 Good evening, everyone. On Merry Christmas, we are going to anticipate our service this evening by singing together our little medley of carols that are identified in your program. And so if you'll turn in your hymnals to number 226, join your voices with mine and song. Hymn 234, In the Jettle of the Moon. Once again, we gather in the last flight of deep December to turn our anxious jaded hearts toward jubilation. For decades, flames have flickered inside the windows of our meeting house on Christmas Eve, like small watch fires kindled to soothe the unsettled spirits of shepherds and wandering magi. With a rising sense of awe and expectancy, we, like our ancestors, have fled from our chores to a place of peace, hoping to be reminded of the power still latent in ancient mysteries and to feel kinship with all who have hoped and dreamed and prayed for mid-winter miracles, for new birth, new possibilities, new beginnings. Let minds and hearts now make room for wonder. I invite you to rise and body your in spirit for the lighting of our chalice. On this Christmas Eve, our words of affirmation are responsive. Would you please join your voices in reading the bold and italicized sections. In the winter season of the year, dark and chilly, let us come to Christmas here. Let us find in the shadowed corners of our souls the light of hope, a vision of the extraordinary in the ordinary. Let us find the child in each of us, the light of new life rekindled and resurrected. And now remain standing if you will now turn in your hymnals to number 57, O beautiful the March of Days. Can you be seated? I'm going to start off tonight with a question. How many people are here tonight with their parents? You want to raise your hands? Are there any three generation families here tonight? Anyone? Nice. Are there any four generation families here tonight? Anybody? No? Thanks for coming out. I'm going to have you participate in just a second. This week, all over the world, children have been asking their parents the age-old question. This is where you participate. If you can turn to your parents and in your most whiny voice, no matter how old you are, ask, when will it be Christmas? And why is it taking so long? I think I know the answer. It will finally be Christmas when every crib is a shrine. It will finally be Christmas when every child is received as though he or she were the Messiah. It will finally be Christmas when we learn to see that the holy, the sacred is not up there or out there, but in here, readily apparent in this ordinary world of sight and sound. It will finally be Christmas when we learn to value our differences rather than fear them. It will finally be Christmas when we recognize that the holiday is the anticipation, the foretaste of the peaceful kingdom for which our hearts long, and not just the vague remembrance of a particular birth that took place so long ago. It will finally be Christmas when the birthing of a new consciousness takes place in all of us, all year long. May we each do what we can to hasten that day along. Blessed be and amen. I now invite you into a moment of silence, and we will now sing, and I will invite you to stay seated, carol number 241. Long time ago, you were people. And almost none of the houses had a second story. So people who lived there had a much better view of the sky. They didn't have electric lights, so at night the stars seemed very bright against the dark sky. There were wise men, or magi, living in that time whose business was watching the sky for signs. People then believed that important events about to happen on earth were revealed, or announced, by the movement of heavenly objects. When the magi saw something strange or remarkable in the sky, they reported it to the people. And so it was that when God decided that a very special event was about to occur, he sent word throughout the heavens. A special star was needed, God said, to mark the birth of a child born with the light of love in his eyes and the knowledge of love in his heart. When the stars heard this, they became excited, and the bright stars began shining up their coats, each one sure of being picked. The twinkling stars danced ever so gracefully, each one sure of being selected. The huge red stars glowed and glowed, each one sure that he or she would be chosen. Up in the north of heaven, the pole star heard the call for a special star. He was bright and beautiful century, all spit and polish. The perfect star to serve as messenger. But I know my duty, he thought, and he did a smart about face standing firm in his sentry post, facing directly into the solar wind. A single tear ran down his face and froze there. Off in the corner of the heavens, a small dim star named Natalis sat with his friends, an asteroid, a burned-out comet, and a white dwarf. Tali, as his friends called Natalis, was the kind of star that you couldn't see by looking at him directly. But if you looked hard to the left or to the right, this