Sermons by Reverend Don Beaudreault
CELEBRATING MEN (FATHER's DAY)
Rev. Don Beaudreault
Unitarian Universalist Church of Sarasota, FL
June 19, 2005
OPENING WORDS: “I'm a man”
I’m a man
I’m the other half of the planet that
Some of you hate
Some of you are afraid of
Some of you are indifferent to
Some of you loveI’m a man
I’m the other half of the planet that has
Ruled you
Hurt you
Controlled you
Underpaid you
Ignored you
Molested you
Raped you
Beat you
Killed youI’m a man
I’m the other half of the planet that has
Loved you
Held you
Caressed you
Listened to you
Cried with you
Had children with you
Grown with you
Fought injustice with you
Broken free with youI’m a man
I’m the other half of the planet
I’m your
Husband or your
Partner or your
Father or your
Brother or your
Son or your
FriendDavid Elkins
MEDITATION READING:
“W3”
(written in 1992)
It was an announcement about my 25th year college reunion, saying something about a beer blast on the football field – Rah! Rah! Rah! – being with the guys, and sweatshirts with our school mascot, the leopard, on them. Hardly an exciting prospect for me way back then or now, so I decided to return to my alma mater three weeks before the reunion. It was my way of coming to terms with the reality that a quarter of a century had passed.
I went with a single purpose in mind: to reunite with my favorite professor, Dr. William Whyte Watt, or “W3” as he was called.
What style this English professor had had! What wit! What a lover of the English language! As a college student, I had both admired him and feared him, the latter because I had felt so intellectually inadequate whenever he was around. Also, I sometimes felt discounted by him, no matter how hard I had tried to please him. This for me was illustrated by his choosing to call me by the name “Bill.” Even though “William” is my first name, I have always gone by my middle name “Donald” or “Don.”
I wrote him with some trepidation, telling him of my desire to take him to lunch. I feared that he would grade my letter, or at least blue-pencil in corrections. When I got a letter back with a witticism here, a witticism there, I figured he hadn’t changed much.
I was right. Seeing him after twenty-five years, I was surprised at how little he seemed to have physically altered. Just a little thinner, a little more hard of hearing. He didn’t seem to be eighty-years old. I wondered how I appeared to him. Certainly not twenty-two anymore!
He called me “Bill.”
His mind was still sharp, and ready with the next quip. What was different about him was that over lunch, he kept telling me secrets. Things about the faculty twenty-five years ago and now; stories about past college episodes that a professor in 1967 would never had shared with a student. Although W3 was treating me rather like a peer, I couldn’t quite think of myself as one, nor could I believe myself to be a college student anymore.
The two-hour lunch turned into a six-hour visit that included a trip to his home to share our love of beer, and our passion for the nicely turned phrase. Surprisingly, W3 even talked about some pretty personal things concerning his deceased wife, his three daughters, and his mentally disabled son who had been institutionalized as a child.
When we both realized that it was time for me to go, he drove me back to the campus, and saying goodbye to me, seemed quite reserved, as if he were back in time playing his former role as the distant professor. I wanted to hug him, being a Californian at the time, but decided I’d better not. Still, I wanted to because I believed I would never see him again and I wanted to show him once and for all that he had meant a great deal to me. I wanted to because he had a fatal blood disease and not hugging at that point was foregoing final attempts at our closeness. But I didn’t make the motion toward him, except to extend my hand and mumble something inane like “See you latter.”
He, on his part, closed our reunion by saying, “See you around, Don,” which in some ways, was far better than a hug.
Don Beaudreault
SERMON:
“Celebrating Men”
One can never unveil the essence of masculinity or femininity. Instead, all one exposes are…representations.
I wish I had said that, but I didn’t. Still, these words by Linda Kauffman in her book with an unwieldy title (Discourses of Desire: Gender, Genre, and Epistolary Fictions) set the theme for today as we go about the joy of “Celebrating Men,” specifically our fathers and our father figures.
Truly, in this society we call “post-modern” – and in our own particular culture and similar industrialized ones – we must conclude that the “rules” have been changed and are constantly changing in regard to what the “essence” of male or female can be.
