Poetry for Order of Service

For every parcel I stoop down to seize,
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns,
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with, hand and mind
And heart, if need be, I will do my best
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road
And try to stack them in a better load.

(Robert Frost, "The Armful," West-Running Brook)

Responsive Reading

MINISTER: For the holiness of every place where light is found, for the healing of nature and the understanding of fellow humans, for the insights of toil, and for the sanctities of birth and death:

CONGREGATION: For the ennobling graces of life we offer praise.

MINISTER: For this place and hour, where we leave behind old cares and pleasures, and where all things meet and change and are renewed:

CONGREGATION: For temples, tabernacles, sanctuaries, and their celebrations, we give thanks.

MINISTER: For the revival of zest in living, for tides of life about us and within, for present happiness and strong desire, and for the songs of our ascending way:

CONGREGATION: For all that renews and strengthens our spirits we are grateful.

MINISTER: For the bright procession of memory and new images of hope, for our relationships of privilege and duty, for those long gone and for those near whose virtues bless us, for school and church and state, and for all worthful concerns of our days and years:

CONGREGATION: For history past, and for this history in which we live, we give our thanks.

MINISTER: For the urgence in us to do and dare, to alter and effect, and for deep impulses of heart and hand, to work in the earth and recreate ourselves and our common life after patterns of righteousness beheld in mounts of vision:

CONGREGATION: For the dreams that arise in us, and for ever-renewing purposes and prophecies: our works and our dedications speak our gratitude.

Introduction to Reading

My sermon this morning will draw from the familiar poem, "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost. But since I will be reciting that poem in the sermon itself, I thought I would read another of Frost poems that has to do with the solitary traveler trying to make his or her in the world. . .the traveler walking roads in silence and solitude, engaging the darkness of the woods, the darkness of the night.

There is a lot of darkness and depression in Frost. . .a lot of wit and good humor and playfulness as well. . .but plenty of darkness and anxiety, and fear and loneliness. . .not usually expressed directly or personally. . .but in this poem that I will read for you, the poet is willing to speak quite directly and personally of his melancholy.

The poem is titled "Acquainted with the Night," and it's a little unusual for Frost in that it's placed in an urban setting, written in the mid-1920's when Frost was a poet-in-residence at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The "luminary clock," referred to in this poem, is the clock in the tower of the Washtenaw County Courthouse in Ann Arbor--don't know if it's still there.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night

(Robert Frost, "Acquainted with the Night," from West-Running Brook)

"THE ROAD NOT TAKEN"
Poems as texts

One of my delights as a minister in liberal religion is the freedom, even the encouragement, to lead adult education classes on the poems of some of our finest modern poets. For me, these modern poems, more than the texts of the ancient and sacred scriptures, tend to be the source of my personal religious inspiration. And, of course, much of what has come to be regarded as sacred scripture were once the poems of a given time and place.

And when I read these modern poems I read them in much the same way as I was taught to read the texts of the scriptures when I was a student in seminary, that is: first, try to determine what the text meant in its original setting and what the author was trying to say to his contemporaries; and then, secondly, try to make an application from that text to your own life.

And so I say something similar to the classes I lead on poetry: first, try to determine from the text and from your knowledge of the historical context what the author had in mind; and, then, secondly, don't worry too much about the original intent of the author, but rather make the poem your own. What thoughts and feelings does it evoke and provoke in you? And what might this mean for how you think about and live your life?

This morning's text

The poem I have chosen as the text for our service this morning, as we contemplate traveling a road together as minister and congregation, is one of the most familiar poems in American literature, the poem "The Road Not Taken," by one of America's greatest poets, Robert Frost.

Looking, first, then, at this poem in terms of what the author had in mind, it's apparent to me that this poem is often misunderstood. As a matter of fact, the poem is sometimes even misnamed, being referred to as "The Road Less Traveled". . . which is not the title of this poem, but rather the title of a popular book from some years ago by Scott Peck, the title of which plays off of the second to the last line of this poem.

Nor is the theme of this poem primarily, if at all, about the value of taking the road less traveled. It's not, first of all, about the value of "rugged individualism." (A recent biographer of Frost's, Jay Parini, refers to Frost as a "rugged traditionalist," not a "rugged individualist.")

