 Good morning. I'm already ahead of the game here. Welcome to First Unitarian Society of Madison. We welcome all curious seekers, you among them, who wish to explore spiritual, ethical, and social issues in an accepting and nurturing environment. Before this, okay. Ah, yes. First of all, let us take a moment to try and put this out of our minds and everything else. So we'll have a moment of silence to come together and find our spiritual set. And now we can turn to number 403 for our in-gathering hymn, Spirit of Truth. Thank you very much. We might be a little pressed for time this morning as it's turning out. Otherwise, I'd love to find out where you're coming from. Talk to us afterwards and please share something. We are a welcoming congregation. So whatever your race, spiritual perspective, ethnicity, physical ability, or sexual orientation, we celebrate your presence among you. If you are new to First Unitarian Society, please accept our invitation to stay for the fellowship hour after the service and visit the library straight across the hall. Bring your drinks and your questions. I always picture that as a cocktail for some reason or other. Bring your drinks and your questions. Members of our staff and lay ministry will be on hand to welcome you. And if you've never toured our award-winning facilities, we are probably going to have a tour after the service of that right, John. So you'll see John Paul standing over there after the service. And if you'd like to have a well-informed tour, John will provide it for you. This is a good time to turn off all electronic devices except my microphone. And although we're delighted to have children here, sometimes the children would prefer a more quiet and comfortable place to assemble, and they can do so either in the tile haven over there, which has really wonderful chairs, I might say, or in the lobby where the service is broadcast. I would now like to share the names of some of the volunteers who take our service work here. That can read the scratch in here. Our greeter was Gail Bliss. Our sound operators are most important to us up here. Our Stephen and Dan, thank you guys. Our ushers are Liza Monroe and Dick Goldberg. The lay ministers, Tom Boykhoff, and out in the kitchen preparing the repast is Nancy Kasoff and Biss Mitzky. I'm getting some coaching here, and it's very helpful. Essential perhaps. Okay. Please notice the announcements in the red floors insert, your order of service, upcoming events at the society, and address matters of more immediate concern. I do not have any indication of any special announcements this morning, so once again, welcome. We hope that today's service will stimulate your mind, touch your heart, stir your spirit. 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 lived before us, and to the traditional cultures that survive into 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 into 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 become symbols of human consciousness. To this day, we talk of enlightenment and of journeys into darkness, as the light of perception sinks beyond the horizon of our understanding. In the past, Midsummer and Halloween celebrated a time when a 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 this time, it was possible to restore balance to the world from a deep well of collective wisdom. And now we'll have the lighting of the chalice, so if you'd respond responsively. Could you like to stand? The sun has at least last warned us enough that we begin to trust in its presence. In the spring, oh source of the turning seasons of earth, of life, of promises gradually brought to creation. May our burdens be lifted by its radiance. And now if you'd like to exchange greetings with each other. Please and sorrows find a place where they can be received, celebrated at this time. We ask if anybody has a joy or a sorrow or both to share with us. They might come forward, light a candle and share with us their joy and sorrow. We remind you it's not an occasion for political observations and we remind you also that we share this moment with the video camera and the internet. So the floor is now open. I'd like to share thanks to about 70 volunteers that are up in northern Wisconsin helping build more of the Ice Age Trail. I would like to light a candle of care for some very dear friends of mine. An older couple, the husband has recently gone into hospice at home and his wife has recently been diagnosed with kidney cancer. Two concerns in our small harp world in Madison are friend Chelsea Bowles. Her husband is now in hospice with brain tumors and we're very concerned about both of them. And this morning we also heard that a friend of ours, her sister lost a baby at seven months pregnant. I'd like to light a candle for a friend of mine who is very loving and caring and is being pulled in three directions because she has three family members at different lengths, all of whom have cancer and she's just about falling apart. So I'd like to support her. I'd like to light a candle for Ellie Play-Doh and Kenner Fishkin. This candle is for my sister-in-law Sue Eaton who died a couple of weeks ago. It's for her family who are just struggling with the suddenness of her loss. I'd like one more candle for all those unexpressed joys and sorrows that we carry with us. May we in the spirit of empathy hold in our hearts of hands the unspoken joys and concerns of this community. Because of this time shared, may our burdens be lightened and our joys expand. Better serve us with me. What's next, brother? Okay. If you like it, you can rise and sing and the children can slip away for summer fun. Thank you very much. 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 earthly aroma of soil, of your soil mattress filling your nostrils. Waiting for the surrounding landscape to fade into the darkening sky. That's the dream anyway. And one I've endeavored to realize for the past three years. Every summer solstice eve on one very special Scottish mountain called Ben Hope. Sitting between the Kyle of Tong and Loch Imbroil, and rising to a height of 3,041 feet, this is the most northerly of all the Monroe's, mountains over 3,000 feet in the country. From its 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 begin to rise again, as close as Britain gets to a midnight sun. I arrived there last solstice to see if I could glimpse 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, a duvet jacket, head torch, hat, gloves, mat, compass, and of course my bivvy bag. This is essentially a waterproof pouch for keeping the 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 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 of 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, and 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 glass glistened green, bejeweled by the raindrops, and beyond I could make out the edge of the hillside, behind which the sea appeared merely 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 in slightly wild, including your small local 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 at my feet. Cloud sat still on the hill, but from my bed, I could spy the muted colours of 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. Meditation is called Another Summer Begins by Mary Oliver. 