A Fish Named Sideways

This was a guest sermon I delivered at the Center for Campus Ministry at Maryville College in February 2022. It still feels relevant, though at the time COVID was our main concern.

I keep a fish tank at home, and, for a variety of reasons, I have limited myself to only one kind of fish: the fathead minnow, preferably the variety known as Ruby Reds. They’re an easy fish to raise—peaceful, cold freshwater fish that don’t need much attention. Most people buy them as food for predators, but I just give them a home in which to ‘be fish.’ The top lifespan for a minnow like mine is four years and I’m pretty sure we are nearing and may have possibly passed that milestone.

I joked at lunch once that I never named them since they were identical, and none other than Rev. Anne suggested that they share the same name, that all are called Lucille or something like that. One of the fish has certainly earned a name, and that is Sideways. Since my fish are so old, I was not surprised one morning to see a fish lying still on the bottom of the tank. I sighed and went to get a net to scoop out its dear little form when, to my surprise, it wiggled away! That was in October, and Sideways is still plugging away. She has lost a fin and can only swim with one side of her body, which is clearly exhausting. When I drop the food in, she will spiral her way to the top of the water to claim her breakfast. After an excursion like that, she will rest on the gravel at the bottom of the tank and the rest of the school will hover nearby until she’s ready to swim again.

You may have noticed that one of the themes of my chapel talk is hope, and I will happily admit that I have no idea if Sideways or any other animals experience hope. Her instinctual drive is to survive and so she persists. We humans sometimes lack that instinct, that drive, and sometimes we despair of finding any reason to keep swimming. I so appreciate what Bruce Guillaume told us last week about taking even baby, ugly steps in our relentless forward progress. I agree. Hope is what we need, and I’m here to say that the time is right for hope.

I surely don’t mean to undermine all the amazing talks we have heard at chapel this year. I agree that it’s time to mourn, and time to work, and even that it’s time to worry. But what’s lacking for a lot of us over the past couple of years has been a real reason to believe that it will be OK.

The Good Samaritan offers a great example of the particular genre of hope I want to rekindle today and that is the hope that comes from having faith in your neighbor. The lawyer asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” and the parable Jesus told in reply shows that your neighbor may be the last person you expect to show up, to care, and to help. We are all neighbors to one another, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

Journalist Rebecca Solnit published a series of essays soon after 9/11 and followed up with related pieces after Hurricane Katrina. These are all collected in a little book called “Hope in the Dark.” I don’t agree with all her political statements, but her underlying message is a powerful one. She tells us that no matter how many times we have been told that times of crisis bring out the worst—that terrorist attacks and natural disasters bring out the basest natures in humanity, that we will be paralyzed, defeated, panicked, and beaten so badly that we become brutes ourselves—more often than not we prove ourselves more generous, more creative, more selfless, and more determined than we ever thought possible.  We can blame it on authorities, on media, on fake news, and clickbait, but it doesn’t change the fact that the real stories of humanity in crisis are often deeply reassuring when we take a close look.

Solnit’s 2009 essay, “The Extraordinary Achievements of Ordinary People” is based on many hours of interviews with Manhattan and greater New York City survivors of 9/11.  What they recalled most clearly was NOT panic, but the opposite. Crews of people coming together like a well-oiled machine to evacuate the area and seek out the trapped and injured. The heroes most certainly included the firefighters, police officers, medics, and eventually national guardsmen, but extended to random passersby as well.

Mark Fichtel, the president of NY Coffee, Sugar and Cocoa exchange fell to his knees as part of a crowd fleeing the towers—he told Solnit a “little old lady” helped him to his feet and just kept going. John Guilfoy, an athletic young man, realized most of his coworkers might not be able to keep up with him, so he stayed calm and slowed himself down so they didn’t lose track of each other. You know how, in horror movies, one person trips and the rest of their friends just keep running from the danger? Like, “It was nice knowing you!” It turns out, a lot of us don’t really do that. In the hundreds of accounts she’d read and interviews she’d conducted, Solnit found that almost no one felt abandoned during the aftermath of the attacks.

Some of the accounts were practically recreations of the Good Samaritan story itself. Usman Farman, a Pakistani immigrant, fell down and it was a Hasidic Jewish man who bent down, took his hand, and said something along the lines of, “Brother, let’s get the heck out of here.” Farman said he thought this would be the last person to help him but there was no hesitation in the moment of need. When it became too smoky to see or breath easily, people used their voices to find one another, make human chains, and slowly make their way to safety. Many more people could have died that day if it weren’t for the level-headed concern people showed for one another. I remember watching on social media as NY friends of mine were opening their homes to anyone who needed to charge a phone, or take a shower, anything at all. Some people even ran extension cords out to the sidewalk to serve as charging stations, or left out coolers full of bottled water and snacks.

The survivors of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans told much the same tale. Even as news accounts filled the airwaves with horrifying stories about looting and violence, most people who were there didn’t remember it that way. Expecting brutal violence, the federal response to Katrina was to make law and order the top priority, which meant sometimes even the National Guard prevented rescuers and volunteers from helping people. Once again, it was neighbors who stepped up in whatever way they could. First and foremost there was the Cajun Navy—hundreds of boat owners who made their way towards the flooded city to see what they could do. Not one of them had to believe they had superpowers or could help everyone, but they were driven by the idea that maybe they could each help someone and that would be good, and they’d keep at it as long as they could.

I’m not suggesting for one minute that we ignore the bad and the ugly parts of humanity. I’m a historian. I know. But the way I see it, Solnit challenges us to remember that sometimes the loudest story is not the whole story. We might lie beaten and alone on the side of the road, and the sight of a Samaritan coming closer might even inspire a moment of despair—after all, we’ve been taught to hate and fear the Samaritans—but let’s not forget that sometimes, the Samaritan is just the neighbor who happens to pass by and says, ‘Brother. . . Sister. . .let’s get you home.’

We have had a lot going on around us in the last couple of years, and there were many reasons for some of us to lose faith in the people around us. Many of us may have felt let down by some of the people in our lives, among our friends, even within our own families. I heard many lament what felt like selfishness and shortsightedness of others. But I want us all to remember that the loudest story is not the whole story. Who is my neighbor? I want us to look around and see our neighbors.

We knew that having all classes on-line would be a challenge, that none of us would like it, that some people just wouldn’t log in. But most people did so. I saw when my students logged in, sent me messages, and kept in touch. Thank you, neighbors, for showing up. It heartened me and kept me going. We knew no one would like wearing masks—but they did! Thank you, neighbors, for bearing with that. We worried too few people would be willing to get the vaccine—but they did! Thank you for that. All those challenges, and the unbelievable work of the COVID team, and to everyone who stepped up, adapted, stuck to it—thank you, my neighbors.

We aren’t out of the woods yet, but I’m not as worried as I once was. In the words of a wise old sage, Fred Rogers, “When bad or scary things happen, look for the helpers.” It’s time to believe in each other, to live in the hope that humanity is worth it, that we will be good neighbors to one another.

And, if it still feels hard, my wish for you is that, like Sideways, you’ll have some other minnows on hand to watch while you rest until you feel the urge to once again swirl around the fish tank.