To Live Our Best Lives
Psalm 46
October 30, 2022
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
“Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble in its tumult.”
Almost every time I lead a memorial service, I begin with Psalm 46. With this vivid description of earthquakes and tsunamis, the psalmist lifts up what it feels like when we lose someone we love. The foundations of our lives are shaken; storms of grief overwhelm us; our world feels in tumult. The psalmist’s poetry assures us we are not alone when our sense of stability is shattered and promises that God’s presence will give us courage.
Psalm 46 speaks truth at so many levels. Without radar and early detection systems, ancient peoples were acutely aware of their vulnerability to natural disasters they could neither predict nor control. As the climate changes and we face increasingly erratic weather patterns, we are reminded of our own vulnerability, with the added awareness that we bear responsibility for what we are experiencing.
The disruptions of the COVID-19 pandemic often left us trembling in tumult. The murder of George Floyd ushered in a reckoning, forcing those of us who had the luxury not to notice to recognize the insidious nature of racism. The foundation—or perhaps the assumptions—on which our society is built were shaken.
For some of us, the trembling and shaking is not just around but within—as our bodies respond to trauma, as we face the tumult of depression and anxiety, as old beliefs are shattered, as we live with physical illness.
At so many levels, this psalm speaks the truth of our lives.
As I listened to the Resilience in Community interviews Mike Ellis and Aliyah Collins conducted with members of Edwards Church and Open Spirit, I found myself thinking of this psalm. The imagery resonated in a particularly powerful way as I listened to Rick Seaholm’s interview. He talked about how the pandemic gave him new insight into the challenges he faces living with Parkinson’s. “Right now,” he said, “everyone in the world is feeling instability and uncertainty. But I’m living with something that has no end and gets worse. I need to figure out how to live a life that recognizes and honors that…After the pandemic is over, I will still have instability.”
What a painful and powerful insight. I am so grateful to Rick for his thoughtfulness, and also for his permission to share his words in this sermon. Rick names a human reality most of us would like to ignore. We are not in control of our lives the way we pretend we are. At the height of the pandemic, to different degrees depending on our circumstances, we were all forced to face that truth. As we settle into our sort-of-post-pandemic routines, some of us are able, at least in the short term, to conveniently forget how fragile we are. Rick’s body will not let him forget. In the face of that reality, Rick said, “I need to figure out how to live my best life regardless of instability.”
Rick shared some of his insights into what that best life might be like. During the shut-down at the beginning of the pandemic, he had time and space to do the things that are most important for someone living with Parkinson’s: exercise and sleep. He joined Danielle’s and then my gentle yoga classes. One of the biggest dangers of Parkinson’s is falling, he said, and so he especially appreciates yoga’s focus on balance.
One of my favorite yoga teacher aphorisms is that there is no such thing as being in balance, only the on-going practice of balancing. Our bodies are in constant motion; if they were not, the faintest breeze would knock us over. To practice balance is not to become perfectly still, but to become increasingly attuned to movement within and around us. Balance is not the opposite of instability; it is the on-going practice of acknowledging instability and responding to it.
The other piece of wisdom I gain from doing tree pose over and over again is that we will all fall. It’s part of yoga; it’s part of life. Living our best life in the face of instability involves practicing balance, and it involves responding to the reality that we will fall.
Amy Hendrick and Peggy Harrison, in their interviews with Mike, shared what helps them live well with the risk of falling. Amy said: “I love that no matter what happens and how far I fall, grace will lift me up and sustain me.” Peggy used similar language: “I really think it has to do with trust and a feeling of safety. Just knowing that God is there, even though you’re not totally aware all the time. Even if you fall or fail in some way, there’s always forgiveness. That makes it easier to take chances.”
Peggy and Amy talked about trust in relation to God. Resilience also involves trust in community—or perhaps in God revealed through community.
Rob Schadt, a member of Plymouth Church who participates in Open Spirit’s Multi-Faith programs, talked about community as a sense of belonging, being able to contribute and being appreciated. It’s also, he said, about relating on a deeper level about the losses and insecurities we have in common. In community, we may find help—or perhaps, we find a sense of “shared insecurity.”
Those words stick with me. As much as we wish it did, community doesn’t take away the insecurity and instability that are part of life. Instead, we find comfort and courage in our shared insecurity—in knowing we are not alone as we seek to live our best lives.
Rob’s words remind me of a pre-pandemic practice in my Gentle Yoga class. For our balancing poses, we would gather in a circle, hand to hand. Sometimes we’d do tree pose. Sometimes we’d risk airplane. Often we would hear nervous laughter at the beginning, as we assumed that we were going to knock each other over because of our instability. Always, somehow, we held each other up—not because any one of us was completely upright and unmoving, but because our bodies instinctively knew how to respond to each other’s instability. We knew there was the possibility that we would fall like a row of dominoes. If we had, we would have picked each other up off the floor. It never happened. Our shared insecurity held us up.
In his interview with Aliyah Collins, Carl Chudy, a Catholic priest who is part of Open Spirit’s Multi-Faith Collaborative, put the conversation about resilience in the context of the larger Christian story. “Life,” he said, “is about death and resurrection. It is about moving from order to disorder to re-order.” Life, he suggested, is about practicing balance, falling down anyway, and being lifted up by grace. In the process, we are changed, led to deeper trust in the one who is our refuge and strength.
Last Sunday after church, ten of us gathered in the youth room to share reflections on this sermon series about resilience. At one point, Rick challenged us to name the societal realities that shape what we call resilience. The pandemic laid bare economic realities that have long existed. Some of us could stay home safely and still get our paychecks; others put themselves at risk every day doing underpaid essential work. Some had blessed time to reflect and take walks in nature; others struggled without childcare. How do you practice balance when you are working three jobs, juggling the closing of daycare centers, and trying to help your kids learn with an unreliable internet connection?
Rick’s comments reminded us that, while the conversation about resilience is an important and fruitful one, our faith is about so much more than our individual capacity to survive and thrive. Father Carl talked about the Christian story of life, death and resurrection. For me, that story has its fullest meaning in the context of the message Jesus lived and taught—a message that could not be destroyed by hate and death. Jesus taught that God is present every time we feed those who are hungry and visit someone who is lonely. He taught that the kin-dom of God is at hand and that we can be part of it. He showed us what the kin-dom looks like: sharing a meal with someone whose life is very different from ours, giving and receiving freely, breaking down walls, offering healing and hope. To live our best lives as Christians is to be part of God’s love at work in the world: seeking a world where everyone has an opportunity to live their best lives.
The earth changes. The mountains shake in the heart of the sea. The waters roar and foam. The mountains tremble with its tumult. In the midst of it all, the psalmist promises that God is our refuge and strength. In this psalm, God is not an unmoving, unchanging rock. God is a river flowing through the city, flowing through our lives. The river is ever-present and ever-changing. Sometimes it is a trickle and sometimes it is a torrent. Sometimes we cannot see it, for it is an underground stream; other times we marvel at a glorious waterfall. Amidst tumult and tremor, God calls us to come drink deep. In a city filled with walls and barriers, God calls us to create a pathway so all may come drink deep.
Let us live our best lives—practicing balance, trusting grace to lift us when we fall, celebrating our shared insecurity, making a way so all may drink deep. Amen.