Did You Know... That you can have a family RE curriculum emailed to you each month? Write to lungar@clfuu.org for more information.
BY JUDITH E. MEYER, MINISTER, UNITARIAN UNIVERSALIST COMMUNITY CHURCH, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
No one has to convince me that human beings can grow out of touch with our connection to nature. My own life offers abundant examples of just how that happens. A few days before Christmas, my husband David and I went out to buy our Christmas tree here in California. After visiting two huge tree lots and cruising the streets of Venice in search of another, we still had not found what we wanted.
There were no small trees left, and small was what we had to have. I would have compromised just to get it over with, but David, ever the architect, declared that he had not seen a single tree that "excited" him, so we went home empty-handed. Connecting to nature had nothing to do with getting a tree, for either of us.
I don't know when the noble fir, the oldest and most enduring symbol of the winter holidays, stopped being simply a tree and started being a design statement. But I do know that we are not alone in having a certain image of what our tree is supposed to look like. People impose all sorts of expectations on Mother Nature's performance. This is only one of many ways in which we veer away from the meaning of the season. Too much becomes over-determined, and we become over-wrought. We think only of what we are supposed to do to make the season happen. But the truth is that the season always turns whether we do anything or not.
That is not enough for us, however. G.K. Chesterton observed, "We tend to tire of the most eternal splendours, and a mark on our calendar, or a crash of bells at midnight maybe, reminds us that we have only recently been created." We need to invent observances and add our human touch before we can appreciate the great natural drama that unfolds continuously all around us.
These are necessary activities and touches. Actually, they may help us relate to nature in ways we never could before. I did not go camping, after all, until polar fleece and Gore-Tex were invented.
So even though we may add layers of embellishment, we never get completely out of touch.
Our observance of these holidays, the winter solstice and Christmas, offers ancient and deeply rooted expressions of the human experience of the cycles of nature—not just what is happening outside, but inside ourselves as well. The season turns and carries us along with it.
Some images of the season are nearly universal. Their meaning is simple: life continues, even during the harshest time of the year. And new life is on its way.
The human affinity for evergreen during this bleak season is nearly universal too. According to a Cherokee tale, the Great Sun granted the "gift of green forever" to the pine, the fir, the spruce, the holly, and the laurel for their faithful waiting on the Great Sun's return. In ancient Rome, people brought evergreens into their homes as decorations for New Year's celebrations. The Christmas tree itself, which first appeared in Germany in the seventeenth century, undoubtedly evolved from these origins. The Christian church, however, initially rejected these celebrations of nature as backward and heathenish. But the efforts of the church to eradicate pagan customs failed spectacularly. Finally it modified them to reflect Christian theology, a much more effective strategy, and appropriated the popular Christmas tree as a Christian symbol.
Christian legend links the Christmas tree not only to Jesus himself, who is named tree of life and light of the world, but also to the tree of know-ledge from which Adam and Eve plucked an apple, and even to the tree from which the cross was built. And there is more: according to Christian lore, on the night that Jesus was born, the rivers ran with wine and the trees stood in full blossom. The custom of decorating the tree with flowers and fruit, or ornaments to look like them, neatly incorporates every reference—pagan and Christian—imaginable.
All of this teaches a really good lesson: that whatever twists we humans put on the persistent, pervasive symbols of the season, they still lead us back to nature.
So put your silver artificial tree in the window, as my neighbors did, or decorate it with ceramic dogs, as we do, or with sky blue swags and Styrofoam snowflakes, as I saw at the Water Garden. Stray as far from what nature intended as your heart desires. You'll still end up with the return of the Great Sun, the continuity of life and the hope of the New Year.
It happens whether you do anything or not. It happens with or without your help. It happens even if you sleep through it. It happens because nature carries us through life and brings us renewal, whether we decorated our home or not.
That may sound rather optimistic for a year of outrageous natural tragedy and one in which a war of questionable purpose continues to drag on and on. We could not be more conscious that there is much that is not renewable—so many human lives, a sense of safety and innocence about our world—and our hearts reverberate with the distress all around us. Simple holiday tasks become difficult when life has become difficult.
