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RAGING AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT

RAGING AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT

Last updated on: November 1, 2011 at 3:07 pm by James Ford

RAGING AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT 2011-11-01T15:07:31-07:00 James Ford

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RAGING AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT

A Sermon by

James Ishmael Ford & Cathy Seggel

27 December 2009

First Unitarian Church

Providence, Rhode Island

Text

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave and close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

James

As this just past decade and the new millennium began people were brooding over what to call it. I gather folk still are. My friend and colleague Walt Weider suggested we name it the “cheerios,” and wait to see if the name was ironic. Of course we now know. It was.

Without chanting the litany of hardship, and occasional bursts of glory for this past year much less this past decade, the ending has been hard. Last Sunday was difficult for me personally. I have a lot invested in our Sunday worship and this was the first time ever that I’ve not only had to cancel the formal service but also, because I was suffering from a chest cold, and just could not trundle up the three miles from my home to be here to offer those stalwart and, frankly, foolish souls, who would come anyway, a cup of hot chocolate. Here in New England there will be church closings, but I hope that not being here with some warmth and cheer for anyone who comes will never happen on my watch again.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Not by a long shot. Tuesday we hosted a funeral for a college student who had died from N1 H1. While not a member of our congregation, the family had attended here briefly when they first relocated from New Mexico, and through the University and friends of our youth, there were so many connections to the family we felt this very much an event of our community, and of course opened our doors for them when they needed a larger sanctuary. Janet and Nancy and Alan from Brown’s chaplain’s office officiated. I sat up in the balcony with Neil where I could watch the service and Fred’s playing. Posey who had done much of the organizing sat to Fred’s other side. Someone who noticed suggested a rose between two thorns, which I thought inappropriate. Cathy who had many connections through the youth sat down within the congregation closer to the front.

It was a powerful service. Filled with anecdotes about a wonderful young woman who should have made a mark in this world. Listening to everyone I realized she did anyway, even with only eighteen years to do it. Also I watched her parents and felt some ancient kinship with those who know the sadness of losing a child. There’s that Chinese blessing, grandparent dies, parent dies, child dies. Any other order is a disruption of the way things are supposed to be. It’s unspeakable.

So, this week wasn’t going well.

Then we gathered for our Christmas Eve celebrations. Our five o’clock service with Marcia leading the children’s choir was a delight, and pretty much this side of complete chaos. Well mostly. About a hundred and fifty children and adults with I swear forty infants burping, farting, punctuating moments with brief shrieks provided a rumbling backbeat to all that went on. Pure delight, one hundred percent alive. And the nine o’clock where Fred’s leadership brought our choir to its very best, I mean astonishing best. One of the most moving services I’ve ever had the honor of participating in. We had somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred and fifty folk present, and when they sang, the music just filled this old Meeting House. The whole service, combining music and readings old and new, was just so inspiring. And even though I was a principal designer, only there did the truth of the matter begin to be my truth. This was a service about birthing hope.

I had a conversation later with neighbors who brought a batch of Chinese exchange students to the service. We discussed the nature of this program where we juxtaposed the traditional story, and I mean right out of the gospel according to Luke, with modern readings that deconstructed the whole thing. Very Unitarian Universalist, but I was worried it could be confusing, for those not familiar with us, and more so for those who don’t have all the details of our culture down. Although I felt comforted by the knowledge the music alone should have been worth the price of admission. But I was assured they got it. And they told me. The whole thing was about how a child’s birth is the great symbol of hope birthing into the world. It’s a universal human message.

I know that was the message I heard in my heart. And you know, I felt that seed of hope as something true in me. Over these past hours that seed has germinated. It has even begun to flower. I remember in a visceral body knowing way those bonfires burning atop hills in Pagan Europe signaling the light struggling against the crowding dark night. And of course I remembered Dylan Thomas’s poem. I remembered the struggle and the power and the beauty of it all, the beauty of life itself in its terrible majesty.

Now I look out at this New Year, frankly surprised that we have survived another three hundred, sixty-five days. And I wonder, what is next for this poor hurt world. What sadness? What joy? Very much, what joy?

Cathy

I am usually up for a snow day, still look at the school postings even though none of our family is affected any more. But, like for James, having to cancel our pageant morning hit hard. I missed seeing everyone and sharing the story that warmly bridges our way to Christmas. There was no real choice, safety wins.

