Transcript
From the window of my new study, I look out over the neighbours’ gardens to a hill. Yesterday afternoon, I sat watching the sky change as the sun set, streaks of light gradually shrinking earthwards giving way to dark blue, with the hill and bare trees as black silhouettes against it. Whatever chaos has happened in my day, sunrise and sunset mark the reliable rhythm of the earth turning on its axis. And, as I explore my new garden to discover what is growing there, I notice the changes as winter gives way to spring in the longer cycle of earth’s circling around the sun. Rhythm, structure, order, are built in to creation.

This week’s reading from the Book of Proverbs celebrates that order, perceiving Wisdom as an intrinsic constituent of the created world. As God shapes earth, sea and sky, setting their limits, Wisdom is constantly by God’s side delighting in it all. 

The second reading, from a letter to the early church in Colossae, speaks of Christ as ‘the image of the invisible God’, through whom creation happens and in whom ‘all things hold together’.

Those words remind me of W B Yeats’s much-quoted poem, The Second Coming, in which he says, ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’ Written in 1919, it’s a poem which portrays an anarchic world, where 
‘The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.’
That’s as good a description of the world today, as it was then—and is in every age.

The last lines of the poem are equally gloomy, even threatening:
‘And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?’

The Bible does not flinch from the evil that works against the wisdom of divine order, especially the human part in that. But it insists that God, in his wisdom, is not only in ultimate control but is in the mess with us. Through the baby who was born in Bethlehem, ‘God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.’ (Colossians 1. 20)

We can trust God will hold us together when life spins out of control, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time. As Dorian Lynskey wrote in an article in the Guardian: ‘Things fall apart, over and over again, yet the beast never quite reaches Bethlehem.’

This morning, I read a definition of trust as ‘an invitation to delight in things’. It’s easy to get bogged down in the seriousness of life and faith. Yet Jesus said that, if we want to enter the kingdom of heaven, we need to change and become like children (Matthew 18.3). Creation Sunday is a good opportunity to pause and see the wonder of the world with the eyes of a delighted child.

This week’s prayer, read slowly line by line, becomes a meditation on creation and our part in it:
Almighty God,
you have created the heavens and the earth
and made us in your own image:
teach us to discern your hand in all your works
and your likeness in all your children;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who with you and the Holy Spirit 
reigns supreme over all things,
now and for ever. Amen.

