What has happened to me has been the very reverse of what appears to be the experience of most of my friends. Instead of dwindling, Santa Claus has grown larger and larger in my life until he fills almost the whole of it. As a child I hung up at the end of my bed an empty stocking, which in the morning became a full stocking. I had done nothing to produce the things that filled it. I had not worked for them or made them or helped to make them. I had not even been good. And the explanation was that a certain being, whom people called Santa Claus, was benevolently disposed toward me; what we believed was that a certain man did give us those toys for nothing. And I believe it still. Then I only wondered who put the toys in the stocking; now I wonder who put the stocking by the bed, and the bed in the room, and the room in the house, and the house on the planet and the great planet in the void. Once I only thanked Santa Claus for a few dolls and cookies. Now, I thank him for stars and street faces and wine and the great sea. Once I thought it delightful and astonishing to find a present so big that it takes two stockings to hold it and then leaves a great deal outside; It is the large and preposterous present of myself, as to the origin of which I can offer no suggestion except that Santa Claus gave it to me in a fit of peculiarly fantastic goodwill. (from Bob Schaibly sermon 12/3/00)

This is a night for reflection upon miraculous stories, returning light, and new-born hope.  It is a time for defying the scarcity of winter by the giving and receiving of gifts, by generous feasting, by brave displays of lights.  Earlier this evening we revisited the mythic gift of the Christ Child. We sang about the light within each of us, a bridge we often build as UUs. Is it possible that the most wonderful gift of the season is just this: “the large and preposterous present” of  ourselves? “Once I only thanked Santa Claus for a few dolls and cookies. Now, I thank him for stars and street faces and wine and the great sea.” Chesterfield’s Santa didn’t even care if he had been naughty or nice! He gave because he was felt kindly towards the boy that was. There are new billboards around town this season. Have you seen them?  Black—all Black—with white letters proclaiming, “I’m making a list and checking it twice, too.”  It is signed, “God.” What a jarring sight! Meant to be, no doubt—in a self-righteous, unkindly spirit. I can’t imagine anything farther from the spirit of Christmas! Far better Chesterfield’s Santa, the generous giver of stars and the great sea—and “the large and preposterous present” of  ourselves. The billboard is no doubt intended as an incentive to change our lives—but I’ve rarely encountered anything deader to the spirit of transformation—to the spirit of hope, the spirit of joy, the spirit of love.

How different was the spirit shining in our children’s faces earlier this evening. Young Jade was the star of Bethlehem, twirling her star above the stable, intent and attentive. She reminded me of another girl, whose mother asked her what part she was playing in the Christmas pageant.

“I’m going to be the Star of Bethlehem!” she told her mom. The mother was not much impressed. In that pageant, the star wore a five-pointed star in the form of a sandwich board. After her first rehearsal her mom asked her, “What exactly will you be doing in the play?” And bursting with happy self-confidence, her daughter said, “I just stand there and shine.” Years later, her mother still remembered that moment. (as told by Bob Schaibly). Can you imagine what a wonderful world it would be if every child and every adult believed that their role in life was to “stand there and shine?” To radiate hope and joy and love—to light up the lives around them?

That baby in the manger— that baby heralded in legend by the song of angels—that baby was a large and preposterous present to humanity—one who radiated hope and joy and love—one whose life changed the course of history over a good part of our world.

I mean no disrespect to this great teacher by suggesting that we are each gifted with a large and preposterous present simply by being born. For he taught that we were all children of the Holy—that we all have the hope of finding the kingdom of God within and among us. Because its there—its there! His God was not “making a list and checking it twice,” any more than Chesterfield’s Santa was. For he saw the large and preposterous present of the spirit within the most lowly and despised of his society—prostitutes, and tax collectors, and thieves. He saw beyond the wrappings—he helped them uncover the beauty within. He helped them break open the present moment to uncover the joy dancing within—dancing hand in hand with the pain and fear and love. 

Sometimes he helped the comfortable and well-off to do the same—but he told them it was harder. And it is. It is. If we are comfortable, we often settle for fleeting moments of happiness. We cocoon ourselves in a protected space where we don't need to expose ourselves to the vulnerability of hope. We may rarely allow ourselves to be broken open by shattering experiences of joy. Or even simple ones.  And love? Love which is comfortable and contained rarely transforms us.

Yet however comfortable we find ourselves, this season speaks to us because we hope—if not for ourselves at this moment, then for our world - our world which has seen so much violence these past few months. We may live cushioned from the killing cold of this season, but this year we remember the many in Afghanistan and elsewhere who are inadequately protected from the harshness of winter. The many for whom an early coming of spring may mean the difference between life and death.

