Welcome to the Harbor Unitarian Universalist Congregation

Have you ever had a bad case of the Holiday Doldrums? That's what happened to me this week. Suddenly the fact that I actually filled out and mailed all the invitations to my Open House on time did not matter. Even the fact that I pu-chased, wrapped and mailed the out of town presents early enough to get there by Christmas did not matter. The Holiday Doldrums struck with a vengeance. And then my much-loved Joshua T. Catt took a turn for the worse, just as I needed to write this sermon about hope.

As is often the case among UU ministers, I turned to our chat-line whose members share gripes and resources and love and humor. Someone shared the following story told by Bill Clarke during his baccalaureate sermon at Harvard Divinity School in 1999.

Bill was from Provincetown, and for several years before coming to Divinity School, he practiced an AIDS ministry. This involved being with many of his friends in their last illnesses; you can imagine what that does to one’s soul. At some point the stress of this ministry got to him and he was overcome with gloom and despair and other feelings which are too heavy to name. He went out to take a walk along the beach there in Provincetown, and he asked himself where he was going to get the strength to continue his work.

It was then that he became aware that he wasn’t alone. There was a woman walking on the beach, and she was shouting something. Bill was a little up wind of her, but as she moved closer, he could hear that she was shouting Joy.

Bill felt it was a call from somewhere to his soul: Joy, that’s it. I’ll just try to feel joy. The realization swept over him that even in the midst of all the sadness and loss, joy was something he could have. So he started shouting it too.

The woman was shouting Joy and Bill was shouting Joy. As he came closer, their cries echoed each other. He decided that when they came to within talking distance of each other, he would tell her how her shout of joy had changed his whole outlook on life.

Then a large Golden Retriever came out from behind a dune, and ran up to the woman, who said to the dog, Joy, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.

It is difficult to feel joy or hope when your life is a mess. It is hard to gaze upon the symbols of the season, and affirm their mythical meaning when loved ones are ill, friends are out of work, and homelessness increasing. When the news of the world only reinforces our doldrums, hope seems elusive. Here is another story that focuses on hope.

There was a woman named Mary Rose, known as M'rose. She had a difficult life. Although she was qualified on paper for several kinds of work, she had difficulty holding down a job. She would apply for and get a job, work for several months, just to the point of receiving a raise and some benefits. And then some-thing would happen. The car would break down. Or, she had an illness that incapacitated her for a length of time. Or, she had to go take care of her sick mother. Then, she would lose her job--again.

I talked to M'rose one of those times. She complained vociferously about how unfair it was that she lost her job. "My mother was really sick, and she needed my help," she said. "I traveled all the way to the U.P. to take care of her. My car broke down on the way, and it had to be towed. It cost me $50.00, and the re-pairs were another $65.00. She hadn't paid her gas bill, and the house was cold. I turned on the heat, nursed her through her pneumonia, and cleaned up her house. Then, when I returned, I got fired, just because I missed two weeks of work. It isn't fair!"

And then she added, "But then my sister called. You know, she's the one that married up, and we all thought she was too snooty to have anything to do with us. She called, and she said she wanted to help. She flew in to visit Mama, and when she heard about my car troubles, she reached in her purse and gave me $1,000. Can you believe that? $1,000. It made me really happy. It gave me hope again."

However, M'rose was not yet through. She started talking about how her mother was going to die before long--just like a lot of other people she loved.

"You know, Mama made it through this crisis, but she's not long for this world. She's going to die soon, probably in this next year. I just don't know what I'm going to do. Daddy died just three years ago, and my oldest brother in that car accident last year. It's just too much. I don't know how I'll ever be able to bear it. My dog had better get over this convulsion problem, or I'm just going to lose it! Grief is so hard to deal with."

I opened my mouth to talk to her about the support our faith, Unitarian Univer-salism, offers to people who are grieving, but she was far ahead of me. "But you know," she said. "Last year when Bud was killed in that car wreck, I got so much support! And not just from the minister… The Caring Ministry was there to help with the Memorial Service, and the church members all called and sent letters, and hugged me when they saw me. People brought food, and Sharon took me out to dinner. The people I met at that cluster meeting with other UU churches even sent cards. Unitarian Universalists really came through for me. I know they will again. That gives me hope."

I smiled and nodded, and poured another cup of coffee for both of us. I could tell M'Rose was not yet finished. She drew another breath and I braced myself. "Now she's going to talk about Maurice," I thought. I was right.

