An All Souls parishioner took his nine-year-old son camping a couple of years back. My memory of camping is eviscerated trout - you catch it, you clean it-but this fellow pulled out all the stops. He introduced his son to the grandeur of creation, California's rugged mountainous majesty.
As he regaled me with details of their adventure, I felt a twinge of jealousy, but only a twinge. After all, if diehard high-rise dwellers who like their daily shower had backyards, even I might spring for a tent and take my children camping. Just imagine: the five of us in sleeping bags on a concrete balcony gazing out at the stars (all three of them), with me pointing out that the unflickering one is not a star at all, but the planet Venus. But I know better. In places like New York City, even planets flicker through the shimmering haze of a sky lit by monuments and polluted by machines.
This other kid's father is an architect. Judging by his buildings, the mountains and stars inspire him. Not that I hold him responsible for the destruction of the starlit sky, but he does design some of those magnificent towers that supplant nature, domineering the heavens with their own brilliant luminosity. When camping together, he and his son gazed out upon a different sky, the clouds catching fire as the sun dipped through the horizon, yielding to pastel ribbons, then gently darkening the heavens until, one by one, the stars came out.
"This is the eighth wonder of the world," the man said to his son.
"What are the other seven?" asked the boy.
Can you name the Seven Wonders of the World, a group of remarkable creations of ancient times? When he shared this story with me, off the tip of my head, I conjured up three: the Egyptian pyramids, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the Colossus of Rhodes. Not bad. But just in case one of my own children should ask the same question on some future camping expedition, I took out a little insurance, looking up the other four in my encyclopedia. Here they are: the tomb of Mausolus at Halicarnassus; the temple of Artemis at Ephesus; the statue of Zeus by Phidias at Olympia; and the Pharos (or lighthouse) of Alexandria. Of course.
When it came to the Seven Wonders of the World, my friend the architect had a built-in advantage: Architects designed six of them. But he didn't tell me the story to boast of his craft. Quite the opposite.
Yes, he answered his son's questions. He was even able to describe each of the seven marvels in considerable detail. Then the two of them stood silently together, until the sky wound itself into a riot of stars. Minutes passed. The man felt proud. But not nearly so proud as he soon would feel.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, son?"
"Those things you told me about. They aren't the real Seven Wonders of the World."
"What do you mean, son?"
"The first wonder of the world is a baby being born. Don't you think so, Dad? The second is being able to see. Then comes being able to talk and walk. That's four. Hearing makes five. Then either touch or smell. Both makes seven."
Looking upon the creation with new eyes, his father said, "How about love, Son?"
"Love," his son repeated. "You got it, Dad. That's the eighth wonder of the world."
When Broadway taps the spirit of love, which often it unabashedly does, we New Yorkers too get to witness both the bright lights and the eighth wonder of the world at one and the same time. Having just finished reading, Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstien II, which Ted Chapin dropped off for me Friday evening, I am reminded once again of how often the best of musical theater reminds us of what truly matters.
In 1928, Oscar Hammerstien wrote:
Love is quite a simple thing.
And nothing so bewildering,
No matter what the poets sing
In words and phrases lyrical.
Birds find bliss in every tree,
And fishes kiss beneath the sea,
So when love comes to you and me,
It really ain't no miracle.
Is this great poetry? No. Is it good religion. Absolutely it is. Far too much religion finds ultimate meaning only when the sun stops or the sea parts. Those aren't miracles. Please. The sun and the sea themselves are miracles. As for love, it is clearly the greatest miracle of them all.
Another simple, brilliant verse, this one from The Sound of Music.
A bell is no bell till you ring it.
A song is no song till you sing it.
And love in your heart
Wasn't put there to stay-
Love isn't love
Till you give it away.
For me it doesn't get any better than that. Love isn't love till you give it away. Love and freedom both. They only count when we spend them, when we invest them, when we give them away.
I don't know where you learn what you need to know, but I expect, since we are here in this kind of church together, that you to glean meaning wherever you can. How fortunate we are to live in this great city, where some of the meaning makers pop up in our backyard on Broadway. Oscar Hammerstein would never have presumed to be a great thinker, but he was undoubtedly a great lyricist. And his plays-Carousel, South Pacific, the King and I, and the Sound of Music-have touched all our lives. They have lifted our hearts and made them sing. Listen again. And as you do, think about my benediction, the words with which I close our worship together.
Now is the time,
The time to live,
No other time is real.
Yesterday had gone,
Tomorrow is a guess,
Today you can see and feel.
You can feel the wind from the fresh, green sea,
You can smell the salt in the spray.
Now is the time,
The time of your life,
The time of your life is today.
Pretentious, no. Simply right. As for the mountains, today is the day we are given to climb them. It's hard. I know that. Sometimes very hard. Hard to climb every mountain every day. Hard to walk through every storm with your head up high. Hard, sometimes, to rejoice and be glad. So, here's a bit of advice. We can't always follow it. Some of us are born sunny side up or over easy, but others came out of the blocks hard-boiled or scrambled. Still a good song makes the heart sing. Here's Barbara Fusco-Spera singing a Cock-eyed Optimist from South Pacific.
Closing Words
If we have one theme over the following weeks, it is this. "You are not alone." I hope you know that here. Next week, we will remind you once again if you're not too sure, drawing from Stephen Sondheim's amazing music, and closing with his wonderful song, "No one is alone" from "Into the Woods." This morning we close together with no less telling an anthem, even a hymn, let's sing it together, "You'll Never Walk Alone." Copyright AllSouls 2000.
To Home Page To Sermons To Ministers