This morning you should feel a little extra proud of
yourself.
You’ve just made it through the longest night in winter,
and the shortest day. From here on out it’ll be bluer skies!
Or at least less dark skies, even with a Master’s in
Divinity, I can’t guarantee good weather.
Even though this day happens every time our planet
completes a circle around the Sun, still there is something a little special
feeling about it.
It could be our psyche reaching back into our childhoods,
back to a time when we were afraid of the dark.
It could also be more current. Just a few weeks ago a friend invited us to
the IL-List poetry slam at the State Theatre, and then she asked us to walk her
to car because it was dark out.
There is something about the night that frightens us.
As modern people we have beat back the night with
electricity. Thomas Alva Edison, who
spent his childhood in the town where my parents now live, Port Huron, Michigan
where his Dad was a supply master for the military base that was once there.
Thomas Edison as you know likely know, perfected the light bulb, and
revolutionized human life.
Well, most of human life.
Okay, truth be told, your life has only been revolutionized
if you’re in a first world country. You know, the kind of place where there is
cheap, drinkable water, reliable electricity and most people have a comfortable
bedroom to sleep in at night.
That sounds a little bit like us, doesn’t it?
Time was, not so very long ago, that the night was more
real.
When darkness fell, it fell, and all you might have is a small fire with which to
beat it back as it closed all around you. And in the dark there was both real
and imagined danger.
It’s often easy for modern people to scoff at the
superstitions of the past. This is an especially rewarding activity for a lot
of people who think of themselves as free-thinkers.
Yes, now it may seem silly that people 400, 300 or even 200
years ago were afraid in the night. So afraid that they made up tales to teach
their children to also fear the darkness.
But part of those stories were based in real-life
experiences.
The night, until very recently, and really only in small
pockets around the globe, has always been a very dangerous place.
Our vision is not as good as the night vision of some other
animals. We are not nocturnal by nature, and so we did not, generally speaking,
develop good night vision. Our species did not rely on night time feeding, and
so those who hunted better at night did not display that natural adaption that
got passed along to the following generations, as Charles Darwin suggests.
But other predators have had to rely on nighttime hunting,
and they can see better than we can.
And unless we are safely behind 4 walls of something, in a
dog-eat-dog kind of a world, we are at a disadvantage.
My own great-grandfather recorded in his journal that in
the jungles of Mexico when he was a boy, his family was forced to sleep in
trees to avoid falling victims to wild boars in the night.
The danger of the dark was and is real, unless you have
enough money and resources to protect you from it.
And even then, nothing can make someone completely safe in
their own home.
So our ancestors told stories to their children to try to
keep them safe. Some stories are grand and some not so much. And no matter the story I think that we
moderns owe it to the ancestors who told these stories, who kept their children
safe long enough to have children of their own, these people who became the
very people whose genes live in our body, we owe it to them to be a little gentler
with the way they viewed the world.
They told stories of an oil lamp that had only enough oil
for one night, but lasted 8!
This is of course the story of Hannukah, and it’s origins
are from the 2nd Century Before the Common Era. Jewish holiday commemorating the rededication
of the Holy Temple (the Second Temple) in Jerusalem at the time of the
Maccabean Revolt against the Seleucid Empire.
This morning, we light a menorah, even though Hannakuh was
early this year, in honor of this story of fighting back the night.
(Menorah lighted.)
Stories were told of a baby, born in a manger, a very
humble beginning.
This of course is the story of Jesus of Nazareth. His birth
was meant to have been announced by angels to shepherds, a star in the east
guided three wise men to his cradle.
This morning, we light an advent candle to symbolize
waiting and anticipation. Every person who has loved a woman who is pregnant
knows this anticipation. The hopes that all will be well, that the baby will be
healthy, that the mother will be healthy.
(Advent candle lighted.)
Picture with yourself on a grassy hill on the longest night
of the year.
Imagine you can see dozens of such hills as they stretch
into the distance. Atop each hill is a grand pile of wood, waiting to be lit.
In turn, on this longest night, each pyre is lit in gratitude and anticipation
that the next night will be shorter, and the day longer. That with the
lengthening days will come spring, new life, new warmth, a new beginning.
