Quick! let us go to Bethlehem

… it is Luke, perhaps, who leaves us with the most profound, the most enduring image of God from these stories of a child’s birth.  It is not only standing beneath a cross that we find ourselves face to face with God.  The same happens when we kneel beside a manger.  That is why we celebrate Christmas with such gusto, and why some people who cannot handle our God at other times of year are strangely drawn towards him then.  For at Christmas we all find ourselves with a God who does not threaten or condemn, but a God (wonder of wonders!) we can hold in our arms; a God who does not wish to be left out in the cold and needs the warmth of our hospitality and care; a God who comes very close and makes himself at home; who stands on no ceremony and has no majesty about him except the majesty of love; a God who is accessible to all and who brings those on the edge of society into the centre of his circle; a God crying in the world’s dark, whose tears we must dry; a God who seems so small, so vulnerable, and yet is large enough to to hold the universe in his embrace.

When there are so many fearful images of God going the rounds of our world and its many enmities and conflicts, and when the dark side of religion is so often turned towards us, there is an urgent need for us to find this God who lies in a manger.  Quick!  Let us go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.

from The Christmas Stories by Trevor Dennis

pondering

“what if Christmas is a dual opening, a sudden exchange? What if our human heels mark that eternal life, mix with its mud? Then Incarnation goes both ways: God not only enters into us, we enter into God. Neither of us will ever be the same.” – Things Seen and Unseen, Nora Gallagher

Mary’s baby

This poem originally appeared here, where you can read the circumstances in which it was written.

It is time. From deep within
my inner dark a sudden
fierce tightening calls out.
Be still, I say. Be quiet.
This child will come
will find the light
will be the light
new in my life, but now
I want to keep him close
keep him mine alone.

A huge force squeezes me again
taking me beyond the lighted space
into the dark of inwardness
focussed only on the pain
forgetting self and any joy
to come from such gigantic toil.
Someone cries inside my head
and anxious faces swim and fade
and leave my eyes alone to look
and marvel at a miracle
as something infinitely huge and small
is born, and lifted to my arms.

My heart is broken and remade.

My son looks up. His black eyes gaze
on heaven one last lingering time
before they close against my breast.
We are alone, and all the world
shrinks to a tiny, distant speck
as swelling joy fills all my soul.

I hold him close. My son is born.

©C.M.M. 28/11/08

And there were shepherds . . .

I was there, you know. There on the hillside when the angels appeared. Of course it was years ago now – I was just a kid – but I remember every detail. It’s not the kind of thing you’re likely to forget.

It seemed I’d only just fallen asleep wrapped up in Dad’s coat, snuggled up beside him as he kept watch, when he shook me awake and I jumped up, thinking a wolf or a wildcat was in the flock.

“Up there!” He pointed to the sky that was lit up as bright as daybreak.

In the west.

I rubbed my eyes and glanced towards the east where the sun usually comes up. It was still pitch black and the stars twinkled bright as can be.

The other fellows were on their feet too, staring up at the strange light that was growing brighter by the moment. In the end we had to fall to our knees and shield our eyes it was so intense.

And then came the singing. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before, more beautiful than silver bells. It was too beautiful to hear and I covered my ears and started trembling, not with fear but from the sheer rapture of it. My dad put his arms round my shoulders and drew me to him and I hid my face in his chest, feeling the wild beating of his big old heart.

 

Sudden silence. I peeped out and saw that the light was fading. I watched the sky turn to black again and the stars reappear. I slowly turned towards the east again. Dawn was still far away but a single star shone more brightly than usual. One that I’d not noticed before.

“Quickly son,” my dad urged, “we have to find the new King.”

“But . . .” I waved my hand at the sheep, resting on the hillside, oblivious to the commotion as men gathered up their belongings and set off at a run towards the town.

“Ari and Nathan will stay and keep watch.”

They were lads too, a few years older than I was and I’m glad now that I was too young to be given such responsibility. Instead I ran to catch up the others and then overtook them, slipping and sliding over loose stones, jumping boulders, as sure-footed as the sheep and goats I tended even in the dark, running far ahead of the rest into Bethlehem.

How did I know where to go? I’ve no idea. Something guided my dusty little feet and the moon and stars seemed particularly bright. I found myself at the entrance to Simon the inn-keeper’s stable that he sometimes rents out to travellers if he’s full up. Just as I got there, the silver bells started up again, pealing and ringing in my head and a great light like the one I’d seen in the sky earlier made me tremble so that once again I fell to my knees.

