raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
brown paper packages tied up with strings,
these are a few of my favorite things.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.

Do you have some favorite things? Things that bring you some sense of ease amidst trouble and turmoil, or just a insane schedule? Can you channel your inner Julie? I can endure most anything in a day if I know that somewhere at the end of that day I will get good pizza.

So what are some of your favorite things? A trip to the mountains? A cup of cocoa? A game of cards with some long time friends? The smile of a grandchild, how about dancing? And do you make time for your favorite things? Not making time for them is surely a recipe for bitterness. Budgets almost always have an impact on the ability to indulge in favorite things. But do not neglect the fact that a good many favorite things might involve little cost. We have a Christmas tree ornament that is among my greatly prized possessions. It’s a very ordinary medium sized glass ball upon which have been glued some big eyes, the kind in which the pupils can move when you shake it. It features a painted-on smile, a furry dot for a nose and an ear muff made out of other furry balls and a pipe cleaner between. And it says in the very best script that a first grader could fashion, “ Love, Aaron.” Ah, my precious son.

And do you know what are the favorite things of the people in your life? And how much effort do you put into making sure that they can have those favorite things? And surprises can be very restorative—as long as there isn’t a cardiac condition involved.

Such grace notes are indeed a source of comfort. As Julie sings, “when the dog bites,” remembering, indulging in, favorite things can truly take the edge off what would otherwise a very dreary personal landscape. And it is important to be intentional about seeking out and giving away favorite things.

So yes, taking the edge off is a good thing. But “taking the edge off” does still leave the remainder. And if the favorite things strategy were all that was necessary for our comfort then we should all be blissful. Obviously we are not, and if, in fact, we knew someone who was nothing but blissful we probably should be worried, ironically, about them. We would know that for some reason or another, most likely involving some illegal substance, they had lost touch with reality. So while none of us want to be worried, we also know that life has some aspects that are inevitably worrisome. If a relative calls late at night, we expect bad news. That is not the time to start imagining raindrops on roses. Being upset, angry, and/or sad is in that circumstance a good thing. It means you are a human being and not some kind of monster.

You know that grief is not incidental to life. The plain fact is that grief, anxiety, stress, fear, these are elemental parts of human existence. We cannot be human without them no matter how much we might wish it otherwise. Even though I do not believe in hell, I am perfectly willing to imagine that there is a room in hell reserved for those who insist upon singing “Don’t worry, be happy” whenever they encounter someone who’s life has been spun around by tragedy.

Anyone who is alive knows that tragedy, the “dog bite” of life, is not some occasional accident, but normal. It is a piece of what life is. And it is the real service of religion, not simply to help you feel better about horrifying circumstances, but to provide reasons for sustaining a faithfulness with life even when the bite is hard and cruel. This is one of religion’s most important jobs. Without some capacity to sustain faithfulness we would too easily succumb to bitterness or unrelenting despair.

I used as my reading this morning a Psalm that is frequently read at traditional memorial services, an occasion when people are more willing than normal to contemplate their own mortality and very evident reasons for sadness. I have always suspected that some of the reason why people find this Psalm comforting is because it is the sort of thing that is read at many memorial services. And there are hints about an after life without being too heavy handed about it. “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Of course, the Psalm, taken in its strictest sense, is something that many Unitarian Universalists can find troubling. Some of this discomfort or disagreement starts right off from the beginning. “The Lord is my shepherd.” More than a few Unitarian Universalists are not very fond of thinking of themselves as sheep. Who here wants to be thought of as part of a herd?

