“20/20”
Sermon given at Brookfield Unitarian Universalist Church on Zoom
June 20, 2021
The Rev. Craig M. Nowak
Early on in my education for the ministry, I noticed there was one question that
was asked over and over of newbies from both fellow students, seminary
professors, and the many denominational and professional gatekeepers one
meets along the way. A question that when answered affirmatively, coupled with
the fact that one was still pursuing this most unusual of occupations, meant you
were serious, crazy or quite possibly both. The question, which by now you may
all be trying to imagine was, drumroll please… “Have you done CPE yet?”
What is CPE, you ask? CPE stands for Clinical Pastoral Education and it is far
more dynamic and harrowing than it sounds. It is essentially a form of internship
in which one works in a pastoral setting (often as a chaplain) and engages in
personal, peer and professional review and reflection of the work and experience
of doing the work. Most mainstream religious denominations in the United
States, including the UUA, require at least one unit, 400 hours, of CPE, of those
seeking ordination.
CPE is seen as an invaluable test of one’s potential in ministry. It is meant to
unmask all kinds of things not readily observable or measured by academic
achievement, interviews, references, psychological assessments and the like. And
that test begins pretty quickly. Within a day or two, following standard new
employee orientation to the hospital or whatever setting one is working in you’re
sent out to your respective units or floors to….
To what?
Oh yeah, to minister. But how? What exactly is it I’m supposed to do?
The nurses, doctors, phlebotomists…heck, even the food service person knows
why they’re there and what they’re supposed to do. But for the chaplain… the
minister, it’s not so clear.
No one says, go sit in silence with the grandmother on hospice and hold her hand
for a while. No one says, go stand in the corner of the room while the medical
professionals perform CPR on a father of two in the ER.
No one says, go and listen to the young woman awaiting an organ transplant talk
about her childhood in New Jersey or her labradoodle the neighbor is taking care
of for her while she’s in the hospital. And no one says to grab the doctor’s hand
and quietly shush him after he’s barged into the room to share a test result,
failing to notice or perhaps care, the patient and their family are praying.
No one says to do any of these things, nor that you should or shouldn’t. You just
do them. And, with rare exception, you're never really sure if it was the right
thing to have done. Instead you wonder if it was enough, or perhaps even too
much. Indeed, more often than many a minister might like to admit, you find
yourself, like Robbie Walsh in our first reading, driving home, envying those
other professionals who knew exactly what to do.
And so, thank God for CPE. Because the thing CPE teaches you is not what is it
that ministers are supposed to do. Instead it forces you to discover, develop, and
consult an inner authority that doesn’t come with or translate into a job title or
description. And most importantly, perhaps, as you learn to trust this authority,
you also learn that some level of uncertainty about what you’re supposed to do or
have done will be your constant companion.
In that sense ministry is perhaps closer to our experience of life outside of the
typically more clearly defined roles we may play, be it professional or otherwise.
For life, unlike the roles we play or that are imposed on us, is far more open and
uncertain than we sometimes like to admit or want to accept. Life doesn’t come
with an instruction manual. Indeed, Walsh’s reflection speaks not only to one
minister’s hunger for certainty in a particular circumstance, but to the very
human hunger for certainty, for 20/20 vision in life on a round planet.
This hunger for certainty coupled with its inexplicable elusiveness in an era of
seemingly endless and instantly available information, may explain the enduring
appeal of self-help books, advice columns, certain talk show hosts and now, blogs,
dispensing all manner of surefire ways to “hack” your life. And it may explain the
enduring appeal of the hundred plus year old poem that was our second reading
this morning, “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost.
Indeed, part of the appeal of Frost’s poem for many is that it seems to advise a
specific course of action…a formula by which we can, if not solve, then, at least
hedge our bets in the face of life’s questions and impenetrable mystery. In making
the earth round God may have limited how far ahead we can see, but Frost
appears to give us a poetic GPS to ensure we don’t make a wrong turn. All we
have to do is take the road “less traveled by.”
