 Merry Christmas. Well, I think we should stand and sing some Christmas carols before we get started. Let's rise and sing Deck the Hall. We follow the hall. How about the first Noel, number 237, if you have a hymnal? It is Christmas Eve. As we wait for the rebirth of hope, as we look for a star, as we find once again a shimmering light within that reminds us that joy is possible, forgiveness is possible, possible, peace is possible. Let us greet this hour of possibility with these words from Libby Stoddard. The winter holiday season is a time of excitement. It is a season for all our senses. It is a season for looking at candles, strong lights, at festooned store windows. It is a season for hearing rich music, greetings joyfully given, the squeak of snow underfoot on crisp cold mornings. It is a season that the sense of smell can locate on a calendar. Lakka's frying evergreens, the perfumes of candle and hearth fire. It is a season for tasting fruitcake, candy canes, cookies, the first snowflake on your tongue. It is a season for touching hugs of welcome and farewell, the prickle of pine, the texture of mittens, scarves, and stocking caps. It is the season for our sixth sense also, our unnamed sense, the deep pleasure of seeing those we love, of caring about those we do not know, wonder at the old story's new meanings, the warmth of old memories no one can take away, and the hope of better memories in the making. We come together, bringing the season and its excitements with us. Let us attend and let us rejoice. We invite you now to rise in all the ways we do and join together in our words of affirmation as we light our chalice. In the winter season of the year, dark and chilly, let us come into Christmas here. Let this light and warmth brighten our lives and our world. Let us find in the dark corners of our souls the light of hope, a vision of the extraordinary in the ordinary. Let us find rest in the quiet of a holy moment to find promise and renewal. Let us find the child in each of us, the new hope, the new light born in us. Then will Christmas come? Let's sing together our opening hymn number 226, People Look East. Our first story this evening, a cobweb Christmas. Once upon a Christmas time, long ago in Germany, there lived a little old woman. She was so little she had to climb upon a step stool to reach her feather bed, and so old she couldn't even count all the Christmases she'd seen. The children in her village called her Tanta, which means Auntie in German. Tanta's home was a cottage at the edge of a thick fir forest. The cottage had been one room, but one room, one door, and one window, and no upstairs to it at all. It suited the old woman, for there was room enough within its walls for her to keep a canary for singing, a cat for purring, and a dog to doze beside the fire. Squeezed up against the cottage was a barn. The barn was a bit bigger, and in it, Tanta kept a donkey for riding and a cow and a goat for milk and cheese. She had a noisy rooster as well to crow her out of bed each morning and a speckled hen to lay an egg for her breakfast. With so many animals about, the tiny cottage wasn't tidy. But Tanta didn't fuss over a few feathers, a little fir, or a spiderweb or two. Except once a year, when the days got short and the nights grew long, the old woman would nod her head and say, time to clean for Christmas. Then she'd shake the quilt and wash the window and scour the soot from the kettle. She'd scrub the floor on her hands and knees and stand tiptoe on her step stool to sweep the cobwebs from the ceiling. This Christmas was just as always. Wake up, said Tanta, snapping her fingers. The dog stopped dreaming and dashed off to dig for bones beneath the bushes. Scat, cried Tanta, flapping her apron. The cat hid under the bedclothes and the canary flew to the chimney top. Shoe, scolded Tanta, swishing her broom. All the spiders and each little wisp of web went flying out the door as well. When she'd washed and wiped every crack and corner of the cottage, the old woman nodded her head and said, time to fetch Christmas. Then Tanta took the ax from its peg in the barn and hung the harness with the bells upon the donkey. She scrambled onto the donkey's back, nimble as a mouse, and the two jogged and jingled into the fir forest. They circled all around, looking for a tree to fit Tanta's liking. Too big, she said of some, and crooked is a pretzel, she said of others. At last, she spied a fir that grew straight, but not tall, bushy, but not wide. When the wind blew, the tree bent and bobbed a curtsy to the little old woman. It wants to come for Christmas, Tanta told the donkey, and so it shall. She chopped down the tree with her ax, taking care to leave a bow or two so it might grow again. And they went home. Only now, the donkey trotted with the tree upon its back, and Tanta skipped along beside. The tree fit the cottage as snugly as if it had sprouted there. The top touched the rafters and the tips of the branches brushed the window on one side and the door frame on the other. The old woman nodded her head and said, time to make Christmas. Then Tanta made cookies. She made gingerbread people. She baked almond cookies cut into crescents like new moons. Cinnamon cookies shaped like stars. When she'd sprinkled them with sugar and hung them on the tree, they looked as if they had fallen straight from the frosty sky. Next she rubbed apples until they gleamed like glass and hung these up too. Tanta put a red ribbon on a bone for the dog and tied up a spring of catnip for the cat. She stuck bites of cheese into pine cones for the