HOLDING ON, LETTING GO

Rev. Abhi Janamanchi

November 4, 2007

Its only been in the last few weeks that the reality of the sabbatical has begun to sink in as I have scrambled to attend to as many things as possible - helping the sabbatical committee finalize arrangements with all the sabbatical speakers, recruiting and orienting worship associates, meeting with committee chairs and staff to thank them for their commitment and support them in their work, handing off responsibilities to Millie Rochester and Linda Stoller - and to engage with the scary prospect of having the next three months for rest, reflection, and renewal.

It feels scary to face the prospect of taking a three-month separation from all of this and all of you. It is scary to leave the known to go off into the unknown, to shift gears at a time of the year when I normally pick up pace and steam and instead, wind down and take stock of my life, my commitments, and my ministry.

I am particularly tense about doing something that I am not very good at - letting go, letting go of my attachment to this place and to the emotions of this vocation. You see, even when I go home from church or go grocery shopping or go to pick up my son from school, I carry what goes on here in my heart and mind. I am usually thinking of someone and wondering how they are doing or wrestling with a sermon idea and trying to figure out what I am going to say on Sunday or mulling over some area of church life that needs more attention or care. Ministry is, in a sense, like parenting. There is no going home from work. It's never done. There is always something or someone to think about. On the one hand, that's what keeps me from getting bored about ministry. On the other hand, it increases stress, promotes co-dependency, and exacerbates the problem of letting go.

At the same time, it's frightening to imagine because it feels like I am losing my identity, a key part of myself that I worked so hard to cultivate and nurture all these years.

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It seems that for most of us our instincts tell us to hang on for all we're worth. Sometimes it seems that the spiritual path is one long exercise in letting go, whether it is letting go of a loved one who has died, or letting go of a dead relationship, or letting go of a job or career that's no longer meaningful, or letting go of old ways of seeing things, or letting go of situations that have brought us a feeling of security or meaning, or letting go of our health.

Sometimes, just when things seem to be going well and we're enjoying life, suddenly we are forced to let go of some cherished thing or some person dear to us. And we discover, sometimes the hard way, that if we refuse to let go of the things that can no longer serve us, our spiritual growth comes to a standstill.

Many times it is the pain of loss or the fear of the unknown that keeps us paralyzed and unable to release our desperate hold on things. I don't know why the spiritual path seems inevitably to lead us to junctures that are painful or frightening.

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Holding on, letting go – a good theme to reflect on today and in the ongoing months. "What is it in my life that I am called to hold on to and what am I to relinquish?" "What in our lives are we holding on to that are not ultimately useful and life giving?" And, "What do we need to let go in order to make room for the holy, for Joy, for new Life?"

I mean, who among us isn't seeking new Life? Who doesn't want to live life fully? This hunger is innate in the human consciousness. This is the reason why many of the ancient religions have designated specific seasons (Yom Kippur, Ramadan, Dassera, Diwali, Lent) when we are asked to consider our choices; to consciously reflect on our direction, our purpose, our ultimate destination.

Eric Ericson, the well-known psychoanalyst, claims that life continually presents us with critical moments – crossroads, where if we turn one way, we move in the direction of growth and new life or, if we go in the other direction, we face greater difficulties and restriction. Ericson believed that as human beings develop, we are presented with options – trust vs. mistrust, intimacy vs. isolation, industry vs. inferiority, integrity vs. despair, autonomy vs. dependency.

Now, none of us would genuinely prefer the options that stifle our being able to realize our full potential. All of us, if we had a say, would really like to be trustful, intimate, hard working, autonomous, rather than filled with mistrust, despair, inferiority, and dependency.

So when we get to the crossroads, what increases the likelihood of our moving in the direction of growth and new life? What impels us to let go of all that deadens us?

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Mary Oliver in her poem, In Blackwater Woods, says:

"Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go."

Mary Oliver's poem is a sad one about autumn and death and the inevitable cycle of return to the mystery that enfolds us all and takes so much – everything, really – out of us. The stark images and plain truths of this poem speak to us in words we all know; about love and loss Bsomething we know all too well; about attachments and detachments; and about holding on and letting go.

Her words are a primer on the large and difficult task of living out our faith in the world. They declare the three things we must be able to do to live in this world: "to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go."

There is comfort in this instruction, these words that are so simple and yet seem to come up from somewhere deep within. That is why they speak to us as a people of faith. Loving, holding on, and letting go describe the cycle of life and attachment, nothing more or less, because that is everything there is.

Now, the poetry of 'letting go' is lovely and profound. But the cost of doing it can, at times, be steep. We will be asked to let go of our children as they become adults. We will be asked to let go of the many masks we have so carefully constructed that we believe will protect us. We will be asked to let go of what we believe is right now in our possession.

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What exactly are we being asked to let go?

A modern theologian, Richard Rohr claims that "there are only three things we need to let go of: 1) being in control, 2) being effective, and 3) being right.^[1]." Having just read that list, I want to tell you that I find myself ‘striking out’ on all three precepts on a fairly regular basis. I am one of those people who requires constant reminders that there is more to life than being in control, being effective, and being right.

