by David Blanchard, minister, First Unitarian Universalist Society of Syracuse, New York
Just last year I mistook a gift for a present.
This gift was a homemade potholder woven of colorful scraps of cloth. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t particularly unusual. Accepting it as a present, I placed it into service beside the stove.
Four days before Christmas I was called to officiate at a memorial service for a friend. Talking with her five and nine-year-old daughters, I asked what things they liked to remember about their mom. What things did they do together? What had she taught them? They were busy, deep at work on a gift-making project, but they expressed some memories that mattered and recounted some gifts their mother had shared with them: making cookies…snuggling in bed…being their Brownie leader…planting bulbs. Then the nine-year-old looked down and said, “And she taught us how to make these potholders!”
Of course! A Gift! How could I miss it?
Presents are the sort of things that fit on lists, complete with size and color preference. Presents are the sorts of things we are smart enough to ask for. Gifts are altogether different. We don’t usually think to ask for them, perhaps because we think we don’t deserve them or don’t want to risk expressing the need. Maybe we don’t even recognize the need ourselves. Gifts differ from presents because no matter what form they take, they always represent something greater, something deeper, something more enduring; they are about things like love, respect, and affirmation.
Gifts given are often woven into some simple token. And sometimes, protecting our own comfort, we give them in disguise. They can be easy to miss.
Now I try to give more gifts than presents, and without too much camouflage. Be gift-bearers yourselves. Give them along with presents, and look carefully for the gifts others are trying to give you.
From Listening For Our Song, the 2002 UUA meditation manual, available in the CLF library and at the UUA Bookstore.
by Jane Rzepka, minister, Church of the Larger Fellowship
One of the most obnoxious dilemmas a parent can present is “Well, you can have your choice. You can come in to the petting zoo (cousin’s recital, ocean, store, camper, ballet) and have fun with us, or you can sit and sulk in the car.”
You remember. There were parts of the petting zoo, recital, ocean, mall, camper, or ballet, that you didn’t like. The frisky goat that knocked you over, the perky Mozart, the ocean slime that got in the way of your good time. Yes sir, alone in the car, nobody was going to make you get butted or bored or green. Pouting had an appealing integrity. Until the family returned. Turned out they really did have a good time.
The winter holidays give us religious liberals the chance to be kids again, kids with The Choice. In our church, we recognize Chanukah—though some out there no doubt find teeny colored candles annoying. In our church, we make mention of the solstice, though a few folks do prefer the shorter days. In our church, we celebrate Christmas, though a few among us despise the carols.
I hope you will join in the season of celebration. It won’t be perfect. But a special tree somewhere, lights in the darkness, or a simple menorah; the miracle of new birth, the blessings of freedom, the promise of new light—something, something—will be a wonder. It’s enough to get us out of the car.
From A Small Heaven, a UUA meditation manual from Skinner House Books, available in the CLF library and at the UUA Bookstore.
by John Millspaugh, minister, Unitarian Universalist Church of South County, Mission Viejo, California
There are two good reasons I should not deliver this sermon. First, I’m not a Jew, so it is presumptuous that I’m celebrating and talking about a Jewish holiday. I grew up as a United Methodist. My religious paths since then—agnosticism, atheism, humanism, neo-paganism, mysticism and so on—have never included Judaism.
A second important reason why I shouldn’t talk about Hanukkah here is that all too often, well-meaning Unitarian Universalist “engagement” of other religious traditions is experienced as misappropriation. As we delve into beliefs and practices outside our personal traditions, we often unintentionally disrespect and distort them. No one I know has found a sure-fire method to keep that from happening. To engage another religious tradition in this way is to take a significant risk.
So…what’s a goyishe Unitarian Universalist minister doing risking mistakes and misunderstanding in order to talk about an often-secularized minor Jewish festival? Well, this is what we do. As Unitarian Universalists, this is what we’re called to do. We’re challenged to creative engagement with our world’s religious traditions. All of these winter holidays—Hanukkah, Christmas, the winter solstice, Kwanzaa, Divali—all are part of our religious heritage, as members of this species homo sapiens. And we cannot ignore our heritage.