This morning we light our Yule log in gratitude that the
Earth turns in her dance with the Sun, bringing us seasons of plenty.
(Yule log lighted.)
You may not personally believe in the miracle of the lamp,
of the baby, or that lighting a fire on the longest night of the year actually
invites the Sun to come back.
But surely you can identify with the hope that each of
these stories represents.
“It is better to light a candle than to curse the
darkness.”
This quote was kind of hard to research. It’s become a
quote that most of have heard, and are a little familiar with. It’s origins,
however, are not so clear. It has been credited to everyone from Confucious to
John F. Kennedy to a Men’s Group called “The Christophers,” a group founded by
a Catholic priest from San Francisco.
Eleanor Roosevelt is also said to be the originator of this
statement “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.”
This is some good advice, whether it was first written by
Mrs. Roosevelt or not.
This morning we have lit four candles. Our own chalice, a
symbol that began with social justice, the menorah, a candle of Advent and a
Yule log.
We have also lit candles of that represent sorrows.
There is clearly some deep truth about candles and hard
times.
It doesn’t take a belief in the super or extra-natural
world to understand why humans have such an attachment to the light of day.
In deference to, what I think of as Mrs. Roosevelt’s
wisdom, I encourage to re-direct your frustrations.
The easy thing to do, the default thing to do, is to assume
the stance that the world is going to Hell in a hand-basket, whether we
actually believe in Hell or not.
It is easier to set your jaw to clenching, and your lips
into a frown, hunching your shoulders down, than it is to hold up hope as your guide.
There are times when hope, to be perfectly fair and clear,
there are times when hope is hard to find. “And I’ll bring you hope, when hope
is hard to find. And I’ll bring a song of love, and a rose in the winter time.”
As the song implies,
your companions will bring you hope, a song of love, and a rose in the winter’s
time.
Sometimes you are the recipient of that gift of a candle in
the darkness, sometimes you are the one who is the bearer of light yourself.
As Albert Schweitzer wrote “At times
our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep
gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”
As we emerge from the
longest, darkest, and wouldn’t it be great if it were the coldest, night of the
year, here is my challenge to you.
Even in the most difficult of
times, we have an ability to light a candle, metaphorically or in reality. We
have some people in this congregation who have had some VERY rough times, and
some very difficult times as recently as this week.
If you find yourself in such
a state that it would take more strength than you can muster to light a candle
for yourself, ask someone who cares about you to do it for you. I know that to
ask for help is difficult for us, particularly when we are feeling vulnerable,
but to reach out for help is really offering a gift to your companions in life.
It will give them an opportunity to help.
An opportunity that we all
yearn for.
When I am asked to lead a
memorial service, it is of course a great honor. I know that I have a role to
play in that service and in that ritual. That seems obvious to even the most
anti-clerical and anti-authoritarian among us.
To use language that might
cause a little bit of a stir here, from ancient times it has been the role of
the priest of priestess to aid in the transition between life and death. This
is one of the ancient responsibilities that comes with being the spiritual
leader of a group of people.
And it is a deep honor that I
take very seriously.
The family who has lost their
loved one also has a role to play in the ritual. They are to be the
bereaved. If they cannot be still on the
day of the memorial, if they cannot allow the people who loved, admired, worked
beside the loved one they’ve lost, they are keeping the community from a very
important step in the mourning process.
To tell someone who has lost
their mother, “I’m sorry for your loss, I was a great admirer of your Mom,”
allows your Mother’s co-worker to participate in the ancient ritual of the
funeral. They can not do this, they cannot complete their own cycle of
mourning, if the family isn’t there, prepared to receive this affection.
In this exchange, each
person, the co-worker and the grieving child, light a candle for each other.
The candle says “We have loved and lost together,” even if the two surviving
people have never been in a room together.
It is better to light a
candle, then to curse the darkness.
Change what you can change.
If the room is dark, it is better to bring light into the room than it is to
complain with bitterness. If you cannot
bring light yourself, seek the help of someone who can.
When Adlai Stevenson
addressed the United Nations after Eleanor Roosevelt’s death in 1962, he said "She
would rather light a candle than curse the darkness, and her glow has warmed
the world."
