Piero della Francesca, The Baptism of Christ. National Gallery, London.
This coming Sunday many Christian communities are continuing to think of Epiphany, or epiphanies – those moments of clarity, of breakthrough, when you see things anew, or perhaps for the first time. In particular, there are readings to follow which tell us of Jesus’ baptism by John in the Jordan river. It’s a moment when everything seems to change – where we see one who closely resembles a prophet from the Hebrew scriptures, and one who tells us that the Kingdom of God is so close, already among us – standing together in a river. The reading is Luke 3:15-17,21-22. I’m posting a link to the whole chapter, though, as it gives us some very helpful reflections on “What should we do?” as signs of a change of heart, as well as the beautiful and hopeful passage from Isaiah.
I love the picture at the top of this post. I love its lines, its clarity and purity. I have a framed poster very like this one, and see it every day. I’ve often wondered at the river stopping, diverting around this moment of baptism. I assume della Francesca was thinking of the story in the book of Joshua, when the priests carrying the arc of the covenant step into the Jordan, and the waters dry. The people then cross the riverbed. In doing so they leave their time in the wilderness, and it is an echo of the time they entered it by crossing the Red Sea, escaping slavery in Egypt as they did so. This time, crossing the Jordan, God’s presence is suggested by the Arc of the Covenant, rather than the pillar of fire and flame that was with them at the beginning of their journey. It’s quite a change. You can read the story here if you’re interested.
And so, to the poem. As so often, I begin by reading the passage through, several times. I breathe, I wait to see what speaks, what arises, what I feel. And I felt a strong response to the water, and the dove – those natural elements I see myself every day in my own walks by my own river. They moved me. And yet, there was also this background thought of the painting that has formed my imagining of the story. So a poem emerged which is in itself a kind of epiphany, a kind of seeing things in a new way, or perphaps a given insight. I leave that to you, the reader.
If you enjoy following trails, there are some others you might like here, relating to the water and the dove. The first is Jesus’ I am saying – I am the living water. That passage has stayed with me for years. You can read my reflections on it here. And the dove called to mind the story of Noah, and another poem, here. There is more of course, like Jesus washing his friends’ feet. I leave the others to your imagination.
Water and Dove – Baptism
When you stepped into the Jordan, did the water stop, not daring to touch your feet – as if you yourself were the arc of the covenant, untouchable, fierce in holiness? As if you bore within yourself the whole of the law, the weighty stones given to Moses? The river was in spate then – wild it was, but it stopped before such fearful holiness.
But I do not see it so. Rather, I see cool water lapping your feet, your legs, bathing them clean, ripples rejoicing, dancing, flowing, honoured to baptise one who did not require it, both water and Son of Man living out their deep purpose
As the sky opened wide with tender light, and a white dove tumbled with the applause of clattering wings down to you – and what then? Maybe it landed softly on your shoulder, resting awhile, heads inclined together, gently, two wild beings, two beings overflowing with all love divine.
And so love spoke forth with delight, love pouring over you like the cool water, river water, living water like the endless light, and the softest brush of feathers from the wings of a dove. Endless, life-giving love.
Sunday Retold
If you’ve been joining me here on the blog for a while – thank you, I appreciate your company – you’ll be aware that I have a very occasional series with material from a couple of my books which follow the Sunday readings many Christian communities use. In particular, my retelling, The Bible Story retold in twelve chapters. Recently, I’ve been doing this fresh writing, with a poem, too. But here are some pieces you might find helpful. If you’d like to use any of my material, please feel free to do so, giving this blog as a source. If you’d like to publish it in some form, please do get it touch. Thank you.
For John taught them to hope. In his words, they caught a glimpse of something beyond their everyday lives. They understood that John that Baptist was preparing the way for something, or someone, astonishing. “I baptize you with water, as a sign of your rependence: your turning back to God and his ways. But wait. There is one coming after me who is so much greater. I am not even worthy to carry his sandals for him. And when he comes, he will baptize you on the inside with the Holy Spirit and with fire. He will sort out the good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff!”
Then Jesus came down from Galilee in the north, and walked through the crowds toward John. John knew Jesus was the one they had been waiting for: the Messiah. Was Jesus really comng forward for baptism like everyone else? “No!” said John, stepping back. “I need to be baptized by you – and yet you come to me – why?” Jesus replied, “I must do everything that is right, and it is right to be baptized.”
