Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, December 11, 2022.
Sometimes people come into this sanctuary, and look at these stained glass windows, and ask, “What kind of church was this before it became UU?” And I delight in telling them, “This church was built by the Universalists in Haverhill back in 1894.” Our forebears back then built a church that reflected their theology and spirituality, with windows over there that tell the parables of the lost sheep and the prodigal son, stories about God’s abiding love. And this image of Jesus reminds me of his words, “Come unto me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). I hope coming into this sanctuary, and into this hour of worship, refreshes you and gives you rest.
I like that our open and progressive church is housed in this solid and beautiful building, which reminds us of our roots, and those who came before us. That we are part of a progression of souls who have sought meaning and goodness, strength and solace, for the living of their days.
I can be something of a traditionalist—maybe you’ve noticed—but I love the updated version of the hymn we just sang. Emmanuel is Hebrew for “God with us,” and this is the invitation and promise of Advent and Christmas—the holy coming close, dwelling within us, and between us, and around us. And it’s good theology: God within us, as love, as truth, as light, as hope. Isn’t this what we’re looking for in these days, to be filled with that loving and life-giving Spirit?
Our worship theme this month is humility. And one of the striking things about the nativity story, that we will enact and celebrate with our young people here next Sunday, is how humble the setting and the characters are. A young couple, pregnant and far from home, forced to have their baby in a stable, surrounded by farm animals. Visited by humble shepherds and by itinerant astrologers bearing strange gifts. And the baby, so tender and vulnerable, and a miracle, as all babies are.
For me, becoming a parent was both mysterious and humbling. The wing where the babies are born seemed like it had a glow around it. In that sterile setting, it felt like a chapel—a place where God is coming into the world, being made flesh, incarnate.
And parenting little ones is humbling, right? They don’t come with instructions; they express their unhappiness loudly and often, they make all kinds of messes. And what I wouldn’t give to be able to travel back in time and experience those moments again. Holding a little baby is definitely one way to experience that peace which is beyond all understanding.
There are so many ways to meet the Holy. Many of us find it out under the sky, where we sense the vastness of this earth, the beauty of it all. When we go camping, I love to lie on my back and look up the night sky. A couple of times in my life I’ve slept out under the stars, which is a magical experience.
When you look up at the night sky, and behold the swath of light that’s our Milky Way galaxy; when you consider the vastness of the universe, doesn’t it make you feel small? But not in a bad way, right? Just small in the presence of all that is. A hundred years ago the naturalist John Burroughs said this is the heart of religion: “the wonder and reverence and love we feel in the presence of the inscrutable universe.” I need to be in touch with this wonder and reverence and love, and I expect you do too.
The Franciscan monastic and theologian Richard Rohr is wise about the ways of the Spirit. Which is why Tori and I keep quoting him! Listen to his words which inspired my sermon title today. He says,
“People who have really met the Holy are always humble. It’s the people who don’t know who usually pretend that they do. People who’ve had any genuine spiritual experience always know they don’t know. They are utterly humbled before mystery. They are in awe before the abyss of it all, in wonder at eternity and depth, and a Love, which is incomprehensible to the mind. It is a litmus test for authentic God experience, and is — quite sadly — absent from much of our religious conversation today. My belief and comfort is in the depths of Mystery, which should be the very task of religion.”
We are here, aren’t we, to be carried away, even blown away, filled with wonder at the fathomless mystery all around us! Utterly humbled before mystery. Like Mary, who experienced a strange visitation from an angel, telling here she was pregnant; who traveled a long way and gave birth, only to have shepherds and fortune tellers show up in her makeshift labor and delivery room! And how does she respond? The text says, “Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19).
We are here to ponder these holy mysteries, to abide in this season of waiting and watching, these days of miracle and wonder.
Near the front of our gray hymnal you’ll find a list of the sources of our UU faith, along with our seven principles,. “The living tradition we share,” it says, “is drawn from many sources.” And the first one is this: “Direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces that create and uphold life.”
Direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder—isn’t that what we are hungry for? To meet the Holy in the daily stuff of our lives. To sense the wonder and mystery of being alive in midst of our joy and our sadness, our pain and our struggle. To see in another’s face, and in your own, human flesh made in the image of God. To be grateful for this life, while we are here.
There is within each of us a still center that we can access if we are willing to quiet down and wait. This place, which Dag Hammarskjöld called “the point of rest in ourselves,” is like a portal to that mystery that is all around us. Let’s hear again those words from Hammarskjöld’s journal:
To have humility is to experience reality, not in relation to ourselves,
but in its sacred independence.
It is to see, judge, and act
from the point of rest in ourselves.
Then, how much disappears,
and all that remains falls into place.
In the point of rest at the center of our being,
we encounter a world
where all things are at rest in the same way.
Then a tree becomes a mystery,
a cloud a revelation,
each person a cosmos
of whose riches we can only catch glimpses.
The life of simplicity is simple,
but it opens to us a book
in which we never get beyond the first syllable.
My spiritual companions, let us be open to these holy mysteries. Let us wait and watch for them, so that when they appear, we can behold them and abide in them and be blessed by them. In these days, let us be open to awe and wonder: in us, and between us, and around us.
How can we keep from singing?
Amen.