A poem by Delmore Schwartz speaks to this condition. He writes of dusk approaching when a calm voice tells him, "Wait: wait: wait as if you had always waited / And as if it had always been dark…" Somewhere in that waiting, he realizes, is "hope, / and the pain of hope, / and the patience of hope."
During difficult times, we wait. We wait whether we want to or not. We wait because it is all we can do. We wait because when there is nothing we can do, time will change us anyway. While we wait, we hope. Hope is enough.
Whatever these holidays mean to you, and however you choose to enter into them, their timeless meanings prevail. Life continues and new life will come in all its many forms. The days grow longer, and the earth will renew itself. Love appears, and people are reborn. The New Year arrives, and the passage of time revives us.
In the Cherokee solstice story, the plants and trees wither from frost, their leaves drop, and though they struggle to stay awake to greet the return of the Great Sun, they don't make it.
Only a few hardy ones can last through the cold night. But the Great Sun returns anyway, giving the gift of warm light to the hardy plants and to the sleeping ones too. It is the same for us.
The lesson of these winter holidays is that time and nature will make us whole, and we don't have to do everything ourselves. Our job is to wait and to hope and let the cycles of life and creation do the rest. To celebrate the season is to remember the simple truth that we belong to nature, a truth that is both obvious and somehow hard for us to grasp.
But when we forget, we have these customs to help us experience it.
I defaulted on the Christmas tree selection. David went and got one, though I forgot to ask him if he was excited by it. I'm content to have a small green tree in our living room, which can use a little extra color this time of year.
The work we make of the holidays is rooted in the joy of life, its resilience and its wholeness.
Somehow, even when we don't realize it, the joy is there, and that touch of green, even the unexciting but necessary tree, helps us to feel it.
by Kathy Reis, former CLF prison ministry director
Next month I leave my position as director of the CLF's prison ministry to devote more time to parish work.
For the last couple of years it has been a joy to see the CLF's prison ministry develop in wondrous ways. In these two years, the number of CLF imprisoned members has tripled, bringing the number to almost 200. Our then-fledgling Pen Pal Program now numbers 100 pairs of volunteer and prisoner correspondents; the benefits of friendship for all these letter-writers are invaluable. It has been an honor for me to get to know many of you.
Patty Franz has my best wishes as she begins her ministry at the CLF. For me, it has been a pleasure and a privilege to serve you.
By Patty Franz, incoming prison ministry director After serving for more than a year as the volunteer chaplain for the prisoner members of CLF, I'm looking forward to starting (in January) as CLF's prison ministry director. In recent years I've worked (as a UU community minister) as a chaplain with hospice, and have loved that wondrous and challenging ministry. Still, I missed my work in jail, and so I jumped at the invitation to serve as chaplain to CLF's prisoner members. In my first year as CLF's "Chaplain Pat," I corresponded with almost 20% of our prisoner membership. Each person got back a personal hand-written reply and encouragement to write again.
Stay tuned for future updates about how you might become more involved with this important and valuable ministry—which affirms the inherent worth and dignity of every person, offers encouragement to spiritual growth, and strives to support every person's search for truth and meaning—even in the most trying of circumstances.
BY MAKANAH E. MORRISS, UNITARIAN UNIVERSALIST CHURCH OF CHEYENNE, WYOMING
Here it is December, a whole month of holidays and holy days—the Jewish celebration of Hanukkah, the Buddhist celebration of Rohatsu, the earth-based observance of the winter solstice, the Christian celebration of Christmas, the African-American celebration of Kwanzaa. Days inviting us to pause; days used by some to encourage us to hurry up and stress out.
Let me share some of my favorite Wyoming images of the season, here in the high plains of the USA : lights on trees and houses affirming the presence of life, our life, out here amidst the vastness. Thick-furred foxes hunt our land hoping for mice or voles or turkey bones and lard from Thanksgiving feasts. The horses' and dogs' coats grow thick, reminding us clearly that the days of deep cold are arriving. Fog, ice and snow greet us in the morning, turning the branches of the every-day into sculptures. Magnificent songs and carols abound, heard just this one time of year, bringing with them a flood of memories: some happy, some painful. Ads and jingles are also in the air, enticing us to "gather" gifts and food and necessities and luxuries to help make it through the dark winter days ahead.