May you delight in the world
as the Creator delights in you.
~~~~

This Sunday’s readings are here.

You can read the Yeats poem here.

The Guardian article, from 30 May 2020, is here.

The definition of trust came from Mending: witnessing the miracle of my body, by Josie George, which you can read here.

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Transcript:
This week, two of my favourite feast days happen: St Brigid on 1 February and Candlemas on 2 February.

I used to find February the most difficult month to get through; even though it is the shortest it can seem as though winter will never end. And then I was introduced to St Brigid (or, in Wales, St Ffraed). One of the major Celtic saints, she is a harbinger of spring as this extract from a poem by Ruth Bidgood tells: 

Brigid of Ireland, Ffraed of Wales, 
 the saint, the golden one
 who breaks the ice, 
 dipping first one hand, then two hands,
 freeing the river to flow into time of seed,
 time of ripening, time of harvest.

Her flower is the snowdrop, those small white bells that brighten dark winter days and promise warmer times to come. She was a king’s daughter by a bondswoman, sold into slavery and later freed. She managed the palace kitchen and was renowned for her hospitality – a hungry beggar turning up at the kitchen door might be given cake intended for the king’s tea. She knew about the everyday doings of milking, churning butter, brewing beer. One of the marks of Celtic spirituality is that there is a prayer for every job, which invites Jesus and the saints to be part of the ordinary doings of everyday life, making them both bearable and beautiful.

Brigid has her own form of cross. According to the legend, she wove it from reeds as she explained the Christian faith to a pagan chieftain on his death bed, whereupon he asked to be baptised – another example of imparting beauty to something ordinary.

In a ‘holy time-slip’, one legend tells that she was Mary’s midwife, which leads me to Candlemas. The official date is 2 February but many churches will celebrate it this Sunday. As was the custom, when Jesus was 40 days old, Joseph and Mary took him to the Temple in Jerusalem to ‘present him to the Lord’. There must have been many people in the Temple that day and nothing to make this ordinary couple with their baby stand out. Yet Simeon and Anna both recognised in Jesus the presence of God’s Messiah and rejoiced. Simeon gives us the beautiful words of the Nunc Dimittis: 

Now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace: your word has been fulfilled.
 My own eyes have seen the salvation which you have prepared in the sight of every people;
 A light to reveal you to the nations and the glory of your people Israel. (Luke 2. 29-32)

We call this celebration Candlemas because it was traditionally marked by candlelit processions, probably echoing earlier traditions that marked the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It is the point at which Christian thought turns from Christmas to Easter, from the cradle to the cross.

Lighting a candle is a simple ritual which can carry a lot of meaning. One candle prayer that I came across goes:
 Lord,
 this light which I light, be it:
 LIGHT with which you illumine my difficulties,
 FIRE that burns all my selfishness,
 A CALL that teaches me to love and serve.

Lord, today I do not have time for more,
 But I leave you something of myself in this symbol.
 Help me to extend my prayer the length of my life.

So, this week I invite you to look out for beauty in ordinary things. Perhaps you might also offer a candle flame of prayer (physical or metaphorical) for yourself and others.

And I offer a question to ponder: Just as Celtic Christians would carry a St Brigid cross into places which had been shut up for the winter, what are the dusty corners of your life (physical or metaphorical) which could be re-opened and given a ‘spring clean’?

My prayer this week: 
May your days be bright with Christ's presence.
 May your bright moments be shared with others.
 May you know the beauty of 'heaven in o

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Transcript
One question that self-help teachers and spiritual directors like to ask is: what gives you joy? what for you is life-giving? 

Another is: what did you enjoy doing as a child that you don’t do now?

As a small child, I enjoyed painting-books which had outline drawings, grey lines on greyish paper. But when I wiped a wet paintbrush over them, they came to life with colour. Magic! Or so it seemed to me.

That transformation of drabness into colour is beginning to happen around us now (depending how far north you live). Snowdrops are almost in bloom, daffodil shoots are showing above ground, there are pale green buds on the trees.

The gospel story this Sunday is about transformation. At a wedding party in Galilee, the wine was running out and the host family were facing social disaster. St John tells how Mary asked Jesus to help, and he turned six large jars of water into wine – around 120 gallons of it! And not just ‘plonk’ but the best vintage. That must have turned into some party.

But John wants us to see more than the miracle that happened that day in Cana. For him, the six jars of water represent Jewish ceremonial cleansing and law. He wanted the readers of his time to see how these are transformed by the overflowing abundance of God’s grace in Jesus. 

That grace still flows abundantly. One thing we understand from the story today is that whenever Jesus is invited into someone’s life there comes a transformation which is like water turning into wine, like greyness becoming suffused with colour.

Like the approaching Spring, the transformation may be gradual and take time. Or it may be like a sudden burst of sunshine. How has faith already transformed you? What part of your life still needs that transformation?