And this poem, in its context, is not so much about blazing your own unique path in life; but, rather, this poem, which is titled "The Road Not Taken," has primarily to do with thoughts and feelings relating to those roads which we weren't and aren't able to take in life, and not whether the roads taken were more or less traveled than the roads not taken.

The poem's background

Frost himself said--and I heard this from a taped interview--that when he wrote this poem he was thinking more of a close friend than of himself. The friend was an Englishman named Edward Thomas, a fellow writer who Frost met and became close friends with when he was in England for two and a half years from 1912 to 1915. Edward Thomas wrote some of the best reviews of Frost's earliest books. But Edward Thomas, even though a fine writer, was not a happy camper. He couldn't quite find his way in life, and was often depressed and blocked.

Frost said he wrote this poem thinking of Edward Thomas, because, "One quirk of Thomas was that he often regretted the particular path he had taken." (Jay Parini, Robert Frost: A Life, p. 153) No matter which road he took in life, he wouldn't be happy with it; he'd be sorry he hadn't taken another. Frost is reported to have once said to Edward Thomas, "No matter which road you take, you'll always sigh, and wish you'd taken another." (Parini, 153)

So this image of a friend dissatisfied with the road he is on, or stuck at a crossroads and uncertain about which branch to take, seems to be the immediate inspiration for the poem.

However, according to biographer Jay Parini, Frost had also been contemplating this image of a crossroads before his encounter with Edward Thomas. In the winter of 1912, when Frost was first in England, he wrote to Susan Hayes Ward, the managing editor of a national literary journal in the United States, saying, "Two lonely cross-roads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter--[this was twenty miles north of London]--without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners. The practically unbroken condition of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much traveled." (Parini, p. 153)

So this also is some of what may be in the background when in the fall of 1914, Frost at the age of forty years old and just beginning to be published, put pen to paper and wrote one of America's most well-known and most well-loved poems: [Note: underlined words are emphasized in the reading.]

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

(Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken," Mountain Interval)

No less traveled road

But, of course, if the traveler had taken the first road, that, too, would have made all the difference.

And, as we learn from this poem, there was hardly anything to choose between the two roads. Perhaps the road taken was a little less worn, a little more grassy than the first. . .but not really, for actually the poem says that the second road, the road taken, was "just as fair" as the first road, and that "the passing there had worn them really about the same." And if you didn't get that message the first time, the poet says again, "And both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black."

In other words, there's nothing really to choose between these two roads. As a matter of fact, the poem may be suggesting that when you come to a crossroads in your life and you have to make a choice, there is really no such thing as "a less traveled road."

Whatever road you take will not have been traveled by you, whether it's been traveled by others a million times or none at all. Whatever road you take will bend into the undergrowth, and you won't be able to see exactly where it will take you no matter how hard you look into the distance.

And whatever road you travel will be a risk, a gamble, a tossing of the dice, with no guarantee of a given result or your happiness. Whatever road you take will not have been traveled by you before, and the life that results from traveling that road will not have been lived by you before. And so perhaps the poem is suggesting that there is no such thing as a less traveled road for you.

The "lone striker"

But the poem may also be suggesting that we like to put ourselves in the posture of one who strikes out on his or her own--"the lone striker," as Frost puts it in another poem, the individual adventurer. We like to think of ourselves as being unique in this way--not just part of the crowd, not just following the broad way. . .but unique, special, one of a kind, a maverick.

In other words, we are the ones who like to think of ourselves as having taken the road less traveled by. This is the kind of posture in life that we tend to take on, and this is what we are prone to tell both others and ourselves. . .that we are taking the less traveled road.

And this, says biographer Jay Parini, is really the thrust of the poem. It goes like this:

The traveler on the road of life comes to a fork in that road, looks down each path of the fork as far as is possible to look, but cannot determine which is the more desirable path. . .and, actually, would like to take both paths, and is sorry not to be able to do so, but needs to choose one if there is to be a life, and so does choose, and begins walking, walking, walking. . .

. . .and in imagination walks all the way to near the end of a life, where, perhaps, sitting with grandchildren, imagines saying to them, with a sigh, "Oh, yes, my dear grandchildren, I remember in my youth coming to a fork in the road of my life, and I had to choose which road to go down. Now I could have taken the more well-worn path, the path of least resistance, the path that most others would take. But did I? Oh, no, not me. I did it my way. I struck out on my own. I took the uncharted course. I took the road less traveled by. And that has made all the difference. And that is why I am who I am today."

