Advent Twenty-Five

God-With-Us.

Advent is a season of learning to wait, attentively, in the dark.

To wait for the Lord’s return.

Yet the paradoxical miracle of Advent is that while in a very real sense we wait for God to come to us, in another very real sense God also waits not at a distance but with us.

The one who came into our world, not as an adult but as a baby; who grew into a boy discovering the world around him; became apprenticed to a builder; who shared the love of God with all who would welcome love; who experienced joy and sorrow; who died a painful death…waits with us, in the birth of a new baby, in the squabbles and excitement of children, in the application of learning a trade, in eating and drinking with friends old and new, in our celebrations and bereavement, in the hard-drawn final breaths of the dying, God is with us, now, for always.

May we discover that secret hidden in our midst, transform every moment.

O Emmanuel

O Emmanuel, our King and our lawgiver,

the hope of the nations and their Saviour:

Come and save us, O Lord our God.

Advent Twenty-Four

King.

In the ancient world, to be king – or pharaoh, or emperor – was understood to be raised up by one of the gods; perhaps even to be a living god or son of a god. Christianity modified this view, to consider rulers as taking up and being removed from office at least by divine permission. It did so under the world-changing belief that Jesus was king of the nations, which is not only to proclaim him king over all peoples everywhere, but to proclaim him so by appointment of – and a sharing in identity with – the God over all gods, of every realm. So fully did the early church identify Jesus with God that they considered creation to have been brought into being by him.

In this world view, everything points beyond its current state to an awaited fulfilment – or realignment – achieved through the person of Jesus.

For this we still wait. And for this, we are being refashioned, as from clay, to be those who are shaped not for what is but for what is to come.

O Rex Gentium

O King of the nations, and their desire,

the cornerstone making both one:

Come and save the human race,

which you fashioned from clay.

Advent Twenty-Three

Star.

Living in darkness leads to desperation, and desperation can lead people to do tragic or beautiful things.

At this time of year in particular, working from a building open to the public during the day, I come across two kinds of people. There are those who come trying to scam us (and our neighbours) out of money. We have learnt to be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. But what kind of darkness has so borne down on someone to drive them to attempt to steal from a church, to try to exploit kind-heartedness?

And there are those who come, having lost a loved one, and feeling that somehow, by not being able to stave off death, they have let their loved one down. Invariably, in sitting and listening to them, I can see that nothing is further from the truth. Again and again, they recount how they were there day-in day-out, or tell of battle after battle won, before one day they weren’t there or a final battle inevitably lost. Sometimes darkness allows us to shine, even if we cannot see ourselves shining.

Jesus is described as the Morning Star, visible in that part of the night which feels especially dark before the sun begins to rise and the sky grows light again, by degrees. More, so bright that it remains visible even as the darkness falls away: a promise, or testimony, that outlasts the dark and sees us into day.

O Oriens

O Morning Star,

splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness:

Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness

and the shadow of death.

Advent Twenty-Two

Key.

On one occasion, Jesus took his disciples to visit the mouth of a large cave which was considered by the Greeks to be one of the entrances to the underworld, the realm of the dead ruled over by the god Hades.

It is here that Jesus gives to Peter the (symbolic) keys to the ‘kingdom’ of heaven. These keys unlock/lock the door to the underworld, wresting control over Hades’ jealously-guarded ‘kingdom’. In other words, this event points to death being transformed into life (the possibility of return to the world from the underworld) and judgement being transformed into love (Jesus’ authority being expressed in setting captives free) and hell being transformed into heaven (the ‘kingdom’ of Hades being overthrown by the ‘kingdom’ of heaven, the souls of the dead set free and the furies bound).

Moreover, these keys, used on earth to unlock/lock the door of hell simultaneously unlock/lock the door of heaven. Heaven is now aligned to earth, or one with earth, with earth being the key (to play on words) location. And so this event also points to heaven being transformed into earth (earth becoming the dwelling place of God and his people).

