SERMONS

By Rev. Anthony B. Robinson
Sabbatical Interim Minister
October 18, 2009

Genesis 7: 1 – 5; Matthew 6: 25 – 33

Well, here it is, our “Blessing of the Animals” Sunday. The idea for this came out of the brainstorming session at our Church Retreat in September that was sponsored and led by the Governing Board. A guy named Mark proposed it, and the kids all voted for it. So I thought, “Let’s do it.”

Suddenly, the Board seemed to forget that they had thought asking the congregation for input was a good idea. Carroll Jackson kept saying to me, “Blessing of the animals, is that scriptural?” Eric Artzt muttered about a “shameless bid to attract a turnout” during my waning days. It’s a tough crowd, but I had a crucial ally. Turns out, the Moderator, Kathy Gwilym, is such an animal lover she lists the names of her dogs in the Church Directory!

I don’t know about you, but I think that the animals in my life have taught me some spiritual lessons, and I want to share a couple of those with you today. After the sermon, we’ll take a few minutes for you to share lessons that you’ve learned from animals.

So I have three to share. The first actually comes from a recently discovered, hitherto unknown fragment of the Book of Genesis, unearthed with the Dead Sea Scrolls. If authentic, and that determination is still a matter of scholarly debate, it would shed light on the question, “Where do pets come from?” Listen.

“And Adam said, ‘Lord, when I was in the garden you walked with me everyday. Now I do not see you anymore. I am lonesome here and it is difficult for me to remember how much you love me.’

“And God said, ‘No problem! I will create a companion for you that will be with you forever and who will be a reflection of my love for you so that you will know I love you, even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish and childish and unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourself.

“And God created a new animal to be companion for Adam. And it was a good animal and God was pleased.

“And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and he wagged his tail. And Adam said, ‘But Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and all the good names are taken and I cannot think of a name for the new animal.’

“And God said, ‘No problem! Because I have created this new animal to be a reflection of my love for you, his name will be a reflection of my own name, and you will call him DOG.’

“And Dog lived with Adam and was a companion to him and loved him. And Adam was comforted. And God was pleased. And Dog was content and wagged his tail.

“After a while, it came to pass that Adam’s guardian angel came to the Lord and said, ‘Lord, Adam has become filled with pride. He struts and preens like a peacock and he believes he is worthy of adoration. Dog has indeed taught him he is loved, but no one has taught him humility.’

“And the Lord said, ‘No problem! I will create for him a companion who will be with him forever and who will see him as he is. The companion will remind him of his limitations, so he will know that he is not always worthy of adoration.’

“And God created CAT to be a companion to Adam. And Cat would not obey Adam.

“And when Adam gazed into Cat’s eyes, he was reminded that he was not the Supreme Being. And Adam learned humility. And God was pleased and Adam was greatly improved. And Cat did not care one way or the other.”

(from Charisma, The Art of Relationships by Michael Grinder.)

Okay, so now that we understand the creation of at least two pets, DOG and CAT, let me share a story of how even a dog can teach us humility.

Fifteen years ago, we decided to plant a grape arbor that would provide shade from the hot sun in the summer, and would produce grapes that would be good for eating and for making wine “to gladden the heart of man.” (That’s scriptural, Carroll!). In the winter the leaves of the arbor would fall to the ground allowing the sun’s light into our home.

So we went to a nursery and asked for three grape plants that would yield grapes that are seedless and sweet and good for eating. The nurseryman assured us that the grapes he gave us were just that, seedless and sweet. We took them home and I carefully planted them in the spring, positioning them against the uprights of our newly built and lovely arbor. All spring and summer we watched the new grape vines grow, inching their way up.

One fall day I came home from work, tired and grumpy. I looked out to the backyard where our dog Homer lay contently, chewing a stick and looking, in the cool of the fall evening amid puffs of steamy breath, looking as if he were smoking a cigar. “Cute,” I thought. Then I began to wonder what exactly Homer was chewing.

On investigation, I discovered that one of the three grape vines was no more. All that remained was the stub that protruded from Homer’s happy chops.

I was fit to be tied. Madder than a wet hen. I chased Homer around the cherry tree, shouting murderous threats, and non-ministerial obscenities. Fortunate for us both, I never caught up to him.

Next spring, we went back to the nursery and explained that we needed another grape vine that would produce seedless and sweet grapes. We took the new plant home. I planted the replacement vine, encasing it, like the other two now also were, in a protective wrap of wire to rival a border crossing. And the grapes grew and in time bore fruit.

