Holiday Happiness and Hopelessness 
a sermon by Rev. Eva Shaw Hochgraf 

December 15, 2002

Copyright 2002, Rev. Eva Shaw Hochgraf


Meditation 
Super Bear 
By Heather J. Laine
 
     I attended university away from home and always looked forward to coming home to 
Halifax for the holidays.  One Christmas, my mother, a store manager in a local shopping 
mall, was asked if she knew anyone who might be interested in some part-time work and 
extra money over the holiday season.  Within a few hours of arriving home, I had a job. 
     I was hired to work as "Super Bear," sort of a superhero sidekick to Santa.  Basically, 
it was my job to wander the mall during Santa's visiting hours and send children Santa's 
way.  Being only nineteen years old, and the cynical university student, I thought I was 
well aware of just how commercial Christmas had become.  But not even my jaded ears 
were prepared for the onslaught of "I wants" that faced poor Santa daily.  Santa was quite 
good about not promising anything.  In fact, when one five-year-old girl appeared with a 
five page typed list, Santa asked her how she would feel if he brought all those toys to the 
children next door and then had nothing left by the time he got to her house.  In no 
uncertain terms, she told him exactly what she thought. 
     Every night when I got home, I thought about what had happened to children, to 
society.  Had everyone, right down to five year olds, become so involved in 'stuff' that 
'stuff' had become what we valued?  Was getting oodles of gifts under the tree all that 
mattered?  What were parents teaching their children?  What happened to "Good will 
toward men" and all those kind, neighborly thoughts in the English Christmas Carols I 
loved so much? 
     As Christmas Eve approached, I began to look forward to the end of the job.  Besides 
losing five to seven pounds a day in fluids and earning some much-needed pocket money, 
I was not enjoying myself.  On the second to last day of work, I was on one of my patrols 
around the mall.  I spotted a young boy, perhaps six or seven, and tried to point the way 
to Santa's workshop.  He came up to me and said that he and his mother were just leaving 
and that he didn't have time to go see Santa.  He asked if I could tell Santa what he 
wanted for Christmas.  I nodded my head and bent down on one knee.  He looked up at 
me and said, "Super Bear, will you please tell Santa that all I want for Christmas is a cure 
for my little sister's leukemia?" 
     I was glad that Super Bear didn't talk, for at that moment, I began to cry.  Here was a 
little boy, who like most his age, probably had several items circled in the Sears 
Christmas Wish Book.  But all he wanted was that one thing, that one intangible thing.  I 
looked at his mother, gave her a hug, whispered to her that I would see what I could do, 
and waved good-bye as they left the mall.  Then I went to my mother's store, took off my 
bear head, and cried for half an hour. 
     That little boy and his mother restored in me my faith in people, and reminded me that 
some people do know what the holiday season is all about. 

Sermon: 

I read the Super Bear story, as I was looking for things to tell you about this sermon, and 
I realized that most of us seem to have "Super Bear" moments like that girl. I don't mean 
just the wonderful redeeming moments, although we hopefully have had a few of those. 
But more that we seem to have a feeling of the senseless crush of the materialism of this 
holiday season overpowering every pour of our being. We seem to be stuck in that great, 
big suit, bumbling along, playing out a game when we really just want to run and escape. 
We want the whole thing to hurry up and be over. We feel out of sync with the pace of 
the world around us.  
 
And sometimes, we even have other reasons to feel out of sync too. Some of us struggle 
with what it means to have left our Christian religion, where often we were trying hard to 
celebrate the coming of the Lord in the face of materialism, and now we are here with 
seemingly nothing left but that materialism. So how do we relate to this obviously 
Christian holiday?  
 
It's a holiday that is also so obviously not Christian anymore. But rather it has pervaded 
our total cultural and commercial environment. The hardest part is that perhaps the most 
meaningful parts of the holiday were the religious ones, and if you've walked away from 
the birth of Christ the Lord and Savior--then what are you walking into this holiday 
season. If you never knew Christ as Lord and Savior, hmm, does this holiday have any 
meaning for you?  Or is it just religious appropriation to celebrate it? Or some kind of 
meaningless, jumping on the bandwagon of commercialism?   
 
