An Anchor of Hope

Randall Hoedeman, Ph.D.

Sunnyhill Church

September 1, 2002

 

Reading

This reading is from a book entitled When You Feel Insecure. The author is John Reed, a pastoral counseling colleague of mine who lives and works in Louisville, KY. This passage is a poignant reflection on our common human lot–particularly, the unavoidable pathos and anxiety of modern-day existence. It will help to set the stage experientially for the topic we will be discussing this morning.

Think of the world as a great theater. You share the stage with humanity. You and I and all the rest of us are making up the script as we go along, or so it seems. I prompt you. You prompt me. I help you develop your character and you help me develop mine. We do our best to create a sensible, humane plot. We realize, however, that we share the stage at a challenging time in human history, when nothing seems nailed down. The stage floor is shaky and worn, and we trip over one another from our poor choreography. Our voices echo through a hollow theater of endless space. We hear no evidence of an audience, no laughter, no applause. If you’re a woman, your role keeps changing. If you’re a man you have to adapt to ever-changing cues for your part. No really heroic or distinguishing roles are left. Most parts call for mass-mindedness, greediness, arrogance, and tough-guy hardness. We keep repeating the same tired lines in a meandering plot.

A mushroom cloud has been part of the set since you and I appeared on stage. We were there when the music died. We’ve witnessed assassinations, atrocities, famine, a televised war, and a zillion commercials. We’ve been repeatedly betrayed. Worse, we have betrayed others and ourselves. "Out, damned spot!" we cry, but the spot remains.

Although there have been some funny scenes, we realize we are not acting in a comedy. This is a tragedy we’re in. We tremble through many scenes, huddled close to our fellow actors, flubbing our lines, having no idea what will come next. Some of us withdraw to some dim corner of the stage, where we can be found crouching, sucking our thumb or crying in our beer, covering our eyes to keep from seeing an unknown future. Most of us are afflicted with stage fright from our first scene to our final bow. Somebody next to us dies and we all gape and forget our lines. Filled with constant foreboding, we wonder who is responsible for this melodrama. "Author! Author! We cry, but the playwright never seems to appear. For many of us, this is the theater of the absurd, and we must endure its insanity without losing our own sanity. If we could look back over the entire drama we would see a great crimson river of humanity, ebbing and flowing in great waves across the stage of history. Who are you in all this (pp. 125-126)?

 

Message

  1. Let me begin with a brief word of introduction about "who I am in all this." My name is Randy Hoedeman. For the past eight years, which is length of time my family and I have been in Pittsburgh, I have directed the counseling and psychotherapy program at the Pittsburgh Pastoral Institute. The Institute is an ecumenically-based counseling and psychotherapy center that has been around for about 35 years. Our main office is in Shadyside, with several branch-offices located in area churches throughout Allegheny County, and also in Butler, Lawrence, and Westmoreland counties. In addition, the Institute offers accredited training and education programs for mental-health professionals who are interested in the integration of spirituality and psychotherapy.

  2. The material I will present this morning is from a semester-long Psychology of Religion seminar that I teach at the Institute. Although I recently have presented it as a shorter 12-hour continuing-education seminar, this will be my first attempt at a Sunday-morning presentation. How much time do we have?

  3. The highly selective theme on which I will focus is from a section of the seminar entitled "An Anchor of Hope." It responds, somewhat poetically, to Sigmund Freud’s list of basic psychological and existential needs that any religion worth its salt tries to address in one form or another. In relaying the title of this theme to Louise for the bulletin and the sign out front, I neglected to mention that it actually should include a question mark, which would be more apropos to the nature of the material and to the true spirit of Unitarian Univ

  4. Freud, in his psychology of religion classic, The Future of an Illusion, notes three fundamental issues that, in his opinion, religious beliefs and practices seek to address.

    • a. Religion seeks to exorcise, or at least tame, the terrors of nature.

    • b. Religion must, in some measure, compensate us for the sufferings and privations imposed upon us by civilization.

    • c. Religion seeks to compensate us for to the cruelty of Fate, particularly as it is shown in death.

    Our focus this morning will be on the last of these three: Religion as "compensation for the cruelty of Fate, particularly as it is shown in death."

  5. The work of cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker is profoundly instructive in this regard. Becker’s Pulitzer winning book, The Denial of Death, offers an unflinching, yet compassionate, analysis of that which he considers to be the inescapable source of our greatest anxiety: the fact that we are born to die, and are "condemned," as it were, to an awareness of this fact. According to Becker, each of these fundamental human realities–that of birth, that of death, and that of self-awareness–carries with it a corresponding fear: the fear of life, the fear of death, and the fear of knowledge. Together, these fears comprise a perpetual forge of anxiety, dread, and terror–on both conscious and unconscious levels.

I would like to comment briefly on each of these fears, pause for a bit of discussion, and then consider some religious responses. In the process, the discussion will become rather grim before it becomes more "hopeful." So, fasten your existential seatbelts and let's see where we end up going. . . .