This understanding is often described as an especially American interpretation
given our alleged penchant for individualism over conformity. And certainly the
poem and this particular take on it has been the subject of many a sermon,
commencement address, motivational talk and the like extolling the virtue of
choosing a less traveled path.
Still, although the poet first states he took the road he did, observing it, “…having
perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear…”, or less
traveled….he later concedes, “Though as for that the passing there had worn
them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step
had trodden black.” Interestingly, Frost’s admission casts doubt on our ability to
recognize the road less traveled. Something you don’t hear in all those spirited
orations in praise of taking such a road. And even in the closing lines, when,
reflecting back, he asserts he did indeed take the road less traveled and “that has
made all the difference.” he doesn’t say whether that difference was positive or
negative. Leaving what is often heard as a no brainer formula for success
somewhat diluted. For while it may in fact be a wise decision to take a road we
discern to be one less traveled, Frost’s own words suggest that’s not the fool proof
answer to life’s questions and uncertainty that it is often touted as.
Indeed, a closer reading of “The Road Not Taken” reveals the poet seems less
focused on offering an instructive response to our desire for certainty than one
which invites us to contemplate how the way we approach, think about, and
remember our choices shapes our lives and who we understand ourselves to be.
Note, for example, the poet is aware that any choice involves potential loss of
opportunity and experience, despite our intention to make it otherwise, “Two
roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both and be one
traveler…Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to
way, I doubted if I should ever come back.” And so he weighs his options to help
arrive at a decision, “Long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where
it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair.” His choice now
made, he offers the reader his justification, “Because it was grassy and wanted
wear.” A justification that for the die hard rationalist weakens a bit, when, as we
observed earlier, the poet admits, the two roads were worn about the same.
Suggesting the difference between the two paths was more a matter of personal
perspective than objective reality.
In the now famous last stanza of the poem, Frost leaves us with what he perhaps
thought was our best hope for 20/20 vision, hindsight,
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
His words repeating the oft made observation that the meaning and significance
of our choices, both great and small, and whether they were right or wrong, is
most clearly visible through the lens of reflection, that is, after the fact.
It is said Frost wrote, “The Road Not Taken” as a joke, teasing a friend who often
had hard time making up his mind which trail to take when the two of them went
hiking. Frost seems to be aware not only of the folly of our fretting too much over
that which we cannot know, but also the perils and paralysis that can come from
spending too much time in our heads trying to decide what to do. In this he found
a kindred spirit in the person of Alan Watts, the British philosopher born in 1915,
the year Frost published “The Road Not Taken.” Watts would later write, “The
best predictions are still matters of probability rather than certainty....If, then, we
cannot live happily without an assured future, we are certainly not adapted to
living in a finite world where, despite the best plans, accidents will happen, and
where death comes at the end.”
Indeed, life changing questions and decisions, whether or not they appear or ever
come to be understood as such, are made daily, moment by moment by people all
over the world. The pandemic has unexpectedly afforded many the opportunity to
contemplate, while forcing others to confront, those decisions and the
uncertainty around them in a way they maybe haven’t before.
And while our first reading reminds us of our desire for 20/20 vision when, like
during the pandemic, the various roles and identities we usually rely upon to
inform our choices, are disturbed and Robert Frost, in our second reading,
responds by positing 20/20 vision may come later via hindsight, it is Isak
Dineson’s words from our call to worship which resonate most with me as I live
both inside and outside the formal role of minister,
“God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the
road.”
Her words resonate not because I know who or what she means by God. I don’t.
Or that the truth of her words lie in her crediting the planet’s shape to a deity.
They don’t, in my understanding. Rather the truth she names lies in the deeper
than literal assertion of her words, which is simply this, in the end we live in
mystery.
And so, while what we may want is perfect vision, now or later, what we need
most, if we are to be our most human and humane, is to let the earth be round
that we might journey onward in wisdom and with uncertainty by our side. That
is part of what it means to be a person of faith and to live our faith in and as a
community. And that is what we do as best we can here… at Brookfield Unitarian
Universalist Church. May it be so.
