Rev. Kendyl Gibbons
First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis
December 1, 2002
The Candle in the Window
These are dark days for those of progressive political mind. The recent elections seem to have announced a sweeping public renunciation of some of liberalism's most cherished ideals. On every side, proposals to dismantle our long-standing national freedoms and painfully won protections for the vulnerable encounter scanty opposition. Our nation stands poised on the brink of an imperialistic war, environmental self-restraint is cast aside, and the liberties and privacies of citizenship are transformed by governmental fiat from promised rights into arbitrary privileges. Initiatives to re-impose prayer in schools, to expand and hasten the execution of criminals, to make abortion legally and practically inaccessible, to deprive gay and lesbian people of legal protection, to dismiss the needs of children in poverty, are met with public acclaim.
A similar tendency is at work among communities of faith, in a less obvious and more insidious form. Ministry, which has ever been a subtle, artful and inherently ambiguous endeavor, is increasingly defined by codes of professional practice, and measured by corporate standards of "excellence." Success, for congregations and ministers alike, despite all our claims to the contrary, is seen in terms of fiscal and numerical growth. The model held before us is the mega-church, with its hierarchical leadership and its customer-satisfaction orientation, this being, we are told, the only form of the institutional church that has the organizational stability to survive into the twenty first century. Even among its clearest heirs, the adjective Enlightenment becomes a condemnation, and the phrase "excessive individualism" goes unargued. Our yearning for the experience of community, for an effective antidote to our sense of isolation, tempts us to renounce our commitment to freedom, and to embrace the disciplines of group wisdom so that we may feel included, however ill advised that wisdom may turn out to be.
These are dark days, at least on the political front, for the followers of Thoreau's distant drummer, and for the tradition committed to the rights of conscience and to justice, equity and compassion as the basis of human relations. We have not saved the world as we supposed we could thirty years ago, if only the old fogies would get out of the way. They never really did, of course; even when the liberal political agenda was at its zenith the alternative ideologies were only lying low, and their resurgence now is made possible partly by their alliance with our own indignation and fears. Human communities never fully release their quest for certainty, even when they are most prosperous and most secure; and let that prosperity and that security be at all threatened or diminished -- as in the past 15 months, -- and we will cling, practically without any rational thought, to what we think we know.
One of the continuing tensions within our own free church tradition has to do with whether there is an orthodoxy of political views to which we expect our members to subscribe. When we are asked this question explicitly, many of us, myself included, are loud in our protestations that there is not; that you can be a Republican, or a conservative, or a supporter of the president, and still be welcome in our religious fellowship; and I would maintain that this in itself is, or should be, true. Indeed, I believe we would do well to acknowledge that many questions of political policy are more complex than the liberal mind set is quick to assume, and that freedom may have implications of responsibility that can be sometimes tempting to gloss over. Nevertheless, I would suggest that there is a particular form of political commitment inherent in our religious covenant, and that there are certain views that are not, and ought not to be, welcome in our churches. It seems to me that what we have agreed to, in giving our allegiance to the Unitarian Universalist heritage of faith, is a commitment to meet the world around us in compassion rather than fear. In compassion, rather than fear. Those political convictions which have their roots in fear, and their fruits in suffering, cannot be reconciled with liberal religion. That God hates fags, that unequal treatment of blacks is justified, that abuse is a woman's inevitable destiny, that torture can be used as a military expedient; these opinions need not be held in equal value with their opposites in our congregations. We must always be prepared to present rational and persuasive arguments against them, and to respect the dignity of those who hold them, but we can and should take for granted that these ideas have been rejected among ourselves. Such a basic agreement, I would argue, still leaves room for a great deal more difference of opinion regarding the most effective ways to define and achieve human well being than we may have often demonstrated our willingness to engage.
