Midnight Chapel: December 15, 2024

Embers of Balance in a Restless World

Welcome, luminous ones. Tonight, we gather under the vast, unseen canopy of a sky that knows no bounds, to breathe in the warmth of one another’s presence. Let us first acknowledge this sacred moment—a shared breath, a collective heartbeat that brings us here not by accident, but by intention. Tonight, let our intention be to hold space for a truth often forgotten: the balance between the fire that drives us to address the world’s injustices and the tender ember that must be protected within.

Consider this: a flame burns brightest when fed by oxygen, yet too much wind extinguishes it. In our pursuit of change, in our sacred work of turning wrongs into rights, it is tempting to throw ourselves entirely into the storm. But if the flame within us gutters and dies, what light do we have left to share? The world does not need martyrs of exhaustion; it needs bright torches, steadfast and enduring, guiding others through the dark.

This space we create tonight is a temple not only of action but of rest—a place where we remind ourselves that justice is not a sprint, but a pilgrimage. It winds through landscapes of grief and joy, fury and calm, each step asking something different of us. And so, we gather to recalibrate. To ensure that our fire burns, yes—but also that it does not consume us entirely.

Let us set an intention, then, for balance. Not as an act of selfishness, but as a form of devotion—to the cause, to the community, to ourselves. Balance is not indifference; it is wisdom. Balance is not hesitation; it is strength. In the days to come, when the world howls for action, let us act with fervor, but let us also learn when to step back and tend to the quiet flame that sustains us.

Imagine yourself as a forest fire, if you will—a force of nature, vital and transformative. Fires like yours are necessary. They clear the deadwood, make space for new life, and illuminate the night. But even the strongest fire must have its cycles: moments to burn, moments to smolder, and moments to rest under the ashes, waiting for the right time to rise again.

Injustice, too, has its cycles. It ebbs and flows, flaring up in moments that demand our attention and lying dormant in times when we must rebuild ourselves for the battles to come. To fight wisely, we must understand these rhythms—not as failures of constancy, but as opportunities for reflection and renewal. The wise torchbearer knows when to ignite and when to shelter the flame.

And so, I invite you to listen tonight—not only to the words spoken here, but to the quiet wisdom of your own fire. Is it blazing too fiercely, threatening to consume you? Or is it dimmed, asking for more fuel? Both states are sacred. Both are necessary. Neither should be ignored. Let tonight be a moment to take stock of that balance, without judgment, without shame.

As we close this sermon and open our space for sharing, I leave you with this: to tend your fire is not to turn away from the world’s pain. It is to ensure that when the time comes to confront it, you will have the strength to burn brightly. Tonight, let us honor both our flames and our rest, for in doing so, we honor the world and its unending need for light.

What do you feel stirring in your own flame tonight?

Parable of the Resting Torchbearer

There was once a village nestled in a valley, surrounded by a great and ancient forest. The villagers depended on the forest for their life—its wood for their fires, its streams for their water, and its fruits for their nourishment. Yet the forest had grown wild with time, choked by brambles and heavy with shadows. Wolves prowled its depths, and the villagers feared to wander too far. They longed for someone to bring order to the chaos, to clear the paths and light the way.

One day, a young torchbearer came to the village, carrying a flame so bright that it lit even the darkest corners of the forest. “I will go,” said the torchbearer, “and I will bring light to your shadows. I will drive back the wolves and clear a path for you.” The villagers rejoiced and followed the torchbearer to the forest’s edge, where the shadows parted before the light of the flame.

The torchbearer began their work with fervor, pressing into the wilderness and burning away the brambles. Day and night, they labored, their flame consuming all that stood in its way. The villagers marveled at their strength and celebrated their progress. Yet as the days turned to weeks, the torchbearer grew weary. Their steps faltered, their breaths came shallow, and their flame began to flicker.

