Opening words:  “The Flame Tree Blooms”   - Judith Wright, Australian, b 1915

It was you planted it;

And it grew high and put on crops of leaves,

Extravagant fans, sheltered in it the spider weaves

And birds move through it.

For all it grew so well

it never bloomed, though we watched patiently,

having chosen its place where we could see

it from our windowsill.

Now, in its eighteenth spring,

suddenly, wholly, ceremoniously

it puts off every leaf and stands up nakedly,

calling and gathering

every capacity in it, every power,

drawing up from the very roots of being

the pulse of total red that shocks my seeing

into an agony of flower.

It was you planted it;

and I lean on the sill to see it stand

in its dry shuffle of leaves, just as we planned,

these past years feeding it.

Reading:   by Reinhold Niebuhr:  

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime;

Therefore, we are saved by hope.

Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history;

Therefore, we are saved by faith.

Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone;

Therefore we are saved by love.

No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend  or foe as from our own;

Therefore we are saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness.

Sermon:  “Are You Going Somewhere?”  - the Reverend Alison Hyder

When [poet] Stanley Kunitz bought his house  here in Provincetown in 1962, the hillside slope was a sand dune. Kunitz had already made 5 gardens in the course of a lifetime and he bought this place, [thinking], he said, “because the house is so ugly I won’t be tempted to do anything, and the land’s impossible, so I won’t be tempted to garden.  Famous last words.”

            Every summer morning – and on into October – the poet, who is [95 this year and giving readings all over the country] – works in his garden with a combination of vigilance and reverie which seems to be a prerequisite to artistic processes, whether the making of gardens or poems.

            “I love making things with my hands,” Kunitz says.  “I think I’m a frustrated sculptor. When I see a need for something to be beautiful, I’m involved.”  The first year, he began a process of terracing – shoveling the wet sand behind wooden barriers, building a series of brick terraces to stabilize the dune. Then he carried in vast amounts of seaweed and cordgrass from the bay and the nearby salt marsh, and tilled in years’ worth of compost. As the sand became soil, Kunitz sketched out a plan of the space as he imagined it; the plot has been evolving from that sketch ever since.

            At no point can the whole be seen at once; it is a garden one must walk through. It seems to exist therefore, only in memory, in the viewer’s work of assembling a sense of the whole…. Kunitz’s garden is full of echoes: the terraces suggest the Italian hillside gardens he loves, and its design nods to Japan as well; in the elegant forms of its evergreens, in its attention to lanterns and stones, and in its refusal to disclose all its secrets at once.

            Other echoes are more personal. A patch of ribbon grass recalls his mother’s garden in Worcester, Massachusetts in the early part of the century. An area of herbs preserves a  hint of Kunitz’s Depression-era farming, when he sold dried and bottled herbs.  And there are literary and mythic resonances too: a dark and moist corner, full of wide hosta leaves and the peculiar shredded bark of the Japanese cedar, reminds the poet of the gates of the underworld; a trio of stones seem to him to be the garden’s protecting saints.

            The garden also represents the layers of a life….”It’s never, never perfect,” says the gardener.  “Some things flourish, some die, some you get tired of, some you loathe and want to get rid of.  It’s like revising a poem – you keep the basic form, improve the details.”

                In a sense, the garden is about time, an area of encounter with those forces which transform the garden and ourselves.  “Everything, in the end, will be lost,”  Kunitz says. “No one will care for this plot of ground the way I have, but the memory will haunt some people. No way to prevent the garden from changing, any more than one can prevent one’s own body from changing, one’s own self from being replaced by other souls, spirits, talents.”  [From a 10-16-95 New Yorker interview with Stanley Kunitz]

Like many gardeners, Stanley Kunitz has learned a lot from caring for his little plot of land that applies to the rest of his life.  He knows that no-one is irreplaceable. There are other poets writing, younger poets with a different point of view, new visions and ways of using language.  But at the same time, no one else will see the world in exactly his way.  And so he is encouraged – maybe driven – to work, to contribute as much as he can, out of his own experiences, memories, perspective.  Out of the combination of his Worcester childhood, his confrontations with beauty in Japan or Italy or at Race Point. The confluence of his life and his talent urge a self-examination that is not self-absorbed, but generous.  It motivates him to communicate, to reach out to others, to create beauty – however temporary and fragile and beset by winds. 

            But more than that,  Kunitz has learned to work with what he has.  To take his surroundings and imagine their potential for beauty and serenity and a hint of timelessness.  His words remind me of a poem by William Blake – that  Kunitz must know well, too:  To see the world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.   Kunitz has found an entire world just where he is – a place so unpromising, so unattractive, he thought it wouldn’t inspire him; he could just ignore it, concentrate on writing, and teaching, leave it unthinkingly when he traveled and read.  But instead, it called to him and challenged all his ingenuity and efforts.  He had to respond.  You can’t just put anything in the ground and expect it to grow.  It has to match the soil conditions, the amount of available sunlight and moisture.  A cedar from Japan might grow where an oak from up the road in Plymouth would fail.  Kunitz had to become fully present where he was, commit to what was around him, what he could see, and change, and do, on this small plot of land, this earth.

