 Please join in a moment of centering silence so we can be fully present with each other this morning. And now let's get musically present with each other by turning to the words for our in-gathering hymn, which you'll find inside your order of service. Welcome to First Unitarian Society's version of Super Sunday, or as some of us Packer fans call it, Passover. So welcome to First Unitarian Society, where independent thinkers gather in a safe, nurturing, and fun environment to explore issues of social, spiritual, and ethical significance as we try to make a difference in this world. I'm Steve Goldberg, a proud member of this congregation, and it is my particular pleasure to extend a special welcome to any guests, visitors, and newcomers. If this is your first time at First Unitarian Society, I think you'll find that it's a special place. And if you'd like to learn more about our special buildings, we'll be conducting a guided tour after the service today. Just gather over here by the windows after the service, and we'll take care of you. And speaking of taking care of each other, I think you know the drill by now. This is a great time to silence those pesky electronic devices that you absolutely will not need for the next hour. And that goes for those of you watching at home, too. And while you're taking care of that important task, let me remind you that if you're accompanied today by a youngster, and you think that young person would rather see the service from a more private space, we offer a couple options for you. One is our child haven in the back corner of the auditorium. And then we also provide some seats just outside the doorway in the commons, from which you and your young companion can see and hear the service. And one of the reasons we are able to see and hear the service today is we have a team of volunteers who are making sure that the service runs smoothly. So a high five and a hearty handshake to the following people for their help in running the service. Operating the sound system is David Bryles. Thank you, David. Thanks to Tom Boykoff for serving as our lay minister. Thanks to the smiling face of Hannah Pinkerton, who greeted us as we arrived upstairs this morning. And we've got four ushers for this unruly crowd that group includes Gail Bliss, Liza Monroe, Anne Ostrom, and Dick Goldberg. For the coffee and hospitality, we need your help. Nobody has signed up to handle the coffee or the hospitality. So if you'd like coffee today, we would love to welcome you as a volunteer in providing that important service. Okay. The foliage has been watered and tended up here by Joan Heitman. And our tour guide is John Powell. So thank you to those volunteers. Just a couple announcements. One is a printed program, Order of Service announcement. Dan Bronner, our music director, asked me to remind you that the offertory music today will be the Prelude in Be Flat Minor by J.S. Bach, everybody's favorite, played by our guest pianist Alberto Pina. So that's a program change for you. And the only other announcement is a number. I'm going to announce a number and then I'd like somebody to tell me what that number signifies. The number is 96. Yeah, the number of days until cabaret. Mark your calendar for Friday, May 12, May 12, one of the most enjoyable dates on the FUS social calendar, more details to follow. And speaking of things to follow, please sit back or lean forward to enjoy today's service. I know it will touch your heart. Stir your spirits and trigger one or two new thoughts. We're glad you're here. Thank you to our festival choir. And as time goes by, gathered are we ever on the brink of a new day, a new season in our lives, awaiting the further turning of the year on this day from shadow to light. Gathered are we in quiet muse to honor patients and the gathering of strength. Gathered are we that we might look inward to find that spark of the divine, that ember that we might fan into flame, that it might in days to come grow to such size and strength that we must but share it with the world. Gathered are we in a community of love and trust that we might learn to find that same spark within others. Let us seek it now together. I invite you to rise and body and spirit and join in the words of our chalice lighting printed in your order of service. The flame this morning of our chalice this morning is a symbol of the warmth and brightness of our connections. The flame lights our way back together again from our separate lives. And it lights our way forward into a new time of promise and renewal. And I invite you to turn to your neighbors and say good morning. If anyone young or young at heart would like to hear a story, come on down to the front. But for today's story, I think you're going to like the pictures. It's a cloudy day and we should be able to see the pictures OK today. My question first for you is, does somebody ever get scared? No, not ever. Yes, yes. Not