A Service by Rev. John Parker Manwell
Liturgy
RINGING OF THE BELLS
WELCOME AND ANNOUNCEMENTS
Jerry Slosser, President
PRELUDE
“My Grown-Up Christmas” -- Reannon Branchisi, vocalist
OPENING WORDS
It is the season of growing darkness. And it is the season of hope, as we remember the miracles of Hanukkah, the promise of longer days to come, and the message of the ancient prophets who proclaimed that the world does not have to be cruel, and selfish and bleak. In the birth of a child, long ago, there is hope. In the birth of every child, there is hope.
Let us find hope, and joy. Let us proclaim it to the world, and practice it in our lives.
Come, let us worship together.
LIGHTING OF THE CHALICE
In the light of truth and in the warmth of love,
We gather to seek, to sustain, and to share
HYMN #226: People Look East
STORY FOR ALL AGES: A Hanukkah Story -- Rev. Manwell
This week, Jews around the world have been celebrating an ancient festival called “Hanukkah.” It lasts for eight days. They mark it with special foods, including potato pancakes called “latkes.” They also light candles on a special candelabra called a “menorah.” It has eight candles, one for each day of Hanukkah. And it also has a ninth candle, called a “shamus,” which is used to light the others. Richard and Jim have each brought one this morning to show you. Today is the fourth day of Hanukkah, so they’ll first light the shamus, and then they’ll use the shamus to light four candles. We’ll leave them burning during our service.
(Richard and Jim will light their candles.)
“Hanukkah” comes from the Hebrew word for “dedicate.” It celebrates two miracles which happened more than two thousand years ago at this time of year. The first was that an army of Jewish rebels were able to liberate their capital, Jerusalem, from foreign occupiers who had forbidden them to worship in their temple. The second happened when the priests went to rededicate the temple, and light the sacred lamp which, by tradition, burned continually. They found only enough oil to burn for a single day, yet it would take at least eight days to prepare fresh oil. But the one day supply lasted eight days anyway. A second miracle!
Now I want to tell you a Hanukkah story called “Moishe’s Miracle,” written in 2004 by Laura Krauss Melmed for National Public Radio.
Once upon a time in a village named Wishniak, in a land far away, there lived a Jewish milkman named Moishe and his wife, Bela. Moishe went from door to door through the village selling milk and cream from his two cows. Yet though very poor, he was generous, and would sometimes give away extra milk or cream to a family in need. Bela, however, did not approve. Every day, when Moishe came home, she would berate him. Oy! Such a schlemiel! I should have married the baker’s son when I had the chance.
One day, during Hanukkah, she got so angry that Moishe couldn’t stand it. He ran out to the shed where the cows were kept, and fell asleep in the straw.
After a while he was awakened by a voice, but there was no one there. Then he realized that it was one of the cows!
Moo-isha! Moo-isha! We cows usually keep it a secret that we can talk. But you are a good man. You have taken good care of us. We want you to know that while you were sleeping, a magician came into the stable with a gift for you. So he hid it here under the straw. He said it’s a magic frying pan. If you put it on the stove, it will make latkes, all by itself. Only one thing: The magician warned that it will do this only when it’s used by Moishe.
Moishe was very excited. He went into the house, and told Bela all about it – but of course she didn’t believe him. That night, after they lit the first Hanukkah candle, he put the frying pan on the stove, and magically, there was the delicious smell of frying potatoes and onions. Soon latkes began to pop up out of the pan, all by themselves, so light that they floated right up into the air. Moishe and Bela had all they could eat. The next morning, at each house where he left milk, Moishe left a note inviting people to a Hanukkah party at his house, with free latkes.
But Bela was annoyed. It wasn’t right that Moishe’s generosity should be rewarded with free latkes. And Moishe’s party messed up her house. So next morning Bela hid the Hanukkah candles, and told Moishe to go off to a neighboring village to borrow candles from her sister. While he was gone, she put a sign in the window saying “Bela’s Café” – fresh latkes for sale! She remembered the magician’s warning, but thought to herself, after all, I’m Moishe’s wife – and we need the money!
