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13 // Sun-kissed, Moon-blessed

‘He made the moon to mark the seasons,
   and the sun knows when to go down.’ Psalm 104.19

*     *     *

Good morning.

 

As I walked my daughter halfway to school yesterday, we inhaled the smell of fresh grass, felt the sun bless our faces, and stood transfixed as a sparrow came to and fro with nesting material, disappearing into the eaves of a nearby house. Some parts of the year sweep you up in Creation’s hopeful flow, and this is surely one of them.

‘His eye is on the sparrow’ too, as the song goes. And I love to think of the Creator, in person, in Jesus, welcoming signs of spring, turning his face to the sun, even as he kindled the God-light within. How finely tuned to God's rhythms he must have been!

And we can seek that flow with him, between Creator and Creation, can't we? This weekend it's the equinox, that point at which the whole world is held in the balance of equal dark and light for just one day. North and South, East and West, you and me and them and us and we. All God's children.

*     *     *

There’s a full moon tonight, too, just to pile on the wonder. A moment, perhaps, to imagine Jesus watching it rise in the wilderness, there amid the ebb and flow of the Creator's handiwork. The moon glinting in his watchful eye. Perhaps he recalled the words of the wonderful Psalm 104: ‘He made the moon to mark the seasons’.

It’s the same moon we’ll all look up to, around the equinoctial world tonight. Soldiers at their post in Ukraine. Refugees walking the road to who knows where. Presidents, even. Moonlight shining on the rubble of the Mariupol theatre. On my budding magnolia. On the eaves where the sparrows nest.

*     *     *

In Lent, we keep one eye with Jesus, too, on the end of his life and ministry, and this full moon tonight is the one in the lunar cycle which sets his countdown to Easter. The feast of Passover (at which he'll be arrested) is held on the first full moon afterthe equinox, so this one, tonight, marks the beginning of the end-game, the season of the Cross; as he turns his sun-blessed, moon-kissed face now toward Jerusalem.

Spring is a season of unfurling - buds open into flowers, butterflies unfold their crumpled wings from the safety of a cocoon; Creation invites us, too, to open a little further to the warmth, to the incoming flow of light like a tide, turning.

Meanwhile, Jesus prepares to unfurl his arms like red-rose petals, wide as God’s heart, to hold it all for us, in him, when we can't hold it anymore: the wonder of this world, and its bitter cruelty; death itself, and the unstoppable outpouring of life that flows, as surely as winter turns to spring.

 

*     *     *

May you be sun-blessed, and moon-kissed, today.

Go well!
Brian

Do join me at 4.30pm (GMT) for our next Lent YouTube Live!
...

For Now: Try this breathing exercise from James Finley (which we've used a few times during my YouTube sessions). He writes:

'As you inhale, listen to the incoming breath so intently that you can hear in it God’s silent “I love you“, in which God is flowing into you as the source and reality of your very being.

As you exhale, breathe out your silent “I love you“ back to God.

Simply sit, open to God breathing divine love into the depths of your being, as you breathe your whole being, as a gift of love, back into God.'

Mid-day: Thanks to Susie Dent (via my friend Martyn) for alerting me to the word 'Apricate'. It means, 'to revel in the warmth of the sun on your back'. Take a few moments to revel, in the sun, and in the light and warmth of God. Don't try and multitask or check your phone - just do that.

Tonight: Watch the moon rise. Remember Jesus, watching. Remember those you love, who are far off. And those in danger. Commit them to the care of God's love.

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12 // To Light a Fire

‘I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.' Romans 8.37-39

*     *     *

Good morning.

 

And a happy St Patrick’s Day, especially if you’re in, or from, Ireland!

Patrick became a man of courage and faith, having been snatched from his home in 5th-century Roman Britain, aged 16, by marauders and taken to Ireland. He spent six years in slavery as a shepherd before managing to escape and get home. Six, long wilderness years in which his Christian faith was sparked into flame. He writes in his autobiographical Confession that 'I turned with all my heart toward the Lord...
 

'I tended sheep every day, and I prayed frequently ... More and more the love of God increased, and my sense of awe before God. Faith grew, and my spirit was moved ... I would rise to pray before dawn in snow and ice and rain... I realise now, the spirit was burning in me at that time.' It's amazing what can happen in the wilderness.

*     *     *

Imagine, then, his courage to answer God's call (through a dream) to leave the safety of his family again and return to Ireland as a Christian missionary. That takes a very particular kind of guts, and love.

The famous story goes that Patrick wanted to celebrate Easter by lighting a fire at Tara, in defiance of a pagan festival in which the high-king decreed that all fires and lights be put out. It was for the high-king to provide fire and light for his people first, and for them to show allegiance by extinguishing their own.

Into that darkness, Patrick lit his Easter fire, to offer the light of Christ. According to the story, the king’s wise men warned that ‘if this fire was not put out, it would flood Ireland with its light’ - which, in time, it did. Though the king sent guards to capture and kill Patrick, he evaded them, and the gospel, through his witness, spread.

*     *     *

It takes courage to light a fire.

I’m in awe of the incredible courage shown by the Russian TV news producer Marina Ovsyannikova to interrupt the news live on a state programme on Monday night with her anti-war protest. And of any brave Russians daring to dissent on the streets.

It takes courage for the likes of Richard Ratcliffe and Nazarin Zaghari-Ratcliffe to stand strong in the face of terrifying human rights’ violations and to keep the flame of hope alive. What wonderful news we witnessed yesterday.

It takes courage for someone like Alice D to take in refugees, as she mentioned in the RSVPs this week, requesting prayer. It's a great undertaking for anyone willing to offer sanctuary and to let the light of welcome shine and spread.

It takes courage for ordinary people to make a stand through creative, non-violent action as the climate emergency continues to deepen.

