I have often spoken about the Mexican holiday tradition of posadas, in which folks in small communities re-enact an interpretation of the Christmas story, wherein Mary and Joseph knock at different doors, looking for lodging, and repeatedly being turned away, all the while, Mary being pregnant and expecting her son Jesus. The word posada is Spanish for inn.
But some of the keener listeners among you may have noticed that inn is not the word I used when reading out the Christmas lesson today. Sure, most current translations of Luke 2:7 speak about there being “no room at the inn”, but among the many parts of the Christmas story that raise questions for scholars, the translation of the word inn (for the ancient Greek katalouma) comes up.
Many scholars believe that the word could more accurately be translated as guest room (which is the word I used today). Households in Bethlehem, like many places in the region at the time, would likely have a guest room, to house relatives or other travelers, and some biblical scholars suggest that the holy family in the story may been staying with their extended family (Bethlehem, after all, would have been a hometown of sorts for Joseph). In that case, the house would have been more crowded than expected, and they would have had to stay in the lower level of the home, were the animals were also around… not where they would have expected to be, but a warm enough space to bear and shelter a child.
This evening, some of us are not where we expected to be… as our church building was snowed in, our preferred spiritual home is less accessible than usual, some among us may have had travel plans upended this weekend, you may be hosting unexpectedly, or more likely have visitors sending regrets. Nonetheless, if you are joining us in this space, you are likely to have found a place that is warm enough to shelter you and anyone around you, and to bear witness to this holiday, however you feel the need to observe it.
Whichever your observances, my friends, the realities of this season – as witnessed particularly over the past couple of days – are that our shelter is an important place in which to find a homebase. And setting it up in the way that makes that stay as pleasant and heartwarming as possible is part of the necessity, and spirit, of the season.
This month, my friends, we have been exploring the call for us to get into the mood for what we might call “hibernation”, and today is a good place to put that into practice. Be it decking the hall, lighting a fire, watching a show featuring a fire – or any other classic film, or simply putting on a good winter sweater with the right winter food, today is a good place to put the spirit of hibernation into practice.
My friends, it is also a day in which to witness the hardship that many in our community have in being able to hibernate in comfort, and we make it a practice to remember all our community members, near and far, and make efforts to make access for housewarming spaces easier and more accessible, be it with gifts of money, time, or advocacy. That is also part of the necessity, and spirit, of the season.
And so, my friends, just as we warm each other today with our presence, we may warm our hearts and our homes tonight, and search to warm the hearts and the homes of those around us.
About 14 years ago, George Ford set out to create a heartwarming film that he’d hope would become a holiday classic. It was the epically-named Fireplace For Your Home. It was a high-concept idea based on a very simple premise: a full hour of a fireplace burning wood, which anyone could watch from home.
Now, it may surprise you that making that film took him a much longer time than expected – and much greater effort than simply piling a bunch of wood, lighting a match, pressing Record, and rolling in those sweet Netflix royalties.
In fact, if you’ve ever built a fire, you’ll know that even a modest fire takes at least some minimal amount of effort (that’s assuming you already have the fuel around). If you’re set with fuel, there are still some basic skills at play on how to place the logs, where and how much kindling to put down, and even on how to light the kindling safely and effectively. And, of course, having a live fire at home requires attentiveness for minimizing flammable hazards, as well the occasional maintenance of the logs, and of the fireplace.
And… if you don’t already have fuel, that’s an effort in itself. In the Boxing Day carol Good King Wenceslas, a major plot point includes a man in poverty who is gathering winter fuel, putting himself at great risk from the bitter weather. Such is the effort that goes in building a housewarming fire from scratch.
(And, as we explored last week, we could have a deeper discussion as to what really counts as doing anything from scratch! But gathering fuel or building a fire is enough effort to consider for today’s purposes.)
In George Ford’s case, the fire he built for his cinematic vision also required extensive planning, as well as literally hundreds of trials. After all, he wasn’t just planning a fire – for single use by one family unit – but the fire that many households would repeatedly use in homes around the world. He had to position the logs just right, so that they would fall into themselves, without the need for additional intervention, during an entire hour.
Ford also had to hand-select the logs, that they may be the right shape, size, type, and dryness for that perfect crackling sound, and just the right amount of smoke (enough to appreciate it as part of the fire, but not so much as to drown out the picture). His wood of choice was Canadian fir, which is his personal favourite for his own household fires. And he included fire-building skills that he learned from his Canadian mother, living in the Pacific Northwest, where they really did need a lit fireplace to stay warm during the winter.
