The Hopes and Fears of All the Years

“The Hopes and Fears of All the Years”

A Sermon by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Sunday
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
January 18, 2009

Just a month ago we would have been seasonally attuned to the strains of that 19th century Christmas carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Rev. Phillip Brooks, a Philadelphia minister, first authored the lyrics as a poem. He had recently visited Bethlehem and was inspired by the Christmas celebrations at the Church of the Nativity. Brooks later urged his church organist, Lewis Redner, to set his poem to music, and the lasting treasure of this carol came into being. It’s an enchanting carol and one that allows us to envision an enchanted village referenced by the Gospel writers Matthew and Luke in their accounts of the birth of the baby Jesus—in Brooks’ terms, “The everlasting Light.” The first verse concludes with the lyrical reference to what was long hoped for and at long last realized in Bethlehem: “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.”

The ancient Jews had hoped for a Messiah who would deliver them from yet another oppressive force in a long history of oppression. This time it was the Roman occupation. It was in this milieu that Jesus was born, grew into manhood, taught, and was ultimately subjected to the horrific capital punishment so commonly decreed by the Roman Empire, crucifixion. The powers of Rome feared such a charismatic figure, who would bring to the oppressed a message of liberation. That message came in terms unexpected.

The Jesus deemed the Messiah didn’t arrive as a militant hero who would lead his people into a resistance in the tradition of the ancient Maccabees. He came with a force far more subtle and disarming, a liberation of heart and soul that would transform the hearts and souls and actions of women and men for millennia to come. The power of nonviolence was embodied in the brand of liberation brought by the babe of Bethlehem. Indeed, the hopes and fears of all the years were met in this tiny village, but in ways unexpected. Nonviolent resistance to the power of Rome wrought havoc with the images of what had been hoped for. The call of Jesus of Nazareth was not to take up arms, but to open hearts and minds. It was a Gospel of nonviolence, a Gospel of strategic love.


In the spirit of Jesus, but through a distinctly different window of faith, the person of Mahatma Gandhi brought liberation to an occupied India. It was a liberation just as hoped for and just as unanticipated. Through a decades-long strategy of non-violent non-cooperation, 1900 years after Jesus, Gandhi inspired his fellow countrymen to outwit and undermine the stranglehold of the British Empire. His strategy? Nonviolent resistance. It was savvy, intentional, and effective. Five months before Gandhi’s life came to an end, India won its independence from Great Britain. In January of 1950 the Republic of India was proclaimed. It will be 140 years ago this coming October that “the hopes and fears” of so many years for the people of India were met in Pobandar, a city on the shores of the Arabian Sea in western India, the birthplace of Mahatma Gandhi.

Eleven years after Gandhi’s death, a rookie Baptist minister from the United States would visit Gandhi’s family in India. Martin Luther King, Jr. aspired to liberation in circumstances quite different from those faced by Gandhi or Jesus. Rather than an imperialist occupation, King strained at the shackles of Jim Crow racism in a nation whose early economy rested on the sin of slavery, the practice of buying and selling human beings as property. It is the fault line on which the economy of this nation was built—a tenuous foundation for any society. King’s ancestors were slaves. King and everyone who bore Negroid features carried the legacy of slavery in the brutal realities that marked Jim Crow America. It was a racism that was overt, and not just in the South. Many of the practices that the powers of this nation denied or ignored or both were as barbaric as those of the Roman Empire in Jesus’ day.

King’s meeting with Gandhi’s family was transformative for this 30-year-old Baptist minister from Atlanta. Through them he became intimately acquainted with the tactics of non-violent resistance used so effectively so recently however disparate the political context. He became intimately acquainted with the quality of leadership it had taken for Gandhi to convince his countrymen to adopt such tactics. To follow in the footsteps of Gandhi for the oppressed of India had been no easier than to follow in the footsteps of Jesus for the oppressed of Palestine.

Gandhi, along with the African American Bayard Rustin, served as core influences on this high energy young man with a mission. I find it not coincidental that we so seldom hear about Rustin’s influence, since Bayard Rustin was gay and on the far fringes of the political left. He was also a strong advocate and practitioner of non-violence, and King heeded his savvy counsel. Rustin, after all, bore the burdens of at least two counts of oppression.

King, armed with the legacy of a strong family, a deep faith, a doctorate from Boston University, and a passion for equal rights, became the lodestar of this recent chapter of the Civil Rights movement in these more or less United States. To follow in the footsteps of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to go to Selma, to march to Montgomery, to picket and boycott and resist nonviolently forces that had the imprimatur of “legal” was no easier than to follow in the footsteps of Gandhi for the oppressed of India or the footsteps of Jesus for the oppressed of Palestine.

As a white person, it is not for me to say what African Americans hoped for during the years of slavery and Reconstruction and Jim Crow, or for that matter, what my fellow Americans who are African American hope for now. I can only speak for myself as a woman who has known oppression as such that there is a seductive inclination to want someone else—some towering giant of a savior or Messiah—to do the job for me. Then I can follow along behind as the accolades are sung and the flowers strung. But such is not the way of discipleship, of non-violent resistance to oppression, of love.

Dr. King filled the shoes of leadership, but he was not a Messiah or a lone-star Savior. Charisma he embodied and used brilliantly, but he would not and did not “save” the oppressed. He led the oppressed. It took life-threatening sweat equity to walk the walk alongside him. The hopes and fears and yearnings of African Americans and every committed white ally were met in the Atlanta of King’s birthplace 80 years ago this month only in our glazed over memory; because King was a mesmerizing, remarkable, visionary, courageous leader, but neither he nor Gandhi nor Jesus Christ himself was a high riding derring-do superman of a Messiah.

King stood on the shoulders of Rustin and Gandhi, who stood on the shoulders of Jesus, who stood on shoulders that have faded into a certain degree of historical myopia, because, in the words of the late Unitarian Universalist minister, Clinton Lee Scott:

“…it is easier to pay homage to prophets than to heed the direction of their vision.”

Of Jesus of Nazareth, we have just an inkling of the life that he lived. The Gospels give no clues as to Jesus’ “shadow” sides. Of Gandhi, it may be said that he did not properly affirm the rights of women. Of King, it may be said that he strayed too easily into the affections of women other than his wife. All were humans with feet of clay. All were leaders who inspired and perspired and embodied hopes and fears that took root over years and years in people oppressed by fellow humans who were tied into the seemingly permanent knots of their own fears and who chose privilege and power over the common good.

It is no less so in our own day. While many in this congregation are hurting amid an economy that has been on a roller coaster ride for years—not months, years; while some in this congregation have known the oppression of other systems of government and yes, other approaches to faith so intensely that they can barely acknowledge the scars; while some in this congregation have known the oppressions of sexism and classism and ableism; while a few in this congregation have known the oppressions of racism and homophobia; and while almost all of us in this congregation have been complicit in some form of oppression—IF we are paying attention at all, we know that our nation is at a crossroads of moral choice.

Gathering as we did yesterday morning to honor the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in a program of fellowship and discernment, gathering as we are this morning in the framework of worship to honor the life and legacy of Dr. King and to anticipate a historical presidential inauguration, gathering as we are this morning with our children echoing the words of Dr. King, gathering as we are this morning with the increasingly familiar cadences of an eloquent President-Elect singing in our ears, we are at a crossroads of moral choice that is above all communal. What hopes and fears do we harbor? What hopes and fears do we own? What do we hope for? What do we fear? We stand uneasily on the shoulders of the prophets. We stand anxiously in this slice of history. And we hold hope. We hold hope.

How to dismount from the shoulders of the prophets? How to transform an uneasy stance into a steady walk? As people of faith, we’re called to meld our aspiring spirituality with that of the prophets—with Amos’ cry to “let justice roll down like water” (Amos 5:24); with Micah’s call “to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly…;” with Jesus’ discomforting response to the trick question: “Who is my neighbor?”; with Gandhi’s perseverance against imperialist odds; with King’s unswerving proclamation that “We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now;” and with Barack Obama’s declaration of our choice between “a politics that breeds division, and conflict, and cynicism” and the will to “come together” and take on the hard issues of our time in the service of a union that “may never be perfect” but “can always be perfected.”