even of scared. And what do you do when you get scared? What do you try what you do to try not to feel scared anymore? What kinds of things do you do not to feel afraid? You do some reading. Oh, breathing. Yes, breathing is good. Play music, dancing, that's good. Thinking good thoughts, wonderful. Well, I get scared sometimes too. And when I get scared, I try to remember to go outside and take a walk. Because when I take a walk, I do breathe. I have to breathe when I walk. And I like to think of all the ways I'm connected to the natural world and the universe and everybody else. So that's kind of what this story is leading up to. And I sit over here so you can see the pictures. It's called the everything seed. Have you ever watched a seed grow? Have you ever noticed how it begins so small, so still, so quiet, like a gift waiting to be opened? And how slowly it wakes up begins to unfold, growing into something larger and larger and larger? Then you know that whatever comes from a seed usually ends up looking very little like the seed it came from. Which is also true of the very first seed. Once long, long ago, way back before the beginning of time, so long there was no such thing as time. Because there was no one there to count it. Everywhere was a huge, deep, mysterious place like something waiting to happen. There were no stars, no sun, no moon. There was no place like earth, not a drop of water or a single tree or a rock or flower and no living beings anywhere. But in that deep waiting space was hidden the tiniest point of something no bigger than a seed. It was not a flower seed. It was not an oak tree seed. It was not a seed of corn. Although all of those were included in this seed, you might call it an everything seed. Because that is what it became. No one knows where that first seed came from or how it was planted or how it knew in the way that only seeds seemed to know. How long to wait for just the right moment to sprout and grow. But all at once this tiny seed cradled and nourished in the rich soil of space, woke up, broke open and began to unfold, unfolding, unfolding and blossoming forth into an amazing, enormous blazing ball of bright light like a grandmother's son. And the universe was born out fluttered the galaxies like a storm of snowflakes swirling and gathering into the brightest, most blindingly beautiful clouds of stars. And out of those star clouds whirled our own star, the one we call the sun and our earth and our moon and all the round spinning planets we've learned how to name. And this is the secret of that tiny seed. You and I were there in the very beginning. Just as the idea of each leaf on a big oak tree lies hidden inside an acorn. We were there with all the stars and planets, all the rocks and oceans, plants and animals and people. Everything that is now, ever was or ever will be was inside that first tiny seed. So whenever you hold a seed in your hand and wonder what it could become, imagine how you and all that is here once came from the tiniest speck of an everything seed before it sprouted and grew long, long ago in the way back beginning of time. Now, if this were an ordinary story, it would end right here. But this story of the universe keeps unfolding. What once began in a blazing blossom of light continues every day. New stars sprout open in the deep soil of space. New plants and animals appear on the earth. Seeds of many kinds are scattered everywhere. To help us remember. And new people are born every day with the spark of that first light still alive and burning deep inside, waiting like the everything seed to shine in ways that are yet to be known. Thank you. Those are beautiful pictures. So that's what I try to think about any time I'm afraid. The beauty of just being alive. Thank you for sharing. Let's go to our classes. This morning, one is a short poem by Karen Herring. And the other is a longer story. Hidden in the heart of late autumn's barren fields is the ripening of seasons yet to come. Roots clinging to frozen ground wait patiently for their next long drink. Seeds fallen from last summer's blooms sleep beneath blankets of quilted leaves and feathered snow. Fruits of the future. Words unripened into speech. Truth present but unseen. Evidence yet to be awakened by the faithful unfolding of time and love. And our second reading is Eve's Muse. Describe Adam, you say. Well, he's kind of a wuss. Don't get me wrong, though. Adam's a nice guy. He just adheres to rules a little too strictly. Take his conversation with God before I was created. God tells my husband not to eat fruit from a tree in the center of the garden. Adam unquestioningly goes along with the deal. Sure, God, I won't ever, ever touch that tree's fruit across my heart and hope to die. That's Adam just hanging out and enjoying this paradise, as he calls it. Well, let me tell you, paradise wasn't nirvana. It was beautiful, luscious lakes, meandering rivers, verdant