Ordinary Miracles: Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas and the Slaughter of Innocents: Another Reflection by UUCF member on Newtown, CT killings
“Ordinary Miracles”
Ashley
Horan , Consulting Minister,
Open
Circle Unitarian Universalist Fellowship
Fond
du Lac, Wi -- December 16, 2012
Reading I “The
Moment of Magic” -- Rev. Victoria Safford
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.
Reflection I: The Miracle of the Returning Light
Miracles.
Magic. Blessings. All terms that get thrown around an awful lot this time of
year. And all terms that some Unitarian Universalists might take issue with.
Some of the naturalists and humanists and atheists among us might say, “Don’t
we believe in reason and science? That nothing happens that is not explainable
by natural laws?”
And
some of the mystics and theists and Pagans among us might reply, “There are
things that science simply can’t explain. The natural order of the Universe is evidence of the Divine, not in contrast
to it. Miracles and magic and blessings abound.”
It’s
always a challenge to be in relationship with those who believe differently
than we do, but it can be particularly difficult during this “Holiday” season.
Whatever you celebrate--whether you think the holidays are full of magic or
malarkey--there are some great spiritual lessons that can be found in the
stories of this season. Lessons that
neither require you to believe in any power beyond the natural order, nor to
forsake such beliefs. For today, let’s call them “ordinary miracles”--the
magnificent gifts that we notice around us when we engage in that most
challenging of spiritual disciplines: paying attention.
Ordinary
miracle the first:
Brú
na Bóinne, Ireland. 5,000 years ago. In the warm months, this is a lush, green
river valley, but it is winter now. The winds are cold, frost browns the grass,
and the people huddle together in their houses, wondering if they will ever be
warm again.
One
winter morning, long before the sun has risen, the people of the village rise
and wrap their warmest skins around them. Mothers bundle their babies close;
elders move slowly to work the frost out of their stiff joints. Together, they
file out of the village and down into the valley, their torches flickering in
the frigid wind.
They
see almost nothing ahead of them for a long time... but then, someone whispers,
“Look. There it is.” Through the inky black of the pre-dawn night, a massive,
domed outline begins to emerge. The youngest ones ask what it is, and the
elders explain, “That is the cairn where the remains of the ancestors rest, and
their spirits dwell. It has long passages leading to interior chambers...
Beautiful carvings lining the walls. It took 300 of us almost 20 years to build
it,” they whisper, “hauling sand and stone from far away.”
As
the procession draws closer, other streams of flickering light snake toward the
mound from the hills on all sides--people from the neighboring villages who
have also risen in the dark and cold this morning. There must be thousands,
gathering silently around the mouth of the tomb. As they approach, the people
extinguish their torches, and thick darkness envelops the crowd.
Among
them, there are some whose hearts ache at the sight of the looming mound--they
remember the loved ones laid to rest within. Others rub their hands and pull
their furs and skins closer around them, cursing the cold. Perhaps it has been
a hard year, the harvest small and the frost early. Everyone huddles together
in the dark, which seems like it will last for all eternity.
But
slowly, slowly, the sky begins to lighten. Dusty rose and deep violet at first,
then fiery orange and fuchsia and red as the sun lifts itself over the horizon.
The people watch intently as the first rays hit the opening above the cairn’s
stone doorway.
This
Solstice day only--the shortest day of the year--the light aligns perfectly
with the long stone passageway. The rays pierce through sixty feet of stony
darkness and illuminate the inner chamber. The people watch for seventeen long
minutes as the light of hope and and resurgent life penetrate even into the very
home of death, deep in the cairn.
They
knew it would happen today, as it does every year. And yet, as it does, they
feel the throbbing pulse of something out of the ordinary--or maybe the essence
and the energy of the ordinary. Call
it magic, call it awe, call it paying attention: but as those rays pierce the
darkness, precisely and exquisitely illuminating the depths of the cairn, the
people raise a wild, joyful cheer. They sing a song of praise, and say prayers
of thanksgiving. The world has turned once again--the dark of winter will not
last forever.
Ordinary
miracles. The perfect cycles of the sun and moon, leaning always toward
balance. The things that become clear in the light, and the quiet wisdom we
find in the dark. The impulse deep within us to gather together in
reverence--small beings, made of earth and breath and starlight, momentary
participants in that vast cosmic dance that circles always round, and round,
and round.
Reading II “Hanukkah” --Rev. Lynn Ungar
Come
down from the hills.
Declare the fighting done.