It always takes courage when you can’t be sure of the outcome. 

*     *     *

Patrick is said to have written his famous ‘Breastplate’ prayer of protection around the time of the Tara event. No one knows for sure whether the ancient words are his, but they've certainly reached all the way to us from the earliest days of the faith in Ireland, and as we pray them today, we enter a most powerful, spell-binding flow -

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation...

As (the Celtic expert) David Adam points out so helpfully, ‘It is not a belief in magic but an assertion that nothing will separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. It is not protection from bad things happening, but a protection from them destroying us forever.' Which makes them, surely, even greater ...

Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ within me ...

I'm not sure how courageous you're feeling; I wish I were braver. But we can pray this prayer (there's more, below) in solidarity, at least, with those daring to light a fire in today's present darkening world. And who knows, it might en-courage us to light a small fire of our own, this Lent, and feel its heat, and watch the God-light catch.

 

*     *     *

May you arise, today.

Go well!
Brian

...

Today's Rhythm

For Now: Take some time to pray these excerpts from St Patrick's Prayer. Speak them out loud, if you're able.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation...

I arise today, through
The strength of heaven,
The light of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendor of fire,
The speed of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of the sea,
The stability of the earth,
The firmness of rock.

I arise today, through
God's strength to pilot me,
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptation of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and near.

Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.

(To read a version of the full text, click here.)

For Mid-day: Is there anyone you know who has lit a fire, and needs your prayer, or practical support, or encouragement? Think of them, and perhaps be in touch. If youwere to light a fire, but haven't yet had the courage to do so, what would it be?

For Sunset: You might like to light an actual fire tonight to remember the light and love of Jesus on Patrick's day. Or a candle. Remember the brave people of Russia who have taken a stand, and those in Ukraine who are resisting.

​

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11 // Remember, You Are Dust

‘Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.’ Genesis 2.7

'As a father has compassion on his children,
   so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
   for he knows how we are formed,
   he remembers that we are dust.' Psalm 103.13-14

*     *     *

Good morning.

 

It’s Wednesday! So for the sake of rhythm, let’s start as we did last week with those words of Walter Brueggemann from his poem ‘Marked by Ashes’:

'This day - a gift from you.
This day - like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.’

Why not pause to be open to the possibilities that will come your way, today; to welcome God within them; and to be a God-breathed part of the love, the beauty.

*     *     *

 

Remembering the path we're taking from Ash Wednesday to Easter, I wanted to touch on the Lent theme of dust.

I love the way Genesis 2.7 describes the creation of humanity. We’re very much ‘dust’, as we remember on Ash Wednesday. But God takes that dust, forms a person, breathes life into it, and it becomes, as the King James version puts it, ‘a living soul’. (Matter + Spirit = Soul!)

Take a breath. Relax your shoulders. Smile.

It needn't be miserable to ‘remember that from dust we came’. It can be magical. Especially if you think about the kind of beauty that’s emerging from the ground all around us at the start of spring! Our magnolia is about to bloom, and it feels like a miracle, it feels like hope.

And there's much to 'remember', with the dust:

that matter matters (get your hands dirty, today!);
that we belong with all the other creatures who share life on Earth with us;
that being from the dust doesn't make us bad;
that it's not all we are - it's when we receive God's breath that we come fully alive;
that it means we have our creaturely limits. Which is OK.

*     *     *

Of course, Genesis tells us that we did try to transcend our human limits at the Fall, over-reaching to eat the apple, seeking somehow to become like God.

But when God tells Adam and Eve, after the event, that ‘dust you are, and to dust you shall return’, it's not in retaliation, at least according to Walter Brueggemann (this time, in a fascinating scholarly article on 'dust'). Instead, it's a reminder of Genesis 2.7, and our true identity as humans: created for life with God, not as God.. 

Meanwhile, the restorative words of Psalm 103 mean it’s not just us doing the remembering. ‘God knows how we are formed,’ writes the psalmist, ‘and remembers we are dust.’ It's the same word for dust as in Genesis, evoking the Creation account; God knows how we came about, and how we come to life in him still.

This is, after all, the God who lovingly forgives, heals, redeems, crowns, satisfies and vindicates, as we read at the start of the psalm. Whose loves stretches ‘from everlasting to everlasting’.

*     *     *

I’m reminded of the cross that was marked in ash on my forehead, which feels as if it's stayed with me on this journey, even though I washed it off two weeks ago. I wondered, at the time, why its mark on me felt like a relief, not a condemnation.

'Remember...'

I remember, now, that it's not just about my degradation, but about my creaturely goodness in God, and God's divine, sustaining goodness in me.

This God, who breathes us into being, yet who was breathed into being himself, to breathe our air and bear our limits. This Jesus, whose dusty feet surely spoke to him, in the desert, of how it all started, and how it was all set to start again.

Remembering us, and reminding us, with supreme love, of who, and whose, we are.

 

*     *     *

May we remember, today.

Go well!
Brian

...

Today's Rhythm

For Now: I'm thankful to Rae M for sending a link to this gorgeous choral piece, Calm Me Lord. Have a listen, now, and breathe deep, and be still, and be with God.

I'm fasting today, as part of my rhythm for Wednesdays, if you'd care to join me for some or all of it. Bring your hunger for peace to God.

For Mid-day: Set your alarm for mid-day and get outside, if you can, to feel the ground beneath your feet, and to notice spring. You might like to take off your shoes and socks. As you stand there, imagine what it was like for the Creator to feel the ground beneath his feet, and to contemplate the dust, and to remember.

For Sunset: Light your candle, and pray for Ukraine.

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10 // Messy, Beautiful & Blessed

'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.' Matthew 5.3 

*     *     *

Good morning!

