I’m continuing to share with you some poems I’m working on for a new book, The Year’s Circle, which will be out next year – with Wild Goose of Iona Publishing. You can read more about that here.
As I’m settling into the work, I’m finding it so rewarding. I love looking for threads and connections between things, and so I’m weaving together poems which follow the pattern of the church year and poems drawn from nature. I’ve always found the natural world rich with image and meaning, and that is particularly true of the wild beauty of late spring.
This poem has been a bit of a knotty one to unravel, but now I think it’s settled and working. I’m giving it to you a little early, in case anyone is looking for a poem for Ascension (this year, Thursday 29th May) . At the beginning of the book of Acts we find this account of Jesus being taken up, and I have been wondering about what it might mean for us.
I thought first of what it must have been like for his friends, a kind of second losing. They are still caught up in their concerns – they are still thinking of a kingdom with power and borders. And every day, now, we are seeing the pain of kingdoms and borders, the terrible suffering of the people of Gaza and the long history of cause and effect that leads to children, the frail, the displaced and the wounded – starving. It’s shocking and distressing. I find those images fill my inner vision as I read the words of the disciples. And I notice that their nationalistic hopes do not align with the task set them by Jesus.
I have wondered about the complete change in perspective that Jesus seeks to share. I think it might help us, and give us a way of seeing that opens us up to a better way.
He is not speaking of kingdoms with borders. He is sending them out – over borders, without consideration of the divisions between peoples we might make – to the whole earth. A shift in thinking, a higher, more inclusive view. So, in this poem, I try to explore that shift. The poem has two strands. The experience of Jesus’ friends as he slips away from them, and this wider way of seeing he invites them to share.
Hidden/All things – Ascension
Perhaps it had seemed a partial parting, a gradual letting go.
In life, they had lived with him, travelled dusty roads, slept under stars, ate bread and shared a cup.
Then, after that dark Friday, that bright Sunday, there came these strange, sudden meetings, brief comings and goings, words they found hard to understand – such puzzling reassurance.
And still they ate together, and he spoke of another presence who would come to them, be with them. And despite their questions of nations and times, his was always a wider vision.
Always wider and other Out to the old enemy and the ends of the earth Everywhere and everyone
And then at last they came to this last parting, and he was taken up in rolling clouds and hidden from their sight, a long perspective they could not yet share
that saw the whole blue green turning Earth and all things – things in heaven and things on earth – holding together reconciled all very good and all beloved. Above all, beloved.
Acts1:1-11 Colossians 1:15-20
This image is of Gaia by Luke Jerram, when it was at Ely Cathedral. As I’m playing with the arrangement of poems in The Year’s Circle, I’ve placed my poem inspired by this artwork in a group that follows this one on the Ascension – a group that begins to explore our perception of the Earth as an interconnected whole. You can read the Gaia poem here.
And, in the spirit of the original Sunday Retold, here are some passages which might be of interest.
‘The disciples never knew when Jesus would appear among them – but appear he did, telling them more about the kingdom of God, and kindling hope in their hearts. “Wait in Jerusalem and you will receive God’s gift. You remember how John baptized with water? In a few days, you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit of God.” Another time they asked him, “Lord, will Israel be a great kingdom again now?” “That’s not for you to know. The Holy Spirit will come and fill you with power, and then you will tell everyone what you have seen and heard. Start in Jerusalem, and Judea, but then go out beyond Israel to Samaria, and even further – to the whole earth!” Then Jesus was lifted up, above and beyond the earth, and a cloud hid him…….’
Ascension Day ‘Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours…. Yours are the feet with which is to go about doing good, and yours are the hands with which he is to bless us now.’ St Teresa of Avila
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.
Jesus Washing the Feet of his Disciples, by Albert Gustaf Aristides Edelfelt, (1854-1905)
This week, I thought I’d share with you my retelling of the reading many churches will be following this Sunday, in the spirit of Sunday Retold.
It explores themes of power, and so follows on from last week’s poem, Stones. This week’s reading is that electrifying encounter between Jesus and Pontius Pilate – a trial of sorts. For the flow of the storytelling, I’ve taken a longer sweep than the set reading.
