Yesterday a colleague who lives in the heart of downtown Philadelphia came to visit us for lunch and the afternoon. As we strolled through the vegetable garden, she told me that this is her favorite time of the year — the time when the air is suffused with the scent of ripe produce, when fruits are hanging heavily on the bough and the light is beginning to turn from yellow to gold. It’s a sweet time, a time of bounty and generosity, yet tinged with poignance, for even as we luxuriate in the abundance of the fruits of our labors, we are aware that the summer is nearly over, and soon the days of warmth and sunshine will have passed by.

I was aware of how often Duane and I use our garden as a metaphor for the messages we want to share with you. It makes sense, of course — we’re gardeners, we spend a lot of time out there on the "back forty" doing the kind of heavy physical work that lends itself to reflection. And besides, the garden is just a great metaphor… it has everything: dirt, sunshine, weeds, surprises, disappointments, manure, fertility, hard labor, beauty, serpents, bugs, nourishment — all those great symbols rolled into one 30 by 80 foot space with a fence around it!

Just as we have lovingly tended the vegetable and flower garden in our back yard, we have tended to the growth and development of this religious community in the three years we have spent with you. We have watched you take root, sinking yourselves deeply into the values and the hopeful message of liberal religion. We have watched you blossom, accepting challenges and developing skills that you might not have been able to develop in another context. We have been nourished by your generosity in sharing your lives with us, inviting us to participate in your celebrations, telling us your stories, turning toward us in your pain and uncertainty. All of us have worked hard together, and all of us have fed one another.

So on this cool late summer morning, as the change in the light reminds us that the harvest is approaching, let us once again enjoy the fruits of our labors. Look around you and admire the faces of the people whose hard work has helped to make this community thrive for you. Remember that each of them has something to give you and something they need from you. Trust that in the fullness of time, those gifts and those needs will become evident; trust that you will know how to respond appropriately to them when the time is right.

And for this time, this moment when we gather in the circle of kinship, let us be nourished by the bounty of this rich and diverse community. Let us take this time to celebrate, to rest, to think and to feel, to be challenged, to be comforted, simply to be together, simply to be…

Come, let us worship together.

A moonflower grows just outside our back door, in a crack between the concrete walk and the step. Moonflowers grow into large plants and bear many white trumpet-shaped blossoms that smell like vanilla. They prefer the dusk of evening or a cloudy day. Each blossom lasts only a very short time, but new ones continue to appear. I had not seen them before we moved here and discovered one in a neighbor’s yard while walking one summer evening.

They are related to morning glories, and like their cousins, they are extravagant in their fecundity. Each golf-ball-sized seedpod is a prolific bundle of flat disc-shaped seeds.

Crowded clusters of seedlings spring up where a pod has opened and dropped its seeds onto the soil under the parent plant. We began growing moonflowers from transplants that Tej Reed brought to a Sunday service while we were still meeting in Denny Hall. They remind me of her generosity.

The single plant beside the step must have come from a seed that I dropped there last fall when I harvested pods for a friend who had asked for some seeds.

Its tenacity has surprised me. There is a lot of traffic in and out the door. It only gets water from rainfall. There can’t be much soil for its roots, and little sun reaches it behind the garbage can, but what does can be intensely hot. And yet that little plant has pushed up intrepidly toward the light, softening an otherwise harsh concrete corner of the side yard.

I’m not a big fan of morning glories. I once tried to garden in a spot that had been invaded by them. They choked out my vegetable plants by twining around them. Every effort to pull out the morning glories seemed only to redouble their persistence as two new plants sprang forth from every tiny fragment of root that remained in the soil.

They quickly earned a place on my short list of plants I would never take on the ark should another flood come. Along with Russian thistle and Russian olive, Scotch broom, and crabgrass.

My encounter with the morning glories was at a time when my whole life seemed choked by a tangled web of circumstance. Every effort to pull out a problem seemed to result in two more bursting forth. I was profoundly unhappy and depressed. My marriage had ended and I struggled with being an every-other-weekend father of young children. A failed attempt to start a business had left me in debt.

My career was stalled and my work and ethics clashed violently. I was working as a research scientist at Hanford, where plutonium was being made for nuclear weapons. Most of my work was related to the environmental effects of hydroelectric dams on riverine ecosystems, but part of it had to do with the disposal of radioactive waste and a project to assess the environmental impact of a new reactor to produce material for weapons. At the same time I was organizing public meetings to raise awareness of the dangers of these same weapons and to promote nuclear disarmament.

I had an intense dislike for the place I lived, in large part because of allergies to the Russian thistle and Russian olive that had been introduced to the western high desert and the long dull gray winters. Allergy shots didn’t help and antihistamines only enhanced my depression. The only reason I was there was because my children were there and I had a job that paid well.