To understand Hanukkah, we must understand its history. The story of Hanukkah begins with the Greek Alexander the Great, who conquered the Jewish homeland of Judea. In the decades following, the Greeks tried to make Judea Greek, to eradicate Jewish culture and religion for the sake of their own. They focused their efforts on Jerusalem, Judea’s most important city and home to the great Temple.
The Greeks were smart. They knew that the Jews were enlightened people who revered education, literacy, and deep thinking. So they tried the soft, seductive approach first, rolling out the best of Greek philosophy, theater, and religion. And this mass public relations campaign worked. Some Jews did leave behind their customs and culture, to do as the Greeks did.
This soft-sell approach to religious conversion may not sound like tyranny, but it was very intentional, and very effective, religious oppression. And things got much worse when the Greek ruler Antiochus IV took over. His was a reign of terror. Some examples: he enacted a law that forced Jewish brides to sleep with Greek soldiers before they could marry their husbands. He leveled the Temple altar, replacing it with a Greek altar on which he forced Jews to sacrifice to the Greek Gods. He banned Sabbath observances and Torah study. He denied Jews most of their religion and culture. The streets were lined with Greek soldiers and dotted with Greek altars.
There was pretty much nothing that the Jews could do about it. The Greek soldiers had a far superior military force: well organized, well trained in strategy and the use of modern weapons. The Jews stood no chance. Their only choice was to submit.
And yet…they resisted. In 167 BCE an old Hasmonean priest named Mattathias began the resistance, and his son Judah Maccabee led the revolt after Mattathias’s death. The Jews fought the Greeks heroically, or, depending on your perspective, foolishly. They faced incredible odds. This was a war of bare hands and stones against armored troops. As the war progressed, both forces gained strength, but the two sides remained ridiculously unbalanced. As the Jews trained archers and slingers, the well-funded Greeks gained war elephants. As Jews continued to die, those remaining realized that all they had to do to end the war was accept Greek culture as their own.
The Jews, in the face of these absurd odds, remained committed, held close to hope, resisted, and miraculously, managed to win.
But upon their return to their Temple in Jerusalem, the Jews who remained found the Temple laid waste, their holy fire extinguished, their ritual objects stolen. They grieved keenly for their loss, but instead of throwing up their hands, they held close to hope. Over the course of many weeks, they rebuilt, renewed the altar’s sacred fire, and rededicated the temple. The ceremonies lasted eight days. The very next year, the rabbis proclaimed that a new holiday would be added to the Jewish liturgical year to commemorate the miraculous restoration. Every year since, that is to say every year for the past 2,169 years, the Jewish people have celebrated the eight-day Hanukkah ritual.
But there is another miracle now associated with Hanukkah. According to the Talmud, when the Maccabees tried to light the menorah, they discovered that the lamp oil had been spoiled by the Greeks. Only one flask had an unbroken seal, and it contained only enough oil to light the menorah for one day. Yet that tiny amount miraculously burned for eight days, long enough for more oil to be brought to Jerusalem. So the legend says. And many Jewish families now light the menorah in part to remember that story of the miracle of the oil. But it is worth noting that many Jewish sources now refer to the tale of the oil as a later legend added to enhance the holiday.
Of the many meanings that Hanukkah carries forward through the centuries from our ancestors in faith, three, I think, are particularly relevant to us as Unitarian Universalists. First, Hanukkah is a story of conquest, second, it is a story of devotion, and third and most fundamentally, it is a story of hope. Hanukkah is a story of the physical conquest of the Jewish people, yes, but perhaps even more sinister, it is the story of the seduction of their minds and hearts. Through their public institutions and events, the ancient Greeks systematically promoted their own ends in Judea. Their methods were quite successful—they hooked many Jews, like fish on a line. So the holiday of Hanukkah in our modern age becomes a time to consider—“How have I been hooked?” It’s a time to become reflective, to ask, “Who or what has gotten hooks into me, and is cheerfully stringing me along? Who has taken over some part of my mind and heart for their own purposes, and done me harm in the process?”