O Clavis David

O Key of David and sceptre of the House of Israel;

you open and no one can shut;

you shut and no one can open:

Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house,

those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

Advent Twenty-One

Sign Post.

Sign-posts point us in the direction we need to go, towards our destination. But sometimes sign-posts get knocked off line, sending us off in the wrong direction.

Jesus’ birth stands as a sign-post; but the post has been knocked askew. Coming to it, we have seen a story of rejection. The stories we tell – and especially the stories we tell over and over – shape us. Coming to a sign-post pointing to rejection again and again, we are shaped to live in the expectation that you will reject Jesus, that I will reject Jesus. The sign-post still points to a destination in which death is not transformed into life, judgement is not transformed into love, hell is not transformed into heaven, and heaven is not transformed into earth.

Yet this is not how the sign-post was erected. Luke tells us a story of welcome and embrace, of God dwelling in the very heart of a family who opened their home, their lives, to him; an account in which all is well, which points to a day when All Shall Be Well. Coming to this sign-post again and again, we are shaped to receive death being transformed into life, judgement being transformed into love, hell being transformed into heaven, and heaven being transformed into earth.

We have read the story of Jesus’ birth as part of John 1:10, 11 – He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. – when we ought to read it as part of John 1:12-14 – But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God…And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

O Radix Jesse

O Root of Jesse, standing as a sign among the peoples;

before you kings will shut their mouths,

to you the nations will make their prayer:

Come and deliver us, and delay no longer.

Advent Twenty

Majesty.

The title ‘Adonai’ is an attribution of majesty, a recognition of the greatness and the dignity of God. The beauty of this Antiphon is seeing that majesty best-depicted in the fire of the burning bush, and in the giving of the Law.

Crucially, when God reveals himself to Moses, a highly-combustible desert shrub burns but is not consumed. That is to say, God’s vision – to enlist Moses in leading his people out from slavery – is impressed upon the created world without damaging it. This is in marked contrast to how those in positions of leadership have often gone about impressing their vision on others.

Likewise, the Law is given as gift. Essentially, the Ten Words (or, Commandments) state, ‘I have delivered you from slavery: do not sell yourselves back into slavery; nor treat yourselves as slaves; nor enslave others under you.’ This is a Constitution of the Free.

Yet that freedom has been too frightening a thing for us. We have chosen something safer than God’s majesty, and found ourselves enslaved by fear. Only perfect love – that burns without burning us – can set us free.

O Adonai

O Adonai, and leader of the House of Israel,

who appeared to Moses in the fire of the burning bush

and gave him the law on Sinai:

Come and redeem us with an outstretched arm.

Advent Nineteen

Wisdom.

It has been said that knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad.

If wisdom is understood at all, it is often understood as knowing what to do for the best in given circumstances, and in particular in complex circumstances (far more complex than making a fruit salad). But such omniscient wisdom is beyond the constraints and responsibility of being human, for all of us face circumstances where we simply cannot know what to do for the best.

This year, I find myself asking the question, How do I want to live my life, in the light of our inevitable day of dying? And as the day of our own death is hidden from us, I am helped, in both asking and answering the question, by the terrible privilege of observing others approach that day.

As I reflect on the lives of those whose life has left a lasting impression on me, I have concluded that wisdom is not so much concerned with particular words or actions as with a way of living, and that the way of wisdom is made manifest through a gentleness that is evident to all (Philippians 4:5).

O Sapientia

O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High

reaching from one end to the other mightily,

and sweetly ordering all things:

Come and teach us the way of prudence.

Advent Eighteen

Tomorrow sees the start of the Advent Antiphons, a series of centuries-old song-prayers - O Sapientia; O Adonai; O Radix Jesse; O Clavis David; O Oriens; O Rex Gentium; O Emmanuel – that explore different facets of Jesus’ identity, through which death is transformed into life, judgement into love, hell into heaven, and heaven into earth…

Advent Seventeen

Heaven and hell exist in the present tense – which is why I find it so strange to come across people who don’t believe in one or the other, or both.