“It’s all right lad, you can come in if you’re very quiet.” Someone took me by the elbow and lifted me to my feet. It wasn’t my dad, who was still far behind, but a man about his age who I didn’t know but who had a local accent. “Come,” he said, “he’s only a few hours old but already he knows you. Look, he’s smiling.”

I saw that smile again today. I’m past middle age now with my own flocks and herds and five sturdy sons to help me. But I recognised him and he seemed to know me as well. I’d heard of him of course, who hadn’t, but since he was from Nazareth I hadn’t made the connection.

He was heading towards Jerusalem with a whole band of followers, men, women and even a few children. I offered him food and shelter for the night but he smilingly refused; there were all these people to feed, he told me. I picked out the finest of my flock – young beasts that would make good eating –  and this time he accepted.

“Do you want to come with me, Aaron?” he asked.

“To Jerusalem?”

He nodded.

I was about to refuse: I was too old, had too many responsibilities, too much to lose. But suddenly my head was filled with the sound of silver bells and the sun seemed to blind me with a golden light and I stumbled. He caught me. “Well?”

The smell of roast lamb wafts over the pasture as the light fades. My family think I’ve taken leave of my senses but the urge to follow him is overwhelming. After all, I know who he really is. I was there on the hillside the day the angels sang.

i stand and wait

……

From ‘Sabbaths 2000: IX’

…….

I stand and wait for light

To open the dark night.

I stand and wait for prayer

To come and find me here.

……..

………..-Wendell Berry, Given

The silence of his coming

This advent I have been noticing the theme of silence that creeps into several of our well-known carols.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given…

No ear may hear his coming…

And in one instance, of course, silence is the central theme.

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright…

Why silence? Is silence somehow more virtuous than sound? Is a silent Jesus, sleeping in heavenly peace, somehow more desirable than a newborn infant sucking in life-giving oxygen for the first time, to lungs that are like wet clingfilm, and then belting it out again in life-heralding scream?

And let’s face it, childbirth was never a quiet, serene activity. The chances that no ear may have heard his coming that night in Bethlehem are extremely slim.

Yet the writers of these carols saw something more than sentiment when they wrote of the silence of his coming.

God’s silence may mean something other than the absence of sound. It may mean the silence of secrecy. When we think over the instances in which Jesus’ coming was heralded, we find that nearly all was done in secret. Gabriel spoke privately to Mary.  Elizabeth’s baby leapt in her womb. An angel spoke solely to Zechariah. An angel appeared to Joseph in a dream. The wise men were led my a star that was meaningful only to them.

The only public announcement of his coming was to certain poor shepherds in fields where they lay. If you had been there, you would have heard it. But the point is that no one was there to hear it – apart from the shepherds, who were outcasts and didn’t count.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given. A God who is everything our celebrity culture is not. Not loud, brash, self-absorbed, status-conscious, flash. But a God who comes to us without hype, without broadcasts, without fanfare – leaving us a quiet, respectful space in which to find him for ourselves.

Those shepherds – I’ve often wondered how they found the right house in Bethlehem: a baby wrapped like a baby and lying on straw is not the clearest of signs. But then, of course, he was probably screaming the place down.

salvete

Twice this week I have found myself preaching  and saying ‘this is the season when God turns the world upside down: when all our expectations are broken and something new begins.’  And that is the way with preaching, sometimes:  God makes us repeat and repeat and repeat an idea till we notice what we have said.

So today,  this topsy-turvy world of Advent is offering themes of Salvation, re-creation, coming to life again;  the themes of Lent.  Time bends back on itself to welcome eternity, and all the golden threads are revealed.

I have never found it easy — nor indeed desirable — to hang salvation solely on the cross.   Healing begins with Incarnation:  a new-babe born into a world of possibility, God-with-us teaching us how to be human.   Oh, I know the dangers of this sort of talk.  No, I don’t think Christ is simply an exemplar.  Yes, I believe things ‘happen’ along the way that truly change the  state of our being with God.    But more than that, I believe that it is in seeing God-with-us that we are saved.  It is in knowing, deep within ourselves, that there is no part of our human life which is separated from God’s love, no part that cannot be transformed and redeemed by Christ’s presence.   All life is held in God’s longing and loving.

The time of our salvation is near.

O Come quickly.  Come, Lord come.