These are dark days, I think, for those who would live by compassion rather than fear, yet we gather this morning to renew our vision and commitment. We gather, in the fragile and precious light of these Hanukkah candles, to celebrate the courage and the faith which are no less rare today than they were in the second century before the common era. Those were dark days for the loyal Jews of Jerusalem, confronted by the Seleucid ruler Antiochus Epiphanes and his attempts to exterminate the religious traditions of Israel. Their long running underground resistance movement, which culminated in a brief period of independence for Judea, set the stage for the rededication of the Jerusalem temple when it was captured from the Syrian forces in 165 BCE. The legends tell of one remaining vial of sanctified lamp oil, which burned beyond all expectation for eight nights of celebration, but that is a pious fable. The true miracle of this story, which is the recurring miracle of all human faith, was the commitment and sacrifice of those who would not bow down to idols, and who would not rest until their freedom to worship the god they knew as true was restored.
That struggle is never fully won, either in the world, or in our own hearts. It is not so much that we are afraid; that is inevitable. We are all afraid, and justifiably so; it is part of the human condition; we are mortal, our happiness is transient, our security is fragile - as we have reason to know. Judah and Matthias Maccabee were determined, but afraid; everyone who ever lit a Hanukkah candle in a land of oppression was afraid. The struggle is not to be without fear; the struggle is to choose to meet the world with compassion and dedication anyway. The poet Emma Lazarus writes:
Kindle the taper like a steadfast star
Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth,
And add each night a lustre, till afar
An eight-fold splendor shine above the hearth.
Clash, Israel, the cymbals; touch the lyre;
Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn;
Chant psalms of victory, till the heart take fire,
The Maccabean spirit leap newborn!
The saints have taught that perfect love casts out fear, and they may be right; most of us never achieve perfect love, so I don't know. But I do know that the covenant commitment to compassion calls us to live beyond our fear, calls us to walk past the impulse to protect ourselves inside narrow walls and out into the embrace of life itself. It calls us into compassionate community with those whose broken lives will turn out to be not so different from our own brokenness; it calls us to share even what we think is not enough when others have less; it calls us to the various ministries that we have the power to perform. It also calls us to a public witness of this way of life in religious community; and to a tireless welcome to those who search for a community that affirms such freedom and reason as we offer. The thing I did not learn for a long time about Hanukkah candles is that they are supposed to be set in a window, or someplace that passersby will see them. Their witness is not merely to the celebration of a community's own history, but a claim to the world as a whole. 'A great miracle happened there', the letters on the dreidel proclaim; and the lights of Hanukkah are meant to invite everyone to be astonished by the power of faithfulness, that can change the course of history. This same witness is what the Prairie Star District Chalice Lighters program is all about - it is putting our light on the window sill, where it can illuminate not just our own gatherings, but the world.
There has been a cluster of interest and demand around the concept of spirituality in our churches in the last few years, and I have contributed at least my nickel's worth to the discussion, in part because spirituality seems to identify something that was missing from the Unitarian Universalism of the 1960s in which I grew up. I think that our humanist tradition gains in authenticity and power when we recognize the pervasive human longing for an experience of depth and meaning that is something more than intellectual assent. In moments of celebration and covenant, in the rituals of light-giving that recall past triumphs and renew present courage as do the Hanukkah candles, we are in touch with that force, that breath of life, that moves within and among us, bringing a sense of sacred meaning. Whether or not we understand those forces which create and uphold life to be incarnated in a self-conscious personal deity, do we not know the feel of the holy moment? Do we not know what it is to lose our hope, and to find it again in the simplicity of a symbolic act that reawakens the call to courage and to compassion within us? This is the function of spirituality properly understood; that it gives us the resources to lead more abundant lives, to be gracefully faithful to the covenant of compassion by which we endeavor to live, even in the face of the fear and the darkness around us.
One of our British Unitarian comrades has offered this definition of faith: "not belief in spite of the evidence, but adventure in scorn of the consequences." Not belief in spite of the evidence -- we've always known that -- but adventure in scorn of the consequences. Now this may be a stronger statement than we want to endorse completely; there are consequences to our actions that must not be scorned, like their impact on others. Nevertheless, I think it points in the right direction. Faith, for our tradition, is not about the content of what we believe, but about the courage and generosity by which we live. The remarkable thing about the story of the lamp fuel, as I read it, is not the alleged divine intervention which supposedly allowed the small amount of oil to burn for eight days. The truly remarkable thing is the human story; that's what I'm always interested in. In this case, it is the decision of the refugee community to have their celebration anyway, and to go ahead and light the lamp with the oil they had, that fascinates and moves me. For isn't this always the way? Isn't it always when we give what we have, when we make celebration and praise even in the midst of uncertainty, even in the dark days, that wonderful, unexpected things happen, to renew our courage and restore our hope? And isn't it just when we choose generosity and kindness over the impulse to cynicism that the human spirit rises to its greatest dignity and possibility? Perhaps it is not so much adventure in scorn of the consequences, as compassion in scorn of our fear, that is the faith that we long to see made real in the world.
