That hymn we just sang is based on words from the book of the prophet Isaiah:
“Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?” (Isaiah 55:1-2a)
Do you ever stop and wonder, “Does it matter? In my life, am I making a difference” I certainly wonder. And I imagine you do too.
And it’s a good thing to think about. Because if you keep coming back with “No,” or “I don’t think so,” then it may be time to make some changes. Because you do hope to make a difference while you’re here, don’t you? A note of caution: our culture, with its tendency toward individualism and hero worship, can make you think that if you don’t do something really big, then you’re not doing anything.
Many years ago, my mom gave me this book: Stride Toward Freedom, Martin Luther King’s first book. It tells the story of King’s first pastorate, at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, in Montgomery. Alabama. He and his new wife Coretta had been living in Boston, and King had job offers in the north, both teaching and pastoral positions, where Coretta could develop her singing career. They liked living where there was no legalized segregation. But, he wrote, “We agreed that, in spite of the disadvantages and inevitable sacrifices, our greatest service could be rendered in our native South. We came to the conclusion that we had something of a moral obligation to return—at least for a few years.”
I have so been looking forward to this day. To return home to you, for that is how I see this. For in the two years that I served as your Intern Minister, I believe we cultivated, together, a shared sense of home and soul and belonging against the backdrop of the pandemic and complete social upheaval. What a time that was…
On this blessed night, when the overriding expectation is joy, can we also acknowledge that, some years, Christmas is hard? If you’re young, the waiting can be hard; as a child told me this morning, “I’m trying to not be naughty.” And tonight, waiting for the moment when the talking stops and the lights are turned down and you get to hold your lit candle, and we sing. We’re almost there!
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.”
Universalist Unitarian Church of Haverhill
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