That's the story. And yet, if the traveler is honest, says the poet, the traveler knows in his heart of hearts that this is not quite the way it was. . .for really, at the time of the choosing, there was nothing to distinguish between the two roads. One was not less traveled than the other; both were untraveled. . .

. . .and I, the life-traveler, would like to have taken both roads. . .and I would like to have seen where both roads could take me. . .and I was sorry I could not take both roads. . .and was sorry I could not see where both roads would lead. . .

. . .but, if I was to live at all, I simply had to choose. I had to go one way or the other. I couldn't go both ways, though I would have liked to. I simply had to choose, don't you see. And so I chose. . .the best I could. . .at the time. . .with all my doubts. . .with all my insecurities and anxieties and inner conflicts. . .and with all sorts of things pressing upon me. . .and with not as much information as I would have liked. . .I had to go forward with insufficient knowledge. . .I had to chose. . .

. . .and I chose more on instinct and imagination than anything else. I simply imagined that one road looked grassier and was less well-worn than the other. I simply chose. And that is really what has made all the difference.

And so I was not actually being more brave or more heroic or more adventuresome or more of a maverick than others. That is simply the story I tell now in looking back. It has its entertainment value; but really, if and when I'm honest with myself, it's simply a self-justification for choosing the road I did. . .

. . .for don't you see, I had to choose something? I couldn't go both ways. And so I made up a little story for others and myself. . .I made up a life-story. . .a common enough life-story, as it turns out. . .not really even very original at all. . .I said that this road that I was choosing was a road that was less traveled by.

So this, it seems to me, following the path of interpretation of Jay Parini, is the essential meaning of the poem in its context. There is a contradiction built right into the poem itself--one of the things Frost does best in his poems--the contradiction of the poet saying he is taking the less traveled road while at the same confessing that, in actuality, both roads were equally untraveled.

Taking my own road of interpretation

Now let me take off on this poem in my own way, reflecting for a few minutes on the sigh we find in this poem. . .a sigh that seems to carry more than a thousand words. . .a sigh for the road not taken, a sigh for the burden of having to choose, and a sigh, perhaps, for the self-justifications we feel compelled to give for the choices we make.

Around the bend

To be free to choose, which is a feature at the very core of human being. . .which is something, above all, we say we want. . .which is a cause for which many of us, I suspect, would, paradoxically, give up our very lives. . .to be free to choose is to affirm the capacity to split things apart, to make division.

To choose is to divide into two roads. And to divide into two roads and to know you are going one way is also to be aware that you are not going another way, with the possibility that you may be haunted by the unchosen road, as Frost's friend Edward Thomas was.

A friend of mine wrote me sometime ago, knowing I was thinking about this poem, and she said: "The longing and sorrow for the road not taken is ever fresh. What might have been waiting around that other bend is never imagined as disaster. . .but as untapped possibility. . .maybe an answer, maybe happiness, maybe the one true thing."

And so: "I shall be telling this with a sigh". . .that sigh of life in the face of what is quintessential human: the capacity for choice, the necessity of having to choose.

It is our fate to be free. . .an utterly strange paradox! It is our fate, our destiny, as human beings is to be free. We cannot not be free.

If you try to give up that freedom, if you try to turn your life over to some body or somebody who will decide for you how to think and live, you will haunted in more ways than can easily be named.

But if, on the other hand, you self-consciously affirm your freedom, if you take hold of it and accept it, and are aware that you are choosing, there are plenty of things to haunt you and upset you in that direction as well.

And this poem is about that side of the fate of freedom. It's about the burden of choice. It's a poem for all those roads, paths, and avenues that we have seen before us and know that we might have chosen, could have chosen, and would like to have chosen; but because of time, circumstance, present mood, and the impossibility of choosing more than one, are roads we have not chosen and now never can choose.

And this is a poem about all those thoughts and feelings related to what we haven't done and won't be able to do. It's about looking back on our life with a sigh. And it's about looking forward and knowing that when we do look back on life there will be a sigh.

A sigh

So what do we do with that sigh of life?

I think back to a time in my youth when I had decision to make about which college to attend. Not as many choices as students today, but, still, I had to make a choice, and so I decided to attend the college of my religious denomination, Calvin College, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, in preparation for the ministry. But at the last minute, after I had already decided, an opportunity to attend a community college in Eastern Washington on a baseball scholarship was presented to me.