And so John agreed, and they stepped out into the flow of the Jordan. Jesus went down into the cool water, and was baptised.
As he came up the bright sky broke open, and the Spirit of God came down gently and settled on him like a dove. A voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the one I love, the one who brings me joy. I am very pleased with him.” From the Bible Retold
Come, let us follow Jesus, who loves us. From Prayers and Verses
The picture of birds over water (behind my name) is of the Wash at Snettisham RSPB. You can read more about that here.
All the photos in this post were taken by my husband on a wild and stormy day at Walberswick.
The poem I’m sharing with you today was written at a previous New Year. We nearly missed the foot ferry between Southwold and Walberswick while out on a long winter’s walk with our family. It ran till sunset – and sunset was upon us. Today, I’m glad for this poem, glad I wrote it and by it am able to remember this magical evening at the turn of the year, the time we spent together on this Walberswick walk, and the strange feeling of being suspended between the two shores, the two closed gates, in the hands of the ferryman whose course was sure even though it seemed to slant so across the water.
So too with time, in the space between two years, when we look back at what has been, and look forward to what will be. We are glad to spend time with those we love, and perhaps especially miss those who are not with us. Love glimmers in this golden limpid darkness between times.
Perhaps in this space we can dream of a shore with warm, welcoming lights, with togetherness, with hope. Perhaps we may find we can be such a shore for each other, and keep lights of hope and welcome burning in the long cold nights.
May you have a blessed, happy new year. Thank you so much for your time and company on this blog. I value that gift very much.
I’ve shared with you another poem about winter walking along this shore, and a murmuration of starlings. Such an awe inspiring dance of togetherness. You can read that here.
Crossing the Blyth at sunset, at the turn of the year.
We walked fast towards the ferry – nearly too late – and saw the ferryman on the other side, the gate closed behind him. But we waved, and he came, his blue boat a long wide curve across the river.
Behind him the setting sun, the treeshapes black against the orange sky, How beautiful it is. He helps us on board, offering me his hand with nautical courtesy, and then shuts the gate firmly behind us.
So we thank him, and our blue boat begins to churn those golden waters rippling with a fast tide, as we seem to hang for a time between those two closed gates, between those two jetties, in neither one space, nor the other. We are somewhere else instead, where all is gold, where darkness lies behind, where the lights of the houses and the wide-open pub are ahead of us, lights that warm with the hope of welcome.
We are suspended for a while in this Adnams-blue boat with the diesel and the saltsmell and the cry of the birds, bathed in light, trailing an ice hand in water the same colour as the light. Here we are. This moment. Between two moments. How beautiful it is.
The open doorway of St Peter-on-the-Wall (founded about 660 AD). The wall in question is Roman. The chapel was built using some of the old stone from that wall. Bradwell, Essex.
I took a look at the set readings for this coming Sunday (17th November), and they are difficult and unsettling. Something about the Gospel reading caught my attention, and I thought I’d follow where that led.
Mark 13:1-8
And as he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” 2 And Jesus said to him, “Do you see these great buildings? There will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.”
3 And as he sat on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter and James and John and Andrew asked him privately, 4 “Tell us, when will these things be, and what will be the sign when all these things are about to be accomplished?” 5 And Jesus began to say to them, “See that no one leads you astray. 6 Many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. 7 And when you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed. This must take place, but the end is not yet. 8 For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. These are but the beginning of the birth pains.
Once again in our world, we see wars, we see power misused, we see the places where we might put our hope and trust are frail. Just this week, the Church of England has been forced to reckon with terrible abuse that has taken place, and the failure of those in authority to protect the young. And COP 29 has opened with the absence of many leaders, and the presence of corruption – although I have been encouraged to see Kier Starmer taking a lead. Much that has seemed firm has been crumbling, and at the same time, forces which seem to be serving themselves seem very powerful, immovable. It’s a hard place to be for many, and we may need to give time to our fear and grief. We may need to find others with whom to walk through these hard places.
