 Let us take a minute to be present to ourselves and to one another in silence and reflection. And now, if you will, join me in our in-gathering hymn number 403, Spirit of Truth of Life of Papurius Seekers. We wish to explore spiritual, ethical, and social issues in an accepting and nurturing environment. We support the freedom of conscience for each individual, as together we seek to be a force for good in the world. My name is Jim O'Brien, and on behalf of the congregation, I would like to extend a special welcome to visitors. I'd like to take just a moment. Could we have a show of hands? Any visitors here? Oh, look at that. Fine. Go to these people like bees to the swarm afterwards. Make them feel welcome. You are indeed very welcome. And we'd like to prove that we are a welcoming congregation. So, whatever your race, spiritual perspective, ethnicity, physical ability, or sexual orientation, we celebrate your presence among us. If you're new to FUS, please accept our invitation to stay for the fellowship hour after the service. Visit the library straight across the hall and bring your drinks and your questions. Members of our staff and lay ministry team will be on hand to welcome you. And if you've never toured the facilities, do we have a tour guide available here after the service? Yes, we do. So if you're interested in taking a tour of our newly designed, very fancy facility, if you meet after the service right over there, the tour guide will find you and you'll get a tour. I've never done one of those myself. I think I would do that sometime. We also invite you to turn off all electronic devices except my microphone. Experienced meeting guides were available and they will show you around. Oh, I've skipped the paragraph. Yes. We welcome children as well as adults. Be advised that sometimes if it gets noisy, a child would like to be in a quieter environment. There's a children's haven in the back there with wonderfully comfortable seats, not that I've ever been there. Or in the commons area out there. Service can be seen and heard from those locations. Now, I'd like to acknowledge the volunteers who help our services run smoothly. Our sound operators, Marshalls, always a favorite of people standing up here. Our lay ministers, Ann Smiley, our greeters, Carol Angel, Usher's Karen Hill, Usher's Douglas Hill, possibly some connection going on there. Hospitality, Terry Felton and Jean Hills and Joan Heitman is responsible both for the pulpit palms and the orchid care. And we are very grateful for that. It's these people, these volunteers who make this whole thing work. I don't have any particular announcements to point to, but there are announcements of interest in the order of the red floors and something to read during the sermon. Again, welcome. We hope that today's service will stimulate your mind, touch your heart and stir your spirit. Be more familiar. Modern science, after all, has learned a fair amount about the physics of the sun and astronauts have landed on the moon. Even though their distance from us makes them appear much smaller than they are, something like a nickel and a quarter, we know the great importance of these celestial bodies in our daily round. Somehow, we know we wouldn't have a daily round without them. Compared to those who live before us and to traditional cultures that survive to our day, our view of the sun and moon seems impoverished. Hot gas, dusty dead rock. Yet what of the moon sailed from our side and the sun dimmed to darkness? There seems to be something essential lacking in our perceptions. Perhaps thinking we know so much about the sun and moon prevents us from seeing them directly, from experiencing their force and their living relationship to the earth. Before modern science, supernatural powers were believed to be the source of life. From this perspective, divine light travelled from the sun and was reflected by the moon. These celestial bodies, through story and myth, became symbols of human consciousness. To this day, we talk of enlightenment and of journeys into the darkness as the light of perception sinks beyond the horizon of our understanding. In the past, Midsummer and Halloween celebrated a time when the veil between the physical and the supernatural was thinned. Fairies, elves, goblins and other entities were on the prowl. Thus, with the right approach and ceremony at these times, it was possible to restore balance to the world from a deep well of collective wisdom. If you would like to stand and respond to the italicized, I've got to find it myself. The sun has at last warmed us enough that we begin to trust in its presence. The last birds of spring blossoms are giving way to summer lilies and roses. O source of the turning seasons of earth, of life, of promises gradually brought to fruition, may our burdens be lifted by its radiance. And now, if you'd like to turn to your neighbors and welcome them, that would be cool. If you'd like to turn to hymn number 27, I am that great and fiery force. To this time and place, we bring our received, celebrated and shared. This morning, we're going to invite anyone who wishes to come forward, light a candle, tell us who they are and what their joy or sorrow is. However, that's not necessary. You can simply light a candle in memory of your interest and let it go at that. It's necessary to mention that this is not a time for political commentary, and we are also on the web, so the message will go far beyond this room. So, anybody who wants to share, do so now. On Father's Day, my oldest son, the one who says never give mother a microphone, called me from San Francisco to say that he and his wife are expecting their first child in mid-October. It will be my fourth grandchild. To share a concern, my daughter-in-law's sister had a very severe medical crisis over the past week and apparently had heart failure and they're not sure why, but it's been pretty traumatic for the whole family, so I'm wishing both her and her family good wishes. Good morning. My name is Mary, and I found