He wanted to bring at least a sense of that experience to others who couldn’t have it, be it because of lack of a fireplace, or owing to issues with using one, due to accessibility or safety concerns.
And making it accessible was the next challenge he faced, as many networks refused to take him seriously. Until he reached Netflix, who took him up on the idea and released the first season in 2010.
That first season of Fireplace for Your Home consisted of three full episodes, each one an hour long. One features the fire with a Christmas soundtrack in the background, another one has the plain crackling fire (with no frills), and a third episode has music that fits other seasons. In 2015, Ford released an improved Classic version of the Crackling Fire, and in the same year, I was excited to see its long-awaited sequel: the Birchwood Edition.
Fireplace for Your Home now allows you to enjoy some of the soothing benefits of a lit fireplace, without the hazards of building one yourself, or to have access to this meditative heartwarming opportunity, if you don’t happen to have a practical space in which to host your own fire. And it’s presented in 4K Ultra HD.
Now, maybe having a fire at home was never your thing… perhaps the idea of having your clothes and living room smell like smoked salmon at the end of the night is not your idea of a good time. Or, maybe you do relish the leftover smoky aroma on your sweater, and the notion of a two-dimensional fire on a screen doesn’t seem like it does justice to the experience… (after all, I know of people who purposely smoke their clothes at summer campfires or by the winter fireplace, for the express purpose of unpacking them later and bringing up that comforting memory).
But each of us has an idea of what would be a heartwarming moment on a season that might otherwise feel cold and dark. And the fact that George Ford made his Fireplace series, and that Netflix continues to play it 12 years later, shows that enough people find that particular setting soothing.
As George Ford notes in an interview with CBC, “I think it’s this primal need for the safety of fire in a fireplace. For millions of years we’ve cooked on the fire. We used it for safety. We’ve used it for light at night. It’s all about the fireplace.”
I have not trouble sharing that I’ve fired up the Birchwood Edition from time to time, and I even found that the Classic Crackling Fire edition was a fitting background while writing this sermon. Like Ford, I find that it can offer one of those elements of safety and comfort that can make the necessity of staying at home in the winter not only endurable, but desirable. It helps me look forward to getting into a mindset that I can loosely call hibernating.
Strictly speaking, we humans don’t hibernate in the way we picture bears doing so. And, as a sidenote, I’ll acknowledge that there is a semantic debate among some biologists as to whether bears are “true” hibernators or not – as compared to ground squirrels or chipmunks, whose body temperature lowers significantly more – though there is no question that the life systems of bears certainly behave dramatically differently in the winter than during the rest of the year… their lifestyle is winterized.
But for those of us who live in this climate, taking an opportunity to slow down, hunker down with some comforting surroundings, and reducing the need to be as active as other times of the year, allows for different ways of connecting with ourselves, with others, with the places we call home, and to regenerate for a new year. Winterizing is a reality for us, it is a necessity for us – it is an opportunity for us.
For you, it might be a simple matter of making some tea and sitting with a warm cup on the couch, or perhaps your favourite easy chair, with that one blanket that is particularly cozy (or stuffed animal).
Maybe putting up the decorations, and seeing them up for a few weeks, maybe even months, is what brings in that cheer you need, and that extra bit of light, when the sunlight is at a premium.
Or maybe having that long-overdue call with a dear friend, or with family you haven’t seen in a while – maybe even having them over – is what you’re looking forward to in this dawning winter season.
It doesn’t have to be complicated, or costly, but it will require at least the minimal effort of resolving to make it happen. Whatever it is that allows you to hibernate, it pays off to keep in sight, keep it in mind, and keep it in practice.
As we consider how we may hibernate in cold and dark days, we also remember that not everyone in our community can do so easily.
In the Boxing Day carol, the title character Wenceslas, and his page, are reminded that some folks have a harder time than others. Boxing Day itself has been a traditional day for alms-giving, in which some measure of wealth redistribution comes into practice. Many of us, who are able to do so, also stretch that practice throughout this season, or perhaps beyond, with general giving to those causes and communities that we consider important in sharing warmth with others beyond ourselves.
My friends, in this season of dark and cold, we intentionally set the time and space for light and warmth. Be it with five candles on a wreath throughout the month, eight candles on a candleholder throughout this week, a candle on a chalice on Sundays or other times of spiritual focus, or a fireplace, physical or virtual, that we may find a way to light our season.
My friends, in this season of dark and cold, we also keep in mind all who can use some help in warming up and finding glimmers of light. And we remember that it’s perfectly appropriate to ask for this help.
My friends, as we kindle these flames, may our own selves be joined in one community of warmth and light.