  1. We are born . . .

    • a. In exploring the fear of life, Becker draws on one of Freud's early followers, Otto Rank, and his concept of a universal "birth trauma"–that "shock of being" that unceremoniously, and without our informed consent, pushes and pulls us (perhaps with forceps) through an all too narrow birth canal and then thrusts us out (perhaps with a slap on the bottom) into what aptly has been called "one big, blooming, buzzing confusion" of a world–and then requires us to grow, develop, and make our way in it to the best of our courage, luck, and ability.

    • b. Becker expands this concept of a literal birth-trauma to refer symbolically to all of the ways in which the anxiety infused into us at birth can repeat itself at each new juncture in our lives that calls for the emergence of something new–be it new growth, new awareness, a new life-direction or transition, or a new life-skill. Such developmentally necessary passages beckon us from our comfort zones–from our familiar "wombs"–into strange and uncharted territory. Becker describes this territory at it's worst. He writes:

      "We are understandably reluctant to move out into the overwhelmingness of this world, and it's very real dangers; we shrink back from losing ourselves in the all-consuming appetites of others, from spinning out of control in the clutches and clawings of men, beasts and machines. . . . Life can suck us up, sap our energies, submerge us, take away our self-control, give so much new experience so quickly that we feel we will burst; make us stick out among others, emerge onto dangerous ground, load us up with new responsibilities which need great strength to bear, expose us to new contingencies, new chances. Above all, there is the danger of a slip-up, an accident, a chance disease, and of course death, the final sucking up, the total submergence and negation (pp. 53-54).

    • And, we could add today, the ever-present danger of another September 11th.

  2. Which leads to the second great existential realilty–namely that we are born to die, and that we know it.

    • a. This, in Becker’s words, is the terror of death: "To have emerged from nothing, to have a name, consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self expression–and with all this yet to die" (p. 87).


    • b. Death, of course, is a fate we share with all earthly life. More so than any other species, however, our conscious awareness forces us to stare this reality in the face–or at least to know that it always stares at us–and to live with the ominous and ever lengthening shadow it casts over all of our days, despite our sunshiny efforts to dispel it. As William James, in his typically memorable way, puts it: "Let sanguine healthy-mindedness do its best with its strange power of living in the moment and ignoring and forgetting, still the evil background is really there to be thought of, and the skull will grin in at the banquet" (p. 158).

    • c. Alongside our uniquely human ability to know our mortality, stands our inability to stare it in the face fully, or for very long, let alone to grin back. The psychoanalyst Thomas Ogden, in his book Subjects of Analysis, stresses that we are

      • incapable of both maintaining our sanity and genuinely experiencing our own mortality. Regardless of the enormity of the effort that we might make, we involuntarily avert our gaze at the last moment. In that instant of turning away, we (in fantasy) become immortal and omnipotent and to that degree become less fully alive in the unbearable intensity and immediacy of the present moment (p. 18).

    • d. Yet to be as fully human and as fully alive as possible is to try to muster and sustain as much consciousness and self-awareness as possible, including the awareness of the finite and tragic aspects of our earthly existence, without becoming psychotically stunned by the awareness (or at least not psychotically stunned all day long!).

  3. Hence the need for an Anchor of Hope in the midst of what often feels like life's immense, shoreless, storm-tossed sea of anxiety that tosses us about between the crashing waves of:
    1. our developmental obligation to be born, to be alive, to grow, and (sooner or later) to die;
    2. our related "birth traumas" and dread of death; and
    3. the mind-boggling awareness of it all.

    Let's pause for here for discussion, while I ask my favorite psychoanalytic question:

    "What comes to mind?"

  • 8. How does one tame the terror and cope, day in and day out, with life on such a dread-full sea of anxiety? The options are many and include mustering up functional amounts of denial, repression, distraction, immersion into the mundane, tranquilization with the trivial, general anesthetization through alcohol and drugs, clinging to our fetishes (thereby shrinking the world down to a manageable object of fascination and excitement), merger with or submission to those whom we deem powerful and wise, and even risk-taking (in defiance of finitude and death).

  • 9. We also can cling "religiously," as it were, to our "transcendent" beliefs, rituals, icons, philosophies of life, heroic fictions, and assorted "grand narratives," that serve as existential lifeboats–or at least pieces of driftwood. And no matter how crude or frail, they often turn out to be remarkably durable, versatile, and even magical.

    They can become what hymns in my childhood faith-tradition herald as: a "shelter in the time of storm"; "a solid rock on which to stand"; an "anchor of the soul"; a "mighty fortress"; and a "bulwark never failing."

  • 10. Moreover, some existential mariners even report far-off sightings of land. They see a distant shore that seems to shine with breath-taking beauty, as if radiating or reflecting a glorious light. Although they differ on the details, most eyewitnesses agree that it is must be some kind of paradise or utopia. Beyond this, speculation runs rampant.

    • a. A prophetic type named Amos sees it as a land in which "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like an ever flowing stream" (5:24). Someone called Isaiah adds that peace and love are so rampant there that "swords will be beaten into ploughshares" (2:4) and that playfulness, contentment, and vegetarianism will abound:

      The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea (11:6-9).