Seeing this, an elder of the village approached the torchbearer. “Why do you labor so without rest?” asked the elder. “The forest is vast, and your flame is but one.” The torchbearer replied, “If I do not burn brightly, who will? If I stop now, the shadows will return, and all will be lost.” The elder smiled sadly and took a small lantern from their robe. “Come,” they said, “let me show you something.”

The elder led the torchbearer to a clearing where the fireflies danced among the trees, their tiny lights glimmering in the darkness. “Do you see?” said the elder. “Your flame is strong, but it is not alone. The light you have kindled inspires others to shine, each in their own way. If you let your fire burn out, who will guide them?” The torchbearer watched as the fireflies gathered, their lights weaving together to illuminate the clearing. In that moment, they understood.

The torchbearer returned to the village and rested, tending to their flame with care. They learned to work in cycles, burning brightly when needed and trusting the light of others when they could not. The villagers, too, took up their own lanterns, inspired by the torchbearer’s example. Together, they brought light to the forest, not as one consuming blaze, but as a constellation of small, steady flames. And so, the valley flourished, not because of one fire, but because of many.

Response to a Request for Guidance

Ah, the shifting tides of Mercury Retrograde, with its lessons of reflection and recalibration, coming to a close under the luminous gaze of the full moon. This is a potent convergence, a celestial invitation to align with both the seen and unseen forces guiding us. Let us ask the guides together: how can we make the best use of the remainder of this year?

The retrograde brings its challenges—miscommunications, delays, and moments of frustration. But beneath that, it offers opportunities for reflection. Ask yourself: what stories have you been telling about yourself this year? What patterns have repeated themselves, and where can you gently loosen your grip? Before the full moon wanes, release what no longer serves you. Write it down, burn it, or simply whisper it to the stars. The closing retrograde gives you permission to let go with grace.

The full moon is not just an ending; it is also illumination—a moment of clarity. Take time to sit in the moonlight and ask: What do I want to carry forward into the coming year? The remainder of this year is fertile ground for planting those seeds. Speak your intentions aloud, let the moonlight infuse them with power, and trust that they will grow in their time.

The retrograde may have already frayed some ties, whether through misunderstandings or emotional distance. Now is the time to mend what matters. Reach out, clarify, and rebuild with those who walk beside you on your journey. Relationships, like the moon’s phases, wax and wane—but the bonds worth keeping are the ones that endure through shadows and light alike.

The retrograde highlights loose ends: unfinished projects, unspoken words, or deferred dreams. As the year winds down, commit to tying those threads. Completing even the smallest of tasks clears space for the new year to begin with lightness and intention. It is in the act of finishing that you make room for your next beginning.

May you move forward with clarity, unburdened by what has passed. May the light of the full moon reveal your path and illuminate your purpose. And may the remainder of this year be a time of alignment, of peace, and of preparing the soil for all that is to come. So it is.

Response to a Confession Regarding Injustice

Beloved [ REDACTED ], you come bearing the sacred ember of fury—a spark that burns hot against injustice and transgression. It is no sin to feel it; in fact, it reveals the depth of your care. Fury arises from love, from the heart's refusal to accept harm or inequity as natural. It is not wrong to feel it. The error lies in letting it control us, for fire untended burns indiscriminately, leaving even the just scorched in its wake. Tonight, you ask not to extinguish this fire, but to transform it—a noble and holy intention.

Let us first honor this fury, for it has been a loyal companion. It has stayed awake with you, vigilantly guarding what is sacred. It whispers truths others might ignore. But fury is a wild thing, and if we clutch it too tightly, it begins to clutch back. It thrives on resistance and division, feeding itself endlessly until it exhausts the vessel that holds it. This is why transformation, not repression, is the path forward. For what if this fury, so raw and untamed, is not your enemy but your teacher?

Imagine your fury as molten metal, heated by your care for the world’s pain and your hunger for justice. Molten metal is not discarded—it is refined and shaped into something useful, something enduring. Fury, too, can be tempered. But what is it to temper fury? It is to strip it of its sharpness while preserving its strength. It is to recognize the heart beating at the center of it: the love that gave birth to it in the first place. For every transgression you rail against, there is a tenderness you are trying to protect.