Three simple, related thoughts on the upside-down, inside-out nature of the 'good news' of the Gospel, for a Tuesday morning, if I may.

First, from the down-to-earth US pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber, who writes: ‘Your weakness is fertile ground for a forgiving God to make something new and to make something beautiful, so don’t ever think that all you have to offer are your gifts.’

Our gifts are wonderful, unique, and to be celebrated. But how good to realise that it's not just our strengths we have to offer, but also the transformational possibilities contained in our weakness, through God's grace.

And, maybe even better, how liberating it could be to see each other's weakness in that way too - less in frustration, more in trusting that God can make something truly new and beautiful with each of them, in the fullness of time.

Blessed are the weak.

*     *     *

Second, this from Thomas Merton: 'Be anything you like … but at all costs avoid one thing: success. If you are too obsessed with success, you will forget to live. If you have learned only how to be a success, your life has probably been wasted.'

Mercifully, I'm sure none of us have only learned how to be a success. And success is something to be enjoyed, when we've worked for it. But the point remains, in Lent especially, that life in the kingdom of God has a very different agenda from the main-stream. And that's good news for any of us reined in by a fear of failing today's test, whatever that may be. 

Blessed are the so-called losers.

*     *     *

Third, something from the artist Charlie Mackesy (creator of the gorgeous book The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse). In a touchingly unscripted talk on-line, he shares how he volunteers with elderly people with Alzheimer's, helping them to paint and draw. Most are very reluctant to have a go at first, as they were told they were no good at art, usually at school, a whole lifetime ago.

“But did you enjoy it?” he asks them.
“Yes!”
“Well let’s abandon the idea of being good, of having merit ... and just make a mess.”

 

One of them ended up having a painting hung in a prestigious gallery beside a Lucian Freud, but that’s beside the point, he says. They all began to talk, to laugh, to connect with each other and reconnect with themselves; to start to belong, to use their imagination, to be released to create. “From the mess can come beauty,” he says. Adding, “But even if it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter.”

Blessed are the messy. For they are the works of art.

*     *     *

At the start of Charlie's lovely book, the boy meets the mole for the first time, and they sit on a branch and start to chat. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" asks the mole. "Kind," says the boy.

"What do you think success is?" asks the boy. "To love," says the mole. 
 

We try hard to make it harder, don't we. But, just for today, could we make it easier, instead? "Sometimes, all you hear about is the hate," the horse tells the boy at the end, "but there is more love in this world than you could possibly know."

We can play our unique part in that movement, today, one that's ready to mess things up for a positive change, if we're willing. Far from perfect, close to God.
 

*     *     *

May you be messy, beautiful and blessed.

Go well!
Brian

...

Today's Rhythm

For Now:  ‘You make beautiful things out of the dust. You make beautiful things out of us.’ I’ve shared this before, but this lovely song by Gungor called Beautiful Thingsis worth absorbing into your bloodstream. Close your eyes, and let its light in.

If you’ve 15 minutes you can watch Charlie’s talk here.

For Mid-day: Be creative for a few minutes. Don’t judge the outcome: enjoy the process. As Charlie says, “Leave your head out of it. Work directly from your heart, soul, spirit, through your arm onto the paper. Feel it, and tell the world how you feel.”

For Sunset: Light your candle, pause and pray your encircling prayer, remembering Ukraine and any other area of conflict that's especially on your heart.

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9 // Better to Light a Candle

'Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.' Romans 12.21

*     *     *

Good morning.

As I mentioned on Friday's YouTube, the Celts had a saying:

“It is better to light a candle
Than to curse the darkness.”

It's stayed with me all weekend, so I wanted to repeat it here. It's not some twee mantra for a fridge magnet, either. As Esther de Waal points out, the Celtic nations had ‘long experience of living under threat’, yet their faith helped them to hope, against hope, and to ‘expect the morning light’.

'Light in darkness, hope in despair, life in death is their constant theme’, she says.

*     *     *

I went to our cathedral’s vigil for Ukraine on Saturday morning, along with several hundred others, and as we stood there feebly but defiantly clutching candles and daffodils, it was hard for many of us to hold back the tears.

I’d been asked by a reporter why I’d come, and hadn’t really been able to express my ‘why’ very clearly. Which seemed apt, as it all feels so inexpressible. I said something about standing in solidarity, coming to light a candle and to pray.

But as I lit my candle, and as we all stood together in that historic space, holding silence, sharing 'the peace', hearing a violinist play Bach, praying the Lord’s Prayer together, laying our flowers at the altar, and listening to the children of Ukraine read Psalm 31 again, I realised this wasn't all about our love being powerfully directed east, despite it indeed flowing beautifully, inexorably in that direction.

I realised I needed this, too. We all did, as several of us admitted afterwards.

‘The only way to spiritually hold suffering - and not let it destroy us - is to recognise that we cannot do it alone,’ writes Richard Rohr. Which is such a relief to remember.
 

*     *     *

In any community, including this most precious Lent one, we can share in the universal experience of suffering, because at different levels, we all suffer. And it's all shared ultimately, says Rohr, in the suffering of God, for which Lent prepares us.

There have been sudden, unexpected diagnoses among our Lent community even since we began this journey. Two years of Covid has taken its toll on so many. We all have our reason to curse the darkness, should we choose.

But our very sharing itself, together, with God, brings light, doesn't it? And together we get to practice the hope; to stay grounded and earthed in Creation; to take joy in the small gifts; to spread kindness, and to keep each other encircled in God's love.

*     *     *

We lit a candle last night at supper and remembered those in Ukraine who’d give anything to be heading into an ordinary Monday morning right now, with the usual stresses of getting ready for work or kids to school or tackling the to-do list … and resolved to make the most of every scrap of ordinariness we can, this week, almost as sacrament.

