Midweek Message January 8, 2026

This past Sunday, our community gathered for a thoughtful and wide-ranging conversation about the state of religion in America, a conversation that invited curiosity rather than certainty, and listening rather than defensiveness. It felt fitting that such a dialogue would land in a month themed around resistance, especially here in Tennessee, where winter has been unseasonably warm and the familiar rhythms of the season feel slightly out of sync.

This coming Sunday, we turn our attention to Fire Communion, a ritual centered on release and intention, on naming what we are ready to let go of and what we hope to carry forward. Fire, after all, has always held a complicated place in human imagination. It warms and illuminates. It transforms. It can destroy, and yet, in its wake, something new often emerges.

There is a reason fire appears in spiritual traditions across cultures. It is one of the essential elements, alongside air, water, and earth, and long before it was understood scientifically, fire was experienced as mysterious and powerful. In stories and myths, the gift of fire to humanity was often treated as dangerous knowledge, something capable of reshaping the world for better or worse. In our own tradition, fire holds particular meaning. The flame in the chalice, the central symbol of Unitarian Universalism, represents the light of conscience, the warmth of community, and the ongoing search for truth. The circle that holds the chalice speaks to wholeness, interdependence, and the belief that none of us stands alone. Together, the flame and the circle express a faith rooted not in creed, but in shared values: curiosity, compassion, and responsibility to one another. Fire, in this way, is not about certainty or domination, but about presence, light offered, held, and tended together. 

If fire teaches us anything, it is that transformation happens in relationship, to fuel, to air, to timing. Change is not abstract; it is embodied. That makes this season of New Year’s resolutions feel worth questioning, especially when the calendar asks us to begin again at a moment when the natural world is still resting. For much of human history, the new year began not in the depths of winter, but with the return of light in spring. Even the names of our months hint at this older rhythm. December, after all, means the tenth month, not the twelfth, and winter was an unnamed group of days. It was not a time for bold beginnings, but for rest and recovery. It was a season of pause rather than production. Perhaps it’s no surprise that so many resolutions falter when they ask us to push forward at the very moment our bodies and spirits are asking for gentleness.

In that sense, resistance might look less like pushing harder and more like listening more closely, to the seasons, to our limits, to the quiet truths we already know. Fire Communion invites us to resist the urge to rush transformation and instead trust its timing. To release what no longer serves us without demanding immediate replacement. To set intentions that are honest rather than performative.

May this ritual remind us that change does not have to be loud to be real, and that sometimes the most faithful act of resistance is allowing ourselves to begin again, when the time is right.

With love and gratitude,