Sunday Service, 22 December 2024
Led by Rev. Dr. Jane Blackall
Musical Prelude: Cold Haily Windy Night (performed by Georgia Dawson and Toby Morgan)
Opening Words: ‘Do Not Be Afraid of the Darkness’ by Stephanie Noble (adapted)
Do not be afraid of the darkness.
Dark is the rich fertile earth that
cradles the seed, nourishing growth.
Dark is the soft night that cradles us to rest.
Only in darkness can stars shine across the vastness of space.
There is mystery woven in the dark quiet hours.
There is magic in the darkness.
Do not be afraid. We are born of this magic.
It fills our dreams that root, unravel and reweave
Themselves in the shelter of the deep dark night.
The dark has its own hue, its own resonance, its own breath.
It fills our soul, not with despair, but with promise.
Dark is the gestation of our deep and knowing self.
Dark is the cave where we rest and renew our soul.
We are born of the darkness, and each night
we return to the womb of our beginnings.
Do not be afraid of the darkness,
for in the depth of that very darkness
comes a first glimpse of our own light,
the pure inner light of love and knowing.
As it glows and grows, the darkness recedes.
As we shed our light, we shed our fear, and
revel in the wonder of all that is revealed.
So, do not rush the coming of the sun.
Do not crave the lengthening of the day.
Celebrate the darkness. Here and now.
A time of richness. A time of joy. (pause)
Words of Welcome and Introduction:
These opening words by Stephanie Noble welcome all who have gathered this morning for our Sunday service. Welcome to those of you who have gathered in-person at Essex Church, to all who are joining us via Zoom, and anyone watching on YouTube or listening to the podcast. For anyone who doesn’t know me, I’m Jane Blackall, and I’m minister with Kensington Unitarians.
This morning’s service marks the winter solstice – and as such it’s a celebration of all things wintry – what wisdom might we glean from these darker months of the year – from the shorter days, the bare branches, the fallow fields? The days will soon be lengthening again but let’s not be in too much of a rush to look forward to spring. As Hilary Nicholls says in the words on the front of your order of service (the full text is also up on our website under ‘past services’): ‘Every season offers its special wisdom. Winter brings the opportunity to slow down and turn inward, beckoning us to come back to ourselves. It is also a time of letting go, and an invitation to deeply listen to our bodies and nurture ourselves with extra love and kindness.’ So this morning let us celebrate the subtle gifts of the winter season.
Chalice and Advent Candle Lighting: ‘In the Heart of Winter’ by Jane Blackall
Let’s light our chalice flame now, as we do each week. It’s a moment for us to stop and take a breath, settle ourselves down, put aside any preoccupations we came in carrying. This simple ritual connects us in solidarity with Unitarians and Unitarian Universalists the world over, and reminds us of the proud and historic progressive religious tradition of which this gathering is part.
(light chalice)
In the heart of winter, we light this chalice,
In honour of the endless dance of light and darkness
that plays out through all the days and the seasons of our lives.
Let this chalice flame draw us in, that we may
gather round it and huddle close together,
to know some comfort and connection.
Let this little light make us more aware of
the darkness that enfolds us at this time of year,
that we may welcome its restful and soothing embrace,
and savour all the gifts that this season brings. (pause)
And as it is the fourth Sunday in Advent let us also light our fourth Advent candle – we’ve lit them for hope, peace, joy – this one is traditionally lit in the name of ‘love’. (light four candles)
Hymn (on sheet): ‘The Holly and the Ivy’
Let’s sing together. We’re in carol-singing season so we’re going to squeeze in five hymns today and I’ve mostly picked ones with a particularly wintry mood and earth-centred imagery. The first is on your hymn sheet: ‘The Holly and the Ivy’. For those joining via zoom the words will be up on screen (as they will for all our hymns). Feel free to stand or sit as you prefer and let’s sing up as best we can.
The holly and the ivy, now they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a blossom as white as lily flower,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to be our sweet saviour.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a berry as red as any blood,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to do poor sinners good.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a bark as bitter as any gall,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to redeem us all.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
Candles of Joy and Concern:
Each week when we gather together, we share a simple ritual of candles of joy and concern, an opportunity to light a candle and share something that is in our heart with the community. So we’ve an opportunity now, for anyone who would like to do so, to light a candle and say a few words about what it represents. We’ll go to the people in the building first, then to Zoom.