Frederick Buechner writes:

"Let go of the dark, which you wrap yourself in like a straitjacket, and let in the light. Stop trying to protect, to rescue, to judge, to manage the lives around you – your children's lives, the lives of your husband, your wife, your partner, your friends – because that is just what you are powerless to do. Remember that the lives of other people are not your business. They are their business. They are God's business because they all have God whether they use the word God or not. Even your own life is not your business. It is also God's business. Leave it to God. It is an astonishing thought. It can become a life-transforming thought."^[2]

The Buddha once said that the core message of all his teachings could be summed up in one sentence.

That sentence is:

Nothing is to be clung to as I, me, or mine.

In other words - no attachments. Especially to fixed ideas of yourself and who you are.

It is a hard message to digest at first blush because it brings into question everything that we think we are, which for the most part seems to come from what we identify with, our bodies, our thoughts, our feelings, our relationships, our values, our work, our expectations of what is "supposed" to happen and how things are "supposed" to work out for me in order for me to be happy, to feel in control.

But the operative word here is "clinging." It is important to understand what we mean by clinging so that it is not interpreted as a disavowal of all we hold dear, when in fact it is an invitation to come into greater touch and into a direct, living contact with everybody we hold dear to our hearts and everything that is most important to our well-being as a whole person, body, mind, soul, and spirit. It is saying that it is our desperate attachment to the thoughts we have of who we are that may be the impediment to living life fully, and a stubborn obstacle to the realization of who and what we actually are, and of what is important, and possible. It may be that in clinging to our self-absorbed ways of seeing and being, to the parts of speech we call the personal pronouns, I, me, and mine, we sustain the unexamined habit of grasping, clutching, and clinging to what is not fundamental, all the while missing or forgetting what is.

I am sure you know the Zen story of two monks who came to the banks of a fast-flowing river, where they met a young, beautiful woman who was unable to cross the current alone. The older monk picked her up in his arms, carried her across, and set her down gently on the other side. The two monks continued on their journey and reached the monastery. The younger monk could no longer restrain himself and said, "How could you carry a young woman in your arms? You have broken the holy vows." The other monk answered, "Brother, I left that young woman on the banks of the river. Are you still carrying her?"

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What happens when we let go of our demands, our possessiveness, our war with reality, our hardness, our stubbornness, our claims of control?

Jack Kornfield says, "Letting go allows us live wisely. Letting go of our fears and habits allows a more spacious wisdom to emerge. We discover that we are never actually the owners, the possessors, of the things in our life. Our homes, the things we call mine, even our children are here with us only for a time. Even our bodies do not belong to us. They are gifts, which will change and eventually need to be released in their own way. We are asked to relate to them and all things, not by holding and possessing but by loving. To do this is to let go one moment at a time in a spirit of love and respect. When we learn to be truly present, we discover that what we deeply seek has always been with us."^[3]

I enter this Sabbath period recognizing that my vocation – ministry – despite being one of the most fulfilling and nourishing things I've done in my life is still one aspect of who I am. During this time, I hope to discern and re-discover what it is that I love; I hope to "hold it close to my bones as if my life depended on it." I want to reflect on what is the hardest for me to let go of and why. What do I need to let go of in order to live more freely? What do I possess that keeps me from being free?

And I hope for you as a spiritual community that you will discover what it is that you love about this faith, about this place, about these people and find ways to deepen your connections and sense of joy about them while, at the same time, let go of things, habits, unspoken norms and rules that get in the way of creating and sustaining a beloved community.

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I conclude with a story from the early Christian mystics, the Desert Fathers:

Abbot Anastasius had a book of very fine parchment, which was worth twenty shekels. It contained both the Old and the New Testaments in full, and Anastasius read from it daily as he meditated. Once a certain monk came to visit him and, seeing the book, made off with it. The next day, when Anastasius went to his Scripture reading and found that it was gone, he knew at once that the monk had taken it. Yet he did not send after him.

Now the monk went into the city to sell the book. He wanted eighteen shekels for it. The buyer said, "Give me the book so that I may find out if it is worth that much money." With that, he took the book to the holy Anastasius and said, "Father, take a look at this and tell me if you think it is worth as much as eighteen shekels." Anastasius said, "Yes, it is a fine book. And at eighteen shekels it is a bargain."

So the buyer went back to the monk and said, "Here is your money. I showed the book to Father Anastasius and he said it was worth eighteen shekels."

The monk was stunned. "Was that all he said? Did he say nothing else?"

"No, he did not say a word more than that."

"Well, I have changed my mind and don’t want to sell the book after all."

The monk went back to Anastasius and begged him with many tears to take the book back, but Anastasius said gently, "No, brother, kept it. It is my present to you."

But the monk said, "If you do not take it back, I shall have no peace." After that the monk dwelt with Anastasius for the rest of his life. Let go of what was never yours to possess.^[4]

May we always know when to hold on, and when it is time to let go.