THE FIRST UNITARIAN CHURCH OF HONOLULU
A Unitarian Universalist Congregation

"The Real Miracles,"
Sermon Poem by Rev. Mike Young
Christmas Sunday, December 24, 1995

The Prophesy

Hear, O People of the world.
Turn your ears to my voice.
The darkness grows in our midst.
It threatens to quench the light forever.
Behold, the day has grown short.
The night comes earlier and lingers longer.
Soon, the noon-day shall be as mid-night,
And sunrise and sunset only a memory.
Fathers shall tell their children stories of the sun,
And mothers shall not be believed when they tell of light.
There shall be no sun in the sky
Except those stars circled by other earths.
For the people of this world have lost faith with one another;
And so the light flees.
The people of this world no longer reach out to one another,
And so the darkness engulfs us.
Beware ! The time of turning passes.
Sound the alarm ! The chance for change slips away.
And how shall we call the light back ?
With what shall we lure the sun to return ?
How shall we turn the world around
So that the desolate night will not swallow up the day ?

Behold, the Spirit of Life is upon me, says the prophet.
Hear the words for the renewing of your hope:
The sun will return when you live
As if you trusted its continuing.
Therefore, consecrate oil and light the chalice
And sing as if life could be trusted !
Let the light be greeted as the sustainer of all things,
And the light of truth within yourselves, as your sure guide.


The warmth will return when you live
As if reaching out to one another
Came from an inexhaustible supply,
And your regard for one another from a bottomless well.
Therefore, give generously to all who come near to your embrace.
Take hold of the hand extended,
And enfold the hesitant in your arms.

The day will resume its pattern,
And the night and day their rhythm, when you live
As if the community of men and women was inviolable,
And the newborn child of hope was forever being reborn.

Therefore, tell the stories as of old.
Sing the songs of peace so long awaited.
And remember again that the face of each child, however old,
Is the face of the long awaited Christ Child.


Calling the Gods Back to Life

From ancient times, the people feared
The waning of the light.
It was not merely superstition;
A mistaken notion that the shortening day
Would engulf the world in darkness
If they failed the proper rites.
Like us, they too knew times of loneliness,
As if the light had been withdrawn.
Like us, they knew the split inside
Between what is and might have been.
They, too, knew the hiding of waiting to be found
And feeling unworthy of being sought.
They, too, knew the poignant longing
For the expectation of the dawning
From the dark night of the soul.
And so they conspired together to pretend
That the gods had died or fled.
They asked the priests to prepare a feast
That they might call the gods back to life;That sacred joy might again emerge
And call them out of hiding.
Just so, they ate and sang.
They called the food they shared
The flesh of the gods; in sharing it,
reached out to one another;
And in their reaching, the sacred was reborn.
They called the music the voice of the gods;
Joined their voices in songs of praise,
And in their singing,
Called each other out of hiding.
They kindled lamps
And called this homemade flame the sacred light
Of truth, and warmth and fellowship;
And in their kindling let themselves be found.
They used the dying of the light
Of each year's circling of the sacred earth
About its star-sun for a sacred necessary ritual.
Each year they gave themselves at least one chance
To be found again, to be reminded again
That they were a chosen people, to discover anew
That they had been paid for and no debt was owed;
In this, their pretense of a resurrection,
Permitted their own joy to be reborn.

The sacred earth does circle its life giving sun.
The light does wane. We do forget it will return.
We do hide in guilt and fear and loneliness
From one anotcher, and do so long to be found.
But the light has not fled.
We have only closed our eyes.
What seemed to be hidden is in plain sight.
Our fullness is here and available to us.
The gift of life, given; but waits our willing hand
Opened to receive it. It is found in being shared,
And owned in being given away.
Let us, therefore, conspire together to pretend
That the gods have died and been reborn
In our shared feast. That our voice raised
Is the voice of the sacred recalling joy to life.
That the kindling of the flame in our poor lamp Is the light of truth and warmth and fellowship.
And in our pretending perhaps we may permit
The sacredness that is our life together
To be reborn. Under cover of our pretense
Perhaps we may permit an out reached hand
To find us and be found by us.
Let us, therefore, empty ourselves,
Knowing our vessels to hide no bottom.
Let us open ourselves, knowing there is nothing
And nowhere to hide.
Let us celebrate the continual resurrection
Of life, and joy, and sacredness in our midst;
And in the celebration let it rise.


In the days of the Maccabees,
Their temple desecrated, abominations performed on their altar,
The children of Israel in grief approached their sacred place.
After much sacrifice and agony, they had finally recaptured it.
Their leader said, Rise, cleanse the temple.
We have reconsecrated it with our tears and our faithfulness.
Every year at this time for eight days you shall remember
The rededication of the temple and the rebirth of your faith
With the rekindling of the flame.

Therefore, says the prophesy, consecrate oil and light the
chalice,
and sing as if the light could be trusted.

How shall we consecrate oil for our lamp ?
With what shall we make it worthy of that which we cherish ?
We live in many darknesses. We are often uncertain.
We are sometimes afraid.
In the darkness, how can we give the oil what small hope we have
?
We all have sorrows. We have known pain.
Each of us carries special regrets.
In our pain, how can we make the oil a bearer of forgiveness ?
We are sometimes lonely, and the world seems cold and hard.
In our loneliness, how can we give the oil warmth to share ?
We have our joys, our times of happiness.Each of us receives gifts.
In our gratitude, how can the oil contain our thanks ?
We have known awe, wonder, mystery;
Glimmerings of perfection in our imperfect world.
In our wonder, how can the oil be infused with praise ?
We bring together many uncertainties, many sorrows
Many joys, much wonder.
What our lives contain, the oil may contain.
It will have to be enough.
May our separate lives, though many, become one flame,
That together we may be nourished by its glow.
If not enough, that can at least make a beginning.


Unto us a child is born. But there was no room.
In a stable she gave birth and lay the child in a manger.
Just so, the birth of the child was insignificant.
Yet the wisest astrologers of the orient would
One day acknowledge in the birth of the child
The birth of a new age.
And the child would teach a way of life
Appropriate to a new aeon.

Hear again the words of the prophesy:
Tell the stories as of old.
Sing the songs of peace so long awaited.
And remember that the face of each one
Born of man and woman
Is the face of the long awaited christ child.
The Real Miracles

It is said that the priests can turn back the sun
So that the days lengthenback into summer.
They say that the oil in the lamp before the altar in the temple
Burned miraculously until new oil could be consecrated.
It is claimed that the living god was born of a virgin
And lived among us in a backwater corner of the Roman Empire.
Some say the miracles are false,
Or that only their miracle is true.
I do not say that these miracles are not true,
Only that they are too paltry by half.
The full miracle pales them into ordinariness.
For the sun does return and can be trusted.
Life is continually reborn in our midst
Whether we remember the right words or not.
However we may ugly up our lives,
They cannot finally be desecrated
Until we are no longer willing to see their sacredness.
For, that which we celebrate as gifted to us
Is incarnate in us; made flesh again in us daily.
There lie the miracles ! Our world is awash in them !

Hear the words for the renewing of your hope:
Life can be trusted !
Greet the light as the sustainer of all things,
And the darkness as the great healer.
That which fills your cup hides no bottom.
It can be poured out to one another endlessly.
Therefore, tell the stories as of old.
Sing the songs of peace so long awaited.
And remember again the child who is to come.

In your telling, and singing and remembering,
May you let yourself be opened to miracles.
May you be blessed,
May you be made a channel for blessing.
May the season greet you !

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