And so, turning to this reading, I see we are invited into something like a practice of deep realism, and a long view. We remember that for Mark’s early readers and listeners, this passage would call to mind the terror and trauma of the destruction of the Temple in AD 70 after a relentless seige by the Romans. The Roman historian Josephus records that 1.1 million people died during that time. It’s hard to imagine the suffering and shock of such loss. It must indeed have felt the end of the world. It was the end of the world for many. Even in the midst of such terror and shock, these words may have offered something to hold on to. Maybe there is some wisdom here about how to live through difficult times, when all seems destroyed, or we fear all may be destroyed. Such wisdom is arrived at through pain and loss, it is not intended as some kind of spiritual bypassing, that eveything is going to be fine. Everything is not fine. That much is clear.
So this poem, written in response to Jesus’ words, is an experiment in that long view. I hope that, if it lands with you at the right moment, it might resonate with you.
Stones
These beautiful stones This beautiful Temple all that wealth and power all Herod’s might and posturing
Always, always can and will be thrown down.
And always, always, it is not the end of all things although it is the end. For time still stretches out among ruins lost to twilight, and dust settles, or blows on the grey wind.
Strength seems invincible. Stones seem solid, immovable. The might and ritual of a temple have such sure foundations in the mind.
And yet time, wind, whispers, armies, the running of water, the roots of trees can and will undo them all.
So do not be cowed by these great walls, for they will fall, nor by their falling
For fall they must, and the world will turn and turn again, and what was an ending may come to seem the blowing of dry leaves in autumn, an absence – it may even, dare we hope, begin to be birth-pangs, after all.
Gaia at Ely Cathedral. You can find more about that – including a poem – here.
You might enjoy this gentle conversation(Nomad Podcast) with the the musician Jon Bilbrough, known as Wilderthorn. Towards the end is some music recorded in the chapel pictured at the head of this post, St Peter-on-the-wall.
I’m turning back to that chapel in my mind – imagining how the stones from the old Roman wall, probably a fort, were reused in the building of this – itself ancient – place of peace and prayer.
New things can and do emerge, in time. That is something we can gather around, and work for.
From Prayers and Verses These are prayers in response to the stories of Exile we find in the Hebrew Scriptures, and I know that experience will resonate with many today. I hope this helps.
This poem has arrived on the blog a little late. It became marooned in my notebook for a while, until I flicked through the pages and found it again. And although crowds of bees are no longer buzzing among the ivy, there are still a few, here and there.
I hope, though, that although this poem arose out of a particular time, it has something to say in other times, too. About stillness. About the restorative power of simply being, and paying attention. About finding our breath again. We all need that. We all need to feel that connection to the rest of the natural world (oh, how I wish we had better language for these things – bear with, it will emerge) which grounds us, and from which we can rise. For those reading this blog who need a little peace right now, I hope it helps. I’m thinking particularly of dear readers in America, where the election atmosphere seems turbulent. I wish you well over the next days and weeks.
The old hedgeline in front of our house has, in places, been overcome by ivy, which has formed its own structures and patterns of flowering and fruiting. Cutting some of it back to make space for other plants to grow, I was careful to leave the ivy flowers for the bees – which will become fruit for the birds in time. Accidentally, I created a little bower, where I put a chair and sat for a while. As I sat I gradually heard the road less and less, as my attention was taken up with the many bees who were enjoying the feast. And so, this poem emerged.
thebiologist.rsb.org
September. Bees. Ivy.
It is taking a while, this sitting in a carved out cave in the ivy. Just sitting, stilling, breathing. A bower of green leaves above, and above that blue sky, white clouds.
In time, the hum of bees, and their intricate woven patterns of flight, come to replace thoughts, become another form of thought. So too the birds – that wren shaking the leaves, and the pipping robin.
And this grey and green lacework of wild is all that separates me from the roar of the road – those black lines we make, always going somewhere….
And yet, here is a marvel. More bees than I have seen all year. A hum that soothes the soul. The darkness of butterflies.
These strands of green woven through the world – not enough, by no means enough –
But they shelter the bees, and me. A space for the soft and alive, breathing, green in spirit. We can be here, the bees and me. We can be, in this hollowed out hedge, in a cloud of lightfilled wings.
After some cold damp days, and flooding in some parts of the country, it’s warm and mild – about 6oC above recent average for this time of year. I find myself to be both delighted and unsettled by this lovely soft warmth. I’ve been able to get on with a bit of clearing and composting in patches, it feels like time this year, and making space to ensure the ivy doesn’t take over completely.