What will it be? Come Tuesday, we will inaugurate Barack Obama as the 44th president of this nation, this union. Come Wednesday, we cannot expect President Obama to do the work for us. Without our will toward the common good, this union will falter. Without our will to transform an economy that serves the privileged few; without our will to transform what it means to be a functional member of the family of nations; without our will to pay our citizen’s fare share so that every woman, man, and child knows the rights of health care and decent housing and fine schools; without our will to justice that is as compassionate as it has been harsh; our 44th President cannot lead as I believe so many of us hope he will.

We are the vanguard. The hopes and fears of all our years will be met in a covenant of leadership whose promise can be realized only if we take up the mantle of everything we espouse—the worth and dignity of each of us and the connectedness of all—and “take one more step, say one more word, say one more prayer, and sing one more song” and then do it all again and again and again until our hopes for peace and compassionate justice are met and our fears of whatever power and privilege any of us might lose en route will dissolve in a great sigh of enlightened gratitude.

This is our now. It’s fierce, and it’s urgent. Amen.

Sources:

Amos, Micah, and The Gospel According to Luke in the Bible (Revised Standard Version)

Phillip Brooks (lyrics) and Lewis Redner (music), O Little Town of Bethlehem, described in Best-Loved Christmas Carols, Ronald M. Clancy, Edited by William E. Studwell, Christmas Classics, Ltd., North Cape May, NJ 2000, 68-69.

Indian independence movement, from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Independence_Movement

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahatma_Gandhi#cite_note-55.

Martin Luther King, Jr., “Beyond Vietnam—A time to Break Silence,” Speech delivered at a meeting of Clergy and Laity Concerned at Riverside Church in New York City, April 4, 1967,
http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkatimetobreaksilence.htm.

Martin Luther King, Jr., from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Luther_King_Jr#Influences.

Barack Obama, “A More Perfect Union,” Speech delivered in Philadelphia, PA, March 18, 2008, http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/hisownwords/.

Joyce Poley, “One More Step,” in Singing the Living Tradition, The Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, 1993, 168.

Clinton Lee Scott, “Prophets,” in Singing the Living Tradition, The Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, 1993, 565.

God: A Multiple Choice Test

“God: A Multiple Choice Test”

A Sermon by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
January 11, 2009

God is… God is not… Surely these are among the most loaded of lead-ins. They can start conversations, or they can stop them cold. It all depends. See, already we’re into the realm of relativity, true to the spirit of conventionally unconventional Unitarian Universalists. It all depends on a, b, c, d and so on. Yet this matter is far more than an intellectual premise with contingencies. I’m betting that your notion of God or non-God is more emotion-filled than intellectual.

What kind of a God did you grow up with? I’ll start with mine. The God of my childhood was something like Santa Claus, but not always as jolly. He—and it was definitely He—had a long white beard and probably flowing robes. A red and white suit with a snowy white pom-pom on the tail of a floppy red cap would have served him better, and such attire would have led me to believe he was cutting me some slack if I did something “bad” whatever that might be—from being snippy to a friend to saying a cuss word to not doing my homework to talking back to the real gods of my childhood, my Mom and Dad! At least neither Santa nor God would say to me, “Janice Marie, come here right now!” when the jig was up. Not that my parents weren’t also loving and tender. Both were, but I tested the limits enough to evoke their no-nonsense discipline, as if they were God’s very own representatives on the be-good-or-else front.

The God with whom I first became acquainted was the God of my Sunday school. Even a Presbyterian Sunday school unwittingly set forth lots of notions for a child to consider, from a God of love to a God vindictive and vengeful, from a God who forgives to a God who would send his only son into the world and let him be crucified. There was a lot that never quite gelled. No wonder I ended up in this living tradition of liberal faith and doubt.

We as Unitarian Universalists have strong Judeo-Christian roots which inform this elusive living tradition that we espouse. So let’s begin with the Bible, with a promise to get nothing more than our theological toes wet when it comes to the myriad manifestations of divinity set forth in what Christians call the Old and New Testaments and Jews call the Law and the Prophets.

God the Creator

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” reads the very first verse of the Book of Genesis. The writers of Genesis—and there were more than one—go on to deliver two Creation stories and a dramatic sequence of what was created when and who ruled over whom. It’s a high drama story of what some call “intelligent design.” Given our hurting world, even one who cleaves to “intelligent design” would do well to reconsider that adjective, “intelligent.” Nonetheless, many millions, even billions, of humans understand the world as we know it and the world as it was first formed as the creation of a transcendent being called God, an English translation for Adonai, Elohim, and Yahweh for starters.

One notion that defines God the Creator is the Latin phrase, deus ex machina, god from the machine literally. It was a device used by ancient dramatists when a plot became so entangled that the construct of a god was introduced to resolve the confounding strands. It seems to apply just as well to the improbable creation from nothing of the sky and the seas and the continents and women and men and all the non-human creatures that populated the earth in its earliest days. Rather like a plug-in device. Blame Creation on God. Praise God for Creation. Take your pick! For some the notion evokes wonder. For others, it stunts it. Yet I can’t imagine anyone who affirms the observations of Charles Darwin suggesting that the man lacked a sense of wonder!

God the Intervener
It’s confusing sometimes to pray to a Spirit of Life. So much easier to direct our hopes and wishes and gratitude even to an invisible albeit image-laden form, who listens and responds and alters her/his marionette strings in the affairs of history. Now remember, we’re talking in terms of this earth, and there’s a lot more out there in space that no one has begun to measure from the vantage point of our tiny planet spinning in it.

Does God intervene in human history? We read in the 20th chapter of the Book of Exodus, the second book of the Torah,

“And God spoke all these words, saying,
‘I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt,
out of the house of bondage,
You shall have no other gods before me.’”
(Exodus 20:1-3)

This would indicate a faith tradition that holds to the notion of God as intervener, liberator, and the one and only manifestation of divinity. The writer of this segment of Exodus continues:

“You shall not make yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them or serve them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous god, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing steadfast love to thousands of those who love me and keep my commandments.”
(Exodus 20:4-6)

By now, some of you have surely recognized the narrative of what has come to be known as the Ten Commandments. The God of Exodus is intervener, liberator, and “commander in chief,” with severe consequences for anyone who doesn’t lend full allegiance to him and constant love to all who do.

God the Forsaker
Among the questions raised by mortals who have initially bowed to an almighty seemingly merciful God is the cry of the same mortals who have been visited by suffering that seems too much to bear: Where is God when we suffer? Volumes have been written by angst-filled theologians struggling with this age-old question. Prayers unending have been raised by common folk who could care less about the fine points of theology but whose torments of body and soul have evoked the same question. Where is God when we suffer?

In the words of the psalmist:

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Why art thou so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry by day, but thou dost not answer;
and by night, but find no rest.

Yet thou art holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel.
In thee our fathers trusted; they trusted, and thou didst deliver them.
To thee they cried, and were saved;
in thee they trusted, and were not disappointed.

But I am a worm, and no man;
scorned by men, and despised by the people.
(Psalm 22:1-6)

In other words, where in the blankety-blank are you, God, and why me?

The scribes of both the Gospels According to Matthew and Mark echoed this cry of ultimate despair through the voice of Jesus of Nazareth, crucified and suffering. In Matthew:

“And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice,

'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?' that is, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
(Matthew 27:45-46)

And in Mark, the earliest written Gospel, we read exactly the same words.
(Mark 15:34)

For him whom millions understand to be the Son of God, indeed a manifestation of God himself, came the most mortal of cries to a God experienced as a forsaker. Yes, there were later words that suggested Jesus commended his spirit into the hands of a loving and ready God. Yes, there is the legend of resurrection. But this cry of utter wretchedness is a cry ultimately human.

