Hello, welcome back. This week, I am combining two things I sometimes do: Sunday Retold, and a poem drawn from the reading. For those who follow set Bible readings through the weeks, we’re still in the season of Epiphany, when we look at moments of understanding and revelation. And this Sunday, we’re meditating on the first sign recorded in John’s gospel, which took place at a wedding. As I was reading it, the image of those stone water jars filled my mind, and I’ve attempted to turn my meditation into a poem, below. I thought I would share it with you even though it’s so new, in case it helps you or prompts you in your own reflection.
On the third day after Jesus called his disciples, Jesus went with them to a wedding in Cana, near Lake Galilee. The whole community was there, eating and drinking, dancing and laughing, blessing the young man and woman who were starting their life together. But Jesus’ mother, Mary, noticed that the wine had run out and said to her son, “They have no more wine!” “Dear mother, why are you telling me this? Now is not my time.” But later, Jesus spoke to the servants. “Fill those jars with water!” he said. For there were six large stone water jars nearby – the sort that were used to store the pure, fresh water the Jewish people used to cleanse and purify themselves before worship. The servants filled the jars with water and, puzzled, dipped their serving jugs into the newly filled jars. They poured some out for the host, as Jesus had told them. Then the host called the bridegroom over, a broad smile on his face. “By now people are usually serving the rough wine – but this wine is really good – wonderful! You’ve kept the best till last.” He gulped another warm mouthful of the wine that had been water as the servants served the wedding guests. Jesus had taken the water from the stone jars and turned it into fine wine. When his disciples saw what had happened, and saw the servants pouring out new wine for all the guests at the wedding, they gasped in wonder. They had caught a glimpse of Jesus’ glory, and the glory of God’s kingdom. The disciples put their faith in the one who turned water into wine.
It’s a beloved story, often shared at weddings, its many layers rich with meaning. I tend to find that something strikes me in particular, draws me in, and this time it was those empty stone jars. So, here is a poem that grew out of turning the image of those empy jars over in my mind. There is much else that could be said, but today, it’s simply this…..
Empty/Water into Wine
Those empty stone jars, I see them – pale grey, with a film of dust, leaning against the wall, overlooked, unregarded as the wedding rolls on, music and dancing and laughter sending tiny tremors through their hollowness.
Six of them, as empty as days can be, an emptiness we know by taste, our dry mouths rimed with fine powdered stone.
And this is where you began your work, with these empty jars. Had them filled with cool water – so far, so expected. For purification, cleansing, the couple’s, the town’s, love and life, as the wise look on, nodding, sure that they have your meaning.
Oh, how you delight in upending expectations, traditions. What was drawn from these jars was not water for making pure, but the red bubbling joy of good wine, poured and shared, for the delight of all gathered, for the blessing of love, and union, uproariously, and without fanfare.
After three days, this is the glory revealed, this is what it means to be full of grace and truth,
To have our days, our beings, filled with water, only for it to poured out as fine vintage, only for it to be transfigured, transformed, as wondrous as the grapes on the vine, as wondrous as a day, a life, so open to joy.
If you would like to use the poem or reading, please feel free to do so. I’d appreciate it if you mention this blog and my name is doing som
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
The solstice has come, the longest night, and we are now in those few days when light and darkness are poised together, equal. Here, the clouds have blown away, and the wind is mild, if wild. In the garden I see new shoots beginning, green and bright, and tiny catkins, and there is light, at least for a few hours, and a promise of lengthening days. For now, though, it’s a time for fires and gathering. It’s a hard time of year, where we need shelter and warmth and companionship – powerful and beautiful in its own right, and also full of the promise of light to come. I hope that what follows can offer you a moment of reflection and mystery as we think of Jesus, entering the world so precariously, helplessly vulnerable. The Prince of Peace born into dark times, with the strangest of fanfares, the most unpromising of resting places.
