The Brightest Light

Rev. Peter Friedrichs

December 9, 2007

Is it any wonder that the celebrations at this time of year all revolve around light? From the star in the East of Christmas, to the candles of Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, to the burning of the Yule log, humankind has for centuries longed for and celebrated the triumph of light over darkness. This can be a bleak time of year. Here in Pennsylvania it's getting dark around 5 o'clock, and I can remember sitting in our living room in Maine and watching the sun set between 3:30 and 4. This lack of sunlight affects us. For some of us, it leads to depression and "Seasonal Affective Disorder." Of course, we're lucky to be living when and where we are. We can simply turn on the lights when it gets dark, or we can go somewhere where the lights are bright. To the mall, or a restaurant, or a friend's house. Imagine what it must have been like when the only lights on the entire planet were the fires and lamps and stoves lit by flame. And how hard it is still, for so many around the globe. Imagine how hard it is to keep the light going, the work that's required. Gathering fuel for the fire, cutting it and splitting it and storing it. Or collecting the oil for lamps. And having to constantly tend that fragile flame, knowing that if you get distracted, or fall asleep for too long, or leave your home, the fire will burn out and you will once again be cast into the darkness. It brings new meaning to the phrase "keep the home fires burning," doesn't it?

When we think of light, we think of the sun, of electric lights, of twinkling lights on the Christmas tree, of candles and flames, and even, perhaps, our chalice light. But today I want to speak for just a few minutes about another kind of light. It's not a light you find on the shelf at Home Depot, or even one you see when you look up at the stars at night. In a few minutes we'll be singing "This Little Light of Mine," a song about the light that we hold inside of us, the spark of the divine that every creature carries with them from the day they're born until the day they die. That's a precious light, one that says that we're a part of everything in the universe, one that says we've got God within us and that in some ways we are God, or at least a part of God. But even that's not the light that I want to talk about today. The light I want to talk about today is the burning light of passion. One of our newer Unitarian Universalist hymns calls it the "Fire of Commitment." You may have heard it referred to as a "fire in the belly."

I'm wondering if any of you here have ever been in the presence of greatness. Have you ever met, or stood next to, or even been in the vicinity of, someone who is truly heroic, truly awesome? Perhaps a hero of yours? A sports legend, or a great leader? Is there anyone here who has had an audience with the pope, or who has met Michael Jordan? Did anyone here ever shake hands with and look into the eyes of Martin Luther King, Jr. or Muhammed Ali? I've had two brief, but memorable encounters with greatness. The first was when I was a teenager, when I went to a professional golf tournament and watched Jack Nicklaus play. For you youngsters, Jack Nicklaus was the Tiger Woods of his day. I followed Jack around for the whole day, and at one point, as he moved from one green to the next tee, he walked right by me, and our eyes met. I saw something in those eyes that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and for a moment I couldn't breathe. Then he passed by and the moment was over. My other brush with greatness came a few years later, when Irene and I attended a ceremony on the South Lawn of the White House in Washington, D.C. Jimmy Carter was welcoming King Hussein of Jordan. As the two men passed by us, two men who were, by the way, both shorter than I'd expected, I felt overwhelmed and a little weak in the knees. Their physical stature was not impressive, but their presence was overwhelming.

While I can't equate these experiences with sitting down with the Dalai Lama or having a violin lesson with Itzahk Perlman, they left a deep impression on me. The thing that lingers for me in both cases is not just that I was in the presence of greatness. What I experienced in an almost physical sense was the passion and commitment that these people shared for the work they were doing. In just a brief moment, I could nearly feel the heat from the fire in their bellies. These men, like all people who pursue and achieve excellence, had discovered a singularity of purpose, a driving force in their lives, and they were pursuing it with their entire beings. They were inspired to greatness and, in turn, they served as inspiration to those around them. There would be no Tiger Woods had there been no Jack Nicklaus, just as there would have been no Nicklaus without Ben Hogan.

I was watching "60 Minutes" the other night, when they told the story of Nicholas Negroponte and his "One Laptop per Child" program. Negroponte is an MIT professor who had the vision of developing a tough laptop computer that would sell for $100 that he could get into the hands of every school-age child in the world. Imagine the audacity! Giving laptops to children in Bangladesh, where they don't even have electricity. Supplying computers to kids in Zambia, where they don't even have running water. It sounds crazy, doesn't it? Well, Negroponte has pulled together a team of geeks who have come up with a laptop that can be recharged with a handcrank, that can access the internet via satellite, that has a screen that you can read in broad daylight, and that is virtually impervious to dust, dirt and even spills. And right now he's selling it for about $188. You can get one of these machines for yourself or your child, but only if you also buy one that will be given to a child in the developing world. Since November, the "Get One, Give One" program has been selling at the rate of nearly 200,000 laptops per day. In the 60 Minutes interview, Negroponte talked about all of the naysayers, all of the skeptics, who claim he and his idea of bringing computing power to children who don't know how to read or write, who have never even seen an electric light bulb, are simply nuts. "They don't bother me," he said. "I just ignore them. This is my mission and I'm going to make it happen." Negroponte has pursued his mission with a singularity of purpose, and at great personal sacrifice. And he's not making a dime off the project. The fire in his belly was burning with such intensity that I could nearly feel the heat coming through the TV screen.

Few of us have the physical talents of Jack Nicklaus or the political savvy of Jimmy Carter, or the extraordinary vision of Nicholas Negroponte. Yet each of us has the potential to burn that brightly with the fire of commitment. When we discover our passion, our calling, the purpose we were put on this earth to fulfill, the fires of our beings ignite with the power of a thousand suns. One of the reasons we come together in religious community is to support each other in our search for meaning and purpose. We each hold the spark of that fire of commitment, and we all hold in our hands the power to nurture and kindle each other's flames so that they can and will burn brightly. Through the loving support and guidance we offer one another in this community, we can help each other discern our destinies, pursue our passions and live into our deepest longings.

Howard Thurman has told us that the true work of Christmas begins after the songs of the angels are stilled, after the shepherds are back with their flocks. This work of stoking the fires in our bellies and supporting others as they do the same continues around the clock and around the calendar. Let us fan the flames of our fires of commitment so that, even on the longest night of the year, they burn brightly and show us the way out of the darkness.

Blessed Be and Amen.

Closing Words :

When the fire of commitment sets our mind and soul ablaze,
When our hunger and our passion meet to call us on our way,
When we live with deep assurance of the flames that burn within,
Then our promise finds fulfillment,
And our future can begin.

from the Hymn, Fire of Commitment

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