"I got a letter from Maurice yesterday," she said. "You know, he's the youngest brother that's in Iraq. They are extending his service for another six months!" She paused for effect. "Another six months! His unit served a whole year, and we were so happy when they came back, and he was okay. When they were sent back, we just couldn't believe it! And now they are extended, right when we were expecting them back after Christmas. It just isn't fair! You know, everyone doesn't agree with me about this…," and she glanced around to see who was near, "but I think we should never have gone in there in the first place. I think we were not told the truth about a lot of things. And now my baby brother is over there getting shot at and he's going to have to stay another six months."

I held out my arms and gave her a hug. She sniffled a few times, wiped her eyes and said, "But maybe that election will make a difference. Maybe the Iraqis will all come out to vote, and the policemen Maurice is training will protect them all. Maybe they'll elect people who really will bring democracy to Iraq. There's always hope, don't you think? There's always hope."

I nodded my head and said, "Yes, M'rose. There's always hope."

M'rose had a lot of valid complaints. Life had not treated her fairly.

She was jobless, she had suffered great loss and expected more, and she was distressed and discouraged with the larger world that threatened her brother and so many other people. Like a lot of us, she sometimes found it difficult to hang on to hope.

She did not say so, but I think that it is even more difficult when the hours of possible sunshine are brief, and the sky often gray with clouds that threaten rain and snow. From antiquity humans have struggled to survive during cold, dark winters. That is why our ancestors developed myths and legends that reassured them that the dark was nurturing, the dark was necessary, and the dark would not last. We are the beneficiaries of their storytelling.

The stories that provide the base of our culture provide us with symbols of light that banishes darkness, and the birth of a Babe who brings hope to the world. Candles burn for the magical eight days that symbolize eternity. Rituals honor the darkness that is necessary for rest and nourishment, and celebrate the return of the Sun that affirms that light and warmth and green will return. And the birth of a Babe who will grow to become a great prophet and teacher is celebrated in much of the Western Hemisphere. The Babe symbolizes hope--the hope that humans can learn and grow and change the unfair systems of the world.
However, when death, whether of a mother or a much-loved pet threatens, it is hard to grasp the symbols with enthusiasm. When loved ones are sent to a war zone or tallies of dead soldiers and civilians enter our consciousness, it is difficult to dance with joy around the blazing cauldron, or give the family crèche its holi-day home. When our friends and family members find it difficult to survive in a community with 7% unemployment, despite the assurances of experts that the economy is improving, carols may be sung flat and the conversation around holi-day feasts falter. Hope, despite the omnipresent seasonal symbols, is hard to find.

Let me suggest that hope, rather than a nebulous feeling that suffuses the heart when gazing upon a lighted Christmas tree, is a tough decision. Let me remind you of one of my favorite quotes from John Murray, the founder of Universalism. He charges his congregation to "Give them not hell, but hope and courage…"

It takes courage to hope when the evidence of man's inhumanity to man is un-avoidable. It takes courage to gaze upon both the joblessness prevalent in our area and the brightly decorated houses and yards that surround us, and decide to hope. It takes courage to light a candle, rather than to curse the darkness. It takes courage to bring forth that ultimate symbol of hope, a tiny baby, in the face of war that threatens to be with us for decades. I talk with parents and grand-parents who are worrying about a draft that will draw their young teens into the maelstrom of war. It takes courage to decide to hope in the face of such concerns.

Patrick Murfin, the writer of Let Us Be that Stable, charges us to make that decision, and to act upon it. He charges us to provide a home for the spiritual pilgrim, a home that includes the infant hope. He charges us to provide a home for shepherds and sages, seers and seekers. He charges us to ignore the imper-fections of our physical space, whether of thatched roof or lack of parking places. We must still be that welcoming home that features hope as well as liberal reli-gion, for there are uncounted numbers of people searching for a faith like ours.

One of the most famous poems about hope written in the English language was composed by one of our Unitarian foremothers--Emily Dickinson.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all. (Emily Dickinson)

Even in my most despairing moments I never forget the opening line of this poem--"Hope is the thing with feathers…" Feathers tickle, feathers are light in weight, feathers keep birds warm… I am not sure what Ms. Dickinson had in mind when she crafted that line, but it has sustained me through some difficult times.

Then I focus on the rest of the poem, "…that perches in the soul,/and sings the tune without the words/and never stops at all." Hope is always there, lightly tickling our soul, keeping us warm, just waiting for us to have the courage to decide to embrace it.

In this Holiday Season, I charge you to decide to hope. I charge you to feel the tickle in your soul as you light candles and decorate trees.

I charge you to recognize the warmth that emanates from awkward adolescent angels and rotund Santas. I charge you to look into the faces of your family and decide to hope for the best for them. I charge you to work at being hopeful. Practice hope as you practice other life enhancing skills.

Go forth and be joyful.
Go forth and practice hope.
Go forth and celebrate this Holiday Season.

Amen.
Blessed Be.
Shalom.
Salaat.