It's no empty gesture. I think we're remembering the 'why', after so much initial shock. Light in darkness, hope in despair, life in death. The 'constant theme', which together we inherit not just from the Celts but from the suffering, loving, victorious God, who bids us share with each other, and pass it on.

*     *     *

May we light the candle, and keep the flame alive this week.

Go well!
Brian

...

Esther de Waal's The Celtic Way of Prayer is published by Canterbury Press (2010)

Richard Rohr's The Universal Christ is published by SPCK (2019)

...

For Now: Here's the prayer of Columba I shared on Friday. Why not pray it, as an encircling prayer this morning:

Be a bright flame before me, O God
a guiding star above me.
Be a smooth path below me,
a kindly shepherd behind me
today, tonight, and for ever.

Take some time in stillness to remember anyone you know who's suffering. 

For Mid-day: Set your alarm, and take a minute to be still. Relax, breathe, feel the ground beneath your feet, and become aware of God's presence within you and around you. Carry that Presence with you as you continue on.

For Sunset: At 6pm tonight, why don't we each light a candle and pray for Ukraine. Spend some time just watching the candle, and reflecting on what it means for you to share in the suffering of others, and to bring light into darkness in God's grace.

...

You can watch the Winchester vigil here. But in particular, you might like to scroll forward to 20 minutes, where you can see Chris Roles, a trustee of the Disasters and Emergency Committee, speak very helpfully for a few moments on the role of the DEC, and the combination of 'give, act and pray'. 

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8 // Circle Me, Lord

'Where can I go from your Spirit?
   Where can I flee from your presence?
  If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
   if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
  If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
   if I settle on the far side of the sea,
   even there your hand will guide me,
   your right hand will hold me fast.' Psalm 139.7-10

*     *     *

Good morning!

(Today's is a bit longer. I hope we can find a prayerful rhythm this weekend if poss.)

The Bible's clear that we are encircled by God’s presence and love, as the words above so powerfully describe. Of course, Paul talks of ‘how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ’ (Ephesians 3.18). And I love how Psalm 103 places our human fragility at its centre (verses 14-16), but hems it in before and after with God's love, which is 'as high as the heavens are above the earth' (v 11) and reaches 'from everlasting to everlasting' (v 17). We'll return to that psalm next week! 

It's not always easy, however, to stay present to that reality, especially in winter seasons (as we touched on yesterday) or in the wilderness of Lent.

So I was grateful to Ian M for mentioning the Celtic practice of ‘encircling prayer’ this week in the RSVPs, which not only helps us to call upon God's presence and protection, but awakens us to the fact that it was there, all along.

*     *     *

Encircling prayer is also known as Caim (the Gaelic for ‘protection’ or ‘sanctuary’) and it's a beautiful, ancient prayerful tradition, arriving here via St Ninian in the 4th century, who drew from the Desert Fathers and Mothers.

And it does involve drawing - a literal or imaginary circle around yourself, or others, to embody the prayer and help us yield to the mystery of our connection with God.

 

The Celts were powerfully aware of God's encircling presence, and St Patrick’s Prayer, an early version of a Caim, is both invocation and awareness of what 'is':

‘Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me,
Christ before me…’

Practicing the prayer is simple. One way is to stand, point your arm and index finger in front of you, and slowly rotate yourself clockwise, creating an imaginal circle all the way around yourself, as you pray. You can imagine the line incorporating your house, family, trees, wildlife, whatever's around you ...

Otherwise, you can call to mind someone else as you draw the circle, and if you're unable to stand and rotate, trace your finger around a photo of them, or write their name down and circle it. Ian M drew a circle in the sand on the beach.

Why not pause to sense God's encircling love for you, before you continue.
 

*     *     *

In terms of words to pray, you can offer up you own. But for an example, George Macleod, who re-founded the Iona community in 1938, wrote these lines, which are popular and helpful (you can replace the word 'me' with the name of someone else, like 'President Zelensky', which I've started doing):

Circle me, Lord. Keep protection near and danger afar.
Circle me, Lord. Keep light near and darkness afar.
Circle me, Lord. Keep peace within; keep evil out.

But I love, too, the words of this famous blessing from St Columba (who founded the first community on Iona in the sixth century) and which is one of the earliest Caims:

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.
 

*     *     *

I like to think, too, we can pray this not just for ourselves, or those we care about (including creatures or features in the natural world), but also for those who upset us, or indeed who are very different to us in their orientation or beliefs.

The circle doesn't ring-fence us from each other, after all, but reminds us of God's extraordinary, everlasting love for - and presence with - us all. As such, by praying, we're not only enfolded and awakened, but in some small way, by God's grace, we're slowly but surely transformed.

*     *     *

May you be encircled, today.

Go well!
Brian

...

A Rhythm of Encircling Prayer for Today and the Weekend

For Now: Write the words of one of the Caim prayers above on a piece of card or paper. And then, when you are ready, stand and use them for your prayer. To start with face east, to the rising sun. Point your finger, and slowly turn yourself to the right, speaking the prayer for yourself until you're full circle. Take your time.

For Mid-day: Face south, where the sun is at its highest. (Or north, if you're in the southern hemisphere.) Repeat the encircling prayer, for yourself first, but then for someone you know or love who is close to you. 

For Sunset: Face west, toward the setting sun. Repeat the prayer, first for yourself, then for someone you know who is in need. Maybe you'd like to remember the people of Ukraine, or specifically President Zelenskyy.

Before Bed: Face north (toward the pole star, if you can step outside!). Repeat the prayer, first for yourself, and then for someone you have fallen out with, or are struggling with, or who is very different to you. 

Try and continue with this through the weekend, if you're able! 

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7 // Our Winter Friend

‘One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him - and he was a Samaritan.’ Luke 17.15

*     *     *

My daughter’s so excited. Every day she charts the emergence of buds and leaves, tracing the finest speckles of green along the hedge, noting how the evenings are drawing out. She, and the man who came to read our meter yesterday, who clapped his hands with joy and exclaimed, "Spring won't be long!"

We can feel it in our hearts and bones! But before we rush headlong into all that we most easily love - the warmth and colour and new life! - perhaps it's worth pausing to give thanks for what the passing season has gifted us, which is not always so easy.

At the start of my recent Advent series, we resolved to face winter with reverence, shifting our position from 'brace' to 'embrace'. If it's God's season, why not? A friend wrote to me recently, having done just that, to say how much he'd loved the winter trees - observing how their bareness was not a weakness but a strength, when it came to surviving Storm Eunice.
 

*     *     *

As Katherine May writes in Wintering, ‘Sometimes the natural world pares back to the very basics of existence in order to keep living. It doesn’t do this once, resentfully, assuming that one day it will get things right and everything will smooth out. It winters in cycles, again and again. Winter is part of the job.’

And we're part of the natural world, and the rhythms of Creation, even if sometimes we forget, or fight against them.

There've been gifts, all right. I'm thinking toasty fire-pits with friends under starry skies. Hot chocolates after a gentle walk. Slowing the pace. Hunkering in. A Sunday roast with family (you can't take it for granted, post-restrictions). Cold air, and the kind of clear-headed clarity you get on a frosty, sunny morning. Simplifying.

But it's not been an easy time for anyone, either - and I know I, for one, feel like I’ve experienced a personal winter more prolonged than anything meteorological. Within it, one of the great blessings has been 'winter friends' who, to quote Katherine May again, ‘allow us to be weak for a while when we’re finding our feet again'.

And I’d say - thinking it about it now - that’s exactly how I’ve experienced God’s friendship, more than anything, in the days I’ve struggled most.
 

*     *     *

And so, as we, like the buds, prepare to unfurl into the loveliness of springtime, I’m mindful of the story of the ten men with leprosy, who cry out to Jesus. He tells them to show themselves to the priests, and as they go, they are healed. But only one, the foreigner, comes back to thank him.

I wonder what we might pause to thank him for, like the Samaritan, without hastening off too quickly? Perhaps it's just to be able to look back, with the blessing of hindsight, to see how he was there, even when it felt, for a time, that he wasn't.

Perhaps it's that we can embrace the next winter cycle, as creatures who belong naturally within it, with a little more love, and a little less fear. Part of the job.

Or perhaps it's just that here, on the threshold of winter and spring - between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday, in this present 'now but not yet' Lent of ours - he waits with us, as we find our feet again. Our winter friend.

*     *     *

May we return to thank him, today. 

Go well!
Brian


For now, mid-day, & sunset

For Now: Have a listen to this lovely, sparse piece of piano music called 'Gifts'. Speak out anything you're thankful for, as the season passes. 'Thank you for ...' 

For Mid-day: Take yourself outside, or to a window, and sketch (however roughly, but lovingly!) a tree that's still bare - as a way of meditating on the seasons.

For Sunset: Why not light a candle this evening, and remember those for whom winter is very much still here. A particular friend who is in the midst of a personal winter. The people of Ukraine. 

...

You can read the account of Jesus and the Ten Men with Leprosy here. 

We'll be gathering tomorrow at 4.30pm for another Lent YouTube Live, here.

You can read all the responses from this first week at the RSVP page here.


Katherine May's Wintering: The power of rest and retreat in difficult times is published by Penguin (2020).
 

 

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6 // This Wednesday Dazzles Us

‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’ Matthew 25.35

*     *     *

Good morning!

To begin with, a few words from the opening lines of 'Marked by Ashes', a poem by the theologian Walter Brueggemann. Take them slowly, and pause after each line:

‘Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day ...
This day - a gift from you.
This day - like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.’

*     *     *

His poem (there's a link below) goes on to explore the trajectory between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday, honouring the Wednesdays in between - the half-way point of every week, and, for the poet, a day that symbolises the 'now' and 'not yet' nature of our journey.

‘All our Wednesdays are marked by ashes,’ he says. ‘Take our Wednesday,’ he prays to God, ‘and Easter us.’ Easter becomes a verb in this poem!

*     *     *

As I said the other day, I feel led to fast each Wednesday, in part to ground me in the ashes of the start of our journey, even as we travel onwards with hope to Easter. And you’re welcome to join me for whatever you can manage.

I find fasting to be a ‘discipline of hope’ for many reasons, but here are three:

First, it takes me to a place beyond words, in which all I can do is offer myself, and my hunger, as a prayer. That’s especially apt in the face of the Ukraine war, for which, in a sense, there are no words. This is an act of spiritual resistance.

Second, it helps me to participate, somehow, with Jesus in the desert. We've said before that Lent is more about experience than ideas, and this takes us deeper in. There's a fullness in emptiness.

’If you are the son of God,’ says the Tempter, ‘turn these stones to bread.’ Jesus of course replies, “It is written, ‘Man shall not live on bread alone...’” I guess there was a reason he didn’t just give up sweets, and it’s helpful for those of us with access to plenty to feel a gnawing, unfamiliar hunger and to glimpse a different kind of reliance upon God, one that could become our food and drink. 

Third, in any act of ‘dying to self’ (which fasting represents), you discover more of who you are in God. As Richard Rohr says, ‘Life is not a matter of creating a special name for ourselves, but of uncovering the name we have always had.’ That's a Lent-long, and life-long, journey. But what gifts this Wednesday might contain!

*     *     *

And whatever our discipline of hope today, let's pray together with Walter Brueggemann the timely, transformative words at the close of his poem:

'Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.'

Amen.
 

*     *     *

May this day be like none other you have ever received.

Go well!
Brian


For now, mid-day, & sunset

For Now: You can read the full poem here.

Or simply settle in to some stillness, and bring yourself with love to this particular Wednesday, and to God's presence within it, and to all who you'll meet, today.

For Mid-day: Reflect on your week, from Ash Wednesday to here. You might like to browse the wonderful RSVP page, to help you remember the journey so far.

For Sunset: A church in Ukraine has created this video of people in cellars and shelters reading Psalm 31. Why not pause to read it with them, and to pray for them. 'Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.' (Thanks to John R).

 

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5 // The Discipline of Hope

‘I was hungry, and you gave me food ...’ Matthew 25.35

*     *     *

Good morning. 

It’s been hard not to feel overwhelmed with emotion, and a sense of hopelessness, since Ukraine was attacked. So I was grateful to Miriam M in the RSVPs yesterday for highlighting the words of the prison reform activist Mariama Kaba:

'Hope doesn’t preclude feeling sadness or frustration or anger or any other emotion that makes total sense. Hope isn’t an emotion, you know? Hope is not optimism. Hope is a discipline… we have to practice it every single day.'

I find that so helpful. It reminds me of being a writer. It’s no use waiting until you’re in the mood to write, or for the muse to fall: instead you must sit down, each day, and make a start, writing one word after the next.

*     *     *

When it comes to the discipline of hope, I’m sure it helps to start small, because it means you do make a start. I’ve enjoyed sifting the ideas of a recent article, ’100 Ways to Slightly Improve Your Life Without Really Trying’, and some of its low-bar ideas have really resonated:

* Go for a walk without your phone.
* Learn how to breathe deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth.
* Make a friend from a different generation.

It's inspiring to re-frame these as hopeful acts. They really are. And you’ve shared some great disciplines in the RSVPs too, such as singing gospel songs, using the serenity prayer, watching a candle burn, drawing and writing poetry.

*     *     *

When it comes to passing hope on, small can be beautiful, too (especially if the alternative, when we only wish we could do more, is to do nothing). Think how the simplest act can bring you great joy if you're the recipient: a bunch of daffodils from a friend; a handwritten note at a difficult time; someone willing to listen.

And wonderfully, mysteriously, we welcome God into the midst when we act with mercy. Not because we get to play Jesus - we can lay that burden down! - but because we get to meet Jesus, in those we help: “I was hungry, and you fed me,” he says, in Matthew's Gospel.

Jesus is subversively present like this wherever we meet each other’s needs, whether it’s in the hell-scape of war (what scenes, of strangers welcoming refugees at the border this week), or in our local neighbourhood.

And just as we get to meet him in others, remember: someone could meet him in you, if you’re willing to be helped. Another small discipline we can practise, then; as we flicker with God-light, together in hope.
 

*     *     *

May we keep at it, today.

Go well!
Brian


For now, mid-day, & sunset

For Now: Pray for someone you know who's in need, today. Bring them to mind, and in a few moments of stillness, hold them lovingly within God's presence. Why not drop them a text later, to say you're thinking of them.

For Mid-day: Pause to remember how someone has helped you. If you have a pen and paper, write a few lines about the difference it made. Give thanks for the gifts of kindness you have received from others. Try to list a few, and let gratitude well up.

For Sunset: Thanks to Philippa H for sending a link to this short classical piece called Melody, written by the Ukrainian composer Myroslav Skoryk and performed last week by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. Pray for Ukraine, as you listen, and for our own human condition.

(You can read '100 ways to slightly improve your life without really trying' here.)

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4 // Nowhere to Be but Here

‘Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness …’ Matthew 4.1

*     *     *

Good morning. 

Why not pause before reading on, to take a breath, smile, and relax. Bring yourself with love to this moment, and to God's presence within it, and to the week ahead.
 

*     *     *

It’s easy to gloss over the words ‘Jesus was led’ at the start of the account of his time in the desert. But they're worth noticing, here in the opening days of our own Lent story. The willingness to be led is a mark of true leadership, after all. 

You might already sense how, and where, God is leading you, this Lent. Sometimes we get to glimpse a ‘signpost’, or a few serendipities begin gently to weave together. It's good to pay attention to those, without over-thinking the possibilities.

On a practical level, you might now have a better idea of what to give up, or take on. Lent's an ideal time in which to let go old habits and to cultivate life-changing new practices: to turn off some anxiety inducing social media, perhaps; or to pause prayerfully in the day (see below) in soulful rhythm, or to keep a gratitude journal ...

With all that's going on in the world, I'm feeling led to fast each Wednesday, and I'll say more about that this week, in case you'd like to join me in some small way.
 

*     *     *

But if, like many of us, you feel you can't see any signposts right now, please take heart: for Jesus was led, by the Spirit, precisely into a vast, barren space.

Such panoramic emptiness can seem scary or even like a mark of failure to find ourself in - it's so tempting to try to fill a void, or to squeeze what's useful out of it. But Jesus seems to yield, as if the space itself is gift and teacher.

*     *     *

I’ve noticed, in my own times of silent prayer or retreat, how 'guidance' rarely arrives in the moment (though it can). And that's OK: through our daily stepping into space, we naturally become a little more opened and inclined to hear the still small voice, or to act upon a growing sense of conviction, when the time comes.

But meanwhile, this sacred, set-apart time for not knowing can, if we allow it, help dismantle our assumptions about the path ahead, as well as our self-reliance; and prepare us for something richer than we might achieve in our strength alone.

It takes courage, admittedly. ‘I will trust you always, though I may seem lost,’ writes the contemplative leader Thomas Merton in a famous prayer of his. I can't help wondering how it felt for Jesus, arriving in this unmapped desert place with nothing to do but trust in God, and nowhere to be but here.