God the Giver, God the Taker
How can one begin to describe the deity cast into the plot of perhaps the most haunting book of Old or New Testaments, the Book of Job? It is God who meted out Job’s early wealth and happiness—his family, his land, his power, his position. The story goes that one day Satan came to God with a challenge. God had held up to Satan the goodness and faithfulness of his servant Job, and Satan essentially said, “Of course Job is good and faithful. He has everything any man could possible need. But ‘put forth thy hand now, and touch all that he has, and he will curse thee to thy face.’” God proceeded to do just that. Job lost all that he had except the last shred of his own life. He lost his family, his land, his power, his position, and his health. Then friends come who end up rebuking and accusing him. Job himself despairs of his plight, but he does not curse God.

The story of Job is far more complex than this. It is nuanced, multi-stranded, a story credible for our understanding of how some among us suffer so much without having done anything “to deserve it” as we glibly say. Toward the end of the Job narrative, God declares his power:

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding,
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?”
(Job 38:4-5)

followed by a long string of evidence.

Job is broken, but he does not curse God. Rather he declares:

“…I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.”
(Job 42:6)

In the end, God “restored the fortunes of Job,” his faithful servant. It is written that “the Lord blessed the latter days of Job more than his beginning...” (Job 42:10a, 12a)

Did this “justify” the actions God? In the tenor of Job, we who are mortal are in no position to even suggest that God needs to be justified. Like no other book in the Old or New Testament, the Job narrative embodies the God who gives and the same God who takes away. In the very first chapter lies the seeming kernel of an answer to the seemingly futile question of why God allows us to suffer. Job has just learned of the death of his children. He is bereft, AND he falls upon the ground and worships, saying:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return;

the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
(Job 1:21)

As the Book of Job concludes, the character of Satan is not even mentioned.

God who so loves the world

As a child, I learned from memory that lodestar of a verse from the Gospel According to John, the most enigmatic of the four gospels that made it into the biblical canon:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son,

that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life.”
(John 3:16)

It is a topic of centuries of controversy that led to centuries of murder and mayhem, this matter of God and the relationship of Jesus, who millions believe was indeed the incarnate Son of God. Among Unitarian Universalists there are Christian grounded believers who might debate how woven into the fabric of a Godhead Jesus was, but who deem the life and teachings of Jesus so highly that they are not willing to forsake the term, Christian. I understand myself to be Christian inclusively but not exclusively, given the seeming truth in so many other faiths.

What seems wholly credible, given our most limited knowledge of the life and teachings of Jesus, is the centrality of love and compassion in the Jesus narratives. Nowhere is this more pronounced than in that passage from the Gospel According to Matthew that describes Jesus going up onto a mountain and teaching his disciples about who is blessed:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

On into:

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
(Matthew 5:3-5, 9)

Underdogs, unpopular, non-mainstream describe those who were deemed blessed by this teacher of love and compassion. Of all the figures of the Judeo-Christian tradition, Jesus was wholly about love and preached a God of love. It is a teaching held up more than any other in that outer branch of the Judeo-Christian tradition that is our Unitarian Universalist faith. It has always confounded me that for a faith that holds doubt in such high esteem, we are so opinionated and quickly contrary in our dealings with one another about what matters, when our grounding lies in a relationship of covenant based on love.

_______________

None of us has the last word on God or on how many there might really be and what forms deity assumes. All of us are challenged to consider the context, including the personal history, which we bring to our statements of belief, disbelief, affirmation, and worship of what we sometimes call “God.” As Karen Armstrong reminds us,

“…there is no one unchanging idea contained in the word ‘God;’ instead, the word contains

a whole spectrum of meanings, some of which are contradictory or even mutually

exclusive. ….the reality that we call ‘God’ exceeds all human expression.’”

Hers is a perspective echoed in the lyrics of the hymn we sang earlier:

“Great, living God, never fully known, joyful darkness far beyond our seeing….”

If “God” exceeds our expression, how is it that we speak or write a name at all? The ancient Hebrews didn’t. Yahweh was an acronym for “I am who I am,” that ineffable elusive non-name given to Moses by the ineffable elusive voice in the third chapter of the Book of Exodus.

By now, you may have realized that this isn’t a multiple choice test at all, but a reflection on how we might consider the multi-faceted, perhaps infinitely-faceted notion of transcendence. If we who are mortals understand that we are not Creation’s last act, we strive for a language of transcendence, a language of reverence. This in no way denies scientific discovery. Rather it unleashes our capacity for awe and humility on all fronts of being. “Reverence,” suggests Paul Woodruff, “is the virtue that keeps human beings from trying to act like gods.”

Unitarian is in many ways a misnomer. We hold in our religious imagination a panoply of gods, even as we hold up the notion of One God. Perhaps like our Muslim sisters and brothers, we can embrace an Allah, who is the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, the God of Jesus, the God of Muhammad, the God of all. Perhaps like all mortals who have ever wondered beyond ourselves, we can embrace a wisdom grounded in awe, embodied in compassion, and fluid with gratitude.

Amen.

Sources:

Karen Armstrong, A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, Ballantine Books, New York, 1993, xx-xxi.

The Book of Genesis, The Book of Exodus, The Psalms, The Book of Job, The Gospel According to Matthew, and The Gospel According to Mark in the Bible (Revised Standard Version)

Paul Woodruff, Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue, Oxford University Press, New York, 2001.

Brian Wren, “Bring Many Names,” in Singing the Living Tradition, The Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, 1993, 23.

Threshold

“Threshold”

A Sermon by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
January 4, 2009

Few of us get carried across a threshold…certainly not the temporal threshold we recognize as a new year. We look both ways before we step. Janus, the Roman god namesake of January, was well equipped to do exactly that, having sprouted from the pantheon with two faces, one for looking back, the other, for looking ahead. When I came to the age of wondering about my own given name, Janice in full, I never counted it as good fortune to carry the nominal legacy of a two-faced god. One face was quite enough. Then years later I chose to take care of two annoyances with one fell swoop. I chopped the “ice” (the i-c-e) off my name, removing the January chill attached to that second syllable, and took care of any possible confusion with that ill-topped Roman god. Besides I was born in September, and I’ve long thought that September was a more apt time to begin the year, as those among us who are Jewish do, with Rosh Hashanah, literally “the head of the year,” observed in this month that straddles summer and fall.

Nonetheless here we are atop a threshold widely recognized as the new year, January for better and worse. As I’ve moved through more seasons of living, I’ve found a wisdom attached to that two-headed god. It’s a wise thing to look behind us—to reflect, to ponder, to discern, to analyze even what has transpired beyond us and within us and in that dance between the two—and to look forward—to imagine, to envision, to hope, and to anticipate, even to plan, dangerous as that often is.

Remember, if you can and will, this time a year ago. What were you reflecting on from the previous year? What were you hoping for and anticipating in the year ahead? What has transpired that you couldn’t possibly have anticipated? Who has been born? Who has become ill? Who has died? How has it been with your career and with the job that you hold or held? What inklings did you have of the economic turmoil? What celebrations have you marked? What do you most remember about this year that came as a full-blown surprise? What promises—resolutions even—did you make at year’s outset that you’ve kept? I’m trusting here that there are New Year’s resolutions that are actually honored!

We stand on the present threshold anticipating the inauguration of a president many never thought could be elected in this country where race and racism still carve a fault line. We stand on the present threshold hoping that a new regime will hold strategies that work for the common good—to move us out of the hole of this economy; to bring to an end a war that for so many thousands, even millions, has become completely untenable; to forge a wise diplomacy that will prevent yet another war; to craft a system whereby all might know the benefits of comprehensive health care. Of course we don’t all agree on these matters, but they impact us all—intimately and ultimately.

As Kathleen McTigue reminds us:

“…we stand at a threshold, the new year something truly new,
still unformed, leaving a stunning power in our hands.”

How commonly do we consider new time as the receptacle of “a stunning power?” Yet it is. How we move through whatever time is ours to know is a precious and powerful gift. What do we want to reflect upon come the end of December 2009? What do we hope to have accomplished? How do we hope to have lived? With what quality of energy will we be satisfied at having expended and toward what end? And yes, how generous do we hope to regard ourselves with regard to this very faith community as we look in the rear-view mirror that captures our reflections 12 months’ hence?

