Advent 2025 : day five

 

In our home, we build up our Christmas decorations slowly through Advent, bringing out a box on each of the four weekends. It begins with just a few changes: a figurine of a pregnant woman, symbolizing Mary, placed on one end of the mantlepiece, with an attending angel; our Advent calendar opposite. I bring my wife a mug of coffee in bed every morning before we get up (itself another ritual) and on the first day of Advent we swap out our usual mugs for ones we only use in Advent: simple markers. The tree does not go up until week three.

In this way, we build up a sense of expectancy, ready to celebrate Christmas when it arrives – a twelve-day feast; we are not sick of it all by the afternoon of Boxing Day, desperate to pack everything away for another year.

But this might also help us to wait expectantly for Christ’s return: recognising – learning to recognise – that Jesus breaks into our lives in many often small and accumulative ways; that the victory of justice and mercy over exploitation and oppression is not, usually, dramatic – and yet, little by little – gradually – comes around again and again.

 

Advent 2025 : day four

 

Advent has its very own soundtrack, a mix of songs in a minor key, filled with longing for the light, and stirring carols focused more on Christ’s return than on his first coming as the Babe of Bethlehem.

I love more traditional Advent carols, like Hills of the North, Rejoice and People, look East. But in recent years, my go-to Advent playlist has included the albums Advent Songs (2021) by The Porter’s Gate; and Good News (2016) and the earlier In the Town of David (2006) by Ordinary Time. Check them out.

 

Advent 2025 : day three

 

I have a memory of a childhood Advent calendar. Card, with (probably – here, my memory is shaky) a picture of the hills around Bethlehem for backdrop. Doors opened carefully, re-opened year after year. Each one revealing a picture, depicting some character or item relating to the nativity, and a verse from the Bible on the back of the door.

These days, the Advent calendar on our mantlepiece is a wooden box, with twenty-four doors that lift upward, not to the side. Behind each door, Jo hides a piece from a jigsaw of an icon from the Church of the Nativity, for her, and a fairtrade individual ‘taster’ bar of chocolate, for me.

The practice of opening a little door every day through Advent, a door that is linked to the story of the incarnation, might shape how we open larger doors. So far this Advent, I have opened my front door to a neighbour, shut out of her own home and in need of help, and to delivery drivers, dropping off Bibles I had ordered for friends who are exploring faith. The vicarage doorbell is loud – I cannot adjust the volume, and it makes me jump whenever it rings. It does not predispose me to welcome those who come to my door. Yet the Advent calendar might resist that move; might predispose me to see Jesus coming to my door in the face of a neighbour or stranger. Coming to me, in need or in response to my own need. (In the Gospels we see Jesus ministered-to by others and ministering to others.)

    

Advent 2025 : day two

 

Warning: mention of suicide

The Advent candles are not the only candles we light in our home throughout Advent. We also light a frankincense & myrrh candle. One of the smells of Advent, along with cinnamon biscuits—for smell connects deeply with memory and so has a key role in keeping traditions alive—is frankincense & myrrh. Two of the three gifts (along with gold) presented to the infant Jesus and his parents by the magi/wisemen/kings.

This is a dark time of year. The sun does not rise above the horizon, here where I live, until 8.00 a.m. (by mid-December, not until 8.15 a.m.) and sets mid-afternoon.

These are dark times, at the best of times. Not a week goes by without news of another life taken in violence by its own hand. Lives that have run dry of hope, carrying a burden of pain they just don’t think they can continue to bear. Tragically, often longing to be reunited with family members who have died too soon, carried away by illness or accident or suicide.

For some, this darkness, this void of despair, is evidence against the existence—or at least the efficacy—of God, of a god who is good and loving and strong. And yet, for others, it is in the darkness that Light and Love shine most brightly. How, then, might we side with the Light and Love?