Transformation begins in the stillness of the forge. Fury demands action, but before we act, we must pause—not to silence the fire, but to listen to what it is saying beneath the roar. What is it calling you to protect? What is it asking you to build? Fury burns brightest when it has no direction, but when given a purpose, it softens and becomes a steady flame. This flame, born of anger but tempered by wisdom, can illuminate the path for others. It becomes not a weapon of destruction but a beacon of hope.

The heart of this transformation is love—not a shallow love that seeks comfort or avoids conflict, but a fierce, holy love. This love does not erase the fury; it sanctifies it. It says, "I see what is broken, and I choose to heal rather than harm." Love channels the energy of your rage into creation rather than destruction. Love turns the fire outward not as a blaze to burn, but as warmth to gather around. This is not a denial of what you feel, but an elevation of it—a call to use your fury as a tool for building a world where such fury is no longer needed.

So tonight, set your intention not to silence the fire within, but to guide it. Let your fury be transmuted into a loving force that touches every shadow with light. Let it fuel acts of compassion so bold that they reshape the landscape of the world. In this alchemy of the heart, nothing is wasted—not your anger, not your pain, not even your sleepless nights. The fire that once kept you awake will become the sun that awakens others. Rise with it, and let it rise as a force of love.

The Sacred Dance of Routine and Freedom

Ah, dear companions, in the relentless tide of modern life, routine often feels like a paradox. We yearn for freedom, for spontaneity, for days unburdened by obligation—and yet, without routine, we drift. In a society that demands constant motion, that worships productivity and novelty, the simple rhythm of routine can feel stifling. But perhaps this struggle comes not from routine itself, but from the ways we have learned to misunderstand it.

Routine is not a cage; it is an anchor. It grounds us amid chaos, offering stability where the world is ever-shifting. Think of the rituals you cherish, no matter how small—your morning tea, the way the sunlight falls on your bed at a certain hour, the quiet stretch of time before sleep. These moments are not insignificant. They are markers, touchstones that remind us who we are, even when the rest of the day feels uncertain.

And yet, the modern world asks us to strip routine of its humanity, to reduce it to a series of tasks, to-do lists, and metrics. We are told that routine must be efficient, optimized, even monetized. But what if we reclaimed routine as sacred? What if we let it be a conversation between our souls and the world? Instead of rushing through it, we could linger, infusing it with intention and presence. A routine built not on obligation, but on love, becomes an act of devotion.

The struggle with routine often arises from its rigidity. We tell ourselves that it must be perfect, that if we falter or deviate, we have failed. But routine is not a chain—it is a thread, woven and rewoven as life unfolds. It is meant to serve us, not the other way around. When you stumble, when your days feel fractured, let your routine be a soft return, a forgiving hand to guide you back to yourself.

In honoring routine, we also honor time—the passing of it, the cycles it brings. Routine allows us to move in harmony with these rhythms, to notice the seasons changing, to feel the breath of morning and the hush of night. It teaches us that life is not found only in the big moments, the milestones, but in the quiet repetition of the everyday. In this way, routine becomes a sacred script, written not to constrain us, but to remind us of our place in the world.

So, dear ones, let us not fear routine but embrace it. Let us craft it with care and flexibility, allowing it to hold us while still leaving space for the unexpected joys of living. In the struggle to balance routine and spontaneity, we find not only discipline but freedom, not only order but grace. And in this balance, we discover a life that is both grounded and alive.

Response to Troll Confession

Tonight, we step into a moment that every online space must eventually encounter—a message of hate, a confession that may not have been shared with the intent of receiving grace but one that nonetheless deserves a response. As an online gathering of spirits and seekers, this moment marks a rite of passage, a test of how we hold space for the raw and the unrefined. Even when words are cast like stones, our commitment is to turn them into seeds—seeds of understanding, reflection, and transformation. Let us answer not in kind, but in kindness, illuminating even the darkest corners with the light of our shared humanity.