I’m not quite in a place of tinsel and jollity, though. I’ve been haunted by an image from Bethlehem this year - Christ in the Rubble – where the Lutheran church there has replaced its more traditional nativity scene with one that vividly demonstrates the reality for babies being born in Gaza now. We need the message of Christmas, with its offer of healing, love, forgiveness, presence, as much now as we ever did. The wonder of One laying aside power, and emptying himself for the sake of all.
The Roman Emperor, Caesar Augustus, had ordered a census throughout the whole empire, when all the people would be counted, and taxed. The orders spread along straight Roman roads, and were proclaimed first in the white marble cities and ports, and then in the towns and villages of the countryside.
Even quiet Nazareth heard the news, and Mary and Joseph began to gather together their belongings, ready to travel to Bethlehem. That was Joseph’s family home: he was descended from King David, of Bethlehem. They set off south on the crowded road, for the whole empire was travelling. But, for Mary, the journey was especially hard, and the road seemed never ending. It was nearly time for her baby to be born.
At last they came to Bethlehem, but it was not the end of their troubles. The city was noisy, bustling, and heaving with crowds, and Joseph searched anxiously for somewhere quiet for Mary to rest – her pains were beginning, and the baby would be born that night. The inn was already full of travellers, and the only place for them was a stable. There, among the animals, Mary gave birth to her firstborn son, and wrapped him up tightly in swaddling bands and laid him in a manger full of hay. Then, she rested next to the manger, smiling at the baby’s tiny face.
There were shepherds who lived out on the hills nearby – the same hills where King David had once watched over the flocks, long ago. The sheep were sleeping in their fold under the shining stars, while the shepherds kept watch. Their fire flickered and crackled, and the lambs would bleat for their mothers, but they were the only sounds. All was peaceful. All was well.
Suddenly, right there in the shepherd’s simple camp, appeared and angel of the Lord, shining with God’s glory and heaven’s brightness. The shepherds gripped each other in terror, their skin prickling with fright. “Don’t be afraid, I’m bringing you good news – it will bring joy to all people!” The shepherds listened, awestruck, their faces glowing with the angel’s light. “This is the day the good news begins, and this is the place. In the town of David, a saviour has been born. He is Christ, the Anointed One, the one you have been waiting for. And this is the sign that these words are true: you will find a baby wrapped tightly in swaddling bands, lying in a manger.”
The shepherds watched as light was added to light, voice to voice, until they were surrounded by a dazzling, heavenly host of angels, all praising God and saying “Glory! Glory to God in the highest, And on the earth be peace!”
And then, in an instant, the angels were gone, and the shepherds were left in dark night shadows, listening to the sound of a distant wind. But their eyes still shone with heaven’s light. “Let’s go and see for ourselves!” they called to one another as they raced over the dark, rocky fields to Bethlehem. There, they found Mary and Joseph, and, just as the angel had said, they found the baby wrapped tightly in swaddling bands and lying in a manger. They saw him with their own eyes, and spread the angel’s message to all they met. “The Promised One has come! The Christ, the Anointed One, has been born!” The angel’s words were on everyone’s lips that night in Bethlehem. And, as the shepherds made their way back to their sheep, bursting with good news, Mary kept their words safe, like treasures, in her heart.
What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man I would do my part; Yet what I can, I give Him – Give my heart. Christina Rosetti 1830-1894
Also from Prayers and Verses, a poem I wrote as a child.
The dawn is breaking, the snow is making everything shimmer and glimmer and white.
The trees are towering, the mist is devouring all that is in the reaches of sight.
A bell is ringing, the town is beginning, slowly, gradually, to come to life.
A candle is lighted, and all are excited, for today is the ending of all man’s strife.
The light is coming into the world.
Please feel free to use the extracts, saying where they are from.
It’s getting closer to Christmas. This year, The fourth Sunday in Advent is rather overshadowed, falling as it does on Christmas Eve – the day when, for so many, and for so many years, the season of Christmas began. But its themes are precious, and the heart of the feast. It’s worth making a little space amongst the cooking and present wrapping and welcoming and general getting ready to hold the truth of Love coming among us at Christmas.