Now baseball was a great love of mine, and I was decent enough player. But I didn't give the offer much attention because, basically, I had already decided and I was happy enough with the choice. But, even at this, without it being a particularly difficult decision, sometimes in looking back over my life, I've daydreamed and wondered, "What would my life have been like if I had gone that other route and given myself to baseball. . .BASEBALL."

I know some of the things I would probably not have in my life: no Flossie for a life partner, no Katie and Libby for children, no friends like the ones I have now, probably not even the ministry for a profession. And who knows what ideas I would have. . .what life philosophy?

And I wouldn't want to be without all of these things in my life. And yet still sometimes I daydream and wonder about these other possibilities.

Should I try to put these other thoughts from my mind? Are they just a waste of energy, a distraction? Or, is it okay to wonder about what might have been? Is it okay to sigh for the road that was not taken?

A wise counselor once said to me, "It is okay to sigh for what might have been. And it is okay to be sad and grieve for the possibilities you've not chosen in your life, even if you're basically pleased with what you have done and the choices you've made. It's okay, it's more than okay, to look back and to sigh over the roads not taken, even if you would still choose to take the same road today."

A gesture to the road not taken

So what do we do with all those possibilities and potentialities in our life that we have glimpsed, or which have called to us, sometimes strongly? When you come to a fork in the road of your life, and when you look down one as far as you can, and you look at the other and see what it offers, and then when you say, "Well, there's not much to choose between these two, and I'd really like to try both of them, but, well, I guess I'll take this one." But now what about the other one that you aren't taking? Can you just walk away from it? Can you just ignore it as if it had never been?

I don't think so. I don't think that other road likes it when you do that. I think it would be better if you recognized it in some way, and somehow told it that you think it's a perfectly good and beautiful road as well, but that just now you can't take it--"I will save you 'for another day' for you are 'just as fair.'"

I think you've got to make some kind of gesture to the road not taken. You've got to bow to it in some way, make some kind of gift to it, make a little sacrificial burnt-offering of some kind to it.

And why? Because these other roads that call to us represent perfectly good parts of our being, and they don't want to be completely ignored. If you ignore them, if you cavalierly turn your back on them, these others parts of your being may well get irritated with you, and perhaps even vindictive towards you, and not allow you to go freely down the road you have chosen.

And I suppose that sighing is one way of recognizing the other road. It's a way of saying, "Yes, I see you; I recognize you; I know you are part of me too, another possibility into which I might have grown. And I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, I couldn't go with you. I offer you my sigh. I offer you my sorrow, my grief. And will you let go now? Will you allow me to travel this other road, for really I must be on my way?"

Active imagination

And, finally, author Robert A. Johnson suggests another way of working with these unfulfilled possibilities in our life. In his very fine book, Inner Work, he outlines a technique called "active imagination." He says that you can play out these other possibilities in your imagination, even as in this poem the author imagined himself sighing far into the future.

Put yourself in a quiet place, and in your imagination take yourself down the road that you have not chosen. Walk that unchosen road in your imagination. Live out that unlived possibility in your imagination. Become that baseball player, that teacher, that truck driver, that musician, that mother, that father. . .in your imagination.

Robert Johnson suggests--and this is really interesting to me--he suggests that it doesn't matter to the psyche whether the road is lived in outer life or in inner life, just so long as it gets lived.

So live out the road not taken in your fantasy life, or in books of fantasy, or movies of fantasy, or as an avocation in some way. Give it some play, and so recognize and honor it. For if these possibilities are not respected in some way, they will tend to keep us from the possibilities we have chosen. They will siphon off our energy and even block us from going forward.

As so as you look back on all the roads you might have taken in your life but for whatever reason did not take, permit yourself a sigh. Allow yourself to exhale. Let the breath out. Let it all out. . .as much as you can. That will make the breathing in easier, and provide more oxygen for the road you have chosen and are traveling. More on that next week.

Benediction

Now may peace be in our hearts,
and understanding in our minds,
may courage steel our wills,
and the love of truth forever guide us. Amen.

(NOTE: This is a manuscript version of the sermon preached by the Reverend Bruce A. Bode, incoming minister at the Quimper Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Port Townsend, Washington on "candidating Sunday," May 9, 2004. The spoken sermon, available on audio cassette at the Fellowship, may differ somewhat in phrasing and detail from this manuscript version.)