On Loneliness
Reading and sermon preached by Reverend Carolyn Patierno
May 21, 2006

From Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

I had a dream once that Boughton and I were down at the river looking around in the shallows for something or other - when we were boys it would have been tadpoles – and my grandfather stalked out of the trees in that furious way he had, scooped his hat full of water, and threw it, so a sheet of water came sailing toward us, billowing in the air like a veil, and fell off into the trees again and left us standing there in that glistening river, amazed at ourselves and shining like the apostles. I mention this because it seems to me transformations just that abrupt do occur in this life, and they occur unsought and unawaited, and they beggar your hopes and your deserving. This came to my mind as I was reflecting on the day I first saw your mother, that blessed, rainy Pentecost.

She came in during the first prayer and sat in the last pew and looked up at me, and from that moment hers was the only face I saw. That morning something began that felt to me as if my soul was being teased out of my body, and that’s a fact.

Years ago a friend of mine – one who I love dearly – got married. It was a happy day. She was 29 years old and the wedding followed a whirlwind courtship. Very romantic. A few short months after the happy day, she called me crying so hard she could barely speak. The story eventually came. There had been a quarrel – a monster-sized quarrel, in fact – one that left her feeling pretty desolate. She concluded, “I thought that once I was married, I’d never be lonely again.”

I was taken aback when she said this, finally. I had suspected that she had been lonely prior to her marriage but I wouldn’t have imagined its depth. I was also vaguely surprised that she thought that being married would forever banish feelings of loneliness.

I have a feeling that very few people manage to move through their lives free of loneliness. I include in this hunch people in all circumstances of relationship: the unhappily married and the happily married alike … people who live alone whether by choice or by circumstance … young with presumably much of life ahead … old with much of life behind … people in cities and in the country. New parents with babies and young children … parents of teenagers … parents of grown children living far away. Men and women. I really do think that very few people manage to move through their lives free of loneliness.

What makes for loneliness? A hundred thousand things. Here’s a few: being misunderstood. An inability or fear to bring all of who we are to the table. Dramatic changes in our lives: illness, death, breaks in relationship, moving to new place.

Why is loneliness such a prevailing condition? I think fear is at the bottom of it. Fear of finding what lurks the bottom of the loneliness. Fear of reaching out beyond the loneliness. Fear of finally mustering the courage to reach out beyond only to then be rejected. Fear of others’ perceptions should they come to know that we are lonely or grieving.

For many reasons, ministry is a lonely vocation. I began to get really clear about this about two years ago when quite spontaneously and to my own surprise, I shared this feeling at a ministers’ retreat. There were nods of recognition all around. And then last summer I was invited to contribute an essay to a collection to be written by “a new generation of UU ministers.” I was flattered to have been asked even though the topic I was asked explore was loneliness and professional ministry.

I couldn’t do it. I tried. I wrote a first draft but I was too quip-py. There is nothing quip-py about loneliness. Over the course of several months, I just couldn’t get back to the writing for every possible reason – all of them legit but none of them really the truth. Finally, I had to let it go.

I realize now that I was afraid. I was afraid that any one of you might eventually read that essay and become afraid or sorry for me. And I was afraid of being identified as the lonely minister as opposed to the minister who was writing from a (perceived) position of strength. I realize now that both of these fears were human, yes, but unwarranted. In reflecting on the matter of loneliness, I have come to understand that what you would have seen in that essay, had I written it, was a kind of reflection of your own life.

Because apparently, loneliness is a fact of life. Better we should accept that, I think. Better that we not enter into relationships believing that the relationship will forever banish loneliness because eventually, it does creep into our muscles and stays for awhile.

And then, blessedly, sometimes there is a reprieve. “One tender moment’s reprieve from loneliness can illuminate a life.” Said New York Times film critic, Steven Holden, in a review of Brokeback Mountain. That line was the inspiration for this sermon. At a particularly low moment those two years ago, a friend of mine had the good sense to send me a copy of Marilynne Robinson’s novel, Gilead, along with a note. My life was thus illuminated, I felt a reprieve in that note – in the care I received from my friend who wrote something like this: “This letter is from someone who really admires you. I think you are very special, and I just want you to know how lucky I feel to have such a true and dear friend as you. All my love …” **

And as well, it was a reprieve born of the message I so needed to sink my heart into … a message so lovingly and beautifully written by Robinson.

The book is written from the point of view of an elderly pastor. It is a letter to his young son – one he imagines the boy will read once he is grown and his father has died. He writes about the ministry, his life, his family and yes, he writes about the loneliness he’s experienced at times. But he says something finally that requires our witness. He writes:

As you read this, I hope you will understand that when I speak of the long night that preceded these days of my happiness, I do not remember grief and loneliness so much as I do peace and comfort – grief, but never without comfort; loneliness, but never without peace. Almost never.

If loneliness and grief, too, are facts of the human condition, than so is it possible that each be balanced with comfort and peace. I think that in most circumstances, achieving this balance need not be too complicated. For ourselves, we may learn to distinguish loneliness from solitude and embrace the latter. Grief – well, grief is certainly linked to loneliness but for now, it must be a matter for another day.

Loneliness yearns for an antidote that says, “I see who you are.” or “I can handle the secret you’ve held for too long.” or “I will try to understand what you need.” or “I won’t laugh.” or “The same thing happened to me.” These help to achieve a balance.

And as described by John Ames, sometimes the reprieve comes through abrupt transformations unsought and unawaited, that beggar your hopes and your deserving. You have likely had such an experience in your life and if you have (and I hope you have) you never forget it as one does not forget such brilliant and seemingly sudden illumination. Indeed these moments are likely to sustain us when we are once again haunted by loneliness. We remember that it lifts and hopefully, find the strength to make it so.

For those of us who choose to place ourselves in the realm of congregational life, we choose to be for others such an antidote. Our task is to face loneliness – our own and that of others – and to offer salve in the rough places. We can begin by accepting an existential truth: this sanctuary welcomes the lonely each Sunday morning. That on any given Sunday when we pass the peace there are inevitably some who feel precious little peace and a good dose of loneliness. Hopefully, these feelings are comforted in the act of worship only to then be amplified in the community room after services and during coffee hour. How many long time All Souls members have looked around the community room during coffee hour and thought, “I used to know every one in the room. Who are all these people?” How many a visitor has looked around and thought, “I don’t know a soul in the room. Who are all these people?” New comer and long time member alike asking, “How will they come to know me? How will I come to know them?”

A week before my daughter, Lily Jun, was to begin kindergarten, I noticed that she was becoming increasingly nervous. We talked until she was able to articulate her fear, “No one will know that my name is Lily Jun.” She was anticipating her loneliness – a loneliness we all feel in a place that is new and unknown. As most places are new and unknown, the chances of feeling lonely are pretty high – whether you are in kindergarten or at the senior center.

So let’s try this: in the week ahead, assume that everyone with whom you cross paths is experiencing loneliness in some way and for some reason. Lost longing to be found. How will you be the grace that helps to lead them home? How will you tap into the amazing grace of this beautiful and bewildering life to tend to your own loneliness?

Let’s start here: let’s banish some fear. Let’s pass the peace. Let’s offer tidings of comfort and joy to others and to our own selves.

May it be so. Amen.

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