Maybe it is an industry that has convinced you that you can find happiness through its products or services, or that it really is okay to overlook its cruel methods for the sake of its bottom line. Maybe it’s a politician who has persuaded you that thinking for yourself is unpatriotic. Maybe it is someone in your personal life who has convinced you that your behavior determines their happiness or fulfillment. Hanukkah is a time to consider how our minds and hearts and spirits have been the object of another’s conquest; it’s a time to recognize subtle invasions and full-scale occupations. Time to begin noticing if our most holy temple has been ransacked and waters poured on our holy fires, and time to begin doing something about it.
Hanukkah is about overcoming conquest. And second, Hanukkah is about dedication. The very word “Hanukkah” means dedication. After we recognize what hooks have gotten lodged in us and begun to free ourselves of them, in order to live lives of wholeness and true fulfillment we must remember what most deserves our dedication. What deserves our attention; why are we here; what do we want our lives to be about? Hanukkah is a time to remind ourselves and those around us of what we most value, to reconsecrate ourselves to those ideals. It is a time for renewed dedication to the deepest and the most high.
Finally, Hanukkah is the story of the value of hope against hope. It is the story of how hope can upset of the natural order of things. It is the story of a moment when, because of human hope, the inevitable—didn’t happen. “The ordinary, the expected and the natural were overwhelmed by the extra-ordinary, the unexpected and the spiritual,” writes Shimon Apisdorf. That’s a radical claim, but hope is a radical commitment that leads to radical results.
What is hope that it can be that powerful? Emily Dickinson wrote:
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tunes without the words And never stops—at all—
In the words of Scott Russell Sanders:
These lines capture something of how hope feels: flighty and frail but also tough, resolute, singing on stubbornly through fat times and lean. Anyone who bands migratory [birds], or who picks up a bird stunned from crashing into a window, holds this paradox in the palm of the hand: a quivering wisp…that can fly thousands of miles, a speck of life…that can burn on steadily through storms.
Hanukkah’s message to us is that hope is rarely irrational, even when we face overwhelming difficulty. And here’s why: hope itself creates the ground for hope. Rabbi Eliyahu points out that it was only at the moment when the conquered Jews decided to hold closely to hope and attempt the impossible, precisely at that pivotal moment of decision, that they were able to link up with a force beyond themselves and achieve the impossible. The Jewish people reached for that which was beyond their grasp, and in that seemingly irrational and useless act initiated events that would have been impossible without their dedication and wild hope.
I spent four months in South Africa in 1994, living in the economically devastated Zulu township of Ntazuma four months after Nelson Mandela was elected President. Unemployment in Ntazuma was over 60%. Alcoholism was rampant. The land was blistered dirt. My male friends all carried handguns; one had a rocket launcher. Mandela’s pronouncements might as well have been coming from another planet. The more time I spent in this typical township, the less hope I had for its prospects.
One day I asked one of my neighbors if he thought Mandela’s election would ever affect the plight of Ntazuma, and I was stunned by his answer.
“Oh yes, John” he said. “Yes, things will change, I believe it. I will work to make them change. I believe that sometime very soon, mmm, within ten or fifteen years, we will have our own water pump. It will stand on that corner, there, and people will be able to come from all around to get water. You may think I am dreaming, but I believe this can happen, and I will do my part to make it happen.”
Now, this was a man who had everything against him, who lived in a broken world, but because he hoped, he was able to seize his power with both hands. He kept hope not by trying to solve all of his world’s problems, but by trying to affect what he could. His hope would go on not only to renew him, but also to renew his community. His hope created the ground for hope.
Imagine what we could do in this world if we lived from hope the way this man did. There is a restorative power afoot in the universe, and when we return to hope we can dwell in that power, align ourselves to it, and burst forth with it. Like the sacred light restored to the Temple, we can shine on long past the time when reason would say we should be gone.
by Sofia Craethnenn, minister, First Unitarian Universalist Church of Stockton, California
What would it take to make every single soul free? To eradicate hate and lies, using our unity to harvest a much-needed peace in this world? The celebration of Kwanzaa reaches toward the goal of a unified community, nurturing root and branch, flame and soul with pride.