Those gifts—made to a child who all too soon will find himself a refugee, his peers butchered by hardened soldiers at the orders of a fragile king—just might hold a clue, a key. Incense, symbol of prayer rising; prayers rising, even when we can find no words. And myrrh, used to prepare a body for burial, a final act of tenderness, of kindness, of dignity; and though these days embalming is undertaken by professionals, we still might embrace the bereaved with tender touch.

In the darkness, we light a frankincense & myrrh candle, and breath in what it means to wait, until our eyes adjust, until the clouds pass over and the stars are revealed, fierce pinpoints of light in blazing glory.

 

Advent 2025 : day one

 

This is now the twentieth year that I will post a daily reflection through Advent. For longer than that – almost a decade longer – Jo and I have woven Advent traditions into the pattern of our year, the fabric of our lives. Some of these we were introduced to by older friends, when we were newly-married – not as an off-the-peg coat, whether it fit us or not, but as a pattern we might start with and adapt to create a bespoke fit. This year, we are passing some of the traditions on to friends – we are now the older ones – some of whom are marking Advent for the first time.

Traditions, and especially the kind of traditions we might call rituals, act as anchors or hooks that connect us to a Story that is bigger than ourselves, in such a way that has sustained both families and wider communities through times of unimaginable tragedy.

One of the simplest Advent rituals is the lighting of candles: one on the first Sunday of Advent, two on the second, three on the third, and four on the fourth. These are often arranged around a fifth candle, which represents Jesus, the light of the world. One tradition leaves this candle unlit until Christmas Day; another variation lights the central candle each Sunday, and the other candles from it. There are also various traditions regarding the colours of the candles: red, or blue, or three purple and one (week 3) pink. This year, the Advent candles in our home are a simple arrangement, all white.

We lit the first candle and spoke about waiting with hope. Waiting in anticipation of something we are looking forward to. Waiting, well, for inevitable bad news. Waiting, in times of pain – and as faithful friends in others’ times of pain. Light in the darkness. We spoke of faith handed down by previous generations, well-worn words of prayer when we cannot find words of our own.

 

Christ the King

 

Today is the Feast of Christ the King, the culmination of the story we begin to tell again next Sunday with Advent, Christmas and Epiphany, Lent, Holy Week and Eastertide, Pentecost and the long count of weeks in Ordinary time. The culmination of history to which the Church points; and of the news the Church proclaims concerning Jesus, that ‘his kingdom shall have no end.’

But if Christ is King, what kind of a king is he? And why is this good news?

We see the answer to these questions in the Gospel reading set for today, Luke 23.33-43. It may seem strange to hear, today, of Jesus’ crucifixion; but the cross is the throne this king choses for himself. More than that, a cross alongside two others.

This we proclaim: that Christ suffered, for our sake, and that his kingdom shall have no end.

This is where we see him: alongside us in the place of our deepest wound, our deepest humiliation, our agonising and protracted public death.

There are two near-universal human emotions at play in our Gospel passage, that reveal this wound: shame, and humiliation.

Shame is the self-belief that we are, inherently, unworthy of love, of connection. Shame is the secret we do not want anyone to know about us, because if you knew, you would agree that I am unworthy. The tragedy is that shame grows in the dark, and is destroyed by the light of empathy, of being seen and accepted.

Humiliation is what we experience when someone else judges us unworthy of love, of connection, and we inherently know that they are wrong, that this is unjust. Humiliation is being told we are too fat, too ugly, too foreign, too gay, to be in our gang. From primary school, if not before, we are flayed by humiliation. And, tragically, humiliation correlates to violence. Studies in the US show that the experience of being humiliated, deeply, repeatedly, is a key part of the backstory of those who perpetrate high school shootings. I don’t know of UK based research, but I would expect to see the same regarding fatal stabbings.

(For more on shame and humiliation and many other emotions, see Brené Brown’s ‘Atlas of the Heart’)

Crucifixion was all about humiliation, as a deterrent. Luke records not only the physical humiliation Jesus is subjected to, but also how the religious leaders and the soldiers join in. Crucifixions were conducted by specialist teams of soldiers. I cannot prove it, of course, but I would wager that these teams were made up of those who had, themselves, been subject to humiliation. Humiliation correlates to violence; and spreads as those who have been made to feel inadequate — unworthy — seek out a victim to shore themselves up.