Amen and Blessed Be
Sermon given at Brookfield Unitarian Universalist Church on Zoom
June 20, 2021
The Rev. Craig M. Nowak
Early on in my education for the ministry, I noticed there was one question that
was asked over and over of newbies from both fellow students, seminary
professors, and the many denominational and professional gatekeepers one
meets along the way. A question that when answered affirmatively, coupled with
the fact that one was still pursuing this most unusual of occupations, meant you
were serious, crazy or quite possibly both. The question, which by now you may
all be trying to imagine was, drumroll please… “Have you done CPE yet?”
What is CPE, you ask? CPE stands for Clinical Pastoral Education and it is far
more dynamic and harrowing than it sounds. It is essentially a form of internship
in which one works in a pastoral setting (often as a chaplain) and engages in
personal, peer and professional review and reflection of the work and experience
of doing the work. Most mainstream religious denominations in the United
States, including the UUA, require at least one unit, 400 hours, of CPE, of those
seeking ordination.
CPE is seen as an invaluable test of one’s potential in ministry. It is meant to
unmask all kinds of things not readily observable or measured by academic
achievement, interviews, references, psychological assessments and the like. And
that test begins pretty quickly. Within a day or two, following standard new
employee orientation to the hospital or whatever setting one is working in you’re
sent out to your respective units or floors to….
To what?
Oh yeah, to minister. But how? What exactly is it I’m supposed to do?
The nurses, doctors, phlebotomists…heck, even the food service person knows
why they’re there and what they’re supposed to do. But for the chaplain… the
minister, it’s not so clear.
No one says, go sit in silence with the grandmother on hospice and hold her hand
for a while. No one says, go stand in the corner of the room while the medical
professionals perform CPR on a father of two in the ER.
No one says, go and listen to the young woman awaiting an organ transplant talk
about her childhood in New Jersey or her labradoodle the neighbor is taking care
of for her while she’s in the hospital. And no one says to grab the doctor’s hand
and quietly shush him after he’s barged into the room to share a test result,
failing to notice or perhaps care, the patient and their family are praying.
No one says to do any of these things, nor that you should or shouldn’t. You just
do them. And, with rare exception, you're never really sure if it was the right
thing to have done. Instead you wonder if it was enough, or perhaps even too
much. Indeed, more often than many a minister might like to admit, you find
yourself, like Robbie Walsh in our first reading, driving home, envying those
other professionals who knew exactly what to do.
And so, thank God for CPE. Because the thing CPE teaches you is not what is it
that ministers are supposed to do. Instead it forces you to discover, develop, and
consult an inner authority that doesn’t come with or translate into a job title or
description. And most importantly, perhaps, as you learn to trust this authority,
you also learn that some level of uncertainty about what you’re supposed to do or
have done will be your constant companion.
In that sense ministry is perhaps closer to our experience of life outside of the
typically more clearly defined roles we may play, be it professional or otherwise.
For life, unlike the roles we play or that are imposed on us, is far more open and
uncertain than we sometimes like to admit or want to accept. Life doesn’t come
with an instruction manual. Indeed, Walsh’s reflection speaks not only to one
minister’s hunger for certainty in a particular circumstance, but to the very
human hunger for certainty, for 20/20 vision in life on a round planet.
This hunger for certainty coupled with its inexplicable elusiveness in an era of
seemingly endless and instantly available information, may explain the enduring
appeal of self-help books, advice columns, certain talk show hosts and now, blogs,
dispensing all manner of surefire ways to “hack” your life. And it may explain the
enduring appeal of the hundred plus year old poem that was our second reading
this morning, “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost.
Indeed, part of the appeal of Frost’s poem for many is that it seems to advise a
specific course of action…a formula by which we can, if not solve, then, at least
hedge our bets in the face of life’s questions and impenetrable mystery. In making
the earth round God may have limited how far ahead we can see, but Frost
appears to give us a poetic GPS to ensure we don’t make a wrong turn. All we
have to do is take the road “less traveled by.”