I’ve been able to sit in the sun and watch the rising and falling of insects. After the desolate summer of so little life on the wing, this has been such a joy. It is also an encouragement to keep a wild diversity of flowers in the garden, native and from further south, as the insects appear unexpectedly, at strange times. This autumn it feels time, having left it for a few years, to introduce some disturbance and give a chance for a variety of plants to grow. But apart from enjoying the welcome rays, I have also been aware of the wind and rains this extra warmth carries in its wake. So this poem is an exploration of this turbulence of feeling.
Mid October heat
The sun shines long and low, as warm as sudden laugher, a broadening smile blown in from the south and damp with oceans, I can almost smell the tropics on its strange soft breath.
What do you do with so much disquieting beauty – with a day like this, shining, wild and hot, damp with fever?
The low sun holds too much warmth. The green around me hums and sings with growth, rejoicing, even as the leaves of the trees fade a little, and tumble across the grass on this wild hot wind.
I am afraid. I look up at the strange flows of air and water above me, shifting and changing, heavy and thick, as the dragonflies rise still, hunting among gnats, and the bees hum in this late flowering – at last, the bees, and here a hummingbird moth, and red admirals, all drunk with sweetness in these late days. These late days.
Firstly, an apology if you don’t like wasps. I promise this is the only photo you’ll see here. If you can bear to persevere and read the poem, you’ll see how I’ve shiften a little in my view of them, and I hope that might help.
Picture – Gedling conservation trust – Common wasp
Thank you for bearing with me as I took a bit of a break from writing here over the summer. I do hope to share more with you as the days shorten and outside is a little less enticing.
There are notes in my notebook, ready for some further sharpening of my pencil. One of the things that’s really struck me this year has been the absence of insects here in the UK. Wet and cold earlier in the year, while not newsworthy compared to other weather events, seems to have stricken many of our insects and affected those birds and bats who feed off them. I am pleased to see the garden lighting up with wings, late as it is, and that has lifted my spirits. It’s been a strange, unsettling time, though, looking at the flowers that normally draw bees and butterflies, and finding them empty. I’ve wondered when to cut the meadows down, and left it late, so the last flowers might provide something for these missing friends.
Earlier in the year. A feast spread, but where are the guests?
The Butterfly Conservation trust have just published the results of their Citizen Science Survey, and found that the numbers are very low this year. You can read more about that here.
It’s also been strange to enjoy picnics without being troubled by wasps. I have been suprised to find I miss them, and worry about how they’re doing.
And so this morning, I saw a wasp. One of so few this year. And I wrote this.
Wasp
This morning, eating breakfast, slow, I heard a buzz and a tap against the light-streaming windows.
Buzz and tap, buzz and tap. I turned, saw a wasp on the window, and felt joy rising, and knew how strange it was to feel that joy at the sight of her – joy, and compassion, too, as she bumped and bumped against our shining window.
Oh, hello, I whispered, Don’t be afraid, you’ll be out in no time!
And, glass and paper in hand, I released her. She lingered a moment on the rim, gently waving her stinger up and down, then spread wings, flew into the clear September light, bright with late flowers.
And I laughed. Years ago, I would have flapped her away, swatted her even, afraid. And here I was, whispering to a wasp. Years ago, there would have been hundreds.
Not this one solitary marvel, striped, miniature perfection, buzzing and beautiful, in search now of the sweetness of a fallen apple, the ivy thick with bees.
Precious, so precious. Late as it is, I am learning how precious life is.
Edit: 11th November 2025
I was sent this film of the poem by Joseph Davidson. Do watch it, it’s very good.
Monday is Earth Day, when many of us especially remember the gifts of the Earth, its fragility, and our responsibilities towards it. Today (Saturday) in my town we’re having a bit of a celebration down by our river, focusing on good local food and organisations which are seeking to care for our patch of Earth. There’s music and friendship and crafts and storytelling, and local businesses who are doing things differently – beautiful local bread and saffron and wild venison and plants and flour ground by our tide-mill among other things. It’s a good way to mark the occasion.
This spring, I’ve been enjoying Simon Armitage’s beautifully illustrated new collection, Blossomise, in collaboration with the National Trust. I highly recommend it. It’s a celebration of the blossom season, transient and determined, which for us starts in February with this lovely cherry plum, or mirabelle, and is carrying on from one tree to another in our growing collection of fruit trees. We have one apple who is always alarmingly late, but the buds are beginning to swell. Maybe by mid May, if its mild, it may offer the season’s swansong. I also highly recommend the beautiful Orchard by Benedict McDonald and Nicolas Gates – I sent a copy to my MP as a gift when she was Secretary of State for the Environment.