Now I have herded sheep. I have mucked out their pens. I have slopped them in sheep dip. My experience? They are dumber than rocks. So no, you wouldn’t appreciate being thought of as sheep. But it is also the case that because sheep are limited they require a lot of help. And it is not at all that hard to feel kindly toward them—poor dumb critters. And you should also know that for your average family living at the time that the Psalm was written, sheep were very valuable. So perhaps you could understand that the Psalmist’s comparing people to sheep means something quite different than the comparison would be for us who have little to do with sheep. Unlike us the Psalmist thinks, “Wouldn’t it be nice if the ruler of the universe felt as protective and kindly toward me as I feel toward my sheep? Wouldn’t it be nice if I was as important to the Lord of the universe as my sheep are to me?” And perhaps you do not know that sheep do not like drinking out of moving waters. Sheep rightly fear drowning in swift waters that would saturate their wool and easily pull them under. But they will drink out of still, calm waters. So imagine a ruler of the universe who knows the dangers of my life and takes the extra effort to find “still” waters for me.

This analysis, looking at the Psalm from the perspective of its author, casts a different light on what we otherwise might find objectionable. You can see how the Psalm might provide comfort. However, the comfort is derived not simply from the fact that God is imagined to be some kind of cosmic sugar daddy who takes care of every little thing. Even more important to the Psalmist, the fact that there is a lord and master of the universe means that no matter how crazy or dangerous or harsh or tragic things may seem, there is some force in charge. Just as the shepherd helps arrange things in a fashion that help sheep thrive, so too is there a structure to the world, ordered by the Lord and Master. Believing that there is such a reliable organization to the universe means that we and everything else are not just random bits of stuff bumping into each other, kind of like a cosmic bumper car game. No—there is meaning and form. We might not always see it—but it’s there. The fact that we can feel assured about such a structure means that our actions are not inevitably pointless stabs in the dark.

So you see why people are so reluctant to discard a faith that includes the notion of a kind of cosmic shepherd. The comfort that religion can bring in a world of inescapable sadness is more durable than what can be gained by encountering favorite things. People tend to say that they are “born again” or perhaps that they “rest easy” in bosom of their ancestors. But what they mean is that they feel confident that the meaningfulness of their lives is not entirely dependent upon what they do or leave undone. No, the question of meaningfulness is happily understood to be way above their pay grade. There is a god who is thought to have arranged things so that success does not depend entirely on oneself and is not entirely impossible.

Whether you believe that such a god exists or not there is unarguably true comfort to be gained when we can rest more easily in the recognition that none of us are in charge of everything that happens in our life. We routinely depend upon other people to do the right thing and we cannot literally force them to do otherwise. We are dependent upon a universe that behaves well, most of the time, whether we wish it so or not. There is comfort to be gained in honestly admitting these kinds of dependencies. We Unitarian Universalists are famous for an intense devotion to independence. Perhaps, if for no other reason that honesty alone, we should also admit to our portion of dependence. And if we cannot find that honesty we cannot find comfort in the fact that other people, and much of the world is very dependable. There are times when we must lean back into the arms of our loved ones. Indeed, there are times when we must take comfort in the fact that the world is not in a conspiracy to thwart our every dream. In fact the reverse is true. So much is given unto us, so much is showered upon us each and every day.

In addition to the favorite things strategy and the finding comfort in dependency, there is yet a third form of comfort which I would like to mention. Paradoxically, this third form is best understood when we acknowledge that sometimes discomfort is a virtue. As much as we all really want to feel comfortable, we also all recognize that there are several occasions when discomfort is, in fact a life-saver. Once when I was caught in a sudden blizzard on a mountaintop I felt this very strong urge to take a lovely nap. It was a very comforting thought as I fought off the bitter wind and blinding snow. Walk through the fear and pain or take a nap—which would it be? Because I am here you know which I choose.

If you break a bone or have some replacement surgery, you soon encounter Nurse Ratchet, the physical therapist who, whether soothing or matter of fact, will make you walk through your fear and your pain. Perhaps there are other occasions in your life when you encountered the virtue of discomfort. That is, we can became stronger, wiser perhaps when we are challenged to walk through fear and pain. Perhaps all that walk did was keep you alive. But whether it was greater wisdom, or mere survival, have you ever wondered what is the motive power that keeps you moving ahead? Perhaps in these kinds of circumstances, particularly when there is no immediate comfort to be found, one must simply posit that, “There has to be something more than this.” One must assert, “This is not how my story is going to end.” This is the comfort, or perhaps a tough reassurance that is found when you discover that the direction of your life is almost by definition an inner compulsion to move toward something that is better.

