First Parish Unitarian Universalist"In the Face of Tragedy"
A sermon preached by the Rev. Diane Teichert
First Parish Unitarian Universalist - Canton, MA
January 7, 2001
While the sermon you are about to hear could possibly be entitled "Bring Many Stories," it isn't in fact the sermon I planned to preach and announced with that title in the newsletter. That sermon, a sequel to my sermon on November 12th, "Bring Many Names," has been postponed to later in January.
Instead, I want to talk about tragedies and our responses to them. Like many of you, perhaps, I have been disturbed by the news of the recent violence in Wakefield, when seven people were shot and killed by a co-worker. There but for the grace of God, the Goddess, fate or Lady Luck go any of us…or one of our loved ones.
We could have been one whose life was brutally ended by someone with whom we'd eaten lunch the previous week. Or, we could be one who watched the whole horror happen, not succeeding in doing anything to stop it. We could be an employee who might have been there that day, but wasn't. We could be the last therapist the killer had seen, or the first police officer to arrive on the scene after the shooting. I could be the priest of the church across the street from the shooting (if I was a man!) and you could be the congregation who welcomed into our building the frightened, the mourners, the worried, the relieved.
You or I could have been the father or mother, sister or brother, spouse, lover, or child of one who is now dead…or of the murderer. One of us could have fired the guns.
Any of us could have been any one of them. But, we weren't.
I read a moving account in the Canton Citizen this week. Perhaps some of you saw it, too. The author was a Canton woman who had been the student, in junior high, of the parents of the alleged murderer. She described them as well-informed, inspiring, involved teachers-wonderful people. She couldn't imagine how the son of such good people, people she actually knew, could have done something so horrible. She concluded by asking for prayers for all the families who have been so terribly torn up by this event, including among them not only the families of those who were killed, but also the parents of the killer.
I'm reminded of another story in which something horrible happened to similarly good people, a true story told many years later by someone who, by chance, came to know them and whose life was forever changed by how they responded to the tragedy that befell them. Her name is Marcy O'Brien, a flight attendant who grew up in Stoughton-I don't suppose any of you knew her? She wrote her story as an essay titled "The Fruit of Kindness."
"Apples mean autumn when you grow up in New England, but that association changed forever for me in 1972. The memory of what happened that year touches my life every fall, when the first cool nights creep into September. The images do not fade until well after Christmas, the season that means apples to me now.
In 1972, I lived in rural Connecticut with my husband and our year-old daughter; I was also an American Airlines flight attendant, based at New York's Kennedy Airport. Eight or nine days a month, I flew round-trip to the Caribbean…That fall, we were hearing anxious discussions around the island airports about civil unrest. I particularly remember one US Customs agent who said she was planning to leave while she still could. I thought she was overreacting, maybe even a little hysterical.
On this particular September morning, I boarded our aircraft, which had just arrived at Kennedy from Logan Airport. A handful of Boston passengers were continuing on to the US Virgin Islands. Most appeared to be the usual tourists, but one couple didn't fit in. they looked like grandparents on their way to a wedding, or a baptism, or perhaps a funeral.
The woman was small, her figure softening, her hair graying, sweet-looking. She wore what was probably her Sunday best: A simple blue silk dress and matching jacket, with a strand of pearls. She was polite during our preflight chitchat, but she seemed distracted and subdued.
Her companion looked even more ill at ease. He was a good-sized man, thickened by late middle age. From his complexion and his large, rough hands, I felt certain that he worked outdoors. He looked uncomfortable in his dark suit, tight shirt, and plain black tie…
I verified their names-Barbara and Edward Gulliver-on the seating chart and launched into my get-acquainted small talk:
"How was the weather in Boston?"
"Boy, the nights have turned nippy early…
"Where do you live in Massachusetts? Leominster? I don't think I've ever been there…
"I live in Connecticut now, but I grew up on the South Shore…
"What do you do in Leominster? An apple farm? You know, since I left home, I just can't find Macoun apples like we used ot buy at a little fruit stand in Easton. They even squeezed Macoun cider…
"You grow them? Really? Wow, that's great! You'll have to tell me how to buy them from you…
Then, I asked: "So what's taking you to the islands today?"
"We're going to get our son," the woman said softly. A strange thing to say, I thought.
"Oh, is he ill?" Now I was concerned for these sweet people.
"No. He was murdered yesterday." The father said it quietly, compressing his lips tightly.