mice and bundled bits of oats to tuck among the branches for the donkey and the cow and the goat. She strung nuts for the squirrels, wove garlands of seeds for the birds, and cracked corn into a basket for the chickens. There was something for everyone on Tanta's tree, except of course for the spiders for they had been brushed away. When she was done, the old woman nodded her head and said, time to share Christmas. Tanta invited all the children in the village to come and see the tree as she did every year. Tanta the children cried. That's the most wonderful tree in the world. When the children had nibbled the apples and sampled the cookies, they went home to their beds to wait for Chris Kindle. Chris Kindle was the spirit who went from house to house on Christmas Eve and slipped presents into the toes of their shoes. Then Tanta invited the animals to come and share Christmas. The dog and the cat and the canary and the chickens and some small, shy, wild creatures crowded into the cottage. The donkey and the cow and the goat peered in the window and steamed the pain with their warm breath. To each and every visitor, Tanta gave a gift. But no one could give Tanta what she wanted. All of her life, Tanta had heard stories about marvelous happenings on Christmas Eve. Roosters would crow at midnight. Bees could hum a carol. Animals might speak aloud. More than anything else, Tanta wanted some Christmas magic that was not of her own making. So she sat down in her rocking chair and said, now it's time to wait for Christmas. She nodded and nodded and nodded her head. Tanta was tired from the cleaning and the chopping and the cooking, and she fell fast asleep. If the rooster crowed when the clock stuck 12, Tanta wasn't listening. She didn't hear if the donkey whispered in the cow's ear or see if the dog danced jigs with the cat. She snored in her chair just as always. She never heard the rusty, squeaky voices calling at her door. Let us in. Someone else heard. Chris Kindle was passing the cottage on his way to take the toys to the village children. He listened. He looked and saw hundreds of spiders sitting on Tanta's doorstep. We've never had a Christmas, said the biggest spider. We're always swept away. Please, Chris Kindle, may we peek at Tanta's tree? So Chris Kindle opened the cottage door a crack just wide enough to let a little starlight in for what harm could come from looking and he let the spiders in as well. Huge spiders, tiny spiders, smooth spiders, hairy spiders, spotted spiders, striped spiders, brown and black and yellow spiders and the palest kind of see-through spiders came creeping, crawling, sneaking, softly scurrying, hurrying, quickly, lightly, zigging, zagging, weaving and wobbling into Tanta's cottage. The curious spiders crept closer and closer to the tree. One, two, three, skittered up the trunk and all the other spiders followed the leaders. They ran from branch to branch in and out back and forth up and down the tree. Wherever the spiders went, they left a trail behind. Threads looped from limb to limb and webs were woven everywhere. Now the spiders weren't curious any longer. They'd seen Christmas. They'd felt Christmas, every twig on the tree. So they scuttled away. When Chris Kindle came back to latch the door, he found Tanta's tree tangled with sticky, stringy spider webs. He knew how hard Tanta had worked to clean her cottage. He understood how dismayed she'd be on Christmas morning. But he didn't blame the busy spiders. Instead, he changed their cobwebs into a gift for Tanta. Chris Kindle touched the spokes of each web with his fingers. The twisted strands turned shiny gold. The dangling threads sparkled like silver. Now the old woman's Christmas tree was truly the most wonderful in the world. The rooster woke Tanta in the morning. What is this? She cried. She rubbed her eyes and blinked at the glittering tree. Something marvelous has happened. Tanta was puzzled as well as pleased. So she climbed on her stool, the better to see how such magic was spun. At the tip top of the tree, one teeny, tiny spider unnoticed by Chris Kindle was finishing its web. Now I know why this Christmas is not like any other, said Tanta. Tanta knew too that such miracles come but once. So each Christmas time thereafter, she didn't clean so carefully, but left a few webs in the rafters so that the spiders might share Christmas. And every year after she'd hung the cookies and the apples and the garland on the tree, Tanta would nod her head and say, time for Christmas magic. Then Tanta would weave tinsel among the branches until the tree sparkled with strings of gold and silver, just as her tree did on the cobweb Christmas, just as Christmas trees still do today. I don't like green apples anymore. I used to. I also liked Saturday afternoon movies, collecting match folders, saving tinfoil, playing kick the can, gathering horse chestnuts, picking up old spikes along the railroad track, and eating mustard sandwiches. I have no desire to do these things anymore. I have outgrown them. I have outgrown so many things. Happily, there is much I have not outgrown. I still get pleasure, both immediate and nostalgic, from the acrid odor of beach trees on warm spring days, from the heavy sweetness of a field of buckwheat in blossom, the subtle smell of clean sawn pine boards, and the saw sound of cicada. I still fly kites, make snowballs, catch falling leaves, and read the Sunday comics. I still take delight in knocking down icicles or apples, and I have not outgrown Christmas. My growing up was in a gabled, turreted antebellum house in an upstate