The longer we’ve lived, the more residue of time we accumulate, the more promises we’ve made that we would be or do or act in such and such a way, the more times we’ve disappointed ourselves and others in following through and the more times we’ve also surprised ourselves and others in making good on what we say we’ll do and be. Early January is like standing on a ridge. On one side, we view the panorama of how we got there. We recall the encampments, the near slips, the encounters with other travelers, the respites, the celebrations, the days that we dare to regard as ho-hum days when nothing special seemed to have happened. With no particular logic, details come to mind that embody what matters to us. Sometimes it’s a conversation with a friend. Sometimes it’s a decision made to take a day, a whole day, with no plans at all. Sometimes it’s a moment shared with someone who’s no longer here to share such a moment. Sometimes it’s a detour in a route we thought we were on. On the other side, we look off into the distance and imagine, bringing the wisdom and folly of where we’ve already been, bringing the lessons learned and half-learned and ignored into view. With what wisdom and humility and necessary humor will we set off into the space-time markings of a new year?

One of my favorite gifts received this Christmas was a calendar, given to Dan and me by our daughter, Lisa, and son-in-law, Rob. The feature attraction of the month-by-month visuals is Oliver Daniel Lemon, born February 22, 2008. Can you guess what they chose for January? The ultrasound! There he was—“about-to-be” tiny Oliver, nestled in Lisa’s womb, squirming, not quite ready but almost, to make his debut. With the blizzard of February 22, he knew it was time to come on out and take a look. Oliver didn’t quite stand on a threshold last January; he swam in it.

With year’s end, he’s about to walk. He’s babbling coherently—not an oxymoron at all for a parent or grandparent.

It’s always struck me that the personas of a new year were “Father Time” and a brand new baby sparsely clad in a Happy New Year banner, as if one year were a lifetime for this incarnation of a single earth-arc around the sun. What if that were the case for us?

Imagine, you’re about to be born. Imagine, by deep December you’ll be old, ancient even, close to that other threshold that we know as death. Time is condensed. You have a year to do it all, to be who you want to be, to come to full blossom and to lend whatever you will to this earth-time that is your life. How different might it go for you? How different?

To begin, I suggest we go back as far in our memories as we possibly can. Some of us might stop short at five or six. Others can stretch our imaginings all the way into our cribs. Do you remember what it was like to greet the day standing up in your crib and letting out a holler of exuberance that sounded the alert to whomever was hopefully there to satisfy your needs? Maybe it was a cry of hunger: “I’m awake, and I’m famished!” Then again, maybe there was another element or two for which babies are known to greet the morning. What do we call it? A need to be “changed!” Change is what greets the infant and what follows us in endless variations throughout our lives. Change is the mark of life itself, though of course it does have particular significance when it comes to changing a baby. The baby responds by changing us in ways we couldn’t imagine at the outset of parenthood—even grandparenthood.

“O come let us adore him!” Not until he’s changed thank you!

A newborn, a new year, a fresh start, a threshold of possibility. Change is not just imminent; it’s a given.

Yet we’ve all heard the maxim that the more things change, the more they remain the same. This view finds particular eloquence in the biblical book of Ecclesiastes. Futility, thy name is the Preacher of Ecclesiastes. In the very first chapter, we read:

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done;
and there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, "See, this is new"?
It has been already, in the ages before us. There is no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to happen among those who come after.
Ecclesiastes 1:9-11 (Revised Standard Version)

And all the way into the final chapter, the preacher continues, culminating with the proclamation:

“Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher; all is vanity.”
Ecclesiastes 12:8 (Revised Standard Version)

Not exactly the life of the New Year’s party!

In contemporary voice, the reflections of yoga teacher Robert Levine on the Winter Solstice and the New Year seem at first hearing to echo the ancient Preacher:

….despite this change in the calendar, the events in the world seem to go on in the same way that they have gone on before. Wars continue. Poverty persists, authoritarian leaders consolidate their grip on power, and the ice caps melt as the mean temperature of the world continues to rise. It is a new year, but time passes on and the world seems not to notice.

Unlike the ancient preacher, Levine pulls us out of the well later in his narrative:

Despite the lack of apparent change, we still continue to hope, to hope and believe that we can make positive change in our lives and make positive change in the world.

The long night of the winter solstice and the long winter nights altogether invite reflection and hopeful imagination. Writes Levine:

When the sun rises and the new year begins it is up to us as spiritual and political beings sharing this planet to figure out how we can live with all our disagreements and conflicts. There is nothing idealistic about this, for do we really have any other choice?

Well yes, we do, I believe we do. We can retreat into the cocoon of despair and denial that there is nothing new, that all is vanity, that what can we do anyway in the face of the violence in Gaza, the economic uncertainties here, the threat of another conflict in Afghanistan, the maladies and illnesses and injuries that have befallen so many among us. We can retreat and step off that threshold of possibility. We can also pause here and say “Yes” to the “stunning power” of perspective that this time affords. Like that ancient Roman god gifted or cursed, whatever your perspective, with two faces—one to look backwards, the other, to look ahead—we can do both with one face, with one set of hands, with one heart. And we can do more with hands and hearts joined in community.

Through this very community in which we worship together this morning, we can reflect and discern and ponder and wonder aloud, “What if?” What if we take to heart whatever we’ve learned from this past year and all years past? What if we own our power to act spiritually and politically in the direction of the common good? What if we ingest the lessons of time past and with eyes and hearts and minds wide open step off this threshold into a new year with hope seasoned by our ponderings? What then?

Come January 2010, you tell me. What then will have come to pass?
Amen.


Sources:

The Book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible (King James Version)

Robert Levine, “Reflections on the Winter Solstice and the New Year,” lifesherpa.com/magazine, http://www.lifesherpa.com/magazine/society/2008-01-levine-time-solstice.htm

Kathleen McTigue, “New Year’s Day,” in Singing the Living Tradition, The Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, 1993, 544.

In Ways Unexpected - A Christmas Eve Homily

“In Ways Unexpected”

A Christmas Eve Homily by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull

First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
December 24, 2008

In ways unexpected, Christmas comes. A young woman, at full term in her pregnancy, and a young man, seemingly her husband, made their way from the village of Nazareth to the city of Bethlehem, that he might pay his taxes. These were the years of Roman occupation. Commoners like Mary and Joseph did what the authorities told them to do. They were young, probably teenagers, and not even married. Yet they traveled together, he surely the father of the baby she was carrying.

As babies will, this one wriggled and squirmed and wanted out at the most inconvenient of times. Night was falling. Where would they rest, that she might give birth? All the inns of Bethlehem were full. Contractions were coming with alarming frequency, and they knocked on the door of yet another innkeeper, desperate for shelter. Not lacking hospitality altogether, this innkeeper directed them to a stable out back, a barn. And there, Mary gave birth to Jesus.

All the while, an angelic host was busy preparing a message—not for the media of the day, but for some raggedy band of shepherds far more attentive to their sheep than to the night sky. Legend tells us that the lead angel diverted their attention. After scaring the wits out of them, she sang a calming carol bidding them not to be afraid, but to make their way toward Bethlehem, the city of David, and to seek out a stable, where they would find the babe.

W hen I read as a child that the shepherds did indeed leave their sheep and journeyed without a second thought to Bethlehem and the stable, where they “found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger,” I wondered. How could Mary and Joseph and their new baby squeeze themselves into one small manger?” Well, I figured it out after reviewing a few illustrations of how it might have happened. I didn’t learn about funny syntax for many years, let alone confusing translations. It was enough though that the angels sang, that the shepherds went, and that this beautiful little baby was born in a barn and laid in a space where the animal inhabitants were accustomed to finding their sustenance.

