Where there is doubt - Christmas Poem 2020

It strikes me that this year's Christmas poem turned out to be very much "of its time", a reflection of something of what 2020 has felt like ... to me, at least, and I suspect to many.

Perhaps it is appropriate that it draws in a line which almost made an appearance in a poem I wrote back on Easter Sunday. 

There is possibly some theological point to make here about resurrection and incarnation but I can't quite think what it might be. 

But that aside, it feels fitting and entirely understandable that words which resonated way back in April when we all (or many) of us still sort of believed (or wanted to) that this might all be over in the next couple of months continue to resonate now many months later when things are still, well, not where most of us would like. 

Enough preamble.

When our once solid ground feels like shifting sand 

When nothing, it seems, goes quite as planned 

When all that once seemed certain becomes filled with surprises 

Somehow we find that 

The world still turns and the sun still rises 

When we begin to wonder whether or not we can cope 

When we question what signs remind us there’s hope 

When we scan the night sky seeking flickers of light 

Somehow we find that 

Out in the darkness the stars still shine bright 

When too much of humanity seems guided by hate 

When too many are carrying too heavy a weight 

When we wonder or we weep at our human endeavour 

Somehow we find that 

The love of our God still endures forever

Merry Christmas!

When Mary said Yes

Every Tuesday we have evening prayer and a discussion focused on next Sunday's gospel. As part of it, we take turns to prepare a short reflection on the biblical text. I'm not planning to share them all here, but this week I thought I might.

This week we reflect on Luke chapter 1 verses 26 to 38: the story of the annunciation. It is a passage which I love. Once you get past all the slightly kitsch images associated with it, I think it is rich and deep and beautiful.

Like many overly familiar passages, it is easy, I think, for some of both the promise and challenge of this encounter between Mary and God’s messenger to get lost, consigned to being a footnote in the Christmas story, an excuse for a blue-eyed, blond-haired angel with tinsel on their head to appear in the nativity play.

But it is so much more than that! And there are quite a number of things I could pick out to focus on. Including this: 

Gabriel’s arrival in and departure from the scene are mentioned, but I have often wondered how long this messenger of God stayed at Mary’s side. For me, this is much more than a mere irrelevant technicality: it speaks to the manner and means by which God communicates with humanity. I think we are usually tempted to assume that Gabriel stays for roughly the length of time it takes to read this biblical passage straight through, or, at a push, to sing the Angel Gabriel carol. It gets reduced to an instant and immediate encounter. Mary at home, God interjects with a message, which she hears, understands and accepts, and that’s it, done and dusted … and back to the dusting!

In understanding it thus, it can feel so alien to our own experiences of God, which, speaking for myself, are rarely so instantaneous, rarely accompanied by bright flashes of light and jolly bells ringing in the background. It becomes a beautiful story, but not one to which we easily relate.

But what if, then, the annunciation didn’t happen like that at all. What if the different phases of Mary’s reaction, and the different promises offered by the angel happened not over a couple of minutes, but say a couple of months.

What if Mary’s journey from fear, to total incomprehension, to eventual acceptance of God’s promise and finally to her commitment to serve happened not in the space of the few sentences to which it has been reduced but through days or weeks of gut-wrenching prayer and struggle.

What if, even, this Gabriel, whose name means “my strength is in God”, was not some otherworldly being but the whispered voice of her conscience inside her head; or a friend or neighbour who accompanied her through said struggles to understand how God was calling her to something both deeply human and at the same time extraordinary: inviting her to bring God’s presence into the midst of humanity.

What if, God is still sending messengers who stay for as long as they need to, and who we are more likely to hear if we dare to strip away the glorias and the medieval art. What if God is still calling us to things which invoke first fear, then total incomprehension, calling us in a whispered voice to make the same final step that Mary did … to acceptance and commitment: steps we are only able to take if we keep listening long enough to work through the fear and incomprehension first. Steps which lead us towards actions which may be both deeply human and at the same time extraordinary: inviting us too to bring God’s presence into the midst of humanity.

