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By Dr. Bruce T. Marshall
April 4, 2010
The Story of the Flaming Chalice
Each Sunday we light our flaming chalice as we begin worship. It’s
not just us: most Unitarian Universalist congregations call upon a
flaming chalice to identify who we are and to express the spirit
under which we gather. A flame is a universal symbol, used by many
to represent the spirit that brings us life. But the Flaming Chalice
has come to be a particular symbol for Unitarian Universalists and
has its own story. This morning I would like to share something of
its history and its meaning. It is, I think, an Easter story.
There are two parts to the history of the Flaming Chalice. One is
specific to Unitarian Universalists. But the Flaming Chalice,
itself, is a very old symbol. It dates back over 500 years, before
there was a Unitarian or Universalist church.
I’ll start with the more recent history which takes us to the time
of World War II and the years leading up to that. With the rise to
power of Adolf Hitler and the upheaval that created in Europe, the
American Unitarian Association sent several missions to see if and
how they could help those at risk. Particularly important were a
Unitarian minister, Waitstill Sharp and his wife Martha, a social
worker. The two journeyed to Prague in Czechoslovakia and engaged in
a project to help political refugees escape the Nazis. When
Czechoslovakia and then France were overrun, the Sharps moved to
Portugal where they continued their work. Several thousand people
were helped to flee regions which the Nazis controlled and where
their lives would have been in grave danger.
This mission marked the beginning of a new organization: the
Unitarian Service Committee. The organization needed a symbol to
represent itself and also to identify those cooperating in the
effort to aid the refugees. A Jewish refugee from Paris named Hans
Deutsch, then working with the Unitarian Service Committee office in
Portugal, was asked to create such a design. In so doing, Hans
Deutsch drew upon his knowledge of a very old symbol and created the
Flaming Chalice design. Throughout World War II, the Unitarian
Service Committee created a kind of underground railroad which
enabled Jews and other victims of the Nazis to escape. The Flaming
Chalice identified those working for the Service Committee and was
sometimes scratched in the dirt designate a safe house for those in
flight.
At the time, the Unitarians and the Universalists were still
separate organizations. The Universalists also became active in
Europe, particularly after World War II when both Unitarians and
Universalists helped with relief efforts. The Universalists formed
their own agency called the Universalist Service Committee. The
Unitarian and Universalist service committees worked together,
anticipating the time when the national organizations would join to
form the Unitarian Universalist Association. The UUA has adopted the
Flaming Chalice as a symbol for the association, not just its
service committees.
That’s the modern history of the Flaming Chalice, but the symbol
itself has earlier origins. This story takes us back to the 1400s in
Eastern Europe in what is now the Czech Republic. It involves a
Catholic priest named Jan Hus. Jan Hus was a reformer. He was leader
of a movement that sought changes in the church of his day, aimed at
making the faith more accessible to everyday people.
One change he advocated was to say the mass in the language of the
people, rather than in Latin. Another change was to reject priestly
robes that, he felt, needlessly separated the clergy from other
people. He maintained that priests should wear the same clothing as
everybody else. Jan Hus also changed the communion service and how
it was practiced.
At the time, the bread of the communion service—designated as the
body of Christ—was shared by all. But only the priests received the
wine, said to be the blood of Christ. So the bread was passed
through the congregation while only the priests drank wine from the
cup designated for that purpose, known as the chalice.
Hus changed that. In the services of this reform movement, the
chalice containing the wine was passed to each who was present, not
just the clergy. The chalice was made available to all, and so it
became the symbol of this reform movement.
Church authorities became aware of what Jan Hus doing and summoned
him to come to a council and explain his views. He was promised that
if he appeared, he would not be harmed, but upon his arrival, Hus
was immediately thrown into prison and ordered to repudiate his
teachings. When Hus refused, the council found him guilty of heresy,
and he was burned at the stake. It was reported that Jan Hus held
onto a chalice as he died.
Soon after Hus was executed, his supporters took to wearing a new
symbol sewn on their jackets. It was a chalice—symbol of this reform
movement—but now it contained within it a flame. Signifying that the
ideals of this movement lived on, even though its leader had died.
What does that story mean to us? It pre-dates American Unitarianism
and Universalism by hundreds of years. And besides, most of our
congregations don’t even have a communion service, so what
difference does it make who receives the wine?
Well, consider the symbolism. The communion wine represents the
spirit. When the priests are the only ones with access to it, then
religious truth must come through them. The church maintains
control. But when the chalice is shared from person to person, then
it makes a statement that each person has access—each can receive
truth and inspiration directly. Spiritual authority is no longer the
possession of those who are in charge; it is shared by all.
The story of the Flaming Chalice is a Unitarian Universalist story
because it connects us to a long history of religious reform that
has been expressed at many times, in many places. This is a
tradition that questions whenever power is concentrated in the hands
of a few, as it seeks to value each individual has having worth and
dignity. Each of us has a flame that burns within, each of us drinks
from the chalice of life, each has the power to guide ourselves
toward what is right and true.