The first criminal knows humiliation. He turns to the person hanging next to him, and both adds to their humiliation and calls on them to turn the tables: what would humiliate the leaders, the soldiers, more than Jesus getting down from the cross and defeating them? But Jesus refuses to play the game, to perpetuate violence, to deepen the problem.

The other criminal knows shame. He believes that he, and the other criminal, deserve what is happening to them. In this, he is not a reliable witness (in the Bible, we find the testimony of many people, but Jesus alone is the faithful, reliable witness). Certainly his actions may have had consequences, may have deserved punishment; but noone deserves the obscenity of crucifixion.

Nevertheless, this man, who is steeped in shame, is able to do the very thing that is necessary: despite believing that he is unworthy of connection, he reaches out to the person who is right there next to him: ‘Jesus, remember me — make me whole, make me worthy — when you come into your kingdom.’

And Jesus responds, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’ Paradise is a tricky word to translate. It seems to mean both ‘in the ground’ — that is, dead — and in heaven — that is, alive. In other words, the promise is that Jesus will be with him — and us — in our protracted dying, and in the life on the other side, where suffering is transformed into glory.

I do not say that lightly, that suffering is transformed into glory. This is a slow, slow process, a life-long (and perhaps beyond) process. And yet it is the way in which Christ the King goes about his reign.

I don’t know your shame story, your humiliation story — but I know you have one. And that is why I believe that Christ the King is good news. Because in these places, we are not alone. This is where he meets us, sees us, re-members us. In the deep blues, the bruised purples, the bloody reds of our lives, drawing these emotions, too, into the spectrum of his light.

Luke 23.33-43

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’ And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’ The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other rebuked him, saying, ‘Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ He replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’

 

circus maximus

 

In the summer of 64 CE, a great fire broke out in the cramped streets surrounding the Circus Maximus. The Circus Maximus was the largest venue in Rome for public games — the Colosseum was yet to be built — home to chariot racing, athletics, gladiator fights, and beast hunts (where artificial forests were created and wild beasts imported, the most popular being the ferocious lion). The great fire would destroy three-quarters of Rome.

The rumour rapidly spread that the fire had been set at the command of the emperor Nero — a populist, despised by the ruling class but popular with those who had no political voice — to clear ground to build a big, beautiful Golden Palace. That Nero was away from Rome, at his private villa, when the fire occurred, along with the speed with which he had his new palace constructed, only added fuel to the flames. Needing to deflect the heat, Nero pinned the blame on the city’s Christians. Perhaps a thousand were put to death, including Paul, who had come to Rome some two years earlier having claimed the right to defend himself against false claims of inciting an insurrection before no lesser court than the imperial tribunal.

Knowing that he would soon meet his death, Paul writes two letters to Timothy. It is possible that the great fire had already occurred by the time he wrote a second, and final, time — we cannot know for sure, but in any case, the imagery of the Circus Maximus is clearly on Paul’s mind, from the libation that marked the opening ceremony of an athletic games, to the gladiatorial fight, the athletic discipline of the foot race, the victor’s wreath, and the triumph of the bestiarius (hunter) over the lion.

(Very boldly, if this timescale is correct — and we know that Paul believes his death will be imminent, and we know that it was part of the scapegoating of Christians following the great fire — Paul has already told Timothy to ‘fan into flame’ the gift of God that is within him through the laying on of Paul’s hands, 2 Timothy 1.6.)

Reflections:

We are called to pour out our lives as a sign and symbol of the peace treaty between God and humanity that is established in and by Jesus.

Faith is something we wrestle with, not the absence of struggle. Some days we experience relationships, some days despair.

We are acceptable to God not on the basis of our own merit, but on the merit of Jesus.