One of the few things that was working in my life then was my growing connection with Unitarian Universalism. The congregation I had just discovered and joined was struggling to recover from several years of declining membership and unhappy ministries. The active membership was hardly larger than the board, which partly explained my becoming vice-president of the board and chair of the worship committee within a few months of my first encounter with Unitarian Universalism.

The minister of a neighboring congregation served our congregation quarter-time. Harold Rosen made the two-hour drive to come for a few days every month. Those weekends nearly always included a Friday evening potluck, a Saturday evening public forum, and Sunday morning worship. In between he met with committees and the board as we focused efforts on growth. He often stayed at my house.

During one of those stays I asked Harold for some counseling. I told him how unhappy I was and how trapped I felt. He asked me a profound question, "Can you bloom where you are planted?"

It didn’t take much reflection for me to realize that what mattered most to me at that time was to stay close to my children. I had made a choice to stay. And I decided to make the most of my situation — to indeed bloom where I was planted. But at the same time, I knew it was a temporary decision.

I just couldn’t make a life-long commitment to the place or to my career. I wanted more fertile soil, a different outlook, and a much better integration of my values and my work.

Nevertheless, I did manage to bloom where I was planted. I bought a house that had a yard with a terrific exposure for gardening. I did my best to make the small house a comfortable home. I found small ways to bring my values into my work. I sought out more involvement with the church. I returned to graduate school in a program that introduced me to new ideas and a whole new group of friends. I even made peace with the desert and began to appreciate the grand scale of vast open space and the subtle beauty of the amazing variety of natural wildflowers that grew under the sage and tumbleweeds.

Well, that’s a small piece of my life story and of course everyone in this room has his or her own story. As your minister I sometimes have the privilege of hearing parts of your life stories. It is a privilege. It’s an honor to be invited into your lives in this way, and it is one of the aspects of the professional ministry that both Judy and I like best.

Because of what you have told me, I know that many of you face important decisions and that you’re contemplating major life changes. Some of you feel as confused and entangled as I did when I asked Harold to hear my story and to help me design its next chapter.

Your stories are each unique, of course. Each of us lives our own life. Yet there are often similarities among our stories. The common themes include relationships, work and vocation, living situations, and physical and mental health. We long for happiness, for love, and to have an impact on our world.

Some of you are entering into new relationships, and some are about to exchange vows that will marry you. Some have recently ended relationships that you expected to be permanent or had a relationship end when a partner decided to leave. Some are struggling to decide whether or not to remain in a marriage that isn’t what you had hoped for. And still others are celebrating renewed commitment to a partner of many years.

Some of you have just begun new jobs or are in search of a new career opportunity. Some have left a job in search of something else, some have lost a job involuntarily. And some are struggling to decide whether to seek new work or to stay where you are. And others are approaching retirement planning with hopeful expectation.

Some of you are planning to leave a house that you’ve loved and made your own. Others are in search of a house that can become a comfortable home. Some have just settled into new space that feels as comfortable as a well-worn coat.

Some have welcomed new members into your household while others have young adult children who are moving out of your homes. Some of you have newly diagnosed illness that threatens to disrupt life as you’ve come to expect it to be. And others have gained renewed hope after successful surgery or a favorable diagnosis. Some have recently lost a close friend of family member to death and others are awaiting the approaching end of life of a loved one.

Some of these changes are welcome ones that you have chosen. Others are unwelcome and unexpected events beyond your direct control. Most of them have both positive and negative aspects, whether they have been chosen and created by you or have been imposed by fate. Even the uninvited changes that seem devastating contain a seed of possibility and the opportunity for transformation, though grief and anger may make it impossible just now to find the buds of potential new blooms.

Many of the stories I hear end with the big question of how to write the next chapter. How can you be a proactive agent of change in your own life? How can you grasp the new situation? How can you precipitate the transformation that might move you beyond the unhappy place your story has come to without unnecessary hurt or harm to the people you love and care about?

Harold’s question has been with me for almost 20 years now. Can I bloom where I’m planted? How? What would make that possible? Do I have the faith and courage to send up a blossom?

The next chapter of your story is really up to you. Sure there are circumstances that are beyond your control that set the context, but the story is yours. As you assess your own situation, ask yourself whether or not you can bloom where you are planted. How have uninvited changes opened up new possibilities? Are there ways you can change your current situation to make it better without completely disrupting the lives of others around you — perhaps providing the opportunities for them to begin new fulfilling chapters of their lives? What is it that really matters to you? What values do you hold high? And how can you balance them when they seem to be in conflict?