    • b. Reports from a raft christened "The Book Revelation" claim to have glimpsed "the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God" (21: 2). And to have heard a "loud voice from the throne" saying:

      See, the throne of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God . . . and will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away (21: 3-5). . . . [Moreover], "nothing accursed will be found there anymore . . . and there will be no more night [or] need of lamp or sun, for the lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever" (22: 3-5).

    • c. One of the quainter descriptions of this far-off land comes from a rather primitive-looking but free-spirited character named Kory-Kory, paddling about in his canoe. We're indebted to Herman Melville's South-sea voyages for this report. Even though he claims to be in no particular hurry to get there, according to Melville, Kory-Kory does know beyond a shadow of doubt that the distant shore most certainly exits, that he is destined to arrive there one day, and that, all things considered, it is quite a fine place. Upon his arrival there, he plans to be united with his loved ones who have gone before him to this

      Polynesian heaven–where every moment the bread-fruit trees dropped their ripened spheres to the ground, and where there was no end to the cocoa-nuts and bananas; there they reposed through the livelong eternity upon mats much finer than those of [his own Island]; and every day bathed their glowing limbs in rivers of cocoa-nut oil. In that happy lane there were plenty of plumes and feathers and boars’-tusks and sperm-whale teeth, far preferable to all the shining trinkets and gay tappa of the white men; and, best of all, women, far lovelier than the daughters of earth, were there in abundance (p. 253).

      "A very pleasant place," concludes Kory-Kory, but what’s the hurry? It is "after all not that much pleasanter" than his own lovely Island (p. 253).

    • d. In ominous contrast to the above reports, some eyewitnesses describe a very different kind of shoreline. They claim to have seen a dark and menacing sky shrouded in dense clouds of sulfuric smelling smoke. They acknowledge occasional flashes of light, but these glow eerily red, as if produced by the fire and brimstone of raging and heaving volcanoes.

      1. These voyagers express absolutely no desire to reach this land. In fact, the vast majority can be seen paddling furiously in the opposite direction.

      2. However, and despite dire warnings, some wayward souls seem "hell bent" on heading straight for it. The consensus seems to be that they will get exactly what they deserve. Although, on a humbler note, a few individuals have remarked, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

    • e. And then there is the large number of very credible castaways who, strain and squint as they might, report nothing but endless waves and water on every horizon. Some of them blame their poor eyesight. Others, however, strongly suspect that there simply is nothing out there to be seen–nothing, that is, beyond a truly remarkable array of religious mirages, hallucinations, and magical projections of the deep longing for salvation. Among these godless seafarers, four types can be discerned:

      1. Those who appreciate the vital need for religious mirages and illusions and, therefore, encourage us to dream up and embrace the best, the highest, and the most inspiring beliefs of which we are capable–and then try to live by them.

      2. Those who admonish us to let the mirages go, accept life’s bad deal for what it is, stoically stifle our cries of dereliction, and pragmatically try to accomplish something useful each day.

      3. Those who admonish us to let the mirages go, accept life’s bad deal for what it is, and hedonistically grab all the pleasure and gusto we can–for tomorrow we shall die.

      4. Those who forego admonition and advice giving and, instead, follow Rilke in seeking to "love and live the questions" of life (as well as its absurdities, contradictions, comedies, and tragedies) with all of the wonder, passion, and openness to experience they can marshal (p. 34). Rather than seeking answers and resolutions, they immerse themselves fully into the crazy and uncanny immediacy of it all–sometimes by plunging into the depths of the world’s suffering with great compassion and empathy (literally, "into the pathos"); sometimes, during a lull in the storm, by diving and swimming with a passing school of dolphins, and joining in their raucous laughter at the truth-is-stranger-than-fiction incongruity of it all; and sometimes, standing tall and resolute in the bow of the lifeboat, by shaking a defiant fist and railing in protest at the empty heavens above, or, like Ahab aboard the Pequod, at some form of a Moby Dick–or a deaf, dumb, and blind Neptune–below.

    • f. And finally, many of us have banded with like-minded souls from other lifeboats. Together, we even have managed to build sizable "arks" in which to ride out the storm. Such arks tend to be shaped like churches, synagogues, temples, mosques, and other "houses" of worship. Happily, they have provided much security and friendship along the way. Unfortunately, they also tend, like Noah's ark, to be filled with a good bit of noise, commotion, conflict, and braying. So much so, at times, that we surely could not stand it on the inside–if it were not storming so badly on the outside!

    Which is a topic for another time, and one that probably does not apply to Sunnyhill!

    What all comes to mind?

     

    Prayer

    In closing, I offer the following serenity/desperation prayer, authored and prayed daily by an honestly and courageously agnostic client whose life-story gives him ample cause for hedging his theological bets (as evidenced by the many conditional clauses in the prayer). He refers to it as his "semi-serenity prayer."

     

    Dear God,

    If you are there and can hear me,

    And whoever or whatever you might be,

    And if you are not averse to helping,

    And if you are able to do so,

    I, for one, am not averse to being helped!