out yesterday that my 30-year-old niece is in intensive care. She's had two surgeries to save her finger after her ring accidentally caught on something, so kind of an unexpected accident, so keeping her in my thoughts. If there are no more messages, we'll light one more candle in honor of the unexpressed joys and sorrows which all of us carry with us. Because of this time-shared, may our burdens be lightened and our joys expand. And now, a little music for the journey. I'm going to ask you to stand and sing number 66 when the summer sun is shining. But sleeping in the wild on the summer solstice. To watch the sun descend beneath the horizon, warming your face with the last of its heat. While you sit snug in your sleeping bag, the earthy aroma of soil, the soil mattress filling your nostrils, waiting for the surrounding landscape to fade into the darkening sky. That's the dream, anyway. And one I have endeavored to realize for the past three years, every summer solstice eve, on one very special Scottish mountain called Ben Hope. Sitting between the Kile of Thong and Loch Eroboly, the rising to a height of 3,041 feet. This is the most northerly of all the Mun Rose, mountains over 3,000 feet, in the country. From the summit, you can gaze north, and if weather permits, see the Orkneys. Legend has it that on the night of the solstice, due to its northerly coordinates, you can watch the sun sink down and almost immediately rise up again. As close as Britain gets to a midnight sun. I arrived there last solstice to see if I could catch a glimpse of it. Third time lucky. The previous two times, I'd been rained off. In my rucksack was a warm sleeping bag, a camping mat, stove and gas, lots of food, a fleece, duvet jacket, head torch, hat, gloves, map, compass, and of course, my bivvy bag. This is essentially a waterproof pouch for your sleeping bag. A bivvy represents wild camping. That is, pitching away from a proper campsite. Unlike a tent, there's no room for your gear and no porch to cook in. But then it doesn't remove you from the outdoors in quite the same way. A tent does. From a bivvy, you can lie out in the elements and watch the stars dance overhead and wake by the light from the sunrise. On route to the summit, I tried to ignore the grey clag swirling around it. I plowed on up the path for a couple of hours as rain became hail, driven into my face by a screaming wind. My boots crunched as I trod over rocks to reach the trig point at the top of Ben Hope, from where I could see nothing. I headed back, but I'd not given up hope. Halfway down the mountain is a flattened patch of grass next to a stream. There, sheltered, I set up camp. As the water in my stove splattered and globed, I warmed a meal with it first, then poured the remainder into a bottle, wrapped it in fleece for use as a hot water bottle, and surveyed my surrounds. To my left, the stream trickled soothingly as it cleaved its way into the valley below. To my right, the grass glistened green, bejeweled by raindrops. And beyond, I could make out the edge of the hillside, behind which the sea appeared merely as a faded watermark against the dull light of the setting sun. It might not have been the summit sleep I'd hoped for, but then I couldn't complain. Anywhere, even slightly wild, including your local small hill, can be perfect for a solstice sleepout. Movement woke me in the early morning half-light. Only a little after 5 a.m. it was already light enough to see a five-strong herd of deer crossing the river only metres from my feet. Clouds still sat on the hill, but from my bed I could spy the muted colours of the dawn breaking through. I smiled, let the crowds have their solstice parties. For me, a night on a hill is as wild as I want it. Our meditation is by Mary Oliver called Another Summer Begins. Summer begins again. How many do I still have? Not a worthy question, I imagine. Hope is one thing, gratitude another, and sufficient unto itself. The white blossoms of the Shad have opened, because it is their time to open. The mockingbird is raving in the porn bush. How did it come to be that I am no longer young? And the world that keeps time in its own way has just been born. I don't have the answers, and anyway, I have become suspicious of such questions. And as for hope, that tender advisement, even that I'm going to leave behind. I'm just going to put on my jacket, my boots. I'm just going out to sleep at this night in some unnamed flowered corner of the past. This year is unique for many reasons. You can probably think of many, both personal and public. But the one I want to mention right now is the subject of this service. The summer solstice fell at 5.34 on Monday evening, together with a full moon. Known as the Strawberry Moon by native people, it coincides with the ripening of wild strawberries. This configuration happens only once every 70 years. Did you notice? Three weeks ago, Michael asked if there was a benefit to preserving memories, and how reliable they are when retrieved. Two weeks ago, Kelly talked about coping in a time of polarization, and asked if it was possible that, as a society, we are suffering from a failure of imagination. Then last week, Michael reflected on antithodes to cynicism, while endeavouring to remain hopeful and upbeat, at a time when the world seems to be falling apart. Sun and moon have been hanging around for a long time. In fact, since the Earth started its journey in space billions of years ago, it seems proper to think about their role in our existence. Homo sapiens is barely a spark in the eye of evolution, and the sun and moon are probably our oldest relatives. We're a successful species, but seem to be doing an interesting job of messing things up. Maybe it's worth a consultation with these ancient celestial bodies, or at least considering them as good models for survival. Let me start with some background. My own British heritage is filled with Celtic and Norse traditions. I couldn't avoid it. Places like Holywell, a little spring in the middle of nowhere, endowed