My beloved one, you have opened your heart and exposed the fire of anger within it. That fire is real, and it burns with a purpose—to demand your attention. But anger, untended, consumes not just what it rages against but also the soul that harbors it. It whispers lies of separation and division, tempting you to see another as something apart from yourself. But look deeper: that anger is also an invitation. It is not asking to destroy; it is asking to transform.

In every moment of hatred, there is a seed of connection buried beneath the ash. When you look at the object of your anger, ask yourself: where does this pain come from? What wound within you is being touched? You are not separate from the ones you hate, and when we harm others in our minds or actions, we harm ourselves. The same spirit that animates you also animates the one you reject. When we deny their worth, we deny our own.

The path is not easy. To transmute anger into wisdom is to stand in the fire without being consumed. Let the flames refine you. They may strip away the illusions of superiority, the false comfort of judgment, and the pride of separation, leaving behind the raw truth: we all suffer, and we all long to be free from suffering. To hold hate is to hold a mirror to your own heart. What would happen if, instead of clenching it tighter, you chose to soften? To see the shared humanity, the shared divinity, of all beings?

Let this be your practice: when anger rises, breathe deeply and see it for what it is—a teacher. Do not run from it, but do not let it rule you either. Let it lead you to compassion, first for yourself and then for the one you hate. In that sacred act, you rewrite your story. You choose healing over harm, light over shadow. And in doing so, you draw us all a little closer to the unity we were made for.

Embrace the Fire of Holy Transformation

Of all the gifts we carry within ourselves, none is more radiant than the fire of our desire. It is not a sin, not a stain, but the birthplace of transformation. Too often, the world demands that we smother it, that we tame its flame into a flickering shadow of what it was meant to be. But the truth is this: that fire is your inheritance. It is a whisper from the divine that you are meant to be more than a vessel for someone else's expectations. You are here to burn brightly, to create, to destroy, and to rise again in your fullness.

When we witness injustice, that fire turns into fury, and fury is holy. Fury is the blade that cuts through the illusion of what must be, and reveals the truth of what could be. Fury is love in its sharpest, most necessary form—a love that says, "This must change." Let us not confuse fury with hatred; it is not a poison, but a purifier. It is the part of us that cannot stand idly by, the part that insists on forging a world that reflects not our fears, but our hopes. Tonight, let us honor that fury, for it is not the enemy of peace, but its crucible.

Belonging, too, is forged in fire. The feeling of not being enough, of being too much, of standing at the edges while others dwell in the center—these are lies we tell ourselves when we forget that the fire within us burns just as brightly as in anyone else. Belonging is not something we wait to be given; it is something we proclaim. You belong not because you were chosen, but because you exist. To see this is to see the divine not as something distant, but as something living and breathing through you and through the person beside you. To belong is to be awake to this truth, and to embrace others into it as fiercely as you embrace yourself.

And so, as we stand on the threshold of a new year, let us not set intentions to fix or to shrink ourselves, but to expand into our wildest, truest forms. Let us light our fires brighter and vow not to let anyone extinguish them—not even ourselves. Let us carry our fury as a torch against injustice, and let us gather those who have felt cast out into the warmth of our flames. This is not a time for moderation. This is not a time to be polite about what we know must change. This is a time to be unapologetically alive.

Do not mistake the pain of this transformation for failure. To break open is not to break apart. Each crack, each ache, each burn—it is the work of the divine sculptor within you, carving away what no longer serves and revealing the form you were always meant to take. If you feel the fire tonight, if you feel fury, or longing, or even fear, know that these are not obstacles to your becoming. They are the tools of it.