It may be heresy to say so, but I sometimes wonder how many people said no before Mary dared to say yes. How many others were offered this promise and did not hear it, or turned away from it … I can’t even say I blame them because I’m not convinced at all I haven’t done the same at times! Not in a “will you give birth to my son” way but in a “will you convey this promise of God’s presence to the world around you” way.

I still have so much more to say (but I know this is already more than long enough)! Much of it is about freedom and choice, about a call and promise which is never imposed, about possibilities of new life.

But perhaps much of the essence is already covered here. Because it all relates to this same idea: that in dressing this up as an ethereal encounter, focusing on how different it looks to our reality we lose the deep humanity of it, to which we can perhaps relate. In the church’s temptation to either dress Mary up as pure, perfect, and ‘holier than thou’ or reduce her to a walk-on part only really mentioned at Christmas, we lose her deep humanity, to which we can perhaps relate.

And in so doing we lose the challenge it demands of each of us. And is so doing we also lose the promise it offers to each of us. The challenge and the promise that the incarnation, as well as being a one-off, once-for-all-time historical event is also a reality in which we are each called to play our part: giving birth to God’s presence in the world.

Tired

Whilst there are, of course, plenty of things that I don't write about here (for a whole variety of reasons including the fact that no-one needs to be bored by the minutiae of my daily life!), I have always aspired for it to be a relatively honest and authentic glimpse into the life I am trying to live.

Right now, I think that means acknowledging that I am tired. Not the "I need a good night's sleep and I'll be fine in the morning" kind of tired. Something deeper than that.

This is not an easy thing for me to admit: even to myself. Perhaps saying it here in a public space is almost easier than admitting it in the hidden recesses of my own mind.

I like being able to keep going and keep busy. I have, I know, acquired something of a reputation for boundless, tigger-like energy. I have made no secret of the fact that, rightly or wrongly, purpose and productivity matter to me. 

And I'm not saying any of that has entirely deserted me. I am still saying yes to projects which excite me and inspire me and which have the potential to do good. I am still putting the same energy into singing and telling stories to little people with actions and silly voices as I ever have. I was still mad enough to paddle in a freezing stream at the weekend. I am still trying to be meaningfully present to the people who I care about.  

But I am tired. 

I recognise that some of things I am doing are costing me more energy than they usually would. I have temporarily lost at least some of my creative spark. I am, perhaps, not always being as patient as I have aspire to be. I definitely haven't replied to all the emails I should have done! 

I am not intending to use this space to analyse all the reasons or work out the solutions ... though I have been doing plenty of both in my own head. I am certainly not trying to compare whether I have it harder than anyone else: trust me, I know plenty of people who have it much, much worse than me, but I also know comparison isn't always helpful. I am not seeking sympathy or advice. 

I am just trying to be honest to how I feel right now because that in itself matters.

Happy Advent

 Happy Advent!

Sunday marked the beginning of Advent and the start of a new church year. Also, therefore, the end of ordinary time.

I thought I might be able to write something profound and maybe even poetic about what an extraordinary, ordinary time it has been. And the paradox that, in some ways, what has made it extra-ordinary is how very, well, ordinary it has been: how very mundane and dull and lacking in the extra-ordinary things which contribute to making life, well, ordinary! 

It didn't happen. Who knows, it might, but it probably won't and even if / when it does, the moment will have passed. 

And so we arrive in Advent... a season for which I have a particular soft spot, perhaps because I feel it gets so squeezed and forgotten as the preparations and pre-emptive celebrations of Christmas. 

I wonder whether there's any chance of somehow "doing it better" this year when so much of the usual December trappings have been stripped away." After all, I / we have had plenty of practice for Advent this year ... a season which is all about waiting and anticipation and looking ahead to something better to come. 

I'm kind of hoping so, but am yet to really figure out how. Ask me in a month.