trees, prolific flowers, stunning mountains, but boring. The Garden of Eden lost its appeal pretty quickly. It was nice not to have to work. It was nice, essentially, to have God wait on you hand and foot. Food was abundant, scenery ever wonderful, 70 degree days, light showers in the afternoon, and then back to perfect. But have you ever longed for something because life felt like a matzah cracker, dry and thin? Have you ever wanted something because you knew it would add spontaneity, diversity, and just plain change to your life? I did. Life sat pathetically before me on a silver platter. I didn't have to work, struggle, worry, engage, or contemplate. Life was supposedly perfect, and I was bored. Personally, I think God was bored, too. Why else set up something to tempt so blatantly? God also knew me. He knew I couldn't be stopped. He saw me bored out of my mind in that garden. Adam and I used to sit idly around waiting for something to happen, anything to happen. I fell to twiddling my thumbs. Adam used to ask, is that all you know how to do? And I'd tell him, no, I can go the other way, too, and change the direction of my thumb twiddling. It got to the point where death didn't seem like such a bad alternative to boredom. At least monotony would get a run for its money. Enter the snake. Smooth voice, pleasant, serpent smile, a reptile that made sense. The snake reminded me that it was God who told Adam not to eat the apple. I was getting all my information secondhand. Remember, the snake reminded me, Adam would rather stay in this so-called paradise with the same day, day after day, rather than risk, or challenge, or imagine, or venture anything. It was then that I looked into those snake's eyes and I saw my life. In great big capital letters, the irises of that snake read, oring. I saw myself and myself saw me. It was then that I knew I had to taste the apple. So I did. I took a bite of that tart Christmas and all felt different. My body changed. I felt the sores on my feet. I felt a surge of life in my belly. My mind expands. My vision cleared. For the first time, I felt whole. The spirit of life and love had consumed me. I felt wholly alive, full of the spirit of God. So I went to find Adam. I tried to explain how I felt. He just looked at me in horror and amazement. Yet he kept asking me what it felt like. All I could think to say was, I'm truly human. Adam, I feel more me than ever before. I cajoled, argued, and finally just gave up. I shoved the apple into his taut mouth. He reluctantly took a bite. It was later that he told God it was all my fault. Now here's this part of the story that I must confess needs correcting. I didn't blame the snake for my transgressions. I fessed up and admitted I had eaten the apple. I said in a proud, unwavering voice to God, I am glad to be human. I can spurtle with rage, shake with despair, and bubble in ecstasy. Everything is not perfect, but it is real, alive. I feel sorry for you, God. For you, everything is perfect, always going your way. Do you ever get bored, want to be alive like me? Then God got mad. He cursed us both. He said that I would scream out in pain during childbirth and that I would regret the day I was born. But I must say, I never expected anything different after watching the animals in the garden give birth. They too suffered pain, yet had such a magnificent way to appreciate the outcome. We listened to the end of his tirade, and Adam just plopped down right there, looking out at everything he felt he had lost. I picked up the apple and went to the gate. I stood there for a while leaning against that cold wrought iron, throwing the apple up and down, up and down, up and down. I stood enjoying the rhythm of that apple slap into my hand, followed by silence, as the air embraced it for a brief moment. Then slap, then rest, then slap. I looked out over the vast expanse of that wilderness, thinking about a song I had heard. You can make the world your apple, take a bite before it sours. You can make the world your charm or your chain. I knew it lay before me, my life, my opportunity, my humaneness. And I said out loud in a clear voice, I'm so glad to be human, given nonstop reports about the state of our republic and its drift toward fascism and intolerance. My fears for our children's future continue to grow. My guess is that you may have fears too. Our country's new administration appears to have set the agenda and the tempo for us, and already many of us are breathless. And it is at such times as this that I remember that there's very little I won't do for our children. For example, I will wear a fishnet stocking on my head because it amuses. I will roll down a hill to share with a toddler joys of spontaneity. I will welcome snakes, reptiles into my home in the interest of science. But papa, it's educational. More seriously, I will testify at public hearings. I will become a plaintiff in a lawsuit to help secure