But when she put the magic frying pan on the stove, no latkes appeared! Just smoke. She poured water onto the frying pan to cool it – but it splattered, and each drop produced little demons which began to swarm around her face.
Pretty soon Moishe came home. He brought with him the rabbi whom he had met on the road, and his wife, the “rebbitzen.” It was she who sold Hanukkah candles in the village. She had given Moishe enough to last to the end of Hanukkah. In return he had invited them home for latkes.
When the little demons saw the rabbi, they ran away. Now Bela was so grateful to Moishe that she went out to the shed to help him with his chores. And then Moishe, hungry for latkes, set out to make them in the kitchen, for the rabbi and the rebbitzen.
The magic pan no longer worked its magic, however. So they gave it to the rabbi, who took it home to display in a glass case. He told the story to everyone who visited. The story spread, and more and more people flocked to the village to see the magic frying pan. They needed food, and places to stay, so the village began to prosper. Now, every Hanukkah, they could afford all the latkes they could eat. And so the whole town lived happily ever after.
“Snow on the rooftops/milk in the pail
That is the end/of this Hanukkah tale.”
SONG OF DEPARTURE #403: Go Now in Peace
Children leave for Sunday School classes
A TIME OF MEDITATION
The Book of Life
Joys and Sorrows
Meditation from Francis C. Anderson
Christmas has no right/To burst upon us/Suddenly/And loudly from afar
Lighting up/Right where we are/With nylon trees/And a long-life/Plastic/Star.
It is a lonely road/to Bethlehem/
that must be walked/Slowly/and untalked. . .
Where no bright light/or angel song/Intrudes/Ahead of cue
To wrongly claim/arrival of the dawn
Before the night/is walked/By each of us/On through.
Song #242: In the Lonely Midnight
Silence
SERMON: Build a Cradle -- Rev. John Parker Manwell
Let me begin with the story that gave this sermon its title. It's about a minister and his wife, who learned that their son and daughter-in-law were expecting their first child. And so they traveled to New York to visit. On the way home, the minister confessed to his wife that he did not feel the excitement he knew he should be feeling. “Make a cradle,” she advised. For the next several weeks, whenever he could find an hour, he went to his workbench. By the time he had finished, he could hardly wait for their next trip, when they would visit their newborn grandchild, and present the cradle
Might this work for us, as we approach the holidays? A few of us may be preoccupied right now with Hanukkah. Others may already be counting down to the turning of the season, at the Solstice. A great many are wondering how we’ll have time to buy and wrap all those gifts we exchange at Christmas, and handle the other pressures of the holidays. We may even be counting down until all these holidays are passed, and life slows down again!
Today is the second Sunday of Advent on the Christian liturgical calendar. Advent isn’t much more than a blip on our calendar, as Unitarian Universalists. But this morning I invite us this morning to linger a bit with Advent. Advent, indeed, is about lingering, and reflecting, as we prepare room in our hearts for the birth of new hope at this holiday season. In theological terms, Advent is about preparing ourselves for the birth of the Christ child in our hearts. What can that mean for us, if we’re not Christian?
In its largest sense, the Christ child is a symbol for the new life that can be born in you and in me, whether we’re Christians or not. We may not be hard bitten cynics, like Scrooge, but I think that most of us, much of the time, long for a fresh sense of hope – hope that life does not have to be lonely and preoccupied with self. Hope that the world does not have to be riven by war. We yearn to be at one with the world, and those around us. To experience peace, and bring goodwill. These feelings can become especially poignant at this season, as Christmas is being celebrated all around us, and we hear stories of the miracles of love that can break into our lives when we least expect them.
Christmas abounds with the stories of seeming miracles which touch these places of longing in our hearts. But something too often gets in the way. That something is the busy-ness of our lives. Christmas has become in our society a time of family gathering, a time of being together, of feasting – and of exchanging gifts. Christmas has become an industry. Stores open early and close late. We’re inundated with ads. We have houses to make ready for company, and meals to plan. We have cards to send, contributions to make, and travel to arrange. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed.
Making a cradle is about being intentional in preparing ourselves, in the face of all these demands, to have the kind of holiday experience we long for. The first step, then, is to take some time to sit back and reflect on what that is. Whatever the source, what for each of us is the most important thing?
