.

Sermon Index

OF PRIDE AND WORK

by the Reverend John Parker Manwell
at the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore
on the 2nd of September 2001

Reading

Labor Day is upon us again. For a century now, our country has declared a holiday on this weekend in September in honor of what we used to call "the working man." It is fitting that we should do so. It is fitting that on this weekend, we should reflect on the value and meaning of work in our lives.

Our reading this morning comes from the pen of Scott Russell Sanders, an essayist and teacher whose new book, The Force of Spirit, includes a chapter on work. He writes:

Early in his marriage my father built furniture for a living, mainly chairs and beds B because everybody likes to sit down, he told me, and everybody has to sleep.... While I was growing up I spend hundreds of hours with him...learning the use of tools, breathing sawdust....
Time and again I watched my father turn piles of lumber into tables, closets, jewelry boxes, stools.... As an apprentice to my father, I worked my way up from sweeping the floor to whittling boy boats, from turning walnut bowls on a lathe to cobbling together doghouses out of scrap.
One summer during high school I got my first chance to help build real houses when a local contractor hired me for his crew Over the course of that summer the contractor taught me how to imagine every step from a hole in the ground to a finished house, and he began teaching me how to build what I had imagined.... Years later I would need every bit of that knowledge to help finish the house in which my parents retired; I would need it to restore the rundown house that [my wife] Ruth and I bought in town, and then to repair the house my mother bought near us after my father died; and I need that knowledge now to help...turn the empty husk of [the ramshackle cabin which Ruth and I bought on our wooded country] land into a [place] of grace and light....
While I never became a carpenter, I learned a great deal about the meaning of good work from building houses and helping my father in his shop, and I carried those lessons with me into the trade I did eventually take up, that of writing. I came to believe that a writer, like a carpenter, ought to make useful and durable things, with a respect for materials and craft, and with an eye for beauty. As in carpentry, so in writing one ought to make tight joints and clean lines, avoiding showy ornaments and cheap tricks. No matter how polished the surface of your work, there ought to be substance underneath.... You ought to give to the work the best you have, without holding back and the work ought to give you, in turn, the pleasure of exercising your full strength and knowledge and skill....
If work is going to fill our souls and not merely our bank accounts, then it should serve a real human need. It should offer nourishment or shelter...knowledge or consolation, instead of gimmicks or gadgets or sops for our vanity. Good work leaves the world enriched and not diminished. It honors raw materials¾ wood or words, petroleum or steel by using them sparingly and honestly.... By inviting us to give ourselves entirely to the task, it relives us for a time from egotism and greed. Good work allows us to express our beliefs as well as our talents, and thus to play our small part in sustaining the Creation.

Sermon

In June, at our General Assembly, in Cleveland, Phyllis attended a workshop led by Scott Russell Sanders, author of this morning's reading. I was next door, attending one led by Diana Eck, from whom we shall hear on some other Sunday. Both are favorite authors, and we brought back each one's latest book, duly autographed.

Sanders, as you may remember, teaches at the University of Indiana at Bloomington. As a boy, he lived close to the land, learning the names and habits of every plant and animal on the family farm in northern Ohio. Perhaps the fact that the farm was later submerged by a Corps of Engineers flood control reservoir helps explain his passion, in later life, for putting down roots. He immerses himself in the history and culture of his state, visiting and writing about its historic quarries, and even on the hottest summer day, he rejoices in returning to his rich Indiana farmland, where he can smell the grasses and cherish the crops and farms. He knows his city, and his neighbors, too, and can identify the kind of wood in every part of his house, leaving it unpainted so that he can savor the grain.

When this morning I speak of pride and work, it is this sense of personal relationship I mean. Not the pride of superiority, but of deep satisfaction and rootedness.

There was a time when many more people made their livelihood with their hands. They could take pride in the immediate product of their work¾ a pair of shoes, a well-formed barrel; a loaf of bread or a piece of furniture. Though always there is menial work, perhaps then it was easier to see its value when those it served were closer at hand.

Yet even if our work is but part of something much greater, it is easier¾ when we are building a cathedral to find satisfaction. We can take pride not just in work well done, but in the lasting value of the structure for generations yet to come. It is not so easy when we are bolting wheels onto an endless succession of automobiles passing by on an assembly line, or writing invisible computer code, and still less when we are making cold calls to sell penny stocks or vinyl siding (or maybe in our beloved Baltimore, converting others to the joy of a rowhouse newly sheathed with formstone).

Truly, our goal, for all of society, must be an abiding soul-satisfaction in work to which we feel called. Yet we are far from being a society in which everyone has such luxury. When we are young, we often do not know ourselves well enough to know what will give us satisfaction and what will deaden our souls and our culture tells us that what matters most is money.

On this Labor Day, I want to speak especially to those of us who feel stuck in work that does not satisfy, or worse, have at last retired from such work and must weigh the value of our lives and find a more meaningful future.

As we struggle to come to terms with our past, I begin with a reminder that we must look at our lives as a whole, and not just at our paid work. We are not just what we do, or did, from 9 to 5 each day. We are workers, yes, but also children to our parents and parents to our children. We are lovers, spouses, partners, and friends. We are volunteers and givers, of both our time and our money. We are colleagues and neighbors, teachers and exemplars, counselors and mentors. And just as important we are not only what we do, but how we do it. We are persons, whole persons who simply by who we are make a difference in our own and in each other's lives.