            New authors are always told, “write from what you know.”   But that is true for all of us, too.  We need to work from what we know,  use what is around us - the place we know, and the people here, who call out for our love and compassion. 

            We live in a small and isolated town. And yet there is constant change: new shows and performers, new restaurants, another store, - yet another new minister - ideas and stimulation that breeze in and stir things up for a while, renewing us with fresh energy and style.   Shops open and close, visiting artists go.  People leave. The pressures to find a better job, a real job, some other kind of community, bigger, healthier, easier, constantly pull people away.  So it’s tempting, perhaps, for those here to look always to the future, to the next loss or failure or the next big storm.  Our eyes are on the horizon line, scanning for change.

            I spent the other night reading all of the past Meeting House newsletters, from 1994 to the present.  It was sweet to see when some of your names first started appearing, as you were welcomed as new members, or joined a committee or were thanked for helping with the New Year’s Dance or Bike Trek.  Other names that I saw over and over, people who were active and important suddenly appeared needing prayers for recovery.  Their memorial services were announced.  David Matias, Julie Yeager.  Others moved away.  The newsletter reflected a congregation that was filled with activity, with  caring and support and creativity, and somehow holding on despite the losses.

            I began to wonder what happened.   What was it that discouraged  you, that made some of you pull back, and others withdraw, hurt and weary?  Provincetown, is still, after all, a magical place, a beacon that draws thousands to its streets year after year.  People hope and save to be here, where we live. Is the dream just an illusion? 

            Like the ancient Israelites in the book of Isaiah, exiled from their homeland,  we ask:  

How can we be a chosen people and a demoralized people at the same time? 

            I know last year was tough.  You had a different style of minister bringing challenges and change.  And instead of a common vision, you were torn apart, divided by differing relationships and perspectives.   But I knew, bad as that was,  that it was just  part of the problem.  The real hurt had preceded that.  I thought it was the shock and pain of Jennifer Justice’s resignation that brought on feelings of abandonment and uncertainty, and doubts about your worth as a congregation.

            I still think that’s true.  But, from what I can figure, it goes even deeper. It seems to me that your real crisis was more personal than that, and more profound.  I think it was the failure of the AIDS ministry that made you really lose heart and begin to doubt your own worth and meaning as a congregation.  

            So much happened at once.  The AIDS epidemic, which had so colored every aspect of your lives and relationships, giving every moment a sense of urgency and depth, and immanent, irretrievable loss,  had somehow changed. The new protease inhibitors and drug cocktails were sustaining lives.  There were fewer deaths,  fewer emergencies to unite your energies and emotions.  And at the same time the funding for the AIDS ministry position, which had been sustained by grants up till then, ended, and fell to you.  And you just couldn’t do it.  You didn’t come through. There weren’t enough  people and money and commitment.  You blamed yourselves.  And the work whose purpose had enveloped and uplifted you and – yes, made you proud – ended.  Flat.  And left you with a sense of failure.   Your minister, Jennifer had left and David McFarland and Bill Clark left, too, and the groups and classes they led and were listed, every week in the newsletter. The activities that filled the building with people, brought newcomers into the door, kept the Meeting House in the center of Provincetown life - all the energy and love and creativity that had rallied your efforts and given you meaning was gone, and nothing to fill the void.  

            Just who the hell are you?  Nobody seemed to know.   Possibly, if Reverend Leggett had been a real ogre, instead of just an imperfect and possibly mismatched minister, you could have all united around that and sustained some sort of common identity.  But he was neither so bad nor so good.   He helped some of you, gave succor and counsel.  Others he hurt and discouraged.  His very impermanence was as much problem as it might have been help.  You were used to looking to your ministers for meaning.  But you knew he couldn’t be that.  And there was not enough time to really see what was going on with you - to fashion a sense of purpose.  It was much, much too soon, and you weren’t ready to look.  

            So I am prepared to take it slowly, to be here for the long haul.   You may have noticed – and believe me, after reading all those newsletters, I certainly have – that I’m not filling the calendar with support groups and classes.  And mostly that’s been on purpose. Partly, I haven’t wanted to burn myself out, to load up my schedule in advance.  I know the work will come to me.  I’m not too worried about that.   But as well, I’ve wanted to wait until I knew you better – and knew myself better, here, as this minister in this place.  What calls to me?  What do you really want, and need?   Slowly, you are starting to tell me.  Your history, your desires and hurts, are making themselves known.  And as we start opening up, we can begin to work, together.

