© Nathan L. Stone, Ph.D., minister
27 February 2005
First UU Church of Austin
4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756
www.austinuu.org
CALL TO WORSHIP
When you walked through those doors this morning – you entered a very rare world of church and religion.
A place where no thought is taboo.
A place where questions are expected… valued… and even celebrated.
A place where the most sacred things are you and this good earth.
A place where we can actually poke fun at our own religion because we know that no religion has a corner on the truth.
This, then, is my hope, my prayer, and my wish for you… and for me:
That whatever spiritual or emotional itch you may be experiencing that you will find a way to have that itch scratched by whatever happens here today in this community called First Church. And may you be surrounded by love.
May it be so.
PRAYER
Will you join with me in an attitude of prayer?
Spirit of Live… God of many, many, many names… and no name.
We pause to give thanks for a place and a people who are willing to hear and celebrate the good things in life. We pause to give thanks for a place and a people who are also willing to hear about the painful and difficult parts of our lives.
In a busy, fractured, and fearful world – may we be energized by holding hands, laughing, and dreaming big dreams.
In a busy, fractured, and fearful world – may we truly find a stillness here that will gently carry us through all of our days and nights.
In a busy, fractured, and fearful world – may we learn to go slower, to be healed of our brokenness, and to find a deep, deep love that will slowly dismiss our fears.
May we find a true harmony and serenity that knows how to accept the things we cannot change, discovers the courage to change the things we can – and the wisdom to know the difference.
This is our prayer in the name of all that is good and true and honest and beautiful.
Amen.
SERMON
I know this is a sermon about aging. And I know some of you may be saying, “I am not old!” But you will be. And, chances are – somebody you love is old. So here is a sermon dedicated to us all.
Recently I received an email story. Whoever wrote the story starts it out like this:
I have been guilty of looking at others my own age and thinking… Surely I cannot look that old. I’m sure you’ve done the same. You may enjoy this short story.
While waiting for my appointment in the reception room of a new dentist, I noticed his certificate, which bore his full name. Suddenly, I remembered that a tall, handsome boy with the same name had been in my high school class some 40 years ago. Upon seeing him, however, I quickly discarded any such thought. This balding, gray-haired man with the deeply lined face was too old to have been my classmate.
After he had examined my teeth I asked him if he had attended a local high school. “Yes,” he replied. “When did you graduate?” I asked. He answered, “In 1957.” “Why you were in my class!” I exclaimed.
He looked at me closely and then asked, “What did you teach?”
Ouch. That’s funny… not funny. The movie, “About Schmidt,” is funny… not funny. It is funny… not funny because it is about aging – which is funny… not funny.
My wife and I find ourselves having more and more conversations about our aches and pains. Recently, we even had an extended conversation (are you ready for this?) comparing – colonoscopies! That’s funny… not funny, don’t you think?
How many of you have seen “About Schmidt?” This is a movie that got my attention. If you haven’t seen it you must see it soon.
In the Los Angeles Times, Manohla Dargis writes:
“About Schmidt” opens with a 66-year-old man staring at the second hand sweeping toward the last 5 o’clock of his working life. After years as an executive in what he calls the “insurance game,” Warren Schmidt has reached the age of retirement and, like the packed boxes stacked next to him, he’s about to get junked. He’s a nowhere man at the end of his run and he might not grab your attention if not for the fact that the senior citizen with the exquisitely anguished comb-over and the potato physique is played by Jack Nicholson. (http://www.fandango.com/reviews_fullreview.asp?mv=39806)
Roger Ebert says that,
Warren Schmidt is a man without resources. He has no intellectual curiosity. May never have read a book for pleasure. Lives in a home “decorated” with sets of collector’s items accumulated by his wife, each in the display case that came with the items. On his retirement day, he is left with nothing but time on his empty hands. He has spent his entire life working at a job that could have been done by anybody, or apparently, nobody. He goes to the office to see if he can answer any questions that the new guy might have, but the new guy doesn’t. In a lifetime of work, Warren Schmidt has not accumulated even one piece of information that is needed by his replacement.
“The mass of men,” Thoreau famously observed, “lead lives of quiet desperation.” Schmidt is such a man. (http://www.suntimes.com/cgi-bin/print.cgi)
And movie critic, James Berardinelli, writes:
“About Schmidt” is an unsentimental yet effective portrait of a character struggling with the essential questions of life. Although it has moments of cynicism, this is not a cynical film. Although it contains instances of humor, it is not a comedy. And, although it contains elements of the road trip genre, it is not a road trip movie. Instead, this is an opportunity to spend two hours in the company of a fairly ordinary man who no longer understands the point of anything.
(http://www.movie-reviews.colossus.net)
And although I have never thought much about retirement the movie made me face up to my own aging. Especially in one scene where Warren Schmidt does muse on his wrinkles as the camera zooms in: the sagging skin under his chin (the inevitable gift of gravity), the hair in his ears, and the little veins in his ankles.