So, the week went by and I am always a bit more hopeful once the big holiday passes. Of course, I know that fall in New England is filled with beautiful color and even squeaks out some warm days. But, the light is dwindling and with that, a shorter and shorter number of my peek energy hours. I start to feel anxiety, as a multi-tasking, busy person, fighting the urge to slow down and hunker down in order to deal with cold and darkness. Not unlike the other animals and plants, I sense the loss of the sun in a visceral way. Thus, I celebrate the coming of the winter solstice that heralds an unnoticeable instant longer of daylight, a tiny spark in the dark. As a matter of fact, I often hostess a gathering on New Year’s morning, all traces of red and green garlands packed away and replaced with ivory or silvery decorations. I begin to exhale and take in the lessons that winter teaches, knowing that the promise of spring does begin after enduring that longest night of the year. The lessons are challenging but worth the effort as we seek ways to feel safe, warm and less alone.

Our culture pushes against the natural world’s cold and dark rest period. What if we went to bed earlier or cuddled up, reading, rather than leaving our homes for long workdays despite the chill? Could we balance our tendencies to overwork with appreciation for evening hibernation?

Apparently, in 1910, on his deathbed, O. Henry cried out, “Turn up the light! I don’t want to go home in the dark.” Darkness often signifies the fear and uncertainty that humans sometimes face. To counteract the primal worry or dread, we tell stories to make sense of the mystery.

Each faith tradition or culture has its method of raging against the dark, like the Hindu festival of Divali, celebrated on the last day of the year. People dress in white and bright colors; houses are painted with fresh white wash prior to the day, and completely cleaned on the day of the festival. Rituals are performed to banish Alaksmi, the goddess of bad fortune. People bang on pans and light candles or small oil lamps in every room of the house in order to scare her away. After dark, cities are lit up with fireworks and big bonfires. Today, Divali is thought to be an auspicious day, when darkness is banished, not only from homes, but anger and hatred, removed from minds and hearts. On Divali, lamps light the way to universal love, happiness, health and prosperity.

What do we do to bring courage, patience and love to ease winter pains and strengthen our clarity of purpose? What fires do we light?

I remember chilly winter times, growing up, when my mother would have my sister and me play “beach.” She dressed us in bathing suits, spread towels on the living room floor, set out a picnic lunch and sand toys and pumped up the heat. Was she acting out her own need for light and warmth to return to Northern New Jersey? What was she afraid of? Now, at 86, her single pleasure is to sit, propped behind the front storm door for a sunny break, basking like a lizard. Seasonal Affective Disorder? You bet. Fear of isolation and scarcity-Yes.

Now, I have trained myself to sometimes find a little clarity, patience and wonder by looking at the sun shining on the snow. There are other lessons. Some of us learn humility, gratitude and love when we prepare meals for the Sandwich Brigade, host families at the Food Share Pantry, mentor youth, struggling through adolescence or lobby for marriage equality and affordable health care. Is that raging against the night? Or, is it combining our separate lights to be nourished by the glow?

Just as the ancients lit their fires, we light our fires to remember our connections to the earth and our connection to life and death and life again, our connection to hope and courage, even in the darkest times of life. From ancient times to our times, from far away places to right here in Providence, the spirit of light shines forth to remind us that there is more that connects us to one another than that separates us.

James

It’s easy to be maudlin in this season. Like the mythic tryptophan in a holiday turkey, there’s lots of bad music around lulling us into a stupor. Now it’s a good thing to nestle up in the warmth and enjoy a good fire, to be with family, to enjoy enforced quiet; for a moment, to savor the moment. In this world of hurt, it’s good to notice and savor the lovely moments. And there sure have been some in this crazy busy year.

But, let’s remember the real reason for the season. It is as normal and natural as the tilt of the planet in its turn around the sun, in the great dance in the great night. The call within all the stories if, like those Chinese exchange students, we hear the story and its deconstruction at the same time, about all the stories, they are about facing full on what is. For us now is the task of finding the light inside the dark. It is about life in all its hurt and glory.

So, let’s not take this season passively. This isn’t a television show, this is our lives. Even though the longest night is past, and slowly, slowly the sun will return; we humans are called to sing it forth. O Henry was right. “Turn up the light! I don’t want to go home in the dark.”

Turn up the light.

And have a glorious New Year.

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