WHO FROM THEIR LABORS REST?

Rev. Lisa Kemper

Unitarian Universalist Church of Asheville

September 4 , 2011

I imagine there are few of us in this sanctuary who cannot recall, at one point or another, being regaled by an elder…  “When I was a kid,” they would say, “things were so much different.  We had to work for a living…”  or perhaps one version or another of the classic, “Did you know we had to walk to school uphill… both ways…  in the snow?!”

For me, it was my dad.  Any time I would complain about something being difficult, he would chuck me gently on the shoulder and say, “builds character!”  You can imagine that I was not above rolling my eyes when he said that, especially as a teenager, but nonetheless it was an important message, and it stuck.              

Labor day, according to the Department of Labor’s website, “is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country.” Generally speaking, the idea was “to exhibit to the public ‘the strength and esprit de corps’” of the workers as well as to provide for the “recreation and amusement of the workers and their families.”  

There is, of course, much to be said about worker’s rights and industry and exploitation and job creation and the labor movement—and the spiritual implications thereof, however, I want to take a slightly different focus this morning.  It isn’t that these things aren’t important – they are – but I think we miss an important part of why they are important if we don’t explore our own relationship to work.  Mark’s most recent newsletter column laid out the themes for worship for the next few months, and since September’s theme is “within,” I’ve chosen that focus for this morning’s service on labor. 

I love the idea of exhibiting to the public the “esprit de corps” of the workers.  Esprit de corps refers to a “common spirit” within a group, or the group’s “capacity to maintain belief in an institution or a goal, or even in oneself and others.”  Another word for it is “morale.”  This idea that people who labor might have a sense of faith in their ability to contribute to a larger good is inspiring.  So is the idea that no matter what you are doing, you have the ability to choose to do it well. 

For as long as I can remember, I have had a little jar on my dresser that I use to collect loose change.  When I was a kid, my friends had piggy banks that they bought at the store.  Mine was not a piggy bank, but exactly the same as the one my dad had on his dresser:  A Grey Poupon Dijon mustard jar.  I must have been 10 years old when he took me down into the basement and showed me how to use a flathead screwdriver and a hammer to carefully, painstakingly, make a slot in the top of the mustard jar lid. 

You have to be careful, because the metal edges are sharp, and it is not a short process – you draw a line on the underside of the lid, and then put the screwdriver at one end of that line.  Tap gently.  Move the screwdriver a few millimeters down along the line.  Tap gently.  Move screwdriver.  Tap gently.  Again and again, back and forth along the line until the metal weakened and the screwdriver punctured the metal.  Tap too hard or move too quickly and the lid will bend and collapse. 

It was a tedious process, but it taught me a lot.  First of all, there was something quite satisfying about having made it myself, even as simple as it was.  Secondly, I don’t recall being a particularly patient kid, and I know I didn’t get it on the first try, but the process of learning how to do it was an important one. 

Finally, 25 years later, I still have a Grey Poupon Dijon mustard jar full of coins on my dresser.  It’s not the same one – I’ve had to make new ones when the old ones get lost or broken.  But it still holds between $24 and $27 worth of change, depending on the concentration of quarters.  And I’m pretty sure my dad still has one on his dresser, too.  The work we did together not only built character, it was also one of the many building blocks of my relationship with my dad.  Work is love made visible.              

We live in a world full of gadgets and technology, all designed to make our lives easier.  Gadgets allow us to make a call anywhere… to give the cappuccino that perfect layer of foam… to mow the lawn sitting down with a drink in the cupholder…  Of course, technology can be a good thing.  I doubt any among us would find the value in giving up the “mail merge” function so that we could hand address a bulk mailing!  I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of character I need!  That said, it can be easy to allow the gadgets and the technology to take over our lives and our work, and forget to get our hands dirty, forget to engage in the physicality of simple tasks.  “The pitcher cries for water to carry and a person for work that is real.”              

I wonder if any of you remember the barn-raising scene from the movie “Witness.”  The movie was on TV just when I had been living in New York City for about three months, and I was completely fed up with the city-ness of it all.  I was cranky and missing where I’d been living in rural New Hampshire, the trees and the mountains, the people who knew my name.  And then that scene came on, where they all work together to build a giant barn – each person had his or her own job, his or her own skill, and the entire community banded together to accomplish something basic and important.  I admit that I was overly romanticizing the whole thing, but it does illustrate a point.              

I know that many a knitter has been asked, “Why would you knit a sock when you can buy 3 pairs for $5 at the store?”  I dare you.  Find a knitter and ask them!  They will likely tell you that there is a particular sense of satisfaction that comes from the challenge of creating.  They may also say that the work is it’s own reward.  

