Winter Service

This is the service I delivered today at Oak Ridge Unitarian Universalist Church. It's not perfect, of course, but I'm proud of my first effort all the same.

 

Reading/Meditation was Jacqui James "Dark and Light, Light and Dark".

 

Responsive Reading was number 543 by Greta Crosby:

Let us not wish away the winter. It is a season to itself, not simply the way to spring.

When trees rest, growing no leaves, gathering no light, they let in sky and trace themselves delicately against dawns and sunsets.

The clarity and brilliance of the winter sky delight. The loom of fog softens edges, lulls the eyes and ears of the quiet, awakens by risk the unquiet. A low dark sky can snow, emblem of individuality, liberality, and aggregate power. Snow invites to contemplation and to sport.

Winter is a table set with ice and starlight.

Winter dark tends to warm light: fire and candle; winter cold to hugs and huddles; winter want to gifts and sharing; winter danger to visions, plans, and common endeavoring—and the zest of narrow escapes; winter tedium to merry-making.

Let us therefore praise winter, rich in beauty, challenge, and pregnant negativities.

 

And of course we sang Shelley Denham's "Dark of Winter". The story for all ages was The Snow Country Prince.

Rev Jake Morrill played "Let the Mystery Be" for the offertory, which was perfect.

Oh yes, and this was my sermon/homily:

 

My first real introduction to what the depths of winter could bring was the summer of 2004, when I worked in Alaska as an outdoors skills counselor. Summer in Alaska is a big deal. Most Alaskans spend every moment they can spare out of doors during those months where the sun hardly sets. I remember one person telling me that in winter there are too many car accidents because it's dark and snowy, and in summer there are too many accidents because everyone is sleep deprived from staying out all night. They appreciate light and warmth on a level I'd never experienced in Tennessee, and I think every Alaskan is at least a little afraid of the dark. Some, of course, are more afraid then others. On one of my camper's forms the mother wrote that her daughter was terrified of darkness and if she got scared all we needed to do was "remind her that it was light outside".

For years I have thought of this as a fantastic metaphor for how often in our lives we overlook the love and hope and joy that surrounds us when we're sunk in private misery. I have grinned at the memory of rolling up this camper's tent flap so that she could, quite literally, see the light.

I wonder what the mother said to comfort this child in the winter months, when she could not bring the girl to a window and reassure her that the sun was still shining. Was her stuffed animal and mother's love enough comfort? Did having a night light help? For half of the year, after all, it was night-time in Alaska. What do we do when it really is dark outside, when the world truly is a cold and inhospitable place?

Here in Tennessee we rarely get significant snowfall or have the opportunity to ice-skate on a frozen pond under a clear blue sky. Winter is pretty dreary here, and in most of the places I've lived over the last five years winter was bitterly cold and dreary, which was not an improvement. I doubt many would argue with me that while snow is attractive, sleet and biting wind have few redeemable qualities.

Even places with "true" winter have fewer natural excitements to offer. The animals are in hiding or scurrying quickly to warmth. Most of the plant world seems lifeless and gray. The landscape is stark and uninviting, and we often can't see it because the sun is down.

This is not a season of doing, or of nature's bountiful splendor. It is not the time for a child's first swim in wild waters or a hawk's first flight. It is a time of darkness.

What on earth can we find to appreciate in such a horrid season?

Perhaps the only good thing about winter we can think of is that with all the leaves gone you can really see the trees. Certainly many of us appreciate the opportunities to spend time indoors with family and friends, gathered around the hearth. Maybe we're glad of an excuse not to venture out into the world. As winter continues and the holidays are over, the novelty of leafless trees has worn away, and we begin to feel the effects of cabin fever, where do we look for joy in winter?

Many of my Pagan friends say they love all of the seasons, and even appreciate them equally. What do they see in winter? It has none of spring's rising splendor or summer's warming glory or autumn's crisp flash. Winter mostly makes me want to hibernate.

