The words we just sang are from a poem by John Holmes called “The People’s Peace”:

The peace not past our understanding falls
like light upon the soft white tablecloth
at winter supper warm between four walls,
a thing too simple to be tried as truth.

I love this season of Advent, and this month that brings Hanukkah and the Solstice, and their stories of oil that lasts longer than it should, and the wonder and mystery of the longest night. I love this time of waiting and getting ready. And I need its promise: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5). 

Because you know, the darkness around us is deep. That was true when the poet William Stafford wrote that line twenty years ago, and it’s certainly true these days. I guess it’s always true. There are always forces that are working against love and justice, and some days, it seems like they have the upper hand.

All month we’ve been reflecting on gratitude, and lately, given all the struggles people are facing, I’ve found myself feeling grateful, that things aren’t any worse than they are. It’s setting a low bar, I know, but these days, when it can seem like our world is going down the tubes, I’m grateful for the simple gift of a quiet day, a normal day.

Earlier this week there was a column in The New York Times by David Brooks, about the amount of suffering in our society these days. The first sentence says, “Wherever I go I seem to meet people who are either dealing with trauma or helping others dealing with trauma.” 

A few days ago I was in the car, heading back to church from a meeting over in Newburyport. I was in Amesbury, about to turn up the on-ramp to 495, when the road straight ahead beckoned to me. It was a beautiful and blustery fall day—bright and sunny and very windy, with leaves blowing everywhere. And the road ahead promised winding curves past fields and farms, along stone walls and barns and out into country with wider skies and maybe a field I could walk across, even a small hill to climb in order to take in our New England landscape in these late fall days when Thanksgiving is almost here. 

But that winding road I imagined, was, at least that day, a road not taken, as Robert Frost would put it. I didn’t head down that road less traveled, but it has stayed with me: that longing, to be out under the sky and in touch with the earth, to better feel the spirit of these days between autumn and winter. 

Last Sunday I talked about being thankful for what you have, being grateful for the small things it would be easy to miss. But if someone preached that sermon to me today, I’d be annoyed! Because I’m feeling restless with how things are, with all that’s messed up, and these days I’m feeling grateful for this who call us, who lead us, from here to where we ought to be. And I’m grateful for those who walk their talk.

One summer day many years ago, when our son Will was little, five or six I guess, I took him fishing. We went to a small river about half an hour from home; a stream where dark water swirled around granite rocks, a place I’d caught fish before. Before leaving, we gathered our gear, and packed some snacks, and then we headed out. It was midsummer and hot, but I figured it would be cooler in the woods and by the water. On the way, we were both excited. “We ought to be able to catch some trout,” I said, imagining myself, the proud father, taking a picture of my son holding up a big and beautiful rainbow trout.

There’s a prayer for evening, which like the hymn “Abide with Me,” asks the Holy for presence and help through the night: “so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness.” We could have a theological conversation about whether the Holy changes or not. My hunch is that the Holy is changing too. But especially this day, I take refuge in what we just sang about, “the earth, forever turning” and I take refuge in the fact of this forever tuning, and how it brings times of light and dark, seasons that come and go; and this helps me, amidst all the changes and chances of this life, to remember that even with its struggles, life is good, and life is a gift.

Something I’ve noticed, in myself and in others, is how easy it can be to spend time and energy thinking about and worrying about and getting anxious about things that I can’t control, and that you can’t control. In our connected world, we’re aware when a tragedy happens somewhere in our country or on the other side of the world. The news these days is increasingly breathless and anxious, like the weather report when a big storm is coming! There’s a lot to worry about!

There’s at least one way that religious communities are different from the other ways people gather together. People tend to be drawn those who are like themselves; in tribes and clans, associations of like-minded people. But faith communities are meant to be a “y’all come,” kind of association, a diverse community of all souls who desire to be in community together. That the hope anyway. Martin Luther King observed that 11 o’clock on Sunday morning was the most segregated hour in America. But that’s not how it’s supposed to be. Our gathering today is meant to be a taste of that time to come, when as the prophet said, “the lion will lay down with the lamb,” when we will see that our difference need not divide us. That we are all in this together.

May I just start by saying that it is such an honor to be here with you today.  This is no small thing that we do when we gather together and for at time, try with everything we have, to cultivate a community of meaning.  A place where we get to light candles for our sorrows and joys–speak them to each other, even when we are afraid to.  I mean, this is what it’s all about, am I right?  There is a lot that I love about church, but this really is the burning coal at the center of it all for me: a place for us to gather as our whole selves: broken selves, grieving selves, celebratory selves, anxious, exhausted, ridiculous selves.  A place where we get to be all of this, sometimes in the span of a few minutes.  I would say that all of this is what makes this place a “sanctuary” and a holy place.  Because this is sacred and holy work.  Being our whole selves with one another is sacred and holy work.  It is a privilege to enter this sanctuary, your sanctuary today and share in this with you.