Be bold - declare victory,
even when the temple is wrecked and the tyrants have not
retreated, only coiled back like a snake prepared to strike again.
Come
down. Try to remember a life gentled by daily acts
of
domestic faith - the pot
set
to boil, the bed made up, the table set in calm expectation that when the sun
sets
we will still be here.
Come down and settle.
Unlearn the years of hiding.
Light fires that can be seen for miles,
that dance and sparkle and warm
the frozen marrow. Set lamps
in the window. Declare your presence,
your loyalties, the truths
for which you do not expect to have to die.
It
would take a miracle, you say, to carve such a solid life
out
of the shell of fear.
I
say you are the stuff
from which such miracles are made.
ReflectionII
The
Miracle of the Sustaining Light
Ordinary
miracle the second:
It
is a hundred and thirty nine years before the common era. The land of Israel
has been conquered and subsumed into the Syrian empire, ruled by the tyrannical
Antiochus IV. As any oppressor knows, the best way to crush the rebellious will
of a dominated people is to strip them of their culture and their hope--so the
king removes the Jewish high priest. He sics his powerful military on them at
the slightest whiff of dissidence. He outlaws worship, defiles the temple,
burns the scrolls of Jewish law, and forces the people to break their laws of
diet and Sabbath. It is a campaign of humiliation and terror.
In
a village called Modin, the ousted high priest has settled to live out his
final days. Antiochus sends his mercenaries there--they capture the old man and
bring him to the center of town, where they have built an altar. “Make
sacrifices to our gods!” they cry, but he refuses. Instead, he draws his
sword--his sons and his friends spring to his side. Some are killed while
standing their ground; others escape to caves in the hills. The soldiers are
chased away, the altar smashed, and the Jews flee.
They
begin to form an army. A resistance, a few thousand strong. The old priest
calls forth as their leader a young man--son of Jacob and Sarah--called Judah
Maccabee, whose name means “He who is like you, O G-d.” They march forth,
knowing they will likely meet a bloody death at the hands of the 40,000
soldiers who have been ordered to crush the whole Jewish people.
And
yet, in battle after battle, the Maccabees prevail. They push the Syrians back
until they have reclaimed the holy city--Jerusalem. When the fighting is done, the survivors
stand before the Temple. As they enter, they weep. It is fouled, defiled,
broken, vandalized.
But
Judah takes a plank of wood, and another, and another. He builds a new altar,
consecrating it on the 25th day of the month of Kislev, in the Jewish year
3622. To mark the sacred space, they must light a menorah--the traditional
candelabra that burns day and night. The old one has been destroyed, but they
fashion a new one out of cheap, flimsy metal. When they go to add the oil that
will feed its flame, they see that there is only one small vial left-- enough
only for one day and one night. It will take eight days to press and purify a
new supply.
Here,
they pause. They have lost so much, suffered so much. Custom says the light
must burn--always, without ceasing. Yet it has been dark for so long now--ever since
the temple was defiled. These are extenuating circumstances, aren’t they? Can
God really expect them to live as normal, make their sacrifices and perform our
rituals? What is the use of custom--of tradition--of normalcy in the wake of so
much trauma and destruction?
But
Judah strikes a spark; kindles a tiny flame that he lifts to a single wick.
They will light the lamp. They will reclaim their routines, even in the
swirling aftermath of chaos. They will create sacred space, even in the
burned-out ruins of war. In the wake of devastation, they will live as defiant
witnesses to the enduring, sustaining power of hope. Of worship. Of community.
Ordinary
miracles. Not the lamp that burned for eight days, not the military triumph of
a rag-tag army. There is no miracle--no magic--no blessing in war and
slaughter. But... in the delicate seedlings of hope that still, stubbornly,
push their way through the cracks of even the most broken of hearts. In the
resiliency of memory, the tenacity of tradition, the fierceness of a community
that knows the oppressor may conquer their bodies and their lands, but never
their spirits.
“It
would take a miracle, you say, to carve such a solid life
out
of the shell of fear.
I
say you are the stuff
from which such miracles are made.”
Reading III “For So the Children Come” -- Sophia
Lyon Fahs For so the children come,
And
so they have been coming.
Always
in the same way they come— Born of the seed of [humankind].
No
angels herald their beginnings;
No
prophets predict their future courses; No wise men see a star to show
where
the babe is that will save humankind
Yet
each night a child is born is a holy night.
Fathers
and mothers—sitting beside their children’s cribs—
feel
glory in the sight of a new life beginning.
They
ask where and how will the new life end—will it never end?