faint light would appear, only to disappear the moment that you tried to look directly at Tali. Now, Tali's friends were a cheerless lot. The asteroid was a cold, lifeless piece of rock with a badly pocked-marked face. The comet was burned out and said to have a drinking problem. The white dwarf had once been quite a large bright star, one of the brightest in fact, and was more than a little grumpy because of his reduced state. Now, Tali's little corner of the sky was just the right place for them because Tali was a small dim star who didn't outshine his companions. And Tali was a very good singer. When the others first came to his place, Tali would sing sweetly for them. Lately, however, they had been all singing in four-part harmony, singing rather quietly, often a corner, entertaining themselves and bothering no one else. Back on Earth, the magic I noticed changes in the sky. The stars all seemed brighter, more twinkling, glowing with a deeper red. Some things up, they said to themselves. They started paying closer attention than usual to the sky, even going so far as to place Tali on their charts, which they had never done before. And when these four friends heard news of the big event of this child being born with the light of love in his eyes, Tali stopped singing for a moment and said, you know, if God is going to let the light of love shine in that child's eyes, that child's going to need some light. Now, if I took off my coat and gave it a good squeeze, we could get enough light to do the job. You'd lose all your light if you do that, cried the white dwarf, who knew how that felt. What need do I have for light, Tali replied? We can sing in the dark just as well. That's true, said the asteroid, who was very self-conscious about his face anyway. And the comet who had been quietly humming throughout this exchange said, I know how to fly through the universe. The asteroid said, you could store the light in the large crater on my back. I promise not to spill a drop. And the white dwarf who was beginning to get excited said, I could lead the way and probably tip our friend here to spill the light out just at the right moment. So Tali took off his coat, squeezed the light in the asteroid's back, and it got very dark. On Earth, one of the magi noted the sudden disappearance of this dim little star. He turned to his colleagues and said, it is beginning. So the four friends set out for Earth for the town of Bethlehem, which is the place that God had chosen for this very special birth. The white dwarf was leading the way. And the comet huffed and puffed because he was very much out of shape. And the asteroid, true to his nature, was silent and still. Tali was dark now and almost blind, following behind and singing. When God saw the four strange, dark friends laboring across the sky toward Bethlehem with their gift of light, he was exceedingly pleased. And as Tali and his friends marched on, a wonderful thing began to happen. As Tali passed the other stars, a little light from each one began to cling to his dark side. And soon he began to glow. The magi by this time had figured out the big event was about to occur. And they saw Tali begin to glow brighter and they saw the direction in which he was headed. We'd better get going, they said to themselves, and an important birth is due and a very special leader will be delivered somewhere in the West. By the time the friends reached Bethlehem, passing most of the stars on their way, Tali had become the brightest star anyone had ever seen. They didn't need to be wise men to know a big event was happening. Even the shepherds on the hills who had no education knew something was up. In fact, Tali was so bright, it was almost as light as day in the middle of the night. And that frightened the poor shepherds. Now as the child was born, the comet who was old and wise said, now and the dwarf shoved the asteroid with all of his might and slowly the asteroid turned on his side and all that beautiful light streamed down around the manger where Jesus led. And at that moment, the infant knew more about love than anyone ever had before. And yet he was only a few moments old. Well done cried the comet. Thank you replied the white dwarf. Isn't he beautiful side the asteroid who had forgotten all about his unattractive face. The night was magic. Love light was in everyone's eyes. The angel sang, Tali shone brightly. This is Christmas, Tali said. And we can all go home now. And so the four friends made their way back to their home. Tali giving up a little light to each star on the way. But when he got home, he wasn't dark. He still had enough light that the friends could see one another. They were all smiling. And if you are out on a hill late at night, away from all the lights of the city, you go out and you peer into the dark part of the sky, you might be able to see Tali. But don't look at him directly with your eyes or he's going to go away. You have to look with your heart and that's