At the same time, as dawn was breaking, the council gathered – elders, chief priests, teachers of the Law – and faced Jesus. “If you are the Christ, the promised one, then tell us!” one said, rolling the words around his mouth as if they were bitter to his taste. “If I told you, you would not believe me,” Jesus replied, holding him in his steady gaze. “Are you the Son of God?” they asked. “You are right to say so.” At this they rose to their feet with an angry roar, and carried Jesus off to the palace of Pilate, the Roman governor, who had power to sentence people to death. “This man is a threat to the peace – he claims to be Christ, a king, and opposes Roman taxes,” the accusers called out as Pilate circled around Jesus. “Are you the King of the Jews?” he asked. Jesus felt the cold edges of the mosaic under his bare feet. “Yes,” he replied. “But my kingdom is not like the kingdoms of this world.” “So, you are a king!” Pilate responded. “Yes! That is why I came, to speak the truth. Everyone who is on the side of truth will listen to me.” “But what is truth?” Pilate asked. Then he went out to see the leaders and the people together. “I see no reason to charge him,” Pilate said. “This man has done nothing to deserve death. I will set him free.” “No, set Barabbas free instead!” they cired. Now, Barabbas was a rebel who had killed a man. They shouted louder, drowning out Pilate’s words: “He’s done nothing wrong! I will release him!” But, with rising rage, the mob shouted, “Crucify crucify!” In the end, Pilate gave in: he set Barabbas free and handed Jesus over to the guards. The guards tormented Jesus, the one called king. They draped a fine, purple robe around him, and twisted him a crown of sharp thorns to wear. They called out, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and fell on their kneeds before him, laughing. They spat on him, and struck his head with a staff. They, they took back the robe, and led him out to be crucified in his own simple clothes
Francisco De Zurbaran
We see how those who held religious power allied themselves with the Imperial power of Rome. I expect they were sure they were being faithful, upholding the law and their traditions, defending their faith as they saw it. Being certain you are right can lead you very astray. And we see too how Pilate saw Jesus very differently, one who had done nothing wrong, and yet seemed to have little power in the face of an angry crowd.
The biggest difference of all, to my mind, is in the understanding of what power is, what a kingdom is, who a king is. Those who are embedded in the power structures of this world, and, to be honest, the rest of us too, find it hard to imagine a different kind of power. One that follows a path downwards, even to death. One that washes the feet of the followers, that does not insist on its own place, but instead works through love, in humility, in radical engagement with the world as it is. We will soon be in Advent, preparing for the coming of Jesus. At that time we think of his unity and solidarity with frail humanity, born in such a humble way, amongst the extraordinary, ordinary, beloved people of Bethlehem.
Lord Jesus, May our lives bear the mark of love. As we are kind, as we share, as we are gentle, may your love be seen in us. Help us, for this is hard for us.
Dear God, May I welcome you as my king: King of peace, King of love, King in death, King of life.
From my book of prayers to accompany The Bible Story Retold, Prayers and Verses
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.
Hello. This week I’ve been taking a look at the readings many churches follow on Sunday, and found something coming up this week that has sparked my interest, and led to some contemplation. A poem has emerged, as they sometimes do. I’m not sure I can say it’s finished, but it is settled for now, and I’d like to share it with you. Those who have been looking at this blog for a while – thank you – may remember that I’ve a thread running through it called Sunday Retold, which includes extracts from my book, The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters.
This beautiful illustration by Sophy Williams is from another edition of the same text, published as The Lion Classic Bible
Here’s my retelling of Jacob’s dream:
Jacob went alone, travelling until it was dark. Shivering in the chill of the desert night, he took a stone for a pillow, and lay down to sleep. As Jacob slept, a dream came to him. He saw a ladder, with its feet on the ground, stretching up and up to heaven. In his dream, he watched as God’s bright angels travelled up and down in between heaven and earth. And in his dream, God himself was there……
Jacob woke with a jolt and looked around. He was alone. “God was here and I didn’t know it! This place is the gate of heaven!” he said Then he took the stone he had slept upon and set it up as an altar to God. He poured oil on it as an offering, and worshipped there. Starting out once more, he left his homeland far behind.
You can read the original here, Genesis 28: 10-17, it’s the set reading for this week. It’s a story which has spoken to many over the centuries, revealing depths of meaning. For me, this time, I was struck by the way comfort came to one who was a fugitive, who had lost all that was precious to him. It also speaks to me of how our perception can shift, and we can be illuminated with a new understanding, how we can find the simplest things holy.
Jacob’s dream and awakening
Night can fall suddenly on the road, when alone. Darkness sweeps in like a flood, and one who lived with others, a dweller among tents, is out in open country now.
Alone, he chooses a stone and rests on cold rock
And finds that to the fugitive, the lonely, the guilty one, dreams may come. And company, too, of sorts – strange, perhaps luminous – angels ascending and descending
And a presence, such a presence, that is here, and now. One who is above the angels, and right beside him, and speaks with that deep resonance that comes through dreams.
Perhaps those away from the knottiness and rush of their own mind can know that this stone, and so every stone, is the gate of heaven, shining with oil. That this place, and so every place, is where God is
That this dream-night can change the day-heart of one who walks away. For even the stones have a sheen of brightness now, wherever they are.
If you’d like to use any of my material, please feel free to do so, acknowledging this blog as the source. It’s always a great encouragement when people let me know where my writing has been read.
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….
Andrea Skevington 