I remember complaining to a teacher that February was the really the longest month of the year. I said I wanted to wake up the next day and find it had passed me by, and violets had bloomed outside. She warned me not to wish my life away. I was pretty sure at the time she had no idea how miserable this season made me.

Winter is dark and cold and sleepy. The animals are in hiding or scurrying quickly to warmth. Most of the plant world seems lifeless and gray. The landscape is stark and uninviting, and we often can't see it because the sun is down.

This is not a season of doing, or of nature's bountiful splendor. It is not the time for a child's first swim in wild waters or a hawk's first flight. It is a time of darkness.

Celebrating darkness seems nearly heretical. Darkness is synonymous in our culture with ignorance, pain, struggle, hardship, even evil. To go over to the dark side is to betray all that is good and noble, to give in to ambition and greed and fear. Yet perhaps if we believe that we are shorting ourselves.

In the balance of things we need pain and regret to appreciate joy and contentment. There can be no courage without fear, no glory without the possibility of failure. But embracing darkness is about more than this balance.

There is beauty in the dark, and comfort in the cold. We need rest as well as exercise.

There is strength to be found in Winter, a time for reflection and recuperation. We cannot always be growing and adventuring. Winter can be a time of strengthening before the harried seasons of light return, a time to ponder the depth of life and self, to look within and gather ourselves together.

And after all…Why are we afraid of the dark? Because our surroundings are hidden from us, because we fear the darkness within ourselves, because can't be sure there are no monsters lurking there? Light is hope and dark is fear, night is a time of despair. If light is truth then darkness is mystery, the unknown or the unknowable. We curse the darkness or light candles against it, seeking to turn night into day.

It may be true that it is better to light a candle then curse the darkness, but perhaps sometimes it is even better to calm down and let the darkness stay as it is.

We cannot see the stars if we stare at the streetlamps.

The dark is as sacred as the light.

Hope is not just the return of the light, that moment when the sun is seen again, it is the moment before dawn, that darkest hour.

Winter is a time of keeping faith. We must hold on to the hope that even as the days grow longer and weather gets colder our reflection and rest are held to some purpose. The seasons are precious because they are fleeting. Even in Alaska winter will turn to spring, spring to summer, summer to autumn, and round again to winter. We know this from experience, yet in winter experience is often not enough. This season of cold and darkness calls for something more, something from within ourselves. As the natural world is sleeping we must look to our own hearts and to the things that we create to find our happiness.

I fear winter because I fear that I am not enough.

Like Mariko and Kazuo I sometimes feel too small and lonely. There are limits on any holy optimism, and sometimes it truly is dark outside. What if I cannot find the courage to build and sustain hope in the cold dreariness? What if I cannot find the strength to trust and love and breathe deeply of that crisp chill air?

Perhaps my fears will help me to pay attention. If I notice that I am cold I think of those who have no snug house and down coats. If I am lonely I think of those who have been cast out of their families because of their gender or sexual orientation, those who know that society is against them. Winter is a time of choice as well as a time of faith. Will I hide behind my fears or face them? Will I weep in isolation or step out into the mystery of life? Will I admire the shapes of trees or begrudge them their lack of leaves? Will I wish my life away?

As Unitarian Universalists we take a path of immense courage when we say we do not know the answers, that we are often in the dark. Our faith is not necessarily an antidote to fear, for we acknowledge that things do not necessarily turn out well and the world is full of things to be afraid of. Yet we are not fear mongers or supporters of small mindedness. We stand on the side of love. Even on the dreariest night we hold to our hope for humanity and ourselves. We stand in the darkness, celebrating its beauty and its possibility. We stand by each other, even when the seasons are harsh. We cherish a sense of mystery, for it is in that we may hope to find wisdom.

I say we should welcome winter as a time of questioning and wonder and connection.

To quote a friend, "come over to the dark side. We have cookies".