when you'll recognize him. And if you are very, very still, you just might be able to hear him sing. And now I invite you to sing. Carol number 259, we three kings. One of our two unusual Christmas legends is the doe and the child, which is an ancient Christian legend. It is said that in the weeks after the birth of Jesus, when Herod's men searched the land for newborn babes with orders to kill them all, the holy family fled from one village to the next. But they were so tired and their little donkey so near exhaustion that they finally had to stop at a cottage and knock on the door. Come in, come in, came the voice of a woman. My hands are deep in bread dough and I cannot open the door for you. Joseph tied the little donkey by the gate and followed Mary in. No sooner had they entered and settled by the fire as their good hostess had bid them, than there came a loud banging on the door. Open up, a horse voice called. Open up in the name of Herod the King. Joseph put his hand to his mouth to stifle a cry. But Mary took the babe from her breast and handed him into the woman's dough-covered hands. Here, you must hide him, quick, Mary said. Quickly the good woman dropped the child into the dough, folding him up as if he were filling. Now I'm just gonna take a moment, a personal moment here. Atticus and Tallulah up there, they were the ones, my kids, they were the ones handing out the candles. No putting the new baby into a, into any dough. No baking it as bread. Quickly the good woman dropped the child into the dough, folding him up as if he were filling. Then she went back to kneading and shaping the bread. The door was flung open and six strong soldiers stomped in. They looked at Joseph who had his arm around Mary. They looked at the woman who was kneading her bread. Where is the child one soldier demanded? We know one must be here, another said. But though they turned the entire house upside down and inside out, they could not find the babe. So at least, so at last they went on to the next house, grumbling and slamming the door behind. As soon as the soldiers were gone, Mary lifted the old Jesus from his doughy manger and noticed that a strange thing had happened. The bread rose higher and higher as light as any dough could be. And no matter how much of it the good housewife shaped into loaves and put into the oven to bake, there was always some left. Long after Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus went on their way, this baker woman pulled pieces of dough for folks far and near. And to this very day, small portions of that dough are saved for the next rising. The second bread of unusual legend comes from Germany. So once upon a time in Germany, a long time ago, a gentle mother was busily cleaning the house for the most wonderful day of the year, the day on which the child Jesus was to come and to bring his gift on Christmas Eve. Not even a speck of dust was left. And even the spiders had been banished from their cozy corner in the ceiling. To avoid the housewives busy cleaning, they finally had fled to the farthest corner of the forgotten attic. Then it was Christmas Eve at last. The tree was decorated, the children delighted, but the poor spiders were frantic where they could not see the tree, not be present for the Christ child's visit. But the oldest and wisest spider suggested perhaps they could peep through the crack in the door and see him. So silently, they crept out of their attic, across the floor to wait in a crack at the threshold. Then the door opened, just a wee bit, and quickly the spiders sneaked into the room. The tree towered so high that they could not see the ornaments that had been hung near the top. In fact, their eyes were so small that they could only see one ornament at a time. What to do? They scurried up the trunk, out along each branch, filled with happy wonder at all that glittering beauty. But every place they went, they left this trail of dusty gray web. And when at last they had inspected every bit of the Christmas tree, it was shrouded in dusty gray spider's webs. Well, the Christ child smiled when he thought of all those happy spiders seeing his tree. But he thought how brokenhearted the mother would be when she sees this dusty tree. So he reached out his hand, touched the webs, blessed them, and immediately they all turned to shimmering silver and sparkling gold. And the tree glistened with even greater beauty than ever before. And that is why it is still the custom in Germany to have a spider among the decorations on the family Christmas tree. Was a chipmunk, and he lived in a burrow. Built beneath an old oak tree, it was as sound and safe as could be, and it gave him great peace of mind. The previous owner, however, had left it in a terrible mess. But Mr. McPhiz could see what might be done with a little hard work. Unfortunately, there was nothing that he enjoyed more than cleaning. So the job was a happy one. He was swept, he'd be scrubbed, repaired, and