Another favorite writer, Kent Nerburn, in a passage I have read before, spoke sadly of a man who had told him how miserable he was as a factory worker, how eagerly he looked forward to his retirement. Had he considered looking for other work? Nerburn asked. "Oh no," said the man. "I have too much invested in my benefits. But you wait just 13 more years to freedom!"

Only we as individuals can judge the trade-offs between misery and far-off "security." But sometimes it can help us to be reminded that we really do have choices, that money isn't everything. That life is insecure, and we might not live for 13 years. That a satisfying life in the here and now may be worth some risks, even a change in our standard of living. You and I know members of this congregation, some perhaps here today, who have overcome their fears, and switched to work that paid less but now gives them joy and meaning.

We know others who have found that joy and meaning in some volunteer activity, harnessing their gifts to serving human needs or reform our social structures.

Even if in the end we decide for the sake of our loved ones that we can't take the chance of changing our work, and we don't have the time or freedom to find joy in what we do outside of the workplace, what would happen if we instead look for ways to reduce our misery in our boring or oppressive jobs? If the worker in Nerburn's story had challenged himself to reflect on the value of the cars he built and had begun to imagine real people who need safe and reliable transportation, he might have found more meaning in his work.

We may also feel less victimized as we discipline ourselves to concentrate on our fellow workers and others in our lives: on listening to their stories, helping them out, remembering their birthdays, just smiling and laughing with them, "making their days."

I have worked with people who did good work, but found it unsatisfying, sometimes hated it. They'd have rather done something else, if only they could figure out what. In fact, I know something about such feelings from my own long failure to come to terms with who I really was, to face the fact that I really did have choices. I did not cultivate the art of listening to my life.

I have contemplated the work that others do, work that all of us need done, and wondered how they live with it those who collect our trash; those who use jackhammers and smooth hot tar on our highways; those who work precariously on steep roofs in the hot sun or in dark places far under our streets; those who wring the necks of chickens and clean and pack them for us to fry or barbecue; those who stoop all day to pick strawberries or mushrooms for our enjoyment; or those who strip lead paint from bundled-up bridges or spray insecticide on trees. (I survived such a job once for a week as a student until, thank goodness, I was fired.)

Often such workers have little choice, thanks to the inequities of class and education and immigration and, sometimes, genetics. There is much we can do when we have to, unpleasant as it may be. But still I wonder how such workers avoid bitterness, alienation, or addiction.

When we are stuck in demeaning or dangerous work, or brutal or boring conditions, may we remember for whom we are working. Not just ourselves, most often, but for family for those we love. Also, sometimes, as a foundation for our own future, especially if we are immigrants who must struggle to establish ourselves in a society all to ready to exploit our vulnerability. And it can help to reflect on what we can learn from our situation, even as we suffer. Lessons, perhaps of empathy for those around us and appreciation for life's unsung workers.

It can help, also, to imagine ourselves far away, looking at our lives from a distant planet, as it were, taking the long view in an effort to detach ourselves from victimhood. I am speaking now not of justice but survival. It can help to reframe our situation by seeing both our ultimate contribution to society, imagining real people who will benefit from our work; and viewing our experience in the context of our whole lives, as "guest workers" must who send money back home to help their families and lay a foundation for their own return even when they are earning only menial wages.

Most especially, it can help to connect with those with whom we work, looking for the best in them and offering mutual support in a situation of common hardship. And, if we can, it can help to make connections outside of our work in the community, in church, in recreation, and in service. This can take our minds off our work and add meaning to our lives.

But what if we are already retired? We will never know the answer to the nagging question of what might have been if we had chosen differently. But still we can do two things. We can look again at our former lives, trying to see their value to our families. We can remember the generations of mothers trapped in poverty, who have spent their lives taking in wash or cleaning houses, so that their children, at least, might have a better future. Few of us have had to sacrifice this much, but some of our parents have. No matter how dissatisfying our working lives, we like them can find satisfaction in the future our children may have, as a result of our perseverance.

As we look back, we can help ourselves by accepting who we have been, mistakes and all. Few of us, no matter how satisfying our lives, are free of all regret. Always, with the benefit of hindsight, we could have made better choices. But that is who we are. We must learn to forgive ourselves and let go of our regret, if we are to free ourselves from the trap of blame and take charge of whatever time is left to us.

There is a story. Perhaps you've heard it. It's about a man who died

and found himself in a beautiful place, surrounded by every conceivable comfort. A white-jacketed man came to him and said, You may have anything you choose: any food, any pleasure, any kind of entertainment. The man was delighted, and for days he sampled all the delicacies and experiences of which he had dreamed on earth.
But one day he grew bored and, calling the attendant to him, he said, I'm tired of all this. I need something to do. What kind of work can you give me? The attendant sadly shook his head and replied, I'm sorry, sir. That's the one thing we can't do for you. There is no work here for you. To which the man answered, That's a fine thing. I might as well be in hell. The attendant answered softly, Where do you think you are?

We need something to do with our lives, something that gives us purpose and satisfaction. We need rest and pleasure too, but they cannot substitute.

May we come to see the value of the work we have done, even if we wish we had done something different or something more. May we forgive ourselves and move on to fill our remaining days with work that gives us pride.

May it be our life's work to make our love visible.

Benediction

When you work, said Kahlil Gibran,

you fulfill a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,
and in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,
and to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret.

May we find our place in life's great dream.

May we bring our love to all we do.

May we become intimate with life's inmost secret.

Sources:

Scott Russell Sanders, The Force of Spirit, Boston: Beacon Press, 2000:

Gary Phillips. "Faith at Work, Faith in Life." Christian Ministry, May-June 1997

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet