Advent 2022: the Daily Reflections
This is where I'll collate the daily reflections, in case you would like to scroll through the collection as it builds. (And if one of your daily e-mails gets blocked, you can come straight here to read it instead.)
20 // The Journey, with Kindsight
'Once again I’ll go over what God has done;
I’ll ponder all the things you’ve accomplished,
and give a long, loving look at your acts.' Psalm 77.12
* * *
Good morning!
So here we are, at the end of this Advent path for 2022. Thank you so much for your presence, in the YouTube sessions, on the RSVP page, and simply at the other end of these daily reflections.
As usual, I've spent some time re-tracing all the steps we've taken this Advent, and have selected a line or two from each reflection in turn, to create a final stand-alone meditation. It's felt so touching to revisit the places we've been together, and I hope you enjoy looking back, too, so you can carry forward what you need.
Please do take a breath, relax your body, smile, and let down your guard a little. And when you're ready, take each line slowly, prayerfully, as you go.
* * *
The Journey, with Kindsight: Advent 2022
We have come to deepen our contact with the spiritual realities on which our lives depend - to recover, if we can, our spiritual poise.
Kindsight is a wonderful thing. The vivacity of what was is married
to the vitality of what will be.
And I have everything to be thankful for, because of You. Thank You.
Imagine that God loves this day, and all it contains (including you), as much as the first day ever. And what if God loves not just the newness of sunrise, but the dimming of the day to twilight, too?
This day will, and must end. Yet as we face into the dark, the North Star offers the glimmer of a fixed point, when all else might be gone.
Our loving attention falls upon Jesus. 'Embracer of all, who stretched out your arms to join up the circle of life.' Arms that reached up from a manger.
“I give everyone and everything to you.”
Pause your digging deep to draw deep of God, instead.
God, make me more than perfect. I am beautiful and somehow delightful even as I am unfinished.
The secret of Advent, if we can turn aside for a moment, is to "Stand still.”
Try softer.
Step back gently from the crowd; glance the other way.
Rest in the Love that loves you and the other.
Be free to get on with the child-like simplicity of being God's, within the family of all things.
With 'both light and child, and mother'.
Let the visceral hope of what and who's to come lead you to the dance floor.
My Inner Light! Jesus.
There will be no words rich enough, poetic enough, sublime enough to describe most truly in our human tongue how Love itself translates.
And so, in this deepest dark before the Christmas dawn, we pause to wait reverently; to let our guard down just enough. He doesn't come to catch us out, he comes to catch us in. Good news, of great joy, to all. Oh night divine!
* * *
There's plenty of pain around at present, and if you're not facing challenges yourself, you'll know others who are. But once again, I've drawn great energy from the stories of hope and faith and honesty which have been shared. I hope you have, too.
We went to our friend's funeral yesterday, and it was a sad time, of course; but there was a most palpable sense of hope and joy in the air, as well. A sharing of faith in the One who stretched out his hands to join up the circle of life. Real life.
We believe the sun will rise, and the dawn will break. Hallelujah! But perhaps what I've glimpsed afresh is how God will somehow meet us richly in this darkness first - in so many ways, as we've shared this Advent.
As the Earth tilts back toward the light, we have recovered some poise, I'm sure - by standing on one leg, or remembering how to dance, or simply opening out our arms a little further in embrace. For God so loved the world at Christmas, that we may go in peace, now, to love and serve as well.
May it be so.
Go well!
Brian x
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Just One Thing
Have a listen to Lauren Daigle's 'Light of the World'. Let's imagine we're listening to it together, and give thanks for all we've experienced this Advent.
...
Remember you can savour all the RSVPs on the Advent RSVP page here. Thank you again! You can also read all of this year's Advent reflections here.
May it be so.
Go well!
Brian xxx
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19 // God's Beloved Thief
“Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” Matthew 24.37
* * *
Good morning!
Please take a breath, before you continue.
Relax your shoulders.
And try to let down your guard a little further.
* * *
Yesterday was the shortest day, and from within this moment of deepest darkness comes a final opportunity for us to reflect on the invitation of the night divine.
The first ‘coming’ of Jesus was under the cover of the dark, as we’ve said before. The second coming will be too, according to Jesus, who alludes to himself as a thief in the night. All of which gives us a clue to the nature of his coming now.
I admit, I’ve found the 'thief in the night' to be a disconcerting image, but the priest and author Barbara Brown-Taylor, who's so good on darkness, has a theory which helps me. What he’s after, she says, is you. But not, apparently, the daytime you - ‘the one most people see while you’re out doing whatever it is you do in the world, pulled together well enough that you pass for normal.’
That rings true enough; and if I were expecting him to arrive in a neatly booked daytime slot, I might well be tempted to shift him back a few times to fit in all the other stuff that crowds in so urgently. (When do people actually live their lives, Brown-Taylor asks, given all the other things they have to do?) So night-time it is, when we might be caught a little more unawares, in a good way.
And good is important to keep in mind. This is not a nasty trap set by a capricious God, is it? He doesn't come to catch us out; he comes to catch us in.
He may need to slip past the security system in order to make it into our hearts. But ‘if we could ever once handle our fear of his intrusion - if we could ever once let him in to do his work - then we might find him emptying his pockets instead of filling them, giving us so much more than the little piles we have spent our lives protecting.’
* * *
We’ve spent time this series practising poise and readiness; relaxing our posture in proximity to God, becoming gentler with ourselves, looking with kind-sight, trying softer. I’m sure it all points, in the end, to letting our guard down just enough.
Several of you (in the RSVPs) have mentioned Mary Oliver’s poem ‘Don’t Hesitate’ this year, and I think it resonates powerfully in this context.
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it.
... whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
The 'whatever it is' may well indeed be God’s beloved thief, catching you positively unawares; the first time he came, after all, meant 'good news of great joy to all', according to the angels, so why should this be different?
And so, in these moments of deepest dark before the Christmas dawn, we pause again to wait with poise - openly and watchfully with the shepherds; reverently with the magi; and with the courage, we pray, of those we know who've stepped before us into the night.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Fall on your knees, and hear the angel voices! Oh night divine!
Oh night, when Christ is born.
* * *
May you 'give in to it', today.
Go well!
Brian
Barbara Brown Taylor's thoughts are drawn from a delightful and inspiring collection of her sermons titled Home By Another Way (Cowley Publications, 1999).
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Just One Thing
Try to bring your night-time self to the day-time, today. Watch, in a relaxed way, even within the busyness, for the thrill of hope, for the ‘whatever it is’. If you can, break up any busyness with time to soften, to relax your guard, to welcome him. And use the night-fall to help you stay open and watchful, as you near the culmination of Advent.
...
It wouldn't be Advent without reference to O Holy Night, and you may like to listen to Mariah Carey's stirring version here.
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18 // The Gift of Words
'The Word became flesh and dwelled among us.' John 1
* * *
Good morning!
Words can be so wonderful, and I was intrigued to read, this week, of a campaign run by Oxford University Press called the ‘Gift of Words’, inviting people who speak more than one language to ‘gift’ a word from their first language to their second.
Most responded with words to enrich English, where there was no equivalent - and some evocative examples were offered up. Here are three:
Saudade is from Portugal, and carries the sense of a deep and nostalgic yearning for something lost. Lucy P wrote eloquently, in her RSVP yesterday, of ‘the painful longing for that which might have been’; and saudade evokes, for me, echoes of our exile from Eden. God has set eternity in the hearts of all people, as the Bible says.
Gezellig is a Dutch word for a shared sense of cosiness and togetherness; the joy of spending relaxed time together. Perhaps there is resonance with ‘perichoresis’, here - the love that flows assuredly within the Trinity.
Apapacho is my favourite. Translated from Nahuatl, an indigenous language of Mexico, it’s translated directly into Spanish as an 'affectionate pat or embrace' - but Mexicans in particular have a more poetic definition: 'to embrace or caress with the soul.' Wow! Yes please! It’s considered to be one of the most beautiful words that Nahuatl has ever gifted Spanish, evoking tenderness and compassion.
* * *
For me, each of these words helps describe a unique element of our yearning for what we might call a divine communion - the kind of connection that goes ultimately beyond words altogether, to something that has to be felt, embodied, brought to Life.
And that’s, surely, where ‘the Word made flesh’ gives ultimate expression to that which is otherwise inexpressible in any other form.
How would we describe this Word? He had nothing in his appearance that we should desire him; he doesn't rise through the ranks or seize power for himself; he was not a politician or agitator but a humble carpenter’s apprentice ...
Yet he gathers the essence of all those lovely words and more - hygge, meraki, bilita mpash* to name but a few! - and fulfils them, and transcends them.
* * *
I know church is very often far from perfect. But no doubt you can recall times when a shared experience of God, inside or out - in a chapel or on a beach, in the snug bar of your local pub on Christmas Eve or on a mountain top - felt like saudade, gezillig and apapacho pressed down, shaken together and running over.
At our ‘Hush’ evening on Monday, the sense of wonder, peace, connection and love that flickered between us in the half-light, like the candles we lit from each other, felt like one expression of the ineffable Presence that deems to grace us. There are myriad more, in God's mercy.
* * *
And to think, we’re invited not just to receive the ‘gift’ of this Word at Christmas, but to express something of the inexpressible ourselves; because Jesus came to dwell not just among us, but within us, now, too.
There will be no words rich enough, poetic enough, sublime enough to describe most truly in our human tongue how Love itself translates. In the end, just as in the very beginning, the Word speaks, most simply, for itself. Come, Lord, and touch our soul.
* * *
May you find the Word(s), today.
Go well!
Brian
* Meraki (Greek) is to act with love or soul, or to put something of yourself into your work; Bilita Mpash (Bantu) is the lingering bliss left by a beautiful dream after you've woken up.
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Just One Thing
Here's a lovely Advent song by Gungor called 'Oh Light', which we shared at Hush on Monday. Why not spend a few moments savouring it, and sensing the ineffable Presence of the Word within you and around you. 'Love is always born within; Love is facing us again.'
...
Today's the winter solstice here in the northern hemisphere. If you can, step out around 4pm to watch the sun setting (or at least the light fading, if it's cloudy!). Face into the darkness, and simply be present to it, within it, with God. Notice what you notice. If you can't get out, turn the lights off, and watch the darkness fall.
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17 // My Inner Light
'I am the light of the world.' John 8.12
* * *
Good morning!
It won't be the same this Christmas Day, come 3pm. The passing of the Queen seemed to hit the nation's heart collectively this year, and as we approach that poignant moment on Sunday, I thought I'd share three things I appreciate in particular as I reflect on her life, and death, and example.
The first is that she helped connect us (especially recently at a time of so much national division). Even though we didn't know her, we all had her in common, for most, if not all of our lives. One of the most moving public moments of leadership during the pandemic, I thought, came when she gave a special broadcast in April 2020, and finished with this:
“We should take comfort that while we may have more still to endure, better days will return. We will be with our friends again; we will be with our families again; we will meet again.” It still brings a lump to my throat.
* * *
Second, the Paddington bear vignette at her Diamond Jubilee this year caught so many of us unawares. A number of elements interwove - the goodness Paddington embodies; the Queen’s political subtext of wishing kindness for refugees; the fact that she was also willing not to take herself too seriously.
Frank Boyce, who created the short film, talked after her death about the way she threw herself in, and quoted a line from Yeats: “Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing!”. He said that this was how she wanted to bow out, with verve, and a twinkle in her eye - knowing and showing, that for her, as someone of faith, there is even better yet to come. I cherish the example of anyone who can step assuredly into the night, when ‘the day thou gavest, Lord' is drawing to an end.
* * *
And third, the most vivid thread she wove between us was surely her Christmas speech each year, a staple after lunch. And which - when looking back - contained a golden seam of faith and faithfulness.
Re-reading some of her speeches which were gathered by Mark Greene of LICC so helpfully after the event, the simplicity yet profundity of these words of hers in 2002 spoke to me in particular:
'I know just how much I rely on my faith to guide me through the good times and the bad,' she said. 'Each day is a new beginning. I know that the only way to live my life is -
to try to do what is right;
to take the long view;
to give of my best in all that the day brings;
and to put my trust in God.’
That's such a clear distillation, isn't it? (I've long admired her as a writer for her economy of words and her ability to make each count.) I wonder what we might say, if asked about 'The only way to live my life' ..?
* * *
I'm sometimes reminded of the Queen these days when I look up to the pole star, which I try to do at night as spiritual practice to remind me of what matters most. As her own ‘day’ was ending, and the trappings of state were set to fade from view, one bright pulse continued to shine through her life.
In fact, it seemed clearer and brighter as the night began to enfold her. It was Jesus, king of this queen's heart. The One to whom she bowed the knee, and who she described, so simply, just after 3pm one Christmas Day in 2020, as 'My inner light'.
Shine on.
* * *
May you follow where it leads, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
If you were to finish this sentence, what would you write? ‘The only way to live mylife is …’ Just write a few bullet points, and see what emerges. Try to distill your thoughts into something you can remember, and be guided by.
...
You can watch the Paddington Bear short film here.
Mark Greene has written some helpful and poignant reflections on the Queen's life of faith and service, and you can find out more about them here.
It was reported this week that the King requested a poem of Malcolm Guite's be read at the Royal Carol Service this year. It's called 'Refugee', it's hard hitting and is worth a look on Malcolm's website here.
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16 // Dancing with Unlikely Joy
'You turned my mourning into dancing;
you … clothed me with joy.' Psalm 30.11-12
* * *
Good morning!
I love this week - the anticipation, the closing in on something truly special! I’m told I used to shake with excitement as a little boy at Christmas; but still today I feel it in my body, that certain whatever-it-is - the visceral tremor perhaps best described in the old carol as 'a thrill of hope', even if the maturing mind grows more world weary.
And I cherish that thrill, which is not about nostalgia, but a felt hope - as witnessed by God’s Spirit in us, I believe - of a transformed future, which starts to shift our present, too.
I'm not sure anything captures it quite like the image of God turning our mourning into dancing, either - which I love to think of as a future redemptive hope for allCreation; but it means right now, for instance, that close friends of mine who are grieving this Advent seem also, in God's grace, to be able to sway with a gentle, joyful, hope-filled rhythm, which is moving those of us who love them, too.
* * *
I don’t know if you watched the Strictly Come Dancing final on Saturday, but there was one (winning) dance that especially seemed to capture that sense of hope which lights the present with unlikely joy.
It wasn't the usual samba or foxtrot but 'Afrobeats' which filled the dancefloor. The (incredibly humble and likeable) wildlife expert Hamza Yassin and his partner Jowita Przystał danced to a song called ‘Jerusalema’, which I’d not heard previously but which was captivating. The original song is sung by a South African, Nomcebo Zikode, in a local language, yet something in the untranslated words coursed through the dancers’ bodies on Saturday and brought a tear to my eye. As one of the judges said, it was like “when the clouds part and the sun comes out.”
I looked further into it, and the song had gone viral during Covid - as you’ll know if you’re from South Africa! - and people around the world began posting videos of themselves dancing to it - police, nurses, nuns … It’s all very moving to behold, and makes more spiritual sense when you find that the first line - Jerusalema Ikhaya Lami - is from an old gospel hymn ‘Jerusalem is my home’. It turns out it’s an infectious song of lament for God to lead us to the heavenly city: “Jerusalem is my home/ Guide me/ Take me with You/ Do not leave me here.”’
* * *
Though I didn’t know the words, I could sense something was drawing me in; something inexpressible, expressed.
It’s not your traditional Christmas or Advent carol, I admit; but sometimes it takes a different kind of music to give us fresh perspective; to let the visceral hope of what's to come (and who's to come) take our testing present moment by the hand and lead it to the dance floor, even if we may have thought we’d sit this one out, thank you.
And how moving to think our own humblest dancing, whatever it looks like if we dare, may part the clouds for someone else, this final Advent week, and let the sun shine through.
* * *
May you dance with unlikely joy.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Have a listen to the original version of Jerusalema here.
And then, you can watch Hamza and Jowita's gorgeous Afrobeat dance here.
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15 // The Hush of a Manger
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.' John 1.1-5
Good morning!
David Scott, the English Anglican priest, poet, playwright and spiritual writer, died just a few weeks ago.
He was considered by those in the know to be a national treasure, a poet-priest in the tradition of George Herbert or RS Thomas.
For several years, David was rector of St Swithun-upon-Kingsgate, here in Winchester. It's a tiny, wonderfully atmospheric chapel, a simple upper room which has been a church for nearly 800 years. You may have visited with me on an Autumn walk!
In David's poem below, he wishes the apostle John would come and read the final lesson of the carol service himself. John wrote the passage, after all: 'In the beginning was the Word ...'.
You might like to imagine John reading his lesson in that little chapel where David served (see my picture above!). I love to pop in on a quiet day, just to soak in the stillness of the space, the Presence.
The poem is reprinted with kind permission from his publishers, Bloodaxe, and with the blessing of his wife Miggy.
* * *
Nine Lessons and Carols: A Theological View
Every Christmas I wish St John would come
and read the final Lesson for himself.
Then I could listen for his run of syllables:
his subtle language, the changes solved.
I’d hear his tone of voice; watch his eyes,
Anything that could expose reality
And help the statutory feasting time
of Christmas, unfold more naturally.
I might, seeing him there, understand this word,
who is The Word. How it might mean something
that cuts as deep as any sword; yet
Is the source of life, life’s truth, its meaning.
And would John be surprised
By the words St Matthew wrote and sat beside
John’s greek: words we know quite well
like stable, baby, straw, and star,
none of which St John had wish to spell.
So we are left to wonder in the annual rush,
Whether one can be resolved into the other,
All swaddled somehow into the hush of a manger
with both light and child, and mother.
* * *
May you be left to wonder, today.
Go well!
Brian
The poem is taken from David Scott's Beyond the Drift: New & Selected Poems(Bloodaxe Books, 2015).
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Just One Thing
Read the Bible verse through again, from the top of the page (John 1). Imagine John reading it. Rest in the mystery of 'light and child, and mother'.
Later, you might like to take the poem itself to read in your own 'still place', to absorb a little more.
...
And if you have a bit of extra time for the weekend ...
I'll be opening the final RSVP window on Monday, so why not try to reflect, this weekend, on your own journey so far, and how you might respond creatively to one thing in particular you've connected with this week.
If you haven't kept your e-mails safe, I've been compiling them all on this Advent 22 web page here - so they're all in one place for you to look back on in reflection.
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You might like to revisit the compass point prayer. I've been doing it every day and really finding hidden depths. Just scroll down to number 5 on the webpage above, and look for 'The Still Point in the Turning World'.
...
And if you'd like something to listen to, try this - 'How Could Anyone?' - by the Alaskan singer-songwriter and activist Libby Roderick. It's a simple, repetitive song which resonates with some themes we've reflected on this week.
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14 // The Boy, the Sheep, the Ox & the Donkey
‘Praise the Lord, you wild animals and all cattle ...’ Psalm 148
* * *
Good morning!
There’s a heavenly ‘otherness’, a mystery, about animals, isn’t there?
I remember a friend telling me how, having reached the end of his tether, he’d gone for a walk ‘with despair at my side’. He’d trudged several miles before he saw a field of horses, and as he stood still, an elderly horse came and stood with him. He said it was ‘like being visited by an angel’.
Perhaps there’s a creature whose presence you’re especially grateful for.
* * *
The artist Charlie Mackesy drew inspiration for his book The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse from an old horse he knew in his childhood: “I used to go and chat to him after school and he was very, very calm. He was the wisest creature that I knew, including humans,” he said in an interview.
He’s now turned his book into an animated film which premiers on TV on Christmas Eve. It’s set to become a classic, given the public’s adoration for his four creaturely characters, which seem to represent (and honour) parts of us all: the wondering child, the greedy mole, the wounded and withdrawn fox, the kind, soulful horse.
One of my favourite pages in the book is when the boy and the horse have this short exchange:
‘So you know all about me?’ asked the boy.
‘Yes,’ said the horse.
‘And you still love me?’
‘We love you all the more.’
* * *
The story we tell of Jesus’ birth is also happily graced with animals, of course - at least in our imagination. And given he was laid in a manger, why wouldn’t there be a donkey or an ox or a sheep, standing by? Or all three - praising God with the gift of their silent, creaturely presence. Beholding the boy, as the boy beheld them.
For me, their closeness to God in the stable speaks of their closeness to God in every moment - which is why, I'm sure, we feel drawn to animals, captivated. They're not self-conscious like we are - we, who can spend our lives chasing after self-worth everywhere but here - so they're free to get on with the child-like simplicity of being God's, within the family of all things.
* * *
For us to be part of that family, it helps to become child-like too, according to Jesus (and Charlie!). Perhaps, then, we could invite the child in us, this Advent - the one Charlie draws so beautifully back into life - to step through the stable door to join the boy, the sheep, the ox and the donkey in their silent adoration of each other.
We might wonder, too, while we're this close, at the nature of our Creator's love: the kind which knows all about us, and - yes! - then loves us all the more.
* * *
May you draw closer, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Take a few moments to listen to Morten Lauridsen's sublime anthem, O Magnum Mysterium (this from King's College Cambridge) - which imagines the creatures beholding Jesus. And let the child within you step through the stable door and bask in the shared presence of the moment.
The latin words translate as: ‘O great mystery and wonderful sacrament, that beasts should see the new-born Lord lying in a manger. O blessed virgin, whose body was worthy to bear the Lord Jesus Christ. Alleluia.’
...
You can watch the short official trailer for Charlie's film here.
And if you weren't aware, Charlie's a Christian whose various paintings of the Prodigal Daughter and Prodigal Son are much loved by many, and speak so elqouently of the God who runs to meet their child, even when we are far off.
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13 // Rest in the Love
'Love is patient, love is kind ... It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.' 1 Corinthians 13.4-8
* * *
Good morning!
Just occasionally, you feel glad to have looked on social media. Yesterday, I saw a brief clip of the actor Sir Ian McKellen, in conversation for a podcast, and he really made me think. He spoke with a kindly smile, and began to well up, especially as he came to say the phrase, “I’m home” …
“If you ever arrive in Manchester,” he said, “and you come down the steps at Piccadilly station … and if you’re lucky enough to be able to afford a taxi, you get in the back of one, and the taxi driver says, ‘Where are you going to, Love?’
“And I feel I’m home,” he said, “where grown men call strangers ‘Love.’” I think if we all did that, it would be a far better place, wouldn’t it?’ he reflected.
‘“Love” covers everything, really. Just call everyone ‘Love’.”
* * *
Well, as a buttoned up southerner, I’m not quite ready to call the postman "Love" yet.
But I can at least think it, and mean it. And so if it’s you I happen to be greeting today, I promise to see you as Love, and to greet you in my heart with Love, and to do my very best to help you feel you're somehow home -
wherever you've come from, wherever you're going, whatever you call yourself, whatever you've been called, however much you think you're worth, or not, whatever your circumstances, whatever you believe, or don't.
* * *
We are able to love, of course, 'because God first loved us' (1 John 4.19). And it follows that we need God's love to help us to celebrate, not just tolerate, all our otherness and difference. I've been helped by what Richard Rohr says in this regard (his words conclude a meditation on love I've linked to below).
He says: 'Rest in the Love that loves both you and the other, and loves to transform all into its loving image.'
* * *
I like to think that Mary might have greeted Jesus, at his birth, in that kind, warm Manchester way. “Hello, Love. Welcome to the world!” And to picture Jesus gazing back, resting in the Love that loves them both, and feeling like he's home.
* * *
May you rest in the Love, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
I really appreciated this short meditation on love, provided by Richard Rohr and the Center for Contemplation and Action. It helps you to focus first on someone or something that sparks love and joy in you, but then to lovingly contemplate someone or something you’re struggling to love, right now. With Christmas coming, and all the poignancy of the season, and the pressure of gatherings, it may just help you to prepare yourself to meet the moment, and others, with love.
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12 // Night Walking
'Yours is the day, Lord. Yours also the night.' Psalm 74.16
* * *
Good morning!
‘Creation is the primary and most perfect revelation of the Divine.’ That’s what Thomas Aquinas said, talking about the natural world - and how divine it is to be schooled in God through the very air we breathe, the water we drink, the light of each new day …
One part of the whole we might overlook, however, is the darkness. It’s fair enough: we sleep through it, or flood it with artificial light, or avoid being out there for safety’s sake. But if God is indeed revealed in Creation, perhaps the dark isn’t there just for us to get through, en route to the brighter day.
* * *
I’ve been reading John Lewis-Stempel’s evocative nature book Nightwalking. ‘To walk the British countryside at night,’ he says, ‘is to enter a dark, adventurous continent from which one returns with an explorer’s tales of wonders.’
And they’re wonderful tales, too - of moonbows and boxing hares and the sheer, cosmic glories of the Milky Way.
It seems such a rich part of the whole, then, wherever we are in the world; and such a rich part of God's revelation, still to explore!
* * *
I know the Bible makes it clear, over and over, that ‘God is light’ - and that’s the direction in which most of us, quite understandably, like to face. In Advent, we anticipate the coming of the Light of the World, for good reason.
But sometimes it pays to step back gently from the crowd, and to glance the other way; to look, with an explorer’s curious instinct, for what else might be there.
After all, God shows up to Abraham at night, and to Jacob so transformationally - 'this is holy ground', Jacob realises. God speaks to Joseph in dreams. The Exodus unfolds at night; manna falls from heaven after dark. God meets Moses under the cover of a thick dark cloud. It seems God often works the night shift, away from the glare of quick and easy answers, convenient schedules, comfortable solutions.
The God of the night is a mystery, it seems; but a mystery to be encountered.
* * *
I haven’t been out for a proper 'night walk' yet, though my appetite is whetted and I will ask a friend to join me, for safety in numbers. To walk slowly, reverently; to use my non-visual senses and my gut instinct, instead of all the usual outward props of daytime; to step humbly into a completely ‘other’ world, of which we humans become very much the humble guest.
The guest, not just of all the creatures and contours of the night, but of the God who set them there, and surely loves to dwell among them.
The shepherds in the fields were rare nocturnal souls, of course, whom the angels chose with joy to herald. The magi, too, knew the starry skies and would trace their pilgrim path by night to Jesus. He, their final destination, was growing within the sheltering dark of Mary’s womb, and ready to arrive with stealth, out of sight, away from the glare. To step humbly himself into this completely other world, as guest, and let his eyes, and heart, become accustomed.
* * *
May you have the courage of an explorer, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
You are the deepening mystery
When life is full of simplicity ...
I read a poem called 'Dark' for Friday's YouTube session. It's by Martin Wroe, and his words were adapted and set to music by Luke Sital-Singh. Have a listen to 'Dark' here. It's the poetic equivalent of the glance the other way, the looking into the shadows, as an explorer, for more of the unknowable, unfathomable whole of who God is, as revealed within the dark.
...
Prayerfully reflect on what you have learned about God through your time in nature, this year. And if it's safe to do so, and if you have some company, why not try a night walk. If not, spend time tonight befriending the darkness in your garden or even your room with the lights off, letting your eyes and heart adjust, and seeking God within it.
-----------------------
11 // Try Softer
'The Lord is gracious and compassionate,
slow to anger and rich in love.' Psalm 145.8-9
* * *
Good morning!
“Must try harder!” It’s one of those phrases that seems to get passed on from one person’s inner critic to another. And on, and on. But it feels like I’ve tried trying hard for too long now - how about you? - and it wears me out. My body tenses up, I feel pressured, and I start acting as if I’m not even myself.
That’s not to say we shouldn't try - it's just there might be other ways to do so. And here's one, via the title of a helpful book by the psychologist Aundi Kolber: Try Softer!
‘I believe God’s heart for us is outrageously gentle,’ she writes, ‘and yet I believe He is calling us to more.’ In other words, softness is not some easy option for those of us who just can’t take the pace; it’s a way towards a different quality of life and work.
For Kober, it starts with bringing tenderness to who we are: ‘not just tolerating or enduring your life, your family, your relationships, your body, and your career, but truly finding ways to love and honour them.’
I can see, personally, how when I bring love to my work, I stop trying so hard to impress and start tending to who I’m serving, instead. It’s liberating. You might like to pause, to imagine what it looks like to bring tenderness, love and honour to your own work, or your body, or your relationships, or your self, today.
* * *
Trying softer has practical applications, as well as soulful implications.
Think about catching a ball. Try too hard and your hands tense up, you grasp, and the ball just bounces out. Use ‘soft hands’, however - relaxed, supple - and you’ll receive the ball as if it's part of you.
It’s surely like love. You must have tried hugging someone who’s braced and tense as a board. You know it’s likely to bounce right off them, unless they can soften just enough to let the love in.
In the phrase ‘Be still and know that I am God’ (Psalm 46.10), the Hebrew word for ‘still’ is raphah, which can mean ‘to slacken’, ‘to sink’ or ‘to relax’. As Aundi Kolber says, ‘Raphah helps to soften your posture in proximity to God. It is our invitation to the One who calls us Beloved …’
Why not open your hands, then.
Soften your posture.
And relax, ready to receive.
* * *
Trying softer is a creative, embodied process, I’m sure. We find out how it works when we try it - as we seek to see others, and our self, in the softer, Advent glow of candle light, perhaps. As we let ourselves ripen, with the softness of fruit. Even as we land softly in the hands of the Creator, who’s ready to catch us, and longs to extend that outrageously gentle embrace to us all.
* * *
May you try softer, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Aundi Kolber suggests using the Serenity Prayer (by Reinhold Niebuhr) as 'a guidepost in those areas of your life where you may be tempted to white-knuckle it or to take responsibilty for things outside your control'. You might like to pray it now:
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen."
...
If you have a little extra time, why not read John O'Donohue's blessing 'For One Who is Exhausted', which will remind you to be 'excessively gentle with yourself'.
------------------------------
10 // Coming to a Stand Still
'I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.' Psalm 27.13-14
* * *
Good morning!
I was standing in a short queue at the supermarket checkout yesterday. It was the so-called faster aisle for baskets only, and I was in a rush. But the chap serving us wasn’t. In fact, he was having a friendly chat with the person in front of me, and it went on for a while, and a while longer, as he then tried to go the extra mile to help him with something else, and I felt a surge of something quite unholy rise within me.
Mercifully, the soul can sometimes override, to speak a word in season. And I recalled the assurance of my friend Andrew Rumsey, the Bishop of Ramsbury. In a recent video post, he spoke of how we’re all chasing our tails during Advent, rushing reactively to hit our Christmas Day deadline - when in fact, it’s not our deadline to hit.
(And breathe.)
The secret of Advent, if we can turn aside for a moment, is to "Stand still."
Of course, we have many logistical tasks to complete before Christmas. But in terms of 'Advent' itself, spiritually it’s a different matter. It’s like waiting on a platform for someone to arrive; it's they who are coming to us, he suggests.
In nature we see it or feel it often: if you spot a wild animal, a hare or a deer, you immediately stop, to allow them space to draw near, if they will. ‘The key to a holy Advent,’ he concludes, ‘is to stop and wait for Christ to come to you.’
* * *
It reminds me of the poem ‘Lost’ by David Wagoner, which says:
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost …
… Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
* * *
It’s easy enough to lose it at this time of year. But as I was brought to a halt at the checkout, the words “Stand still” quietened the vexed person inside me, and I breathed, and smiled, and stood most truly still.
And what a holy space opened in those few moments. I was present, unhurried, and glad - even keen - to wait longer if I needed to. In the meantime, the humanity of that shop assistant shimmered through.
As I finally stepped forward, he spotted the woolly football hat I was wearing. I support the highly unfashionable Gilllingham FC, and no one knows about us around here; we're bottom of the entire football league, after all.
“Hi there,” he said, smiling. “You boys had a great win this week in the cup, didn't you?” (We had!) I returned his smile, which became a laugh, grateful as I was for this simple, unspectacular blessing of human contact, which stayed with me for the rest of the day. And silently, I thanked the Christ within this lovely man for finding me.
* * *
May you come to a stand-still, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Today, try to stand still within a context in which you'd usually feel rushed or even stressed. Take a few moments to 'wait for Christ to come to you'. Watch for him.
If you want to take a little more time, pause somewhere to read the nativity account in the Gospel of Luke (2.1-20). Allow it to open up a space within the space you're in.
...
Andrew's video series 'Going to Ground' runs seasonally on his YouTube channel, and is always worth a look. This is the one that gently spoke to me last week.
You can read the whole of the poem ‘Lost’ (and some extra thoughts on it) at the brilliant On Being website.
-------------------------
9 // An Unfinishable Day
'You are altogether beautiful, my love.' Song of Solomon 4.7
* * *
Good morning!
A poem / blessing for a Saturday, which is sometimes our custom!
I mentioned yesterday how inspired and grateful I am for those who navigate adversity in such a way that they see, or express, or generate a beauty within it, even though it's probably the last path they'd ever choose to walk.
Kate Bowler is an American author, podcast host and professor at a divinity school. At the age of 35, she was unexpectedly diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, and has ended up writing the New York Times best-seller Everything Happens For a Reason (And Other Lies I’ve Loved) to explore how her beliefs shifted within it all.
The wonderful blessing below comes from her forthcoming book The Lives We Actually Have, and it's shared with her permission. I shall leave her words to speak for themselves, today, if I may.
A Blessing for an Unfinishable Day
God, it seems that stopping is impossible.
Dishes need to be washed.
Kids need to be fed.
Ageing parents need to be cared for.
Deadlines need to be met.
Medicines need to be administered.
Diapers always need to be changed.
(They multiply if I sleep, after all.)
Can you ease the burden of perfection?
Free me from this fantasy
of the better me - my
new exercise regime,
my sumptuous (healthy!) new recipes,
the way the perfect placement
of my living room furniture
would flatter the afternoon light
on my social media feed.
God, make me more than perfect.
Make me more than a job or role,
or what I had planned for my golden years.
Make me something less predictable
than my to-do lists
and daily calendar.
In this culture of more, more, more,
make me less.
Less tidy and afraid,
less polished and buttoned up,
less prideful and judgmental.
Turn down the volume of my expectations,
and let me hear the birds sing
another lovely truth:
I am deeply and wholly loved.
I am beautiful and somehow delightful
even as I am unfinished.
* * *
May you stay unfinished, and loved, today.
Go well!
Brian
You can find out more about Kate, her work and her life at https://katebowler.com.
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Just One Thing
Do read Kate's blessing back through again, slowly.
I'll be opening the next RSVP window on Monday, so why not try to reflect, this weekend, on your own journey so far - and do something creative in response. You might craft a haiku - a short poem of observation, comprising three lines, and using 5 syllables for the first line, then 7 syllables, then 5 syllables.
...
To put you in the Advent mood, you might also enjoy watching this short children's nativity video which went viral a few years back, called 'The Christmas Story'. It was recorded by St Paul's Church, Auckland, and it's lovely!
------------------
8 // Dig Deep, Draw Deeper
'Cease striving, and know that I am God' (Psalm 46.10, NASB).
* * *
Good morning!
When we had Long Covid, Katharine and I often talked of “digging deep”. Of course, we've all been digging deep in our different ways in these recent, challenging years, and so I was struck by the resonance with yesterday's thoughts on going deeper.
For me, while it was often excruciating to be dogged with fatigue, I was mindful there had to be treasure to be found in our experience, since I've seen how other people's journeys 'down' can yield a previously undiscovered beauty of their own.
And what I think I found first was the treasure of the human spirit: how people are incredibly kind and caring; how you can cope with more than you realise; how we're all so adaptive; how patience takes practice; how suffering develops empathy.
I wonder what you've found, in your own travails.
* * *
I also learned that digging can be tiring, and can take you only so far in the end. In fact, here's what I am coming to see, so slowly: that the greatest treasure of the human spirit is its capacity to yield to the Holy Spirit. And that's when we can pause digging deep to draw deep instead, from God. Like drawing breath when we're exhausted, or water when we're parched.
Perhaps there is a way that helps you to draw deep from God, to restore your soul. Why not pause to go to the 'inmost place', before you continue. Let striving cease.
* * *
It's not easy to quantify the kind of spiritual growth that arrives through adversity, but I glimpsed one or two things. You don’t have to know how it will all turn out; when you can't make future plans, you can be open to the now. I also think it's possible to learn to love the unloved days; that is, to bring love to them, in God's grace.
But it all comes down to this: I cannot make it on my own. There is a higher power - a deeper power! - and I need their help. I caught a moving documentary about the 12-step programme of Alcoholics Anonymous this week, and several participants spoke of the sheer power of bringing their powerlessness to God. Shift happens.
Jesus came to us powerless as a newborn, of course. And while doubtless he had to dig so deep as he grew and worked, his greatest gift, surely, was to show us how to draw on the loving strength of God. It may only be baby steps for us, compared with him, but then again - this Advent, it is a baby we are getting set to follow.
* * *
May you draw deep, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Take a few deep breaths through your nose, and be conscious of using your diaphragm to draw that breath. Imagine you are breathing 'up' (instead of 'in'), from the deepest place where God resides in you.
Pause for breath, even just for five seconds, today, when you find you're digging deep, and invite God's loving strength to flow in you, and through you.
---------------------------
7 // The Inmost Place
‘For you created my inmost being ...’ Psalm 139.13
* * *
Good morning!
Although we often pray to God ‘up there’ in heaven, or perhaps walking here beside us, we can forget we have an 'inmost being', where, once invited, God loves to dwell within.
There are clues, aplenty: Paul tells the Ephesians (3.16): ‘I pray that out of his glorious riches, he may strengthen you with power through his Holy Spirit in your inner being.’ Jesus himself said: 'From [your] innermost being will flow rivers of living water' (John 7.38), which makes it sound a delightful place to be, too. Think of your favourite watery place, and picture it within you, and God saying, "Meet me there!"
* * *
The trick, it seems, is knowing where to find the inmost place ... and one metaphor I’ve found helpful in this respect is from the Christian teacher John Eldredge. The path to take is one of descent, he says, via three levels - from what he calls the ‘Shallows’ and the ‘Mid-lands’ to the ‘Depths’.
It’s picture language, as I tell my kids, but I like it.
We know the Shallows well: we spend much of our day there, on phones and screens, distracted and interrupted.
The Mid-lands is a place of our longings, hopes, fears, dreams - the stuff that keeps us up at night, at times. It’s where we tend to shed our tears, too, he says. And at this time of year, it can fill up fast with added freight.
Meantime, the Depths is a less entangled place, containing the kind of treasure which remains when all the rest is stripped away - faith, hope and love, let’s say, and the presence of the One who made the oceans and mountains and stars ...
* * *
The good news is, descent involves letting go, unburdening. You don’t have to prove your worth or jump through hoops. Instead, the words of Peter are like a gateway in: ‘Cast all your cares upon Him, for he cares for you.’ Let them go.
Of course, it takes an act of will to turn off our phone, say, and close the door behind the Shallows for a time. And it may feel hard to pray without trawling through our long list of cares (which is, after all, a good and valid thing to do) in the Mid-lands.
But sometimes we need a break from carrying the weight of the world.