And now, let us stand together in this space, bound not by rules or doctrines, but by our shared willingness to be unafraid of our own flames. Let us call to the stars, to the earth, and to each other as witnesses to our transformation. Not tomorrow. Not next year. But now. We are here, and we are burning, and we are holy. So it is.

Embers of Belonging Ignite the Sacred Path

Beloved ones, gather close. Let us draw our focus inward, to the soft and shadowed places of our hearts. Tonight, we’ve wandered through the wilds of fury and belonging, through the tangled woods of intention. And now, let us linger in the space where these threads converge—the unlit fire within us, waiting for breath to stir it awake. For all that we seek in this world—justice, connection, purpose—begins with the quiet, sacred act of tending our inner flame.

There is a rhythm in the world that we can feel if we are still. A pulse that beats in the rise and fall of the wind, the stretch of a tree’s roots, the soft hum of a city at dusk. This rhythm is not outside of us; it is within. And yet, how often do we ignore it? We scatter ourselves in a thousand directions, chasing things that were never ours to hold. But the rhythm is patient. It waits, unchanged, for us to return. And when we do, it is not with shame for having wandered, but with a deep, resounding welcome.

To sit with that rhythm—to breathe into it, to trust it—is to understand that we are not lost. We are not broken. We are not alone. Even in the fury of the world’s injustices, even in the ache of longing for belonging, there is a place within us that remains whole, untouched by the chaos. It is the still point, the ember that refuses to be extinguished. And it is there, in that quiet place, that we begin the real work—not of shaping the world, but of shaping ourselves to meet it.

This is not the work of a single night or even a single lifetime. It is the work of being alive, the constant unfolding of who we are. It asks of us great courage, to sit with our own imperfections and the imperfections of the world. It asks us to love ourselves fiercely enough to change, and to love others fiercely enough to hold them in their changing, too. This is not an easy path, but it is the only path that leads us closer to the world we long for.

So tonight, let us set down our burdens, if only for a moment. Let us step into the rhythm that connects us all, the pulse that has always been ours. Feel the fire inside you, even if it is small, even if it is dim. It is enough. You are enough. And as we move into the days and weeks ahead, let this fire guide you—not to burn, but to warm. Not to consume, but to illuminate.

Beloved ones, the world is waiting for you, just as you are waiting for it. And when you meet it—not as someone who is finished, but as someone who is becoming—it will recognize you as its own. For you are part of the rhythm, the pulse, the fire. You always have been. And in that truth, there is belonging, there is purpose, there is peace.

And so, as we part from this moment, let us carry with us the quiet certainty that we are already enough. Not because of what we have done or will do, but because we are here, breathing, feeling, alive. The fire within you is not asking for permission to burn; it has been waiting for you to notice it, to claim it, to say, "This is mine, and it is sacred." It will guide you when the road feels long and the way unclear. Trust it, even when it flickers. Trust yourself, even when you falter.

Remember, too, that you are not alone in this tending. Look around you now, at the faces of those who share this space, this journey, this night. Each flame is unique, yes, but together, we are a constellation. We light each other’s way. We amplify each other’s warmth. And when one of us burns low, we gather close, a living altar of love and strength, until the flame returns. This is the power of belonging—not as a gift granted by others, but as a truth we create together.

Let us also not forget the world beyond these walls, the one waiting just outside this moment. It is vast and wild, full of joy and sorrow, beauty and despair. It will ask much of you. It will test your fire. But you do not need to meet it all at once. You need only take one step, and then another. Carry your fury when you must, your tenderness when you can, and your belonging always. For the rhythm that connects us here tonight also connects us to everything we will face out there. You are never truly apart from it.

And so, beloved ones, go forth with your flames alight. Let your fire guide you to the places you are called to be, to the people you are meant to find, and to the life that is waiting for you to claim it. Burn brightly, burn boldly, and do not be afraid of your own heat. You are sacred. You are seen. You are loved. And now, as we leave this space, let us carry these truths as embers in our hearts, and let them ignite the world. So it is.

So it is.