"A Season Turns"

READING:

 

"During December's Death," by Delmore Schwartz 

 

The afternoon turned dark early; 

The light suddenly faded; 

The dusk was black although elsewhere 

the first star in the cold sky whistled; 

And I thought I heard the fresh scraping of the flying steel 

of boys on roller skates 

Rollicking over the asphalt in 1926, 

And I thought I heard the dusk and silence raided 

By a calm voice commanding consciousness: 

Wait: wait: wait as if you had always waited 

And as if it had always been dark 

And as if the world had been from the beginning 

A lost and drunken ark in which the only light 

Was the dread and white of the terrified animals' eyes. 

And then, turning on the light, I took a book 

That I might gaze upon another's vision 

of the abyss of consciousness - 

The hope, 

and the pain of hope, 

and the patience of hope, 

and its torment, 

its astonishment, 

its endlessness. 

 

 

SERMON:

 

No one has to convince me that human beings

        can grow out of touch with our connection to nature.

My own life offers abundant examples

        of just how that happens.

This past rainy Thursday evening,

        David and I went out to buy our Christmas tree.

After visiting two huge tree lots 

        and cruising the streets of Venice in search of another,

                we still had not found what we wanted.

There were no small trees left

        and small was what we had to have.

I would have compromised just to get it over with,

        but David, ever the architect, 

                declared that he had not seen a single tree

                        that "excited" him

                                and so we went home empty-handed.

Connecting to nature had nothing to do 

        with getting a tree,

                for either of us.

 

I don't know when the noble fir,

        the oldest and most enduring symbol of the winter holidays,

                stopped being simply a tree

                        and started being a design statement.

But I do know that we are not alone

        in having a certain image of what our tree

                is supposed to look like.

People impose all sorts of expectations 

        on Mother Nature's performance.

 

This is only one of many ways   

        in which we veer away

                from the meaning of the season.

Too much becomes over-determined,

        and we become over-wrought.

We think only of what we are supposed to do

        to make the season happen.

But the truth is 

        that the season always turns

                whether we do anything or not.

 

That is not enough for us, however.

G.K. Chesterton observed,

        "We tend to tire of the most eternal splendours,

                and a mark on our calendar,

                        or a crash of bells at midnight maybe,

                                reminds us that we have only recently been created."

We need to invent observances

        and add our human touch, 

                before we can appreciate the great natural drama 

                        that unfolds continuously

                                all around us.

 

These are necessary activities.

Actually, they may help us to relate to nature

        in ways we never could before.

I did not go camping 

        until polar fleece and Gore-Tex were invented either.

So even though we may add layers of embellishment,

        we never get completely out of touch.

Our observance of these holidays,

        the winter solstice and Christmas,

                offers ancient and deeply rooted expressions 

                        of  the human experience of the cycles of nature –

                                not just what is happening outside,

                                        but inside ourselves as well.

The season turns and carries us along with it.

 

Some images of the season 

        are nearly universal everywhere.

Their meaning is simple:

        life continues, 

                even during the harshest time of the year.

And new life is on its way.

 

The human affinity for evergreen 

        during this bleak season 

                is nearly universal too.

According to the Cherokee tale I read earlier,

        the Great Sun granted the "gift of green forever"

                to the pine, the fir, the spruce, the holly, and the laurel,

                for their faithful waiting of the Great Sun's return.

In ancient Rome, 

        people brought evergreens into their homes

                as decorations for New Year's celebrations.

The Christmas tree itself, 

        which first appeared in Germany 

                in the seventeenth century,

                        undoubtedly evolved from these origins.

The Christian church, however, 

        initially rejected these celebrations of nature 

                as backwards and heathenish.

But the efforts of the church

        to eradicate pagan customs failed spectacularly.

Finally it modified them to reflect Christian theology,

        a much more effective strategy,

                and appropriated the popular Christmas tree

                        as a Christian symbol.

 

Christian legend links the Christmas tree 

        not only to Jesus himself,

                who is named tree of life and light of the world,

                        but also to the tree of knowledge 

                                from which Adam and Eve plucked an apple,

                                        and even to the tree from which the cross was built.

And there is more:

        according to Christian lore,

                on the night that Jesus was born,

                        the rivers ran with wine

                                and the trees stood in full blossom.