Kenneth J. Gergen, in his book that I love to quote (The Saturated Self: Dilemmas of Identity in Contemporary Life) tells us this:
Gender is a category born of culture, and used for a wide variety of questionable purposes. In particular, there are political and ideological biases inherent in the current practices of gender assignment…
Gender is but one of the traditional categories of self-identification that now deteriorates. Categories of race, age, religion, and nationality are similarly suspect. As the boundaries of definition give way, so does the assumption of self-identity. (p. 145)
So, our dilemma this morning as we go about “Celebrating Men” is to ask ourselves what exactly are we celebrating? For one thing, dads, assuredly – but what kind of dads? All kinds, must be our answer. For another thing, all kinds of men and boys, not just a certain type. So in effect, what we are celebrating is the complex but liberating aspect of a post-modern society that calls each of us, no matter what our “gender” might ostensibly be, to simply be our self; to be who we want to be!
That is where, by the way, we Unitarian Universalists have been and forever must be in the vanguard of speaking out: at the head of the parade, marching for the liberation of all people!
I wish I could have understood this more than I do at present when, in 1992, I saw the now late “W3” for the last time. I should have hugged the guy – stereotypes be damned! I should have told him that I loved him, that he had been my mentor, that he had been a role model, that he had been a father figure for me.
But, he and I played out the stereotypes of the “tough guy” culture we knew best: the Northeast corridor of our country. Thank goodness for the beers – they loosened us up a bit!
However, I sincerely believe that most boys and men today do not need more beers, but a wake-up call from the somnabulism of stereotypes. They need to be awakened to the potentiality that lies within them to be who they really are and/or want to be. Too much of the masculine world hasn’t a clue as to this, or if it has a clue, it is afraid of pursuing the clue in order to discover a solution to the disease.
Now, it might very well be, that the self-identifying process that needs to go on, is to claim a macho, strongman, he-man, just-one-of-the-guys persona. I am not here to judge this, except when it comes to the possible chauvinistic, even violent nature of such a role-playing.
Consider this poem about a father’s changing his son’s diaper – a liberating image – up to a point.
Changing Diapers
Gary SnyderHow intelligent he looks
on his back
both feet caught in my one hand
his glance set sideways,
on a giant poster of Geronimo
with a Sharp’s repeating rifle by his knee.I open, wipe, he doesn’t even notice
nor do I.
Baby legs and knees
toes like little peas
little wrinkles, good-to-eat,
eyes bright, shiny ears,
chest swelling drawing air,No trouble, friend,
you and me and Geronimo
are men.
One cannot be a man my age who was born and raised in our country and not know about the socializing process that says you must be a certain way if you are to be thought of as the “right” kind of man – the Geronimo effect, if you will; the warrior; the tough guy.
Still, Gary Snyder was changing that diaper. I doubt that Geronimo’s father ever changed his son’s diaper, or that my father ever changed mine. Did yours? Or write such endearing poems?
Compare this “bonding” of a Geronimo father and son with a poem written about a single father of twin boys – indeed, the poem is about one of the men in our congregation. A female friend of his wrote it:
To Honor a Dad
(Father’s Day, June 1995)
AnonymousInto your life your two sons came
Forever. Not only to have your name
But your love, your caring. Yes, right from the start
They jumped in and grabbed onto your Daddy heart....these babies need me
Then they were toddling – laughing and fighting.
Testing their world which seemed so inviting.
And always, each day, through smiles or tears
They knew they were safe because Daddy was here....these little boys need me
The fun years with young boys pass by all too soon.
In their eyes you’re a hero and you gave them the room
To stretch, explore, do the things young boys do
To grow – within the shelter of you....these young boys need me
The trying years test us as they seek
An independence. But, we can’t seem weak
So you set the rules, structure their lives,
And watch as they struggle yet within it all thrive....these teenagers need me
And now they are about to embark
On a new phase of growing. Our life seems so stark
Knowing they will not be home each night.
But knowing, as well, you’ve done something so right.For your love shines through when I see these young men.
They have a fine spirit, something within
That will take them far, wherever they go,
Because you’re a great Dad – and love them so.
...these young men need me
Looking into the future we cannot see
What part of their lives they’ll want us to be.