The story of the Flaming Chalice is also an Easter story because
it’s about death, and it’s about the new life that can appear after
death. It’s about taking a stand and suffering. It’s about the
truths that people died for surviving to influence new generations.
And it’s about the persistence of life itself that finds ways to
bring us alive, infuse us with hope and possibility.
Sermon:
Easter A Time of Rebirth and Hope
Festivals of spring are an ancient custom that date back to the
beginnings of civilization. Among the Saxon peoples in what is now
Germany, these ceremonies were held in honor of a mother goddess
named Eostre—spelled E-O-S-T-R-E. Her name was derived from an
ancient term for spring, E-A-S-T-R-E: Easter.
In Roman mythology before Christian times, there was a god named
Attis whose realm was the plant world: that which emerged from the
earth after the apparent death of winter. According to the story,
Attis had been born of a virgin, suffered a violent death on a
Friday and then was resurrected each year on the subsequent Sunday.
His followers hosted celebrations that were held at sunrise to
announce their joy at his rebirth, at the rebirth of life with the
coming of spring.
The flower we now call the Easter lily was known to ancient peoples
as a symbol of fertility. The rabbit—inspiration for our Easter
bunny—symbolized life’s power to regenerate itself. Ancient
Babylonians and ancient Egyptians both had rituals that involved
dying eggs with bright colors. Lilies, bunnies, colored eggs: all
represented the miracle of life that is renewed at springtime.
As our children hunt for colored Easter eggs this morning, they will
be participating in a ritual that has roots stretching back at least
2,500 years. Or if they happen to find a chocolate or marshmallow
bunny in an Easter basket—or if we have an Easter lily or any kind
of flower in celebration of Easter today, we participate in
traditions that are as old as civilization itself.
So what’s my point?
I’ll break it down into two parts.
First, Easter is not the exclusive possession of Christianity. Its
story of a god who died and was then resurrected on the third day
pre-dates the life of Jesus. That’s one reason the Christian version
of this story was so easily and widely accepted: people had heard it
before.
Second, since Easter is not exclusively Christian, it cannot be
dismissed by those of us who do not consider ourselves Christian.
Its truths run deeper than that of one specific religious tradition.
It expresses something of the human story on this earth and
therefore speaks to us all.
This morning as we gather at Easter, at the beginning of spring—as
have peoples for thousands of years—we might pause to consider how
the ancient themes of this occasion might address our lives today.
• • •
Six weeks ago the ground was covered with snow. Remember that?
Remember the expanse of white that greeted us from outside the
window? When we were out driving, we had to be careful at
intersections because snow mountains blocked our view of what might
be coming at us from a cross street. At the shopping center near the
corner of Allentown Road and Temple Hill Road—and many
others—drivers had to inch out into the road because we couldn’t see
around the snow that had been piled there.
Maybe you did what I did: watched for the snow to melt down, to melt
away, to reveal what had been covered. Sure enough, day by day, the
snow diminished, the level dropped, and then patches of brown
appeared. Those patches grew, slowly at first, but more quickly as
the snow receded. Then we had a few good rainy days, and the snows
of the winter of 2010 were just about gone.
But what was left after the snow melted? In our yard, everything
looked squashed. Ferns that are supposed to last all year were
pressed flat against the ground. Our bushes planted a year ago
showed branches splayed, as if they had been dropped down from high
above. There’s a little park near our house that was littered with
broken branches, trees with cracked limbs. It was a scene of
devastation, like a war zone: there didn’t seem much life in what
the snow left behind.
It didn’t take long, though: we spotted a flower in our front yard—a
lone crocus pushing up through the rubble. Then the flattened ferns
seemed to brush themselves off, stand up tall, live again. Even the
bushes with broken branches sent out new shoots, defying the
brokenness. And now, just a few weeks later, the world has come back
to life. On my drive here from Silver Spring, I notice trees in
bloom: what had been skeletons now are white and puffy with flowers.
Drive into the Davies lot, and we are greeted by a hill of
daffodils. Yesterday morning, early, Amy and I ventured into
Washington to see the cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the trees we
encountered: everybody seems to have come alive after the long cold
hard winter.
• • •
There is something familiar about this sequence of events, and it’s
not just because spring replaces winter each year. The renewal of
life in nature expresses something that occurs also in our own
experience.
Maybe you’ve gone through a time like this in your life: maybe
you’re in one right now. A time that feels more like flattened dead
earth than hills of daffodils. Maybe things aren’t working as you
had hoped and planned. You might have fallen short on reaching a
goal that had been guiding you. Or you might have lost someone dear
to you or something that had given your life meaning and
possibility. Or something entirely beyond your control appeared,
changing everything. Or maybe there’s no particular reason you can
identify, but the spirit seems to have drained out of your days. You
don’t know where your joy in life has gone.
And so you survey the horizon of your life, and it seems like my
yard at the end of a hard winter. Not much alive out there.
Stagnant. Waiting.
In my 35 years as a minister, I have seen a lot of loss. Deaths of
loved ones. Disappointments. People who have tried and failed, tried
and failed. Those who endured a spell of bad luck—and then another,
and then another. The loss of a job, plans that fallen apart,
projects that have failed, dreams that have dashed, hearts broken.