painted. And when everything was in good order, Mr. McPhiz was as pleased as punch. He took immense pride in his little home. So imagine his horror. When a pack rat family, the Griswolds moved into the hollow stump next door. Now Mr. Griswold wasn't a bad sort, he was just a little messy. He was a serious collector, forever finding treasures in other people's trash, which he dragged home and stockpiled, believing that someday they would come in handy. Sound familiar? Now Mr. McPhiz could barely stand to look at the growing pile of rubbish in his neighbor's yard. The situation went from bad to worse, and McPhiz's irritation turned to disgust, disgust turned to loathing as the clutter gradually accumulated. But it wasn't until December that his feelings about Mr. Griswold turned into genuine hatred. Like most fussy creatures, Mr. McPhiz had few friends. In fact, he didn't have any. And most of the time this didn't bother him because he was always so busy with his cleaning. But at Christmas time, he got a little sad. And every day McPhiz would sort through his mail, which consisted of advertising circulars and bills, and he wished someone, anyone, would send him even one little personal Christmas card. Now in the past, he'd been able to cope with this emptiness in his life, but then one horrible day in December, after another disappointing trip to the mailbox, he noticed several large square envelopes in Mr. Griswold's mailbox. Could it be? He examined the envelopes, and they were all addressed to the Griswold family. Surely they were Christmas cards. And then he realized that Mrs. Griswold was standing on her porch watching him. How embarrassing. Mr. McPhiz walked back to his house, feeling very guilty. However, this was one of only many bad days for Mr. McPhiz as he observed a steady flow of Christmas cards delivered to the Griswold household. Mr. McPhiz was never so relieved to see a holiday pass as this Christmas. But instead of forgetting about it, he worried about it all into the next year. And when Christmas approached again, he decided to play a nasty trick on the Griswold's. His plan was a simple one. In late November, Mr. McPhiz bought up all the Christmas cards that his limited savings would allow, and he addressed them all to himself. He mailed a few each day, increasing the volume as Christmas drew near. And then, knowing where the postman stopped for coffee every morning, he crept up to his letter bag and actually stole all of the Griswold's Christmas cards before he could deliver them. Mr. McPhiz then settled into what he thought was going to be a delightful daily routine of collecting his own Christmas cards, the one he had sent to himself, and watching with satisfaction as Mr. Griswold opened his empty mailbox every afternoon. That would serve him right for being such a slob. But to his surprise, Mr. McPhiz didn't feel all that good as he watched his neighbor walk sadly back to his front door empty-handed. He actually began to feel pity, was strangely moved one evening, and so he addressed a Christmas card not to himself, but to Mr. Griswold. A few days later, when he watched Mr. Griswold find and open his card, Mr. McPhiz caught a glimmer of what Christmas is really all about. He felt warm and good inside. But the best part was he had to come. For the very next day, he found a Christmas card in his mailbox that he had not addressed to himself. Not only did it wish him a very merry Christmas, but also a happy new year, and it invited him to Christmas dinner at the Griswold's, where he met Mrs. Griswold and the numerous Griswold children. When they drank eggnog, they ate chestnuts, and they sang Christmas carols before a roaring fire. Mr. McPhiz could not remember a time when he had enjoyed himself so much. Even so, throughout the evening, he wondered what he could possibly say to convince Mr. Griswold to clean up his yard. Oh, well, he thought. Maybe that conversation can wait until Easter. And now I would invite you to turn to our next carol, number 248. We believe in Christmas, the American tradition. A brief story composed by M. Scott Mamaday, a member of the Kiowa Indian tribe, former professor at Arizona State University. And he composed the following dialogue between two beings, Urset and Yahweh. Now, according to the Kiowa tribe, bear, or Urset, is the symbol of the wilderness. He represents the spirit of the unspoiled natural world. Yahweh is one of the names that's used for God in the Jewish scriptures. And so in this conversation, Urset and Yahweh are sitting across from each other in a table, eating berries, and drinking cups of cold, fresh water. And we're including this conversation in this evening's service because of the way that Native American storytellers present prayer, presenting it as a movement of the soul toward kindness and appreciation for the blessings of a peaceful life, quintessential Christmas themes. Urset, my old friend, I perceive you are restless that you wish to