As it’s hard to make that little bit of space, here are the words to a carol that can perhaps sound in your mind whatever you’re doing in the moment…… to transform the activity into something holy and generative. A contemplation for busy hands.
Love came down at Christmas, Love all lovely, Love Divine, Love was born at Christmas, Star and Angels gave the sign.
Worship we the Godhead, Love Incarnate, Love Divine, Worship we our Jesus, But wherewith for sacred sign?
Love shall be our token, Love shall be yours and love be mine, Love to God and all men, Love for plea and gift and sign
Christina Rosetti 1840-1894 One of the beautiful lyrics included in my Prayers and Verses.
There is a mystery we can enter into as we draw close to the year’s midnight, in this darkness where something hopeful and joyous is emerging. And the sign of it is love. Simply love: the token and the gift and the sign. As we approach Christmas, we can reaffirm that gift of love. We can consider what it might mean this week, for us, to live from a place and awareness of love. If Love came down at Christmas, what would that look like for me, at this time? Can we accept the gift and sign of this love? Can we receive it and allow it to change us, so we too are part of the new growth of this silent, midwinter spring?
One of the readings for today, from Isaiah 7, includes the name for the one to be born….. Immanuel, translated as God with us.
It’s a profound promise. That God is with us. Even when we are unsure what we mean by God, even when we lose sight of what might seem clear in clear daylight, maybe we can come to know that we are held and accompanied in love. This, to me, is increasingly the heart and core and hope I hold onto. That God is indeed with us. And it is good to become alive to this in the bleak midwinter – as Christina Rosetti also wrote.
This autumn, we went to a beautiful celebration of Julian of Norwich’s wisdom and words by contemporary artists. It’s her 650th anniversary. The exhibition was held in three churches in the city. The title was ‘Love is the meaning’, taken from the revelation that Jesus’s meaning is indeed love. It is so restoring and freeing to know that love is the heart of the good news of Christmas.
With apologies for the poor photo quality! They are very fine works.
Marja Almquist
‘And in this he showed me a little thing, the quantity of a hazel nut, lying in the palm of my hand, as it seemed. And it was as round as any ball. I looked upon it with the eye of my understanding, and thought, ‘What may this be?’ And it was answered generally thus, ‘It is all that is made.’ I marveled how it might last, for I thought it might suddenly have fallen to nothing for littleness. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and ever shall, for God loves it. And so have all things their beginning by the love of God.
In this little thing I saw three properties. The first is that God made it. The second that God loves it. And the third, that God keeps it.’
Julian of Norwich
Alex Egan
Julian’s insight reminds us of the inextinguishable love of Jesus born among us, and dying among us too. A deep hope springs from that love for us, and for all that has been made. It gives us a way to walk in the world, secure enough to be bold in the love we give, for we have received. It doesn’t overlook the pain of the world, but provides a profound companionship and meaning in the midst of it.
The gospels are full of hardship and difficulty, and love, companionship and healing. I am increasingly valuing the questions and uncertainties in the story – where things that seem bad, are turned to the good, and that which seems good, turns out to be less so. We can see instead how these things might work towards love, friendship, wholeness. It is easy to lose sight of how hard it must have been to be birthing in such hard conditions, but that very difficulty gives us hope in our own upturned places.
You might like to scroll up to the Caravaggio picture above – intensely beautiful even in its portrayal of an exhausted Mary and ill clad shepherds. It’s worth following the eyes in this picture, to notice where everyone is looking, and what those looks communicate. There is something in the space between – the space between mother and child, held in the gaze of the shepherds – the love, the deep bond, which means so much. The artists were right to value it. There is a fine net of love and wonder being spun here, despite the destitution of the setting. This is deep looking indeed.