I’m not suggesting that we all have to get out and dig in the garden or band together and build a barn without electric tools – we all have different gifts and abilities and needs.  What I am saying is that if we let the gadgets and the screens and the technology take over, we are losing an important experience.  I’m also suggesting that determining where to put your efforts matters. 

The mail merge program allows me to spend less time at work so that I can spend more time making art.  A pager allows a doctor to be on call away from the office or hospital so that she can spend more time with her family.  Remember, the purpose of Labor Day was not only to honor the work, but also to honor the need for recreation.  If we put all of our energy and effort into our work, we are losing an essential piece of our experience.  The harder we work, the more we need to rest and play.

My father is an economist whose research has focused “on frontline caregivers in long term care.  Caregivers help people who have physical or intellectual disabilities with their personal care.  Although a majority of caregivers are unpaid family members, [his] research focused on paid caregivers—certified nursing assistants in nursing homes, home health aides, and others with different titles—or, no title at all.” 

My father wrote the following story for this morning’s service at my parents’ UU congregation in State College, PA:

 “I learned less from my research, however, than my own experience.   Before they died, my parents had several years of increasing frailty and dementia and needed a great deal of help from caregivers.

I learned that the job of caregiving requires many different skills.  Bathing someone who cannot bathe, helping someone with difficulty swallowing to eat, turning someone in bed to prevent bedsores without hurting yourself, these all require skill.  Caregivers are also the front line of medical care. 

Acute observers, they almost always noticed changes in my parents’ condition before anyone else, observations that probably kept my parents out of the hospital more than once.   

I learned that, despite their skill, caregivers may not be noticed.  One day my dad had pain in his shoulder.  I was in the living room with a caregiver and a nurse, when the doctor arrived.  He acknowledged the nurse with a polite nod, shook my hand, but walked by the caregiver as if she were not even there.  This he did, despite her knowing more about my dad’s status than anyone else in the room.  

I was struck most by caregivers’ sensitivity and patience.  Marie was a quiet, sensitive woman who cared for my mom.  My parents’ life in their last years centered on eating in the formal dining room—which required that they “dress” for dinner—a coat and tie for my dad and corresponding formality for my mom. 

Each night, Marie patiently picked out clothes she knew my mom liked, applied her make up, and as the final step, gently held my mom’s jewelry box for her while she picked out her own jewelry, before Marie took her to dinner in her wheel chair.  I was often touched by scenes like this of sensitive, patient, caring for my parents.

Marie and other caregivers made meaningful what many consider to be an unglamorous job because they cared about those they cared for. 

About two weeks before my mom died in hospice care, I learned that Marie was no longer assigned to my mom.  Surprised, I asked her supervisor why she was taken off the case, only to learn that she had asked to be reassigned.  No, the supervisor didn’t know why.  I asked a co-worker.  No, Marie had not told her why. 

I never did learn why.  But I believe that Marie simply cared too much—that it was too painful to watch my Mom in her last days.  Whatever the truth, Marie had given my mom her final years living at home in dignity and warmth.  I do not doubt that Marie found meaning in her work.   

I certainly hope so.” 

When we are able to find work to do that feeds our soul, the experience of working changes.  I have one last story to share – and this one is about my partner.              

Cindy is preparing to be a chaplain—and has a particular interest in hospital work, particularly trauma chaplaincy. Now, I can tell you that I am a pretty good chaplain.  I loved working in the hospital, and seem to have particular gifts for trauma work and end of life situations.  However, as you know by now, my passion lies in a different place. 

Cindy, on the other hand, simply comes alive working in the hospital.  I first described it to a friend using the phrase “like a fish to water,” but that really isn’t a sufficient description.  She just belongs in that environment and it is quite amazing to see her engage with patients and staff, to watch her assess situations and see exactly what is needed (or not needed), to feel the simple joy she gets from being present in the midst of it all, the glee she expresses when I ask, “how was your day, dear?” 

I realized as I read Gibran’s words that in the hospital, it is as if she is “a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.”   

Cindy’s work as a chaplain is quite simply love made visible. 

Marie’s care for my grandmother was love made visible.  

Even my father’s ability to notice and connect the humanity of individual caregivers to his research subjects is evidence of love made visible. 

Perhaps you have identified and pursued a vocation for which you have a deep and abiding passion.  May you find meaning in the work that you do. 

Perhaps you are still seeking, working in a job that most certainly feels like work.  May you find meaning in the work that you do. 

And may we all remember not only the importance of choosing where to put our energies, but also that rest is essential. 

May it be so.