So what I wonder this morning is, have we put our Hanukkah candle in the window? Have we made public the bright witness that we raise as a community of memory and promise within the darkness of fear, oppression, and greed? It is a little enough thing for many of us; ten dollars three times a year perhaps. Yet it is these little acts of celebration and commitment that make great things possible. This is our practice of the power of dedication and faithfulness, that when we choose to be generous, and to burn the little oil that each of us may have, together we testify to the saving potential of Unitarian Universalism. We need to put our candle in the window, that the world may know of our hope even in the dark days; in the dark days most of all, we need to let that light call us all to transcend our frozenness when we are afraid, to keep the covenant of compassion that is our hope for wholeness and peace on the earth.
Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Hanukkah. Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, ruler of the universe, who has sanctified us with thy commandments, and commanded us to light the lights of Hanukkah. Or, translated in the humanist idiom, Praise to that which creates and sustains the universe; which gives order and meaning to our lives by calling us to faithfulness; and which inspires us to kindle these lights of shared memory and dedication. Praise to the light that shines in the dark days, the candles that we place in our windows for a testimony to the world; praise to the courage that is kindled in human hearts by that light; praise to the compassion that calls us to connection beyond fear; praise to the faith that lights the light, ever and again, in poignant memory, in mourning, in celebration, in desperate need, in yearning hope; in vision of the life that could be. Praise to those who stand among us, living the covenant in generosity and dedication, luminous as beacons to call us on; for their light shines in the darkness, and all the darkness in the world has never, and can never, put it out.
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Opening Words:
Welcome to this place of waiting together, to this season of anticipation.
I am waiting for the ice on the lakes to bear the weight of hockey games and fishing villages.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the birth of a child, who may have the wisdom and love to save us all.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the feast at the end of the fasting, when the pillar of faith shall have been fulfilled.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the sound of silver bells, and the familiar songs recalling an old, old story.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the lamp of dedication to be lighted and blessed in the darkness of the year.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the fragrance of fir tree, and the enchantment of snowfall and colored light.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney with an extravagance of gifts.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the family to gather again, in the long customs of love and need.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the promised messiah, to bend the path of history toward kinship and justice.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the dawn after the longest night of the year, and the sun's return.
What are you waiting for?
I am waiting for the sky to fill with stars, and a song of peace, goodwill on earth.
What are you waiting for?
In this moment of the year, as darkness gathers and we wait for the promise of new light,
we kindle this chalice, symbol of the heritage of our free faith.
Like all the lamps of community through the ages of human history,
In its light may our hearts renew their courage,
and our spirits rise to make real the hope of a new and better world.
Story told by wise and famous writer named Isaac Bashevis Singer, about Jewish tradition of Hanukkah
Long ago, life was much more difficult; everyone had to work very hard, even children
Very little time to play, and gambling or betting was frowned upon -
Except on Hanukkah!
Those 8 nights, children received small gifts of money, and had permission to spend the evening
playing dreidel, which is a kind of gambling with a little top that you spin.
It was a little like having a very fun video game that you only get to play once a year;
Children looked forward to those eight days all the rest of the year; very special time.
This included three children who lived in the town of Bilgoray, in Poland.
There names were Etele and Pesele - those were the two girls - - and their brother, Mannes.
They loved the coming of Hanukkah, because their mother would make delicious potato pancakes,
And their father would give them Hanukkah gelt, and they would spend the whole evening playing dreidel.
But then one year, both of their parents got sick, and in the spring their mother died.
Their father was not able to work any more, and one by one they sold all the precious things they owned - their silver goblets, and the candle sticks, and the spice box for the sabbath, and the passover plate.