Of course the shepherds couldn’t hold onto this news, so Luke, author of what we know as the Gospel—the good news—according to Luke, tells us that the shepherds spread the word of this birth, the birth of a hoped for Savior, who would presumably save his people from all the ills that had befallen them. Here at long last was the Messiah.

What a beginning for a story that was to unfold just as strangely!

Christmas comes in ways unexpected. Children arrive at times unexpected. It’s not about convenience. The miracles of birth rarely are.

Then there’s that star story, told surely by star struck story tellers. We who are reasoned are dubious. Perhaps some “super nova appeared in the heavens in its dying burst of fire.” We rationalize. Yet the star story tugs at us.

Christmas comes in ways unexpected. “Why not a star!” suggests Margaret Gooding, moving beyond her early belief and her later rationality. Why not?

“Some bright star shines somewhere in the heavens each time a child is born….Who knows what uncommon life may yet unfold, if we but give it a chance!”

Who knows? Perhaps the uncommon life of the Scovel children, millennia later, freezing in the Beacon Hill parsonage of their father, Carl, a Unitarian minister infused with more than his share of Puritanical scrimping on the heating bill. Who knew that his uncommonly imaginative children would plan a kidnapping of sorts, with a ransom ensured to warm their small shivering bodies?

Word came to their father, the esteemed pastor of the esteemed King’s Chapel, that the baby Jesus, in the form of the beloved doll in the Christmas crèche, was missing. “Uh-oh, what demented mind would run off with the baby Jesus?” he mused, unamused.

Christmas comes in ways unexpected. Carl was still learning about Christmas and children. With the ransom note found and the heat turned up came the epiphany brought home by his own uncommon children. Of course, of course, “No monarch, indeed no despot [myself even], can ever be so sure of his rule after a child has been born.”

Expand your geographical vision to the Nebraska plains on a harsh winter’s night many years ago. A lonely little girl named Betty hadn’t been asked if she agreed to her family pulling up stakes in Ohio and heading west as homesteaders. Christmas was coming and in spite of Betty’s longing for friends left behind, it seemed to be the best of Christmas gifts when a new family moved in across the way, with a daughter just her age. Then came the discovery that her new friend, Sarah, was Jewish. They didn’t celebrate Christmas, but lit candles on a glorious candlestick known as a menorah for a festival of lights known as Hanukkah.

All the while, Betty’s father was traveling into town—many miles away—to get candles for the tree. A plains blizzard came on, and he was not to return until dawn on Christmas morning. Christmas came in ways unexpected, for the lights that brought him home were those of the candles of Hanukkah burning bright in the window of their new neighbors, placed there by Betty’s friend, Sarah. Hanukkah had saved Christmas.

Holidays and holy days happen in ways unexpected. Children are born beyond our imagining. Children grow up in ways unanticipated and never cease to surprise us by means we surely couldn’t have taught them. Lights shine from sources unplanned and unanticipated, and the flame of candles from traditions of holiness over which nations have gone to war shine also in uncommon beams that bring us home to our common humanity.

In this time of anxiety, in this time of bewilderment, in this time of injury and illness for so many in our midst, in this time of violence among and within nations, in this time of mistrust between neighbor and neighbor, in this time when we would seem to do well simply to tend our sheep on our very own hillside thank you very much, we need more than ever to heed the echo of an angelic host. We need more than ever to warm our hearth and that of neighbors who can’t afford the heating bill altogether. We need more than ever to make friends beyond the conventions of sameness. We need more than ever to discover behind the façade of an inn a newborn child.

Ordinary miracles all, I invite you to trust that as we gather in this time and space of love and light and story and song, Christmas will come. Christmas is coming in ways unexpected, in ways we could never have imagined, tonight!

Amen.



Sources:

Betty Girling, “Holiday Candles,” in Treasured Stories of Christmas: A Touching Collection of Stories that Brings Gifts from the Heart and Joy to the Soul, The Editors of Guideposts, Inspirational Press, New York, 1997.

Margaret Gooding, “Why Not a Star,” in Singing the Living Tradition, The Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, 1993, 621.

The Gospel According to Luke in the Bible (King James Version)

Carl Scovel, “The Stolen Infant,” in Never Far from Home: Stories from the Radio Pulpit, Skinner House, Boston, October 2003, 44-46.

Do you see? Do you hear?

“Do you see? Do you hear?”

Reflections by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
for Jim FitzGerald and Jan Carlsson-Bull
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
December 21, 2008

First Reflection

Jan:
Do you see the flame of the candles flickering in the menorah? Imagine what it must have been like to expect the temple oil to last only a day….and then watch it burn for eight amazing days!

Jim:
Those Maccabee children had something to sing about! Do you hear the sounds of our own children’s voices, blending with the voices of our wisest, singing out our thanks that the light lasted? I love this time of legends and light and from our youngest, little coos and “gah-gahs” (and maybe some not so little coos and “gah-gahs,” that we don’t even count on, but somehow these cries blend right in with our Hanukkah music.

Do you see the eager faces of young and old watching the menorah? I wonder what kind of miracles are in store even today as we light our candles of hope.

Jan:
Hope shines atop our menorah and soon atop our Advent wreath as we hope against hope that happenings from so long ago will find their way into our hearts as celebrations in our own time. Do you hear the sounds of hope?

Jim:
I do. Sometimes they’re child-like murmurs. Sometimes they’re the soaring voices of our choir and our congregation. Sometimes I hear the silence itself. Do you hear the silence too?

Jan:
When I listen, when I really listen, I hear the silence. Do you see the faces turned occasionally toward the windows of the Meeting House. Our Common is blanketed with snow for the season at hand. The candles seem to burn even more brightly across the crispness of winter air.

Jim:
It reminds me that today is the shortest day of the year. Today is the Winter Solstice, when we’re farthest away from the warmth and light of the sun. Candlelight matters more than ever. Do you feel the warmth that binds us as we worship, like one big family?

Jan:
I do, and I feel it as our children light the candles of the menorah and as Laura lights our chalice; and I hear it in the words that we speak, in Susan’s welcome and Laura’s chalice reflection, and Steve’s story of how Hanukkah happened and how it’s still happening.

Jim:
I see it as Morgan and Jack light one by one all the candles of the menorah. I even smell it with the pine boughs nestled into the high pulpit. All our senses awaken to this time.

Jan:
It’s almost Hanukkah. It’s almost Christmas. Across the ages and across all ages, we celebrate these holidays and holy days of light, of religious freedom, and of the birth of a baby who was all about love.

Jim:
Our hearts lift to the sights and sounds of this holy time. Every candle lit is an act of hope, and each child born, each child here, is a gift of hope. The warmth of a candle tenderly kisses the joyous sound of the chime that echoes in our bell choir.



Second Reflection

Jim:
Do you hear the echo of the drum? I think all our youngsters stepped up as little drummer boys and drummer girls with the gift of their song.

Jan:
Did you see them as they raised their voices and lifted hearts? It’s like Marilyn said as she introduced her story: Everyone here shares a miracle. It’s the same miracle we celebrate at Christmas. Each of us was born.

Jim:
Each of us has his own drum beat, her own rhythm played out across the years. Can you hear all the rhythms pa-rum-pum-pum-pumming together this morning?

Jan:
I hear them, and as I look out across the congregation I see the hopeful drummer boy, the glowing drummer girl in each and every person here, and I see us all as children, some of us as long ago children, long ago babes, probably adored every bit as much as the baby Jesus.

Jim:
Imagine the day of your birth. Each of you holds your own story of the time you were born. Imagine that “on the eve of your birth, word of your coming passed from animal to animal.”

Jan:
And “the Moon pulled on the ocean below, and, wave by wave, a rising tide washed the beaches clean for your footprints.” Do you see your very own footprints, tiny in the sand of your arrival?

Jim:
Do you see the Advent wreath, an evergreen holder of candles that remind us of an expected arrival? Soon it will be lit, candle by candle.

Jan:
….keeping company with the candles of the menorah. Can you close your eyes and still see all the candles burning bright?

Jim:
If I close my eyes, I can see in my mind’s eyes candles lit in the church of my childhood—especially at Christmas.

