"Winter Solstice: Finding the Light Within"
Preached at Throop Unitarian Universalist Church
December 21, 2014
Winter Solstice lasts for only a moment in time.
Yet it pulls at us,
invites us to explore the mysteries of the dark
and our yearnings toward the light.
Writers, artists, religious people
craft words, images, movement, and stories
to capture the beauty and significance
of the longest night of the year.
One of my favorites is a poem by Mary Oliver:
Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out
to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married
to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do
if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on, cheerfully enough,
this and every crisping day,
though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.
Here we are.
Once again, life has brought us
to the longest night.
A couple of weeks ago,
I implored you to not turn too quickly
toward the lure of the coming light.
And to instead luxuriate in these days of growing darkness.
To take seriously this time of Advent,
to take on an intentional, expectant attitude of spiritual preparation
for the new year to come.
What better time to ponder
our achievements, our struggles,
our disappointments and our great joys,
under the cloak of darkness
where no one can see us
take an honest accounting of ourselves.
But many of us aren’t wired to embrace the darkness.
Our culture raises us to fear the nighttime.
That’s where bad things happen
and strange sounds go bump in the night.
We do everything we can to avoid
being caught alone in the dark.
It’s not just us who fear the dimming of the day.
This human reaction has been with us from our earliest times.
“The Talmud tells us that when Adam and Eve
experience winter and the shortening of the days for the first time,
they are terrified.
“They believe the world grew darker because they sinned.
That because of their actions, Creation slowly returns to chaos and confusion.
They are convinced that God is gradually diminishing the light,
and surely it is a sign that the world will be destroyed.” (Hammer, Jill. The Jewish Book of Days: A Companion for All Seasons, p. 128.)
Being afraid of the dark isn’t the worst thing in the world.
There are good reasons for us to be cautious of our surroundings.
and not place our physical selves in harm’s way.
We need to keep our bodies safe
and not take any reckless chances.
But being afraid of somber or melancholy emotions - that’s a different story.
That fear can make it impossible for us to enjoy the eventual light that will come.
When we distance ourselves from tough truths,
from grief,
from pain at injustice.
An emotional wall builds up around us.
And while that wall blocks out
some of the supposed unpleasantness of our world.
It creates a barrier to us experiencing the positive feelings as well.
Unfortunately, we aren’t gifted with the ability to selectively bar some feelings and not others.
We work so hard to protect ourselves,
so we can make it through this life as unscathed as possible.
Our efforts are well-meaning. Normal.
But ultimately they do not serve to create wholehearted beings in the end.
The most detrimental effect of our carefully constructed barricades
is our decreased ability to be vulnerable.
And you might be thinking - why in the world would I want to be vulnerable?
That sounds scarier than walking down my street alone at midnight.
Vulnerable people put themselves at risk.
At risk of being hurt. Ridiculed. Rejected.
At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.
And by saving ourselves from the supposed emotional danger of vulnerability,
we in turn hinder our ability to fully experience the good life offers:
joy and gratitude,
love and faithful purpose. (Brown, Brene. The Gifts of Imperfection, pp. 77-84.)
That’s a big price to pay to stay away from the dark.
Last Sunday, during our ritual of sharing celebrations and compassions,
our own Maggie Yenoki lifted up the importance
of recognizing - and gently holding - the darkness in our lives.
She said so beautifully that each week she places two stones
in the bowl of common water: one light and one dark, a yin/yang.
Because any life milestone she shares with us has elements of both.
Think about everything happening in your own life.
Whatever it is that is causing you stress or pain right now.
Instead of pretending that it isn’t happening.
Instead of putting on a brave face,
and being strong,
and essentially ignoring it.
What if you allowed yourself to open more fully to that stress or pain?
What if you took a chance,
and shared your uncertainty or your grief with someone you trust?
Perhaps, the light that would come out of that sharing
is an increased connection between yourself and another person.
Or between yourself and your God.
Pema Chodron, a Buddhist meditation teacher, writes:
Only when we know our own darkness well,
can we be present with the darkness of others.
Compassion becomes real when we recognize
our shared humanity.
As we let ourselves sink this sacred moment of winter solstice,
we pause and reflect on the year just passed,
and imagine the year yet to come.
We reflect on our own lives,
the lightness and darkness that exists in each of us,
and in each moment.
As we hang in that balance,
find the tender, precious place between
the vivacity of what was and
the vitality of what will be.
In a moment,
Jean and Maggie
will come down the aisle,
handing out sprigs of rosemary,
“an herb of the sun”
that was used in early solstice rituals.
As you receive your sprig of rosemary,
infuse it with your intention
to hold both the lightness and darkness inside you,
knowing that both are instrumental in living a life of
joy, love and compassion.
--------------------------------------------
The longest night will soon pass and the daylight will gradually lengthen.
Before we entirely leave the dark, may we remember that
Somewhere
between the stars and the earth’s core
we live
and weep
we ask
and laugh
and answer.
How can we not be amazed?