We still get scared and run away, just as Paul’s supporters did, just as Jesus’ apprentices had done. But — as Paul prayed that it would not be held against them, and as Jesus restored Peter after Peter had denied knowing him — we can experience forgiveness, and redemption, the transformation of bad circumstances for the greater or common good.

Death is not a tragedy, but an adventure, a new journey (and in some sense, a journey home).

2 Timothy 4.6-8, 16-18

‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

‘At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.’

 

analysis

 

On Sundays at the moment, we are reading extracts from letters from St Paul, writing at the end of his life, to Timothy, whom he has mentored over more than a decade. Paul is in prison in Rome, awaiting trial, and will eventually be executed (according to tradition, on the same day as St Peter) as part of the Neronian persecution of the Christian community in Rome, whom Nero made scapegoats responsible for starting the great fire that devastated Rome in 64 CE. He does not know when he will be executed but is aware that it will be soon; and the two letters he writes to Timothy express what he most wants Timothy to hold onto.

Paul writes, ‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come.’

(2 Timothy 4.6)

A libation is a drink offering made to a god or gods, probably the most common daily form of offering. One might pour water into a bowl or onto the ground as a libation on waking, and libations were made before every meal. Whenever wine was drunk, first a libation would be poured from a jug into a small bowl, before the rest of the wine in the jug was consumed. There are frescos depicting libations being made at weddings, and in the Roman tradition a libation was also made at funerals: indeed, if you had no one to take care of your funeral arrangements, and so the state took on that responsibility, the libation may have been the only part of funeral observances to be fulfilled — an interesting observation given that Paul feels abandoned by those who should have supported him.

But where a libation is described in the middle voice (a voice that combines aspects of both the active and passive voices, to describe something you do that changes you in the doing) — as can be read here (though my English translation opts for the passive voice) — a libation refers to a formal and binding peace treaty. Specifically, it related to a peace treaty contracted between city states at the opening of an Olympic, Corinthian, or other athletic games. Paul underlines this meaning by claiming to have struggled the beautiful struggle and run the foot race — direct allusions to events the athletes competed in — and that he now awaits being presented with the wreath crown worn by athletes who won their events.

Paul’s life has been lived (at least, since his conversion) as a peace treaty between the God of the Jewish people and the Gentile nations: as a declaration that all who confess that Jesus is Lord — regardless of their ethnicity — will be welcomed by the God of his own ancestors.

Who or what are you pouring your life into? And how are you being changed in the process?

Paul goes on to speak of his impending departure. The word for departure is analysis, that is, the loosening of ropes holding a ship to the dock, or the loosening of elements (of e.g. a life) so as to understand how they work together.

Jo and I have spent the last week in Rome, celebrating our wedding anniversary. We flew home yesterday. We boarded the plane, and then we waited. We knew that our departure would be taking place soon, but we did not know exactly when it would be. There was a shortage of ground crew to load cases into the hold, and then to uncouple the sky bridge from the cabin doors. We could not depart until this ‘analysis’ had been completed. We missed our take-off slot, and, in the end, we took off forty-five minutes after our departure had been scheduled. Nonetheless, it was only a matter of fairly imminent time.

Paul writes of his departure time, or, the final analysis of his life. And the final analysis is that he has lived — and would soon die — trusting not in his own merit, but on the work of Jesus, whom, he believed, God had appointed as judge over the nations of the Greco-Roman world. Whether Paul was right or not is a different matter, but of this he was convinced — and many others with him.

And so for Paul death is not a tragic end, but a new chapter, a glorious transformation of what has been into something more than the world can offer.

Death comes to us all, or rather, we come to death. What would the final analysis of your life be? What has already been loosened — those things we no longer need to hold tightly to, for fear of the voyage ahead — and what is (perhaps entirely appropriately) ‘keeping us here’ for now? How might we make the most of the time we have left before our own departure?

2 Timothy 4.6-8, 16-18

‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

‘At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.’