The Rev. Joshua Mason Pawelek
Unitarian Universalist Society: East
Manchester, CT
Easter Morning, April 16th, 2006
“The silver swan who, living, had no note, when death approach’d, unlock ‘d her silent throat. Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, thus sang her first and last, and sang no more. Farewell all joys, O death, come close mine eyes; more geese than swans now live, more fools than wise”—words of unknown authorship, set to the music of Orlando Gibbons and performed here this morning. “The silver swan who, living, had no note.” Strange words for Easter morning, I suppose.
There’s an apparent cynicism—even pessimism—in these words: “more geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.” Strange words for Easter morning. “Death, come close mine eyes.”
Strange words unless we understand them in their unconventionality. Strange words unless we understand them as a lament and a criticism. Strange words unless we understand them as a statement about how not to live and, thus, how not to die. The swan lives a “noteless” life until death draws near, then sings, then dies. This is how not to live and, thus, how not to die. This is not the path of wisdom. This is the path of foolishness. And, unfortunately, from the author’s perspective, it is the path far too commonly chosen. “More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”
In the enduring words of the great Transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau, the words with which we began our worship this morning, “I wish to learn what life has to teach, and not, when I come to die, discover that I have not lived. I do not wish to live what is not life, living is so dear…. I wish to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”
Each of us has a vision for our lives. Each of us has passion. And so often, for so many reasons, so many of us find ways not to proclaim our vision and not to fulfill our passion. We easily find excuses not to do what we really want to do. Is there something you’ve been meaning to say—needing to say—something you know is true but you haven’t yet found the words? Is there artistry to your life you haven’t yet plumbed? Is there great novel in you? Is there a great painting in you? Is there spirit in you still, after all these years, waiting to be set free? Is there a song you long to sing? Is there a dance you long to dance? Is there love you long to profess? Is there a life you long to live? When faced with the certain knowledge of our deaths, what are we waiting for? Why wait to sing?
This is Easter morning, and I don’t believe in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. But I recognize that he lived. And when I see, “he lived,” I don’t mean that scholars have documented his existence through extra-scriptural attestations. I mean he lived deep and sucked out all the marrow of life. I mean he lived outwardly the love he felt in his heart for his God and for humanity. He said what he wanted to say. He challenged who he wanted to challenge. He lived how he wanted to live, with integrity and grace. He would not be untrue to himself even when facing execution at the behest of the Roman authorities. He did not live a noteless life. He did not wait to sing.
This is Easter morning, and I don’t believe in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. But I believe in resurrection. I bear witness to the reality that we human beings, throughout the course of our lives, make compromises we don’t need to make; remain silent when we feel the need to speak; make excuses for not following our dreams; put up with more abuse than we ought to; look the other way in the midst of oppression more often than we ought to; sell ourselves short more often than we ought to; let ourselves grow tired from tasks we don’t really need or want to be doing; carry burdens we don’t need to be carrying; bear grudges we don’t need to be bearing; neglect our bodies when we should be nurturing them. All of this is like the silver swan who, only “when death approach’d unlock’d her silent throat.” All of this is the path of foolishness. All of this is an affront to life. But I believe in resurrection. I believe, in the midst of being like the silver swan, we can come back to our true selves, proclaim our true selves, unleash our true selves. We can open our hearts, unbridle our heats, set free our hearts. We can experience resurrection, the rebirth of spirit, the rebirth of soul, the rebirth of life in us. We can live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. We do not have to wait to sing. We can sing now.
We recently lost a dear elder of our congregation, Penny Johnson. Many of you knew her. Penny was no silver swan. She lived that path of wisdom. You could hear it at the end of a beautiful piece of music or a sermon she liked. “Yes,” she would say. “Yes,” that unwavering Penny Johnson affirmation of life. You could hear it in her “amens.” You could hear it in her claim to be an old fundamentalist. You could hear it in her joyful proclamations about this congregation. You could see it in her smiling eyes. “Yes.” Penny wasn’t just alive. Penny lived. And thus I believe in resurrection. I believe that no matter how far we diverge from our true selves, no matter how much we compromise, no matter how down we feel, no matter how far we fall, we can come back. Like spring, we can return. Like the red squirrels that got under Thoreau’s cabin at Walden Pond, we can arrive. Like the “marsh hawk, sailing low over the meadow…already seeking the first slimy life that awakes,” we can soar. Just as “the grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire…as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun,” we can rise again. We can come back, as Thoreau said, “our human life but dies down to its root, and still puts forth its green blade to eternity.” No more silver swans. Let us choose not to wait. Let us choose to sing now. Let us choose to live now.
Amen and Blessed Be.
Alas for those who never sing
But die with all the music in them.
Quotes in this paragraph are from Thoreau, Henry David, Walden (New York: New American Library, 1960) pp. 206-207.