And we are also surrounded by messages on the news that remind us of pain and violence and hunger near and far. Messages on the news, sharing stories of generosity and healing and helping and compassion. Messages on the news bringing reports of bluster and anger, threat and counter-threat. Messages on the news offering glimpses of movement toward peaceful solutions, sustainable possibilities, a deeper awareness of our inter-being.
In his book Peace is Every Step , from which the following quotations are drawn, Vietnamese Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh offers us these images of inner peace and grace:
Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out. Breathing in, I calm my body. Breathing out, I smile. Dwelling in the present moment, I know that it is a wonderful moment.
The wonder of each moment, the inherent peace in each moment, is always waiting, waiting for us to experience its gentleness and fullness. This is a season which calls us to mindfulness—mindfulness for ourselves, our hope, our deeper health; mindfulness for friends and family, for their healing, and happiness and holiness; mindfulness for our world, for its harmony, for the oneness of its heartbeat.
Each day of December can be enhanced by engaging in simple exercises of mindfulness. Mindfulness does not judge or push or berate. Mindfulness is openness. Mindfulness brings a sense of calm. One of the first steps in mindfulness practice is what Thich Nhat Hanh calls "mouth yoga." He invites us, each and every one of us, to smile gently—not in a forced way, but rather a kind of half-smile of gentle joy. As we smile, lines of tension disappear from our faces, our minds, our hearts. Go ahead and give it a try. Sitting in a comfortable and straight posture, right where you are, smile gently and let yourself feel, truly feel, what happens. Take 30 seconds. They may seem like long seconds, but stick with it and see what happens.
Breathing, as well—breathing deeply and fully—opens us to a connection which is profound. You can give this a try anytime you want by reading Thich Nhat Hanh's words sitting comfortably and with a straight back:
Breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out. Breathing in, my breath grows deep, Breathing out, my breath goes slowly. Aware of my body, I breathe in. Relaxing my body, I breathe out. Smiling to my body, I breathe in. Releasing the tensions in my body, I breathe out. Feeling joy (to be alive), I breathe in. Feeling happy, I breathe out. Dwelling in the present moment, I breathe in. Enjoying the present moment, I breathe out.
Using the smile, our smile; using the breath, our breath; we can call ourselves to mindfulness at any time and in any situation. For Thich Nhat Hanh, dirty dishes, red lights, and traffic jams can all become spiritual friends helping us along our path of mindfulness.
Smiling, breathing, Thich Nhat Hanh encourages us to experience "aimlessness" or "wishlessness." We do not need to put something in front of us to run after it, because everything is already here within ourselves. "Enlightenment, peace and joy will not be granted by someone else. The well is within us and if we dig deeply in the present moment, the water will spring forth." If we dig deeply in the present moment, the water will spring forth.
All fine and good, you say, but what about those moments, those times, when emotions surge to the fore— with good reason to be sure. What then?
Well, Thich Nhat Hanh invites us to be mindful of these feelings as well, not judging them, but being mindful. "In us," he writes, "there is a river of feelings, in which every drop of water is a different feeling, and each feeling relies on all the others for its existence. To observe it, we just sit on the bank of the river and identify each feeling as it surfaces, flows by, and disappears."
Through mindfulness our anger immediately begins to lose some of its destructive nature. Our awareness can be called upon to be a companion, a wise and compassionate companion for our anger. Mindfulness is not a judge; mindfulness and understanding are ways to release old pains and angers.
This December holiday season seems to offer an unending array of opportunities to let go of such negative feelings. It is as though the ground of our being is just waiting for us to do this work of psychological tilling so the healthy seeds may spend these winter days beginning their process of cracking open and sprouting. Seeds of negativity passed down through generations can, with mindfulness and compassion, be removed so that new, creative potential may take root.
"Every time we practice mindful living, we plant healthy seeds and strengthen the healthy seeds already in us," says Tich Nhat Hanh. We need to ask in almost any situation "What's not wrong?" instead of "What is wrong?" We need to uncover and appreciate and nurture the seeds of healthy possibility wherever we can find them.