with healing properties, and the fairy glen were around the corner. I lived for my first seven years in Avery Square. Everywhere I turned, history was on the doorstep. Spring and midsummer rites were celebrated at the local village school. One year, I was one of six attendants to the flower queen, dressed in flowing white dresses with reeds on our heads. We carried baskets of flowers. These were thrown to the younger children who lined the procession, and we watched from a dais while country dances were performed on the local manor house lawn. Sprites, fairies, and other nature spirits were a big part of my formative years. The woods and fields were full of fairy rings and nooks and crannies, where pixies might be hiding. It was all part of the wallpaper. In summer, the days in England are long. On midsummer night, it doesn't get dark until after 10.30, and dawn is around 5 a.m. It was hard to sleep. I remember watching fascinated from my bedroom window as the sun dropped through branches of a neighbor's tree, gradually reddening as it dipped below the garden fence. During the day in the garden hedge, I happily fashioned fairy houses out of unused birds' nests, moss, and rose petals. All this existed comfortably side by side with the church events that were part of my family's social network. Both my grandfathers and an uncle were ministers. Somehow, there was never any conflict between ancient rituals, the methodist focus of my family, and the Anglican village school. I found the moon and stars fascinating quite early, and I learned and identified constellations. In those days, there was much less light pollution. We had blackout curtains in the houses, our garden was a good location, and my father a good source of knowledge. It was one of the things we enjoyed doing together, lying on our backs, watching the sky, looking for shooting stars, tracing the Milky Way, and telling stories, probably mimicking something that has been happening since our ancestors first tried to make sense of the world. Until quite recently in human history, the sun, moon, fires, and warm clothing were the only source of light or heat. The necessity of an intimate relationship with the environment was the difference between living and dying. Everything was understood to have a unique spirit, and you certainly didn't want to fall out with them. The sun and moon were divine beings, and stories aimed to explain their behavior. Rituals and beliefs were created to make them reliably happy. Life was so much more dangerous and uncertain than we will ever know. The closest we can come is through imagination and the small clues that have endured the tests of time. Wherever a culture appeared, stories pertinent to that culture's beliefs were born. These tales were then passed from generation to generation, and morphed into one another like an epic game of telephone, even written down they continue to be shaped by culture today. If you think about it, one of the best examples is one that's still being adapted today. Parallels in both imagery and story between the various Middle Eastern sun gods and the Son of God are striking. Virgin birth, bringing dead people back to life, miraculous healing, exorcisms, transfiguration, crucifixion, resurrection, ascension, and judgment from on high had all been attributed to various local deities for centuries prior to the possible birth of a man known as Jesus of Nazareth. No one really knows how various cultures celebrated sun-related lengthening and shortening of days. Small and large stone circles like the ones in Britain, which is actually covered in them, Stonehenge and Avery being the most famous, and mountain temples are all over the world and they're oriented toward the sun and indicate considerable interest in the phenomenon. My own predecessors obviously noted these things. Their lives depended on it. They had a personal relationship with the elements. There's very little archaeological evidence of these people and their druidic rituals. The ancient Britons had no written language. Archaeological remains decomposed long ago and the only evidence is scattered stories from Greek and Roman sources and later medieval recreations by Irish writers. Pliny the Elder was the one that mentioned an oak and mistletoe ritual and most of the views expressed are what one might expect from a superior conquering colonial power. Nevertheless, somehow these people became immortalized all over Britain through their huge standing stones and circles and little tiny carvings tucked surreptitiously away by artisans into early church architecture. The green man is the most common. His little face surrounded by greenery is found all over the world and it's believed to be a symbol of rebirth and the cycle of springtime growth. Shakespeare in a Midsummer Night's Dream mixed an imagined cartoony sort of rural reality with the spiritual for the entertainment of the masses. During the Elizabethan period and for several centuries later really until scientific thought became more commonplace and acceptable belief in spirits fueled the inquisition, persecution of witches, general ostracism of local healers and ritual sacrifice. Vestiges of these still remain. I'm obviously not advocating a return to this time but to be honest I often wonder if we've actually advanced as much as we sometimes believe. We pretend to be more civilized but the words of intolerance and hatred circulating the glow inciting people to violence in Syria and last week in Orlando and England do not seem too far removed from the French Revolution or the Salem Witch Trials and these are clear examples of what could be called groupthink which rather dates me. For those who are unfamiliar with this term it was coined in 1972 by a social psychologist Irving Janis. George Orwell described it as the more amiability and esprit de corps there is among the members of a policymaking in group the greater the danger that independent critical thinking will be replaced by groupthink which is likely to result in irrational and