the separation of church and state. I will drive for hours to intervene when someone expresses suicidal thoughts. I will march for civil rights with thousands of others in the bitter cold of Wisconsin. Now, I have known fear before, as we all have. In 2009, the year my child started college, I was afraid when I was laid off from work. I had been overwhelmed by the responsibilities of caring for loved ones. And I had begun making mistakes at work. I needed some downtime, and I guess you could say I got it, just not the way I had hoped. I spent the next few months taking care of personal business, putting safeguards in place for my loved ones, and at the same time appreciating some time at home to put my fears in perspective. Thankfully, and with more satisfaction than I like to admit, the boss who fired me was herself let go, and I was rehired. The English poet William Wordsworth wrote, the word world is too much with us. Late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. Such was the case for me in 2009, and so it is for many of us today. When we overcommit ourselves or are burdened by forces outside our control, we can feel that the world is too much with us, and we can lay waste our powers. We can organize, we can march, we can engage in civil resistance in many ways. We can do so much work for good, and still we may feel anxious, weary, or isolated. These are natural human feelings, but I think you might agree that they should not become a daily occurrence. Our muscles evolved not to flex constantly, but to flex and relax, flex and relax. We humans must stop every now and then to refuel, and we must do that before we run out of gas. At times as we see today, it can feel as if we are in a fight for survival, as too many of our brothers and sisters are every day. And author Lawrence Gonzalez offers this caution in his book, Deep Survival. Once fatigue sets in, it is almost impossible to recover from it under survival conditions. It is not just a matter of being tired. It's more like a spiritual collapse, and recovery requires more than food and rest. It may take weeks to recover, and if you're not taking care of yourself, the physical and psychological factors rapidly erode each other, which is why it is so important to pace yourself, rest frequently, and stay hydrated. As I mentioned in introducing our story today, I often find solace in nature. If I communed with nature more regularly, it could be for me a spiritual practice. But sometimes when I grow anxious, I can't see the forest for the trees. I develop tunnel vision, and I ignore the wind and sun on my face. At times I have responded to stress and anxiety by escaping into unhealthy, isolating, and self-indulgent habits around food and binging on TV, movies, games, and social media. Please tell me I'm not alone. What I really needed was literally to have been grounding myself in the here and now, in the real, natural world, to get some exercise and to affirm my connections by serving and supporting other people. With nature's rhythms and cycles, it is not hard to see that unrestrained activity is not sustainable. Plants and animals have evolved to take breaks in their growth cycles now and then. Here in the north, winter dormancy is a perfect example when physical activity in plants and animals slows or stops entirely. Lowered metabolic activity helps organisms conserve energy and survive unfavorable conditions. In the case of many reptiles, a period of dormancy at low temperature is necessary for reproduction. Brumation, as it is called, is one of the things one learns about by having reptiles in one's home. Between Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day, we would put our corn snakes in the front entryway at about 55 degrees so that they would come out ready to breed successfully. It was a lesson in animal husbandry for the whole family that affirmed my daughter's passion and led to a degree in work in biology. Please do not send me emails saying that I suggested dormancy or brumation as a family planning tool. We are not reptiles. What I am saying is that fundamental things do apply as time goes by, as active as we must be in the fight against oppression and injustice. We, like plants and animals, must periodically conserve and renew our energy in the face of unfavorable conditions. And I'm not suggesting that we should collectively abandon the fight, quite the contrary. But every archer must refill their quiver every now and then. Even the Super Bowl has a halftime so that players and officials can catch their breath. Now, I don't know about you, but I have found it challenging sometimes to press the pause button on life. It's so easy to let the calendar and the clock rule our lives. There are so many things we want to do or have to do, so many things that need to be done. Working and putting food on the table, studying, cleaning, provisioning, meeting family responsibilities, writing