And in so doing, we increase our sense of connection with all that is. We come to feel in the cells of our being, in the marrow of our bone, in the beating our hearts, an experience of oneness, of "inter-being" with all of life on our planet. The heartbeat of the world is our heartbeat.
The decision is ours, for it is our mindfulness, the light of our heart and soul and spirit, which can make the difference—the difference for ourselves, our family and friends, our community, our world.
Howard Thurman, minister, scholar, author, poet, professor, African-American, who lived in the 20th century during some of the most tumultuous and painful and challenging times of our nation, wrote:
There is a need in the human spirit for the salutation of life. It is the act of celebration that provides a personal and collective awareness of the place and significance of the individual in the continuity, in the flow of life itself. This sense of continuity is the ultimate windbreak against the ever-present threat of isolation and separation from the surrounding environ. The true meaning of Christmas is expressed in the sharing of one's graces in a world in which it is so easy to become callous, insensitive, and hard. Once this spirit becomes part of a person's life, every day is Christmas, and every night is freighted with anticipation of the dawning of fresh, and perhaps holy, adventure.
Through mindfulness—awareness of our own hearts and the hearts of others—we are able to welcome in the world of this holiday season, able to join in the fresh and holy adventure of shared human life.
BY MARK BELLETINI, MINISTER, FIRST UNITARIAN CHURCH OF COLUMBUS, OHIO
Last Christmas, as has been my custom since 1972 when I first moved out of my parents' home, I traveled to Gregory Drive in Sterling Heights, Michigan for Christmas supper. This year, because of my schedule, we ate late, at 6 PM. Christmas supper used to be a big affair, with all four of my grandparents present, as well as my sister Lynne and my brother Robert. Then my brother-in-law Ron joined the table, and my constantly-growing nephews Bryan and Kevin, and sometimes my sister's mother-in-law. This year, since my sister was eating with her husband's side of the family, and since my grandparents have been laid to their rest for some time, it was just my mother, father, my brother and me.
The small table was simply set against the early evening darkening outside the window. My mother brought the traditional steaming bowl of what I assumed was tortellini in brodo to the table.
However, when I peered into the bowl, to my horror, there were no tortellini in the broth, just a few store bought noodles. And the broth was not homemade, either.
Now, to anyone outside the Belletini family system, my horror may seem a bit overwrought. After all, there are plenty of people right now who have nothing to eat at all, who would love a nice bowl of canned broth steaming with store-bought pasta. Why should such a small menu change shock me so?
Well, for 55 years I have always had my mother's homemade tortellini in broth on Christmas. Without exception. Even on my first Christmas as a baby, I hear she placed one of the little bellybutton shaped ravioli in my mouth. Even in my strict vegetarian days I would always relent for the Christmas supper of tortellini, filled with its creamy filling scented with nutmeg. My ancestors in the province of Emilia in Italia have dined on this particular pasta for centuries. On the Feste di Natale, Christmas Day, tortellini in broth. Always. Except this year. This year it changed.
I didn't let my mother know how undone I was. I just couldn't. She has become so frail. Not the mother I remember, who could do anything she wanted. She walks with a cane now. One of those affairs with four prongs at the bottom. She moves slowly. Haltingly. And with pain visible in her wince.
After supper, I told her gently that from now on I would like to bring the tortellini. "I know how to make them now," I assured her. (It takes about six hours for me...it used to take her only about three. But I can make them.) Then I would freeze them, ice them in a cooler and haul them up to Detroit. I would ask my sister to make the steaming broth and bring it, and the grating cheese, over to their house.
I realized as I sat there on Christmas evening watching my limping, aching father and my frail, hobbling mother that the tortellini was a symbol for a much greater change.
Next year, I will make the tortellini. I will knead the pasta and mix the 'pient, the stuffing. I will fold the tortellini as my mother and father did together, and as their mothers Carmelina and Anna did before them. I will teach my friends how to do it, and they will teach their friends who will teach their children or their other friends. And when both my mother and father and I are gone, and everything that I now apprehend will have changed, at least one great symbol of love, warm and delicious and comforting, will nourish human lives a hundred years hence.