Some years ago I attempted a paraphrase of the beginning of John’s gospel. A friend read it last Sunday at a contemplative carol service, where it opened the dark evening. I thought I’d share it with you today.
Beginning
It started with the Word, who was there before the dawn of time – before the earth, the waters, the stars – there with God, was God. For in the beginning, there was simply nothing else.
But then, the Word began to work. When the Word spoke, the universe spun into song, and all things came into being. Without the Word there was only empty blankness.
For the Word, the universe burst into life like a desert after rain. This was the Word’s work – unleashing life and light – glorious and radiant, warming our lives like the sun in spring.
This is the light which shines through our darkness – cold, smothering darkness where nothing can grow. And the darkness draws back at its touch, not understanding a light that cannot be put out.
Then, the Word, source of life and light, came into the world he made, but the world hid its face in its hands. It did not recognise him. He reached out to his people, and they turned away.
Yet to all who welcome him, believed in him, he held out his hands to give them such a gift – to know that they are a child of God, Born of God.
So the Word, the One who was there from the beginning became flesh and blood and chose to make a home with us in this fragile, changing world.
He came with open hands to bless, brimming over with words of truth. He has unlocked Heaven’s storerooms and poured down gift after gift for us.
We saw his glory with our own eyes – we saw him shining with life and light, we saw the very One who came to us from the Father.
For no one has ever seen God. But this Jesus, the One and Only, who was there at the beginning, has made God known.
The blossom buds are already there, tiny flowers formed, asleep and waiting for the days to begin lengthening just a little. They burst early, in February often. It’s all there, waiting, at this darkest time of year. How wonderful to celebrate light and birth now, when hope may be faltering. Maybe, we can treasure this lesson of darkness. We may be able to catch a glimpse of the love that came down at Christmas, and the love that received him.
Thank you for joining me in these readings and ponderings. May you have a blessed, peaceful and loving time as we draw close to Christmas.
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?
It’s so hard to hold on to the theme of Peace as we prepare for Advent’s second Sunday. I can hardly bear to watch the news with the terrible conflict going on in the Middle East, in particular the stream of men running with injured children in their arms, seeking help, and the doctors doing the best they can with so little. We see the pain and waste of war, the agony of the faces of those who are bewildered and overwhelmed by what has come to them. The radio seems a better way for me to hear what’s going on, to try to keep informed and to understand. And I get to make that choice. For thousands, millons, of people, that choice is an unthinkable luxury – war is their ever present reality.
And yet, I hope and pray that there are those both compassionate and wise enough to look at the destruction and pain and see where there is a chink of light, the possibility of something coming after all this, that might grow towards peace. Peace is such a precious, precarious thing. And it sits alongside other things – justice, truth, hope. Those who work for these, the peacemakers, may they indeed by blessed.
Once again, we are engaged in a radical practice of seeing what could be alongside what is. As with the thoughts on Hope, we’re not trusting to wishful thinking, or pretending real obstacles to peace don’t block our way.
They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. “Peace, peace,” they say, when there is no peace.
Says Jeremiah . And I’m sure we all know the distress of having some deep issue dismissed, and peace proclaimed when what that means is people keeping silent about weighty matters. That is no peace. We are in search of something much more radical.
How to hold on to some kind of centre, some kind of Peace, in the midst of all that surrounds us? How to hold on to a centre, and to peace, in the midst of loss, and loneliness, and Christmas pasts too? This Sunday, the second of Advent, the theme of peace is much needed.
Once again, readings for this week turn to the prophets. A longer meander through the section of Isaiah we read from below will reveal much that preceeds the talk of peace. There are words which seek to uncover injustice and untruth, addressing past conflicts and wrongdoings. This isn’t peace which seeks to bandage over matters that need deeper healing, this is peace as a result of a long process of radical transformation. It’s a vision of the dream of God for the world. Of the growth and new life possible in things which seem beyond hope of greening.