May you know the transforming power of God’s grace.

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Transcript:
As I mentioned last week, I’m in the process of moving house. It will be a transition from rural village community to housing estate on the edge of town. And I’m wondering how we will settle, how we will fit in, how we will adapt. We’ve met some of the neighbours who have gone out of their way to be welcoming. We’re looking forward to being within walking distance of new clubs and activities. But, particularly as we’re a couple of introverts, breaking into new social circles will be a challenge and feel risky.

Humans are social creatures. We like to belong to our group. But, to a degree, we’re all guilty of bias, conscious and unconscious, and we can be uninterested in, or even wary of, those who aren’t ‘one of us’. 

And though we want to be welcoming, we often equate being welcoming with expecting people to conform to our way of doing things. We may be less ready to change our ways to allow others to fit in or to let others welcome us into their ways.

If this is true of our attitudes about people, perhaps it’s also true of our attitude towards God. 

Today’s gospel story is about Nathanael, a man from Bethsaida. His friend, Philip, comes and tells him, ‘We’ve found the one whom Moses and the prophets wrote about—Jesus, son of Joseph from Nazareth.’ To which Nathanael retorts, ‘Can anything good come out of Nazareth?’ 

Philip’s response is simple: ‘Come and see’. In other words, 'don’t let your prejudice get in the way, take a risk, open your heart and mind, at least come and meet him.' And Nathaniel goes with Philip, meets Jesus, and discovers the Messiah he has been hoping for—even though that Messiah does come from Nazareth!

God’s invitation to us is as simple as ‘come and see’. But taking God seriously is a risky business for he tends to upset our preconceived ideas. (Mind you, it’s just as big a risk to not take God seriously). And to invite Christ into your life is to discover you are invited into the life of God; that (as this week’s collect prayer says) in Christ, God transforms the poverty of our nature by the riches of his grace.

So Philip and Nathanael prompt me to ask some practical questions:

• How welcoming am I to those who aren’t like me? 
• What assumptions about other people do I need to let go of?
• Who can I invite to 'come and see' Jesus, and what might that invitation linvolve?
• What might Jesus be inviting me to ‘come and see’, and how do I accept that invitation?

May you welcome and be welcomed
so that strangers become friends
enriching your life as you enrich theirs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Gospel story of Philip and Nathanael is John 1. 43 - 51.

The pages of alisteningspace.uk offer some ways of listening for God's invitation.

This week’s prayer:
Almighty God, in Christ you make all things new:
transform the poverty of our nature by the riches of your grace,
and in the renewal of our lives make known your heavenly glory;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, Amen.

i-Llan is part of alisteningspace.uk

Transcript:
It’s a New Year. Where do I start? How do I find something fresh to say about the Epiphany or the Baptism of Jesus? Either may be celebrated in church this Sunday. (You can find links to my previous thoughts on both these themes down below.)

One reading this Sunday takes us back to the beginning—the great poem of creation as told in the opening words of the Bible. It tells of the bringing of shape and order to a cosmos which was a dark, empty void. It tells of a God who speaks things into being: God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

As I was looking for a picture to accompany this week’s i-Llan, I found this one called ‘winter flowering’. It shows a yellow flower with glossy green leaves bright above the ground. ‘Winter flowering’ seems an appropriate theme to me, for the Epiphany season is about revelation, discovery, being surprised by something unexpected but good. It suggests the delight of finding joy in the midst of sadness, life where all seemed lifeless, like a flower blooming where you only expected bare earth. 

For me, 2023 brought many surprises, not least that I am moving house. Deciding to leave our home of nearly forty years was difficult, but I’m trying to look on it as a move towards new discoveries: new neighbours, new paths to explore, a new garden to grow.

2024 is a gift which I have yet to unwrap. No doubt it will bring its own surprises with the usual mixture of good and not so good. What will be no surprise is that God still speaks life into my wintry spaces, light into my dark places. He speaks through the words of Scripture, in the secret words of my heart, in the kind words and actions of those I meet. 

As earth begins a new turn around the sun, where, for you, are shoots of new life waiting to flower? 

However wintry you may be feeling now, I offer you words that John Donne preached in the evening of Christmas Day 1624. I hope they encourage you:

God brought light out of darkness, not out of a lesser light; he can bring thy summer out of winter, though thou have no spring; though in the ways of fortune, or understanding, or conscience, thou have been benighted till now, wintred and frozen, clouded and eclipsed, damped and benumbed, smothered and stupified till now, now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon.

You can read my thoughts on 'Where is the child?' from Epiphany 2023  here
and on '. . . by another road' from Epiphany 2022 here.

Thoughts on the Baptism of Jesus are here.

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Words for Winter