Like raising a child, this recipe benefits from a village...
Brodo: Make a rich dark broth with meaty beef bones, chicken, turkey or capon pieces, one each coarsely chopped carrot, celery stalk and onion, 2 bay leaves (or sprig of rosemary) in about 4-5 quarts of water. Cook for an hour at least or until the broth is rich. Salt and pepper to taste.
Pasta: Simple way: (Or you can use the well method, which is a tad messier...this method can be found in any Mario Batali cookbook.) Take five cups regular flour and four large eggs. Place in food processor. Process until it pulls away from the walls in a ragged lump. (Add either flour or a bit of water if necessary, depending on size of eggs.) Remove raw pasta from processor, place on floured board and then kneed with heel of hand for a good five to six minutes, folding it over several times. (Work with your children or friends...it's fun.) After you have a smooth yellow lump, let it sit under a bowl for at least a half hour. This is necessary. You cannot roll out pasta that hasn't sat covered for a while.
Filling: (Or 'pient, as we said in our dialect.)
Take 6-8 ounces cooked turkey or chicken breast, 4 ounces of mortadella, 3 or 4 thin slices of prosciutto, one cup of grated parmagiano-reggiano cheese mixed with a good locatelli romano. Add salt and pepper to taste (remember prosciutto is salty.) Add one large egg, and a good grating of nutmeg. Place all ingredients in food processor and pulse until you have a tan colored almost-smooth paste.
Tortellini: (Turtleen in our dialect.) Roll out pasta into long thin sheets with a pasta roller machine, or, if you are an advanced cook like my grandmothers, with a dowel style rolling pin. A large cutting board is helpful for cutting afterward. Cut little squares with a sharp knife, about an inch and half on each side. (Just eyeball this. Make them a bit bigger if your hand size demands it.) Using your well-washed fingers, place a pinch of the ‘pient on each square in the middle. Fold it over and seal. Then, placing a finger along the stuffed part of the little packet, pull the flat edges around your finger and seal, making a little hat shaped affair, much like a belly button. Spend an hour or two, using up all the pasta and ‘pient. You will have hundreds of little tortellini, smaller by far than the kinds you can buy now in the stores. You will develop a good rhythm after a while, and maybe even discover how meditation is as much a part of the western tradition as the eastern. Then boil them later that day in your rich brodo.
You serve them always in a bowl, in the broth, grating some parmagiano-reggiano or locatelli romano over the steaming bowls. This is always just a first course, never the meal.
Buon appetito. And yes, this recipe was invented before television, church board meetings and soccer practice, so it's rarely made these days outside of a factory even in Italia! But at my house... mmmmmmm.
A vegetarian version can be easily made with a good vegetable broth, and a ‘pient made with soaked dry porcini blended with cooked fresh mushrooms and parmesan. I am not sure how to make this dish in a vegan way. Egg pasta seems necessary. Sorry.
BY JANE RZEPKA, SENIOR MINISTER, CHURCH OF THE LARGER FELLOWSHIP
It's so odd, isn't it—the fact that the Church of the Larger Fellowship is a congregation, a congregation that doesn't gather. That fact is a frustration to many, a relief to others, I know. Whichever may be the case for you, I hope you will bear with me as I envision the 3000 of you and your hundreds of children together in one sanctuary on December 25th.
Here's what I imagine:
First, I would welcome you to church and tell you how delighted I am to actually see your faces. I would tell you that we're no slouches here at the CLF when it comes to the holidays—that a lot will be going on during this time on December 25th, this hour of happy celebration, right here, right now.
And then I would say that even as we celebrate, even as we invoke the spirit of the winter holidays, we bring our whole selves to the church service, all those parts of us that may be dealing with loss and tough memories, all those concerns about devastated cities and the state of our governments and the state of the world, all the complicated worries we hold in our hearts. I would say, as we gather for our holiday service, "May joy triumph."
There's more that I would say:
"Here we are. We in the Northern Hemisphere sit here on our little planet, tilted into darkness and cold. So we do what people did in ancient times, long before churches and pews, long before Santa, long before Jesus: we kindle a flame during the time when the dark is longest.