And then, sometimes the holidays bring up all kinds of remembrances of sad or bad 
things that happened to us. Not everyone has good memories from this time. We are sent 
Christmas cards that wish us holiday full of Christmas memories--but of course all the 
tough things that happen year 'round also happen at Christmas too. So as the gleeful 
carols blare out, as the bright and cheerful lights dance across our homes and yards, as 
people plan what to give as gifts and what their holiday feast will be, there are also 
people sitting with their loved ones in hospitals, holding their hands for the last time. 
There are people losing their jobs, and wondering if they will be able to make their rent 
payment. There are women scooping up their children in the night and whisking them 
away to a safe house. There are parents who say good bye to their kids and kids who say 
good bye to their parents for the last time. There are loves broken, and car crashes. Life 
marches on even in this holiday season, with all its realities--the delightful, magical 
moments we hope for at the holidays, yes. And also all this pain and sadness.  
 
For some of us, we just can't get 'into the holiday spirit' as it is traditionally defined. 
Here's a story about a group of people who just didn't seem to be able to get into the 
right spirit at all. 
Its called  "A Sailor's Christmas Gift" and its by William J. Lederer 
Its addressed to Admiral David L. McDonald, US Navy 
Dear Admiral, 
 	This letter is a year late; nevertheless, it is important that you receive it.  Eighteen 
people asked me to write to you. 
     Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France on our way 
from Paris to Nice.  For five wretched days everything had gone wrong.  Our hotels were 
"tourist traps," our rented car broke down; we were all restless and irritable in the 
crowded car.  On Christmas Eve, when we checked into a dingy hotel in Nice, there was 
no Christmas spirit in our hearts. 
     It was raining and cold when we went out to eat.  We found a drab little joint shoddily 
decorated for the holidays.  It smelled greasy.  Only five tables in the restaurant were 
occupied.  There were two German couples, two French families and an American sailor, 
by himself.  In the corner, a piano player listlessly played Christmas music.  I was too 
stubborn and too tired and miserable to leave.  I looked around the noticed that the other 
customers were eating in stony silence.  The only person who seemed happy was the 
American sailor.  While eating he was writing a letter, and a half-smile covered his face. 
     My wife ordered our meal in French.  The waiter brought us the wrong thing, so I 
scolded my wife for being stupid.  She began to cry.  The boys defended her, and I felt 
even worse.  Then at the table with the French family, on our left, the father slapped one 
of the children for some minor infraction, and the boy began to cry.  On our right, the fat, 
blond German woman began berating her husband. 
     All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air.  Through the front door 
came an old French flower woman.  She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat and shuffled 
in on wet, rundown shoes.  Carrying her basket of flowers, she went from one table to the 
other.  "Flowers, monsieur?  Only one franc."  No one bought any.  Wearily she sat down 
at a table between the sailor and us.  To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup.  I haven't 
sold a flower all afternoon."  To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, 
Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?"  He pointed to his empty tipping plate. 
     The young sailor finished his meal and got up to leave.  Putting on his coat, he walked 
over to the flower woman's table.  "Happy Christmas!" he said, smiling, and picking out 
two corsages, asked, "How much are they?" 
     "Two francs, monsieur."  Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the 
letter he had written, then handed the woman a 20-franc note. 
     "I don't have change, monsieur," she said, "I'll get some from the waiter." 
     "No, ma'am," he said, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek.  "This is my 
Christmas present to you." Straightening up, he came to our table holding the other 
corsage in front of him.  "Sir," he said to me, "may I have permission to present these 
flowers to your beautiful wife?"  In one quick motion, he gave my wife the corsage, 
wished us a Merry Christmas, and departed. 
     Everyone had stopped eating.  Everyone was watching the sailor.  Everyone was 
silent.  A few seconds later, Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb. 
     The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note.  Hobbling to the middle 
of the floor, she did a merry jig and shouted to the piano player, "Joseph, my Christmas 
present, and you shall have half so you can have a feast too."  The piano player began to 
beat out "Good King Wenceslaus," hitting the keys with magic hands, nodding his head 
in rhythm. 
     My wife waved her corsage in time with the rhythm.  She was radiant and appeared 20 
years younger.  The tears had left her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned up in 
laughter.  She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing the song with 
uninhibited enthusiasm. 
     "Gut, gut," shouted the Germans.  They jumped on their chairs and began singing in 
German.  The waiter embraced the flower woman.  Waving their arms, they sang in 
French.  The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat rhythm with a fork against a 
bottle.  The lad climbed on his lap, singing in a youthful soprano.     The Germans 
ordered wine for everyone.  They delivered it themselves, hugging the other customers, 
bawling Christmas greetings.  One of the French families ordered champagne and made 
the rounds, kissing each one of us on each cheek.  The owner of the restaurant started 
singing "The First Noel," and we all joined in, half of us crying. 
     People crowded in from the street until many customers were standing.  The walls 
shook as hands and feet kept time to the yuletide carols.  A few hours earlier, a few 
people had been spending a miserable evening in a shoddy restaurant.  It ended up being 
the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever spent. 
     This, Admiral McDonald, is what I am writing you about.  As the top man in the 
Navy, you should know about the very special gift that the U.S. Navy gave to my family - 
to me and to the other people in that restaurant.  Because your young sailor had the 
Christmas spirit in his soul, he released the love and joy that had been smothered within 
us by anger and disappointment.  He gave us Christmas. 
Thank you very much. 
Merry Christmas 
 