Is it about the rituals of the season, in worship and candles and song?
Is it about renewing old friendships, as we exchange greeting cards and family letters?
Or hospitality to today’s friends, and neighbors, as we make our homes beautiful for the season, ready for festive hospitality?
Is it about renewing our family ties, as our clans gather for holiday meals and the opening of gifts?
Is it a longing for peace in the world, and helping those less fortunate?
And for all of us, do we not also long to feel renewed, and inspired?.
If we try to do all these things, we may be in trouble. But let’s be honest: We don’t have to do it all at Christmas. Holiday cards and letters can start earlier, or wait longer. We can go to church, and to concerts, all year long. Parties, too, don’t have to be seasonal. Even friends and family can gather at any time.
For most of us, there will be some combination of the most important things: that special church service, concert or ritual; families and friends again together, wherever we may gather.
Christmas for me begins with music. Not the music of the mall, but the music of the church. Every year, I need at least one Christmas concert. Last year my first Christmas in Norfolk overflowed with music – by the Virginia Chorale, by the Men’s Chorus, and the music of the Nutcracker in a performance that included our granddaughter, in Washington. We’ll be repeating these events in the weeks ahead.
Worship is important too, with the stories of Jesus’s birth that have been part of my life since my earliest childhood. We had no Christmas Eve service in the Unitarian church of my childhood, but I’m sure the centrality of music for me at Christmas, and of worship, have something to do with my Sunday School experience of going one Christmas Eve, with my high school class studying “The Church Across the Street,” to attend midnight mass at the local cathedral. I’ve spoken before of the mystery and awe I felt as we waited, standing room only, for the stroke of midnight. In my adult years, in Washington, we did have a Christmas Eve service, and I tried never to miss them. Our Christmas Eve services here in Norfolk will be no less special for me now.
And then there are the stories. By now I have collected a whole shelf of heartwarming Christmas stories. Soon after Thanksgiving, I find time alone to sit back, and pore through them again, looking for stories to share with you, and just browsing, as the stories bring back warm memories and often tears.
Family is as important, too. Always, my mind goes back to Christmases past, as a child, with milk and cookies set out for Santa; and after I left home, returning long distances home for the holidays; and like you I remember those first holidays alone, too far away to come back home – for me, on an air base in England. For some of you, of course, it wasn’t about distance; there was the time, much too soon, when there was no home to come back to.
Whenever in our lives it first happened, all of us know what it means to remember loved ones no longer with us at the table – whether it’s grandparents, parents, or for a few, a child. The holidays, whichever ones we most identify with, can be seasons of great joy, yet our joy is inevitably mingled with the sadness of these losses.
What makes Christmas real for you – or the Solstice, or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa? Deciding what's most important is the first step in building a cradle. Figuring out what we most want, and then setting priorities among all those seasonal demands, are the first two steps.
There are two more. Step three is deeply spiritual. It’s enhancing the quality of our preparations for the holidays – including the things that we may not enjoy doing, but that have to be done. The secret here is to be fully present to the moment. As we’re hanging the lights or even vacuuming the house, it helps to remember that we’re doing these things for the sake of the loved ones in our lives and the friends and neighbors with whom we want to stay connected. Maybe to listen to some favorite holiday music as we do it, and look around at the family pictures and holiday mementoes. And in all our contacts and conversations during the day, we can take time to appreciate the people we’re with, especially those whose hold on life is growing tenuous. Oh, yes, and before we even start the day, and again at the close of the day, a few minutes for reflection, prayer or devotional reading, and maybe a favorite holiday story, can help to keep us centered. It’s my prayer for all of us, that as we make this effort, the quality of our busy-ness in these days of December will be transformed, and our fatigue will feel worthwhile.
This transformation will go a long way, in itself, to bring us the holiday experience we long for. But there is still another possibility, as we may find that these first few steps call us to reach out – whether it’s just in the way we greet the passer-by or the store clerk, or whether it leads us to a special visit to someone who’s sick or shut in. Some folk find themselves called to go out caroling, help out in soup kitchens, or reach out impulsively to strangers.
