Looking in the Mirror

By Rev. Terry Davis

 Delivered to Northwest Unitarian Universalist

Congregation on September 16, 2012

I was late. Yesterday was the day of Northwest’s Board retreat . . . a day where we planned to gather in the backyard of one of our Board members for a discussion of hopes and priorities for the coming year. The meeting facilitator asked us to be there ready to go at 9:00 am sharp. As some of you know, I live in town close to Emory University. Our Board meeting was being held in a part of town that is sometimes referred to by us urban folks as “OTP” – outside the perimeter.

Personally, I have nothing against the OTP world . . . except for the fact that to get there requires me to use my navigation skills, which are pretty dismal. Even with a GPS system, I can still manage to take a wrong turn and get lost.

In a Time magazine article entitled “Why We Get Lost,” Canadian Psychology Professor Colin Ellard says that the average urban person “wanders around in a semi-lost state” and that “people who are exceptionally good way-finders seem to notice their surroundings more.”^[1] That’s not exactly a flattering commentary on someone like me, but Ellard appears to have done a lot of research on the phenomenon, so maybe it’s accurate.

Anyway, as I was attempting Saturday morning to awaken myself from my “urban semi-lost state” and notice my surroundings more on my drive to Marietta, I managed to encounter road construction on Interstate 285 and a 10K road race at Johnson Ferry Road. With every turn I took searching for an alternate route, my GPS announced “recalculating” and “make a U-turn, if possible” in a soothing – and increasingly annoying – tone of voice . . . over and over again.

After finally pulling into a parking lot and calling the cell phones of several Northwest Board members, someone immediately called me back and gave me new directions. In my calmest minister’s voice, I thanked the caller, gently hung up the phone, and then drove like a bat out of you-know-where to get to East Cobb County. I virtually screeched my car to a halt in front of my destination, narrowly missing a neighbor’s mailbox; and I ran down the long driveway to Nancy’s house, where I joined the group of smiling and welcoming Board members seated in her lovely backyard.

Now, who do you imagine was the person most upset with my tardy appearance at the meeting? Well, it was me, of course. Yes, it’s true that there had been circumstances beyond my control that contributed to my delay. But what’s also true is that I’m what I call a recovering latecomer. When I’m late for any appointment or event today, I’m reminded of an old habit that has taken me years to break . . . and one where I still experience an occasional slip.

And what’s also true is that I still harbor feelings of guilt and shame for all those times I’ve let others down by being late or left them with the impression that my time was more valuable than theirs. So it seems that yesterday’s late arrival at the Board meeting was also a reminder that I still have some work to do. I have some work to do, not around being on time, but around self-forgiveness, which is the subject of my sermon today.

The Jewish High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah, which begin this evening, are a reminder that we are all in need of forgiveness. I believe that the ability to forgive often begins with coming face-to-face with our true character  . . . it begins with taking a look in the mirror at who we really are and extending compassion to the imperfect human being we find in the reflection.

I believe that the ability to forgive is the result of our willingness to change our behavior. As we recited in our litany of atonement, we need to forgive ourselves and each other . . . and we need to begin again in love.

Changing our behavior changes our relationships with other people because it changes us. It changes us from persons who shrink in the darkness of guilt and self-hate to people who grow in the light of kindness and love. And, as we grow to love ourselves more, we become better able to extend kindness and forgiveness to others.

As Neal shared in his personal reflection, he has made the practice of atonement, which is the act of making amends for injurious behavior, an annual spiritual practice . . . a spiritual practice grounded in his Jewish religious heritage.

Rosh Hashanah marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year and the ten holiest days in the Jewish calendar, ending with Yom Kippur.These “Days of Awe,” or Days of Repentance, are a time of reconciliation, a time to confess sins, to seek forgiveness and repair one’s relationship with the Holy. These holidays assume that human beings are fallible. They are a reminder that we make mistakes that hurt ourselves and each other not just once in a while, but all of the time. They remind us that the practice of confessing mistakes and seeking forgiveness is a holy act and an act that restores wholeness. We become not only more deeply connected to our sense of the sacred, but also to our sense of intrinsic worth and value.