dehumanizing actions directed at against outgroups. Does this sound familiar? Today it might come under the rubric of social media. I know research tells the brain is wired to see and respond to threats but maybe it's time to recognize them as ghosts and resist. The remedies are of course critical evaluation and thoughtful respectful challenge of assumptions. Enter the moon. It has no light of its own and reflects light from the sun. As it continuously revolves around the earth it's predictable but also seems transient. The moon reminds us that reflection is necessary that we should consider all sides including the dark side that never shows its face and that life is cyclical. As a society if we paid attention we'd notice multiple interweaving circles. I do think most notice a change of season if only to put on warmer clothes and turn up the heat but public consciousness seems to blindly lurch towards emotionally charged crises and four-year electoral cycles. Deep consideration of anything seems scarce. Surely the phrase about paying attention to history having repeat itself is pertinent. Tuesday night there was a start of a PBS program on prehistoric and early Greek history. Some of you may have caught it. Archaeologists are now attributing Greece's fall to many of the things we are seeing in America today. The producers even cartoon headlines that could well appear in today's newspapers. There are more than ever vulnerable to rumors that circulate further and faster. With global communication individual cultures are becoming less important as each is shared so quickly. A perceived threat to identity think a thwarted toddler being carried out of a grocery store or yourself when challenged on some firmly held opinion as a tendency to clasp tighter to the familiar. I believe this in large part is why there's polarization today. Change is difficult. Transformation is a better option. As a species it seems many have lost touch with the very basic workings of nature that has done magnificently without us for billions of years. Evolution will go on without us. Today we seem to have lost our grounding but I also believe that if we attend nature has a response to this fundamental loss. I propose that our ancestral memories are worth holding on to. The sun and moon are right in front of us in our backyards and unaffected by room among us. They're completely predictable. They've barely changed in millennia and will continue for as long as this planet survives. The sun is the very thing that allows our planet survival. In fact science tells us the moon was sheared off from the earth by a meteor so destructive that it tore through the crust to give birth to an eternal child that circles above us as a permanent reminder of the fragility of this mass of rock hanging in space. Happily there are those who are noticing and acting on it. Recently I read of refugees in Greece who figured out a way to charge dozens of cell phones with the sun so others can communicate with their loved ones back home. And a couple of young men who are crowd sourcing funds to provide solar energy for free to the poor. California could have local energy for most of its energy needs in the relatively near future. A solar plane is flying successfully around the world at this moment. India's solar energy is now cheaper than coal. Santiago, Chile is running its subway on solar energy. And we've even begun to mimic nature herself with a process called artificial photosynthesis. It goes on all over the world. There's much reason for hope. But we have to actively search it out. It doesn't reach us via the usual gossip. At the solstice the sun appears to hover at a still point as it turns back towards the equator. The non-scientists of prehistory saw this and built amazing structures to show it to others who had not noticed or who didn't understand until they saw it with their own eyes. All over the world through the notches between ancient rocks like Stonehenge, through smaller niches and church towers in Italy where the scientists of the day etched sundials on the floor, places like Yantar Mantar in India and the oldest observatory in America in Peru, our ancestors watched this phenomenon. How they interpreted it depended on their culture. As the sun travels throughout the year from the Tropic of Cancer to the Tropic of Capricorn and back over the equator, the seasons change predictably. Those can be measured and anticipated. The sun is a most reliable spirit at a time when many have abandoned a spiritual focus. We owe our lives to the sun. In the billions of years it has taken us to evolve. How is it we tend to ignore it? Shut it out with sunscreen, search our bodies for melanomas or just take it for granted. St. Francis communicated with brother's son. William Blake experienced it as a heavenly host and I think with eight harps we've come pretty close to that this morning. To our ancestors, the celestial bodies were part of the fabric of being. Astronauts who went to the moon and scrutinized its rocks were transformed as they looked back to our tiny blue-green planet. That photographs is now sort of old hat. But I wonder what would happen if each began to imagine having a more personal relationship with these celestial bodies. One as a source of life. The other that shows us how to turn our faces and reflect back to one another and our past. Both showing different ways to be still, present and reliable for each other in spite of the constant challenges in our everyday lives. And if you are further inspired to explore this aspect of spirituality there's a chalice group starting and the details are in the red floors. And now our heavenly host will inspire us to contribute to this community. I'd like to stand and join in closing him. Number 347, gather the spirit. It is said, for those who understand heavenly joy life is the working of heaven, death is the transformation of things. In stillness, they and the yin share a single virtue. In motion, they and the yang share a single flow. Be seated for the postulate.