            But the most important reason I’ve held back – maybe intuitively, or maybe just because I have the flaws you need in your minister – is that there’s a danger here.  You tend to invest a lot in your minister.  Perhaps it’s the transient nature of this community.   Perhaps it’s a need for identity or nurturance.   But it’s time to mature.   You really don’t need another star in the pulpit, serving as your focus and your light.  I could just fizzle and flash like a meteor and be gone, leaving you in a blaze of glory and empty hopes.  Revs. Jennifer Justice and Bill Clarke and David McFarland and Ed Frock did an awful lot.  In fact, it rather awes me, all the groups they led, the constant events and activities they planned and inspired.  But they left, and you are still here:  The Universalist Meeting House. You need to decide who you are together, and what you can do.  I am here to be a facilitator, to help  you define and articulate your identity and vision.  But the meaning has to come from you -  and the work -  as a congregation of justice and love.  I can’t impose it on you.  A vicarious dream will not sustain you.  

You need to build a structure that will support your ideals –  channels of communication that work for you, strong and creative committees and boards.  You have to figure out how to trust and empower your leadership, so that you can create programs that serve your needs, that satisfy your craving for purpose and meaning, not just for yourselves, but for the community.

            This is a congregation that needs to give.  You are just too wounded and battered to curl up into yourself.  Your health and very life depend upon service – stretching, reaching out beyond your own needs - knowing that you are never too wounded to  care about others.   Just as you have in the past, with the AIDS ministry and the soup kitchen.

            At our feet, and all around us there are seedlings, awaiting our notice, struggling up through the weeds. The ground wants care. And there is so much that cries out for help – right here, where we are.  You do not need to go any farther than this congregation or this town to help  people who are hungry, to work for affordable housing, to make friendships across the boundaries of culture and age and stereotype -  to really be someone special.  To share your own vision and your individual talents.  This community calls out to you to make it fertile and rich and healthy.  There is no other place and no other time worthier of your care.

            You may not see results.  It may be 18 years before that tree can flower, can gather up its capacity and bloom, red and full,  and you gone - and your hopes - and only the people you love left to see it: them, and not you.   And the garden will change, and your efforts be subsumed under a new owner, someone else’s vision of beauty and usefulness.  But your work will remain, serving as the basis, the grounding for their dreams.  The well you dug will refresh them.  The nails you pounded will hold.  

            We don’t know who built this sanctuary – we can’t put a face on the sailors and fishermen and the women who sawed and plastered and sewed and swept.  But we know something of their vision,  because we too, see it through the eyes of love.  They built this room as a home that would enlarge their sights and lead them upward.  One that would hold all who came seeking hope and integrity.  They hoped for permanence -  but they built on sand, as we have found out.   And yet, somehow, that was part of their strength. 

            They used what they had, what they could do and be.  They did the best they could.  They didn’t stop to ask if it would last forever.  Buildings burned, children were lost to scarlet fever and diphtheria, and their men went to sea, never to be seen again.   But they built anyway, and rebuilt, and added to their vision with a singular trust in their own purpose.   And – Thank God and our angels – the Meeting House is still here for us to shore up and strengthen.  Every single one of them gave of themselves, however imperfect and slight.  And because they cared about community, the life they could give to each other, we are here now. They knew that others would come along with hammers and hope.

            There’s an old Peanuts  cartoon.  Charlie Brown and Linus are planting a tree.  Linus, ever the mystic, says, “Pity we won’t be here to see it when it’s all grown.” 

“Oh,” Charlie Brown asks, “Are you going somewhere?”

            We all have a hard time believing in our mortality.  But Linus knows that we’re all “going somewhere.”   None of us will be around to see the fruits of our labor, the flourishing of all our dreams.   We move, we die,  we are too short-sighted to see that far.   He plants trees anyway, where he is now.  For whatever meaning he can find, whether it’s beauty or shade, or a home for other species.   Whether it flowers now or later.  It doesn’t matter.  The action is what’s important.

              Still, Charlie Brown’s not a fool.   Because the growing will never end.  The tree will always change, and always be perfect.  An immature sapling, yet to give fruit, is  still rich with purpose.  Tender and green, it is as alive now as it will be in its fullness, though a century may pass.  We don’t fault it for its slender youth.  It is right for its time, and yet always different.

            And so are you.  As Stanley Kunitz knows, his garden is “never, never perfect. Some things flourish, some die, some you get tired of, some you loathe and want to get rid of. It’s like revising a poem – you keep the basic form, improve the details.”  But you will never see all of it at once.  The garden is about time. There will always be more to discover, and more to do, and others to take over when he is gone.

             What this congregation had in the past, the purpose it created was necessary and good and real.    It’s a part of you.  You still have it.  You are just as important, just as vital as you were. We owe a lot to what we had, who we learned we could be.   Though the feelings may change,  and the circumstances, the past isn’t lost – it is our legacy and our strength.  The love we had still exists in you.   Let us use it while we can.   We have all the time in the world.

Closing Words:   W.E.B. DuBois

Now is the accepted time, not tomorrow, not some more convenient time. It is today that our best work can be done and not some future day or future year. It is today that we fit ourselves for the greater usefulness of tomorrow. Today is the seed time, now are the hours of work, and tomorrow comes the harvest and the playtime.