From all these perspectives, what it means to build a cradle at Advent begins with some spiritual preparation that will allow us to experience the kind of holiday we long to have. In the end, it's about opening our hearts to the beauty of the world and the people around us, and to the love we have to give. At Christmas, and all the year.
I want to leave you with a story about a Christmas miracle. It's told by Kristine Holmgren, of Northfield, MN. But it could be about you or me. We've all been in need of a miracle at some time in our lives; this year it might be you who needs one desperately – or who can make it happen, for someone else. Holmgren writes:
I was sixteen when my father left. That year there was no Christmas tree, no turkey dinner, no presents. My mother worked two jobs as a cleaning lady. I sold hats at a department store in downtown St Paul, MN. It was Christmas Eve, 1965. The store was closed. The streetlights were decorated. . . . Somewhere church bells tolled out "Silent Night." I stood alone on the corner and waited for the bus to take me home. . . .I . . . shivered against the wind and considered how one year had changed everything. My parents' marriage was over. My home and my heart were broken. The divorce did not surprise anyone but me. My father's fierce anger had exhausted my mother's forbearance years ago. But he had never gone away before, never abandoned us. . . . I resented him for the destruction of my family. These were the things I thought as I lumbered onto the freezing-cold bus,.
I found a seat next to the bus heater and placed my feet on the perfect spot. Hugging my corduroy pants, I cherished the small comfort of the heater. . . .
That is when it happened.
A man, perhaps in his sixties, appeared from somewhere in the back of the bus. He . . . wore a hat like Frank Sinatra used to wear. A fine Pendleton wool muffler hid half his face and he held a large shopping bag.
"May I?" he asked as he prepared to sit.
I looked away. I didn't speak to strangers, especially men. He sat next to me and placed the shopping bag between us. . . He sat beside me, studying my worn coat, my desperate hug of my corduroy pants. . . . Then he cleared his throat and touched my arm. "Excuse me," he said, "and pardon me for intruding. But I couldn't help notice that you are shivering. Are you all right?"
He peeked at me from behind his muffler and when his eyes met mine I saw something I had never seen before. It was the face of a kind man. For a moment, I felt the chill of the bus dissipate.
"You look tired," he said. "Have you had a tough day?"
When he spoke I realized that I was watching his concern for me take form. The sensation was new, foreign. My father's face was never filled with worry for me or anyone else. . . . I wondered if this man had children. The bus . . . stopped, and he rose to leave. . . .
"I get off here," he said. "I hope the rest of your Christmas is better than tonight." . . .
"Thank you, sir," I said. I heard my voice break.
He was nearly off the bus when I realized he had left his package.
"Hey, mister!" I called. . . . "You forgot your things." . . .
"No, I didn't." He pulled his muffler over his face again and waved. "You keep it." The bus doors closed behind him and he was gone. The bus driver insisted that I carry the package home, so I did. The house was dark when I arrived. My mother was sitting in the living room, asleep in her chair. At first she didn't believe me when I told her what happened, but my story was so marvelous that she came to accept it.
We opened the shopping bag and found three packages wrapped with red ribbon and golden paper. There was a box of . . . white chocolate in one bundle, a bright red wool scarf in another. The smallest package held a tiny mother-of-pearl music box. . . . The tune it played was "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."
When I lifted the lid, its song reminded me that there was one kind man in the world. If there was one, I thought, there must be others. If there are others, the world is not an ugly place and the lyrics to the song are true. "Next year all our troubles will be miles away.
Christmas will come, whether we’re ready or not. But will it come to us, or will it pass us by? Will it come to those around us, or pass them by?
Let's make cradles this Advent season. Let's make room for miracles.
OFFERING
CLOSING HYMN #224: Let Christmas Come
BENEDICTION
(Translated from the writings of Fra Giovanni Giocondo, a noted priest and architect of the Italian Renaissance)
The gloom of the world/is but a shadow
behind it, yet within our reach, is joy.
Take Joy.
And so at this Christmas time/I greet you
with the prayer that for you,
now and forever, the day breaks
and the shadows flee away.