Jan:
And I see in my memory’s eyes candles of Hanukkah shining in the windows of city apartments, and if I go further back, the lights of Christmas twinkling through the windows of my small town and ablaze in the living room of my childhood.

Jim:
Of course this is a season of expectancy. We anticipate a miracle of light.

Jan:
We anticipate a miracle of birth, each one ordinary, each one amazing.

Jim:
Our hope is that with the sounds and sights of these holidays of legend and light, we will know peace and know it so deeply that we’ll carry it out from this shortest day of the year through the longest night of the year all the way into the rest of the year.

Jan:
….into all the years to come.

Jim:
We’ve kindled our candles of Hanukkah, with a story to guide us. At this time, Steve Brown will share an Advent story that will guide Sasha as he lights our candles of Advent.


Sources

Debra Frasier, On the Day You Were Born, Harcourt, Inc., New York, 1991.

All About Light

“All About Light”

A Sermon by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
December 14, 2008

Next Sunday, December 21st, the sun will be at its greatest angular distance on the other side of the equatorial plane from each of us, if we remain in the Eastern Time Zone of the Northern Hemisphere. A note of explanation: the “equatorial plane” is the imagined line on the surface of our earth that is roughly the same distance from the North and South Poles, a line dividing our earth into the Northern Hemisphere and the Southern Hemisphere. The precise moment of the greatest distance that we’ll stand from our sun is 7:04 AM a week from today. It is the Winter Solstice, marking the shortest day of the year and the longest night of the year.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
…rage, rage against the dying of the light,”

wrote the impassioned 20th century Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. While Thomas spoke of resistance to the light of life itself, year after year we counter the dying of the light that we glibly call sunshine as we approach the shortest day and longest night of the current earth-arc around the sun. The sun rises later and later and sets earlier and earlier. As darkness encroaches, our yearning for light intensifies.

In our own lives this week, we have known that “rage against the dying of the light” as we bore the news of a member of this church community whose life hung in the balance and who even now is regaining her sense of light and life at a nearby hospital. We bore the news of a longtime member of this church community and beloved member of this larger community whose life hangs in the balance in the wake of harrowing diagnoses and emergency treatments in Boston. Even as we deck our halls, sing our carols, place candles in our windows, and check our shopping lists—however modest in the economic reality that is now—we know in our bones that we are placing at the very top of our to-do lists resistance to lights out.

We yearn for light. We lean into the warmth of the hearth kindled with a log reminiscent of the Yule log, that pagan rite of countering light’s seasonal waning. We light candles as in no other season. We might not rise to the passion of “rage against the dying of the light,” but we have our methods, we have our rituals, we have our remedies, and we have our faith that light will return to our inmost souls extending to the outer reaches of our habitat and back again to our inmost souls. We have faith hoped for and evidence-bound that light will return, in whatever slow doses, as we transcend the solstice. On December 20th, our day is 9 hours, 4 minutes, and 49 seconds. On December 21st, our day diminishes to 9 hours, 4 minutes, and 48 seconds. Then the next day it expands to 9 hours, 4 minutes, and 51 seconds—a 3-second leap into the rebirth of light.

Ironically, the Winter Solstice signals the birth of winter. We commonly associate winter with less light, yet its beginning is the signal of more light, earlier sunrises, later sunsets, more light to warm us, illumine us, resurrect our spirits, and remind us that it happens every year, every single year, this rhythm of light diminished and light reborn. No matter what cluster of hope, anticipation, anguish or dread we hold personally or communally or globally, the cadence of our planet in its cosmic dance with our sun-star assumes a confident recycling of light diminished and light expanded. Winter is another word for spring. Beneath earth’s hardened surface, roots swell in readiness, warmed by a few more seconds, a few more minutes, of our sun-star’s radiance.

Is it any wonder—wondrous as these rhythms are—that our holidays and holy days mirror earth’s light-dance and hold in cosmic form our oh-so-human resistance, rage even, against darkness with our equally oh-so-human welcome, celebration even, of the promise of light? We worship this morning amid a season resplendent with holidays of light. Today is the third Sunday of Advent, a time of approach to that day when Christian beliefs tell us the Light of the World was born in a lowly manger. This year on the night of the Winter Solstice, Hanukkah begins at sundown—Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights observed by Jews worldwide. Just twelve days from now begins that holiday of relatively recent origin, Kwanzaa, when the first of seven candles are lit, affirming principles of right living among those of us of African-American heritage with lessons of right living for all of us.

Hope is pervasive across all of these holidays. Hope for light, hope for illumination, hope for enlightenment even. It infuses our songs, our poetry, our stories, our symbols of struggle against oppression. Light is ever dominant even as darkness hovers with the approach of the Solstice. The very word Solstice stems from the Latin words, “sol” for “sun” and “sistere” for day—solstice, “Day of the Sun!”

What is the fear as we approach this day? That darkness will encroach until that’s all there is. Surely we in this community have felt that fear as lives and futures hang in the balance, with earthlight seeming to mirror it all, even to mock it.

Our great-great-and beyond great grandfathers and grandmothers feared, raged, and contorted themselves over this apparent dying of the light, no matter how many times they had experienced counter-rhythms. In Britain, they kindled bonfires and kept them burning for days…just in case. In the circles cast by bonfire glow, they sang and danced and feasted. Is it so different for us now with Christmas at hand?

Beginning in 13th century Peru, the Incans observed “Inti Raymi,” “Festival of the Sun,” honoring the sun god Inti and coinciding with the winter solstice. Incan priests performed a ritual “tying of the sun” to a large stone column to prevent it from escaping. The practice died out with the Spanish conquest a few hundred years later. Spanish Christians suppressed these rich earth-bound rituals and destroyed every remnant of them except for Machu Picchu, which, blessedly, remained out of their reach. Over the past half century, the rite of Inti Raymi has been dramatically enacted at a site close to Cusco, capital of the ancient Incan Empire, at the time of the Winter Solstice of the Southern Hemisphere. Just two years ago, Cusco was identified as the site “with the highest ultraviolet light level” of any place on earth. I wonder if subliminally perhaps, recent Peruvians have been honoring this sight where light is close to invasive!

From Cusco to Cohasset, from time ancient to this very morning, we yearn for light. We crave reassurance that darkness is not for good. If we grow dubious, if we succumb to the darkness, there’s even a name for it now—“seasonal affective disorder”—SAD, for short and an understatement for many who suffer from it. Our oh so human needs have inspired remedies that wind their ways through the celebrations of this time—Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa— each of them filled with light, commonly in the language of candles burning bright. In reverie and meditation, in story and in song, we anticipate. We dare to hope. We light our candles of Advent, of Hanukkah, of Kwanzaa. Our souls keep vigil. “Within the flame,” remarked Gaston Bachelard, “even time holds its vigil.”

We are attentive; we anticipate; we hope. On this third Sunday of Advent, we draw closer to that day when our Christian selves celebrate the birth of a child deemed by millions as the Light of the world and connected by myriad Christian theologians with the messianic language of the prophet Isaiah:

“The people that walked in darkness
Have seen a great light;
On those who lived in a land as dark as death
A light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2)

Dawn awakens seasonal hope, messianic imagination, and the custom of candles nestled in a wreath. This practice of placing candles in a wreath of pine boughs comes to us from pre-Christian Europe, where it was repeated annually as a rite of hope that days would once again grow long and the earth would once more give birth to flora and fauna. Christians draw on this pagan custom as a ritual of anticipation for the birth of the Christ child, born in humble circumstance, yet under a star guiding men wise and simple to the manger.

The Christmas tree itself is a legacy of our ancestors’ need to craft a harbinger of seasonal dawn. Arrayed with candle-like lights and originally live candles, it draws us into the magic of the moment. The Christmas tree was planted in our cultural habits in the early 16th century when the first decorated tree was placed in the Strasbourg Cathedral. The year was 1539, during the lifetime of Martin Luther, John Calvin, and the Unitarian martyr, Michael Servetus.