Sharing the Joy of Christmas

Christmas is only a few days away and we are looking out on a snow covered Seattle waiting for what could be one of the worst winter storms for over a decade.  In our small community here at the Mustard Seed House we have gathered for morning and evening prayers throughout the Advent season anticipating together the coming of Christ and all that we look forward to at this wonderful season of the year.  Our morning prayers started with

This is a season of watchfulness
We watch and wait for the One who heard our cries and entered the suffering of our world
We expect new light to shine as the season of joy approaches

What I realize is that when Christmas arrives, in the excitement of cooking Christmas dinner, opening gifts and phoning my family in Australia, it is easy to forget what this season is really all about.  And when Christmas day and Boxing day are over our frenzied activity can easily give way to a low grade depression.  But Christmas isn’t really over as those of us who are part of liturgical traditions are well aware.  In the sixth century it was decided that celebrating Christmas just for a day didn’t  provide time to celebrate the joy that Christ’s birth brought into our world.  They made Christmas into a twelve day festival that ended with a feast on the Eve of Epiphany on January 5th to celebrate the coming of the wise men.

This Christmas I am very aware of those for whom there is little celebration.  Dustin who lives in the basement apartment at the Mustard Seed House has been very involved with Nickelsville, one of the homeless communities in Seattle and has kept us posted on their plight.  Many of the inhabitants have opted to remain in their tents in spite of temperatures well below freezing in the last few days.  They are afraid of being mugged or robbed of their few possessions if they move to one of the temporary shelters that have opened up over the Christmas season.  We have emptied our closets of woollen garments and have purchased extra food to help them through this difficult season.

In other parts of the world I am aware that the worsening economic crisis has pushed many into poverty or even over the edge into starvation.  And I find myself wondering what are ways that I can fully enter into the joyous celebration of Christmas and make it a 12 day feast not just for ourselves but for our poorest and most vulnerable neighbours in God’s worldwide community too?

This beautiful story A Christmas Gift for Mohammed by JR Briggs presents one possibility that brings a sense of God’s joy and celebration into this season.  Other possibilities you may like to consider are

1. Do you know people that are alone at this season? Take them out for a meal or invite them out for the day.  Share with them the reasons that you continue to celebrate the joy of Christmas beyond December 25th
2. Do you know people who are disabled? Take them for a drive around your neighbourhood to enjoy the Christmas lights.
3. Do you know people of other faiths? Invite them over for a meal.  Ask them questions about their own faith journey and then ask them if you can share yours and why this season is important to you.
4. Do you have friends, acquaintances or family you rarely speak to?  Phone one person each evening during the Christmas season to share your joy at Christ’s birth with them.
5. Do you know people who are homeless or living on the streets?  If you live in the Northern hemisphere invite them home for a meal and an evening by a warm fire.  If you live in the Southern hemisphere invite them out for a BBQ and an afternoon of games and fun.
6. Do you know people that work amongst the poor in other parts of the world?  Consider cutting your own food budget by half the week after Christmas and send what you save as an extra gift to encourage them during this season.

What are you doing to share your joy of the coming of the Christ child to others at this season?

the kinswoman’s story

They arrived in the baking heat of noon, Mary drooping and Joseph frantic with worry over her  They knocked at our door because we were their nearest kin in the town.  Our home was already bursting at the seams, but we wanted to show our best hospitality, and we put them in the only space we had left – the work room which was set a step above the space for the animals to be gathered at night.

As she recovered, we got to know them.  Mary was so intense, so focused; clever, witty, quick thinking, impulsive.

But it is Joseph who sticks most in my mind.  Joseph was quiet, steady, endlessly patient, both with his wife and the baby.  The quietness hid a huge depth of love.  I’ve never seen a young father more passionately intense about his son.  I remember him talking deep into the night, while Mary slept, as I rocked the child to keep him from waking his mother.

‘I will teach him all I know of building.  Of corner stones, and key stones, and of earth turned to rock by the sun.  How to fit door frames and to build hinges.  How to craft wood, and to smooth it to a satin.  I will show him the places I played as a child, and the shady nooks, and the cold vast skies of night.  I will teach him how to skim a stone, and make a whistle or a flute,’ said Joseph, ‘but I want more for this child.  I will teach all I know of the Law – and then find him good teachers for the rest.’  I thought he would teach the child a more valuable lesson.  I thought he would teach how deep a father could love.

Motherhood

Lord, as you dispelled

the fears of a maiden mother

by whispering the promise of your presence,

so banish the world’s misconceptions

about you and your ways.

Come to each of us.

Roll back the clouds of doubt and pessimism.

Fill our individual lives with servant love

and direct the nations to humble awareness;

for you are God,

rich in mercy,

strong in righteousness,

ready to make your home with us

now and for ever.

from Further Everyday Prayers

 National Christian Education Council

the Lion Prayer Collection

Detail of stained glass ‘Motherhood’ Bute Hall University of Glasgow