"Letting Go"

Rev. Peter A. Friedrichs

December 31, 2006

When my daughters were younger we used to make frequent trips from our home in Maine to visit my parents in New Hampshire. As we would approach the state line, sometimes Irene and I would try to get the girls all excited about crossing from one state into the next. "Here it comes," we'd say. "Get ready!" And when we crossed over the line we'd ask them, "Did you feel it?" Of course, there was nothing to feel, except maybe a change in the quality of the pavement from one state to the next. We knew, and the girls soon learned, that state lines are only real on maps, that they are what we call a "legal fiction." They exist as a human-made construct to serve our particular needs, in this case for governance. We all know there is, in fact, no actual dividing line that separates one state from the next.

The same can be said about our passage from one year to the next. The calendar tells us that today is the last year of 2006 and that tomorrow is the first day of 2007. But we know that today and tomorrow will resemble each other very closely. The sun will rise and set tomorrow within minutes of its rising and setting today. The times of high and low tides will shift by the same amount between today and tomorrow as they did between yesterday and today. Although we may stay up until midnight and count down the seconds to the start of a new year, there is no real line that is crossed at the moment the clock strikes twelve and the ball drops in Times Square. Other calendars from other cultures celebrate the arrival of their new years on dates other than January 1. Rosh Hashanah, is recognized on the first day of Tishri, the seventh month of the Jewish calendar. The Chinese New Year will be celebrated on our February 18, while last year it was January 29. The Islamic calendar is linked directly to the lunar cycles and thus is 354 days long. Muslims recognize the New Year on the first day of the month of Muharram, and in our year 2008 they will celebrate the arrival of two new years.

Time is a continuum, flowing ceaselessly like a river without end. And yet every culture in recorded history has developed a method of marking time and celebrating its passage. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays and the turning of the year remind us of who we are and where we are on life's journey. These markers compel us to pause and take stock of our lives, to assess the path we're on and to make "mid-course corrections" if we see fit. Were it not for the passing of the old year into the new, as fictitious as it is, when would we sit down and contemplate our past as well as our future? Although I abhor making new year's resolutions, the turning of the year is an opportunity to assess and evaluate our relationships, our work, our purpose for living and whether we are living our purpose. The problem that I have with new year's resolutions is that they are, for the most part, future-focused. "I'm going to lose 20 pounds." "I'm going to call my mother once a week." "I'm going to get out of debt." While these may be admirable goals, rarely do we engage in the hard work that precedes the calling forth of the new us. "What happened to my relationship with my mother?" "What is the root cause of my compulsive spending?" "Why don't I treat my body better?" Without undertaking this critical backward-look, our new year's resolutions, no matter how well-intentioned, are destined to fail.

Several years ago I attended a retreat for the working group I was a part of in our company. You may be familiar with one of these team-building sessions, where they present you with physical challenges to promote your personal growth. This one had what is called a "high ropes" course, where wires and platforms are hung high up in the treetops in a sort of aerial obstacle course. You're strapped into a safety harness, you climb up a tree and, while everyone on your team is watching (and, presumably, cheering you on), you're required to negotiate a series of challenges. For those with a fear of heights, just climbing up and reaching the first platform can be a huge accomplishment. Each stage of the course gets more and more challenging, until you're left as a tightrope walker, trying to balance your way from one platform to the next with no means of support but a thin cable beneath your feet.

I wasn't scared climbing the tree or negotiating the first few challenges. Then I got to the section where the wire is strung between two platforms, with a series of ropes are hanging at chest level along the way. The first few steps were easy, as I grabbed the ropes to steady myself. But then the ropes got farther and farther apart until I got to a point where my arms were too short to reach the next rope. I found myself stretching and stretching, but there was just no way to grab it. Now I was stuck. My feet seemed frozen to the wire; they refused to move without the security of that next handhold. And I couldn't get there, no matter how hard I tried to reach it. I had, I suppose, three choices. I could go back the way I came. After all, I'd made it farther than some and there was no shame in admitting I'd reached my limit. I could stay where I was, hoping and praying that some unseen force would either lengthen my arms or move that next rope to within reach. Or I could let go of the rope I was holding onto and move forward.

As we face a new year, and for that matter as we face a new month, a new week, a new day, we are each suspended high above the ground, offered the same choices that I had to confront on that ropes course. Acceptance of our condition, of who we are and how we are living. Or remaining motionless, fixed in one spot until an external force acts upon us. Or of moving forward into our future. Each of these choices has its virtues.

Acceptance of our situation or condition, whatever it may be, can bring us blessed relief from frustration and anxiety. Perhaps we have struggled for years to be something that we're not. To be smarter, to be thinner, to be more popular. Perhaps we've felt compelled to conform to some familial, cultural, or societal norm that is at odds with who we truly are. We've tried climbing the corporate ladder when we were born to the ministry, or we've been married to a member of the opposite sex when we are in fact gay. By accepting ourselves as we are, we claim our voice and our power. We are able to say, "This is me. Take me as I am."