And here’s where the burden lifts again, for me: for we don’t have to let go forever, if it feels too big an ask. Just practice, to start with, leaving your cares at the door for the time you’ve set aside to seek God in the Depths. It's manageable. Eldredge calls this ‘benevolent detachment’, and you can try it by repeating a simple phrase:
“I give everyone and everything to you, O God.”
And, enter in. (I wonder what it's like in your inmost being?)
* * *
Getting there will not just give you a mental break, but the space to bring your attention fully to God. To sit and ‘wait for the Lord’, as the psalmist says, without pressure to wrest anything from the moment, or from God. It’s a good place to be.
And it overflows: for it’s hard enough to give anything or anyone that kind of focus, today. Practice with God, and you may find you’re giving the person you’re meeting later your truer focus, too - acting, thinking, speaking, listening not from the place of the Shallows, but from your inmost being - which is a rare gift indeed.
It’s the place God formed in you especially, as Psalm 139 tells us. This Advent, let's believe it: it may be as humble as a stable, but it's fit for a king.
* * *
May you meet God there, today.
Go well!
Brian
John Eldredge's Resilient: Restoring Your Weary Soul in These Troubled Times is published by Nelson Books, 2022.
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Just One Thing
Speak the words, “I give everyone and everything to you, O God.” And enter in, for a short time. Be open and attentive. If you become distracted, repeat the words, and bring your attention back to God within the moment.
...
To get you in the Advent mood, have a listen to this evocative rendition of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel by Kelly Clarkson. It's only short, but I love it. Turn it up loud!
...
If you have time later, ask yourself this: If my 'inmost being' were a physical place, like a gorgeous little chapel, or an inspiring cafe, or an outdoor space, what would it look like, or contain? Try to imagine it as the soulful space you love, most, to visit. What characterises it? What can help you return there? Write a paragraph describing it, or sketch something, or create a 'mood board' with photographs!
-----------------------
6 // Full Moon Rising
'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' John 1.1
‘For by him all things were created ... and in him all things hold together.' Colossians 1.16-18
* * *
Good morning!
It’s a full moon tonight, and one of my favourite evenings of the Advent calendar! I’m reminded of the old lullaby by Meredith Wilson:
I see the moon; the moon sees me
Down through the leaves of the old oak tree.
Please let the light that shines on me
Shine on the one I love.
You might like to think of someone you love, now, who is far off - and then later.
I’ll be thinking of so many of us in the Advent community, tonight, in countries and continents across the world. It's such an evocative thing, to imagine the moon shining on each other. And all over, besides: it'll be softly lighting Kyiv and Moscow, indiscriminately. The World Cup in Qatar. Yemen, and Haiti. Bethlehem.
You might imagine, prayerfully, seeing Earth from the moon, a God's-eye view which the astronauts enjoyed! Remember 'Earthrise', the photo taken on Christmas Eve 1968? The National Geographic called it 'the most important photograph ever made', observing that humanity had seen itself in a mirror for the first time.
* * *
Don’t we feel a pull from the moon, however gently, in our spirit, and maybe even in our body, at times like this?
The oceans ebb and flow, as the moon waxes and wanes and exerts its gentle tidal tug; and we only have to stand on a beach and listen to the rise and fall, rise and fall of the waves, to feel our soul stir, and to sense how fluidly we're part of God’s whole.
We’re mostly made of water, come to think of it - as well as the 'living waters' which rise, as Jesus said, in our inmost being, when we’re in communion with the Creator; when we feel the gravity-pull of God's love.
* * *
To watch moonlight fall on the sea, or on a field, or a face we love - to bathe in the softness of it all! - is also to remember how exquisitely we are held in place.
If the moon were further off, there’d be no tides, and the seas would be lifeless. If it were closer, there’d be stormy chaos. The moon keeps the earth steady on its 23.4-degree axis, too, meaning we have the four seasons and the rhythms of life that come with them. Such is the nature of poise!
* * *
And quite naturally in the moon's soft Advent glow, our loving attention falls, too, upon Jesus.
It’s strange to think we know more, today, than Jesus would have known scientifically when he walked the earth and watched the full moon rise (imagine it reflecting in his own wondering eyes, for a few moments). Yet he’d have known, better than all, that all Creation holds together in God's love.
How soon did he sense, I wonder, as a boy growing up, that it was he who'd come to hold it all for us - to stretch out his arms to join the circle up again?
And how did it feel for Mary, deep in her inmost being, with less than a month to go - as 'the Word who was with God in the beginning' grew inside her, and the moon lit a path to Bethlehem, and the waters of Creation were poised, once more, to break.
* * *
May the light that shines on you, shine on the one you love, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
You might like to repeat the compass practice this morning. You don't have to worry about every small detail - just turn slowly through east, south, west and north to south, again, remembering one or two bits that really resonated. Be conscious that the moon will rise in the east tonight, just as the sun will rise there in the morning.
And tonight, head outside to behold the moon! You might like to pray for someone in the community whose name you've seen on the RSVP. Or think of someone you love. And allow the wonder of this evocative season to thrill you afresh.
Be held, as you behold!
------------------------------
5 // The Still Point of the Turning World
‘
The Sun of Righteousness will rise with healing in his wings.’ Malachi 4.2
* * *
Good morning!
Something a little different for today. To continue yesterday’s theme, I want to share a practice I’ve developed to start my day - using the points of the compass to create a circle of prayerful contemplation, as I face each direction in ‘turn’.
It's been helping me to offer the day to God, and to find poise within it. It’s also helping me prepare for the darkness of winter, and spiritually for ‘the night divine’.
It need only take you a few minutes now, turning on the spot where you are (or simply visualising the different points of the compass); but you may wish to spend longer, when you have the chance; I like to do this outside.
The idea is to go through it all, even though the four points pre-empt different parts of the day. (You can always come back to the sections in turn.)
I hope you find this helpful! I'm aware I shared something similar a year or so back, but the content has shifted for me in recent days with the advent of this series, and I sense this would be a really good way for us all to embed what's been unfolding. I love the idea of each of us turning in a circle, throughout the world, as community! (And if you're in the southern hemisphere, please switch out north for south, and vice versa, and you'll have to take our pole star metaphorically!)
We start, then, by facing East ...
* * *
Face East, the direction of sunrise. Stand with poise. Take a breath in, counting to four, and a breath out, counting to six.
Henry David Thoreau wrote, ‘Only that day dawns to which we are awake.’ Invite thisday to dawn on you, by consciously meeting it with reverence and gratitude.
Try to see yourself as if from above, for a moment, waiting for the light to appear over the horizon. East is the point of daybreak, and the place of new starts. What grace is this, that each new day presents us with the chance to start again!
The Bible says, ‘The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness’ (Lam 3). Speak these words quietly.
When you’re ready, give thanks for a few simple blessings you might otherwise have taken for granted, including the gift of this new day itself.
And talking of mercies, place your hand on your heart and speak the ancient ‘Prayer of the Heart’, which goes all the way back to the Desert Mothers and Fathers:
“Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy upon me.”
“Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy upon me.”
“Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy upon me.”
Try to receive that mercy by imagining it flowing toward you, in to you. And then, imagine it flowing like a stream through you, toward someone you know, who needs it to. Commit to becoming an embodiment of mercy, as you enter this day.
———
When you’re ready, turn slowly clockwise toward the south. Be conscious of the enormity of what’s encompassed in a simple 90-degree movement - all the nations, the oceans, the creatures, the friends who are distant, the participants in this series.
Facing South.
The sun will be at its highest around mid-day, and points South (for those of us in the northern hemisphere). It reminds me that I can find bearings even when I feel lost.
It’s a reminder, too, how we're invited to stand in God’s light and love, to soak it in. Psalm 37 says, ’Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.’
So, be still.
When you are ready, practice standing on one leg, to cultivate poise, for a short while. Remember the balance and poise you can bring to this day, with practice.
And now, with feet firmly planted again, imagine you are a tree, with roots which grow deep into the darkness of the soil, and branches which stretch tall toward the light. A powerful symmetry. You may wish to bring your attention to a nearby tree, to help you with this, even as you find communion with Creation around you.