A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them. The cow will feed with the bear, their young will lie down together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox. The infant will play near the cobra’s den, and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain, for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.
Isaiah 11: 1-2, 6-9
I am very struck by the image of the tree stump – cut down, presumed dead, or unproductive – springing back into life. We see again the hope in even the most hopeless situations, the determination of life. Many have looked back at these words of Isaiah and seen the coming of Jesus in them. In the shoot springing up, and in the little child who will gently lead. Born into most unpromising circumstances – homeless (at least temporarily), under enemy occupation and the cruel rule of a local puppet tyrant – there is a deep promise of peace and hope in the coming of Jesus. This new growth will take a suprising form. This dream of a new world will grow under the surface, in hearts and lives. Appearences are deceptive.
Even my beautiful dead cotoneaster, picture at the top of this post, harbours life. Although the plant itself hasn’t sprung up from dead roots, other things have. Birds perched in the branches, dropping seeds, and now the light has reached the ground, things are growing. And the dead wood is a haven for so many small creatures. I wrote about the tree here.
And deeper, and further into the prophecy, we have the harmony of all creatures, including humans, living at peace. We have an ecology of plenty and playfulness, of trust and abundance. As we meditate on the possibilities of peace, and the world as it may be, can we catch a vision of what that might be like? We see destruction visited on the land, on on life, by war, and by destructive ways of being in the world. As we think about the stump of the tree of Jesse, I’m reminded of the number of trees, the whole landscapes and ecosystems, that have been lost, how might these words speak into that situation with hope, justice and peace?
You might consider writing down your own vision for how such a just, peaceful, restorative, abundant world might appear. You might wish to pray “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” from the Lord’s Prayer. What comes to mind as you pray that bold and transformative prayer? And as we pray, so we seek to live. How might we live this week in response to this vision, this dream, this prayer? It may seem too hard in current circumstances. It might be too hard. Yet there is this promise of the coming of the Prince of Peace. Maybe we can hold on to that.
And as we do so, we could turn to this week’s gospel reading. Trees come up here, too….. John the Baptist, preparing the way for the ministry of his cousin Jesus, speaks of knowing trees by their fruit. What their lives produce.
Under the white heat of the sun, far from shade, the murmuring crowds gathered. Some had walked through city streets, others through fields and vineyards, but all had come out into the stony, dusty Desert of Judea to see one person. It was John, son of Zechariah, who stood by the river Jordan.
John was no polished performer – he looked wild, dressed in rough clothes of camel hair held together by a leather belt. He was thin, eating only the locusts and wild honey he could find in the desert. But his words were full of power, full of life and holiness. He called out in a loud voice “Repent! Turn your lives around and come back to God! His kingdom is near. Come and be washed clean!” And many came forward, full of sorrow for the wrongs they had done, and John baptized them in the River Jordan.
There some among the religious leaders who came and joined the crowds to look holy in front of everyone else – they thought they were good enough already, and had no real need to change. “You snakes!” the Baptist spat: “We can tell what you are like by what you do – just as you can tell a tree by its fruit. Don’t think you can fool anyone with show-religion!”
But most who came were hungry for a new beginning. For John taught them to hope. In his words, they caught a glimpse of something beyond their everyday lives. They understood that John the Baptist was preparing the way for something, or someone, astonishing. “I baptize you with water, for repentance. But you wait. There is one coming after me who is so much greater. I am not even fit to carry his sandals for him. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire – a baptism that will wash you inside out.”
In Luke’s Gospel, we get an insight into what this preparation for the one who is to come might look like in practice
“Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then shall we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” …..
Luke 2:9-11
We remember the Advent traditions of giving – not just to friends and relations, but to others as they have need. What John the Baptist is calling people to, to prepare for the coming of the Kingdom of God, looks a lot like sharing, like generosity of spirit, as we are able. Perhaps this is a way towards Peace. As our readings take us closer to Christmas, to the birth of the one who we have been waiting for – springing up like a new shoot – we will find a clearer focus on the Prince of Peace who is to come, and the way of peace he walked.