Staying still has much to commend it. Stillness begets clarity. When we stay in one place we gain insights that we might otherwise miss in our frantic and busy lives. Staying where we are, we can become experts in our field. Stillness gives us our link to the present, to centering ourselves and focusing our awareness of what's going on around us. Staying in one place is comfortable and familiar. It's stable and secure. With our move from Maine to Media this year, I've seen first-hand how disruptive change can be, and how attractive and easy it is to stay put.

But as you might suspect, this morning I would like us to focus on the third choice, the choice to move forward. Accepting our current condition and enjoying the security of the familiar are worthy pursuits. But on the brink of a new year I think it's only appropriate for us to consider what it takes for us to step into a new situation, a new condition, a new you.

In reflecting on today's topic, I've been thinking about trapeze artists. You know, those "daring young men, and women, on the flying trapeze." High above the ground they float and they fly. We watch them perform their aerial acrobatics and we gasp with fear and awe. They are the epitome of strength, courage, and poetry in motion. Do you know what the first rule of the trapeze is? The first rule, the rule that must be obeyed before all others, is that you cannot hold onto two trapeze bars at the same time. If you want to move from the bar that you're on to the bar that's swinging in front of you, you must first let go. It may be for just a split second or it may be across a great span, but you cannot move from where you are to where you're going without releasing your grasp and floating through the air with no visible means of support. Listen to the words of author Danaan Parry, who describes her life as a series of trapeze bars:

"From the bottom of my heart, I know that to grow, I must let go of the old trapeze that I know so well, and grab onto the new one." That's a scary thought, isn't it? In order to move forward on the path of personal growth and transformation, we must leave behind what is familiar and comfortable and secure, and launch ourselves into the void.

Letting go can take many forms. For some, it means breaking old habits. Perhaps you've fallen into a pattern of behavior or a routine that works well for you, so you keep doing the same thing, over and over. Two expressions come to mind here: There's one that says the only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth. And then there are the words of motivational speaker Zig Ziegler, who says in his down-home, Texas twang, "If you keep doin' whatcha been doin', yer gonna keep gettin' what you been gettin'." For others, letting go may mean releasing ourselves from the wounds of the past, that we stop ripping off the scabs from old wrongs and we allow true healing to take place. This is the path of reconciliation and forgiveness, a long and challenging path indeed. And for others still, it may mean developing a spiritual practice and perspective in which, as my friend Darrick Jackson says, we learn to hold onto life more lightly. This is a very Buddhist approach to letting go.

One of the central tenets of the Buddhist faith is a belief that all things in life are transient. Because everything changes, because nothing is permanent, the Buddhist learns to let go of his or her attachment to things. This is best illustrated by the saying "The cup is already broken," which comes from a conversation a journalist had with a Zen master. When asked to summarize the teachings of the Buddha, the master pointed to a beautiful ceramic teacup sitting on a nearby shelf. "Do you see this tea cup?", he asked. "I love it very much. It was a gift from a dear friend of mine. I like the way the colors swirl; I like the heft of it; it holds just the right amount of tea. And each time I use it, it fills me with warm thoughts of my friend. But, as a Buddhist, I am aware that it's already broken. One day an errant gust of wind will blow it from the windowsill, or I'll bump into it accidentally, and this cup I love so much will break. There's nothing I can do about that. In a way, the cup is already broken. But when I realize that, when I really realize that, it makes me love it all the more right now." Buddhism teaches us to love what we have now, knowing full well that it will not last. To go back to our trapeze analogy, we must learn to firmly grasp each trapeze bar that we're on, but we mustn't hold on for dear life. At any particular moment, we must be prepared to let go for dear life. This is what I mean by "holding onto life lightly."

Letting go sounds like such a simple, easy thing. Just relax your muscles and release your grip. But it is, in truth, risky business. It takes preparation and practice (and perhaps years of therapy). It takes incredible mental discipline to overcome the body's natural tendency to hold on to what is safe and solid. It requires us to trust. To trust in ourselves, to trust in others, to trust in the power of the universe to catch us on the other side of that empty void. To let go is to cast our lot with the uncertain and the unknown, perhaps even the unknowable. And that, my friends, takes great faith.

So, here we are, all of us, high in the trees faced with our dilemma. It's a dilemma we face throughout the year, but perhaps more acutely now, at the turning of the year. We can choose to return to the safety of the platform behind us. There's no shame in that. Or we can, at least in theory, stay where we are until our legs give out or the daylight fades into night. Or we can release the vice-like grip we have on the rope that we're clinging to, we can let go, and step forward into an uncertain future. Which will you choose?

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