Kwanzaa is a rare thing, a modern holiday whose celebration has been taken up not only by the African-American community, but also by the broader African Diaspora. Millions of people of various African heritages and descent celebrate Kwanzaa today. I think it is important for Unitarian Universalists, most of whom are not a part of the African-American community, to think about what makes Kwanzaa such an important and well-known holiday. To pause and reflect on this tradition of honoring, celebrating, and revering traditional cultural foundations which differ greatly from most of our own.
As UUs we are often in the position of struggling to live up to our first principle. Trying to truly respect the inherent worth and dignity of each person in a way that builds bridges between differences, and creates strength at the margins of diversity. Kwanzaa holds lessons for us about the meaning of covenant and community, and about the importance of working to understand cultural differences.
Kwanzaa arose out of the Black Liberation Movement, and was quickly incorporated into the celebratory life of the African-American community. The observance of Kwanzaa was even important in my school when I was young, and was promoted and affirmed by the New York City educational system, which should give you a sense of how widely the holiday had spread from its origins in California. Even though Kwanzaa was less than ten years old when I was born, I grew up knowing it as a regular part of the holiday season. The seven days of Kwanzaa, spanning from just after Christmas through to the New Year, are filled with images of the harvest, and an uplifting of the best of the Pan-African, African-American, and world communities. Those images were a regular part of our music, story-telling, and classroom work during the month of December. Each of the seven principles of Kwanzaa is celebrated and explored for a day, their names taken from the Swahili language:
Umoja (Unity)... Kujichagulia (Self-Determination)... Ujima (Collective Work and Responsibility)... Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics)... Nia (Purpose)... Kuumba (Creativity)... Imani (Faith).
As described in his official documentation, Kwanzaa was created in 1966 by Dr. Maulana Karenga, professor and chair of the Department of Black Studies at California State University in Long Beach, “as a cultural holiday in order to reaffirm and restore our rootedness in African culture. It is, therefore, an expression of recovery and reconstruction of African culture which was being conducted in the general context of the Black Liberation Movement of the '60's.”
Recovery and reconstruction. There is something for me about the dignity and self-determination of an oppressed people that is captured in those words. In its greatest sense, that is what Kwanzaa is all about: dignity, self-determination, the support and furtherance of community.
I have to admit that bringing the symbols and words of Kwanzaa into this denomination is something of a challenge for me. Kujichagulia, or Self-Determination, is the second principle of Kwanzaa, which calls us to define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves and speak for ourselves as an African-American community. It is taught that the symbols and teachings of Kwanzaa are not religious, and that people of varying faiths can celebrate the holiday because it is a cultural, not a spiritual, observance. It is also taught that to mix the symbols, stories, and principles of Kwanzaa with any other cultural setting is in direct contrast to the message of the holiday. Kwanzaa is most often celebrated in the home, not in churches. So I have to ask myself is there a place for me, as a woman of color, as a Unitarian Universalist, to bring even part of Kwanzaa's message, with integrity, into my religious home?
The first thing that settles into my heart is that there is much for us as Unitarian Universalists to learn from the wisdom of what Dr. Karenga has given to his people. I also know that if a true universalism is to exist in my heart's home, if inclusivity and welcome are to be more than empty words, we need to work on the kind of knowing and cultural literacy that comes from asking ourselves why this holiday cried out for creation, why it has become so very important. I believe some of its importance lies in the acknowledgement that what we so often think of as American culture is still European American culture. A holiday which reveres and teaches the roots of various African lineages and traditions is not only occasion for joy, but also is still very much needed today.
Kwanzaa's seven basic principles were adapted by Dr. Karenga from a philosophical structure developed by Julius Nyerere in Tanzania. Dr. Nyerere was working to restrengthen his people as they recovered from the bonds of colonialism. He felt that all the tools needed to make such a recovery were rooted firmly in their traditional culture.
