A Candlenights Sermon

So five years ago a friend of mine said, "I grew up religious and I don't want anything to do with that anymore, but damn do I miss the good parts of a Christmas Eve service, like singing together and lighting candles!" and I said, "Well, what if we invent our own holiday? With singing? And candles?" and she said, "That sounds awesome!" and then we stole the name Candlenights from the McElroy brothers and I wrote a non-religious sermon and we rewrote our favorite carols to be secular and now, five years later, we have a new holiday tradition.

This is all backstory to explain what I'm about to share, which is my 2022 Candlenights sermon. Please join me if you would like to cry about space.

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Hello, dear friends and dear family. We gather in the winter darkness once again, as we have for the last five years; as we have for our whole lives; as those who came before us have, on and on, back to the beginnings of people. Back to when the first monkey raised its head to look at the sky, and instead of only seeing the darkness, saw the stars.

Saw the light.

I think humanity fell in love right then, fell in love with the wide sprawl of the universe and all its secrets. Why else would we dedicate ourselves to it, as we have throughout time? Why else would we look at those sparkling lights in the velvet darkness and give them names and stories? Why would we do that, if it wasn’t to bring them closer to ourselves?

The first recorded evidence of constellations comes from 3000 BC in Mesopotamia, as our ancient ancestors sought to draw the stars out of the sky and know them better. We saw ourselves in them, and named them accordingly. "The Loyal Shepherd of Heaven," “The Seed-Furrow,” “The Farmworker.” Do you still know them? Do you recognize Orion, Virgo, and Aries? Did you know how far back our stories go?

The first telescope came in 1608, allowing us closer to the stars and the universe; allowing us to see the light we loved in greater detail, almost close enough to touch. We saw the craters on the moon; we saw Saturn’s rings for the first time; we looked at the cloudy arc of the Milky Way and learned that it wasn’t a cloud. It was more stars, each of them a tiny point of light.

America launched the first Orbiting Solar Observatory in 1962, and we could look at the stars from out there with them, as though we were one of them. We learned about gamma rays in our solar system and distant galaxies; observed solar flares from the Sun, our closest star; saw parts of stars that were previously unseeable, that we’d only dreamed were there.

The Hubble Space Telescope was launched in 1990, the culmination of twenty years of work by humans who loved the stars so much they fought through earthly concerns like budget issues and engineering mistakes; humans who were so devoted that three years later they made repairs to the Hubble in space to bring the stars closer. We saw things we could never have imagined, great beauty and great destruction, birth and death and so, so much light.

Last December the James Webb Space Telescope was launched after over twenty-five years of development, because we love the stars so much we can never be satisfied. Earlier this year we saw the culmination of that work, and oh, what a culmination. Hundreds of thousands of galaxies previously invisible to us. Nebulae we thought we knew from the Hubble shown to us in awesome detail. Stars being born among the corpses of supernovae. Stars. So many stars.

Close your eyes for a moment. Imagine the line of discovery that traces from our earliest ancestors all the way to us now. Imagine taking your ancient relative by the hand and sharing this knowledge. Imagine looking at the wide, unmapped sky together and telling them our stories, about their future descendants who loved the stars so much we found a way to go out among them.

Don’t you think that they would be proud? That no matter how far we’ve come, we still stand in the darkness and look for the light?

There’s a poem by Mary Oliver called The Summer Day. You may have heard the final lines before, as they’ve been co-opted to support hustle culture or grinding or working out or whatever else capitalism thinks it needs to sell us. I think that’s a shame, as the full poem is much kinder, and gentler, and wondrous than that. Let me read it for you now:

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down --
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

My dears, what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? 

I plan to live the way I want to live, and love who I want to love, and always look for the light wherever I can. I hope that you will join me.

Happy Candlenights.