"That's one way we will celebrate. And then we add Hanukkah, which this year begins tonight. How we love our freedom! How we need to worship according to our hearts and minds, how we yearn to follow our own best lights of conscience.
"We'll keep celebrating as we add another story, the story of a baby. Brand new. Flesh and blood. All wrinkled up. The Christmas baby Jesus. Miracle of miracles, a baby who taught us that the human spirit can do great things. That love is worth lifting up.
"We are celebrating the coming light, the miracles, the baby, and so we light candles everywhere, and a menorah, we drag a tree in, and a Christmas star, that we might feel hope and joy and all good spirits. Let the celebration begin."
And then we could do any number of things. I know that we would sing a lot. New songs, familiar carols, and some spectacular instrumental music, both zippy and meditative. Probably "Deck the Halls" at some point, too, so the kids could come forward and decorate the tree just before they got bored.
Of course we would tell the stories. Somewhere along the line we'd have some fun in the course of putting them across, but the stories of Jesus, and Hanukkah, and the solstice would be told.
There would be serious parts of the worship service, bent toward appreciation and hope. Maybe in children's voices, or in the lighting of the candles. Something liturgical. And some plain speaking. We might talk about whether it's OK to want a lot of presents, or to celebrate Christmas if we don't believe Jesus is God, or to recognize Hanukkah if we aren't Jewish. And we'd laugh quite a bit. We always do.
We'd end the service with more music. How about trumpets?
And then, after the service, you, and I, and everyone else would greet one another, and the children would bounce off the walls, and we would wish each other the happiest of holidays.
Speaking of which:
Best wishes for a joyous holiday season from the CLF Staff
(on their summer field trip to Star Island off P ortsmouth, NH).
With love,
(Left to right) Beth Murray, Donna Dudley, Paul Sprecher, Jane Rzepka, Lorraine Dennis, Susan Conrad (on her last day with us), and Iris Hardin. (Not with us on the field trip: Lynn Ungar, Kasey Melski, Janet Lane, Kathy Reis, Patty Franz and Megan Costello).
BY LYNN UNGAR, MINISTER FOR LIFESPAN LEARNING, CHURCH OF THE LARGER FELLOWSHIP
(Note: although this column is usually oriented towards children, this month's message might work better for adults or as a family read-aloud.)
I have to confess that I never believed in Santa when I was growing up. Of course, the fact that I never really believed in Christmas might have had something to do with it. In my half-Jewish Unitarian Universalist household we celebrated Hanukkah, which was, it seemed to me, really better. Rather than the huge rush of ripping open presents on Christmas morning, we had the joy of eight days worth of gifts, and if most of them were only trinkets, that didn't take anything away from the fun of poking and prodding and comparing to search out the really good stuff to open first. I suppose I knew the story of the baby born in the stable, the star that shone in the east, the wise men with their camels and their gifts, just as I knew the stories of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman. It was an OK story as far as I was concerned, a story improved by the presence of a variety of animals, but it couldn't much compare with the story of Hanukkah. Now there was a real story—oppressed people who won out in a struggle of right versus might, who were rewarded not only with religious freedom, but also with a miracle, a good, understandable miracle, in which their sacred lights refused to go out. I mean, not that a special star isn't a good miracle, but the notion of God taking on the shape of a baby and coming to live on earth, now that's a miracle that's a little hard to figure out—especially if your family doesn't really believe in God.
But somehow it seemed to me that something was lacking, a hole not exactly shaped like Santa, or even the baby Jesus, but a hole nonetheless. Then one year, quite without warning, and in defiance of our non-traditional traditions, my mom invited my younger brother and me to go shopping with her for a Christmas tree. A Christmas tree! Who knew such a thing was possible? But we went to the lot downtown and carefully selected our own first Christmas tree. It wasn't big—no more than three feet at the outside, but it was lovely. When we brought the little tree in and set it up next to the TV, it filled the whole room with its fragrance.