I wonder what words you associate with winter. One that I came across in a book, Winters in the World: a journey through the Anglo Saxon Year by Eleanor Parker, comes from an Anglo-Saxon poem: it’s ‘winter-sorrowful’. I love the sound of it and, for me, it sums up how I so often feel at this time of year. The days are short, dark and cold, and, although the solstice is past and days are growing longer again, I know there’s more hard weather to get through before spring finally arrives. 

Perhaps that sounds depressing, but I find something positive in accepting winter sorrow rather than denying it. Too often, western culture wallows in other people's tragedies while putting pressure on people to present a cheerful facade. Sorrow is seen as a mental illness rather than a natural part of life's cycles. (I am not thinking here of the genuine illness and tragedies that befall us, but the normal ups and downs of life.) 

The rhythm of the seasons is deep within us, and it’s as well to listen to it even though it’s hard to resist the pressure to stay as cheerful and busy in winter as in summer. In the north, winter is a natural season of rest, retraction, hibernation. For pre-industrial societies it was certainly a time of hardship. Anglo-Saxon poets describe winter as an invading army bent on destruction, imprisoning everything in 'fetters of frost’—a stark reality for war-torn areas today. For those in financial hardship, it’s still a time of struggle to survive. I’m grateful for the technology and good fortune which provides me with warmth, shelter and food. (Two days without water because of a burst water main made me even more appreciative when the taps started running again.) But the poets also wrote of spring and hope.

The winter solstice is the turning point of the year. In the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, midwinter is often used to mean Christmas. Just as the year is at its darkest, we celebrate the birth of Jesus, ‘the true light that lightens the world’ (John 1. 9). So this Sunday, in midwinter darkness at the dawn of a New Year, I offer you words of hope in two blessings of light. Take time to dwell on them, and receive their warmth and encouragement.

The first is from today’s readings, ancient words that resonate with St John’s imagery of divine light.
The LORD bless you and keep you; 
the LORD make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; 
the LORD lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. (Numbers 6. 24-26)

The second is an Irish blessing that is warm and homely in tone as it reminds us to offer welcome to others who may be winter-sorrowful.
May the blessing of light be on you. 
Light without and light within. 
May the blessed sunlight shine on you and warm your heart
till it glows like a great peat fire, 
so that the stranger may come in and warm himself at it, 
and also a friend.
May the light of the Lord shine from your eyes 
like a candle in the window, welcoming the weary traveller.

To close, here’s a short poem on hope. Whatever your level of winter-sorrow, may you have hope to carry you through:

Dark days
and bitter nights;
Soil seized in ice-hard grip.
As the earth turns towards the sun
Bulbs stir.

May 2023 be a year of blessing for you.

i-Llan is part of alisteningspace.uk

Transcript
The animals at the crib

On Christmas Day in the chapel where I was worshipping, I was struck by the number of sheep at the crib. Then it occurred to me that a Christmas crib is incomplete without animals—the ox and ass, and at least one lamb. And, of course, the camels with the magi on a nearby windowsill making their way to Bethlehem to arrive on 6 January. 

Of those, the Bible only mentions sheep out in the fields. And given that the ‘shepherds went with haste’, I don’t imagine they took any of their flock with them. I assume some unlucky shepherd—probably the boy, or perhaps the oldest and slowest—was left in charge in the fields. 

We can infer the nearby presence of animals given that Jesus was cradled in their feeding trough. And I really hope Mary didn’t have to walk all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem given her advanced pregnancy. So I’m grateful for the donkey. (Yes, the donkey is there in the photo.) Similarly, camels, even horses, are a safe bet, though would they have gone in or would they have been left out in the street in the charge of the smallest pageboy?

Whatever the facts of the matter, it comforts me that animals are such an integral part of our imaginings of the nativity.

Ruminating further, I realise there is a deeper theological aspect to this. I often talk about God, in Jesus, coming to share our human life. But, the Christmas gospel tells us that
‘Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.’ (John 1. 3)
And St Paul writes to Christians in Colossae that
‘all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. . . through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.’ (Colossians 1.16, 17, 20)

In other words, in Jesus, God came to share all life on earth. Animals have as much place at the birth of the Lord of Creation as humans do. 

Jesus grew up a country boy and his teaching is full of examples from farming life and the natural world. Miracle stories tell how he had power over natural forces: he calmed a storm, walked on water, fed 5000 people with five barley baps and two small fish. At his death, the earth quaked and the sun was hidden.

Today we are well aware of the climate crisis. I sometimes wonder whether, when people express concern for the planet, their concern is actually only for the human race. The planet may change but will survive. But human activity condemns many species as well as our own to hardship and possible extinction. 

The animals at the crib remind me that I am one small part in a web of connections that bind all life together. Christmas is not just for humans but for the whole earth. 

