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Sermon Index

WINDOWS

by the Reverend Phyllis L. Hubbell
at the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore
on the 23rd of September 2001

Windows are the focus of much of this service. Late in life, Marc Chagall turned his artistic talents to stained glass, mosaics, and tapestries. The 12 stained glass windows he created in 1960 to 61 for the Hadassah-Hebrew University hospital synagogue in Jerusalem comprise one of his most famous works. In turn, the "flowing colors" and "burning forms" of these famous windows inspired composer Petr Eben to write pieces based on four of these windows, three of which we hear this morning. Finally, this morning celebrates the restoration of the first of our own Tiffany stained glass windows.

Most windows allow us to watch the world go by. Motorcycles and cars with noisy mufflers, people walking their dogs, and great, green leafy trees. If we look up as we drive along, sometimes we can see in. But while plain New England meeting houses and modern churches in the woods may provide windows on the world, our stained glass windows instead let in only color and light, shutting out for an hour the sights of the city. Here, all can sit for an hour or so, surrounded by beauty, the peoples cathedral. This is our church. Our temple. Our mosque. These are our Tiffany windows. This organ belongs to all of us. Here, the poorest among us owns a cathedral. Here, we leave our broken world to be surrounded by beauty, surrounded by music, eyes drawn to the lights so high above our heads. Here, we come to be renewed and restored.

These last two weeks have left us devastated. Where do we find hope in a world that can break our hearts in an instant? I have struggled with that question fresh these last few weeks. I have no easy answer for you. Fred Craddock tells the story of a woman interned in a Nazi prison camp during World War II. Her life was brutal beyond anything we have ever known. She was exhausted, hungry. She was depressed and angry. Yet every day, as she was marched to work, she saw red petunias in the window box of a house she passed. Those flowers gave her a tiny ray of hope that beauty existed¾ even here. That someone cared about beauty¾ even here. Then she learned that it was the commandant of that terrible place that owned that house. It was he, or perhaps his wife, who loved beauty. It was the devil and not God who had planted those flowers.

I do not believe we can look at history, our history or the history of the world and believe in easy hope. Petr Eben, our composer this morning, was interned at Buchenwald for 2 years. We all know the big names¾ Cambodia, Ruanda, South Africa, Mozambique, Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot, slavery, the genocide of the Native Americans, and on and on sand on. The list is too long. The enormity of what I can only call evil is hard to take in. The dreadful potential of the alternatives available to the least of us for unspeakable destruction can destroy our spirits. We do not know the future. We do know our past. Whatever God may be, it does not prevent the good from suffering. And some are crushed by their burdens.

It is time to join with Job in raging against god.

And yet. And yet

These past two weeks, I have walked around with a heaviness in my soul. Yet each time I have sat down with one or more of you, it has lifted¾ Im not sure I can yet say it¾ my hopes. There is something steadfast in my soul. Something that responds to all of you and all of us everywhere who continue the work. From those prisoners in Louisiana who gave all their 5 dollar Christmas presents from the state, to the fireman marching up 50 floors¾ "even as the building moaned and ... cracks spread."¾ to you, my friends, working to keep our hard-won legislation that ensures equal rights for everyone in Maryland, waiting in line for 6 hours to give blood, stanching gunshot wounds in this city and in far-off countries, teaching and tutoring in the schools of Baltimore, baking casseroles for the hungry, planting gardens that bring neighbors together, defending children and those on death row, bringing hope to those in prison, going yourselves to prison for peace, working in these and other small and not-so-small ways to keep dreams alive.

We need to do the work of justice. We need to do the work of mercy. We need to do the work of reconciliation. We need to do the work of peace¾ whether or not there is a happy ending. It is in the work that what I call God lies hiding. It is in the work that we reconnect with something more than ourselves. It is in the work that we may rediscover hope. But whether we find hope or not, it is in the work that we may find a core of peace. The holy exists in acts of creation. It grows strong in acts of healing. The hope I find exists not so much in what the future may bring, but in knowing that I am not alone. In knowing that goodness beyond my imagination exists in people all over this world. That courage more than I think resides in me, resides in my sisters and brothers. That in their courage, I may find strength beyond my own.

What we have is today. What we have is one another. What we have is this church. This religious community, dedicated to the search for justice and compassion.

These last two weeks, millions of people around the world have discovered or rediscovered the importance of church, or temple, or mosque. There are other places to worship. At home. In a field. But it is here that we come together. It is here that we are reminded that goodness exists. It is here that we are reminded that we do make a difference. In the beauty of this sanctuary. Surrounded by our ancestors. In this place made holy by the work and the dreams of generations.

The sun is shining through our windows this morning. This church provides us a window to our souls by sending color and light and warmth. It restores our souls. Our cup runneth over. We have so much. We are so blessed.

This church calls us to greatness. May we support the work of this church.

The holy calls us to courage and generosity. May we answer that call. May we follow our dreams.

United in our desire for mercy and justice. One in our hope for peace.

For our children. For all of our children.