Two of the greatest invitations, come to think of it. Oh Lamb of God! Willing to lead me into life, by being led.
 

*     *     *

May we follow, today.

Go well!
Brian

PS: It's not too late for friends, family or colleagues to sign up here. (I'll send them the ones they missed!) + If you missed last Friday's YouTube Live, you can catch up with it here.


For now, mid-day, & sunset ...

For Now: Pause to acquaint yourself with the space of Lent - with 'nothing to do but trust in God, and nowhere to be but here'. Be still, be here.

Why not pray Thomas Merton's prayer:

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

From Thoughts in Solitude (Farrar, Straus and Giroux).

For Mid-day: Set your alarm for mid-day, and pause to take a few slower, deeper breaths. Use a phrase from Psalm 5 as a prayer: "Lead me, Lord."

For Sunset: Thanks to Sue T for sending a link to this two-minute Ukrainian Orthodox Chant of 'Kyrie Eleison' ('Lord, have mercy') by the Kyiv Chamber Choir. Pause around sunset (5.49pm, here), to listen and pray for Ukraine, and for our own human condition. Lord, have mercy.

(There's a beautiful waxing crescent moon around dusk, too, so you might like to step outside to connect with God's Creation, too.)

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3 // Into the Godlight

'The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.' John 1.5

*     *     *

Have you ever been in a forest, perhaps on a misty morning, when the sun breaks out in glorious, angled rays through the trees to make pools of dappled sunlight on the woodland floor? It's sublime!

According to the arboriculturalist Adam Winson, the Japanese have a term for it, for which we have no direct translation: Komorebi. It derives from three Chinese characters, meaning ‘trees’, ‘leaking through’, and ‘light’ or ‘sun’.

And I love to think it expresses something of the inexpressible wonder and goodness we can feel when light breaks through, and the soul stirs, and we light up.

*     *     *

We do have some lovely poetic adjectives in Engish for the dappled light itself: Dylan Thomas writes of ‘the rivers of the windfall light’ (in 'Fern Hill'). Gerard Manley Hopkins coined the term ‘shivelights’ for the ‘long lances’ of sunshine that can pierce the woodland canopy.

And CS Lewis (in Letters to Malcolm) muses theologically on ‘patches of Godlight’ to describe the difference between knowing about God, and experiencing the Creator's love:

‘Any patch of sunlight in a wood will show you something about the sun which you could never get from reading books on astronomy,’ he says. ‘These pure and spontaneous pleasures are patches of Godlight in the woods of our experience.’
 

*     *     *

And that's a timely reminder for us, as Lent is very much a season of experience, more than ideas - as we pause, to make space, pray and fast, cultivate a practice (such as yesterday's slow walk), and find connection ...

You may, or may not, experience a dappling Komorebi moment in the woods today. The forecast here isn't so promising, though I'll be looking out anyway! And that's OK: the dark clouds seem to fit the prevailing mood, for now.

But crucially, even as we yearn and wait for brighter days on every level, we can turn our face to the 'Sun behind all Suns, the Soul behind all souls' (as George MacLeod puts it so beautifully) ... to let the Godlight in, whatever the weather.

And what a joy, this weekend, to think that we could also bring a soulful sunburst of Komorebi blessing to someone else's darker day, as we ourselves are lit with God.

*     *     *

May you step into the Godlight.

Go well!
Brian

PS: The next reflection is on Monday. But do tune in at 4.30pm today for our first YouTube Live session, here. (Or watch later, if you can't make this afternoon.)


If you have a little time, now or later:

* Take a few moments to breathe, smile, relax, and pause. Invite some rays of God-light to break through, within. Turn your face toward the 'Sun behind all suns'.

* Try to get outside later, or at least to a window, and for a few minutes be still and watch how the light falls around you. Don't over-think it, simply use this as a meditative way of becoming present to the light and to what's around you.

Lament and Light: A word on Ukraine

It can feel impossible to adequately 'capture' the maelstrom of emotions swirling around an event as terrible as the war in Ukraine. And certainly, words or 'thoughts' alone don't always help us to process, pray or protest. You might find that a song or a piece of art can help - however imperfectly - to express something for you. 

You might already be finding solace in particular creative works, or are producing them yourself. And I can't wait to hear all about it when I invite your first batch of RSVPs next week.

But for now, I wanted to say that I've found this song by Snow Patrol called 'Run' to have helped me reflect on the sorrow of separation, and to think of ordinary people in Ukraine who are being split apart from friends and family, or worse.

It also seems to speak of love, loss, defiance and light. It's an old song, it's not written for the moment and it's not a perfect fit, but I share it with you, just in case it helps to channel some emotion for you, as well.

Light a candle, pray for Ukraine, sing, lament, light up. x

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2 // Between Glory and Amen

'And they were calling to one another: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.”' Isaiah 6.3

*     *     *

In troubled times, we can end up living more in our head than our body, and our mind can go into overdrive. So it helps to earth ourselves with simple physical practices.

I was recently re-reading some of Annie Dillard’s brilliant Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. (She says she's ‘a poet and a walker with a background in theology’, but I’d say she’s a seer.) Her book is full of wonder at Creation, and at its close, she writes:

“I go my way ... and my left foot says ‘Glory,’ and my right foot says ‘Amen’…”

I love that! Her own 'earthed' connection was to the countryside of Virginia, but duly inspired, I settled for a slow walk along local streets instead, feeling the ground beneath my feet, whispering “Glory” with my left foot, and “Amen” with my right.

I had to go really slow, to find a rhythm. But soon, between the “Glory” and the “Amen”, I began to see so much I'd otherwise have missed: flower boxes outside a shop, filled with hyacinths and narcissi; a church window depicting a family looking upward to a trinity of doves; words on a statue written in English and Hebrew, ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself.’