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 thorn 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 to go out and sleep at this night in some unnamed flowered corner of the path. This year is unique for many reasons. You can probably think of many, both personal and public. But the one I'll 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 American people. It coincides with the ripening of wild strawberries. This configuration only happens once every 70 years. Did you notice it? 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. And last week, Michael reflected on antidotes to cynicism while endeavouring to remain hopeful and upbeat at a time when the world seems to be falling apart. The 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 role 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 right around the corner. I lived for my first seven years in a place called Avebury Square. Everywhere I turned, history was on my doorstep. Spring and mid-summer 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 wreaths 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 or nooks and crannies where pixies might be hiding. It was all part of the wallpaper. In summer, the days in England are long. On mid-summer 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, 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's 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. One of the best examples of this is still being adapted, if you think about it. Parallels in both imagery and stories 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 and 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 with them, Stonehenge and Avebury being the most famous, and the mountain temples all over the world are 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 druid 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 who mentioned an oak and mistletoe ritual, and most of the views expressed are what one might expect from superior conquering colonial power. Nevertheless, somehow, they became immortalized all over Britain through their huge standing stones and circles and little carvings surreptitiously by artisans into church architecture. The green man is the most common. His little face, surrounded by greenery, is found all over the world and is believed to be a symbol of rebirth and the cycle of springtime growth. Shakespeare, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, mixed and imagined rather cartooned 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. Festiges of this still remain. I'm obviously not advocating a return to this time, but to be honest, I often wonder if we've actually advanced such as we sometimes believe. We pretend to be more civilized, but the words of intolerance and hatred circulating the globe, inciting people to violence in Syria and last week in Orlando and England do not seem to be too far removed from things like the French Revolution or the Salem Witch Trials. These are clear examples of what could be called groupthink. For those who are unfamiliar with this term and it sort of dates me, 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 policy-making 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 against out-groups. Does that sound familiar? It might come under the rubric of social media. I know research tells us 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 is 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 cycles. I do think most notice a change in 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 or having it repeat itself is pertinent. Tuesday night, some of you may have seen it, there was the start of a PBS program on prehistoric and early Greek history. Archaeologists are now attributing Greece's fall, many hundreds of years ago, to the things we are seeing today in America. The producers even cartooned headlines that could well appear in today's papers. We're more than ever vulnerable to rumours 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, causes a tendency to clasp tighter to the familiar. I believe this is a large part of why there's polarization today. Change is difficult. Transformation is a much 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 rumour mongers. They're completely predictable. They've barely changed in millennia. And we'll 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 sun so others can communicate to their loved ones back home. And a couple of young men who are crowdsourcing funds provide solar energy free to the poor. California can have solar 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. San Diego is running its subway on solar energy. We have begun to mimic nature herself with a process called artificial photosynthesis and it goes on and on all over the world. There's much reason for hope but we have to actually search it out. It doesn't reach us via the usual gossip. At the solstice, the sun appears to hover at a still point and 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 did not understand until they saw it with their own eyes. All over the world through notches between ancient rocks like Stonehenge, through smaller niches in church towers in Italy where the scientists of the day etched sundials on the floor, places like Jantar Mantar in India and the oldest observatory in the Americas in Peru, our ancestors watched this phenomenon. How they interpreted it depended on each 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 that we tend to ignore it, shut it out with sunscreen, search on our bodies for melanomas or take it for granted. St. Francis communicated with brother's son. William Blake experienced a heavenly host and I think we've come close with eight halves 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 being transformed as they looked back on our tiny blue-green planet. That photograph now seems to be old hat but I wonder what would happen if we each began to imagine having a more personal relationship with these celestial bodies. One as the 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 to each other in spite of the constant challenges of our everyday lives. And if you're further inspired I don't know whether you are to explore this aspect of spirituality there's a chalice group forming that's going to look at mythology and things like that and the details are in your red floors. Now our heavenly host will inspire us to the offering. Sing our closing hymn number 347 Gather the Spirit 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. Please be seated for our postlude.