Stand poised between the ‘vivacity of what was’ and ‘the vitality of what will be’.
———
Turn slowly to the west, conscious again of all that’s encompassed in this 90-degree movement - the people, the places, even the stars and the planets.
Facing West.
This is the direction of sun set, where light and dark meet, twilight colours bleed into one, and the soul can stir as we behold the mystery of life.
It takes courage to face into that mystery. Here, we know that we don’t know it all, as once we might have thought. (The older I get, the truer this becomes.)
There's a saying in the Japanese tradition, writes Francis Weller in his book The Wild Edge of Sorrow: "Not-knowing is most intimate.” For me, not knowing can draw me closer to God in trust, if I let it. Even Paul writes, ‘We see through a glass darkly.’
Here is a good moment, then, to release our grip on how, in particular, we wish everything to turn out in life. Let this go, gently, into the love of God. On your next in-breath, pray: “Your kingdom come.” And on the out-breath, like a sigh of relief: “Your will be done.” Keep going, in the intimacy of not knowing; trusting and yielding.
———
When you are ready, turn slowly to the north, conscious, again, of all that’s encompassed in this particular 90-degree movement.
Facing North.
And so we face north, into the place of greatest darkness.
As they sang at the Queen’s funeral this year, so movingly, “The day thou gavest Lord is ended; the darkness falls at thy behest.”
The day will, and must end. Yet as we face into the darkness, we remember that the North Star offers the glimmer of a fixed point, when all else might feel like it’s gone. For me it’s like a divine signal, pulsing: "Are you receiving me?"
Think of what your one ‘fixed point’ really is. It might be the love of God. It might be a verse of Scripture you hold most dear. Or an experience of God you can never deny.
Imagine that north star glimmering deep within your inmost being. Let it shine inwardly, like ‘the still point of the turning world’, to borrow from TS Eliot.
Finally, recall the gift that comes under cover of darkness: the baby arriving quietly on the ‘night divine’. Whisper, 'O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.'
—————————
Turn again to the East, one last time, to complete your circle. As you do so, recall the words of Tess Ward: ‘Embracer of all, [you] stretched out your hands to join up the circle of life.’
Facing East
Give thanks for the completion of the circle, and the love that carries us through endings to beginnings, through night into dawn, through death into life.
Recall the words of the prophet Malachi: ‘the Sun of Righteousness will rise with healing in his wings’. And speak the ancient prayer: ‘Maranatha, Come Lord.’
Amen.
* * *
May you be encompassed by God's love, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
You may like to complement this, as I do, by finishing with Columba's 'circling prayer', which I speak as I turn once more around 360 degrees. (Otherwise, just journal these words, or anything you have noticed about today's experience.)
Bless to me the sky that is above me,
Bless to me the ground that is beneath me,
Bless to me the friends who are around me,
Bless to me the love of the Three
Deep within me and encircling me.
Amen.
PS: Remember to keep watch for the moon, this evening, as it nears its fullness!
------------------------------------------
4 // To Join the Circle
‘‘... I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.’ John 14.20
* * *
Good morning!
We’ve looked back, with kindsight and thanks, and soon we’ll look gently forward, further into Advent. But today let’s look around. Please remember to pause, and breathe, relax and smile before you read on.
* * *
I’m intrigued by the circular motion of God’s Creation: the Earth spins, the Moon orbits us, the planets circle the sun. We travel through each day, each month, and four gorgeous seasons in ‘turn’ to arrive, full circle, back at the same place, having grown by degrees like a tree (whose trunk is etched inside by circles!).
Surely it’s more by beautiful design than accident, this form of motion we're part of. Think of those memorable words of TS Eliot: ‘The end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time’ …
* * *
Arriving back here in Advent again, I'm sure we can bring an explorer’s reverence to this season, with a watchful poise and a readiness to go deeper. But whether you’ve had time to apply yourself or not so far, fear not! For even this one day, this Monday in December, comes with the invitation of a full-circle start. God’s mercies are new every morning, as the Bible says, and that, in itself, is a grace-filled rhythm enough.
(You might like to pause, to receive them, open-handedly.)
I can't help thinking God loves joining in that rhythm with us, by the way. Imagine, too, that God loves this day, and all it contains (including you), as much as the first day that was ever created. And what if, while we're at it, God loves not just the newness of sunrise, but the dimming of the day to twilight, and the glimmering, star-filled mystery of night, too? All of it, as a whole, as it turns, and turns.
It helps me want to make the most of it, today!
* * *
Even before Creation, there was a circle of joyous movement, if the Early Church Fathers are to be believed. They used the Greek theatrical word perichoresis - ‘circle dance’! - to describe the everflowing, overflowing love between Father, Son and Spirit. God as verb, instead of noun.
That divine capacity for dynamic relationship and communion was set in our hearts, too, from the start, in a gift of original blessing for humanity - for God said, ‘Let uscreate them in our own image!’ A gift of love for us to receive from God, and to pass on to each other, through each other, in turn after joyful turn.
Somehow we managed to break our circle, in sin, flattening it into a straight line which runs just from A to B, beginning to end, birth to death, end of story.
But Advent anticipates the divine re-joining of the circle, and our re-joining in it, if we're willing to take our place. (Seems the Trinity would rather we joined a dance than a religion, by the way!) I love the words of Tess Ward (in her book The Celtic Wheel of the Year), who addresses God, in one reflection, as: ‘Embracer of all, who stretched out your hands to join up the circle of life.’
Hands that reached up from a manger, and would in time be stretched out on the Cross.
* * *
Embracer of all, as we prepare again this Advent for you to join us, lead us with joy through our endings into beginnings; through night toward day; through winter toward spring; through death toward life. May the everflowing, overflowing circle of love flood through me, as I turn, again, to you.
* * *
May we join the circle, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Try writing a 'circle poem' - a short text, shaped in a circle, in which the reader can begin at more than one point, and can be read continuously. You could choose one word to represent each of the four seasons in turn, for example, as a way of gathering up the year - and write them in a circle joining each by the word 'and'.
...
If you have time later, why not step out around twilight to enjoy the moon, if the skies are clear, and sense the Creator's presence within the gathering dakness. The moon will be full on Thursday, so we'll keep an eye on it this week!
...
If you'd like to stay in a moment of quiet reflection, you might enjoy listening to Stormzy's current single 'Holy Spirit' (thanks Trevor P).
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3 // Thank You
‘One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back... He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him - and he was a Samaritan.’ Luke 17.11-19
* * *
Good morning!
Something happy and heart-felt, for a Saturday, if I may.
Radio 4’s ‘Saturday Live’ morning show has a wonderful regular feature called 'Thank You', in which members of the public phone in to thank someone for a kind act they did, sometimes decades ago. Usually, they didn't get to say thank you at the time - the lady rescued, for instance, from a lake 60 years ago, who didn't know who saved her; the man so grateful when a cab driver waived the fare as he took home his new-born baby; the woman who thanked every driver who stopped on the M6 motorway to gather her clothes when her suitcase came off the roof-rack ...
The stories often move me to tears, as they’re full of profoundly simple kindnesses. And since we're taking a moment, in our series, to look back with 'kindsight', it made me think: Who do we have, to thank?
It doesn’t take long, does it, for examples to bubble up of people who’ve helped, in big or small ways. And I'd love to share a little 'thank you' of my own, from this year.
* * *
This autumn, my wife took our 12-year-old and her cousin to the theatre. They were up in the gods, and when it came to getting an ice cream at the interval, the girls had to make their (own) way excitedly down several flights of stairs to the usherette at the side of the stage.
By the time they got there, out of breath, the curtain was about to rise again. “Two ice creams, please!” they said hurriedly, grabbing a ‘tub’ and handing over the cash my wife had given them. But the usherette had bad news. “The theatre is cashless. You can only pay by card." Help! The girls thought on their feet: if the people sitting in the nearby rows are tucking into ice creams, they must have a card!