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Transcript
This Sunday is both the last Sunday in Advent and Christmas Eve, which brings together two contrasting moods.

One of Advent’s themes, as I mentioned last week, is judgement. The Bible speaks of a last day when a victorious Christ comes on clouds to the sound of trumpets accompanied by triumphant saints and angels, after which this earth comes to a fiery end. 

The gospels tell us that Jesus himself used such images when he spoke about a future day of judgement. They portray a God who seizes authority over the earth with frightening power. They are images drawn from ancient apocalyptic writing, but the terror they inspire is only too real for those existing in the war zones of today.

Then, Christmas Eve brings us to Bethlehem, reminding us that at that first Christmas God came as a vulnerable baby born in borrowed lodging and cradled in an animals’ feeding trough. Jesus’s later life shows a similar willingness to be vulnerable: immersed in the waters of baptism, riding into Jerusalem ‘humble and seated on an donkey’, tortured and bleeding as he dies on a cross.

Even after the resurrection, he is often unrecognised: a stranger in the garden until he calls Mary Magdalene by name (John 20. 11 - 18), a stranger on the shore who invites the disciples to share breakfast (John 21. 1 - 14), a stranger on the road who explains the scriptures to two despondent travellers so that their hopes are rekindled (Luke 24. 13 - 35).

How can we reconcile the contrasting moods of judgement and vulnerability to find a way of living which respects them both?

They tell me of a God who created and sustains the universe and has the power to bring everything to an apocalyptic end. Yet a God who risks becoming vulnerable in order to heal divisions of hatred by the power of love, [a God who waits patiently] for us to get the message and act on it.
This God invites me—and you—to risk welcoming the reality of divine love into our lives; invites me—and you—to risk accepting the Bethlehem baby as living Saviour.

Moreover, God also invites me to risk being open to those who are different from me. For God yearns for us to help build the future in which strangers become companions, enemies become friends. Then, judgement is not punishment but healing. 

Welcoming the stranger is a vision which can be romanticised. I am certainly no St Francis or Mother Theresa. Pragmatically, I know that safeguards are a sensible precaution. I understand that charities implement vetting procedures to protect against scams. Yet, when I risk seeing beyond the labels that divide the world into factions, and when I engage with the human beings behind the labels, then I discover how Christ is present in the most unexpected places and people. In welcoming them I welcome him, and am welcomed in turn. 

I wonder who offered Joseph and Mary a place to stay that night, and whether they ever realised how they had welcomed God into the world.

I wonder, too, how often (God forgive me) I have shut the door in his face—and how often I have welcomed him without realising it. This Christmas I pray again with the carol:
O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to me, I pray;
cast out my sin and enter in; be born in me today.

May Christ find room in your heart and soul today and every day, and may you always be open to the possibility of love in unexpected places and people.

i-Llan is part of alisteningspace.uk

'Transcript:
Advent is a season of preparation. It’s nearly Christmas and shops are full, delivery drivers are busy, presents are being wrapped, carols are being sung. I’ve even got my Christmas cards into the postbox before the last posting day—a record!

But, what about preparation for beyond Christmas? Not just plans for 2024 but the note of judgment that sounds throughout Advent?

‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight’ is the cry of the Old Testament prophet and of John the Baptist. In ancient times, when a king was going on a journey, working parties would be sent out to prepare the route, remove obstacles, make sure all was smooth riding. If we look around the world today, there are so many obstacles in the way of peace, justice, and right living that ‘preparing the way of the Lord’ may seem an impossible task. We are so small and powerless. We can’t make much difference in global terms, can we?

Have you ever walked into a room where there has been a quarrel, sensed the tension and immediately felt tense? Or stood in a peaceful place and soaked in the peace? Atmosphere influences us. 

I trust that is true on the large scale, that every act of love increases love in the world, every gentle word or touch increases gentleness in the world, that our small acts—for good or ill—influence world affairs.

In other words, we prepare the way of the Lord by living in a way that God desires.

For the prophet Isaiah, in today’s first reading, that means becoming ‘good news’ for those in trouble. And, in the second reading, St Paul exhorts the Christians in Thessalonica to:
‘Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise the words of prophets, but test everything; hold fast to what is good; abstain from every form of evil.’

Or, as Gandalf puts it in the film of The Hobbit: 
‘Some believe it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.’

Perhaps we can’t directly bring peace to Ukraine or Gaza or other places where violence holds sway, but we can continue to stay informed and offer our prayers for them. And we can strive to make our corner of the world a place where God’s way is made straight, trusting that God uses that for the greater good.

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