William J. Lederer 
 
Giving, receiving, and creating a sense of magic and wonder. This letter captures what 
the Christmas spirit is about. There is no magical healing in this story. No horrible 
tragedy averted, no child rescued from evil grumps. There are just people muddling along 
as best they can. Each obviously (as indicated from the end of the story) with the 
potential for the joy of the season in their hearts, and yet each somehow displaced from 
that joy. 
 
That is what strikes me the most, is that this restaurant is a place of displaced people. I 
think that we often find ourselves displaced by this holiday season. There are lots of 
reasons, and each leaves us "not in the proper mood."  
 
I say that with BIG quotes around the phrase, "not in the proper mood." because there is 
an culturally approved "proper mood" to this holiday. Its odd, at Halloween, you just 
have to find a costume and buy candy, and you've done it right. These are chores. At 
Valentine's Day, you should send a card, maybe buy a box of chocolates, tell your 
sweetheart that you love them, or take them out to dinner--if you have one. These are just 
chores again. Do them and you've done Valentine's Day right. On Easter, make the 
Easter eggs. Or Hanukkah, light the candles, say the prayers, get the gifts for the kids, 
make the latkes. On Ramadan fast, and then feast on Eid. These are things to do . . . but 
this American-cultural-phenomenon-with-Christian-overtones that we term 'Christmas' 
comes with a prescribed mood to it.  
 
One needs to be in the holiday spirit. We even have many stories that teach children and 
adults what this proper mood is. The Grinch definitely didn't have it--and the Whos down 
in Whoville definitely did. Ebenezer Scrooge didn't have it, at least for most of the story, 
and then he finally did get it. Rudolf the Red-nose Reindeer definitely had it--what a 
good mood he had!--didn't matter that society had rejected him. Somehow he found a 
way to reach deep inside himself and found that proper holiday mood that allowed him to 
cheerfully lead the way, and save Christmas. 
 
What if we reach down deep inside of ourselves, and we come up empty-handed? What if 
that proper mood just isn't there? And what if you don't even feel like looking for that 
proper holiday mood? The world has been too tough, you are feeling too vulnerable, too 
tired, too tread upon, too exhausted by normal life to really be able to do anything more 
than just trod along. 
 
So I want to tell you one more story. Its called "Chocolate-Covered Cherries."  It was 
written by Dawn Holt. And it came with an important note at the beginning. [NOTE: This 
Christmas letter was sent to friends and family along with a box of chocolate-covered 
cherries.] Remember that, this is sent out with a box of chocolate covered cherries. 
 