Of course, there was a bit of a problem. This was our first tree. It wasn't as if we had boxes of ornaments to haul down from the attic or up from the basement. But my mom is nothing if not resourceful. She found a pattern in a magazine to make paper cut out angels. And then she brought out toothpicks and a bunch of brightly colored embroidery floss. She showed us how to tie the toothpicks into a plus sign and how to weave the thread around to form ornaments the Mexicans call ojos de dios, "God's eyes." I know that memories change over the years, but this is what stays fixed in my mind: winding the colors by soft light at our dining room table, a peaceful moment when my brother and I forgot to squabble, the small miracle of my dad drifting in to join us in making ornaments for the tree he never wanted, for the holiday we didn't believe in.
Somehow, the little tree settled into that seasonal hole. Over the years my trees have gotten bigger—this year eight feet seems just about right. And now I'm one of those people with boxes of ornaments to bring down from the attic: glass ornaments that sparkle and brass ornaments that shine, homemade ornaments of paper and fabric and lace. And always there are at least a few of the bright ojos de dios that I made for my own first Christmas tree after I moved out on my own.
My partner used to leave the privilege of hanging the ornaments mostly to me, as the person most attached to the tree being just right. Now my daughter and I hang ornaments together—the ones she made, the ones I made, the gifts and the special purchases—holding up each piece of our holiday to the light. If nothing else, this is the Christmas that I believe in—the miracle of a tree still green at midwinter, the magic of the scent of all outdoors moved inside, the way years are made new when I pull out old treasures to hang them. And behind it all is the image of a little tree, glowing with tiny white lights, bedecked with angels, and brilliant with the eyes of a God we didn't believe in, but which, nonetheless, I could feel gently watching over us all those winter nights.
If you want instructions on making your own God's eyes, look at www.caron-net.com/kidfiles/kidsapr.html. Happy tree trimming!
Now is the moment of magic, when the whole, round earth turns again toward the sun, and here's a blessing: the days will be longer and brighter now, even before the winter settles in to chill us. Now is the moment of magic, when people beaten down and broken, with nothing left but misery and candles and their own clear voices, kindle tiny lights and whisper secret music, and here's a blessing: the dark universe is suddenly illuminated by the lights of the menorah, suddenly ablaze with the lights of the kinara, and the whole world is glad and loud with winter singing. Now is the moment of magic, when an eastern star beckons the ignorant toward an unknown goal, and here's a blessing: they find nothing in the end but an ordinary baby, born at midnight, born in poverty, and the baby's cry, like bells ringing, makes people wonder as they wander through their lives, what human love might really look like, sound like, feel like. Now is the moment of magic, and here's a blessing: we already possess all the gifts we need; we've already received our presents: ears to hear music, eyes to behold lights, hands to build true peace on earth and to hold each other tight in love.
Now is the moment of magic, when the whole, round earth turns again toward the sun,
and here's a blessing: the days will be longer and brighter now, even before the winter settles in to chill us.
Now is the moment of magic, when people beaten down and broken, with nothing left but misery and candles and their own clear voices, kindle tiny lights and whisper secret music,
and here's a blessing: the dark universe is suddenly illuminated by the lights of the menorah, suddenly ablaze with the lights of the kinara, and the whole world is glad and loud with winter singing.
Now is the moment of magic, when an eastern star beckons the ignorant toward an unknown goal,
and here's a blessing: they find nothing in the end but an ordinary baby, born at midnight, born in poverty, and the baby's cry, like bells ringing, makes people wonder as they wander through their lives, what human love might really look like, sound like, feel like.
Now is the moment of magic,
and here's a blessing: we already possess all the gifts we need; we've already received our presents: ears to hear music, eyes to behold lights, hands to build true peace on earth and to hold each other tight in love.
By Victoria Safford, minister, White Bear Unitarian Universalist Church, St. Paul, Minnesota. From the 2003 UUA Meditation Manual Walking Toward Morning, published by Skinner House and available from the CLF library (www.clfuu.org/library or 617-948-6150).
Last updated November 20, 2005
Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF), 25 Beacon Street, Boston, MA 02108-2823 Phone: (617) 948-6166 · Fax: (617) 523-4123 · E-mail: clf@clfuu.org