“Excuse me, if we give you our cash, could you pay with your card?” they asked. One chap looked down. “We don’t have a card either,” he mumbled, presumably licking his ice cream a little more guiltily. They asked a few others, to no avail.
Crest-fallen, the girls handed back their ice creams, when a woman leapt up from her seat further along the row. “I’ve got a card,” she exclaimed, and handed it to the usherette. “Two ice creams, please!” she said, with (I’m told) a very happy smile. “And keep your cash, girls - it’s my treat!”
‘Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me,’ as Jesus said. Needless to say, I was very moved when they came home and told me all about it. I don’t think they’ll ever forget it, either. So I would like to say a heart-felt “Thank you” to the lady who bought the ice creams, and made those girls' day. Whoever you are!
* * *
Richard Rohr memorably says that it’s not the problem of evil that vexes him, so much as the problem of good. How come goodness is always breaking out in a world so riven with strife?
I’d love to think that today, we can be part of that particular 'problem of good', and in the spirit of Advent, give someone a reason to be thankful, in the best possible way.
And perhaps there’s someone you'd still love to thank, after all this time, for being there when it really counted. I do so love the story of the Samaritan leper who remembers to return and say thank you to Jesus. It reminds me, this Advent, that ultimately I've got everything to be thankful for, because of him.
* * *
May you feel the love, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Spend some time recalling any acts of kindness you have received, this year. Receive them back into your heart. Write a short account, like I did - a ‘thank you’, in your journal about one of them. You might like to write one to Jesus, too. And when you're out and about, be part of the 'problem of goodness' this weekend!
You can listen to several examples of the Saturday Live 'Thank You' slot here.
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2 // Kindsight
' ... he humbled himself ...' (Philippians 2.8)
* * *
Good morning!
Before you begin, please take a moment to pause, to be present and to find poise. Take a deeper breath or two, relax, and sit quietly, as you become aware of God's presence around you and within you. Take as long as you need, before you read on.
* * *
I was walking with my 12-year-old yesterday when she stopped dead, pointing up into the branches of the tree beside us. “One leaf left!” she exclaimed.
And she was right - there it was, a single leaf hanging there! Trees are so cool not to cling too tight to their finery, we agreed - and then she paused, remembering her older brother who'd left for university this year, and who she misses every day.
“Like us with Eden,” she said.
* * *
Every year brings gain, and loss, doesn’t it, and some more than others. A friend told me how they couldn’t wait to see the back of 2022 - it’s been so tough for them. It’s how I felt last year, I remember.
But the almost-bare tree hinted to me that we can face our past with poise, just as we can face our future. It’s what the poet Mary Oliver seems to affirm in her poem ‘Lines Written In the Days of Growing Darkness’. The world each year descends into a ‘rich mash,' she writes, 'in order that it may resume'. We don’t need to beg the petals, or leaves, to stay, therefore. For:
'... the vivacity of what was is married
to the vitality of what will be.'
I love those words! Vivacity and vitality! They help redeem the past for me and renew my perspective on the future, all at once, within the creative tension of this stripped back moment in the present.
* * *
And by the way, as we naturally start to look back at year's end, let’s keep in mind our tendency to be our own worst critic, when it comes to what and how we've done. Another word, then, that has helped me recently is ‘kindsight’, coined by the author Karen Salmansohn. And kindsight is a beautiful thing!
‘Instead of slapping your forehead and asking, “What was I thinking?”,’ she writes, ‘breathe … and ask the kinder question, “What was I learning?”’. I’m tempted to ask myself, too: “How was I growing?” and "Where was grace leading?"
* * *
It’s such a resonant, poetic word, kindsight, and I’m sure you can use it how you’d like, to cast a gentler, appreciative eye across your year.
We might try to see God’s part in our past with kindsight, too. It’s easy, sometimes, to wonder where God ‘was’ at certain times of our life - as if somehow God’s presence is verified by life going well, and nullified if it all goes wrong.
Neither is true, of course; God’s involvement in our journey is so much richer and deeper than that, as Advent reminds us. This is the One, after all, who made the trees, and knows a thing or two about letting go. And just imagine: the vivacity of what Jesus so lovingly came to do for us on Earth is married to the vitality of who weare, so lovingly, invited to become ...
It's reason enough, surely - even if we have just “one leaf left” this year - to stand tall as a tree upon this richest mash of holy Advent ground.
* * *
May you ask the kinder question, today.
Go well!
Brian
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Just One Thing
Bring your attention to a tree that's lost its leaves, today - either one you can see through your window, or one you encounter on a walk. You may like to draw its silhouette as a way of helping you to find some connection with it. Meditate on 'the vivacity of what was', and 'the vitality of what will be'. And gather up some of your year by looking with 'kindsight' upon what has unfolded. What were you learning? How were you growing? Where was grace leading?
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1 // Poised for Advent
‘“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.”’
Luke 1.38
* * *
Good morning!
I’m so excited to be wondering and wandering with you through the glimmering Advent landscape and skyscape and soulscape again!
Please do take a deeper breath, for a moment.
Relax your shoulders.
Smile!
And bring yourself to this precious moment of new beginning, and to these days ahead, and to God within it all. Take your time.
Here we are.
* * *
The author, contemplative and retreat leader Evelyn Underhill once gave a brilliant description of why we take time out to pause, as we’ll be doing in this series:
‘We come,’ she said, ‘to deepen our contact with the spiritual realities on which our lives depend - to recover, if we can, our spiritual poise. To wait on the Lord and renew our strength, for the sake of the world.’
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to recover, and maintain, our poise, for Advent?
I recalled Evelyn’s words recently when trying a physio exercise I'd been set after my knee replacement. The idea was to stand on one leg for as long as I could - first, with eyes open, then, with eyes closed. (Try it, if you have something to hold on to if you lose your balance!)
I teetered like a tipsy flamingo, unable to stand for more than a second or so with eyes closed, and it really did feel like a metaphor for the spiritual life ...
* * *
I wonder how true poise feels in your body, your mind, your heart?
(Try to sense it, now.)
And I wonder what it looks like in action. Like a ballerina, in arabesque flow? Like a leafless tree in winter, standing tall, rooted, even in a passing storm?
Theologically, I can't help picturing Mary, who seems to find exquisite poise when the angel Gabriel visits her with news that will shake not just her life, but the world. She is ready, somehow, already.
The Cambridge Dictionary describes poise as ‘a quality of grace’. Isn't that divine? It’s surely what Mary embodies, despite feeling troubled at first. And she’ll pass this quality on to her son with a loving, steadying hand, when the time is right for him to learn to stand and walk as one of us, as God with us, in grace yet more abounding.
* * *
As we pause each day in Advent, then, to wait upon this Lord, what good news, that we, too, can draw upon such grace as his.
I'm sure we'll want to make Christmas ’22 extra special, freed as most of us now are from Covid restrictions. But as we speed up in the busyness of preparation, or try indeed to slow ourselves down, a little practice may go a long way to cultivating our poise, whatever that looks like in both stillness and action.
Take a calming breath, perhaps, before entering the fray. Listen, before speaking. Stay openly present to what, or who, is about to come your way. At such a glorious time of year as this, who knows? It might even be an angel.
* * *
May you find your poise, today.
Go well!
Brian
Try 'Just One Thing' today
It turns out standing on one leg for a short while each day not only improves your balance, posture and core strength - it revitalises the brain, lifts the mood, and, if the reports are to be believed, increases life expectancy! *
I’m going to make it part of my own daily practice this Advent, as a physical reminder to cultivate a spiritual posture of readiness for what, and who, is to come. The words of Psalm 40 spring to mind: ‘He set my feet upon a rock, made my footsteps firm.’
Perhaps you’d like to, as well. Try it today, in different settings (eyes open, unless it’s safe to close them!) - brushing your teeth, washing up, standing in a queue - to remind you of the Advent poise.
* If you’ve 14 minutes to spare, this podcast by the BBC’s Michael Mosley - the aptly named Just One Thing - is all about the benefits of standing on one leg!