village cupped in a valley in the high wooded foothills of the Appalachians. It was a village supported by a few small industries that had not yet caused pollution. It was a time when cars were as scarce as money. Kids could play safely in the streets or use vacant lots for games that were one quarter play and three quarters argument. Those were the days before we became affluent and lost the advantages of respectable poverty. It was the time and setting for the perfect picture card type of Christmas with lots of snow, good cheer, gifts, and jingling bells. But the waiting, the last leaves so easily fallen, had been so tediously raked. The last hickory nuts gathered and Indian summer days frozen to drab emptiness before the lasting snow. Christmas had become a selfish obsession and an elevating dream. In anticipation, it was greedier than a birthday, freer than the last day of school, more exciting than the 4th of July, more loving than Mother's Day, more delicious than Thanksgiving and more reverent than Memorial Day. Anticipation gained momentum as the magic month dragged on. Finally, it arrived in an avalanche of sheer delight. There was the tree each year the most beautiful one we've ever had, with ornaments as fragile as memories and the candy, warty peanut brittle and mouth drying peanut butter fudge, airy divinity and ribbon candy that cut your gums, tooth locking taffy, and stuffed dates that dried out because no one ever ate them. There was the gleam of tinsel and the annual disappointment of those black rubber boots with red tops given by a practical aunt. There was the ever new sameness of sight and sound and taste that I have not outgrown to this day. I still hang up my stocking for Santa to fill. I still want snow for Christmas, and the tinsel trimming is just as beautiful as ever. I have seen Christmas plays performed so many times, I almost know the lines, and I like it. Now the trees are not so big, the ornaments so old, nor the anticipation quite so magical, but I've never grown too big for Christmas. Let's rise together in body and or in spirit to sing him number 246, O little town of Bethlehem. Long, long ago on the far hills of Judea, there were pastured many flocks of sheep. Among them were two late-born lambs. They followed their ewes for the best grazing, but they huddled close to their shepherds to listen to satisfy their curiosity about many things. Now among the shepherds there was an ancient one, well-versed in prophecy and lore. As the days waxed colder, he began to speak of a great expectancy that was spreading among the Arab and the Hebrew tribes. It concerned a child who was to be born of lowly folk, yet born to be a king. The two small lambs listened, a child born of lowly folk to become a king. Here was a great wonderment. Shepherds and sheep were lowly. Could it be that among the shepherds huts below this baby might be born? Was it among the hills of Judea that the great expectancy would come to pass? The ancient one reminded all who listened that with all great prophecies, there comes always a sign of when and where the happening might come. But much time passed, nothing happened. The small lambs grew overeager, troubled. One night as they lay close to their mothers, they could not sleep. At last the smaller lambs spoke. Nothing is ever found unless it is searched for, not even grass. Come, let us go down the hill and look for this child. So the two lambs began their search. They looked into every hut, they circled every fire where shepherds lay keeping watch. They found nothing. Now where do we go, asked the larger lamb. We keep on, said the smaller lamb. Thus they came to a road that wound between the hills. It was the road to Bethlehem, but this they did not know. As they went, the small lamb lifted his eyes to the stars for some sign, some beckoning light. The other lamb plotted along looking for hindrances. At long last, he said, I am tired. There is nothing but foolishness to this search. Sheep are called silly creatures and that is what we are. I will lay me down by the road and sleep until morning. Then I will return to my flock. Lay yourself down, said the smaller lamb. I go on. So the two lambs went their separate ways. Gladness and wonderment welled up in the heart of the smaller lamb as he followed the road. I think his eyes were the first to catch the brightening of the skies and see the star. His ears the first to hear the angels singing. I will follow the star. That is the sign, he said. The star led the small lamb to the lowly stable. The door opened to the night. From inside shone radiance and he could hear the lowing of cattle, the stamping of donkey's feet. He entered and inside found the baby, his mother crooning over him. The lamb knelt and nuzzled the tiny hands. He said softly to the shining child, you will remember and I will remember that a small lamb was the first to find you. Then he departed into the night to tell all who would listen and understand. Let's stand and sing together our hymn number 244 which came up in the midnight. This reflection from Kirk Lodeman Copeland. In this season, let us recall the story of the wise ones, symbol of wisdom that echoes across the centuries. Everywhere we turn, we see the obvious signs of Christmas. Yet Christmas is far more an inward reality than outward circumstance, far more a spiritual destination than a commercial enterprise, far more an incarnation of love than disembodied divinity, far more a parable of wisdom than a story of a birth and a stable. In this season, we are invited once more to walk in the footsteps of the wise