Hope, and Peace
Perhaps we can make time to keep our eyes open for signs of new growth in the winter gloom, when all seems cold. Are there shoots appearing? Are there signs of new life? Can we pursue peace by looking for justice, and by sharing as far as we are able? We can share kindness, and patience, and perhaps a smile to cheer someone’s day. Perhaps we can do more than that. If we have the choice to simplify things for ourselves, we may find we have a little room to share with others. Might that be a path to a more peaceful Christmas?
Wherever you are in your Christmas preparations today, may you know Peace.
This photo is of an apparently dead, flailed hazel hedge near where I live. Despite this treatment, it has put out some new growth. How many years it’ll withstand such an onslaught, I don’t know. But I am heartened to see the new shoot growing up from a very unpeaceful process. You can read more about the hedge here.
As a small stone, dropped in a pool, sends ripples to its furthers edges, help us know our small actions of love and kindness can do great good. … Help us do the good things we can, trusting you will use them.From Prayers and Verses
On the subject of trees, Eden online bookshop has a few copies of my children’s picture book available….
Waking up this morning, on the first day of Advent, there’s the lightest dusting of snow on the ground. The sun shines, and late autumn leaves glow even as the wind blows down from the north with its biting edge and splinters of ice. Apparently, short eared owls have been blowing in from Scadinavia, but I don’t think they’ve got as far south as Suffolk yet. So, it does feel like the seasons are changing, that Winter is here, and Advent comes along with its glimpses of Hope. Tradition has it that’s the theme of the first Sunday of this season, and that seems a good place to start. Our current Decembers are some distance from the old practices of having Advent as a time of quiet, reflective, waiting – a little like Lent before Easter. It’s so at odds with the flashing lights and loud shops and busyness, that understanding, but we can perhaps catch moments where those wintering practices are possible, and might help us….. pools of quiet light where we can breathe and think, where the cold sharpens our perceptions.
I’m also intrigued by the more medieval practice of putting yourself in the place of the people of Israel as they waited, not quite knowing what they were waiting for. Of not naming Jesus and Christmas, but instead allowing what we long for to be recognised and owned and prayed and worked for. In our context we join so many people throughout history who have felt the future to be shifting and uncertain, and who have longed for a kinder, gentler and more beautiful world. Taking some time to know and feel what we lack, what kind of world and lives we desire, might help us too face a troubling future with some courage and determination.
So Hope is a good place to begin.
Ah, hope. I’ve been turning over in my mind what it means to nurture hope in a world which seems increasingly unstable in climate and economics and culture. I’ve settled, for now, on making a distiction between hope and optimism. So, for me, I’m thinking of optimism as an opinion that things will work out. Something tied to outcomes. I see hope as a stance, an attitude of the heart and spirit, that it’s always worth looking for what brings life, for what is good. It does not require us to be naive about the dangers and difficulties around and within us. We are called to be as wise as serpents, and as gentle as doves – Matthew’s gospel.
Nonetheless, it’s worth working as if the world-as-it-could/should-be is here, emerging amongst us, small as the signs and growth may be. Not a glib avoidance strategy that it’s all fine, really, it’s all going to be fine…. but as a deliberate and courageous stance. I remember being very struck, on reading the Gospels at school as a teenager, with how the message I heard was about how the Kingdon of God was already here, or close at hand, or within and among us – a real and emerging presence, despite the very real difficulties. With the cost of living crisis bringing fear and hardship, and with the climate noticiably more unstable, we need courageous hope that’s prepared to work to refashion things around us in defiance of what we see. There is real power in such acts.
The picture of the bulbs and the bookmark at the top of this post relates to an action I took with some friends in our local high street to coincide with COP 26. We handed out bulbs and bookmarks, and encouraged people to think about ways they could plant hope. You can read more about that here. My last post shares a sliver of a project which is coincing with this year’s conference.