Each
night a child is born is a holy night—a time for singing, A time for wondering,
a time for worshipping.
Reflection III The Miracle of the Redeeming Light
Ordinary
miracle the third:
Two
thousand some-odd years ago. Ancient Palestine, in a small village called
Bethlehem--a place important to nobody but the Jews, whose ancient scriptures
prophesy that there, the Messiah will be born. Such an earth-shattering event
will no doubt occur with great fanfare and celebration:
as
the prophet has said, “He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government there
will be no end” (Is. 9:6-7).
But
life is often more ambiguous than prophecy. A young woman--a girl, really, no
more than 14 or 15--disgraced and shunned by her people because she is
unmarried and with child. A young man, her beau, overwhelmed yet steadfast,
faithful to their love and her honor even in the thick morass of his doubts.
When the contractions begin, the pain she feels is real and deep and far from
glamorous. Her son is birthed in blood and sweat on the floor of a stable, away
from family and the comforts of home-- mundane, routine, and utterly human.
And
yet, as these young parents gaze at their child, they know he is precious. That
his life will be special, and he will do great things. They will do anything to
keep him safe, to shelter him from a world so full of fear and violence and
oppression. They love him as they have never loved another creature. And for a
few moments, everything is perfect and safe and full of magic.
Ordinary
miracles. The first cry of a baby, announcing itself to the world. The parent
who holds their newborn child, heart filled to overflowing with a love deeper
than anything they have ever known. The hope each new life brings--every baby
born with unbounded potential to save our world, create more love, build peace
and justice. Every child, born one
more redeemer.
But
miracles are not all there is. One early morning, the young father awakens in a
cold sweat. “I dreamed the king was going to kill our son. We’ve got to take
him--got to run away.” And so, in the early pre-dawn light, the little family
runs. They make their way, on foot and
donkey, to Egypt--the land their ancestors fled so long ago. They leave all
they know, lose all they once had, but it is a small price to pay for the
safety of their child.
Then
word comes--their fears were not unfounded. King Herod, frenzied with paranoia,
has issued a decree: kill all the boys, two years or less, in Bethlehem and its
vicinity. Perhaps he fears the loss of power; perhaps he seeks vengeance;
perhaps he simply has never known love. Who knows why people commit unspeakable
acts--the motivation is less important than the impact.
The
little family hears the news with mixed emotions--horror at this Slaughter of
the Innocents, grief for friends and family who have suffered such loss, relief
their own son has been spared, bewilderment that such unthinkable violence
could happen in the place they once called home.
There
is a strange and terrible parallel between this tale from long ago and the
emotions so many of us are holding today in the wake of Friday’s horrific
shooting. Whatever the era, whoever the perpetrator, however close or far away
from us it happens, the Slaughter of Innocents is an affront to everything we
hold sacred-- the antithesis of a miracle. It is not a part of any divine plan,
not a test of faith, not God’s choice to spare some and forsake others.
It
was then, and is now, incomprehensible. Heart-breaking. And worthy of our anger
and our grief.
And
yet... it is not all there is. Violence does not stop time, and it cannot quell
life’s throbbing impulse to spring forth. While we grieve, another child is born
somewhere, full of potential and hope and promise. Born one more redeemer. Never a replacement, not a canceling out of
evil, but an opposite; a reminder that life is good and sweet and persistent
and will not surrender in the face of evil.
Ordinary
miracles. The way our children make us better--more open--less selfish then we
ever would have been alone. The way our hearts burst and overflow with
compassion for people we have never met, across the chasms of time and space.
The human impulse to respond with service and help and love even in the face of
the most unspeakable tragedies. The fact that, in spite of all that would break
our spirits and corrupt our souls, the vast majority of us do not succumb--we
do not allow the divine spark with which we were born to be extinguished.
Ordinary
miracles. The ways we can heal--as
individuals and as communities--even after our hearts have been broken wide
open. The fact that in spite of everything, we can still proclaim the words of
Sophia Fahs: “Each night a child is born is a holy night—a time for singing,
time for wondering, a time for worshipping.”
There
is much to mourn, my friends, but in spite of it all, we are not lost. We are
redeemed--brought back from the brink of despair and meaninglessness--by life’s
perpetual renewal; by hope’s invincible light; by love’s unfathomable depths
that bind us together, hold us close, and never, ever, ever let us go.
May
we all feel that love. May we all be redeemed.
May
it be so. Blessed Be, Ashé and Amen.
posted by Ron @ 4:39 PM
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