So may it be, In the spirit of rest and renewal, Amen
As we approach the middle of December, certain seasonal motifs become increasingly conspicuous. It will be common to see “indoor trees” in many homes (maybe even your own), and these are often decorated with a star at the top – as is the one we have in our church’s sanctuary.
Stars, of course, are linked with the traditional Christmas story, which includes an account of a Star of Bethlehem, as a guiding light toward a mystical revelation. In Christmas, this mystical revelation is the power of cosmic divinity in a child.
Last year, I spoke about the Posadas tradition in Mexico, in which small communities look to re-enact part of the Christmas story, in which Mary and Joseph look for lodging while traveling far from home, so that Mary may give birth to her child (posada refers to “lodging”). At the end of this re-enactment, it is customary to smash a piñata, which is traditionally made in a “Star of Bethlehem” image, with many points adorned in paper ruffles and tassels. This tradition would start this week (it’s usually around the Dec. 16), so this feels like a good time to think about stars, and how they may continue to offer guidance in our lives.
Along with that, this is also a season in which many of us pay special attention to certain kinds of foods. This may simply be that some childhood favourites of yours are featured more often around this time of year. Or, you happen to be able to gather with friends or family who make special dishes. Or, perhaps you are the person who is keen on making these special dishes, either for others… or for yourself.
When gathering for special food – or when settling down on your own for some special treat – there is sometimes a debate on whether to get food ready-made or whether to start “from scratch” and make it all on your own.
Now, I should say that I find no shame in getting food ready-made. Depending on each of our individual situations, it may be the most realistic or effective way to get fed. I myself like to get certain meals made by the professionals, either because I might not have the time or inclination to make a meal at a given time, or because I know that, for some dishes, there are others who are better at preparing them than me.
But, if you’re up for the challenge, or find it personally enjoyable, there can be a certain feeling of achievement in making something from scratch – starting with ingredients that may be used for many other things, but then making them into an entirely new thing. It may take longer (and may sometimes even be costlier) than simply getting the finished product from the get-go, but going through the process of preparation can be its own payoff, and sometimes even offer a superior product – or, at least, one that is personally special.
Yet, as we gaze upon the stars, and ponder about their ancient wisdom, an inconvenient question might crop up – can we really make anything from scratch?
Scratch is a way of saying “from the beginning”, so that we may take some claim of responsibility – and credit – for creating a meal ourselves “all on our own”.
Most of us will understand that starting with typical kitchen ingredients, such as fresh produce, or plain spices and seasonings, might be enough to say we’re starting from scratch – that is, from the beginning. And from then on staking a claim that we’re making the thing ourselves.
Take apple pie. If we start with a few things like apples, flour, sugar, cinnamon, and a few other things, like butter, salt, and whatever your secret recipe calls for, and then put them together and bake it, we can typically claim credit for having made the pie “all on your own”.
And to be clear, making an apple pie this way is, indeed, an achievement. And I know that some of you are particularly good at this sort of thing – so, this is not a commentary on your abilities or skill.
But going deeper, how much does this really represent making it “all on our own”? What does it really take to start “from the beginning”?
Very quickly, we realize that that particular claim is a bit of a fantasy. The apples didn’t come out of nowhere. They may have come from the orchard down the street, or been trucked in from a place further away. And they were grown from the ground, with water from the ground or the sky, with knowhow from a whole team of farmers and farm workers, and labour by people that live nearby or came from far away. They, too, make the pie that we bake. The beginning starts further back than our kitchen counter. The reality is that none of us makes a pie “all on our own”.
Same deal with the sugar, which most certainly came from farther away, not to mention additional processing by people and machines, at a factory. And the butter has a similar story, plus the life investment of animals that gave of themselves, in some way or other (even vegetarians have bees to recognize for their role in pollinating for fruits and vegetables). Many of you are involved in some of these kinds of industries, and will well appreciate the work involved way before a pie starts “from scratch”. None of us make a pie “all on our own”.
I could tell similar stories about any of the ingredients that go into a pie, way before we have a go at making it “all on our own”… “from the beginning”.
But let’s go a bit deeper. Because even before any of these ingredients get to look like anything we’d recognize as food, or the inputs for the food, we might consider what makes the stuff that they’re made of… and that stuff was made a long, long time ago – possibly in our galaxy, but likely still far, far away.
I’m particularly fond of the way that the late astrophysicist Carl Sagan describes how all of the elements we’re made of have had a long journey toward their creation. Most of them were made during the lives of stars… or as they died. And even though hydrogen, the simplest of the elements was not made in stars, it too could only be formed as the early big bang universe cooled down enough for it to come into being, at a time very close to the beginning.