I have been thinking of the Japanese love of blossom, and how it’s fleeting ephemeral nature makes it so precious to them, and to the rest of us. In some ways, it’s a modest theme for such an expansive day – when we consider the whole of this green Earth, but I kept being drawn back to it, so here we go. I think what draws me to it is twofold: there’s something about the dazzling beauty of blossom which is so transient, so easily lost which reminds me of the beauty of all the trees, and oceans, and rivers, the great all of the good Earth which we love and are harming and are called to tend and care for. And secondly, there is the draw of the particular. When I look at the big picture, I am often overwhelmed and frequently despairing, and so I choose to focus on the small, the local, the actions I can take for the trees in my area, the bats who will soon be flying over my garden, the sorry state of my – of our – local river. So this poem I’m sharing with you for this day is, like blossom, small and light.
The most beautiful thing
Outside, the blossom is in full glory now, white star-flowers, delicate as tissue, on black, angled branches – like a print by Hiroshige.
I gathered a blown branch from the ground, and brought it in to shimmer on my mantelpiece in a tall green bottle. It is the loveliest thing in the room, the loveliest thing I might call mine – mine, perhaps, not as possession, but in relation – as in sister of mine, the dancing blossom tree.
For dance she does as the cold wind blows, gusting and wild, in a snowstorm of petals that dress the air about her.
And sister she is too, although the resemblance is slight. We share kinship in chilly breezes and soft rain, nourished alike by this deep dark soil, and made of it, depending on the same gifts of Earth for our brief time of flourishing. This felt kinship, truly the most beautiful thing,
As like her, I dance in the gusting wind, and like her, I look for tomorrow and the promise of sun, and birdsong, and I too hope for the gentle buzz of bees and the fruit that is to come.
Hiroshige blossom
If you are looking for readings for Earth Day, you might find something on this blog to suit. Please feel free to use my work, saying where you found it.
Here are a few suggestions, but if you search by Nature, Creation, Green, there will be many others
I thought I might mention here a few podcasts I like to listen to – I’ll just name them as there are so many different podcast providers. A thing I am noticing amongst those who are working with the land and especially the rewilders is the most deep sense of joy, purpose and accomplishment. There is a rising change in our relation to the rest of the natural world, and perhaps a thing we can all do is cultivate a love and practical care of our place, and find others to work with. So, here are some listening suggestions….
The Jane Goodall Hopecast The Knepp Wildlands Podcast Rewilding the World with Ben Goldsmith The Rewild Podcast with James Shooter Learning How to See with Brian McLaren – latest season is Seeing Nature Wild Podcast by Grange Project How to Save a Planet (for a more North American emphasis)
A little tree rehoming scheme……Some of the saplings dug up from my garden and very kindly donated by others. I’ve passed on about 270 now to local people who are planting woods, orchards and hedgerows. Strangely, it seems to be a notion that has found its moment!
Happy Earth Day. May the place where you live flourish. May the places your food grows be bountiful. May your air and water be clean and life-giving.
This New Year, I’m picking up the occasional series, Sunday Retold. Many churches follow a set pattern of readings, so communities up and down the country are gathering around the same stories, the same prayers, and meditating on them together. Often, at least one of the passages appears in my retelling of the Bible, The Bible Story Retold, and so it seems a good idea to share that with you. If you’d like to use any of the material on this blog please do, and please say where you got it from. My books should be available to order at all the usual real life and online places.
Samuel Dedicated by Hannah at the Temple by Frank W.W. Topham
Anyway, this week is a story often shared with children – at least in part. The central character is the boy Samuel, son of Hannah. He was a much longed for child, who was given to the service of God in the temple at a very young age. Eli, the priest, was given charge of him.
