Sermons
"Sitting, Breathing, Waiting"
May we sit and wait—and know that you are God; in your Holy Name we pray.
Amen.
(please be seated)
Good Morning!
Have you ever had the experience,
the intimate, holy experience
of being with someone as they die?
Terrence Patrick McHugh
—Terry McHugh.
Some of you knew Terry,
some of you have heard of him,
and others have glanced upon his name
on the small plaque
on the East Wall
of the parish hall.
Terry was a gardener,
& chalice bearer and vestry member,
a teacher, a proud gay man who died of AIDS.
I remember the call
coming to my house
in the pre-dawn moments
of Sunday Morning, October 5, 1995.
The good people from Chicago House
called to tell me that Terry had begun to die.
I, in turn,
called several of his friends from the congregation
and we went to over to his room,
to anoint him,
pray with him and say goodbye to him.
I stayed for two hours or so,
we prayed,
we cried and then I left the others
to finish my sermon and lead the Sunday morning worship services,
to baptize Terry’s godchild (—Maggie D’Allessio.)
Later on that afternoon
parishioners called me
to come back and take their place.
I went.
I sat in Terry’s room,
holding his hand,
crying and praying and waiting.
What remember of that afternoon,
I remember vividly,
because on that day, time changed.
It slowed down and altered its pace.
I became acutely aware of transitioning from one distinct moment to the next.
More than ten years later
that afternoon still stands out.
I can still hear his shallow, ragged breathing
with a mantra of its own.
In and out. In and out.
It was only the two of us—
visited occasionally by old friends
coming to say good bye.
I remember that the final credits of the sit com
“Mad about You” were rolling on the television
as Terry
took his last breath.
Terry always had the TV on
—even when I’d give him communion
so it seemed improper to turn it off on this day
—for I was sure its noise and laugh tracks
would continue to keep him company as he transitioned from this life to the next.
I remember the pork roast,
the buttered zucchini squash
and scalaped potatoes I had
in the Chicago House Kitchen twenty minutes after Terry died.
I remember the low-brow production company
that was filming that night at All Saints
—an off-beat science fiction film
about a Mexican Woman
visited by the Madonna in a space ship…
Iremember what episode was on “Mad about You.”
It’s the one where
Paulie and Helen rent a parking place
in a city garage—because its such a deal
—even though they do not own a car.
I remember hoping to God
that someone else would make sure
Terry still got the Reces Peanut butter cups
and dark Chocolate Dove bars that he loved so much.
I remember—marveling
each time he took a breath.
Wondering when next he wouldn’t.
But mostly I remember that one moment
he was able to exhale—
and inhale and
—exhale—but then not again.
I remember
watching his countenance change
and being overwhelmed by his death
and my own impending mortality.
I remember just waiting—not wanting any moment to pass by too fast.
Sitting on the right side of Terry’s bed all afternoon
—was one of the
hardest things I’ve ever done.
And one of the holiest times
I’ve ever endured—
for I was neither doing nor acting.
In those hours I was completely,
utterly open and vulnerable
to the presence of God.
God was acting and I was waiting.
Watching. Not doing
—but being in the fullest sense of the word.
Only on one or two other occasions
have I ever been so full of emotion,
aware of the world.
That day is stitched in my mind
as the time
when I had enough grace to wait for the Lord.
Advent is that waiting time.
It is the time when we wait for something new.
The time when we are called to be fully alive
and utterly aware
of what is dying around us and in us.
The time when are invited
to watch, wait and witness the coming of our God.
Advent.
The waiting,
sitting, crying and being
may scare the hell out of us—
at least it does out of me,
but it is the bridge over the ravine,
the tunnel through the impasse
to all that is new—
all that God is calling us
to give birth to in our world.
Advent is waiting for the next breath—
the next new moment—
the next new beginning—
the holy time after we end
and before we begin again.
Advent is the holy time,
the waiting time,
the period when time changes.
May we have the grace,
the courage and the tenacity
to just wait and then to see.
Amen.