"What?" I stammered, the calmness I could usually count on in times of stress gone. So much for training.
My emotions roiled. "He can't have said that," I told myself. Then, "Oh, this is awful…stay calm…and don't cry, stupid…oh, my God."
I reached out instinctively to touch them. Neither of them moved, but neither of them pushed my hand away. Willing away the tears, I managed to say how sorry I was, and then I asked them how it had happened.
The morning newspapers, which we had on board, carried the first, brief, wire story. The previous afternoon, five islanders, armed with submachine guns, had walked into the a golf club on St. Croix. They had opened fire, striking four tourists, two electricians working at the club, and two club employees. All eight died; the motive was said to be robbery. The couple's son John, one of five children, was the head groundskeeper. He was 23.
During the crowded flight, the Gullivers sat silently, occasionally holding hands. Their quiet grief became more difficult to witness with each trip I made up the aisle. Between the food and beverage service, I learned that the Gullivers had not notified anyone at the airline about their situation. Their son's wife had called from St. Croix with the news. We found out later about her two tiny children, now fatherless. The couple had no plans in place for the return of their son's remains. They had simply called the airline, had bought two tickets to a faraway island, and were going where they were needed. They had asked for nothing. My heart broke for them.
We could not do a great deal for the Gullivers from the air, except to radio the airlines' station manager [who]…was able to set the wheels in motion for the assistance that the Gullivers would need upon arrival and during the days ahead on St. Croix. Escorting the grieving Gullivers off the plane in St. Croix was the most gut-wrenching duty I've ever had to perform. Just thinking about it now, 26 years later, still carves a hole in my heart. We did all we could, but it seemed so little.
We were a much-subdued crew that left St. Croix on the return trip to New York that afternoon. Back at Kennedy Airport, we left notes for the flight crews scheduled…for the Gullivers' return flight and the need to, as we said in the business, "extend all courtesies."
My drive that night up Connecticut's Merritt Parkway, along the dark country roads leading to our home, seemed endless. When I got to the house, I took my sleeping daughter out of her crib and held her close. The magnitude of the Gullivers' loss overwhelmed me. Me the cynical "seen it all" world traveler, totally undone by the dignified grief of two apple farmers I hadn't known (before) that morning. I couldn't shake my mental snapshots of the downcast couple or my thoughts of what their next few days would bring.
As autumn unfolded, I felt I was dragging myself through the season. I found I was more protective of my child, and I entered unfamiliar situations more cautiously. Until that plane trip, senseless killings had seemed the stuff of television. They certainly shouldn't touch the lives of quiet folks like the Gullivers. Or my family. I also could not bring myself to undertake my annual search for Macoun apples or to visit the local cider mills.
I read everything I could about the golf club shooting, the sentencing to life terms of the five gunmen, and the ensuing unrest. Eventually, tourism and real estate plummeted on St. Croix. The impact would last for years. That fearful customs agent had been right.
By December, I was immersed in the Christmas hoopla. The season's chores and festivities had pushed the Gulliver tragedy to the back of my mind. On Christmas Eve, the only thing occupying my thoughts was the houseful of relatives who had arrived for the holidays. About 6:00, the doorbell rang, and I was surprised to see the UPS man with a large white box at my door.
"Oh, my goodness. I thought you'd be home with your family by now," I said. We were so happy, I wanted everyone else to be, too.
"It's ok. You’re my last delivery," he said. "I'll be home in 20 minutes."
I wished him a merry Christmas and turned back into the house, curious about the big box, hand-addressed to me. I had already received the few catalog items I had ordered, and I could not imagine who might send such a large gift. I took the box into our crowded living room, noisy with relatives hooked on the antics of our toddler. My husband and I knelt down, and he helped me undo the tight, squeaky Styrofoam lid. Neither of us suspected what was inside, even after we saw the rounded mounds of tissue paper. But unwrapping that first green mound unwrapped my heart. I held a perfect, polished Macoun apple-accompanied by 23 more.
It took a few minutes to find the envelope taped inside the lid. The note on the Christmas card said simply: "Thank you and Merry Christmas to you and your family, The Gullivers."
My tears spilled onto the carpet. I could not comprehend how these grieving parents could think of someone else, now, at Christmas, when they likely faced the worst holiday of their lives. I was in awe of their gift. I couldn't help but contrast the blessing of my healthy, happy family with what must be happening in Leominster. It was the most difficult thank you note I have ever written.