The set reading is 1 Samuel 3:1-10, and here is my retelling:
The boy Samuel learned how to serve God in the shrine. And he slept by the lamp of God’s presence, close to the holy ark of the covenant. One night, in the darkness before dawn a voice called out, “Samuel, Samuel!” So Samuel got up and went to Eli, who was ond, with failing eyes. “Here I am! You called me!” Samuel said. Eli stirred. “I didn’t call you! Go back to sleep!” So he did. But there was the voice again. “Samuel, Samuel!” The boy got up again and went to Eli. “You called, and I came!” “No I didn’t call you. Go back to sleep.” But, when Samuel woke Eli a third time, he wondered what this voice could mean. Perhaps God was speaking. “Go back and lie down. If you are called again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.'” So Samuel went back to bed and lay there, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. “Samuel, Samuel!” came the voice. Samuel remembered Eli’s words. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening!” And so God spoke to Samuel. God said that the right to be priests would be taken away from Eli’s family, because his sons had donw wrong, and Eli had not stopped them. They would be punished. In the morning, Samuel had to tell his tacher what God had said. ”God is God, and will do what is best!” Eli sighed.
From The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters
Often, when this passage is shared, the empasis falls on listening to God’s voice, and being ready to respond. We’ll get back to that in due course, but for now I’m following my immediate reaction to this passage today, and how it might help us navigate this difficult new season we’re in.
Samuel in the Temple by David Wilkie
What a message for a child to have to deliver to their high-status, powerful teacher – you and your line have fallen short of the standards expected of you, and your position will be taken away from you. It must have been terrifying for Samuel to have to speak up, even with Eli’s encouragement. I can imagine him shaking in his sandals. Although this story is often a Sunday School favourite, I don’t think many teachers and others in authority would be bold enough to encourage youngsters actively speaking up in condemnation of their elders. And yet, as so often, these stories show God’s leaning towards the powerless, the young, the outsider. So often, the perils of power, and the shortcomings of those who practice it, are central to this counter-cultural narrative. Indeed, as we follow on with Samuel’s story, of how the people of Israel ended up with a king, we see that pattern all the more strongly.
As a story of a child challenging conventional ideas of power, and who has it, the story of the boy Samuel sits well in the season. It’s one of the Epiphany stories in which the rich, the wise, the powerful humbly bow before a mother and child in a simple, working house. It also follows on well from Mary’s radical song in the early stages of her pregnancy, which in turn draws on the words of Hannah, Samuel’s mother, when she leaves her son in Eli’s care. I love the dense connections which imaginatively weave all this together, so rich patterns emerge from the threads. I love the way the lectionary puts things near each other, and then sees what connections and conversation arise like a good host.
And so, back to what struck me today on reading this passage – the wisdom of the child, the going astray of the elders and those in power. I thought of the prophesy “And a little child will lead them” (Isaiah 11.6), and how, today, the young who lives will stretch out far into this century are trying to shake us awake, to speak to us of those things which they care about and will affect their lives and the lives of their children. They see that the way we are living is doing harm, they see the injustice and the destruction more clearly than those of us who may have become immured to it. They see that the structures of power seem to protect the powerful and ride roughshod over those whom the scriptures speak highly of – the widow, the orphan, the outsider, the poor, the young, the old. We need those in power to be humble enough, like Eli, to hear their voices, and to act in their interests. Intergenerational justice is a concept that is coming alive now – especially in terms of debt, and the damage to the ecosystems on which we all depend. We need to pay attention to those who have no voice, and give due respect to the rest of the natural world, as well as to the young. Can we, at the beginning of this year, resolve to notice our natural bias towards the rich and powerful, and seek to listen to the young and the powerless? I think that would be good for us all.
Here in the UK, many have been moved, outraged, saddened and stirred to speak up by the ITV drama, Mr Bates vs The Post Office. It was a powerful drama, compassionately acted. I am always curious, though, about things which really catch the public mood – why this, why now? And I think part of it is the theme of people with power who feel immune and distant from the consequences of their actions, who listen to each other rather than to ordinary people – in this case their employees. I think there is a rising sense of injustice about how some are gathering so much to themselves, while others are stripped of what they have, and what they might come to have in the future too. And this injustice reminds me of the words of the prophets, including the child Samuel.
Of course, this passage carries many meanings, and this critique of power is one amongst many – but it is one that chimes with the biblical narrative as a whole. When we’re thinking of how we might live by it, another question naturally arises – how do we know, in a world of so many voices, which ones to heed? In this passage it is Eli who wonders whether the voice might be God. Yet history is littered with terrible tales of those who were convinced they were acting for God, or doing what was right, and going horribly wrong. Often the very worst things are done by those who claim good motives. And that should give us all pause. I touched on an exploration of this theme in my book, “Jesus said, I Am. Finding life in the everyday” in the chapter on Jesus, the good shepherd, when he talks about the flock knowing his voice.