But you will watch, and be there, as they face life’s test
Because, as a Dad, you’re the very best.
...I need my sons
Now, here is a dad who did it all – the work inside the home and outside. There probably wasn’t much time between changing diapers, doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, and making a living, for him to think about Geronimo or anyone else – including himself. I presume that stereotypes break down for single dads – especially for those who raise their children from infancy on.
And having a single dad as a role model – a dad who did a fantastic job – helped to create a different perspective on what it means to be a man in today’s society for those sons of his. I doubt that either one of these guys will think in terms of “male-female” responsibilities when it comes to raising children or anything else! No Geronimos here – at least full-time ones - but guys who might very well subscribe to the perspective on being a male that real men can eat quiche or whatever else they choose! Here, of course, I am referring to that best-selling satirical characterization of American masculinity in the 1980’s as summed up by Bruce Feirstein in his book Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche: A Guidebook to All That Is Truly Masculine. Note, the title is satirical and so is the book!
There is another category of fatherhood that creates bonding between sons and their dads – one in which there are gay fathers who share the parenting. And we have a man in our congregation who was this kind of father to his former partner’s children. A poem written by one of the sons expresses this strong relationship:
My Dads
by “Matt”I have learned from my dads that life is a learning experience where the most important lessons are not taught.
I have learned from my dads that people should be judged with your eyes closed.
I have learned from my dads that it is the thought that counts.
I have learned from my dads that love can pull you through any situation.
I have learned from my dads that hard work is the only way to accomplish your goals.
I have learned from my dads that if someone looks or acts bad they usually are.
I have learned from my dads that there are always two people I can count on.
I have learned from my dads that without either of them my life would not have been as good.
I have learned from my dads that having two dads is a wonderful thing.
Isn’t life in this day and age wonderful when we accept each other for who we are, instead of trying to change each other? The world would be so much happier a place if we all did this. We can be joyful that more and more straight people agree that gay people have the right to raise their own children or to adopt children and raise them as their own. But sadly, when it comes to adoption laws in our state and throughout our county, our legislators and some of their constituency are not accepting. But we shall overcome – some day!
A third kind of father I would like us to consider as we attempt to understand the identities that men choose, is the dad who quietly and unassumingly goes about his role of being the man of the family – and how the love he is showing through his actions can be taken for granted.
Those Winter Sundays
Robert HaydenSundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,Speaking indifferently to him
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Perhaps this poem reminds you of your not appreciating your own father. Or how you, as a father or mother might feel about your children taking you for granted.
As I got older and began to realize the sacrifices my parents had made for me, I wondered how I could repay them. Someone older than I told me that if and when I had my own children, I would repay my parents by being a parent myself and doing things for my own kids; and that my children would not always acknowledge my assistance. And my advisor added that that’s the way it is. I now understand that parenting is an example of the principle of karma: you reap what you have given. (But not always!)
At any rate, if you do still have a father who, like Robert Hayden’s father exhibited “love’s austere and lonely offices” by doing so many unsung things for you, him know how much you appreciate him! And do it before it’s too late!
The final father type I would like us to celebrate today, is the guy who doesn’t always do the right thing, but who, nevertheless, shows his love the way he can. In the following poem – one of my favorites – the son’s rapture for his dad is palpable – even if the father shows his love in a rough-hewed manner:
My Papa’s Waltz
Theodore RoethkeThe whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.The hand that held my wrists
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
Ah! Here is a little boy’s passion for his roughhousing daddy; a daddy caught up in a rarefied moment of expressing affection for his son in a kind of tough-love waltz! And yet, the touch was there, the emotional connection was made! !
What else can we say today about fathers, about being masculine? That none of us fathers is perfect. That none of us men or boys is perfect. That when it comes to our showing affection for each other – even for our own children – it is sometimes a difficult thing. Again, let me not stereotype, because it is an easy thing for some men and boys to show such affection.
Still, let us who identify as male accept the fact that many of us have more choices in creating our self-identities than our fathers did, or their fathers before them. And so may we choose wisely, and in choosing wisely, may we do so with love guiding us every step of the way.
Happy Father’s Day!
CLOSING WORDS: from “Your Children"
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you
Yet they belong not to you…You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
Kahlil Gibran