As Advent begins, we re-read the words of the prophets together. They often spoke into desperate, unpromising circumstances with a mixture of a vision to hold in our hearts, and actions for our hands to do. Those actions can be prophetic themselves, speaking out and making plain God’s dream for the world – a beautiful, hopeful vision strong enough to withstand hard times – brave enough to choose to be born to a poor family, who sheltered in a stable, and had to run from a murderous tyrant. This is how hope was offered to the world, in the infant Jesus.
During this Advent series, I’ll share with you some extracts from my books. Here’s something from The Bible Retold , as the retelling of the Hebrew scriptures comes to an end, and we look forward..
As the walls were rebuild, so were the people. For God was building them into a new kind of kingdom. Isaiah the prophet wrote: “This is how to truly serve me: unbind people who are trapped by injustice, and lift up those who are ground down. Share your food with the hungry, and clothe the cold – that is how to live in the light!”
The people listened to his words of bright hope. “There is much darkness in the world, but your light is coming! All nations will be drawn to you, and they, too, will shine!” ….
“A child is born to us, a son is given. Authority will rest on his shoulders, and his names will be Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His kingdom, his peace, will roll across the lands, and he will reign on the throne of David for ever.”
We give thanks for the work that is being done right now, in our communities, to clothe, and feed, and seek justice. May we have the courageous vision to join with that work of light.
The days are dark, Dear God, give us your true light.
The days are dark, Dear God, give us your true life.
The days are dark. Dear God, give us your true love.From Prayers and Verses
The Advent Candle Ring is from the good people at The Chapel in the Fields It gives me great pleasure to know that the oak at the base was once a lectern, and the lighter wood on top a dining table. The words written around it are from the ancient chants, the “O” Antiphons. These chants came into being when people did not call for Jesus to come at Christmas, but instead used names from the Prophets – like Emmanuel, God with us – to name their hopes. The first few centuries of the Christian Era saw these great prayers, the “O” Antiphons, sung during Advent, calling on Christ to come now, and to come again. You can listen to the old chant, and read Malcolm Guite’s sonnet which draws on it, and much more, here.
This coming week, let’s hold on to hope, look for signs of the life of God breaking through, and see where we can be part of that move towards a more beautiful, loving, hopeful world.
The practice of wandering – often around the garden – contines to be a a helpful one for me, quieting and contemplative. The practice of standing still and looking, too. Quite a lot of apparent “nothing” seems to be fertile ground, after all. Something catches my attention, as if it is saying: ‘look, here is something, a marvel, a meaning, a glimpse of beauty’. I am coming to think they are happening all the time, and what makes the difference is my openness to seeing, hearing and knowing them.
And so, when the sun broke through after the rain, I went outside, and sat on my coat, and looked. Some distance across the lawn, I saw a bright red light, flashing, and, curious, saw a drop of rain acting as a prism. I watched it for as long as the angle of light made it shine with colour. It called to mind two ancient stories – the burning bush, and the flood – from the Hebrew Scriptures. How the world is full of epiphanies. And again, I was in awe of the way the natural world – of earth and fire, water and air – invites us to listen, to pay attention, to wonder.
A solitary shining drop
Just now, I saw the sun catching a raindrop as it rolled so slowly down a sedum stem, fleshy and green.
It shone through red, rich, neon and ruby, flashing as the stem swayed in the breeze, taking the drop through that one ray of light, back and forth.
Then it suddenly changed to the dazzling blue of cobalt and lapis lazuli – oh, heavenly blue. Heavenly blue.
Just now, for a moment, this treasure made of light and rain, this solitary shining drop becomes a tiny shard of promise, a slim fragment of the arc that holds the sun and the rain.
It all speaks. All speaks. In the mind’s quiet, and in a flash of brilliance that turns your head. A gentle whisper and a burning bush, both. A drop and a rainbow. The world shines with meaning, murmuring, as the green earth is drenched by sun and rain.