Of course, knowing the voice, and distinguishing it from the voices of those who would lead us to harm, is no easy thing. I think it helps to come to a place where we don’t see the path ahead of us as a narrow tightrope – one false move and we are lost – but that we look for the relationship, and recognise the freedom to walk behind the shepherd, listening for the voice. ……. History is full of the mistakes people have made, thinking they are doing the right thing but going terribly wrong. I do not ee us going so wrong when we seek to follow the way of love, seeking to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, and learning from him.
And so, noticing the topsy-turvy nature of the gospel, the way things are not what they seem, let’s be ready to listen, be ready to respond to those promptings and quiet voices which would guide us better than the pomp and power and authority which make so much noise and show.
Dear God, When we hear a mighty wind, strong enough to shatter roci, when the ground underneath us shakes like an earthquake, when fire comes from mountains, help us to know these sounds of power and anger are not your voice. Help us to listen in the silence for your whisper. Help us to wait for your whisper
All the photos in this post were taken by my husband on a wild and stormy day at Walberswick.
The poem I’m sharing with you today was written at a previous New Year. We nearly missed the foot ferry between Southwold and Walberswick while out on a long winter’s walk with our family. It ran till sunset – and sunset was upon us. Today, I’m glad for this poem, glad I wrote it and by it am able to remember this magical evening at the turn of the year, the time we spent together on this Walberswick walk, and the strange feeling of being suspended between the two shores, the two closed gates, in the hands of the ferryman whose course was sure even though it seemed to slant so across the water.
So too with time, in the space between two years, when we look back at what has been, and look forward to what will be. We are glad to spend time with those we love, and perhaps especially miss those who are not with us. Love glimmers in this golden limpid darkness between times.
Perhaps in this space we can dream of a shore with warm, welcoming lights, with togetherness, with hope. Perhaps we may find we can be such a shore for each other, and keep lights of hope and welcome burning in the long cold nights.
May you have a blessed, happy new year. Thank you so much for your time and company on this blog. I value that gift very much.
I’ve shared with you another poem about winter walking along this shore, and a murmuration of starlings. Such an awe inspiring dance of togetherness. You can read that here.
Crossing the Blyth at sunset, at the turn of the year.
We walked fast towards the ferry – nearly too late – and saw the ferryman on the other side, the gate closed behind him. But we waved, and he came, his blue boat a long wide curve across the river.
Behind him the setting sun, the treeshapes black against the orange sky, How beautiful it is. He helps us on board, offering me his hand with nautical courtesy, and then shuts the gate firmly behind us.
So we thank him, and our blue boat begins to churn those golden waters rippling with a fast tide, as we seem to hang for a time between those two closed gates, between those two jetties, in neither one space, nor the other. We are somewhere else instead, where all is gold, where darkness lies behind, where the lights of the houses and the wide-open pub are ahead of us, lights that warm with the hope of welcome.
We are suspended for a while in this Adnams-blue boat with the diesel and the saltsmell and the cry of the birds, bathed in light, trailing an ice hand in water the same colour as the light. Here we are. This moment. Between two moments. How beautiful it is.
Ely Cathedral’s powerful statue of Mary, by David Wynne
As we approach the third sunday of Advent, the word we turn to is Joy. And, as part of that turning to joy, many also remember Mary. In particular, her response to the angel’s message when she was invited to participate in this story of “God-with-us”… but more on that later.
As I look at this statue, I find Mary’s stance compelling. It is open and powerful, it feels like a “yes” which accepts and trusts what will be, even if it is beyond the mind’s understanding. Pictures of Mary often show her looking more afraid, more passive. This work captures a moment of glorious, positive choice. But there is something else. The slight downward tilt of her head seems to acknowledge the difficulties caught up in this acceptance, and the enormity of that choice. There is awe and vulnerability here too – vulnerability captured in that bare foot peeking out.
Among the fields and vineyards of Nazareth, in Galilee, lived a girl named Mary. She was soon to be married to Joseph, a carpenter, who could trace his family back to David, the shepherd king.