     She beings, "What a terrible way to spend Christmas!  My oldest son, Cameron, had 
been diagnosed with acute myleoblastic leukemia on June 30, 1997.  After a harrowing 
ride in a military helicopter to Walter Reed Hospital, three rounds of horrendous 
chemotherapy, an excruciating lung resection and a disappointing bone marrow search, 
now here we were...at Duke University Hospital.  Cameron had a cord blood transplant, a 
last-ditch effort to save his life, on December 4.  Now, here it was...Christmas Eve. 
     A very small room on ward 9200 was a different place to spend Christmas.  We had 
always spent weeks baking cookies.  Now the cookies were sent from family and friends 
because I wanted to spend my time with Cameron, trying to ease the long, tedious hours.  
He had been in isolation for weeks because he had no immune system, the result of even 
more chemotherapy and drugs that would hopefully make his new bone marrow engraft.  
As some presents had arrived in the mail, we opened them immediately...anything to 
make a bright moment...here or there. 
     Christmas Eve, 6:00 p.m., was always the magic hour.  The time when my family, in 
Iowa...Wisconsin...California ...or Washington, D.C....all opened our presents at the same 
time, somehow bringing the family together, even though apart.  Cameron's father, 
stepmother, sister and brother would also be opening presents at their house in 
Fayetteville, North Carolina.  This Christmas, it would just be Cameron and me in the 
small room with few decorations, since they weren't allowed in the sterile environment. 
     With the drone of the HEPA filter and the beeping of his six infusion pumps hooked 
to a catheter in his heart, Cameron waited until 6:00 p.m. exactly.  He insisted we follow 
this small tradition, some semblance of normalcy abandoned six months earlier.  I gave 
him a few presents I had saved, his favorite being a Hug Me Elmo that said "I love you" 
when you squeezed him.  It was over too quickly.  Christmas was over.  Or so I thought. 
     Cameron carefully reached over the side of his hospital bed and handed me a small 
green box.  It was wrapped beautifully, obviously by a gift store - perfect edges, a folded 
piece of ribbon held down with a gold embossed sticker.  Surprised, I said, "For me?" 
     "Of course.  It wouldn't be Christmas unless you had something to unwrap from me," 
he replied. 
     I was almost speechless.  "But how did you get this?  Did you ask a nurse to run down 
to the gift store?" 
     Cameron leaned back in his bed, and gave me this most devilish smile.  "Nope.  
Yesterday, when you went home for a few hours to take a shower, I sneaked downstairs." 
     "Cameron!  You aren't supposed to leave the floor.  They let you leave the ward?" 
     "Nope!"  His smile was even bigger now.  "They weren't looking.  I just walked out." 
     This was no small feat, because Cameron had grown weaker after the cord blood 
transplant.  He could barely walk, and certainly not unassisted.  It took every ounce of 
strength just to cruise the small ward halls, pushing the heavy medication and pain pump 
IV pole.  How could he possibly have made it nine floors to the gift store?   
"Don't worry, Mom.  I wore my mask, and I used the cane.  Man, they gave me hell when 
I got back.  I didn't get to sneak back in; they had been looking for me." 
     I held the box even tighter now.  I couldn't look up.  I had already started to cry.  
"Open it!  It's not much, but it wouldn't be Christmas if you didn't have something from 
me to open." 
     I opened the box of gift-store-wrapped chocolate-covered cherries.  "They are your 
favorite, right?" he asked hopefully.     I finally looked at my poor eighteen-year-old 
baby, who had begun all this suffering so soon after high school graduation and who 
taught me so much about what being a family really meant.  "Oh...absolutely my 
favorite!" 
     Cameron chuckled a little bit.  "See, we still have our traditions, even in here." 
     "Cameron, this is the best present I've ever received, ever," I told him, and I meant 
every word.  "Let's start a new tradition.  Every Christmas, let's only give each other a 
box of chocolate-covered cherries, and we'll reminisce about how we spent Christmas 
1997 at Duke University Hospital, battling leukemia, and we'll remember how horrible 
all of it was and how glad we are that it is finally over."  And we made that pact right 
then and there, sharing the box of chocolate-covered cherries.  What a wonderful way to 
spend Christmas! 
     Cameron died on March 4, 1998, after two unsuccessful cord blood transplants.  He 
was so brave - never giving in, never giving up.  This will be my first Christmas without 
him.  The first Christmas without something from him to unwrap. 
     This is my gift to you.  A box of chocolate-covered cherries, and when you open it I 
hope it will remind you what the holidays are really about: being with your friends and 
family, recreating traditions, maybe starting some new ones, but most of all, love. 
     What a beautiful way to spend Christmas. 
 
********************************* 
    Sometimes this is what the holiday spirit is all about. Its about opening our sad, 
wounded self and being able to be open to the gifts that others have to give to us. And to 
allow ourselves to be transformed by these gifts. This woman, Dawn, was at rock bottom, 
and going through all the motions she knew she had to go through, to be a good mom. 
But she had no capacity to be in that proper 'holiday mood' And, the gift of love her son 
gave her, somehow opened her heart to a new potential for Christmas. She never got to 
open a box of Chocolate-covered Cherries with her son again. But she took his gift and 
found a way to make it shine in the years to come. As she now gives out boxes of 
chocolate-covered cherries to her friends, along with the story of her son, she not only 
honors his living--but she also gifts each who hear the story with a remembrance that this 
whole gift thing isn't about redistributing wealth. Its about seeking ways to tell those who 
are special to us that we do indeed care about them. And its about pausing long enough in 
life to reflect on just how special those around us really are to us.  
 