Dr. Karenga selected the seven principles because they mapped out specific ways to internalize self-worth, strengthen community, and heal from wounds inflicted by outsiders—wounds that had left scars trailing across the generations. The subtlest effects of colonization, and of slavery, are internal. They are sticky, clinging images of self that have been used to control a people, and that have infected generation upon generation...and still do. I would ask you to imagine what it might be like to live in a world whose every message, every projected image, every legally-enforced cultural value was set out to tell you that you, as an individual, were worthless. Your ancestors, your children, your future—all worthless. All put on this planet for the service and pleasure of others. Others who are inherently good, because they are not like you.
Now I know that for some of you this is not a huge leap. Our world has created many lines of division, of difference, and they are by no means all drawn in ink squeezed from dark skins. Yet, still, there is this legacy. A heritage of needed healing that continues to this day. As Unitarian Universalists we express great pride in our participation in the American Civil Rights movement. Many Unitarian Universalists were active in the work that ended segregation in the United States. It can be discouraging to see how hate and lies can still live so powerfully after so much time and effort. One of the things that most moves me about Kwanzaa is that its observance provides concrete tools for responding to the world from a place of security in community, while still calling us to respond to words of malice and acts of oppression.
An unusual aspect of this holiday is that its creator is still with us, still able to impart his wisdom and reflections on the state of our world. Dr. Karenga writes a Kwanzaa address each year. His 2002 address begins in the positive spirit which marks the celebration of Kwanzaa, lifting up the good that is in this world, and reminding us of our responsibility to promote and further that goodness. I would like to share some of his words with you. Dr. Karenga writes:
Kwanzaa is a season of celebrating, embracing and reaffirming the Good in the world…. It begins as an ancient African celebration of the...harvest, the gathering and sharing of good in the world. In its most expansive form, as the ancestors said, it is a joyful and grateful celebration of ‘all that heaven gives, the earth produces and the waters bring forth from their depths’.… Each year we remember and repeat with profound reverence the teachings of the Odu Ifa which say ‘humans are divinely chosen to bring good into the world,” and that this is the fundamental mission and meaning in human life. Moreover, the teachings say we are morally obligated to constantly and eagerly ‘struggle to increase good in the world and not let any...be lost.’ Clearly in our time, in this period of crisis, confrontation and calls to war, there is no greater challenge, nor any greater responsibility for us as an African people, than to constantly and eagerly struggle to bring, increase and sustain good in the world.
Imani, the last day of Kwanzaa, is the Day of Meditation. On this day marked by the principle of faith, there are three questions that each person traditionally asks him or herself: Who am I? Am I really who I am? and Am I all I ought to be? I believe that we can ask ourselves these questions as Unitarian Universalists. When we ask them, we should be thinking of ourselves as a movement—as one large community. Where are we on our Journey Toward Wholeness—on our journey toward becoming an anti-racist, anti-oppressive, multicultural faith community? How much have we done, and how much more could we be doing, to join with our sisters and brothers who are people of color to work for true equality ?
As Unitarian Universalists we share the priorities of Kwanzaa which reaffirm family, community, and culture. It is our responsibility to work until all people have what they need to feel whole. In celebrating Kwanzaa we recommit ourselves to the good in the world that calls us to action.
Unitarian Universalists hold vast amounts of power. Some of that power is political, some of it is economic, some is the power that is born of privilege, some is born of education. Much is based in a simple willingness to speak our minds and act on our principles. Wherever it comes from, using our power means offering the first fruits, the very best of our skills, resources, and talents to listen to the voices which call for human rights and to join with those speakers in making this world more just.
May Kwanzaa inspire us with its call to beauty, to reverence, to goodness in all its forms. May we recommit ourselves to specific, covenantal, joyous work that “realizes the essential meaning and purpose of human life.” May the principles of Kwanzaa ground us, ringing out to the very halls of justice, and may those notes sound in our hearts throughout the year.
by Kim Crawford Harvie, senior minister, Arlington Street Church, Boston, Massachusetts
Our minister, Jane Rzepka, is on sabbatical. She has invited a series of colleagues to write the minister’s column in her absence. We hope you enjoy them.
