Lights In the Darkness

At this point in December, most of the time it is dark out there. The sun is receding, the moon is waning, the nights are expanding, and light, in so many ways, is stepping back from our lives. The winter solstice, still a few days away, promises the return of the light, but even then it comes to us slowly, incrementally, as the sun greets us for just a few more moments each day. This is a time of year when universally, the world's faith traditions acknowledge that darkness exists, both physically and metaphorically, and as we acknowledge the presence of darkness in our world and in our lives, I'd like to offer three stories that I hope will light the way.

Story number one takes us back into history.

As I said before, the world's major faith traditions recognize the diminishment of the light that comes at this time of year, and many of them teach the truth of their beliefs through the story of light and dark that emerges now. For the early Romans, December 25th marked the birth-day of the Unconquerable Sun, for Christians the birth of Jesus the Christ, and for Jews, the twenty-fifth day of Kislev, the month that holds the winter solstice, brings Hanukkah.

Hanukkah began just this weekend, and I think many of us know the outline, if not the full story of Hanukkah with some intimacy. As the story is often told - there came a time when a small group of Jews lit a lamp in their temple, knowing that they had only enough oil to last one night. But the light did not go out as they expected, the fire burned for eight days, and faith was restored. This ending to the tale is true, but equally important is the back-story that led up to the lighting the lamp.

Over two thousand years ago, the Alexandrian empire colonized Jerusalem, declaring that all local religions, including Judaism be rooted out. Jewish customs and celebration of Jewish rituals and holidays were forbidden upon pain of death. The Holy Temple in Jerusalem was desecrated, and many Jews turned away from their religion and traditions in order to save their own lives. One small band of Jews, known as the Maccabeus, revolted, leaving Jerusalem, living in the hills and forests and waging a guerilla-style war against their oppressors. In time, the Maccabean forces won their battle, recaptured Jerusalem and set out to rededicate the Holy Temple.

The whole Maccabean army made their way to the temple, and there they found things much worse than they even imagined. They found the temple laid waste, the altar profaned, the gates burnt down, the courts overgrown like a thicket and the priests' rooms in ruin. They tore their garments and wailed loudly, they put ashes on their heads and fell on their faces to the ground. They sounded the ceremonial trumpets and cried aloud to their God.

And then, they got to work. They cleansed the temple and rebuilt it; they consecrated the courts, demolished the desecrated altar and built it anew. They selected new priests without blemish to lead them; they restored the lamp and searched the temple for oil. But the Greeks had defiled almost all of the oils in the Temple, and the Macabees found just one bottle of oil sealed by the High Priest. They knew that once lit, the flame needed to burn without ceasing, and they knew that new oil could not make its way to them for at least a week.

There in temple, the Macabees had to make a choice. After years in the wilderness, they had recaptured their city, rebuilt their temple, reclaimed their traditions, and done the hard work of cleaning up and making things right. With faith and hope in their hearts in the midst of the darkest time of the year there on the twenty-fifth day of Kislev, on the anniversary of the desecration of the temple by their oppressors, they made a decision. They lit the lamp - proving once and for all that no matter what happened around them, no matter what devastation came their way or even what the reality of the situation told them, they would choose faith and hope in the possibility of restoration over and over again. Together they would choose faith in the face of the threat of death. Together they would choose faith in the face of oppression and evil, together they would choose faith even when the light, by all reasonable accounts, should have gone out.

And as we know, of course, from the tale that has been told now for generations upon generations, the light did not go out. Burning for eight nights, the oil was not consumed, and the Macabees' faith in the presence of light in the darkness was restored.

Ever since the late 1800s, rabbis and Jewish scholars have done their best to refocus the attention in this story away from the violent uprising of the Macabees and onto the miracle of the lamp burning bright in the darkness. As spiritual teachers and leaders, they simply could not glorify or support the violent choices of their forbearers, but they could lift up the metaphorical presence of light in the darkness, light that for anyone's best guess should have gone out.

Now I love a miracle story as much as the next person, and the story of a light burning in the darkness is a metaphor that any religious professional can appreciate and draw at least a dozen sermons out of, but this morning, I find myself equally interested in the indisputably true back-story of evil, destruction, and rebuilding that the Hanukkah tale tells.

When the Macabees finally made their way to their temple, their most holy site, after years of oppression and war - they came face to face with the impact of evil and violence. Metaphorically and literally, the symbol at the center of their faith had been destroyed, and what as human beings and people of faith were they to do? They wailed at the heavens, they tore their clothing, they walked into every corner of the temple and bore witness to the destruction, they grieved and they raged.

And when they were done, they got to work. They cleared away the wreckage, they replanted the gardens, they rebuilt the altar and they welcomed new priests. They rededicated their holy temple on the anniversary of its desecration, and together, they proved to themselves that they could and would rise again. And like I said, while I love a metaphorical miracle story as much as the next guy - I have to ask, what about the way that after evil, and after mourning, the Macabees got to work cleaning up, the way that they got to work building a place that in time would stand as a house of faith for people who never even experienced the events that defiled the temple in the first place - well I have to ask, isn't this a miracle too?

The Macabees have much to teach us, even with all of their imperfections. They have much to teach us about how to cope with evil and with loss, and how to get back to the work of faith, of lighting lamps in the darkness that heal and restore not only us, but those to come.