I love hearing the stories of people searching and searching for the perfect gift for 
someone. Usually they aren't searching for the perfect gift because they are wanting to 
get them something they can't afford for themselves. Usually it has to do with finding 
something that says "I love you. I care about you. You are special and important to me," 
in some tangible way.  
 
From time to time, we all need reminders that Christmas is about that box of Chocolate 
covered Cherries shared with a story. Its about giving of ourselves, and connecting with 
those we love.  It is important to open ourselves to these reminders, because there is a 
competing message that comes shouting across the tv screens, the radios, the newspaper 
adverts, in our mail---buy, buy buy. Well, sometimes you do need to buy something, but 
mostly you need to pause and think, how can I tell this person they are special to me.  
 
So part of this Holiday is finding a way to open yourself to the gifts that others give you, 
so that they can transform you, open you, heal you, cradle you with love.  And then next 
there is bringing gifts to the world, that others can be transformed, healed, and cradled in 
love too. 
 
The Christians say that this season is about the birth of their Lord and Savior. For non-
Christians, and even UU Christians, this can be hard to match the theology with 
practicing this holiday. But I think that it is in just this moment I was talking about, that 
we can live this Christmas message no matter what our theology.  
 
This is how I think about it. If you think about the birth of Jesus as the birth of God on 
Earth--then think about what this means. To me, if I use the word 'God,'  one of the best 
synonyms for me is LOVE. Okay, so then we have the birth of Love on Earth.  This is 
that holiday when we pause and open ourselves to love--if we are feeling ragged and 
worn, tired and overworked, abused and hurt by life itself. We ask for help.  We look for 
the places that the world is trying to reach out to us. And we celebrate that outreached 
hand. In our pain, even this we can do. We can affirm that the help we do get is a form of 
love--and that not that everything wrong with the world. This also is the holiday where 
we pause and remember that we need to nurture love into birth--year after year, we need 
to set aside some time to ponder just who and what is truly special to us. And how we can 
spread that love. 
 
Some years we are lucky, and we can be both open to the transformative power of love as 
we receive from others, and the power of spreading our own love by giving something to 
others. . I think its a rare, lucky year when that happens. Most years, we are just lucky if 
we can give or receive. And that's enough. It is enough to be open and take the time to 
feel love around us some years when we are hurting. 
 
I know that for me, in this past year of troubles and hardship, one of the most powerful 
religious lessons I received came from opening my heart to the love of others. They gave 
it lots of ways, all sorts of different kinds of packages---some with big bows and fancy 
wrapping, some with tattered corners and a well-worn look to them. Some given hastily, 
on a whim--a little comment after church, a chance extra plate of food. Some given with 
great thought, and care, and time. All of these gifts changed my understanding of the 
world, of the human capacity for goodness, and my sense that what is ultimate in the 
universe is love.  
 
I think that it is especially important for us to remember that there is a special potential to 
spread that love in magical ways to especially to the children around us. Some of that is 
with gifts of a material nature, some of that is with holiday traditions and time spending 
playfully together, or serving those in need together. There is a special, proper mood to 
Christmas, and when we can give this gift to the children, than we've spread a little love. 
 
In closing today, I hope you will remember Super bear's story--about how sometimes we 
just don't fit in with everyone else's mood. And we muddle around in these great, big 
suits. But also how when we least expect it, we can find ourselves touched by love. I 
hope you'll remember those displaced people in a small tired French restaurant, who 
received a great gift one Christmas when none of them seemed to have anything left to 
give. And remember the chocolate-covered cherries, that filled one woman's Christmas, 
and how she used that experience to share the gift of Christmas with others the following 
years.  
 
Each of these stories are reminding us to be open to the love of the season, along with 
reminding us to be givers of love this season. But mostly reminding us, that whether or 
not we are in the "proper holiday mood," this holiday season is mostly about opening 
ourselves to the magic, to the love, wherever we can find it
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