Every once in a great while, a really good story comes across my desk. I feel that way about the Christmas story, actually; let every heart prepare! Actually, all the stories and rituals of this season—Solstice, Chanukah, Christmas, and Kwanzaa—were dreamed up to walk us through the darkness. They are all, in one way or another, ultimately about the birth or rebirth of light.
Here’s a really good story—not a story from my own life, but one that I think speaks to all of our lives:
It's just a small, white envelope. It has peeked through the branches of our Christmas tree for the past 10 years. It all began because my husband, Mike, hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of the season, but the commercial aspects, the frantic, last-minute running around, the overspending, the useless gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. So I decided to reach for something special, just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was on the junior high wrestling team. Shortly before the holidays, there was a non-league match against a team from a very tough neighborhood in the city, sponsored by an urban church. Our team showed up in their beautiful blue and gold uniforms and brand new wrestling shoes. The other kids were ragtag, to say the least. They didn’t even have headgear, the lightweight helmets designed to protect wrestlers’ ears. Our kids walloped them; they took every weight class. As each of their boys got up from the mat, he’d swagger around with false bravado, that kind of pride that hurts to watch. It hurt Mike, who was seated beside me. He loved kids—all kids—and had coached Little League lacrosse, football, and baseball over the years. “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” That's when the idea for his present came. I decided I would help to level the playing field, as it were. That same afternoon, I went to the local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes, and sent them anonymously to the other team. On Christmas Eve, I placed a small white envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done, and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year, and for many years to come. Each Christmas, I followed the tradition. One year, his gift sent a group of kids with special needs to a hockey game; another year, a check went to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas. That small white envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, leaving their new toys for a few moments, would crowd their dad with wide-eyed anticipation as he lifted the envelope from the branches to reveal its contents. The small white envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. Last year, we lost Mike to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief, I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope in its branches, somehow comforted by the gesture. In the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed a small white envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown, and someday will expand even further, with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation, watching as their fathers take down the envelopes. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
It's just a small, white envelope. It has peeked through the branches of our Christmas tree for the past 10 years.
It all began because my husband, Mike, hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of the season, but the commercial aspects, the frantic, last-minute running around, the overspending, the useless gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
So I decided to reach for something special, just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was on the junior high wrestling team. Shortly before the holidays, there was a non-league match against a team from a very tough neighborhood in the city, sponsored by an urban church.
Our team showed up in their beautiful blue and gold uniforms and brand new wrestling shoes. The other kids were ragtag, to say the least. They didn’t even have headgear, the lightweight helmets designed to protect wrestlers’ ears.
Our kids walloped them; they took every weight class. As each of their boys got up from the mat, he’d swagger around with false bravado, that kind of pride that hurts to watch.
It hurt Mike, who was seated beside me. He loved kids—all kids—and had coached Little League lacrosse, football, and baseball over the years. “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.”
That's when the idea for his present came. I decided I would help to level the playing field, as it were. That same afternoon, I went to the local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes, and sent them anonymously to the other team.
On Christmas Eve, I placed a small white envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done, and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year, and for many years to come. Each Christmas, I followed the tradition. One year, his gift sent a group of kids with special needs to a hockey game; another year, a check went to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas.
That small white envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, leaving their new toys for a few moments, would crowd their dad with wide-eyed anticipation as he lifted the envelope from the branches to reveal its contents.
The small white envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. Last year, we lost Mike to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief, I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope in its branches, somehow comforted by the gesture. In the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed a small white envelope on the tree for their dad.
The tradition has grown, and someday will expand even further, with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation, watching as their fathers take down the envelopes. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
If you have ever lost someone in this season, or for whatever reasons this season brings its own particular grief, you are not alone. May you find comfort in the great company of the bereaved. The light will come again. And if you have wondered where the meaning has gone in all the madness, you are not alone. Remembering the small white envelope, may we seek to embrace the grace and joy of the season. Let us make light in the darkness.