Forgetting that we have intrinsic value . . . regardless of our actions or inactions, regardless of what twists and turns our lives have taken . . . is perhaps one of the chief barriers to forgiveness. When we lose sight of our value, we forget how to love ourselves. And, without self-love, there can be no self-forgiveness. There can also be no love for and forgiveness of others. Jesus knew this when he said, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

In my own life, a powerful reminder of this occurred when I was completing my residency as a hospital chaplain in Atlanta. One Sunday on my rounds, I met a patient I’ll never forget that I’ll call Mr. Carter. He was a 50-year-old African American man whose oversized tortoiseshell glasses and chubby cheeks made him look much younger. When I walked into his room, I noticed that the sheet covering the upper half of his body fell flat after reaching his hips. I had seen that before at the hospital and knew what it meant . . . Mr. Carter had no legs. His hands were wrapped in bandages. He held one out to me to shake when I approached his bedside. I realized then that Mr. Carter was also missing several of his fingers.

Mr. Carter asked me questions about my role and my religion. He told me about his family, where he grew up, and where he used to work. He also told me in a very matter-of-fact way that he had no value.

“A man’s gotta work or he has no value,” he said. “I don’t work any longer. I used to work for a big company, but not any longer. I have no value.” With each part of his body that Mr. Carter had to give up – first one leg, then the other and then his fingers, one at a time – it seemed Mr. Carter was concluding that he was becoming more and more insignificant as a person.

Initially, I invited Mr. Carter to expand his definition of value, but I soon regretted suggesting this. How could I say anything meaningful, standing on my own two legs with all fingers intact? Then Mr. Carter made an unexpected request: he asked me if I would serve him communion.

Mr. Carter was Catholic. I was raised Catholic. His request reminded me of the reasons why I had left the church – most of them, ironically, having to do with questions concerning my own value. Just as Mr. Carter felt the corporate world had no use for a man with no legs and chronic health issues, I had increasingly felt out of place with the church as I wrestled with its doctrines and, later, my own sexual orientation. I wondered what Mr. Carter would think if he knew he was asking a lapsed Catholic lesbian Unitarian Universalist minister to serve him communion! I felt uneasy and, to my surprise, a bit unworthy. Politely, I declined and instead offered to call a local priest to administer the sacrament.

But the priest never came. And, the following morning, when I went to check on Mr. Carter, he asked me again to serve him communion.

“Mr. Carter,” I said, “I’m not a priest. The act won’t have the same value if I do it.”

“It will have value to me,” he replied. “Please . . .”

In that moment, something had changed for him. Although Mr. Carter initially felt he had no value because of his illness and disability, he still believed himself to be worthy of experiencing the Holy. He believed himself worthy of claiming his rightful place within his community of faith. His persistence told me that, deep down, he knew he had intrinsic value.

In that moment, something had also changed for me. I found that I could trust my sense of what was right and true. I learned that when something holy and mysterious compels me to serve, my best response is to simply say “I am here” and know that I am worthy.

There was only one thing left for me to do. I went back downstairs to the chaplain’s office. I found a liturgy for communion to the sick in our copy of the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. I snapped on some rubber gloves. I retrieved the communion wafers and grape juice, and headed back to the ICU. Mr. Carter was ready to receive the body of Christ. I, on the other hand, was prepared to join him in a communion of value – where race, religion, sexual orientation, and physical ability made no difference. In that moment, we found joyful mutuality in our humanity. In that moment, we were two people who helped each other reclaim our intrinsic value . . . and reclaim our ability to love ourselves. In that moment, we experienced forgiveness and reconciliation . . . and a new beginning.

In thinking about this experience, I am reminded that intimate interactions with others often reveal profound truths about us. The struggle we see in others around self-acceptance, self-care, and self-esteem can mirror the very issues we need to examine in our own lives.

Mr. Carter was my mirror . . . like me, he was a person who momentarily forgot that he had value no matter what and that he had a responsibility to claim it. This truth was reflected between us. It invited us to reach beyond our self-criticism and negative thinking. And, when these were cast aside, we were able to experience healing and joy.

As we go from here, may the spirit of the Jewish High Holy days invite you to look in the mirror and reflect on those ways that you deny your own growth and joy. May we find the courage to admit to those behaviors that need to change, the compassion to forgive others who may have harmed us, and the willingness to make amends to those we have harmed though kind words and deeds.

And, may we recognize ourselves in the struggles of others . . . and allow them to teach us more deeply about the transformative power of self-forgiveness and love.

May it be so. Amen.