A tree itself is candle-like in stature, pointing skywards—a stance of hope and affirmation across the seasons. The fir tree forms a veritable spire of green during the briefest hours of winter light, like the vertical flame of a candle that inspires us to hope amid the oppressive force of extended night.

Hope is what the candles of Hanukkah signal. Some of us have menorahs, or Hanukkah lampstands, in our homes. Next Sunday we’ll light the menorah here, observing Hanukkah’s beginning at sundown. For the eight nights of Hanukkah, we lift the candle known as the shammash, the servant candle, to light one candle a night until all eight candles and the shammash burn brightly, reminding us of the ancient miracle of lights.

Hanukkah means “dedication” and marks the rededication of the Jewish temple in Jerusalem after Judah and his fellow warriors, the Maccabees, triumphed over their oppressors almost 2,200 years ago. A scant portion of oil had been rescued from the original temple, only enough to burn for a single day. Yet when the Jews began the rite of rededication and kindled the oil, it lasted eight days. It was this miracle of lights that led Judah to proclaim a holiday, originally called the Festival of Lights.

It is a holiday of hope against hope. Through the centuries, those who are Jewish among us are called to light the menorah, no matter how trying the circumstances. In a cramped garret in Holland, a young girl wrote in her diary on December 7, 1942.
“‘We just gave each other a few little presents and then we lit the candles. Because of the shortage of candles, we only had them alight for ten minutes.’”

Lighting a candle in community is an act of hope and affirmation for all who know oppression.

It was in a struggle against oppression that Dr. Maulena Karenga created the rites of Kwanzaa almost half a century ago. Kwanzaa is Swahili for “first fruits of the harvest.” It’s celebrated through food and story and song and candle over a period of seven days, from December 26 through January 1. In a candleholder called the Kinara, seven candles are lit over the span of these seven days, symbolizing the principles of Kwanzaa—Unity, Self-determination, Collective Work and Responsibility, Cooperative Economics, Purpose, Creativity, and Faith. In the words of Dr. Karenga, these are principles by which “Black people must live to…rescue and reconstruct our history and lives.”

Bonfires blaze, trees are adorned, candles are lit—candles of Advent, candles of menorahs, candles of kinaras—as luminous signals that the light will not go out, that light will return and with it, hope for a world reborn as spring, as a baby, as a shift in the angle of earth in our Universe, as possibility. In the words of Dori Jeanine Somers that we spoke earlier this morning:

“…there is that in me which reaches up toward light and laughter, bells, and carolers, and knows that my religious myth and dream of reborn joy and goodness must be true, because it speaks the truths of older myths; that light returns to balance darkness, life surges in the evergreen—and us.

And babes are hope, and saviors of the world, as miracles abound in common things.”

As we approach the darkest time of year, what hovers in our midst feels like a taunting mirror-like “dark night of the soul.” It is our time of times to light our candles, hold hope, and know that the darkest of times is all about light waiting, approaching, shining. Amen.


Sources:

Gaston Bachelard, The Flame of a Candle, translated from the French by Joni Caldwell, The Bachelard Translation Series, The Dallas Institute Publications, 1961, 1984, 16.

Miriam Chaikin, Light Another Candle: The Story and Meaning of Hanukkah, Houghton Mifflin Company Trade & Reference Division, Boston, MA, 1981.

Ronald M. Clancy, Best-Loved Christmas Carols, Edited by William E. Studwell, Christmas Classics, Ltd., North Cape May, NJ, 2000.

“Equator,” from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equator.

Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl, Edited by Otto H. Frank and Mirjam Pressler, Translated by Susan Massotty, Doubleday, 1947.

The Book of Isaiah, The Bible, Revised Standard Version.

Liley, J. Ben and McKenzie, Richard L. (April 2006) "Where on Earth has the highest UV?" UV Radiation and its Effects: an update NIWA Science, Hamilton, NZ, in Cusco, from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cusco.

Dori Jeanine Somers, “Reflections on the resurgence of Joy,” in Singing the Living Tradition, The Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, 1993, 653.

“Sunrise and Sunset for U.S.A. – Massachusetts – Boston – December 2008,” http://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/astronomy.html?n=43&month=12&year=2008&obj=sun&afl=-11&day=1.

Dylan Thomas, “Do not go gentle into that good night,” The Poems of Dylan Thomas, New Directions, 1952, 1953. Copyright © 1937, 1945, 1955, 1962, 1966, 1967 the Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1938, 1939, 1943, 1946, 1971 New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Christy Thorrat, “The Winter Solstice,” in Celebrating Christmas: An Anthology, Edited by Carl Seaburg, Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association, 1983, 2004, Authors Choice Press, New York, 251.

“Winter Solstice,” from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winter_solstice.

http://www.chiff.com/home_life/holiday/winter-solstice.htm

Chalice Reflection & Expectations

Chalice Reflection of Jane Goedecke
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
December 7, 2008

My first reaction to this morning’s theme “Expectations” was that expectations bring anxiety. The word does connote a “looking forward” but with standards to be met, promises to be kept, goals to be achieved. I don’t know what Jan has in mind for this morning, but I started getting nervous!

Life sends us too many expectations and I, and perhaps, some of you, too, have a tendency to believe things are “expected” of me even when they’re not. I’m going to try using the word “anticipation” instead.

I am anticipating a beautiful winter wonderland after the snowfall. I am expecting the plow man to show up. See the difference?

And this time of year I need to be especially vigilant in eliminating the “E” word. In years past I let the holiday become a mountain of expectations for me. Age and fatigue have helped me become more realistic, but it is an ongoing battle. I invite you to join me in the struggle. Let us anticipate the blessings and joys of this holiday season and let go of the expectations.

I light the chalice this morning in the spirit of anticipation.

“Expectations”

A Sermon by Rev. Dr. Jan Carlsson-Bull
First Parish Unitarian Universalist
Cohasset, MA
December 7, 2008

“If there were no Advent, we would need to invent it,” remarks John Taylor of this season marking the four weeks before Christmas. On this second Sunday of Advent, I’m reminded that we don’t need to invent it; it’s with us to the extent that we tend even to some of the dimensions of this story of the birth of Jesus. We may though need to re-invent it.

Advent means “coming to” or simply “coming.” We speak of the advent of an era, the advent of a new course of action, the advent of a person. Birth is an advent, a coming, a new beginning, an arrival. From the first observance of Advent into the sixth century, it referred exclusively to the birth of Jesus of Nazareth. Then its meaning shifted, and it was observed as the season of expectation, of preparation, for the coming of the child Jesus—or, in Christian terms, the Christ child. Advent has become a season of expectation, a spiritual pregnancy of sorts, permitting us to prepare for whatever Christmas means to us. Again, in Christian terms, it is preparation for the marking once again of the birth of him who was deemed by so many to be God become human in the form of a humble baby—a form to which we can all relate, since this is how we all began.

Advent in our time commences on the fourth Sunday before Christmas, but if we consider this a time of approach, why not turn to one of the New, or Second Testament, Gospel stories for those first indications of expectation? The Gospel of Luke is the only Second Testament Gospel that records what many term “the Annunciation.” Sometimes we Unitarian Universalists need to pay serious attention to biblical text, even though we can rationalize it away as being one of many stories about a story whose lines have blurred immensely over the centuries. We can revisit that story and discover anew its richness for faith marked by a belief that this was about the Son of God coming into the world and faith marked by an understanding that a child was born who would make his mark on the world in ways that were downright revolutionary—Love being the rare Gospel that it is and indeed, the Gospel, the “good news,” that described the core teaching of Jesus in his brief adult life.

To get a firmer grip on this story, let’s revisit Luke’s account of how Mary discovered she was about to become pregnant. Now this sounds like something that Mary should have learned in a class akin to our OWL series—the Our Whole Lives series in which our Unitarian Universalist youth learn the basics of sexuality from trained and trustworthy adults who are not their parents, which enhances the credibility for almost any adolescent. Mary wasn’t quite a candidate for OWL in time or tradition, but the story goes that she did have what we might freely call a “trained and trustworthy adult” in the form of the angel Gabriel.

