or, we might be disappointed in where we are in our professional life or our work life or retirement life. We might be disappointed in our financial state, our dreams of financial independence collapsed in a heap with the stock market, or more personal forms of fiscal upheaval.

Wendy: In short, Mark and I believe very strongly that every human being has to face disappointment at sometime or another. It's one of those things about being human that goes along with breathing, moving, being moved, joy, sorrow, and the very beat of our hearts.

Mark: I was talking with Suzan McCrystal this week. Suzan is a member of this congregation studying for the ministry and now doing her internship up at our Lewis Center congregation.

I told her that Wendy and I were doing a sermon on disappointment, and that we were looking for a cover illustration for the Order of Celebration. We were searching through photographs and drawings, looking for a face that conveyed the idea of disappointment.

I said to her playfully, "This is your chance to be Meryl Streep; what do you think disappointment would look like if it showed on your face? Can you figure that out? We have looked at a lot of photos and drawings, and I have seen misery, grief, anger, frustration, and resentment, but I am not sure we have found disappointment yet."

She said," I am not sure I can do that, but when I think of disappointment, I do have a clear picture in my head. I think of disappointment as "falling on the inside."

I thought it was a good metaphor. The Ben Shahn visual metaphor on the cover is another one. It's a wonderful painting. You expect when you climb stairs to get someplace higher up. But in this case you only end up back down on the ground.

Both metaphors remind me of a great disappointment in my life. Ten years ago I decided that I wanted to go back to school and get a Ph.D.

I wanted to do it over time, continuing my work as a parish minister. I was completely sure this was something I wanted to do. I had dreams and expectations about what the school work would be like. I had clear dreams and expectations about what I might do afterward. I studied for, and took, the graduate record exam with all of its strange and wonderful questions testing your logic. (You know, there is a man in a red house wearing a blue shirt, and a woman next door in the green house wearing a red belt…down the street is a purple house. How much did the man in the purple house pay for a rug on his trip to Istanbul the week before?) I did pretty well on the test. Then I applied to the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley California. I did everything I was supposed to do, getting good references, getting everything in on time.

A month and a half later I got a letter. Except, when I opened the letter, I saw they turned me down. They gave no reason, just the famous "not at this time." It was short and quick. But not painless.

But I was dumbfounded. Shocked. Certainly I had to go through that first.

And then the disappointment set in. I felt something falling inside me, as if the ground gave way and I was plummeting. I felt I had reached the top of the stairs and was now going back down to the ground, the door closed. A crack appeared in my luminous dreams and all the light poured out. My visions for my future melted like a watch in a Salvador Dali painting. It was a turning point in my life.

Wendy: Turning points. . .

I just returned from spending some wonderful time with my daughter and her newly enlarged family. I held a new precious being - you didn't really think I could get through a whole morning and not mention that, did you? I met my new granddaughter, and had time to gaze into her eyes, stroke her soft skin, sing to her, rock her, comfort her.

The experience of being with one whose tiny stomach needs stoking in three-hour intervals reminded me vividly about being a new parent. I had anticipated that day for as long as I can remember. I was the kind of child who was drawn to baby carriages wanting to peek inside, wanting to care for little ones from a very early age. Perhaps that is why being a mother has been my greatest joy, and perhaps why having a marriage which could not be sustained remains one of my biggest disappointments. And, believe me, I know I'm fortunate. There are many other young girls who follow baby carriages who are not able to bear children and must face that disappointment. Many go on to adopt and become excellent mothers, but, for others, the disappointment is too great.

My daughter was born late in the evening. It was in the earliest days of "rooming-in," and I had carefully chosen the hospital where I was to deliver so I could have my baby at my side right from the moment of birth. The nurse who had attended me during labor and delivery wrapped Erica tightly in a receiving blanket and delivered her into my outstretched arms. That moment remains sealed in my memory, a pivotal moment, a turning point.

Once the doctor was ready to release me to the recovery area, my new daughter, Erica, was whisked away with a promise that she could be with me, beginning the next morning. I was confused, but compliant. I reiterated my interest in rooming-in with my newborn.

When I spoke to the pediatrician the next morning, the unexpected events of the previous evening became clearer, if not understandable.

With Erica's permission I tell you this story. Erica has two large birthmarks on her torso. No one wanted to be the one to tell me. The labor and delivery staff left that responsibility to the pediatrician.

Here's what I remember. I was in a double room with another mother close by and little feeling of privacy. My husband was not there. It was very early in the morning when the pediatrician stopped in. She brought Erica with her and unwrapped her as she spoke. It was the first time I'd seen all of her. When the staff had brought her to me in the middle of the night, they had urged me to nurse her and leave her tightly bundled. There she was, all of her, beautiful face, hair pulled up in a pretty curlicue, thrashing arms, pumping legs, and two spots on her sides, one the shape of Japan, the other like the Hawaiian Islands.

It was helpful to have someone answer my initial questions. I absorbed all the medical information the doctor had to share. But then, my heart engaged and many conflicting emotions began to surface. I felt relief to know Erica would not suffer physical discomfort. I felt angst; this wasn't what I had dreamed and planned for my first born. I felt guilt. Was there something I had done wrong? I felt fear for what she would encounter as she grew. And, I felt disappointed; this isn't how I had expected things to end up. I felt wronged in some way.

But time has passed. I can't say how. I can't say when. But Erica's birthmarks aren't a big deal any more. They've grown as she has grown, but they don't determine who she is in the least. When I see Erica, I see beauty. I see kindness. I see compassion. "Think of things that disappear," says Nye in the reading we shared. Erica is a bright, wonderful young woman with a promising future. That's what I see. We've lived through and beyond the disappointment of a body with flaws. And who among us doesn't have something about their bodies that disappoints them, or dissatisfies them?

