"Come, Everything is New"
Peter Rothstein
Sunday, April 2nd 2006

When I was eleven or twelve, a statue of Our Lady of Fatima was brought to our parish for an all-night vigil. This statue had performed miracles. On several occasions, the statue actually cried, real human tears. I was determined to stay the night, or at least until I saw the statue cry. We prayed the rosary I don’t know how many times, and every hour we would line up, staring straight ahead, slowly making our way to the statue for adoration. “Please cry, please cry. Now. I wanna see a miracle.” I didn’t have many friends as a kid. I mean, I don’t know what teenage boy wouldn’t want to spend Saturday night with me and a statue of Our Lady of Fatima. It was a miracle was that I had any friends at all. I wonder how much of our lives we spend, waiting in line, staring straight ahead, when miracles are happening all around us.

Next week I turn 40. I wasn’t too neurotic about it, until Anna Vagle called me a few weeks ago and said, “We would like you to speak—about confronting death.” Actually, she was a bit subtler than that. She asked what I was working on, and I told her I was directing a show called FLOYD COLLINS. It’s a musical based on a true story about a caver in Kentucky who was trapped 150 feet under ground. The show is a profound look at our mortality. “Perfect for April 2” Anna replied, “The Gospel reading is, ‘Unless a grain of wheat falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain; but IF it dies, it yields a rich harvest.’”

So, between John’s Gospel and FLOYD COLLINS, what was going to be a smooth ride into my 40’s has become somewhat of an obsession with death and dying.

Leo Tolstoy’s final book was a collection he titled, Wise Thoughts for Every Day. He considered it his most important work. He writes:

"Everything in life is simple, interconnected, and can be explained. Everything, except for death, and so people try not to think about it. This is a mistake. We should simply look at life as part of something as mysterious and incomprehensible, and death as something simple, clear, and easily understood.” Tolstoy, continues, “The most important thing for our spiritual life is to understand that we are not standing still in one place but constantly moving somewhere at great speed. In this life, we are passengers on a huge ship. While on the ship, we need to flow with the law of life and live in peace, love and harmony during the time we are given.”

I think that dynamic is what drew me to this particular piece of theater. Floyd Collins was a visionary; he embraced the wonders of the world. In 1925, he discovered a series of underground tunnels that he believed connected all the caves in the region. He shimmied feet first through a passageway 150 feet underground, into what he thought would be his gold-mine, his American dream, his place in history. When a rock slipped and fell on his right foot, Floyd found himself trapped. Unable to free himself, he became the subject of the first media frenzy in our nation's History. While this media circus swirled above ground, Floyd Collins confronted his mortality below.

This morning, Andrew Cooke joins us at the piano and Dieter Bierbrauer will sing Floyd Collins’ final confrontation, coming face to face with death.

Song: “Glory”

One of my favorite childhood memories is at our family cabin in Northern Minnesota. On summer nights we would watch the sunset and then take a sauna. My father would lead us in song – the classics “She’ll be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” and “Found a Peanut.” After getting through all 45 verses, we would run “fast as you can” into the lake. We would hoot and holler from the shock to your system. But the body would quickly adjust and we were content to just stand in the lake and look up at the stars. My father would teach us the constellations. First you find the Big Dipper and that points you to the Little Dipper. I don’t’ think I’ve ever slept better than those summer nights after a sauna. I’m not sure exactly what it does to the body, but I know part of why I slept so soundly was that we sang, we looked at the stars, I felt safe and so very loved.

My father died of cancer 13 years ago. I remember bringing him home from the hospital, and we had Hospice workers come into our home. My father was ready to die; he had tremendous faith. I remember one Hospice worker asking if there was any unfinished business, something he was hanging on for. My sexuality hung over me like a cloud, I was 25 years old and still in the closet. A friend asked me, “Do you want to be 40 years old and have never come out to your father?” I responded, “Well, when he crosses over, he will know about me and simultaneously know that God created me like this. I’ll just save him the torment in the meantime.” The night of December 15, I sat with my Father. And though ten days before Christmas, I had an Epiphany. This wasn’t about my secret, or my fear, I saw things in a new light, and an apology was in order: I needed to apologize for denying him the opportunity to accept me, for not trusting in his unconditional love, despite the fact that he never showed me anything but. My father died moments later. And though overwhelmed by his death, I simultaneously experienced new life. As children we are afraid of the dark, but as adults we often seem more afraid of the light, afraid to put ourselves out there, perhaps afraid of our own potential.

I remember my brothers and I carrying the body of our Father down the stairs, my mother and sisters lined up in the hallway. We proceeded out the door, down our long sidewalk and into the hearse. I remember wrapping the blanket tightly around him, thinking he must be so cold in this December air. In the previous weeks I bathed him, shaved him and fed him. You see, we sang, we looked at the stars, and I wanted him to sleep soundly, to feel safe and so very loved.

My father loved sunsets. Perhaps that’s where I developed a fascination with horizons. That single line where the sun sets bringing darkness, rest, and stars. And that single line is connected to the same line where the sun breaks, bringing us a new day, light, another chance. In my bedroom hangs one of my favorite pieces of art. It’s a painting by my friend Camille. It’s quite simple– there’s a hill, a night sky with a single star, and etched along the horizon is a quote by Franz Wright, “I believe one day the distance between myself and God will disappear.”

In today’s first reading from the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah, Yahweh speaks, “I will make a new covenant. . . Deep within them I will plant my Law, writing in on their hearts. . . I will forgive their iniquity and never call their sin to mind.” I think of laws as something written on big tablets, or in large books, but this New Covenant is written on the heart, by a forgiving God, who each and every day makes the sun rise, giving us another chance. Perhaps that’s the greatest gift, the greatest miracle of all.

So, let’s stop waiting. Step out line. Stop staring straight ahead. Look around. Everything is new. And tonight, look at the stars. And then sleep soundly, and know that you are safe and so very loved.