It's fascinating to me that fewer people have trouble singing words that they don't agree with or don't understand than saying those kinds of words. I've heard that there are some people who don't come to Christmas services because we sing carols with lines about angels and virgin birth and all that stuff, but they are rare birds. On the other hand, it's not rare at all for people to have trouble with responsive readings that differ in some tiny respect from their own theology. As for me, whether it's readings or songs, I like to feel in tune with the gist of it. I do feel in tune with the hymn we just sang, and I'd like to explore its significance with you for a few minutes.

"Here we have gathered". The "here" is important and powerful. We're not meeting in just any old place, but in a building which has become part of our history through all that's taken place here over the past few years. This Unitarian House in which we gather has been dedicated, as was its predecessor on Allen Street, to providing courage and hope to every searching soul. The building is made holy by all those who came before us, working to keep the light of religious freedom burning. It's full of the nitty-gritty bits and pieces of the past and present, from the replica stained glass here, to the wonderful new sign and bench and planters outside, from the old chalice on the sign to the CUC logo newly made and balancing it. "Here we have gathered", in an area of religiously conservative southern Ontario, to proclaim our faith in a free and responsible search for truth and meaning, engaged in together, here.

"Gathered side by side -- circle of kinship; come and step inside." The circle is metaphorical in this meeting place -- we're actually in rows, with the speaker up front, which isn't ideal for suggesting equality or allowing us to see each other. It also means that while the rest of you are physically side-by-side, I'm isolated -- lucky I'm one of those coolish anglo-saxon types who's most comfortable with lots of space around me anyway. This arrangement is about the only practical way for a crowd of more than a couple of dozen, which means we have to try extra hard to give each other the sense of a circle, a circle of kinship and equality into which we step as we enter the building. We can at least curve the rows a little, and we can meet in a circle for our smaller discussion group afterwards. Circles are powerful symbols, which is why they're used in so many contexts. At Christine Levy's wedding which I did yesterday, and at Bruce and Tui's the week before, I said as I usually do before the exchange of rings, "The circle ... speaks of love freely given and received; it has no beginning and no end. [You are each the giver and each the receiver.]" It's that kind of loving circle that we have gathered here to make. And I'm so glad that you've all stepped inside! I hope you'll find the metaphor of the circle -- no beginning and no end, no-one above or below -- as more powerful than the accidentals of the rows and the pulpit.

"May all who seek here find a kindly word; may all who speak here feel they have been heard." I think it's significant that it's a kindly word we want for each other -- not a profound one, necessarily, not the one true answer, not even, perhaps, what it was you thought you were seeking when you decided to come here this morning, but simply an indication of kindness. The Hamilton church (my old home) had a wayside pulpit which carried many interesting and thought-provoking messages from time to time, but my all-time favourite is three little words, "Be Ye Kind". I do hope you'll find kindness here. (I know there are many kind people here, so that's a good start!) And a major part of kindness is our readiness to listen, to pay attention when someone speaks -- whether it's during the service or in the coffee hour or discussion afterwards or with one other person in a quiet corner. May you feel you have been heard, and may we all be enriched in some way by hearing you, even if we find ourselves in disagreement or puzzlement or irritation. What you say here, whatever it is, is part of the whole truth about our world; it's worth hearing; it's an important part of the circle of kinship.

"Here we have gathered, called to celebrate days of our lifetimes, matters small and great." Celebration is a word which used to mean only happy occasions to most of us, but it's now being applied even to funerals. We celebrate a person's passing in the sense that we remember them and appreciate the impact which their life and personality had on us. Celebration is a matter of active remembering and awareness and doing, rather than of particularly cheerful feelings. Some of the things we celebrate are indeed great -- births and marriages and deaths among us, for example -- but some are apparently smaller matters: a step towards recovery from an illness; going back to school; starting a new job, or losing a job; developments in relationships; the decision to increase or lessen your involvement with the congregation. These are the days of our lives, filled with details. Divinity is in the details, someone has said. The matters small and great are all worth celebrating here, and I hope that we'll know about lots of them and be able to celebrate them together.

"We of all ages, women, children, men, infants and sages, sharing what we can ..." It was a delight to me to hear that there's going to be a class this year for the Junior High age-group, with plans for a Coming-of-Age ceremony next Spring. We're growing in several different age groups, and it looks as though the balance will take care of itself, so that we won't end up with a congregation that's skewed heavily towards one particular age group or sex or interest. I hope that we'll always have babies, and teenagers, of both sexes; I hope that we'll have activities which draw men in the way that women are being drawn. It's not that I'm afraid of being taken over by a particular group -- I wouldn't especially mind if we turned out to be the gay church, or the children's church, the women's church or (in my wildest dreams) the black church. But you might not feel that you had a role in such a church. I hope that no matter what your age or sex or background or orientation, you'll always find a fulfilling place in this circle of kinship, and that you'll share what you can. It's been my experience that when one person expresses an interest in some particular aspect of church life, it means that there are others with the same kind of interest, both within the church already and in the community outside, ready to respond to what we can offer here to all sorts and conditions of people.

"Life has its battles, sorrows and regret: but in the shadows, let us not forget: we who now gather know each other's pain." This is the most important verse of the hymn for me. As I become more established in ministry, more familiar with this congregation and above all simply older, I realize more and more the inescapable double-edged truth that every single one of us has burdens to carry and that it's precisely this carrying of burdens that makes us who we are. Character isn't forged, or a person given the gift of a soul, by superior educational opportunities or financial prosperity or excellent health, but by what's done with life's battles, sorrows and regrets. No pain, no gain, to repeat a cliche.

But the vital phrase for the congregational circle is this: "we who now gather know each other's pain". If that's true, if we do know one another's pain, then there's a hope that we can truly be friends, be kin to one another. If we don't, then we can only be acquaintances, no matter how many details we know about each other's hobbies or children's names or house furnishings or even religious convictions. It's the pain we disclose to another which opens the way for closeness -- it doesn't guarantee closeness, but it makes it possible as nothing else can. In this congregation, those of you I feel I'm beginning to know, even to know well in a few cases, are those whose pain has been disclosed to me. I'm always humbled and honoured by this kind of disclosure, especially because disclosure comes hard to me. If some of you feel you hardly know me after my first year with you, please be patient, don't give up! We need to know each other's pain so we can minister to each other.

How does that ministry happen? As the song says, "Kindness can heal us; as we give, we gain." Back to kindness again, and I believe it truly is the key. Not kindness of the bland, mushy kind which says soothing things no matter how serious the situation, but the kindness which listens without judging, which accepts you fully even when you're being difficult, which trusts that you have the ability to grow and change and that you don't need to have change forced on you but do need to be encouraged in your growth. What we give and gain in being kind is a breaking of the barriers between us, a strength which is greater than yours or mine separately, and often a new understanding of ourselves as we come to understand someone else. This two-way process is especially vivid for me. Once I was telling someone about the things I hope to preach about in the coming weeks and mentioned a particular topic. "Why that?" he asked. "Because they need to hear it," I said, then immediately realized that it was I who need to hear it, I who will gain most from studying and speaking on the subject. "As we give, we gain."

Each verse of this hymn, which you can probably tell is one of my favourites, ends with an exhortation to sing together "our heart's own song", and the last verse tells us to sing "in friendship". If we do this each time we come here -- if we let the song of our hearts pour forth here, whether it's a sad song or a merry one, the blues or an anthem or a jingle -- and if we aim for a spirit of kindness and friendship with each other person, this will be a wonderful place, a place of miracles and marvels. How blessed we are to have gathered here!

And so may it be.