Nye's words, again: "It's a good word, rolling off the tongue no matter what language you were born with. Use it. Learn where it begins." Adios. Learn to say it to the expectations we carry around which are unrealistic, unnecessary, burdensome even. Learn to say adios to the feeling that life is supposed to be good, flawless. Hopes turned to disappointment can make us ugly. It can be a slippery slope. Disappointment, after all, is one step away from resentment.

Instead, we can learn from Nye and say "adios." "Marry it," she adds, marry that word "adios." "More than any golden ring, it shines, it shines. Wear it on every finger till your hands dance, touching everything easily, letting everything, easily, go."

Mark: "Someone you trusted treated you badly. Someone used you to vent their ill temper." Maybe weather or bad luck spoiled what you did. That grudge… has flared; on the job, your spirits have sunk." Did you expect anything different?

William Stafford asks the right question, I think. Did I really expect anything different? And why did I, if I did?

Do I expect that somehow I am the great exception in the whole universe? That disappointments are mistakes, invasions into life from somewhere else? Do I actually imagine if I can find some magical way to live without disappointments that I therefore must be a better person than the unfortunate sitting next to me who is totally disappointed?

The end of Stafford's poem seems ridiculous at first. All these disappointments at work, at home, in love, and the poet promises us a pretty bubble in our soup? A bird that says "Hi" outside the window. C'mon! This is the Disney ending, isn't it? How frivilous.

Well, actually, no. You see, the sunlight does fall through windows onto the floor. It does creep along the floor. It is coming your way. It does touch your shoe, just like the poet says. The bird, the sun, the bubble in your soup…they are real things in this universe, and they are not caught up in expectations and the dramas of the heart written by the great playwright named Disappointment. They are not worrying about what the neighbors will think, or how ashamed they will feel if things don't turn out right. They have no illusions that expectations and reality are one and the same thing. The things of the universe just are…the sunlight moving toward our shoes as the great earth beneath us swings around the sun, the bird calling out as its unthinking instincts bid it to, the boil in the broth following the same, serene laws of physics that govern the farthest star as well as the balance of the soup spoon in the hand.

Think of things that linger, Nye adds: "leaves, the cartons and napkins." Think of the physical things that just surround us, neither inviting our disappointment nor brewing our resentment.

Hold fast to those, and say good bye, adios, to the certainty of our expectations. For it is not certainty.

Of course each disappointment hurts. No doubt about that. Often they are shocking, upsetting and knock us down. But Wendy and I would like to suggest that most, if not all, of our disappointments could also work out to be something like invitations. That's right, invitations to reassess the values that ground our lives. Does any disappointment define me? How about two in a row? Do they define me? Three? Am I a lesser human being because I didn't make it into grad school? Is a person born with a mark on a body or a bend less than anyone else? Of course not!

Many feelings of disappointment show up the triviality or irrationality of some of our human expectations. Who told us the world was supposed to be this way or that, and why ever did we fall for the propaganda?

All the councils of perfection, all the should-be's and ought-to-be's that live in our heads can be tossed, and I assure you our lives will be better, freer and grander. Families don't have to look like some perfect idealized family on TV in order to be real. Bodies don't have to look like the one on a magazine cover in order to be beautiful. Love does not have to last 65 years without arguments in order to be love.

And please don't go out of here thinking we are saying to "set your sight low" so you will never be disappointed. Please don't think we are saying that idealism about social justice issues is foolish. Far from it.

But I do think we are saying that idealism not grounded in reality tends to wear us out, and produce that dread thickening of the heart called "liberal guilt." Homelessness and race issues are still with us…did you really think there was a magic solution that would undo such problems with a snap of a finger? Everything good takes time and incremental effort.

And frankly, if you make any life-affirming choice, make any decisions that enlarge your spirit, I assure you, you will disappoint someone. To disappoint and to be disappointed are signs of life, not signs of death. They are harbingers of growth and depth, not thorns in our hearts just there to cause pain. To use the metaphor of George's story, there are often crystals inside dull rocks and bright wings inside small knots of paper.

My disappointments in my life have often been my teachers. I once wanted to teach more than anything, but my disappointment in being turned down from graduate school helped me to re-evaluate my call to parish ministry. I found that in many ways my call to ministry needed to incorporate teaching within it, and not to seek it elsewhere. Now I have come to understand that life itself is all the graduate school I need.

Wendy: May our lives together be supportive and caring, for there is not a day goes by that some among us do not know disappointment. Building a solid community helps us to face these downturns, not run from them.

Mark: May our lives together be lived, not in panic about disappointments to come, but in thanksgiving for the appointments of love that bind us together into a circle of strong and courageous lives.

Election Day Fanfare for Words and Autumn Leaves [back to top]

O, I would turn from TV ads and blaring posters,
and turn toward the person who leads.
O, I would turn from all that undoes democracy,
the corporate support, the unspoken powers
behind the scene, and I would
stop, and I would stop,
and face that maple out there that lassoes light
and hauls it down to earth. I would take that light in first and then think about whom
or what to vote for.
Is there any light in them?
Is there any light?
Anything that reflects You, great sun of Love,
great Sun of Truth, and dazzles the heart?
Teach me, leaves, how to fall,
so that I don't imagine I must stay high
above the common humanity of the world
in order to be political in this day and age.
Is there light? Any light? Does it now shine?
Does it shine in my "yes"? Yours?
Where can I place my "yes"?
Where can I place my light?
Let it fall, like leaves from trees….

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