Speaking of hair in the ears – I declare that if all the hair in my ears would grow on top of my head I could look like Texas Governor Rick Perry. Maybe even become a televangelist.
The movie just hit too close to home. And, what’s more, I saw it on the eve of attending my 45th high school reunion in Honolulu in June. And, indeed, I kept wondering at the reunion: “Who are all these old people?”
“About Schmidt” also got to my friend, Neal Jones – a psychologist in South Carolina. He said,
Toni thought it was just ok, but it struck a deep nerve in me. Here’s this guy on the last lap of his life’s journey looking back and wondering what it was all about. He’d done everything he’s supposed to – he’s worked hard at the same company, saved, remained faithful to his wife, raised a kid. Yet the woman he met at the camper park nailed him. She could see behind his polite smile to his very soul, and she saw that he was empty, angry, lonely, and sad. That got to me. Here at mid-life I wonder what it’s all about. I’ve been a “good boy” all my life; I’ve done what I’m supposed to. Yet none of the dreams I had about my life in my twenties have come true. Have I failed, or have I just become more realistic? Am I doing what I’m “supposed” to be doing? All I know at this point is that it’s passing by mighty fast, and I still don’t know what it’s all about. (email: 01/21/03)
It is simply amazing how, all of a sudden, you’re old. They say that old is anybody who is 15 years older than you. And so I may take some comfort in finding a 79-year-old person and feeling smug about my “youth.” But at some point there are not many people 15 years older than you. I have to also realize that there’s some 49-year-old who’s looking at me and saying, “Damn, that Nathan is old!!”
Schmidt makes me wonder, “When does old happen? When does a person wake up and say, ‘Oops, I guess I’m old now!?'”
In an article entitled, “Auguries of Aging,” George Merrill shares his reflections.
I’m old now. I became old incrementally: first, at 50, when the American Association of Retired Persons notified me that I was eligible for membership and then at 65, when, at my regional Social Security Office, seated under the portrait of a cherubic, boyish looking President Bill Clinton, I applied to receive benefits. Finally, days after my last birthday, when I attended my fiftieth high school reunion, I knew the deal was clinched.
Old is a fickle word: it’s revered and feared. Americans love anything old: antiquing is a national sport and genealogies are hot. No collector wants a “senior” butter churn or a “mature” eighteenth century bed warmer. He wants it old, the older the better. The word old, like the word dead, isn’t necessarily problematic, except as it may refer to us.
The dead don’t want to be thought old, either. Obituaries are often accompanied with pictures of the deceased. Seeing only the pictures I’d think everyone died between forty and fifty. Most were upwards of sixty. For anyone sixty-five and up and not sure whether they’re old, looking at the photograph from your most recent driver’s license helps. Two things happen: the image you see never squares with the one you have in your mind’s eye, and it gets more difficult kidding yourself about age.
Am I uneasy about being an old man? Yes. I resent the diminishments and vulnerability. I’m embarrassed when my mind goes blank when reaching for people’s names. I’ve experienced my first arthritic pains: they’re like electric shocks. At doctor’s appointments, now, entering the office feels like walking the last mile. Young women regard me with respect, but not desire.
As a young clergyman, I enjoyed visiting the elderly on Manhattans’ West Side. I’d get my parishioners talking about the old days, the world of their youth. It was wonderful hearing their stories. They’d invariably interrupt their narrative to launch into what I then callously called “organ recitals.” These were detailed accounts of aches and pains in various body parts and commentaries on operations they’d undergone. My parishioners would recite names from the obituaries, asking me if I knew them. I’d grow impatient, and try to change the conversation. I was rarely successful. Age evens the score: where they were then, so I am, now.
It’s disturbing being old in our throwaway culture. (“Journeys” – Winter-Spring 2003; p.2)
The sad thing about Warren Schmidt is that he, apparently, never thought about anything beyond his small world. After his retirement and in his sense of emptiness and confusion he tries to reach outside his world by responding to a TV appeal called, “Childreach.” He decides to send them $22 a month (only 72-cents a day!) for a 6-year-old Tanzanian child named Ndugu. “Childreach” sends him a picture of Ndugu and asks Warren to write and tell the little boy about himself.
For what seems like the first time in his life Warren Schmidt tries talking about his insides – and, it is clear, he has very little to say. In 66 years Warren Schmidt seems to have never, or perhaps rarely, visited his insides. I read in some review that Warren’s soul desperately needed a squirt of oil desperately.
My brother – who works very hard – hated this movie. “Nathan,” he said, “I do not want to be like that. I don’t want to retire and realize I did not invest in anything beyond my paycheck. I do not want the end of my professional career to be a perfunctory retirement dinner and a Winnebago in my driveway. I do not want to come to the end of my professional career and try to make life worth while by sending $22 a month (only 72-cents a day!”) to “Childreach” and writing to an absentee foster child named Ndugu.