letters, making phone calls, showing up and supporting others. It can be difficult to observe the Sabbath, take a sabbatical, or plan regular periods of rest and renewal. Sometimes we're forced by illness or injury of ourselves or loved ones to take some time to heal. Sometimes we must delegate tasks or ask for help so that we can take time for self-care. Sometimes when we transgress rules or laws of behavior or the law, we are forced by a timeout, by detention or by incarceration to pause and reflect on our actions so that we may come to understand them from a new or greater perspective. Sometimes in creative endeavors, we must simply sit and wait for our muse to speak. And sometimes when we engage in a spiritual practice seeking inner peace, we reconnect with our core values or are reminded of why we care so much to act. At this point on the wheel of the year, some Earth-centered traditions celebrate imbalc, the midpoint of the dark half of the year. For them, the time has come to bless the seeds and consecrate agricultural tools. It is the festival of the maiden. And from now until March 21, it is her season to prepare for growth and renewal. For many gardeners, now is when mailboxes fill with seed catalogs. And seedlings are started for spring transplanting. My wife will tell you that some people are so eager for planting that they start way too early with way too many seeds. But it is in such Earth-centered traditions that we may find wisdom. Philosophical, spiritual, and religious institutions have for centuries provided communities and methods by which to cultivate and maintain seeds of another kind, courage, connection, and restoration. Such traditions have been called on to help heal the broken, to help mend damaged psychies and relationships, by reframing narratives in moral language and values. And in the process of pausing to connect our experiences with those values, we may find the opportunity to catch our breath. We may find respite, integration, and inspiration. My wife Ellen and I met in a choir while in college, where we learned how important it is to breathe while singing. If you don't breathe in, you can't sing out. And in the years since then, when either or both of us have experienced difficult times, one of the things we tell each other is, remember to breathe. When I'm weary or afraid, I sometimes want to shout, Calgon, take me away. At such times, I try to remember to breathe. And to get outside, take a walk. I try to look up at the sky or the stars to remind myself of how amazing it is just to be alive. To remind myself of all the connections I have with other people and all things today and in Eon's past. When the world is too much with us, when the stresses of life overcome our abilities to cope, it is wise to honor these connections, to help us find meaning, put things in perspective, and develop greater resilience. Yes, we need to pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living. Yes, we need to love the hell out of the world. But as we struggle to hold things together, as we wrestle with the ambitions, needs, and insecurities of our species, as we resist the headlong tumble into an era of oppression and cruelty, we must remember to breathe. Let us pause to honor this time when fields lie fallow, seeds lie dormant, and animals of the north take refuge. Let us consider the miracle of our existence in this brief moment in time and in this minuscule place in the universe. We are the promised kiss of spring. The seven principles of unitarian universalism are based on many sources of wisdom and truth. The first of these is the direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces that create and uphold life. And the seventh of our guiding principles is respect for the interdependent web of all existence, of which we are apart. Long before the principles were codified just 30 years ago, both unitarianism and universalism affirmed transcendental truths and the universal kinship of humanity. Our religious forebears frequently challenged the prevailing order of things, forced people to re-examine their assumptions about life, religion, and society. A contemporary example of this is the question posed recently by Valerie Korb, a Sikh interfaith leader, activist, civil rights lawyer, filmmaker, and educator. What if this darkness isn't the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb? Like a Zen koan or the riddle of a court jester, her words interrupt and reframe our anxieties. She reminds us that conflict need not be seen only as a means of death and destruction, but may hold opportunity as a means for new life and new growth. The process of birth, as most of us know, is rarely without pain. But over the eons, we have evolved to endure strenuous labor. And because we are social preachers, we need not experience the ups and downs of life alone. One of the primary reasons we gather as a faith community is to support one another