In the vast furnaces of stars, hydrogen came together under immense pressure and heat to make helium… and eventually, other things like carbon, and oxygen, things that our bodies and the stuff we eat know very well. After enough hydrogen fuses together to make iron, then it is only through the death of some stars – in massive supernovae explosions – that we come about other elements we know, like gold, and tungsten, and… molybdenum. What we stand on, what we breathe, who we are, all came to be in another time and another space, in and by stars we’ll never know about, and which we have never named.
My friends, we have spent much time and contemplation this year in honoring and recognizing the legacy of our ancestors, recent and historic. And just as we are the product of our ancestors, for whom we are grateful, we and these ancestors are the products of ancestral stars, whom we may honor and recognize as part of our creation – to whom we may offer credit in the creation of the carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, that make up the apples in a pie, forged inside stars and at their end, as well as the even more ancestral hydrogen, which may be nearly as old as our universe.
My friends, it is no small feat to make an apple pie in your kitchen, especially if you get to share it with loved ones – or with strangers you have yet to meet. And it does not diminish your achievement to share the credit with those who also collaborated in making the ingredients before they got to the kitchen, or with the ancestors who crafted the knowhow and shared the knowledge, or with the stellar ancestors that made possible what we are and where we are.
My friends, we may never make a dish “all on our own”, but then, isn’t it comforting that we don’t ever do anything “all on our own”? as a cloud of witnesses collaborates with us in everything we do? (a cloud that includes, somewhere along the line, a literal cosmic cloud from a nebula of freshly-created elements)
My friends, it turns out that, to really make an apple pie from scratch may take longer than we might expect – 14 billion years, give or take a few million.
My friends, over this holiday season, or into the new year, if you come across a slice of apple pie, or apples, or pie, it wouldn’t be out of place to offer a prayer of gratitude and joy, to the people who made the final preparation “all on their own – but not by their own” (no small feat); a prayer of gratitude and joy for the people and animals who offered of themselves; a prayer of gratitude and joy for the stars whose lives continue to live within each of us; for our ancestors near and far; recent and from time immemorial; for the unfathomable forces and reach of time and space, which remind us that none of us is “all on our own”.
So may it be, In the spirit of mystical connection, Amen
Picture this: it’s 5:05pm, you’ve just finished listening to the afternoon news on CBC Radio – which is all you needed to hear before dinner – but you took just a little too long to turn off the radio, and now you’ve caught a few words from the announcer about the upcoming show on the secrets of better sleep, as revealed by new revolutionary research – “coming up next” they helpfully remind you… before you know it, you’re halfway through a show you’d originally had no plan to listen to, but now can’t seem to be able to walk away from.
What happened?
It’s not your fault, that’s simply the work of journalists using one of the oldest tricks in the book. In content marketing, this is known as the curiosity gap, often phrased as something like: “the gap between what people know and what they would like to know”.
In other words, whoever is writing the news or a show – and the advertising for it – expects that you already have at least some background knowledge about what they are going to talk about. But they also presume that they are going to give you some information you’re unlikely to know – and will likely find fascinating. So, before the show even gets going, the announcer tells you… not exactly what they’re going to tell you later, but that they’re going to tell you something more about what you already know, and are presumably interested in. That gap is a compelling force into keeping your attention.
And it’s not just radio – TV news, print news, and online news, all employ this tactic. It’s part of what can make learning about the world – and its many challenges – so addictive, even if it isn’t always as inspiring, or pleasant, as the kind of entertainment media that you might be more likely to follow for relaxation or amusement.
The curiosity gap is a powerful force.
And, in the case of the internet, the marketing aspect of the curiosity gap is even more insidious – and potentially more harmful.
Online, the riskier version of the curiosity gap gambit has come to be known as clickbait, that is, headlines or links that are worded so that they can be irresistible to ignore, baiting you by promising to satisfy your curious mind, by hinting that they’ll give an incredible answer to a question they have raised in the headline – if only you clicked.
Classic examples are phrasings such as “You won’t believe how so-and-so keeps their house so clean” or “Are your recipes ruining your dinner parties?”
(By the way, there’s a news media adage that, whenever a headline ends with a question mark, then the answer is almost always “no”.)
These kinds of headlines or article titles are especially difficult to ignore if they have tickled some sense of insecurity in you. This is often used by the makers of products that promote diets or beauty products, who often use clickbait in the form of sensationalistic banners that give promises of a body that is considered ideal by certain segments of our society, although the goal of this kind of body is often neither attainable nor necessary for being able to love oneself and to be loved by others. There is also the risk of harmful products that underdeliver on their promises or which may be outright dangerous to one’s physical or mental health.