Schmidt got to him because he rarely, if ever, visits his insides.
“About Schmidt” is a haunting movie. I think it should be required viewing for all teenagers. And then we should all have to watch it every two years.
I do not want the Schmidt-syndrome to sneak up on me. So I’ve made myself a list of reminders. Things to do to avoid a Schmidt-life.
1. Remember to read… and read a lot. Read in order to live in a very big world of knowledge and insight. Read to keep your mind alert.
2. Remember to travel. Get out and beyond my little 40 acres of life. See how the rest of the world lives. Go now and find some Ndugu while I still have time and energy. Go now and find some Ndugu before I get calloused, set in my ways, and my heart becomes two sizes too small!
3. Remember to hang out with people who like to think and discuss world events and big ideas.
One of the ways I do that these days is that I have lunch once a week with a bunch of old guys. I call it “The Geezer Lunch.” I learn so much from all that geezer-wisdom.
4. Remember to cultivate friendships. I must thank Pat for pushing me in this regard. Left to my own introverted and sometimes depressive devices I’d be alone most of the time. But Pat believes in making friends, developing friends, and nurturing friendships… so that your life doesn’t become insulated and isolated. So that you don’t end up like Warren Schmidt: a wife, a Winnebago, and a daughter who lives far away and doesn’t like you very much.
5. Remember to keep an eye on your attitude. See – this is how it works. If you’re grouchy now – you’ll only get grouchier in a nursing home. If you’re a whiner now you’ll whine much, much more when you’re old-old.
The 92-year-old, petite, well-poised and proud lady, who is fully dressed each morning by eight o’clock, with her hair fashionably coifed and makeup perfectly applied, even though she is legally blind, moved to a nursing home today. Her husband of 70 years recently passed away, making the move necessary.
After many hours of waiting patiently in the lobby of the nursing home, she smiled sweetly when told her room was ready. As she maneuvered her walker to the elevator, I provided a visual description of her tiny room, including the eyelet sheets that had been hung on her window. “I love it,” she stated with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old having just been presented with a new puppy.
“Mrs. Jones, you haven’t seen the room… just wait.” “That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she replied. “Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time. Whether I like my room or not doesn’t depend on how the furniture is arranged… it’s how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love it. It’s a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have a choice: I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and be thankful for the ones that do. Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open I’ll focus on the new day and all the happy memories I’ve stored away. (source unknown)
I’m sure there are a bunch of other things that can be done to avoid the Schmidt-syndrome but I’ll just mention one more.
6. Remember to get a dog. I saw “About Schmidt” four times and I was struck that there was no dog in his life. A dog would have taught him to get outside of himself.
I must admit that before I met Pat I had no dog in my life. (Uh, that is not a good sentence but I think you know what I mean. I hope Pat knows what I mean). But now I have Lani. And how I do love that silly girl. We rescued her. She is part Retriever and part Burmese Mountain Dog (we think). She weighs 85 pounds and is barely a year old.
Shee teaches me so very many things. When I get into one of my pity-parties and I’m pouting around wanting someone to pet me – here comes Lani to nudge my arm until I pet her. She makes me get out of myself.
And then there’s our other dog, Yellow. (She died not too long ago.) She was a thousand years old with really bad arthritis, tumors everywhere, and dying of congestive heart failure. But she never complained and her tail continued to wag even into the final visit with the Veterinarian. Yellow taught me to embrace the passage of time – to age – and to die with dignity and grace. Yellow was a kind of spiritual director for me.
I read a poem recently. A poem by Mary Oliver. It is a fine anti-Schmidt poem:
“When Death Comes”
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
(New and Selected Poems; Beacon Press: Boston, Massachusetts; 1992; pp.10-11)
I do not want to be a visitor to life. I do not want to be Warren Schmidt.
I want to be Kathy Bates – her name is Roberta in the movie. She’s about Warren’s age. Her presence, in contrast to Schmidt’s – her presence just fills up the screen. When old age and death come I want to be Roberta : naked in a hot tub next to a frightened and bewildered Warren Schmidt. When old age and death come I want to be Roberta – who approaches life hungrily and with good cheer and who can’t stop talking about how sensuous and “orgasmic” (her word!) she is.
When old age and death come – I want to be Roberta. What about you?
Shalom. Aloha. Salaam. Namaste. Amen. Blessed Be. And I love you all.
BENEDICTION
The bene-diction: the good word as we go our ways –
Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-prepared body… but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! What a ride!!”
[Hug somebody if they’ll allow it. Remember that Virginia Satir used to say that we need at least 3 hugs a day just to survive. 12 in order to flourish!]