Glory.   Amen.
Glory.   Amen.
Glory.   Amen.

I couldn’t hurry sheepishly past the Big Issue seller this time, even if I'd have wanted to. She had such a kind smile. You overhear so many conversations, too. “I can’t go on like this,” one lady said to another as they overtook me. Her friend looked and listened, kindly. A bicycle basket overflowed with flowers. And there, a welcome bench, and a French busker filling the street with song, and my heart with delight.

*     *     *

Our steps may not always be easy - I have a physical limp just now, and I think most of us have a metaphorical one in 2022 - but each step is holy in God’s kingdom, when we bring it our loving attention.

It’s the poet Edward Thomas’ birthday today, and in his 1914 book In Pursuit of Spring, he describes his experience walking in a wood after a downpour, in which the birdsong sounds to him as he imagines it might have on the first day of Creation:

‘I found myself repeating with an inexplicable fervour the words, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.” Thomas was not a Christian, per se, and a sometimes troubled soul, which makes his response that much more moving.

*     *     *

I imagine Jesus walked slowly in the desert. He had nowhere to rush to, after all. Training his eye to see, his ear to hear, and perhaps his mind not to worry; tuning his heart to find its rhythm with God, and his feet to walk the holy, awkward pilgrim path of love which lay ahead.

And one slow, simple step at a time, we can follow, can't we? Tuning in to all we might otherwise miss, and bringing ourself, with love, back to the world around us. Learning to walk like him, with him, finding our feet between the glory and the amen.

*     *     *

 

May you walk in wonder, today.

Go well!
Brian

 

If you have a little time, now or later:

* Stay in the moment. Take a short while to imagine how Jesus tuned his heart to find its rhythm wth God. And now, do likewise.

* Listen for birdsong this morning - or to some of this RSPB recording of the dawn chorus - and imagine, like Edward Thomas, that the sound is coming from the beginning of Creation itself. Speak his response: “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.”

* Try a slow walk, like I did, whispering the word 'Glory' on the left foot and 'Amen' on the right. You don't have to go far to go deep!

* And a heads up: tomorrow will be our first 'YouTube Live' session of the series. A chance to enjoy some gently contemplative space, and to gather up the week. It's at 4.30pm (GMT) on my YouTube channel here. And you can catch up with it later if you can't make it in the moment.

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1 // All of This

"All of this I will give you,'" he said, "if you bow down and worship me." Jesus said to him, "Away from me..! For it is written, 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.''' Matthew 4.10
 

*     *     *

 

Good morning.

After two years of the pandemic, I'd been hoping we could start, today, with the promise of sunshine and springtime. And our focus will turn to those hopeful signs of light and life, for our Lent path, let's not forget, leads inexorably on to the glorious dawn of Easter Day.

But on this Ash Wednesday, a day of penitence, how can we not also face into what's happening in Ukraine? Ours is not an escapist spirituality, after all, but one of embrace.

In fact, I'm so glad we are together again, in our Lent community, for such a time as this. To express lament as well as hope; to hold the space open for each other; to seek God; to cultivate wisdom; to walk a path together.

Why not pause for a breath, before you continue, to bring yourself with love to this moment, and to our Lent beginning, and to God within it.

*     *     *

Sometimes, Lent might seem like a short-term lifestyle choice for those of us who give something up, or take something on, for the season. This year, we're surely reminded of its deeper power, too.

Watching the news unfold in Europe this week, I couldn't help thinking of how Jesus himself was tempted, at the end of his 40-day fast in the wilderness, to sell his soul for 'all of this', for all the kingdoms of the earth.

And how he resisted.

As we face into Lent, we participate in a universal reality, then: of the often darkening pull of human ego, and of the brightening hope we share, in Jesus, of a very different way to go.
 

*     *     *

We may feel, in these darker days, powerless to act. Let's not underestimate the power of prayer, especially today as the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury lead a day of prayer and fasting for peace in Ukraine. Perhaps we can find a rhythm of prayerfulness that leads all the way to Easter, and beyond.

But at the start of our Lent journey together, it's a good day, too, to stand down the kind of ego in each of us that can start an argument, pick a fight, or worse. From dust we came, and to dust we shall return. Lord, have mercy.
 

*     *     *

And while it feels hard to just get on with life while others are in such grave peril, perhaps the greatest act of resistance we can seek to make, this Lent, is to live as selflessly, without ego, and thus as soulfully, as we can.

To fight for love, with love, at every turn, whatever that looks like: welcoming the stranger, offering mercy, celebrating difference, sharing together in the best and simple gifts of life we've already been given in abundance.

None of which were the tempter's to offer in the first place, nor ours to bargain for, or take by force. "Your kingdom come," Jesus teaches us to pray. And in that kingdom of love, 'all of this' is freely ours, for it is only ever God's to give.

*     *     *

May we stand together in love, today.
Go well!

Brian

For further reflection:

* I find it helpful to use a 'breath prayer' especially when it feels like things are out of control. On the in-breath (breathing through your nose), pray silently, "Your kingdom come." Be filled. On the out-breath, pray, "Your will be done." Give control to God.

* Today has been declared a day of prayer and fasting for peace by the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury. If you feel healthily able, plan to miss a meal, and spend the time in an act of prayerfulness instead.

* Some people in our Lent community like to keep a journal and respond creatively by writing or drawing a word or phrase from each day's reflection. Why not start a journal for Lent 2022?

* You might like to go to an Ash Wednesday service. I'm hoping to go to our local cathedral in Winchester. If you can't get out, you could watch Winchester's service live at 5.30pm 'with' me via its excellent livestream here.