Many times I have sat with people as they tried to get through
something terrible that had happened to them.
What makes it possible for me to do this work is my faith that the
losses do not end there. Fields of devastation reveal shoots of new
life. Things turn up, often surprising us. Death and loss are real,
but they are not final. There is also life—life eternal—that shows
itself and heals and helps point our way.
I’ve noticed something that occurs at memorial services and seems to
express this whole process. At a memorial service particularly for a
death that has come suddenly and unexpectedly, those who gather come
in stunned silence. In the service, we remember and mourn and pay
tribute to the person who has died. And when the service has ended,
there are moments of an awkward quiet. “What do we do next?” Not
just what do we do now that the service has ended, but what do we do
next—in life?
But that’s not where it ends. Let’s say that there is food offered
after the memorial service to encourage people to stay
around—because there usually is. We offer food to the guests, and
people stay. People take something to eat, and they recognize
someone, and they get together and start to talk. Slowly the volume
in the room or rooms begins to increase. Sometimes I stand back and
just watch because what’s happening is so wonderful. The volume
increases as more people find others to talk with, and then I hear
laughter from one of those conversations. Perhaps tentative at first
but it catches on in other conversations, from different parts of
the room.
The expressions on people’s faces change. Where they had been drawn
and sad, now they relax. They become more at ease, more peaceful.
And then people begin to move more easily. When they first arrive
for the service, people often move carefully, as if not able to
trust themselves in this world newly altered by a loved one’s death.
But now they become themselves again—even the most bereaved become
themselves again.
What I’m witnessing is life returning. It’s life eternal that
stubbornly and persistently asserts itself. “Life goes on,” someone
once observed. “I forget just why.”
I’ve never claimed to know why, but life does go on. And in that is
a faith, an Easter faith, that life prevails despite death, despite
failure, despite the disappointments and the disasters. Life goes
on. And where there is life, there is indeed hope.
• • •
As you know, Amy and I entered the twilight world of cancer this
past winter as Amy was diagnosed and then entered treatment. She
discovered the first lump on January 12: the same day as the
earthquake in Haiti. As we went to countless doctor appointments and
tests and then made preparations for surgery at the end of February,
we worked around the DC snowstorms, at one point moving to Amy’s
mother’s home in Virginia because she had power, and we didn’t. I
expect I will always remember the winter of 2010 as that of
earthquakes, snowstorms, and cancer.
There is something about this experience that has surprised me, that
I did not anticipate. I should have because I have been through it
vicariously with many people, many families, but I guess if it
doesn’t happen to you, you don’t quite get it. What has surprised me
is what a privilege it is to share a serious illness with someone
you love. A depth of connection develops—an intimacy—that is like no
other. So even amidst the devastation that is cancer, there is
life—new life, life eternal—that appears and asserts itself. That,
to me, is what Easter is about.
There’s a story I’ve heard—I don’t even know if it’s true. I tried
to find it on the Internet, and couldn’t. At least it wasn’t where I
searched. (If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear,
does it make a sound? If Google can’t find something, does it really
exist?)
Anyway, here’s the story. It takes us to London, England, World War
II era. The city suffered devastating relentless bombing that
destroyed large sections of the city, reducing buildings to rubble,
producing huge deep craters, creating a vast landscape of
desolation. London is an old city. It was first established by the
Romans in the year 43 CE. The bombing was so intense that it blasted
down through the layers that had been deposited year after year:
down to the Victorian era of the 1800s, down to the time of the
American revolution in the late 1700s, down to the Middle Ages of
the 1500s, even down into layers left behind from Roman times.
For a while after the bombing, the sections that had suffered the
most extensive damage were reduced to smoking rubble: it appeared
that no life remained. But then the seasons changed, spring arrived,
bits of green appeared: new life growing in defiance of the
destruction. First were just a few shoots that grew into plants
pushing up through the fragments of broken buildings, splintered
pieces of wood, shattered bricks, broken glass, even stones.
Then these plants burst into bloom, flowers blanketed the craters
with color, filling them with life. Some of the flowers that
appeared were of species that had not grown wild in that part of
England for generations, for centuries. Seeds left behind from
earlier eras had lain dormant—year after year, lacking conditions
necessary to growth. Until the bombs of the German air force blasted
the previous landscape apart, creating space and light for these
seeds to finally come to life.
It makes me wonder: what seeds lie dormant in each of us? What
challenges—what losses in our lives will clear enough space for them
to grow? What does life still have in store for us, for the time
when we provide these seeds with space and warmth and moisture and
sunshine?
Isn’t that the message of Easter: the appearance of life—life
eternal—at just those points where we seem to have run out of
options, out of possibilities. When we’ve used up our last hope and
we appear to face only nothingness ahead, then life appears. Even
when there is death, there is also life.
I’ll conclude with a poem, one that has always seemed to me an
Easter poem, written by the son of a Unitarian minister, e.e.
cummings.
i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes.
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened!)
October 4, 2008
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