in our search for truth and meaning. We may find refuge among those with whom we share the warm and bright connections to our values. As in a professional wrestling match, we may tag in and out of the fight. And when we feel disoriented, confused, or lost, Unitarian universalism can help point us in the right direction. These are such complex and dynamic times. It's hard to imagine anyone could be bored. But if it does happen, we can take wisdom from our second reading, Eve's Muse. We may never get back to Eden. We may never reach nirvana. When life, when things come too easily for us, life can feel dry and thin. We need spontaneity, diversity, and change in our lives. And we have far better things to do than twiddle our thumbs. Better to be like Eve than like Adam. Better to risk, or challenge, or imagine, or venture something than to sit by and let life pass us by. Better to feel wholly alive. I am glad to be human. I can spurtle with rage, shake with despair, and bubble in ecstasy. Everything is not perfect, but we are alive. Opportunity and humanness and life lie before us. Let us be grateful and say out loud, I'm so glad to be human in such times as this. Times of unrest, of challenge to our values and those of our nation, as each of us considers what we might do on behalf of our children. We also must allow ourselves the freedom to pause and to breathe. We pause to sing of darkness, quiet and calm, easing our minds. Darkness, soothing our weary eyes so that we might see clearly once again. Darkness comforting our hearts and allowing peace to flow through us. We pause to sing of a still small voice within, to sing of tranquility, of eternal love, and of hope. For that is the power of dormancy, hope, the promise of things to come. We hearken to the words of Karen Herring in our first reading that, hidden in the heart of barren fields, is the ripening of seasons yet to come. That seeds from last summer's blooms sleep beneath the leaves and snow, fruits of the future, words unripened into speech, truth present, but unseen, evidence yet to be awakened by the fruitful unfolding of time and love. Unfolding, like the everything we see, the source of life that connects us to all things. So when the world is too much with us, let us not lay waste our powers. At such a time as this on the brink of a new season in our lives, let us remember to pace ourselves, rest frequently, and stay hydrated. Let us hold fast to the faithful unfolding of time and love. Let us acknowledge the ineffable mystery and have faith that there is more love somewhere. Let us remember our deep connection with all that is and be ever grateful for the chance to be alive. May we also look inward to find that spark of the divine burning deep inside, waiting to shine in ways that are yet to be known. May we fan it into flame that it might grow to such size and strength that we must but share it with the world. May it light our way forward into a new time of promise and renewal when we will look into the eyes and hearts of others and see there that same spark within. So may it be. Unitarian universalism is a grand vision of a world filled with peace and justice, love, and joy. That vision is embodied in a few large congregations, numerous mid-sized congregations, and many, many small congregations. No matter its size, every congregation depends on each of its members. Each one of you, by your commitment of time, energy, and resources, helps make that grand vision real. Individually and together, we are Unitarian Universalists, building a world filled with peace and joy, justice, and love. We'll now take our offer. The city who gathers with joys and in this place we love, we forgive and are forgiven. We give and we receive in return. We come together to find strength and common purpose, turning our minds and hearts toward one another, seeking to bring into our circle of concern all who need our love and support. We have no personal cares to share this morning, but we do have a request to send thoughts and prayers to the Madison homeless community during this time of dark and cold. And we consider all the joys and all the sorrows too tender to share that live in the fullness of our hearts. May we remember that we are a part of a web of life that makes us one with all humanity, one with all the universe. May we be grateful for the miracle of life that we share and the hope that gives us the power to care, to remember and to love. Let's take a moment of silence. Blessed be. If you would, please rise in body or in spirit and join in our closing hymn, number 331. The words today are by Bruce Southworth, in our hungering for meaning, in our aching for friendship, in our yearning for justice, in our hearts remembering of finer days. May we look deep within the mystery of things and gather our strength. May each of us proclaim, as one of God's spies, the graceful power of life and love. And so may we live in hope. Amen.