Last Sunday, before the service, Clare observed that the places in our living nativity pageant—Nazareth, Bethlehem, the region known as the Holy Land, is the same place that’s racked with violence and suffering and death in these days. Did any of you find yourself thinking of this just now, as we just sang, “O Little Town of Bethlehem?”
I was away for a couple of days this week at my study group. There are eight of us parish ministers, and twice a year we get away to discuss books and articles on a particular topic. We have worship each day, we eat our meals together, we write and share reflection papers.
We talk a lot—about our lives, and our ministries, the joys and the frustrations. And it’s good. On the first day, one of us was sharing about her challenges these days, it was a lot—and then she stopped herself, rolled her eyes. laughed and said, “And it’s Advent!” Which became a refrain for our gathering, shorthand for “It’s this season when we are supposed to move slowly, and breathe deeply, and open ourselves up to the mystery, and not worry so much!”
A few weeks ago, I saw a short video on Instagram, of the sun going down in Alaska. The person narrating said something like, “There it goes. This far north, we won’t see it again for two and a half months.”
She paused, and I looked at that image of purple sky, fringed with yellow and orange at the horizon, the dark ruffled water, the small houses with light shining from their windows. I felt the ache of two and a half months of no sun; at the most, some twilight. But then she said, “And it’s lovely.”
Sermon given by Marie Morey, November 26, 2023.
The poet Mary Oliver once wrote a little essay about her practice of walking the harbor beach in Provincetown, where she lived, going there to simply notice things. Not because she thought she’d find something useful, but rather, because it fed her soul. “And I would be strong-souled,” she wrote. “The better to honor this world, and my little voyage through it.”
“The Prophet,” by Kahlil Gibran, is my favorite collection of poetry, and the poem we just read, “On Joy and Sorrow,” is my favorite poem. You may have heard his words before; elsewhere in these pages we get the words so often used in child dedications - “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.”
Last Sunday we remembered those who have died, both recently and long ago. We created an Altar of Remembrance, with our photos and other symbols of our loved ones. And now this week we begin a month with the worship theme of “grief and mourning.” Which we were doing last week, right? And I wonder if some of you are thinking, “That’s a lot of grief!” Maybe too much grief?
We have come again to that time of year when the leaves are falling, birds are flying south, summer is gone. And if you take time to notice, you can sense a shift, something stirring.
From the ancient Celts comes the idea of a “thin place,” a time or space where the threshold between the physical world and the spirit world is thin and permeable. We are at one of those times—can you feel it?
We just sang about being free, which is the promise of liberal religion; that’s what that word “liberal” means—free. Free to think for yourself, and to go where the Spirit leads; open to new ideas and new ways of being. I’m talking about liberal religion, not about politics. They’re not the same. Though there could be some overlap between your spiritual leanings and how you engage with the world, right?
It’s been a horrific week for ordinary people in Israel and Palestine, where atrocities and suffering beyond words have happened on both sides. It’s been a heartbreaking week for anyone who cares about peace and justice, and we rightfully fear for where this violence will lead. I don’t have anything particularly wise to say about this; nor do I have the heart to say more than a few words about it.
Universalist Unitarian Church of Haverhill
15 Kenoza Avenue, Haverhill, MA • 978-372-5173 • office@uuhaverhill.org
Mailing & office address: 16 Ashland Street, Haverhill, MA 01830
