Reading Before Sermon at NSUU

Adapted by Rev. Ellen Cooper-Davis
from a meditation by Rev.Leslie Takahashi Morris
North Shore Unitarian Universalist Congregation
Sunday, December 13, 2009

Once again, we contemplate a story of the season: that in an ordinary place, without grandeur and gold, someone waits. The place is a stable, it is in a field, it is a shed, it is in a split-level house or a planned community, it is in a garage, it is in the church fellowship hall which houses those who find no room at the inn. And what do they await? A promise. A prophecy. A gold-en truth around which to pivot the axis of life. Or just a word. A gesture. A seed of hope cloaked in a small act of kindness. And why do they wait, in this mythical story? Because an omen foretold waiting. Because a commandment decreed it. Because they resist a jealous king’s degree. Because their old ways of life no longer fulfill them. Because they have lost the ability to find peace in their own lives. Because they want someone to care for them. Because they need to find themselves connected to something larger than themselves. Because, in some sense, much of life is spent searching, searching, searching.

And who waits in this story? Shepherds and kings, wise men and animals, innkeepers and expectant couples. Some have identities hidden, mysterious. Some have identities others would not claim. Some work fast food or retail, others peddle knowledge. Some pace the streets on restless feet and others get parking tickets on their own couches. And who are the travelers? They come with gifts. They are regal. They carry priceless knowledge. They use coins and bills. They remove their shoes in airports. They yearn. They seek. They want. They recognize places never seen before. They open themselves to potential.

And who are we to this story, this echoing tale of infinite proportions? Do we seek to stand outside: reporters and astronomers, scoffers and stand-up comedians? Or do we remember that none are merely guests on this earth, and step forward to offer our hospitality, our humor, our hubris, our hopes, and put our hands to the work of earthly hosts, tending and loving this place of dirt and miraculous new life? Do we open the door to let in the boy with his crust of bread and, at the same time, know ourselves in the boy? When cast, do we accept the role of gift-bearers? Do we carry the sweet smelling gifts of love and devotion, bear the most wonderful toys to celebrate the miracle of childhood, the talismans of wisdom and reason, the precious metals of inquiry and truth, the jewels of mystery and promise? In the story of the season, do we dig out the audacity to say we are as good as gold, that we carry a jeweled possibility of an intertwining hope that we are saved by the new day and our thoughts upon waking?

Do we step inside the story to ponder the mysteries as well, to try on the part of the heavenly hosts -- the ones who leaven, who lift, who raise our world and our lives up to a new level, a new height? Do we labor to connect the firmament of this earth to the ethereal promise that in the darkest, most still moments of our lives we meet our yearning to connect to that and those beyond our current grasp, to know a greater unity, to commit ourselves to its vision?

As we approach this night of wonder and awe, let us stand for a moment in this story and know ourselves to be part of a great unfolding tableau. A promise that we carry, and that carries us. We know ourselves as bearers of the hope that is larger than us. For we are hosts, not guests, in this, our world.