Stories number two and three. These stories come from within our own tradition, stories from two of our most capable and eloquent ministers - one a self-proclaimed humanist, the other a self-proclaimed theist.

First, let me turn our attention to the Reverend William Schulz. Several years ago, the Reverend William Schulz, former president of the Unitarian Universalist Association and Executive Director of Amnesty International for 12 years, offered a paper titled, "What Torture Has Taught Me," to his fellow ministers. Refusing to shy away from the difficult and almost unimaginable realities that he encountered visiting jails and refugee camps around the world, Schulz offered us a distillation of his learnings - a theology that he has come to test against the experience of the victims and perpetrators that he came to know on his travels.

Having come face to face with those who perpetrate violence out of isolation and mistreatment, out of mental illness and of sheer mean-ness, Schulz found himself doubting his faith, just as so many people do when they come face to face with darkness. Schulz found two of the previously solid tenets of his faith shaky - the inherent worth and dignity of every person and the ability of each individual to make a right moral choice. But there amidst his doubt, Schulz also found a reaffirmation of two equally, and perhaps more important tenants of our Unitarian Universalist faith - the indomitability of the spirit and the workings of unfettered grace, even in the midst of darkness. As Schulz prepared to close his talk, he offered up a story.

"Chancing upon a great painting in a European gallery of a defeated Faust sitting opposite the devil at a chess table with only a knight and a King on the board and the King in check, the master stopped to stare. The minutes changed to hours and still the master stared. And then finally, "It's a lie," he shouted. "The King and the knight have another move. They have another move!"

"And that's finally what torture has taught me - that it is not just the King but the knight, not just the Queen but the rook, not just the Bishop but the pawn, not just the wealthy but the pauper, not just the fortunate but the weary, not just the torturer but the tortured, not just the powerful but every single person, every single blessed person until the day we die, every single blessed person on this earth, every single person has another move. We all have another move." [1]

After years of coming face to face with the darkness, this is what rang true. If we are alive, then we all have another move, and it is up to us to take it, getting to work cleaning up the temple and restoring the altar, trusting that through the gift of unfettered and unexplainable grace, the light will shine, even when we know not why it does.

Story number three.

The Reverend Kate Braestrup, chaplain to the Maine Game Wardens and Unitarian Universalist minister, also comes face to face with loss and with evil in her day to day work. As a chaplain, Reverend Braestrup, faces not only the evil of kidnapping and murder, but also the sadness and confusion of seemingly random loss. In her work, she offers her presence and comfort to the families of those who have been lost, and also to the officers who must tend to them. In her book, Here If You Need Me, Braestrup recounts a number of her experiences, wrestling with loss and evil and the questions that they bring up in their many forms.

Driving home one night with an officer named Frank who had just hours before recovered the body of a small child from a frozen pond, Braestrup confronts the eternal question of theodicy. If God exists, the question goes, then where was God in the act of evil, where was God when this little girl dropped beneath the surface of the pond?

Thoughtfully, and with great kindness, Braestrup dares to answer. Quite simply, God is not in the accident or in the doing of evil. No lesson learned from loss is sufficient to believe that God had any hand in it. God, Braestrup tells us in so many ways, God is in what happens next. God is what happened when Frank, took the child out from under the ice with his own hands, cradling her with gentleness and love. God was what happened when Frank tried to give the child his own breath, but couldn't. God was in Frank's breaking heart and God was in the way that Frank went home that night to his wife and his grandchildren and held them tight, offering extra kisses, and then when that was not enough, God was there when he carried the children with those same cradling arms one a time into the double bed he shares with his wife, and together they huddled under the blankets in the depth of December and sweated, and slept. God was not present in the accident, Braestrup tells us. God is in what happens next. [2]

And this, friends, is exactly where all of us come in. If we all have another move, if God is in what happens next, then it is up to us to do as the Macabees did. To name oppression and evil for what it is. To bear witness to our loss, walking carefully into every room of the temple. To grieve with broken hearts, calling out to the heavens and tearing our clothes. And then, when we are ready, it is up to us to get to work. It is up to us to take our next move. To get to work building up the broken, clearing the rubble, and restoring our faith. It is up to us to get to work holding out our hands to each other. Becoming, with each act of compassion, one small light on the web of life that holds and heals us all.

So it turns out that my message today is a simple one. No matter what you have done, no matter what has been done to you, whether by intention or by accident, no matter what darkness you may encounter in your life - Look up. Look up and see the optimistic finger of the sun peaking through the blind, warming the shade. Look up, here and now, and be a part of what happens next. Look up and see the way that unexplainable grace continues to move among us. Look up and take your next move, for yourself or for someone else. Look up, and join this community that puts its faith into action - naming and grieving the dark spots of our reality, and then getting to work, bringing the holy to life in what happens next. Add your words and actions to the millions of small acts of compassion that light up the web of life that heals and holds us. Look up, and light up the world with your kindness, one small act of compassion at a time.

May it be so, and Amen.

Jen Crow, Associate Minister
December 13, 2009

1. http://www.meadville.edu/Lectures/Torture.pdf, p.19
2. Here If You Need Me, Kate Braestrup, pp.186-189