Some days I live in heaven: where love is shared; where those on the margins are enfolded within community; where broken lives find healing and wholeness. But, at least for now, living in heaven continuously is not sustainable.

Some days I live in hell: existing in experienced separation from the source of love and life. But hell does not go on for ever (Jesus spent time in hell, somehow being good news and holding out hope; so at least we know God is at work even here).

I am not using ‘heaven’ and ‘hell’ as metaphors to describe something else, but in an absolutely literal – albeit not final – sense. We can all relate to this, for we have all participated in both. Some days, we live in both simultaneously.

Death, judgement, hell, and heaven – the so-called four last things – are traditional Advent themes. Which might sound quite bleak, until we understand each in the light of Jesus’ coming-again into the world, until we see each transformed through him.

Death. The full stop, at the end of every life; torn open, thrown into the air, become a semi-colon; the pause before our story carries on…

Judgement. Anyone who has ever feared accusation, but found themselves affirmed instead will have an insight into God’s judgement on humanity – the sheer release, relief, encouragement, gratitude…

Hell. We have all suffered loss, in all our relationships – not only bereavement, but misunderstandings, regrets. Here is the promise that everything that is redeemable will be redeemed, and everything that harms will be consumed forever…

Heaven. Fully-established. This world made new. Right relationship between every living thing…

Four last things, not because these four cannot be moved, but because with their transformation – death into life; judgement into love; hell into heaven; heaven into earth – the work begun in Christ is brought to its completion.

Advent Sixteen

Advent Fifteen

Advent Fourteen

Advent Thirteen

Advent Twelve

Four days a week, most weeks, for the past two years, it has been my custom to say Morning Prayer in Sunderland Minster’s Bede Chapel. In the darkest days of the year, the windows are black when I arrive. I must simply trust that there is something beautiful there, waiting to be revealed. As the light increases, some idea of structure begins to be made out. Then, the boldest, brightest colours are shown; not in their glory, but muted, ‘muddy’. As the light grows, more and more colour and fine detail become apparent. Many people assume that windows of coloured glass are made for radiance; but this window is designed to change with the light.

There are days when I shine for all to see – and hopefully for God’s glory. There are other days when it is a major victory to get out of bed in the morning, and I might achieve little else all day. Days when my boldest colours are muddy, when my intricate design is hidden in darkness. Days when I don’t have the energy running through me to offer the world what is on my heart.

But that doesn’t mean that the beauty isn’t there.

In the context of the tendency to compare ourselves – sometimes unfavourably, sometimes favourably – against others, Paul wrote:

‘…do not pronounce judgement before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart. Then each one will receive commendation from God.’ 1 Corinthians 4:5

Sometimes, I am hidden in darkness. Sometimes, I am not able to express the good, God-given purposes of my heart. When the Light comes, what is hidden is brought forth, disclosed to all. Then I will be commended, for what was there all along. And not only me, but also you.

If I truly believed this, what difference would it make to how I wait in darkness?

Advent Eleven

‘…my soul waits for the Lord…’ (Psalm 130:6a)

At this time of year more than any other, I find myself having to wait: waiting my turn, waiting in line, waiting to pay, waiting to be served, or seen.

However long I have to wait, something transformational takes place when my waiting is acknowledged. The words “Thank you for waiting” speak directly to my soul.

We are made up of heart – our will, the choices we make; and mind – our thoughts (which cannot be separated from our emotions) and emotions (which cannot be separated from our thoughts); and strength – our bodies, finite energy packs; all held together by our soul. Unless our soul is at peace, it cannot direct and gather heart and soul and strength. But when our soul waits, then we might notice and attend to the warning signs in our bodies, our mental health, our decision-making.

When I find myself having to wait in a queue to pay for an item of Christmas shopping, in an over-full retailer in an over-full shopping centre, my body starts to show signs of anxiety, my thoughts turn to agitation, my choices start to lack grace. Friendly conversation with others who are also waiting might stem the rising flood for a while, but will only hold for so long. But if, when I reach the counter and the till, I am thanked for having waited…it is not so much that my irritation is disarmed, but, rather, that my soul is blessed; and blessed, encouraged; and encouraged, empowered to bring heart and mind and strength into alignment, into harmony.