Someone told me recently of spending time in South Africa just after Nelson Mandela was elected President in 1996 - living in a township still rife with violence and desperately poor.  He became very discouraged, and could not imagine how the people of that place could find any hope. He checked it out with one of his new friends, and was stunned at the answer.

“Oh yes, John”, he said. “Yes, things will change, I believe it. I will work to make them change. I believe that sometime very soon, within ten or fifteen years, we will have our own water pump. It will stand on that corner, there!, and people will be able to come from all around to get water. You may think I am dreaming, but I believe this can happen, and I will do my part to make it happen.” Now this was a man who had everything against him, who lived in a broken world, but because he hoped, he was able to seize his power with both hands. He kept hope by trying not solve all of his world’s problems, but to affect what he could. His hope would go on not only to renew him, but to renew his community.

I like Emily Dickinson’s words:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tunes without the words
And never stops at all

Hope may be fragile, like a small bird we hold in our hands. But we know the power of those small feathered beings who fly, sometimes, half-way around the world to breed and bear their young in a more nurturing climate—who can navigate incredible distances—who sing so beautifully, sometimes, it seems, for the sheer delight of singing. Hope, it seems, is both a gift and a choice. Those who followed the teacher of Nazareth were transformed, not simply by the gift of hope he offered to them, but by their own choice to embrace the gift. Chanukah is also a story about hope. “It is the story how hope can upset of the natural order of things. It is the story of a moment in history when, because of human hope, the inevitable didn’t happen, and the ordinary, the expected and the natural were overwhelmed by the extra-ordinary, the unexpected.”

Joy, too, is both a gift and a choice. It’s true, we cannot be commanded to be glad, even by angels. Many of us struggle in this season with that expectation. Yet we can heed Clarke Wells’ words:
If we cannot impel ourselves into a stellar gladness, we can at least clean the dust from the lens of our perception; if we cannot dictate our own fulfillment, we can at least steer in the right direction; if we cannot exact a guarantee for a more appreciative awareness of our world—for persons and stars and breathing and tastes and the incalculable gift of every day—we can at least prescribe some of the conditions through which an increased awareness is more likely to open up the skies, for us and for our children.

Sometimes the expectations of the season are overwhelming precisely because of expectations.  Transformation is a big word. It simply means to change form. I would have you go forth on this holy night willing—open—to the possibility of changing form. Not necessarily in a big way. But in the tender moments—the warm moments—the moments of love and connection that this season may offer. In the beauty of the horefrost upon the trees. In the happy faces of children.

One such moment happened for me earlier this evening. After lighting the chalice, three-year-old Chloe, in her cat costume, shouted “Merry Christmas, everyone!” And she bounced up and down with great excitement all the way back to her seat. I whispered to Lloyd, “Just like that story I’m planning to tell!”

The story concerns the translation of the New Testament from English into the Inuit language some years back. Problems arose for the translators when they encountered certain words in English for which there was no corresponding word in the Inuit language. For example, there’s a passage that tells that the disciples are filled with joy upon meeting Jesus. But since there’s no word for joy in the Inuit language, the translators had to find another way to express the meaning of the passage.

In their research, they discovered that one of the most joyful times for an Inuit family is when the sled dogs are fed in the evening. The dogs come barking and yelping, running about and wagging their tails furiously, and the children are squealing with delight and the neighbors join the delightful commotion as well. It’s truly a most blessed time for the Eskimo people.

Consequently, the translators used that particular event to help convey the meaning of the aforementioned biblical passage. As a result, when the passage was translated back into English, it read, “When the disciples saw Jesus, they wagged their tails.”  (as told by Tom Owen-Towle, 11/26/2000)

I can think of no better words to send you forth with tonight than my friend Tom’s response to this story: “My friends, as you face the upcoming season of great challenge and delight, heartaches and memory, may you do so with a soul full of joy-barking and yelping wildly, bounding about and wagging your tails as furiously as possible, so that your joy might be contagious and all creatures of the universe might join in the rejoicing.”

MEDITATION

When so many seek to take the world by storm—by noise, by violence, by anger, by superficial glitz—may we seek to bless the world by calm:

• The calm of candles flickering in air stirred by the breath of people at worship;
  
• The calm of gently falling snow which spreads its blanket of silence over the bedrock of noise in which we live;
  
• The calm of a full moon miraculously transcending our matter-of-factness with its largest orb in the winter solstice sky;
  
• The calm of silence between notes of familiar songs—when one feels no need to hurry to the next; music, said composer Claude Debussy, is the stuff between the notes.