speak to me. Yes, great mystery, I have something in my mind. Oh, you needn't be shy, Urset. I think I already know what you wish to say that that's a talent of mine. But I would like you in your own voice to tell me what is on your mind. Praytell, what is it? Praytell, praytell indeed, great mystery. Praytell, I have been thinking of prayer. Prayer, yes. So, and what have you been thinking about, Urset? I have been thinking that I would like to pray, but I don't know how. Oh, that's nonsense. Of course you know how to pray. You knew that from the day you were born. I saw to that it's a thing that I give to all of my creatures. But truly, I don't know what prayer is. How can I know how to pray? Tell me please, what is a prayer? Well, it's talking to God, Urset. It's simply that. And it's the silence from which your words proceed. Am I praying now, great mystery? Even as we speak. Do you pray, may I ask? Devoutly, unceasingly. It's what I do. It's what I am. Would you be so kind as to pray for me, just now, for me? I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, Urset. That you live as holy as you can. That you see things that you have not seen before. And that more of them are beautiful than not. More of them are delightful than not. I pray that you hold easily in your hands the balance of the earth and the sky. That you laugh, cry, know freedom and restraint. Some joy, some sorrow, pleasure and pain. Much life and just a little of death. I pray that you are grateful for the gift of your being. And I pray that you will celebrate your life in the proper way. With grace and humility, wonder and contentment in the strong, deep current of your spirit's voice. I pray that you are happily in love at the dawn. You are more deeply in love at the dusk. Amen. Amen. Early this morning, Urset, when you were walking along the creek, what was it I heard you say? This morning I said that the morning is crisp and bright. I expected that something would pierce the air momentarily, perhaps the shrill cry of a rabbit or a wren. The water of the creek runs southward through splinters of sunlight and patterns of shade. It runs without urgency as I walk. I hear among the stony churns of the creek words that I heard from an old man when I was young. Muy bonita día, what a beautiful day. Our laughter, his and mine, echoes on the cliffs close by. It is the first of all mornings and it is unspeakably old. Amen. You see, Urset, you do know how to pray. With that, it is time for the giving and the receiving of our offering. And on the back of your program, you will note that your gifts this evening will be given in their entirety to our eviction prevention program. So please be generous. Lovely are the stars of the wintery night, sprinkling the mantle of heaven with their lustrous and far shining light. And gorgeous is the moon that seems like a lovely maiden walking in the fields of sky, clothed with the raiment of wondrous golden light. Glorious is the sun with its great brightness circling the seasons, bringing the benediction of ever renewed life on the earth. Comforting are the hearth fires, the lamps and tapers that hallow our homes and make a reassuring glow within the surrounding shadows. And beyond all of these, we cherish the light that lights everyone who comes into the world. The imperishable flame of the human spirit touched into being by the eternal one. The fire of reason and inspiration, fire of compassion and pity, fire of friendship and goodwill. Oh divine spark burning at the center of every human heart, the sacred flame discerned in every age by Persian and Jew, Hindu, Christian, by pagan, prophet, scientist and sage. Come then apostles, come fellow pilgrims. Come dreamers and singers and poets. Come builders, come healers. Come those of the soil and those who command the might of great machines. Come all and carry the sacred flame to light up the windows of the world. Now there is light, light where all was shadowed before. For a few moments may we dwell in the mystic fellowship of love, peace, hope and light as we sing together silent night. We will light the candles of this holiday season. Candles of joy despite all sadness. Candles of hope where despair keeps watch. Candles of courage for fears ever present. Candles of peace for tempest-tossed days. Candles of grace to ease heavy burdens. Candles of love to inspire all our living. Candles that will not burn, not just tonight, but all year long. Blessed be and please enjoy the postlude. And now it is time to extinguish your flame, but you may take this candle home from this place of sharing. And you might want to light it again tomorrow in the days ahead, taking a few moments on each occasion to think about the warmth, the love and the peace that you can share with others. And in so doing, cause your own inner light to burn even brighter. It all begins with one light, one child, one adult, with you and with me, bright blessings, Merry Christmas and good night.