Other times, the clickbait technique may simply lure you into wasting time on information that is nowhere as important (or interesting) as its headline may have made it out to be. This may seem like a minor hazard, but when that lost time reduces the time for you to connect more deeply with better content, or with those around you, the harm can be real.
So, yes, my friends, clickbait, and the manipulative use of the curiosity gap, can be harmful in many ways. It is little wonder that the action of following a seemingly endless thread of clickbaity content is often labeled as doom-scrolling. And a lot of doom-scrolling – even more of it than usual – happened during the pandemic, when our curiosity to find more and better information left a wide gap, which many content providers were vying to fill – some more responsibly than others.
Curiosity can be a powerful force.
Now, using the curiosity gap, or even some versions of clickbait, isn’t always a bad thing, nor is it necessarily a nefarious tactic. After all, the job of journalists, and other kinds of content creators, is to make content that you want to follow and may indeed be information you need, or could at least find useful. And presumably, you are interested in following interesting content… at least some of the time.
One of my favourite content creators is Adam Ragusea – you’ve seen me reference him, or even play some of his videos, here before. A journalist by training, he describes himself as “man in a kitchen with a camera” and his channel is food focused. And while he does offer weekly recipes, he also has videos that are essentially food journalism, exploring aspects about food production, preparation, commerce, and even the ethics around the food we eat, and how we get it.
In a speech he gave to the Atlanta Writers’ Club a couple years ago – during the height of the initial pandemic waves – he spoke about how he struggles to balance the need to inform right away and the need to get people’s attention – and therefore onto the content he creates.
At the time, in the context of the pandemic, he made a video to emphasize that getting food through minimal contact with people was safer than riskier options, such as going to restaurants. He titled that video “People are more dangerous than food” – effectively offering the answer right in the title. He did this because he felt that playing the clickbait game, with a curiosity gap headline, was inappropriate at the time, wanting to prioritize giving as much of the answer as possible in the title itself.
But he noticed that this particular video had significantly fewer views than some of his videos with less urgent information that had more clickbaity titles.
Adam Ragusea wondered if he’d had gotten more views with a title like: “Can you get covid from food?” – a question for which you’d have to click in order to get the answer – thus enticing more people to click and get a fuller sense of the safety information he was looking to offer. He has reluctantly accepted that, if he cannot get people’s attention, he cannot inform them, and thus makes some use of curiosity gap tactics to get people onto his content.
He balances this by giving away the most important information early in his videos (rather than make you wait to the end of the video, as some other YouTubers are prone to do), and he also ensures that he does intensive journalistic research before publishing, seeking to offer good quality information. In this way, he feels he has “earned” your click.
In fact, we do this kind of thing at church. When I write the blurbs for the upcoming month’s sermons, my e-mails to the newsletter team are headed “Titles & Teasers”. If you’ve ever wondered why my titles aren’t more forthright, part of the reason is that I’m leaving a bit of the subject matter deliberately in the gap between what you know and what you want to know, hoping that this will pique your curiosity and you’d be more inclined to engage with the service.
If I worded my title and blurb something like “today I’m going to talk about how understanding star formation cycles can offer spiritual inspiration”, you might be less keen to attend, or to click on the Zoom link. (Next week’s sermon, by the way, is called “Stellar Apple Pie”… it’s about how understanding star formation cycles can offer spiritual inspiration).
Of course, there is more than a simple marketing ploy at play. Because part of our tradition’s practice is to inspire curiosity, so intentionally seeking the gap between what we know and what we want to know is precisely what we are often about – looking to bridge that gap, and then find the next one – because curiosity is a powerful motivator to make connections between the gaps, that we may explore how our fragmented world is far more connected than we might expect.
My friends, curiosity is a powerful force.
Last week, my friends, I spoke about some of the practices that we sometimes take, or which folks have suggested, to bring cheer and warmth into a season that might otherwise be cold and dark. These practices and suggestions included a mix of comfort in tradition, as well as excitement in seeking novelty. Our church is about that, finding a sense of grounding and guidance in the work and insights from our ancestors, while also pursuing the gap that our curiosity finds, that we may move toward bolder, deeper, and more connected ways of being.
My friends, in the spirit of the season, we encourage curiosity through an appeal to exploration, to search how we may stay connected or make new connections – with oneself or with others – as the cold season may invite warm opportunities to either gather together, or find comfort in our own places, in sometimes new and exciting ways.
My friends, curiosity is one of the drivers of our faith. And finding the gap in it is an invitation to practice that faith.