Many UUs have found their relationships strengthened and their spirituality deepened by the formation of small covenanted groups, which meet to share their lives and their thoughts on various topics of personal significance. Starting in January, the CLF will be starting an on-line version of covenant groups, and you are invited to join in. For more information, or to sign up, please contact our cyberminister for lifespan religious education, Lynn Ungar, at lungar@clfuu.org.
by Darcey Laine, minister of religious education, Unitarian Universalist Church of Palo Alto, California
Matthew 2:1, 9-11
Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in days of Herod the King, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, “Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him”…. And lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was…. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.
You know what it is like to make a long journey: you and the whole family bundled into the minivan. You try to pack everything you need, but you are sure to forget something. You hope there will be good warm food when you are hungry, a patch of grass to walk the dog, but you don’t know when you travel into unfamiliar lands what you will find.
A journey like this takes planning, it takes money, it takes time, it takes patience. If you were going to see a special child, a cousin or nephew or niece who had just been born, you might even call this a pilgrimage.
Driving day after day across the country to see this new life would be challenging. Depending on where you start out, you might see the great dry expanses of the Outback or the snowcapped mountains of the Sierra Nevada. You might learn a secret joke with your sister that your parents would never understand. You might eat in a great new restaurant or you might have to eat the last of the granola bars you packed for those long desert stretches.
You are traveling all this way to meet a newborn child. As if there were something important about being there to witness this moment. You are traveling all this way to show your love for the child, who will be part of your family, your people, whom you hope will be in this world after you are gone.
You will offer the child the special toy you picked out at the educational toy store or the savings bond you hope she will use one day when she is ready to make her mark on the world. But the most important gift is the journey. That you traveled so many miles to see her is a story the family will tell all her life.
And the journey will change you as well. You will know something about yourself. You will know something of your traveling companions; you will know something about the world. You will know a being who has never been before. And so the journey will also be a gift to yourself.
Do you have a favorite story of Christmas magic?
When I was a kid I heard stories of flying reindeer and elves who made toys and lived at the North Pole. I heard that on Christmas Eve at midnight animals could talk. I heard about nutcrackers that come to life.
I heard so many of these magical stories when I was little that I started to wonder why magic never happened to me.
All of us secretly wait for a glimpse of Christmas magic. The people who have lost their jobs could use a little magic this year. Those of us who are homeless or suffering this Christmas really need some magic.
Shel Silverstein wrote a poem that may give us a clue how to find it:
Sandra’s seen a leprechaun, Eddie touched a troll, Laurie danced with witches once, Charlie found some goblin’s gold. Donald heard a mermaid sing, Suzy spied an elf, But all the magic I have known I’ve had to make myself.
Maybe we could find Christmas magic all around us if we just knew where to look.
When you hear on the news that communities have rallied to raise several tons of food for a food drive or when you hear the heroic things people do to make sure that even children from the poorest of families who celebrate Christmas have a gift to open on Christmas morning, that must be magic. When people smile at each other on the street for no good reason, that’s magic. When the people of the Church of the Larger Fellowship reach out to members who are feeling lonely in prison, I know that there is magic at Christmastime.
Sometimes it can be very difficult to find magic on Christmas amid all the bustle and business and wishes that don’t come true. Sometimes, no matter how carefully we plan, things aren’t the way we’d like them to be. Sometimes the magic we make takes a long time to show itself or looks different than we thought it would.
But keep looking. Always keep looking, because the magic could be waiting in the smell of warm cookies for sharing, or in a kind gesture, or in a starry sky.
by Lynn Ungar, consulting minister, UU Fellowship of the North Bay, Napa, California
It's hard not to laugh. What a picture it makes— the dumbfounded shepherds and the stricken sheep, the cacophony of bleating and the barking of sheepdogs dashing and nipping in a vain attempt at order, and over it all the angels trying to make their shimmery voices heard. “A who? Wrapped in what?” the shepherds holler back. “Where are we supposed to go?” Poor guys. They wanted directions, a purpose, some sense of how the story might end. And all they got, all any of us ever get, was the sound of angels, somewhere beyond the din, singing “Glory, Hosanna” across the improbable night.
...that the CLF sells UU-themed notecards? The perfect holiday gift. Go to our Gift Shop. Or call Lorraine at 617-948-6166 to place your order by telephone.
Last updated June 12, 2005
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