In the Psalm the phrase is “dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” It’s a nice thought. Think about what a Lord’s house would be like. Ample room, ample food, ample protection. What a nice place to live. So how do I get there? Within Judaism that “house of the Lord” was historically understood as an actual “homeland” and it referred to the land of Israel, the land of milk and honey. At times in Judiaism’s history that identification became more “spiritual” so as to not be an actual “home” but a more “spiritual home.” Most often that shift accompanied a real reversal in the Kingdom’s fortunes. When the present seemed unendingly bleak, the “spiritual home” had more currency. But again, when the present was pleasant, that “home” was the actual land. In either case, the important thing to note is the longing for the homeland in which they felt they truly belonged and for which they had to strive. That home was an ideal, a shining object to contemplate even amidst current sorrow.

Of course, when Christianity arose that sense of the ideal future was completely spiritualized. The life of early Christians was uniformly unpleasant. Life for everyone within the Roman Empire, except for the very few at the very top, was crappy. So for Christians living in that era, whatever heaven was like, it couldn’t be anything like what was encountered on earth. I do understand why people would think this way but I also am in substantial disagreement with this form of comfort as proposed by Christianity. The real direction of a good life is heaven? I am reminded of a quotation by Susan Ertz (Anger in the Sky), “Millions long for eternity who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.” No I do not want to go to that heaven. I have a different proposal regarding our destination, a sense of being on a journey towards some shining ideal.

Have you ever indulged in nostalgia? It can be a very pleasant experience. Pick some favorite moment from the past and you can experience a flood of warm feelings, “Ah, wasn’t it lovely then!” Of course, the smart part of our brain knows that our memory is being very selective. We are only remembering or imagining the very best bits. But I have wondered, is it possible for us to indulge in a bit of “prostalgia?” What if we simply reversed the vector of time, and instead of finding comfort in an idealized past, find comfort in an idealized future?

And after all, we cannot change the past. The future, on the other hand, is something that we can change.

I would like you to close you eyes for just a moment. While your eyes are closed think about what it would be like if Houston, Texas became the place you really hope it could be. Let’s say that we decide collectively, that we would no longer consign the mentally ill to a life on the streets. No more panhandling, not because the cops send beggars packing, but because real help is available. Okay. Done. Let’s add something else. Suppose it is not necessary to lock your house or your car. Wow—wouldn’t that be amazing! Those few who insist on thievery are quickly apprehended and sent home without dinner. Let’s add some more details. Let’s say that vulnerable people are not threatened nor harmed. No more rape, no more sexual abuse. Gone—we’re done with that. And what about the education of our children? Let’s say that every child is valued for the unique contributions they bring. Let’s say that their parents get the support they need in order to support that education. Okay, open your eyes.

I could go on. There is a pretty good list of things that if accomplished would make life here in Houston very very sweet. And I rather suspect that if they were true, people would not want heaven so much as they would want Houston. And if we had our eyes set on that kind of Houston wouldn’t the vision help us see that, as sometimes unpleasant things might be, they are not always going to be like that. Someday, days will be better than this. Someday, mercy and righteousness shall follow us all of our days. Someday the lion will lie down with the lamb, someday all children will be beloved, someday, someday, someday.

You, of course, might think such a day can never arrive. And most assuredly, it is precisely that thought which keeps that day beyond our reach. Now I am not a fortune teller. But I do know this—the only way such a lovely truly comforting day can come to pass is if we live our dream into reality.

So: favorite things; embracing dependency; and prostalgia; three ways to find comfort. Use them all in their season. You do not deserve to be uncomfortable so do not be the least bit reluctant in indulging yourself. Better yet, perhaps the very best form of comfort is experienced when conspiring to indulge someone else. That’s, in fact, how our lovely future will be built, one beautiful gesture and gift of ease and grace, one at a time.