So I invite some of you here in person to come and light a candle and then if you wish to tell us briefly who or what you light your candle for. I’m going to ask you to come to the lectern to speak this time as I really want people to be able to hear you and I don’t want to keep nagging you about getting close to the handheld mic. And if you can’t get to the microphone give me a wave and I’ll bring a handheld mic over to you. Thank you.
(in person candles)
And if that’s everyone in the room we’ll go over to the people on Zoom next – you might like to switch to gallery view at this stage – just unmute yourselves when you are ready and speak out – and we should be able to hear you and see you up on the big screen here in the church.
(zoom candles)
And I’m going to light one more candle, as we often do, to represent all those joys and concerns that we hold in our hearts this day, but which we don’t feel able to speak out loud.
(light candle)
Time of Prayer & Reflection: based on words by Lyn Cox
Let’s take those joys and concerns into an extended time of prayer. This prayer is based on words by Lyn Cox – it’s something a little bit different than usual – a bit of a guided meditation on the winter season as well as a prayer. You might first want to adjust your position for comfort, close your eyes, or soften your gaze. There might be a posture that helps you feel more prayerful. Whatever works for you. Do whatever you need to do to get into the right state of body and mind for us to pray together – to be fully present here and now, in this sacred time and space – with ourselves, with each other, and with that which is both within us and beyond us. (pause)
Spirit of Life, God of All Love, in whom we live and move and have our being,
we turn our full attention to you, the light within and without,
as we tune in to the depths of this life, and the greater wisdom
to which – and through which – we are all intimately connected.
Be with us now as we allow ourselves to drop into the
silence and stillness at the very centre of our being. (pause)
We pause, this day, as the path of the sun reverses,
seemingly holding its place for a moment of turning.
Let us delve into the gifts of darkness at the winter solstice.
Let us follow curiosity and contemplation into the cold earth,
taking a journey to the world below the surface, where we might find
the burrows of hibernating animals, the acorns stashed away by squirrels,
the seeds that will not sprout until they wait through frost and ice.
We know that life finds rest and renewal in the darkness.
So may those who are weary find comfort.
May those who are struggling find meaning and companionship.
May those who are injured or ill find recovery.
May those who hunger find abundance.
Let this be a time of healing and hope.
And may the dreams of the dark lead us
to share these gifts with one another. (pause)
Now let our imagination return to the surface,
where the cold ground meets the crisp air.
Here we might notice the migration of birds,
moving to find places where they can thrive for a season.
We might observe the trees that appear to sleep,
and yet hold sap that will start to rise again before spring.
And we see that not everything lives through winter,
yet all that has lived returns to the earth and is transformed.
So let this be a time of resilience.
May the changing seasons bring new meaning and new insights.
May creativity and persistence lead us to find resources for all to share.
May those who migrate find safety, and may there be good news in the wind.
May transformation lead us onward. (pause)
We now lift our imagination to the sky,
to the returning sun and the brilliant winter night.
Shifting hours of light and darkness remind us that change
is part of the rhythm of the universe, and so trouble does not last.
Acknowledging the gifts of darkness, we also look forward
to the growing light, a change that brings glimmers of hope.
We marvel at the particular beauty of this season.
So let this be a time of celebration.
What joy can be found, let us hold it close,
blow on its embers, and share its spark.
We do not take for granted having come this far,
and we give thanks for our companions on the journey. (pause)
And in a few moments of shared stillness now, may we speak
inwardly some of those deepest prayers of our hearts —
the joys and sorrows we came in carrying –
in our own lives and the lives of the wider world.
Let us each lift up whatever is on our heart this day,
and silently ask for what we most need. (long pause)
Spirit of Life – God of all Love – as this time of prayer comes to a close, we offer up
our joys and concerns, our hopes and fears, our beauty and brokenness,
and we call on you for insight, healing, and renewal.
As we look forward now to the coming week,
help us to live well each day and be our best selves;
using our unique gifts in the service of love, justice and peace. Amen.
Hymn (on sheet): ‘The Stars are all Shining’ (by Patricia Brewerton)
Let’s sing again now – our second carol is a special treat – as the words were written by our very own Patricia Brewerton. It’s called ‘The Stars are all Shining’ and it’s to the well-known tune ‘Annie’s Song’.
The stars are all shining
Where children are waiting
For people are planning
Surprises of love
Kind thoughts and good wishes
Are everywhere showing
That now it is Christmas
And Jesus has come.
The stars were all shining
When Mary was waiting
The birth of her baby
The hope of the world.
