I have a favorite poem about being inside a quiet church like this one. Ironically, it’s written by an atheist, the English poet Philip Larkin, who on a motorcycle outing stops at one of the small, centuries-old, unoccupied country churches that nestle in the English landscape. He takes off his cyclist’s clips and goes inside. I read the last stanza slowly now, asking you, as I read, to reflect on this place, the Little Sanctuary, a place many of us often say is where St. Albans begins, and a place where your time here has unscrolled. As I said, this is the last stanza of five.

 

              Most of this Commencement weekend we spend in joyous celebration and thanksgiving. We laugh with each other, and we slap backs and hug. We trade funny and outrageous stories, and we thank these people who sit with you and who have made this journey possible.

              But for a moment let us recall quieter times, the hours you have spent in here. And in doing so you might recall those you loved, in your family and among your friends, who have passed on but whose spirits are with us now and who also made this day possible.

              But let’s be truthful. Sometimes in this Little Sanctuary you were bored. Sometimes you counted down the number of soldiers on the prayer list. You groaned at another verse of a hymn, and wondered when the homilist would free us with “now go in peace.” But we know that one place we are very different from other schools around the country is in here. Whatever our religion, whatever our faith or its absence, in here we speak of what Philip Larkin’s poem reflects on—our compulsions, our destinies, and our dead that lie around. In this Little Sanctuary remember how long you have kept silence, how moved you’ve been by a teacher’s honest words, or how much classmates have revealed to each other, and finally, how hungry our spirits on occasion have been …  for something we might not be able to find words for.

              For this is a serious place.

              I have a favor to ask of all of you. Not now, not in the middle of our weekend ceremonies, but when you have time to reflect. Where is your serious place? Where will it be now that you leave the Little Sanctuary? For all of the contradictions and absurdities of life, for all the buzz about celebrity and money and fame, for all that doesn’t make sense about fairness or justice or the rewards of hard work, we are nevertheless called to seriousness of purpose. This school has made you come here. We have made you keep a ritual of finding seriousness. Some of you now come in here on your own. And some of you will return to be married, to baptize a child, and even to be buried.

              But now you ready to leave. So I ask a simple favor to those of us who stay behind, and those of us who set off. Where will be the Little Sanctuaries for the rest of your life?