Before we jump to metaphor or mythology to describe what happened, let’s check out Luke’s more or less original story, albeit written almost a century after Jesus’ birth. With the oral tradition in full play, we can surmise that the story had been told and retold before being cast into the written word. Storytellers were the historians of their day and took great pains to memorize what had been passed to them that they might pass it with maximum accuracy onto the next generation of those who would keep the story alive, a story that some still call “the greatest story ever told.”

Luke in the early part of his first chapter describes another pregnancy, that of Mary’s relative, Elizabeth, with John the Baptist, a formidable figure in his own right. Luke explains that Elizabeth was six months pregnant when:

“the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph…”

NOTE that Mary isn’t yet pregnant, so it just might make sense that as a young engaged Jewish woman, she was indeed still a virgin, though not for long, since it’s a rare virgin who gives birth to a baby. In fact, a virgin birth deserved feature story status in some ancient edition of the National Enquirer.

Back to Luke…
[Joseph was] “of the house of David: and the virgin’s name was Mary. And he [that is, the angel Gabriel, who served as a messenger of God] came to her and said, ‘Hail, O favored one, the Lord is with you!’ But she was greatly troubled at the saying, and considered in her mind what sort of greeting this might be. And the angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus.

He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High;
And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David,
And he will reign over the house of Jacob forever;
And of his kingdom there will be no end.’

And Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I have no husband?’ And the angel said to her, [and this is where it gets iffy!]

‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you,
And the power of the Most High will overshadow you;
Therefore the child to be born will be called holy, the Son of God.

And behold, your kinswoman Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month with her who was called barren. For with God nothing will be impossible.’ And Mary said, ‘Behold I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.’ And the angel departed from her.”

Luke goes on to tell the story of Mary visiting Elizabeth and her husband, Zechariah, and of Elizabeth proclaiming upon Mary’s arrival that Mary is “blessed among women,” followed by Mary’s spontaneous proclamation of what God had set in play through her and how generations would call her blessed. Then we’re told that Mary remained with Elizabeth about three months, just enough time for Elizabeth to give birth to John and for Mary to get through her first trimester in the trusted company of her kinswoman.

Luke sets the scene for expectation writ large. If anyone is pregnant even now, we commonly say, “She’s expecting.” Pregnancy is all about expectation, all about advent, an anticipated arrival of a child. I don’t doubt that any of us here who have given birth to a child or adopted a child or experienced this vicariously through family and friends know how heightened this expectation is, how keen our senses are, how hyper-vigilant we are to who is to come…that “who” being a big question mark for the span of time from confirmation of pregnancy to birth.

Advent describes a season of expectancy, a season of hyper-attentiveness to what is to come. Every birth, every arrival, every coming of a child shakes our universe—perhaps less so in magnitude than did the arrival of Jesus or Moses or Mohammed or Abraham or even Mahatma Gandhi or Eleanor Roosevelt, but nonetheless each and every child is preceded by a season of Advent.

We are expecting. We mark this in the tradition of our Christian roots by the lighting of Advent candles set into an Advent wreath, a relatively recent tradition said to have begun among German Lutherans. Once again, what has become a religious rite had its roots in pagan rites—specifically, the pagan fire wheel. The circle or wheel or wreath symbolizes eternity, a “world without end,” an “everlasting to everlasting.” Each of the four purple candles—purple being the emblematic color of royalty—is lit week after week until all four candles are burning bright on the Sunday preceding Christmas itself. On Christmas, the pink candle, the center candle, is kindled, indicating that Jesus, the presumed “light of the world,” has come. The waiting is over. Here he is! No more full nights of sleep for Mary or Joseph! Yes, there was Joseph, that back burner partner who hung in (after, most of us assume, getting Mary pregnant in the first place) and helped to parent what would prove to be one challenging youngster.

But let’s back up. Let’s back up to this seasonal time of expectancy. What we know about the story of Luke that has come down through the ages is that Mary was expecting and that she had enough sense to be wary, to be vigilant, to know that life is never the same once a path has been taken that is for the most part irreversible. Remember, you can’t be a little bit pregnant. You’re either expecting or you’re not.

What, I wonder, are we expecting, amid this season of Christmas—and not just Christmas, but the lights and re-enactment of the story of the miracle of Hanukkah and the lights and observance of the recent story and rites of Kwanzaa and the lights and observance by Hindus worldwide of Diwali, a festival of lights that pays tribute to the pantheon of Hinduism. What are we expecting and what can we learn from this ancient account by a fellow named Luke, who received it from his first-century predecessor story tellers?

Expectation is a state of vigilance. Expectation is often accompanied by anxiety, occasionally by the strategies of reflection and meditation, and almost always by some planning that usually goes awry because the path to all our Bethlehems is rife with potholes. Sometimes we escape them; sometimes we don’t.

In John Taylor’s reflection on Advent, he observes that “we are always expecting.” And he writes a nano-breath later that we are “hopeful.” We are hopeful creatures and “hopefulness deserves a festival.”

Maybe so, but expectation and hope don’t completely overlap. Expectation is indeed a state of vigilance and planning. Hope, on the other hand, informs our expectation with a sense that all will ultimately be well. Hope transcends anxiety and hyper-vigilance and even meditation and reflection and lifts our souls into spiritual resilience—not la-la land thinking, not denial, but a resilience of our very souls, a readiness to ride the waves and discover gifts unanticipated in whatever happens.

Let’s go back to Mary. Here she was stuck with a child Jesus who would later be said to run off from his parents at the age of 12, when they took him to Jerusalem. Who did he hang out with? The sages in the temple, whom he confounded with his questions and commentary. Who did he hang out with as a young adult—not accounting for a good two decades that we know nothing about—but a band of brothers who were not exactly perched on the highest rung of Galilee’s social ladder. How did he end up? That’s for another season, another time.

How do we remember him and why? For those of us who are of liberal faith, we connect again and again with his teachings, with his parables that spoke of loving folks who are despised, bringing wholeness to folks who have lost any remnant of hope, sharing what wealth we have—spreading the wealth in fact—so that none will go hungry or become homeless, forging a course as peacemakers blessed as children of God. It’s so much easier to chalk up the arrival of Jesus as the arrival of the Son of God and let that notion occupy center stage so we don’t have to wrestle with the rugged teachings that he imparted and for which he paid dearly. Hope is held by trusting that each of us can move through whatever lies ahead with grace and graciousness that is even remotely akin to what we learn from those accounts of who this babe of Bethlehem grew to be. Hope is held by letting go of rigid expectations and letting be what is and letting how what is evolve into what will be.

This is a season of expectation, but let it not be a time of rigid expectation. The news of our world intimate and global suggests we loosen our expectations and hold hope. All we know is that a child was born. All we know is that we were once children. All we know is that most of us in this Meeting House this morning are grown-ups, riding the waves of what is, marked with scars and souvenirs of waves that were, anticipating but uncertain of what turbulence lies ahead. What to do but light a candle. With every child, a light comes into the world. That light burns brightly, flickers, and is consumed, becoming once again part and parcel of the substance from which we sprang.

As we light our candles of Advent, let us be no less jubilant about a season of anticipation, a season of expectation, and the reality of hope held in each child we cradle, each manifestation of love we practice, each ray of light that illumines our souls as we move through each precious day. Amen.


Sources:

“The Advent Wreath,” in Celebrating Christmas: An Anthology, Edited by Carl Seaburg, Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association, 1983, 2004, Authors Choice Press, New York, 235.

The Gospel According to Luke, The Bible, Revised Standard Version

John A. Taylor, “If there were no Advent...,” in Celebrating Christmas: An Anthology, Edited by Carl Seaburg, Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association, 1983, 2004, Authors Choice Press, New York, 235.

“Winter Festival and Celebrations,” Church of the Larger Fellowship, in Celebrating Christmas: An Anthology, Edited by Carl Seaburg, Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association, 1983, 2004, Authors Choice Press, New York, 235.