Let the light and darkness
bless each other and bless us. (Barbara Pescan, from our Chalice Lighting Words)
Preached at Throop Unitarian Universalist Church
December 21, 2014
Winter Solstice lasts for only a moment in time.
Yet it pulls at us,
invites us to explore the mysteries of the dark
and our yearnings toward the light.
Writers, artists, religious people
craft words, images, movement, and stories
to capture the beauty and significance
of the longest night of the year.
One of my favorites is a poem by Mary Oliver:
Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out
to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married
to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do
if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on, cheerfully enough,
this and every crisping day,
though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.
Here we are.
Once again, life has brought us
to the longest night.
A couple of weeks ago,
I implored you to not turn too quickly
toward the lure of the coming light.
And to instead luxuriate in these days of growing darkness.
To take seriously this time of Advent,
to take on an intentional, expectant attitude of spiritual preparation
for the new year to come.
What better time to ponder
our achievements, our struggles,
our disappointments and our great joys,
under the cloak of darkness
where no one can see us
take an honest accounting of ourselves.
But many of us aren’t wired to embrace the darkness.
Our culture raises us to fear the nighttime.
That’s where bad things happen
and strange sounds go bump in the night.
We do everything we can to avoid
being caught alone in the dark.
It’s not just us who fear the dimming of the day.
This human reaction has been with us from our earliest times.
“The Talmud tells us that when Adam and Eve
experience winter and the shortening of the days for the first time,
they are terrified.
“They believe the world grew darker because they sinned.
That because of their actions, Creation slowly returns to chaos and confusion.
They are convinced that God is gradually diminishing the light,
and surely it is a sign that the world will be destroyed.” (Hammer, Jill. The Jewish Book of Days: A Companion for All Seasons, p. 128.)
Being afraid of the dark isn’t the worst thing in the world.
There are good reasons for us to be cautious of our surroundings.
and not place our physical selves in harm’s way.
We need to keep our bodies safe
and not take any reckless chances.
But being afraid of somber or melancholy emotions - that’s a different story.
That fear can make it impossible for us to enjoy the eventual light that will come.
When we distance ourselves from tough truths,
from grief,
from pain at injustice.
An emotional wall builds up around us.
And while that wall blocks out
some of the supposed unpleasantness of our world.
It creates a barrier to us experiencing the positive feelings as well.
Unfortunately, we aren’t gifted with the ability to selectively bar some feelings and not others.
We work so hard to protect ourselves,
so we can make it through this life as unscathed as possible.
Our efforts are well-meaning. Normal.
But ultimately they do not serve to create wholehearted beings in the end.
The most detrimental effect of our carefully constructed barricades
is our decreased ability to be vulnerable.
And you might be thinking - why in the world would I want to be vulnerable?
That sounds scarier than walking down my street alone at midnight.
Vulnerable people put themselves at risk.
At risk of being hurt. Ridiculed. Rejected.
At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.
And by saving ourselves from the supposed emotional danger of vulnerability,
we in turn hinder our ability to fully experience the good life offers:
joy and gratitude,
love and faithful purpose. (Brown, Brene. The Gifts of Imperfection, pp. 77-84.)
That’s a big price to pay to stay away from the dark.
Last Sunday, during our ritual of sharing celebrations and compassions,
our own Maggie Yenoki lifted up the importance
of recognizing - and gently holding - the darkness in our lives.
She said so beautifully that each week she places two stones
in the bowl of common water: one light and one dark, a yin/yang.
Because any life milestone she shares with us has elements of both.
Think about everything happening in your own life.
Whatever it is that is causing you stress or pain right now.
Instead of pretending that it isn’t happening.
Instead of putting on a brave face,
and being strong,
and essentially ignoring it.
What if you allowed yourself to open more fully to that stress or pain?
What if you took a chance,
and shared your uncertainty or your grief with someone you trust?
Perhaps, the light that would come out of that sharing
is an increased connection between yourself and another person.
Or between yourself and your God.
Pema Chodron, a Buddhist meditation teacher, writes:
Only when we know our own darkness well,
can we be present with the darkness of others.
Compassion becomes real when we recognize
our shared humanity.
As we let ourselves sink this sacred moment of winter solstice,
we pause and reflect on the year just passed,
and imagine the year yet to come.
We reflect on our own lives,
the lightness and darkness that exists in each of us,
and in each moment.
As we hang in that balance,
find the tender, precious place between
the vivacity of what was and
the vitality of what will be.
In a moment,
Jean and Maggie
will come down the aisle,
handing out sprigs of rosemary,
“an herb of the sun”
that was used in early solstice rituals.
As you receive your sprig of rosemary,
infuse it with your intention
to hold both the lightness and darkness inside you,
knowing that both are instrumental in living a life of
joy, love and compassion.
--------------------------------------------
The longest night will soon pass and the daylight will gradually lengthen.
Before we entirely leave the dark, may we remember that
Somewhere
between the stars and the earth’s core
we live
and weep
we ask
and laugh
and answer.
How can we not be amazed?
Let the light and darkness
bless each other and bless us. (Barbara Pescan, from our Chalice Lighting Words)