What is the quality of your life? What are your hopes and expectations? Can they be met in your current situation? Who are your allies and how might they help you?

Ultimately only you can answer these questions. Yes, sometimes you can make incremental changes or even transform a current relationship, career, home, or health situation in ways that make it possible to write a next chapter of your story that’s fulfilling and nurturing.

And sometimes you can’t do that without a radical change. If your story has brought you to a place where you cannot bloom, perhaps it is time to find new soil for your roots and to start a whole new story.

Or perhaps you can bloom where you are planted, making the most of your current situation, but recognizing that it is only temporary, while you plan a future change.

My own preference in decision making is strongly intuitive. I have great faith in intuitive ethics. I almost always know at some deep inner place whether a decision is right or wrong and I can discover that simply by paying honest attention to how I feel about it.

Your religious values and principles can serve you as guides to your decision making. Will your choice show respect for the inherent worth and dignity of every person? Will it contribute to your spiritual growth? Is it just, equitable, and compassionate? Do you have the courage to implement it?

Your psyche serves up nightly messages from your soul in your dreams. What are they telling you? Is a new myth evolving for your life? All dreams come in the service of health and wholeness. They present us with the subplots of our stories that we might otherwise not notice. Welcome them. Pay attention to them and look to them for help in outlining the next chapter of your story.

One of the sources of our living tradition that we cite in our covenant is wisdom from the world’s religions. Virtually all of them have some version of the Golden Rule, to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. How might this rule be the filter that helps you sort thought the possible plots for your next chapter?

From Judaism you might draw on the tradition of the Sabbath, taking time off from other activities for celebration, thanksgiving, contemplation and prayer. Make some intentional space to focus on your life story.

From Buddhism you might draw on quieting the mind and awaiting insight. A contemplative practice might help your intuitive knowing to surface.

From Christianity you might embrace Jesus’ message of radical love and the faith that transforms and heals.

From Islam you might make a pilgrimage — indeed I walked many, many miles along the banks of the Columbia River and through the streets of my town, in search of holy ground. Sometimes I walked from evening until sunrise as I attempted to imagine the next chapter of my own life.

From Paganism you might create rituals that help bridge the chasm. The wisdom of earth-centered traditions, with its focus on seasonal cycles, is particularly focused on encountering inner knowing and on transformative change.

Only you can know whether you can bloom where you are planted. Whether you can make your relationship work, whether your current job might somehow be satisfying, or whether you can make a sheltering home where you live.

If the answer is clearly "no" then perhaps it is time to seek more fertile soil. But if the answer is "yes," then get on with it. Gather the resources you need to help you blossom and send up your shoots, reaching for the light. This summer growing season is, after all, brief. Make the most of it.

Like Waldo Emerson’s roses that bloom without reference to other roses, might you bloom where you’re planted without reference to the myriad other possibilities — without imagining that the grass might be greener on the other side of the fence? Can you, like the rose, live in the present without lamenting the past or standing on tiptoe to try to foresee the unknowable future?

Maybe like me, you’ll discover that even though your situation isn’t ideal you can blossom even while you plan and prepare for change. That you can live in the holy ground at your feet, and thus worship God.

Can I bloom where I’m planted? The answer now is an enthusiastic and clear ‘yes!’ and that’s why Judy and I want to stay here as your ministers. Many of you have welcomed us into your stories, and we’re anxious to read the next chapters. We have both become very fond of you. We hope you’ll continue to let us into your stories.

The congregation’s next chapter is yet to be written, but we have no doubt that it will include attempting to make the very most of the resources at hand to send forth beautiful blossoms. And we hope to be a part of the story for years to come. Of course your challenge is to discern whether or not you believe your congregation can flourish and bloom with our leadership. Next spring you’ll have a chance to answer that question formally. Until then we’ve all got plenty of ministry to do. Let’s get on with it.

Several of the leaves on the moonflower outside our back door are wilted. Others have holes where bugs have eaten at them. The plant is barely half a foot tall, while the ones in the garden sprawl over several feet and are as tall as the fence. They’ve been blooming for weeks, but the one at the doorstep has not yet produced a flower bud. Perhaps it won’t bloom at all before the frost kills it. But that plant provides encouragement and the promise of possibility. Like Emerson’s roses, it is perfect in its nature and being.

It shows tenacity, perseverance, and a courageous struggle against the odds. Of course it’s doing its best to become what its genetic code has programmed it to be. The moonflower’s story is unfolding from the intuitive knowing coded in its genes.

The next chapter of your story will emerge naturally from your intuitive knowing if you let it. As you write the next chapter of your life, may it flower in abundance. Bloom where you are planted. Worship God by living in this holy ground.

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