In the dark of Christmas, one more turning

Dear Ones,

It has been a week of wonder here at First Universalist. Children and youth told the age old story of a wandering couple traveling by imperial decree rather than by choice, one of them about to deliver a baby, the couple togethr searching for a safer place for this new life of love and hope to be born. There were itchy angels and leopards who did not want to stay on the stage, there were youth leading us with wisdom and rocking a baby in a red onesie to sleep. There were extended family members and friends watching with wonder and awe, and there were those who arrived alone feeling the pang of loved ones lost. The story was told, the songs were sung, the candles were lit, and a light of hope—the memory of the power of love—was rekindled among us. 

This past Sunday, we gazed on images of Mary—queer Mary, African ancestor Mary, Mary birther of the universe, arrested Mary—and we remembered that any of us, all of us, can partner with love to give birth to more love in this world. We remembered that we, too, can be Mary, in our own way, in our own time.

We learned how to protect ourselves and our neighbors from the terrors of the government: passing out whistles to carry and alert each other—with repeated short blasts that signal federal agents are nearby, and repeated long blasts to signal that someone is being detained, abducted, by federal agents right here, right now. We learned again to bear witness to the suffering that is unfolding, and to partner with each other—and with love—to make a safer place for life and love and hope to be born. 

Later on Sunday night, we gathered again, this time for the 45th Solstice service at First Universalist. A sanctuary full of strangers and friends making a home for the dark. Beauty, music, silence, chanting, honoring the teachings of the earth and its ancient people partnered with the Unitarian Universalism of today. Cider and ginger cookies and a calling in of the ancestors far and wide. In this hour, we celebrated the dance of light and dark and made together a safer place for life and love and hope to be born. 

As we gather again in person or online tomorrow night—or alone or with family or friends at home or far away—we welcome in one more turning. The turning of Christmas. (Our Christmas Eve Candlelight Service begins at 7 p.m., in person and livestreaming on YouTube.)

In 1944, the Unitarian minister A. Powell Davies wrote, “In legend upon legend, and story after story, Christmas always begins, not with daybreak, and the coming of the morning, but at midnight… it was in the darkest of the hour, not in the glow of the morning, that the shepherds of the legend heard the angels sing. And of course, the Three Wise Men were guided, not by the sun, but by a star.” 

Christmas arrives in the dark. Love partnering with love to grow in strength and possibility. 

This is the “infant hope” of Christmas, Davies writes about, “the breath between past, and future,” that grows through the generations.

I invite you to make the journey again. To make a safer place for love to be born and strengthened in you. To dare to open your hearts.  

“Open them,” as Davies writes, “to all the hope that stands against a world that wastes with evil things; open them wide enough for gentleness in a world that is bitter and harsh; for loveliness in a world that is desolate; for faith and the song of its joy, that sings in the presence of God.” 

Wherever you are, may you open your heart to hope, to love and loveliness in this sometimes desolate world, singing a song of joy in the midst of it all.

See you in church,

Rev. Jen