The custom of decorating the tree with flowers and fruit,

        or ornaments to look like them,

                neatly incorporates every reference –

                        pagan and Christian –

                                imaginable.

 

All of this teaches a really good lesson

        that whatever twists we humans put on the persistent,

                pervasive symbols of the season,

                        they still lead us back to nature.

So put your silver artificial tree in the window,

        as my neighbors did, 

                or decorate it with ceramic dogs, 

                        as we do,

                                or with sky blue swags and styrofoam snowflakes, 

                                        as I saw at the Water Garden.

Stray as far from what nature intended 

        as your heart desires.

You'll still end up with the return of the Great Sun,

        the continuity of life

                and the hope of the New Year.

 

It happens whether you do anything or not.

It happens with or without your help.

It happens – 

        if you recall the Cherokee tale –

                even if you sleep through it.

It happens because nature carries us through life

        and brings us renewal,

                whether we decorated our home or not.

 

That may sound rather optimistic

        for a year such as this one.

We could not be more conscious

        that there is much that is not renewable –

                so many human lives, 

                        a sense of safety and innocence about our world –

                                and our hearts reverberate

                                        with the distress all around us.

Simple holiday tasks become difficult,

        because life has become difficult.

I defaulted on the Christmas tree selection.

David went and got one,

        though I forgot to ask him 

                if he was excited by it.

I'm content to have a small green tree in our living room,

        which can use a little extra color this time of year.

 

If I'm feeling somewhat disconnected from the season, 

        I can only guess I'm not alone.

Despite numerous media reports 

        that people are looking to the holidays

                for the comfort of family and friends,

                        people are also distracted and jumpy;

                                the holiday mood is not what it usually is.

A year from now we may look back

        and realize that we went through the motions,

                but hardly felt the spirit at all.

Or perhaps we felt the spirit in a deeper,

        more profound way:

                as the hope that we seek

                        when the world has gone dark.

 

The poem by Delmore Schwartz speaks to this condition.

He writes of dusk approaching 

        when a calm voice tells him,

                Wait: wait: wait as if you had always waited

                        And as if it had always been dark…

Somewhere in that waiting

        is hope, 

                and the pain of hope,

                        and the patience of hope, he realizes.

In dark times, 

        we wait.

We wait whether we want to or not.

We wait because it is all we can do.

We wait because when there is nothing we can do,

        time will change us anyway.

Time brings back the light.

So while we wait, 

        we hope.

Hope is enough.

 

Whatever these holidays mean to you,

        and however you choose to enter into them,

                their timeless meanings prevail,

                        even in dark times like these.

Life continues,

        and new life will come in all its many forms.

The days grow longer,

        and the earth will renew itself.

Love appears,

        and people are reborn.

The New Year arrives,

        and the passage of time revives us.

 

In the Cherokee solstice story,

        the plants and trees wither from frost,

                their leaves drop,

                        and though they struggle to stay awake

                                to greet the return of the Great Sun,

                                        they don't make it.

Only a few hardy ones can last through the cold, dark night.

But the Great Sun returns anyway,

        giving the gift of light to the hardy plants

                and to the sleeping ones too.

It is the same for us.

The lesson of these winter holidays

        is that time and nature will make us whole,

                and we don’t have to do everything ourselves.           

Our job is to wait and to hope;

        and let the cycles of life and creation do the rest.

 

To celebrate the season is to remember the simple truth

        that we belong to nature,

                a truth that is both obvious

                        and somehow hard for us to grasp.

When we forget, 

        we have these customs to help us experience it.

The work we make of the holidays

        is rooted in the joy of life,

                its resilience and its wholeness.

Somehow, even when we don't realize it,

        the joy is there because we are part of life and nature,

                and that touch of green,

                        even the unexciting but necessary tree,

                                help us to feel it.

 

The poet Czeslaw Milosz – who has seen more dark times than light –

        offers the simple image of the tree,

                through the passage of time:

I looked out the window at dawn 

        and saw a young apple tree translucent 

                in brightness.

And when I looked out at dawn once again, 

        an apple tree laden with

                fruit stood there.

Many years had probably gone by 

        but I remember nothing of what happened in my sleep.

We may sleep this winter,

        for our nights are long and dark.

But when we awaken –

        and we surely will –

                we will see how the tree bore fruit anyway,

                        and it is there for us to enjoy.