Then, one day, astonishing news burst into Mary’s quiet, hopeful life. The angel Gabriel came to her with a message. “God is with you, Mary!” Mary gasped, and fell to her knees. “Don’t be afraid. God smiles on you!” The angel spoke the astounding words gently, lovingly. “You will have a son and name him Jesus. He will be called great – the Son of the Most High God! The Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David, and his kingdom will never end!”
For a moment there was silence, as Gabriel’s words filled the air – and Mary’s mind. “But how can this be, as I am not yet married?” Mary asked. “God’s Holy Spirit will enfold you. Your child will be holy. Even Elizabeth, from your own family, is going to have a child, despite her age! She is now in her sixth month. So you see, nothing is impossible with God!”
Mary raised her eyes to Gabriel’s face. “I am God’s servant. Let it be as you say.” And the angel let her alone, her mind spinning with the strange words.
Then Mary thought of Elizabeth. “The angel knew all about her – I must go to her.” She got ready, and set off quickly for Elizabeth’s home in Judea to the south, near Jerusalem.
As soon as she arrived at the house, she hurried to Elizabeth and took her hands. At the sound of Mary’s voice, the baby leaped inside Elizabeth, and the Holy Spirit filled her. She understood at once what had happened to Mary.
“You are blessed among all women, and blessed is your unborn child!” she said. “Why have I been so honoured? Why should the mother of my Lord God come to visit me?” Elizabeth laughed, and put Mary’s hand on her belly. “You see how my child leaps for joy at the sound of your voice?”
Then, Mary speaks out extraordinary words, which in turn echo the words of Hannah when she said goodbye to her long-awaited son, Samuel (I Samuel 2) . You can read Mary’s words – the Magnificat – in my version here, and also more about Mary and Elizabeth’s time together.
It strikes me how deeply Mary entered into uncertainty, with her acceptance despite her questions – “how can this be?” She is setting out on a path that will cause her pain, but the angel’s words focus on a bigger picture, an unknowably big picture. There is a vision of what will be, the good that will come from her choice. There is tenderness and reassurance here as she asks the question, honouring her uncertainty, the impossibility of comprehending what this may mean. And there is also a gentle, tactful suggestion of a path to be taken. A path to her cousin Elizabeth – who is also caught up in this great bursting through of hope and joy into a world marked with difficulty and pain. And that path will bring her companionship with someone who will believe her, and will support her, and to whom she can offer love and encouragement in turn.
Sometimes, during Advent, we are also reminded of John the Baptist – Elizabeth’s son – and his question to Jesus when he was in prison: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” You can read the account here. What I love about this reading is the way Jesus reassures John in a way he will understand, echoing the prophet Isaiah. There is a tenderness and deep compassion here too. We can almost hear an echo of their mothers’ relationship in this question, this uncertainty, and this reassurance. Jesus then goes on to speak to those listening who may, we presume, be shaken by John’s question – or critical of him for doubting. The compassion of Jesus’ response can reassure all of us. It is hard for us to understand, and doubt and question and uncertainty are here embraced and not feared.
So our focus on joy is one where joy can be experienced despite our frailties and uncertainties. It does not come with knowing the answers, having things all neatly wrapped up, but in the courage to enter into the mysterious life of something beyond and greater than ourselves. Perhaps here is the only place it can be found.
We mentioned Isaiah above. Here is part of the passage paired with the reading about John in the Church of England readings for this week. You can read it all here.
The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy. The glory of Lebanon will be given to it, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the Lord, the splendor of our God.
Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way; say to those with fearful hearts, “Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you.”
Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy. Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert. The burning sand will become a pool, the thirsty ground bubbling springs. In the haunts where jackals once lay, grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.
And a highway will be there; it will be called the Way of Holiness; it will be for those who walk on that Way.
Once again, we have a vision of how the world could be, restored and flourishing. A highway through the wetlands bursting with life, and even those who lack strength and steadiness will walk it.
We so need this vision of restoration and abundance. We need this vision of life and joy, of a better way of being in the world. And then we need to walk into it. We can be part of bringing it into being.
We thank you for being born among us, sharing with us what it is to be human. we thank you for showing us a way to live, full of grace and truth. Light up our path, and let us walk with you.
I’ve just discovered the beautiful Waterlands podcast from the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust, which is relevant to the greening of barren places. Why not listen?
Andrea Skevington 