To Bethlehem’s stable
Came shepherds and princes
That very first Christmas
When Jesus had come.
The same stars are shining
Where children are crying
Where people are mourning
The land that they love
Where fear and where hunger
Are daily companions
Yet now it is Christmas
And Jesus has come
And stars will keep shining
Whilst we keep on striving
To wipe away tears in
Our unhappy world.
With words and in actions
With love and compassion
It’s not just for Christmas
That Jesus has come.
Reading: ‘Why I Adore the Night’ by Jeanette Winterson (excerpts, adapted) (read by Patricia)
It's human to want light and warmth. Our pagan ancestors had a calendar of fire festivals, and God's first recorded words, according to the Hebrew Bible, were: "Let there be light." Night belongs to the dark side, literally and metaphorically: ghosts, scary monsters, robbers, the unknown. Electricity's triumph over the night keeps us safer as well as busier.
But whatever extends the day loses us the dark.
We now live in a fast-moving, fully lit world where night still happens, but is optional to experience. Our 24/7 culture has phased out the night. In fact we treat the night like failed daylight. Yet slowness and silence – the different rhythm of the night – are a necessary correction to the day.
I think we should stop being night-resisters, and learn to celebrate the changes of the seasons, and realign ourselves to autumn and winter, not just turn up the heating, leave the lights on and moan a lot. Night and dark are good for us. As the nights lengthen, it's time to reopen the dreaming space.
Have you ever spent an evening without electric light? Make it a weekend, get in plenty of candles, and lay the fire if you have one. Prepare dinner ahead, and plan a walk so that you will be heading for home in that lovely liminal time where light and dark are hinged against each other.
When friends from London arrive, high on electric light, like hamsters on a 24/7 wheel, I slow them down by feeding them food with darkness sealed in it: deep red venison stewed in claret, carp from the bottom of the river, root vegetables grown in rich black earth. Just as our bodies use the sun to store up vitamin D for the winter, so the root vegetables common to autumn and winter have used their summer foliage to lock in the sun. There is a wonderful alchemical image of a black sun – dark, not radiating outwards but inwards – and that packed-in power is what you get in the autumn root vegetables. Little red turnips and ruby-black beetroot, small rough brown swede and deep orange rounds of carrot are dark suns.
We are seasonal creatures – the over-ride button is scarcely 100 years old. Give the body back its seasons and the mind is saner. It is a mistake to fight the cold and the dark. We're not freezing or starving in a cave, so we can enjoy what autumn and winter bring, instead of trying to live in a perpetual climate-controlled fluorescent world with the same day-in, day-out processed, packaged, flown-in food.
Food, fire, walks, dreams, cold, sleep, love, slowness, time, quiet, books, seasons – all these things, which are not really things, but moments of life – take on a different quality at night-time, where the moon reflects the light of the sun, and we have time to reflect what life is to us, knowing that it passes, and that every bit of it, in its change and its difference, is the here and now of what we have.
Life is too short to be all daylight. Night is not less; it's more.
Hymn 87 (green): ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’
Thanks Patricia. Let’s sing again. Our next hymn is in your green book, number 87, ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’.
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
In the ancient story
Of the infant’s birth
Angels in their glory
Promised peace on earth;
But only his mother,
With a mother’s bliss,
Worshipped the belovèd
With a kiss.
Christ was homeless stranger,
So the gospels say,
Cradled in a manger
And a bed of hay:
In the bleak mid-winter
Stable-place sufficed
Mary and her baby
Jesus Christ.
Once more child and mother
Weave their magic spell,
Touching hearts with wonder
Words can never tell:
In the bleak mid-winter,
In this world of pain,
Where our hearts are open
Christ is born again.
Words for Meditation: ‘Walking into Winter Solstice’ by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
We’re moving into a time of meditation now. I’m going to share a short poem for the winter solstice, by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, to take us into the time of silence. The words will take us into a few minutes of shared silence which will end with the sound of a bell. And then we’ll hear some more wintery music from Georgia and Toby. So let’s each do what we need to do to get comfortable – adjust your position if you need to – perhaps put your feet flat on the floor to ground and steady yourself – maybe close your eyes. As we always say, the words and music are just an offering, feel free to use this time to meditate in your own way.
‘Walking into Winter Solstice’ by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Because it is dark
I walk in the dark,
walk with no moon,
walk with the chill
of the measureless dark.