This understanding is often described as an especially American interpretation
given our alleged penchant for individualism over conformity. And certainly the
poem and this particular take on it has been the subject of many a sermon,
commencement address, motivational talk and the like extolling the virtue of
choosing a less traveled path.
Still, although the poet first states he took the road he did, observing it, “…having
perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear…”, or less
traveled….he later concedes, “Though as for that the passing there had worn
them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step
had trodden black.” Interestingly, Frost’s admission casts doubt on our ability to
recognize the road less traveled. Something you don’t hear in all those spirited
orations in praise of taking such a road. And even in the closing lines, when,
reflecting back, he asserts he did indeed take the road less traveled and “that has
made all the difference.” he doesn’t say whether that difference was positive or
negative. Leaving what is often heard as a no brainer formula for success
somewhat diluted. For while it may in fact be a wise decision to take a road we
discern to be one less traveled, Frost’s own words suggest that’s not the fool proof
answer to life’s questions and uncertainty that it is often touted as.
Indeed, a closer reading of “The Road Not Taken” reveals the poet seems less
focused on offering an instructive response to our desire for certainty than one
which invites us to contemplate how the way we approach, think about, and
remember our choices shapes our lives and who we understand ourselves to be.
Note, for example, the poet is aware that any choice involves potential loss of
opportunity and experience, despite our intention to make it otherwise, “Two
roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both and be one
traveler…Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to
way, I doubted if I should ever come back.” And so he weighs his options to help
arrive at a decision, “Long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where
it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair.” His choice now
made, he offers the reader his justification, “Because it was grassy and wanted
wear.” A justification that for the die hard rationalist weakens a bit, when, as we
observed earlier, the poet admits, the two roads were worn about the same.
Suggesting the difference between the two paths was more a matter of personal
perspective than objective reality.
In the now famous last stanza of the poem, Frost leaves us with what he perhaps
thought was our best hope for 20/20 vision, hindsight,
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
His words repeating the oft made observation that the meaning and significance
of our choices, both great and small, and whether they were right or wrong, is
most clearly visible through the lens of reflection, that is, after the fact.
It is said Frost wrote, “The Road Not Taken” as a joke, teasing a friend who often
had hard time making up his mind which trail to take when the two of them went
hiking. Frost seems to be aware not only of the folly of our fretting too much over
that which we cannot know, but also the perils and paralysis that can come from
spending too much time in our heads trying to decide what to do. In this he found
a kindred spirit in the person of Alan Watts, the British philosopher born in 1915,
the year Frost published “The Road Not Taken.” Watts would later write, “The
best predictions are still matters of probability rather than certainty....If, then, we
cannot live happily without an assured future, we are certainly not adapted to
living in a finite world where, despite the best plans, accidents will happen, and
where death comes at the end.”
Indeed, life changing questions and decisions, whether or not they appear or ever
come to be understood as such, are made daily, moment by moment by people all
over the world. The pandemic has unexpectedly afforded many the opportunity to
contemplate, while forcing others to confront, those decisions and the
uncertainty around them in a way they maybe haven’t before.
And while our first reading reminds us of our desire for 20/20 vision when, like
during the pandemic, the various roles and identities we usually rely upon to
inform our choices, are disturbed and Robert Frost, in our second reading,
responds by positing 20/20 vision may come later via hindsight, it is Isak
Dineson’s words from our call to worship which resonate most with me as I live
both inside and outside the formal role of minister,
“God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the
road.”
Her words resonate not because I know who or what she means by God. I don’t.
Or that the truth of her words lie in her crediting the planet’s shape to a deity.
They don’t, in my understanding. Rather the truth she names lies in the deeper
than literal assertion of her words, which is simply this, in the end we live in
mystery.
And so, while what we may want is perfect vision, now or later, what we need
most, if we are to be our most human and humane, is to let the earth be round
that we might journey onward in wisdom and with uncertainty by our side. That
is part of what it means to be a person of faith and to live our faith in and as a
community. And that is what we do as best we can here… at Brookfield Unitarian
Universalist Church. May it be so.
Amen and Blessed Be