It is my soul that needs to wait, more than anything else. And stilled, attentive, watchful, sees the salvation of God break in.

If I truly believed this, what difference would it make to how I wait in line?

Advent Ten

The obvious thing to do when we aren’t making progress is to try harder. Or – if we are really smart – to try another approach for moving forward.

When the thing we are being invited to do is to stop.

To stand in attentive waiting.

Advent Nine

Once, I walked on water.

Stepping out onto a frozen lake, in Sweden, with an experienced local guide.

We stood in the middle of the lake, and I thought that, standing still, the ice might give way.

We keep moving because we fear that if we stand still, if we stop for just a moment, the ground will fall from under us.

Sometimes that is exactly what we need to happen.

Once, Jesus walked on water. And Peter doubted that it was truly Jesus, not a ghost. So Peter asked to walk out on the water to him, as proof; and Jesus consented. Peter walked on water. It was only when he stood still that he recognised Jesus, the salvation of God.

“You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

‘Little faith’ is not a criticism. In Jesus’ teaching, it is precisely the poor in spirit who experience the kingdom of heaven; the little flock who are comforted; the seed or the grain of yeast that transform. Those ‘of little faith’ are those on the inside of the secret – those who, of all people, are able to recognise Jesus. The doubt Jesus wondered at is Peter’s failure to recognise him while still (or, more to the point, not standing still) in the boat. Even so, these are words of comfort and encouragement, not rebuke.* And they spring from the place of stillness, of poised or attentive waiting.

In the boat, Peter was busy, rowing against the wind, fighting circumstances, trying to keep afloat. Jesus, initially making as if to walk past, stood still. Stood still, at the edge of Peter. Stood still, long enough to see Peter – beneath the veneer of competence and busyness – before Peter stood still long enough to see him. And far from drowning, their friendship took on new depths.

*Jesus certainly rebukes Peter on occasion. But this is not one of those times.

Advent Eight

Sieger Köder, Celebrate

But most of all I wait to be found and freed, held and carried into the circle of light I can see but cannot reach.

And in this, I do not believe that I am alone.

Advent Seven

Of course, waiting does not only take us to the outside edge of ourselves. It also brings us to the outer edge of others, holding us long enough to look again, to look beyond the surface – should we dare so to do. True waiting is not an introspective withdrawal from life; it is the means of a deeper discovery of this life we get to share.

Why does that person hold such very different views from me? (And why do I hold the views that I hold?)

Why are they unreliable? (And how can I bear my own capacity to let others down?)

Why are they so frustrating? (And why do I frustrate myself?)

Such questions cannot be answered well quickly, by second-guessing or labelling others (or myself). They cannot be answered by generalised status (or by social media status-updates); they cannot be answered by reading about the other. They can only be answered – never fully answered; always partially and provisionally answered, and yet meaningfully so – slowly and respectfully.

Advent Six

Waiting takes us to the edge of ourselves.

Not from the centre, outward, coming to our end, beyond which we are not; but travelling in the other direction, arriving at the border beyond which we are.

That is why a decision made in haste so very often turns out badly, in the long-term: because one does not adequately know who it is that is making the decision (me) and on what basis they (that is, I) do so.* But to have to wait, whether as a result of our own limitations or the limitations of someone else, opens up a space that wasn’t there before – a four-dimensional space (that is, composed of both physical space, and time) – in which we can be found, and known.

However, this only happens when we understand waiting not as the opposite of action, but as a key action for living well.

If I truly believed this, what difference would it make to how I live? Who would I seek out as a conversation partner, in order to get to know myself better, and in order to get to know someone else – not (in either case) as a problem to fix, but as a person to delight in?

*Of course, repeatedly making decisions in haste results in recurring bad outcomes; which in turn feed the pressure to make decisions in haste.