There is peace that comes
from letting the self
be with the world
as it is, and tonight,
it’s a dark world,
a world where I cannot see
far ahead, a world
of silhouette and suggestion,
a world that seems
to cherish whispers
and relish mystery,
a world where
the invitation is
to walk in the dark
without wishing it away,
without championing its opposite,
the invitation is
to be one who learns
how to live with the dark.
Period of Silence and Stillness (~3 minutes) – end with a bell DING
Interlude: The Snow that Melts the Soonest (performed by Georgia Dawson and Toby Morgan)
Reading: ‘Celebrating Winter Solstice’ by Macrina Wiederkehr (adapted) (read by Charlotte)
There is a tendency to want to hurry from autumn to spring,
to avoid the long dark days that winter brings.
Many people do not like constant days bereft of light
and months filled with colder temperatures.
They struggle with the bleakness of land and the emptiness of trees.
Their eyes and hearts seek colour.
Their spirits tire of tasting the endless grey skies.
There is great rejoicing in the thought that light and warmth
will soon be filling more and more of each new day.
But winter darkness has a positive side to it.
As we celebrate the first turn from winter to spring,
we are invited to recognize and honour the beauty in the often-unwanted season of winter.
Let us invite our hearts to be glad for the courage winter proclaims.
Let us be grateful for the wisdom winter brings in teaching us about
the need for withdrawal as an essential part of renewal.
Let us also encourage our spirits as Earth prepares to
come forth from this time of withdrawal into a season filled with light.
The winter solstice celebrates the return of hope to our land
as our planet experiences the first slow turn toward greater daylight.
Soon we will welcome the return of the sun and the coming of springtime.
As we do so, let us remember and embrace the positive, enriching aspects of winter's darkness.
Reading: ‘Wintering’ by Katherine May (excerpt, adapted) (read by Jane)
In your order of service it promises a mini-reflection from me, but I realised that I actually want to do is share somebody else’s words, as what she has to say about winter wisdom puts it better than I can.
I think a few of you will probably have read this book – ‘Wintering’ by Katherine May – it came out a few years ago and (rightfully) got a lot of acclaim. If you haven’t read it yet it’s one I’d recommend. The subtitle (at least on my edition) is ‘the power of rest and retreat in difficult times’. In the course of the book she shifts back and forth between the literal and metaphorical winters of her life – gathering wisdom from human sources and from the natural world about how to live well in the coldest and harshest seasons – and applying it to all those hard times we might face (such as illness, depression, deprivation, loss, or bereavement) at any time of year or indeed any season of our life. I want to share a long-ish excerpt (5 min?) from the introduction to ‘Wintering’ where she explains what it means.
Katherine May writes: Everybody winters at one time or another; some winter over and over again.
Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness; perhaps from a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition, and have temporarily fallen between two worlds. Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting-up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence. Some are appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete, the company you worked for has gone bankrupt, or your partner is in love with someone new. However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful.
Yet it’s also inevitable. We like to imagine that it’s possible for life to be one eternal summer, and that we have uniquely failed to achieve that for ourselves… We’re not raised to recognise wintering, or to acknowledge its inevitability. Instead, we tend to see it as a humiliation, something that should be hidden from view lest we shock the world too greatly. We put on a brave public face and grieve privately; we pretend not to see other people’s pain. We treat each wintering as an embarrassing anomaly that should be hidden or ignored. This means we’ve made a secret of an entirely ordinary process, and have thereby given those who endure it a pariah status, forcing them to drop out of everyday life in order to conceal their failure. Yet we do this at a great cost. Wintering brings about some of the most profound and insightful moments of our human experience, and wisdom resides in those who have wintered.
In our relentlessly busy contemporary world, we are forever trying to defer the onset of winter. We don’t ever dear to feel its full bite, and we don’t dare to show the way that it ravages us. A sharp wintering, sometimes, would do us good. We must stop believing that these times in our life are somehow silly, a failure of nerve, a lack of willpower. We must stop trying to ignore them or dispose of them. They are real, and they are asking something of us. We must learn to invite the winter in. That’s what this book is about: Learning to recognise the process, engage with it mindfully, and even to cherish it. We may never choose to winter, but we can choose how.
Our knowledge of winter is a fragment of childhood: we learn about it in the surprising cluster of novels and fairy tales that are set in the snow. All the careful preparations that animals make to endure the cold, foodless months; hibernation and migration, deciduous trees dropping leaves. This is no accident. The changes that take place in winter are a kind of alchemy, an enchantment performed by ordinary creatures to survive: dormice laying on fat to hibernate; swallows navigating to South Africa; trees blazing out the final weeks of autumn. It is all very well to survive the abundant months of summer, but in winter, we witness the full glory of nature flourishing in lean times.
Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.
Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season when the world takes on a sparse beauty, and even the pavements sparkle. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order… Doing those deeply unfashionable things – slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting – all these are seemingly radical acts these days, but they are essential. (words from the wonderful ‘Wintering’ by Katherine May).
Hymn (on sheet): ‘Dark of Winter’
Let’s sing again. Our next hymn is one I always look forward to, so soothing, ‘Dark of Winter’.
Dark of winter, soft and still,
your quiet calm surrounds me.
Let my thoughts go where they will,
ease my mind profoundly.
And then my soul will sing a song,
a blessed song of love eternal.
bring your quiet to me.
Darkness, soothe my weary eyes,
that I may see more clearly.
When my heart with sorrow cries,
comfort and caress me.
And then my soul may hear a voice,
a still, small voice of love eternal.
Darkness, when my fears arise,
let your peace flow through me.
Announcements:
Thanks to Ramona for tech-hosting. Thanks to Shari for welcoming everyone online. Thanks to Patricia and Charlotte for reading. Thanks to Andrew, Georgia, Toby and Benjie for lovely music today. Thanks to Patricia for greeting and David for doing the coffee. For those of you who are here in-person – please do stay for a cuppa and cake – it’s apple and sultana cake this week.
If you stay on a bit longer you will have considerably more cake options to choose between as from 1.30 to 3.30 today it’s our festive tea dance with Rachel Sparks – all are welcome – suitable for complete beginners and it’s just for fun – there will be line dances and partner dances – please do stay behind to join in and support that if you can. That’s free of charge but there will be a charity collection for ‘Say it Loud Club’ for LGBTQ+ refugees.
That’s not the only special event we’ve got going on this week – on Christmas Eve at 5pm we have our candlelit Christmas Eve service – do join us for that, always a very special occasion. And Carolyn has organised a small group to go out to Pizza Express for dinner afterwards.
On Friday at 7pm we’ve got our regular ‘Heart and Soul’ online contemplative spiritual gathering – we’re not having one tonight as too many regulars are away – but Friday is our Christmas special and a coming-together of the Sunday and Friday regulars so I hope we’ll have a good turnout for that.
Don’t forget we’ve got our New Year’s Mini-Retreat – in-person on the 29th December – or online on the 1st January from 1-4pm. I think I’ve got enough to go ahead in-person now but I’d be glad of a few more people joining us so please do let me know if you’d like to join in with that.
We’ve also got our next Better World Book Club on Zoom on 29th December when we’re talking about ‘Golden: The Power of Silence in a World of Noise’. And looking further ahead we’re planning an afternoon of art and craft play on 19th January.
We’ll be back here next Sunday at 11am as usual with a service on ‘Making Changes’.
Details of all our various activities are printed on the back of the order of service, for you to take away, and also in the Friday email. Or why not take home a copy of our new fancy newsletter?
The congregation very much has a life beyond Sunday mornings; we encourage you to keep in touch, look out for each other, and do what you can to nurture supportive connections.
Hymn 228 (green): ‘Deck the Halls’
We’ve got one more hymn before our closing words and closing music. It’s number 278 in your green books and it’s an uplifting one to end on: ‘Deck the Halls’. Sing up as best you can.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
‘Tis the season to be jolly
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Don we now our gay apparel,
Fa la la, fa la la, la la la,
Troll the ancient Yuletide carol;
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
See the blazing yule before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Strike the harp and join the chorus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Follow me in merry measure,
Fa la la, fa la la, la la la,
While I tell of yuletide treasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fast away the old year passes,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hail the new ye lads and lasses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Sing we joyous, all together,
Fa la la, fa la la, la la la,
Heedless of the wind and weather,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Benediction: based on words by Gregory Jones
As we pass the longest night of the year,
we are warmed by the certain knowledge
that tomorrow will welcome more light than today.
As it has for eons—for billions of years—the coming of light brings life.
So may we be awed by the great miracles of light and life,
and faithfully nurture the mystery and magic of wonder,
as we look toward the coming year and all it may hold.
And may that be so for the greater good of all. Amen.
Closing Music: Gaudete (performed by Georgia Dawson and Toby Morgan)
Rev. Dr. Jane Blackall
22nd December 2024