As we come to the end of the Season of Creation, I offer a harvest of seeds.
I love the way seeds spread in the garden, finding new nooks and crannies to settle, new places where plants will grow and in their turn offer flowers to the insects, seeds to the wind and the birds.
As I was watching fluffy seedheads catch the breeze a few weeks ago, I felt my attention catch on the seeds. I felt that insistent “look!” which comes sometimes, and alerts me to some depth, some beauty, some meaning. It’s always worth attending to. And this time I saw the reckless generosity, the persistence of seeds, unfolding to me a truth about creation’s blythe insistence on hope. Each offering of seeds represents so many second chances, fresh starts, try agains. And the word forgiveness came to mind – as if the seeds were offering a chance of Spring despite, in the face of, the ways we continue to undermine and deplete the natural world. The seeds a sign of forgiveness, a chance to try again, an ever repeating offer of new life.
Some of you who have been good enough to follow this blog for a while may remember that I return often to the themes of the parables – the stories Jesus told – especially the ones that speak of the natural world. I love the way Jesus quotes the psalms to explain this mysterious teaching method – “I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter things hidden from the foundation of the world.” (Matthew 13:35) The Hebrew Scriptures tell of a vibrant world saturated with the glory of God, of living things being animated, and full of wisdom, if we will but pay attention. I hope to write more about that another time, but for now, I’ll return to seeds. If you’d like to read more about the parables and the seeds on this blog, you can look here and here to begin with.
The poem I’m sharing with you today is full of touches from the Gospels, and another day, if I can, I might unpack them for any of you who are interested. I felt the call to “look” was an invitation into all sorts of deep truths……But I hope the piece stands on its own, open to all who look with wonder.
But for now, below, the poem. It’s been one of those pieces that has revealed its meaning to me in the process of writing, that has felt like a discovery or an uncovering. I wanted to share it with you today, this last day of the Season of Creation. I hope I haven’t hurried it along too much – it’s been taking its time. I hope it is ready. We’ll see!
The grace of seeds.
Seeds are blowing in the breeze, gentle, white and light. Fairies, I used to call them as a child, back when the world was full of seeds, and butterflies, and glimmers of enchantment.
I breathe slowly and long into all this ripening. All this, all, glows with a deeper life – light and colour under the skin, shining with a song of greening and ripening.
Each seedhead releasing a kind of forgiveness that falls with the seed, falls to the earth bearing new beginnings, seventy times seven. Life wills to live, despite all we have done. Life uncoils again, and again. I am humble before it. Before the caterpillars on the toadflax, the frog stirring beneath the strawberries.
The world is indeed full of grace. We do not deserve these chances, again, and again, and again. And yet, deserving is not the point. Seeds fall, it is the very nature of things, and blow on the breeze. Each one offering multitudes. It is the way of seeds.
Might this grace, one day, even today, catch us in its loving web as the trumpets of bindweed blaze out a song of liberation, and the blackbirds tumble fearlessly, hungrily, in the hedge’s ripeness?
For the seeds float still, and the air is still full of enchantment. Life whispers, it calls us, it sings to us. Does it know we will turn towards it, at last, wooed and wonderstruck, and learn we belong, have belonged all along? We might, we may, we can. Those dry seeds show us how.
All the pictures are from the garden – and the narrow strip outside the wall by the road, where I’ve been sprinkling seeds for years.
A couple of years ago, during lockdown, I felt drawn to explore the stories of Moses and the Exodus.
One of these was inspired by Moses and the burning bush, where he takes off his shoes because the ground is holy. This poem now finds itself at Diana Butler Bass’ The Cottage, as part of her marking of the season of creation. It’s so good to be part of this beautiful musing on an important season, to be marking a shift in awareness as we begin to pause and reconsider our relationship with the rest of life on this dear blue-green planet.
I hope the link below will take you to her rich and thoughtful exploration of this theme.
Andrea Skevington 