But the one thing they hadn't sold was the Hanukkah lamp, with its eight little cups of oil for the eight nights of the celebration. It was a very old, and beautifully made of silver; it had carved flowers, and all the animals from Jewish legends - a lion, a deer, a leopard, an eagle, and when all the eight flames were burning these creatures almost seemed alive with movement.
When Hanukkah came that year, the little family were all sad; their father was very ill, there was no money for pancakes or even bread, and certainly not money to play with. They were too proud to depend on charity from other people, though the children were hungry. Mannes was ready to go sell their beautiful silver lamp, but his father said, "Wait until after Hanukkah is over, at least."
With a few of their last pennies, they bought a little oil for the lamp, and when evening came, Mannes lighted the lamp by his father's bed, and his father said the blessing of the light. Then they set the lamp in the window, which is how it is supposed to be done, so that everyone can see and share in the celebration. Even though there was no money, the children got out their driedel that they loved to play with, to remember happier days.
And then, just as they were feeling very miserable, there was a knock at the door of the house.
Knock, knock, knock, very loud and impatient. Mannes opened the door, and there stood the squire of the village, the most important and richest man, the ruler of that town, in his long fur coat and fur hat. Mannes was so astonished at seeing the squire at the door of his house, that he didn't know what to say at first.
The squire said, "I was just passing by on my sleigh, when I saw the light of that beautiful lamp in the window. I have never seen anything of such exquisite workmanship. But why is only one of the holders lighted? And where are your parents? I want to talk to them about buying the lamp."
Finally Mannes found his tongue. "Please come in, your excellency," he said, "this is a great honor for us." The squire entered the room, and could hardly take his eyes off the marvelous lamp. He asked more questions, and Mannes explained to him all about the celebration of Hanukkah, how in ancient times the Jews had expelled the Greek tyrant from the city of Jerusalem, and restored the temple there, and the miracle of the lamp oil that had burned for eight days of their celebration, even though there was only enough for one day. He showed the squire how each night one more of lights in the lamp would be burning, until on the last day, all eight of them would be lighted. Etele and Pesele, wanting to help, brought the dreidel, and explained the special game that they could only play at this time of year.
"Well," said the squire, "couldn't we play a little, since I'm here? I would like to see how this game works."
"But we have no Hanukkah gelt to play with," said the girls. "Our father is sick, and our mother has died, and there is no money for food or celebration."
"That's easy," said the squire. "I will give you one thousand gold pieces for your wonderful lamp, if you will sell it to me, and I will give you half now, and half when the festival is over and I return to take the lamp home with me. Surely you can play with five hundred in gold?" And he took the money out of his pocket, and put it on the table.
Now the children forgot their hunger and their sorrow, because they wanted to be kind to their guest, and anyway, they loved to play dreidel. And my goodness, did they have a game! They laughed, and teased each other whenever anyone lost, and before long the squire was laughing and they were teasing him too. But of course he had never played the dreidel game before, poor man, while the children had been playing all their lives, and by the time the one light in the lamp had burned itself out, the squire had lost all the money he had with him - which was more gold than the children had ever imagined was in all the world, and they won every coin from him.
At last he gave a great laugh and cried, "Well, lost is lost. My driver and my horses must be getting very cold. Good night, children; Happy Hanukkah, and don't worry about your father. With God's help, he will soon recover." And with that, he went quickly out the door and jumped into his sleigh.
The children could not believe the pile of gold coins on the table; enough to feed them for many weeks. Mannes ran outside to say Thank you, but the sleigh had vanished, with no tracks in the snow, and there was no jingle of the horses bells to be heard in the quiet night. Back in the house, his father woke from a sound sleep, no longer sick unto death, and soon he was a well man again.
There are those who say that when heaven sends the prophet Elijah to work a miracle, he always tries to make it look like a natural event. All I know is that the squire never came back to get the Hanukkah lamp, nor ever sent anyone to get it either, and it stayed in the family of Mannes and Etele and Pesele from that day to this, so you will have to make up your own mind about who the mysterious squire really was.
Today is the third day of Hanukkah this year, so we are going to light three candles in our menorah, and say the blessing of the light as Jewish people do, and then you can go