men who followed a star and eventually found a babe in a manger in a stable in the town of Bethlehem. The book of Matthew does not tell us much about the wise men or their reason for making such a long and arduous trip to Bethlehem. In the original Greek text, they are called Magi, a word thought to refer to Zoroastrian priests of Persia. This suggests the possibility that the wise men made a much longer trip than we ever imagined, not a trip across the desert, but a trip across time. Perhaps they traveled a thousand years bringing with them the celebration of the birth of the Persian god, Mithra. Legend has it that Mithra, a being both human and divine, was found one night by shepherds, abandoned in a cave. As he grew, Mithra did many wondrous things for people until he finally returned to the sky, traveling daily across the heavens in a flaming chariot. Stories too have the ability to travel across time to be refashioned and reused. The tradition of gift giving that surrounds Christmas focuses on the gifts that we give and receive. The wise men, so it is said, brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Gifts of great value to give to this infant, although there's no mention of what happened to those gifts. There are many other gaps in the nativity story and one may wonder about the omissions. Human curiosity and creativity suggest possible narratives to fill the gaps. Do you wonder what the wise men took with them as they headed back to the far off land from which they had come? Perhaps they took faith with them, faith in the human capacity for goodness, faith in the ultimate triumph of justice, faith in the power of truth. Perhaps they took love with them, for that was the gospel that Jesus preached. His good news was his belief in the transforming power of love, a radical love of oneself, one's neighbor, the stranger, and even, perhaps most importantly, one's enemy. Perhaps they took hope with them, hope in the possibility that a better world might one day come into being. After all, Jesus spoke passionately about his vision of the kingdom of God and inward commitment to a way of being that can profoundly impact a person's actions and therefore the world. In our tradition, the kingdom we envision is the beloved community where there is peace, liberty, justice for all. In the tradition of the wise ones over all the centuries, over all the countries and continents, what gifts could we bring to the world? Might we bring a generosity of spirit that makes it possible for us to focus on abundance as well as the willingness to share what we have? Might we bring a willingness to forgive based upon an injunction to forgive 70 times seven, but also based upon an awareness of the worth and dignity of every person? Might we bring a commitment to justice, to equity, to compassion as the foundation of human relations as a basis for peace on earth and goodwill to all? Might our ongoing search for truth and meaning help us to discover again the essence and the peace of Christmas as some newly remembered dream? In this season, let us be wise ones bearing gifts of faith and love and possibility. In doing so, we join a long procession of people across the ages that again and again have carried with them the gift of hope. I invite you now into a time of giving and receiving, which we give freely and generously in support of the ideals we cherish. Our gifts from this and all of our holiday services provide a great deal of the funding that runs Just Dane's eviction prevention program. Sometimes the difference between a family being out on the street or staying in their home can be a little help with the rent. With your help, Just Dane and Joining Forces for Families are helping people to prevent eviction and homelessness. There are many ways to contribute. There are baskets now being passed here in the hall in which you can place cash or checks. You'll see on the screen that you can donate directly from our website, fussmedicine.org. You'll also find the text to give information there as well. We thank you for your generosity and your faith in this life we create together. We stand with eyes toward the east, awaiting the rising of the star and pray that love shall become flesh and dwell among us and that compassion shall be born in human hearts. Let us be still in the darkness of our sacred space and listen to the quiet around us. For even in the quiet, there is the gentle being with others. Let us feel the warmth of our community knowing we are not alone. For in the quiet shadow is the glow of life within all. Let us know in the darkness the gift each candle bears, a small flame, a diminutive light, yet the wondrous gift to kindle another's glow. Let us be in awe at this moment as we each take up the flame and the light envelops this room as hope for peace and goodwill fill this night. Tonight, in this community, we have shared stories, sung carols, opened our hearts to the beauty of music, tonight we have turned to one another, lighting each other's candles in the dark, tonight we have dared to hear a message of hope spoken once again against the challenge of the world. It is time now to extinguish your candles and depart to go forward to our lives and to the world. May you carry this light with you in your heart as you go. May joy be your companion, whether you are with others or alone. May love be your strength and may the gift of community dwell always in your heart. On this night of deep darkness and indestructible hope, we wish you peace, goodness and joy, tonight and always. Good night, Merry Christmas, peace and goodwill to all.