But a funny thing happened. The first two grape vines produced fruit that was seedy and sour. The third vine, the one planted after Homer’s episode of extreme pruning, produced fruit, the only fruit we had, that was seedless and sweet and good to eat.

I looked at Homer and said, “Harumph! You have reminded me of something crucial: namely, I am not in charge. The plants I was so sure were just right, weren’t. And were it not for your intervention, we would have no grapes of the seedless and sweet variety. You, darn you, have reminded me that I do not own the vineyard nor the earth. I am but a guest here. Thank you, after all. Sorry about all the yelling.”

One of the things that I believe our pets do introduce us to is a little harder to speak of, but seems to me still important. Our animals frequently provide us, and our children, with our first experience of death. Often these days, human beings die in institutions and we don’t see or experience death as did our ancestors. It is our pets that teach us of death. So lastly, let me share with you something I wrote when our much beloved Homer passed on.

“Our dog, Homer, subject of occasional sermon illustrations, at least one Pastoral Musings and even a column in the newspaper, died last week at the age of eleven. He died on a Thursday, my day off. He had been mopey and disoriented much of the day, recovering from an ear problem that had affected his balance. He was listing to the left.

“As evening came Homer laid down beside the low fence that runs around our garden. It was a favorite spot of his. He liked to lie there, roll his tennis ball under the fence rail, and then work at getting it back. That night, with the sun setting behind him, he lay unusually still. His eyes had a far away look. His muzzle was gray. Looking at him, I knew: Homer was dying.

“I wish we had been able to let him die there, at his chosen spot, in the backyard. But it’s difficult at such moments to resist the feeling that we must, “Do Something!” So I carried Homer to the car, and we set off for the emergency vet’s. Though he was fading fast, he managed one last wag of the tail, a kind of farewell salute, as we got into the car. Like most dogs Homer was always up for a ride in the car.

“At the vet’s we went through the options, which included emergency surgery. But before such measures could be taken Homer, mercifully, was gone. We drove home again, a carload of weeping people and a dead dog. The next evening, after our son Nick arrived home, we had a burial, laying Homer to rest in a grave in the back part of the garden. On the spot we planted a bush, described by the nurseryman as “exuberant.” Homer was nothing if not exuberant. Up until a year before strangers we met at the dog park still asked if he were a puppy. Homer went from adolesence to old age in the course of a single spring season.

“Homer’s death not only left me freshly aware of the important place pets occupy in our lives, but also thinking about how we humans die, and how we care for our dead. Modern medicine has taught us to view death as defeat, and as something that cannot be accomplished without the aid of a great deal of technology.

“To be sure, sometimes death is defeat and tragedy. Some lives are cut short. But death is not always defeat. It is part, albeit a painful part, of life. As Homer lay dying, he seemed to know this and to be at peace. His time had come. For us humans it has, however, become difficult to die. Various voices insist that we must, “Do Something!” and so we do. Often the result isn’t so much living longer as it is dying longer.

“We were comforted to be able to deal with Homer’s death ourselves. He lay in state for the better part of a day, waiting as Nick drove home from Oregon. Linda made up a brief obituary and circulated it among the neighbors. Joe and I dug a grave. We all laid Homer in it, sending him off with a brand new tennis ball. We took turns hefting the shovel and tamping down the dirt. Just as it’s difficult for us humans to die, it’s almost impossible for us to do for our dead in these ways. It was a comfort.

“Homer was a ‘found’ animal, meaning he found us. One day, this stray Golden Retriever/ Border Collie, and assorted other breeds, pup, latched onto our then twelve-year-old son, Nick. After arriving Homer pretty well flunked obedience school, or maybe it was we who flunked. If he had been a little boy chances are he would have been diagnosed with ADD, so active and non-stop was he. He did however attend to a thrown tennis ball with a single-mindedness that made me think we should have named him “Kierkegaard” for the theologian who famously said, ‘Purity of heart is to will one thing.’ Homer did will one thing: to retrieve tennis balls.

“So long, Homer, and to all the animals we have loved and who have loved us.”

Aren’t we blessed to share life with dogs and cats, rabbits and chickens, elk and antelope, salmon and whales, swallows and butterflies? Thanks be to God for all the creatures of the field and the part they play in the wondrous complexity of God’s amazing creation.

Now, perhaps you have a few words to share about a spiritual lesson you have learned from an animal in your life? If so, just stand where you are and tell us. After that, we will head out to the playground and those of you who have brought pets for a blessings can go to your cars and get them.