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Reflection about Martin Luther King, Jr.
A Reflection by Lauri Andersen, Worship Associate
I've been thinking about my own life and death a lot, lately. I have
a young child now, my mother has begun really feeling her age, I've
been reading about assassinations, and my grandmother died over the
holidays. I've begun walking in the mornings through an old cemetery
near my house, crying.
Through all this, I'm noticing something unexpected: I'm noticing my
fear. Not fear of dying, or losing loved ones, or being harmed by
people, or interacting with people who are different from me: I
imagine these are there, but they are not the fears of my everyday
life. No, lately I am acutely afraid of dying without having
participated fully in my own life. I am afraid I am too lazy,
self-centered, and self-serving. I am afraid of saying something
shocking, of feeling obligated, of looking idiotic. I am afraid of
disapproval, and I am terrified of having my fears "found out." I am
frustrated with just how much I let such simple fears determine my
actions. And I can't imagine where these fears come from: it is NOT
as if anyone is harassing me, spreading rumors about me, imposing on
me, threatening me or my family, or blowing up my house.
When we celebrate great people, it is easy for me to assume they are
different from me. I imagine that their relative absence of
insecurity has freed them to tolerate heavier burdens. And yet
Martin Luther King, Jr.'s wife writes that he was painfully
guilt-ridden, continually soul-searching, and loath to be alone. His
friends say he would drain them for advice, repeatedly question his
own motives, and torture himself with self-doubt. He assumed every
hateful remark might have some element of truth, he worried about
offending his parishioners, and he felt responsible for mistakes.
Still he managed to articulate his own values, to commit to them, and
to live them out in the face of violent opposition. I think he
managed this partly because of who he was, and partly because of who
surrounded him. This was one well-loved, well-supported, terribly
committed man.
So here I am, wanting to be committed to whatever my life entails,
thinking I can do it even though I am neurotic, but still afraid to
move. I think, "I'm just frightened because I don't know what will
happen." But I do know: if I talk, I will either make sense or I
won't. If I act, I will succeed or fail. If I commit entirely to
living out my values, my life will definitely change. This sounds so
simple, yet it is terrifying to me. I need help. Here are my goals:
For my funeral, I fantasize somebody could say, "Lauri was completely
enlightened. She was fearless, she embodied love, her presence was
truly a great gift to the world." Unlikely, I think. But with the
help of my spiritual community, I do hope somebody will be able to
say, "Lauri was waking up. She was losing her fears. She did things
and her love showed. She gave her life."
I would love to leave a well-lived life behind.
January 20, 2002
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