Comments for David

Sunday, May 11, 1997
Joey Noble

Doubt/Fear; Faith/Courage

Scott Peck begins his best-selling book, The Road Less Traveled, with the statement, "Life is difficult." We spend a lot of our lives denying this reality, wanting to believe that maybe if we are good enough, work hard enough, then life won't be so difficult.

But life is difficult. It is permeated by death, and interlaced with suffering. How do we deal with the fears that are part of the air we all breathe -- violence against person and property; crimes against humanity; economic instability; environmental degradation; disease; separations. How can we live courageously in the midst of such distress? Surely we can deny and ignore the harshness of life for a time. The wealthy, the young, or those seduced by society's many diversions can escape for a time through drugs, fast living, an obsession with possessions. But eventually we all come up against the reality that we have no ultimate control over our lives. We live in a great unknown. And that unknown can make us very afraid.

I have shared with you in the most recent Newsnotes the news that David and I recently received that my cancer has already returned -- already returned less than 9 months since I had undergone the bone marrow transplant. The hope we had been living with was dashed. Fear overtook us. This morning I'd like to share with you some of our journey these past several weeks, for it has been a journey. There has been movement; neither David, nor my daughters, Vicki and Faith, nor I am in the same place we were when the doctors first confirmed the fear that had been gnawing at us for weeks as my pain increased. I share this not only because it is my reality, but because each of us faces fears in our lifetimes. Each of us has to find a way to live with the unknown and disappointments that are part of the human condition. And certainly, each of us has eventually to confront death. Death is part of God's order of creation.

When David and I first learned that my tumor had returned, we sobbed. All the pent-up emotions of the preceding weeks spilled out. There were questions with no answers: "why?" "how?" For days, we simply began to live with our grief. Simple things I took for granted now seemed momentous. I cried as David walked out of the door in the morning to go to work. I cried as I sat in staff meeting and we discussed plans for the fall. I was exhausted. Every action, every decision seemed so heavy.

But even worse, I felt spiritually drained. God didn't seem present for a time. I asked several others to pray for me, for I didn't know how to pray for myself. I didn't know what I wanted to pray for. What hope was left? Why was God going to listen to me now?

These times of doubt that can overwhelm us are indeed "dark nights of the soul". They are lonely; they are frightening. I don't think we can talk ourselves out of them: "I shouldn't feel this way:" or "Cheer up. Things could be worse." The feelings of doubt and despair are real. They have to be acknowledged.

For me, naming the reality was helpful. First, David and I had to acknowledge and begin to accept the enormous disappointment that the medical procedures hadn't given us the results we wanted. This meant that my death was maybe only months or a very few years away -- certainly I had to let go of dreams of being a grandmother or traveling with David in retirement. For me the hardest reality to name was that the journey to death might well be miserable, filled with pain and misery. But as I named these realities to our daughters, my sisters, some friends, these nightmares began to lose their power over me. Even now, with limited options, I had choices. I could chose how I would respond. And my family and friends were making it clear to me that they would accompany me on my journey. There is some truth in the old hymn that we must walk this lonesome valley, walk it by ourselves -- that nobody else can walk it for us, that we must walk it by ourselves. But there is only partial truth in that hymn. The larger reality is that we do not walk alone. As those who knew my story began to assure me of their presence with me, I also began to feel the presence of God. The familiar 23rd Psalm was new and dynamic: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For Thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."

As my fears have begun to give way to courage, my doubts are being drowned out by faith. My favorite Biblical passage from the prophet Isaiah speaks deep to my soul:

"But now thus says the Lord, The One who created you, O Jacob The One who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you: I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; . . .Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you!"

These are the words of the Lord, to each of us. We do not need to fear, for we are precious in God's sight. God loves us. God is with us.

It is increasingly clear to me that the search for courage and the pilgrimage called faith -- our faith journeys -- are inseparable sides of the same reality. Courage is acting from a faithful, trusting heart. It is different from bravery which denotes the idea of reckless, combative action. Bravery is determination against external odds, as when a soldier faces possible death for the sake of comrades. Courage, in contrast, entails facing odds that are largely internal. In The Wizard of Oz, the lion sought bravery, only to discover he needed courage -- to face his self-doubts. Courage does not require approval by others; it does not require accomplishment. Courage has to do with the way we approach life. Such courage is sustained by knowing we are not alone.

When a friend's daughter was learning to swim, she stood at the edge of the pool after the others had jumped in. She wanted to follow, but her fear prevented her. Then she caught her mother's eye and said, "Courage me, Mommy." My friend made the only response her daughter needed: "It's okay. I'm here with you." The young girl jumped in the pool.

We have seen a similar leap of faith this morning from the seven people who made the decision to covenant with our community of faith. There are no guarantees for them that their hopes for this relationship with CCC will be realized. And there are no guarantees for us who welcomed them into our fellowship. But as our ritual says, we embark on this journey together. We are acting out of a courage rooted in faith.

Or consider Leah and Peter's decision to have their daughter, Caroline, baptized. That decision, too, is an act of courage, rooted in faith. Leah and Peter are committing themselves to help Caroline grow and develop all of her God-given potential. Who knows what that will require of them? What they do know is that they cannot do this alone. They need others; they need a community of faith to support them. They need to know the love of God will sustain them.

Courage to face life honestly means moving forward in the face of the unknown, the uncertain, the unlikely. It is the ultimate "nevertheless" in light of the impossible. This is why faith is the only adequate path to courage: it enables us to resist self-deception, and to live in the full recognition that life is tragic. Miguel de Unamuno in his powerful book, The Tragic Sense of Life, says that true love does not exist apart from suffering. And God, who truly loves us, suffers with us. Thus, rather than suffering separating us from God, suffering leads us to God. This closeness with God is the treasure always contained in earthen vessels. As Paul says,

Courage comes from the blessings in the midst that I have experienced over and over again on my long cancer journey -- your expressions of concern, your prayers. Courage comes in the quiet of the meditation room with others on Easter morning with the sun streaming through Evelyn Byer's stained glass with such brightness that we know the Holy is in our midst. Courage comes in the dynamic energy of music when our choir sings praise to God. Our hearts are full; we know we have been touched by the Holy. I was able to move along the road from fear to courage in the presence of other women at the Retreat House as we sat in the chapel with the beauty of the hills surrounding us, As they spoke words of hope for my well-being, the Holy was palpable. Courage comes alive while working together on a house in our neighborhood --scraping, painting, repairing, so that a mother and daughter have a better place to live. Christmas in April, indeed, as the Holy moves amidst paint brushes and cleaning rags. The bread and juice we drink each Sunday morning at 8:30 a.m. in this chancel area speaks of courage and faith even when the bread is stale and we drink from a cracked chalice. This sacramental ritual reminds us that nothing -- life nor death, things present nor things to come -- can separate us from the love of God. It reminds us of the primary story of our faith where even Jesus needed faith as courage to move from "My God, why have you forsaken me?" to "Into your hands I commend my spirit."

It was ten years ago on Mother's Day that I first preached in this sanctuary. After that, you called me as one of your pastors. We have shared much in ten years. Just one year ago today we shared the death of Richard Brown. Only God knows what is ahead for us or where the path will lead. But our faith gives us courage to move ahead with hope, and even with joy in a sense of adventure. We will be able to face our fears, for we walk together, bound by the love of God, made known to us by Jesus who said,

I invite you to take the hand of the person you are sitting next to as a reminder that you are not alone in your journey as Dolleen and Nancy help us experience the power of the Holy in their music.

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