Later, I wondered how the Gullivers had obtained my address.. I had not given it to them; any thoughts of ordering apples on the flight that day had disappeared when the couple had confided their mission. The airlines has always been very protective of flight crews' personal information, so someone had done some dedicated sleuthing to find me in rural Connecticut…
I am not sure that the Gullivers would understand how profoundly they affected my life then or in the years since. In that time, I have dealt with the loss of friends and eventually some family. But when Christmas comes each year, I always think about the lessons I learned that fall and winter so long ago. As a New Englander, I had been taught that keeping one's feelings in check is not only respectful, it is expected. The Gulliver family sent me apples, but their gift also sent a confirmation that reaching out to strangers in simple kindness isn't necessarily forward or bold; sometimes it's a survival mechanism in our often unkind world. It humanizes us. My stiff upper lip is softer now.
I bought a red apple Christmas ornament the following year and dated it 1972. I've hung it on our tree every year since then, in John Gulliver's memory. This year, my only son, a Marine second lieutenant, fresh out of the Naval Academy at Annapolis, is 23. I am hoping he will be home for the holidays and that our family will share some Macoun cider as we decorate the tree together." (Boston Globe Magazine, December 6, 1998).
Terrible public tragedies aren't supposed to happen to nice people like the apple farmers, or to our favorite teachers, or to us. But, indeed, they sometimes do.
And, private tragedies happen to us all eventually-a death that comes too early to a loved one, a marriage that comes undone, serious illness, the repeating pain of prejudice, an unexpected lay-off, hurtful words from a loved one…Bad things will likely sometime happen to each of us.
I do not believe there is a reason why bad things happen to good people. They certainly don't happen to teach us a lesson. They are not God's will, if there is a God. They just happen!
But, I do believe we are called to grieve fully, to respond with love, and-always-to learn something, to make some meaning for ourselves…especially meaning that leads us to change for the better.
Marcy O'Brien learned from the violent tragedy on St. Croix that she was right to reach out with emotion to the grieving couple, instead of keeping her feelings in check, as she'd been taught. Offering "simple kindness," she said, is "sometimes a survival mechanism in our often unkind world." She further resolved, "my stiff upper lip is softer now."
Then she found a way to symbolize what she learned, in an apple-shaped Christmas tree ornament, that was still serving her when she published her story 26 years later, as a reminder of the meaning to her of that tragedy and its ensuing events.
To learn and make some meaning, it helps to tell and re-tell the story of a tragic event-whether public or personal-even if we are just telling it to ourselves. Over and over we may tell it if necessary, looking for glimmers of truth about ourselves and how we want to live in the future in light of what has happened and what we learned from it.
One aspect of a story is the broader context in which it took place. After a public tragedy like the one in Wakefield, the story is told over and over again as people struggle to understand the context within which it took place, hoping it might provide clues for why it happened and how such things could be prevented. This isn't-or shouldn't be-about looking to place blame. Rather, it is looking for difficult truths and how we want to live in the future in light of what has happened.
In the case of this public tragedy, as I've read and reconsidered the story, the lessons I've learned so far are not about mental illness or employee screening programs. (Many of us will experience depression at some time or other in our lives, you know). The difficult truths that I can see are that the man owned guns and that, though he seemed to be part of a loving family, perhaps he was isolated otherwise. I look, therefore, for increased gun control measures and to places like First Parish to provide community and caring for people.
But, these are the responses of someone who observes from a distance. Those more directly involved are called to respond with love, like the former student who asked for prayers for her teachers and the flight attendant who showed kindness in her emotional response and in making practical beneficial arrangements for the bereaved. The tragedies called forth their love. Surely, though we hope to never encounter such an event in our own lives, we would hope to have the heart and soul to respond with love.
Any of us who have experienced an increase in the expressions of love among family members in the face of a crisis, illness or death, know the power of love to hold and even transform tragedy. The concord and caring that love provides are truly a blessing in such times. Surely, if we would pray for anything for the families involved in the Wakefield tragedy, it would be that they be drawn together in greater love for each other.
Amen.
Benediction
Go forth into the world in peace. Be strong and of good courage. Hold fast to that which is good; render to no one evil for evil; strengthen the faint-hearted, support the weak, help the afflicted, honor all men and women; serve with gladness, rejoicing always in the power of love. Amen.