Communities of Care

Back before the pandemic, when we did a lot of things, it was easy to get confused about what church was for- we had a lot of activities and programs and they all seemed important. But as the pandemic has dragged on, many of those activities and programs and committees we thought a church could not function without have fallen away. What we do now pretty much comes down to – we worship together and we care for one another. And a big part of what we do together on Sunday morning is caring for one another.

Even when I show up for a board meeting, someone will ask after my loved ones, medical tests or dogs. We take time in every board meeting to ask after absent friends, folks not on zoom, folks who are grieving or sick. We celebrate with each other joys of all sizes. Many times over the past 2 years I have wondered “how are people without a congregation surviving this?”

For as long as there have been faith congregations, there has been a tradition of caring for one another. I don’t know when it started, but it was clearly part of the early Christian church. The Hebrew scriptures, which are much older, include specific instructions about helping the most vulnerable in ways that show this was commonly part of community life.

We, in both the Athens and Cortland congregations, have cared for our people as long as I have known you, and in a way that shows this is an old and deep habit. Let’s not take that for granted, but celebrate and nurture this aspect of our lives together.

First, I want to celebrate that when we create communities of care, we disrupt consumer culture, we disrupt the for-profit culture. When I put “communities of care” in my search engine, it came up with several pages of fee-based organizations that you can hire to do some of the aspects of caring. And thank goodness for them- thank goodness for nurses and therapists and medical assistants and assisted living and transportation services. We’re not trying ot replace the area agency on aging. But our community of care is a little oasis that removes money from the equation, we offer whatever little bits of support we can to one another because we care. We do it as a gift of love, sometimes for people we hardly know. In our voluntary communities of care we are not consumers and providers, we are co-creators. It is a care based on mutuality.

We have seen that when the big professional structures break down, let’s say after a disaster, that the first people on the scene most times are family, neighbors, friends, strangers who instinctively look around to see who needs help. That capacity to be there for one another gives us freedom from a system where we are numbers, where we are consumers, and reminds us of something beautiful about what it means to be human beings in community. Caring community can help and hold people at the margins- people who maybe don’t have family nearby, people who have fallen through the gaps in the safety net. Our communities are human-sized, we see one another and our needs, we notice people who get lost in big systems.

We co-create a caring community because we hope there will be a community to hold us when we need care, but not with any strict accounting of what we give matching what we get, but in a “pay it forward” kind of way. I remember when I was becoming a parent, we were inundated by gifts and supplies and advice and hot meals, and I am still paying forward out of a deep awe and gratitude for that outpouring of support. When my friends and sisters were becoming parents I released everything that Nick had outgrown, because I trusted the community of parents that if we found ourselves surprised by another child, I could step back into that flow, and the support we needed would be there.

Communities of care also disrupt isolation. I’m sure you’ve heard the studies about an epidemic of loneliness in our society. We were growing lonelier before the pandemic, and research affirms what we already know, that we have grown lonelier during the pandemic. I bet all of us have struggled with loneliness and isolation during these past 2 years. That’s one of the best things about church, and this congregation in particular- anyone of good will can join this community, no matter how unlovable you feel, all you have to do to be welcomed into community is show up with an open heart and mind. And because we are so small, there is pretty much no chance that you will be invisible, we see you, and we welcome you with open hearts.

I think it’s no accident that faith communities are so often caring communities. Not only are faith communities a place where we challenge ourselves to live out our highest values, of which care and love are among the most important, but love and care are also a spiritual path, a spiritual practice. I hope that each of you have experienced the special kind of warmth that Mr. Nick felt as he was knitting that blanket thinking of his friend, as he embodied his caring in a thoughtful and personal way for her. In our physical and emotional acts of caring we have a chance to connect more deeply to the divine that is present in relationship, The place between persona and person is a scared place of connection. The web that binds living beings together is sacred, and when we live into that web, embodying care, sometimes the web reveals itself to us in a beautiful and numinous way.

The spiritual practice of care is also challenging. Relationships are hard because people are different, needs are different. Sometimes people need more than we can give, sometimes what we can give doesn’t help. The spiritual practice of care helps us learn non-attachment to outcomes. We can make soup for our sick neighbor, but perhaps they have no appetite. We find a rehab center with a bed, but only our friend struggling with addiction knows if they are ready for recovery. We drive our neighbor to the doctor, but we can’t find a cure. Sometimes people in pain, in fear, in grief are grumpy or impatient or having trouble seeing the big picture. We care anyway, paying attention to our own limits. We can’t take away another’s pain. We offer, we act, and we let go.

It’s a spiritual practice that does not always feel good but invites us to grow in wisdom. The ocean of need is endless, none of us alone can meet that need, not even when we come together as our little congregation can we satisfy all the need. Instead, we must trust to something larger, to the large web that if we do the little things we can do, other people, other communities will do the same. As the dog rescue volunteer we’ve been working with signs all hear emails “until there are none, save one.”

Our community of care will be as unique as our little communities. It’s okay that we don’t have warehouses of supplies or our own unemployment insurance like the Mormons. The Athens congregation established a Minister’s Discretionary fund where many members have donated generously over the years for short term emergencies- like help with a heating bill, or a rent payment, or that technology you need to keep you connected to your community or to the workforce. We heard in "Singing the Soup"by Meg Barnhouse  how they came, in her congregation, to make soup when the power went out in an ice storm. In the Athens congregation we remember the time we set up our own lunch center after the floods. Just last month the Cortland the tradition of bringing poinsettias to folks in nursing care brought joy and connection to our own members and people we have never met.

In our congregations we don’t have specific pastoral care programs, we have a simple caring circle, where we let one another know about folks who might need our support, and those who are able respond spontaneously with food or rides or a comforting call or card. You don’t have to know one another, you can just say “I heard through he caring circle what you were experiencing. Here’s how I’d like to support you, is that something you would like?” and then listen for the answer.

The greatest challenge of our spiritual practice of caring community is that the more we care, the more we love, the more we open our hearts, we give up the protective numbness of detachment. Our congregation has lost 2 members this winter in death, and if we had not taken them into our hearts, and if we had not opened our hearts to their loved ones, perhaps we would not have felt the pain of their passing. But then we wouldn’t have had our friends who were so dear to us. If you take the challenging spiritual path of love, you will know joy and connection and care, but you will also know loss. And both are profoundly sacred.

Our congregation has been a community of care for a long time, it’s deep in our collective DNA. Today we celebrate and affirm this part of our life together. When we give, when we receive, when we witness acts of care, we remember that there is a love that is greater than any one of us, that we are invited to serve and co-create with our own care, with own hands and hearts.