the gift carol

Once in the long ago cold was the night;
high in the heav’ns above shone a great light.
Shepherds among their sheep look’d up in fear;
angelic voices sang Jesus is near.

Nearby in Bethlehem, Jesus was born;
His cot a cattle-stall, Mary forlorn -
but to His manger bed came wise men three,
Kneeling before the King men could not see.

Christmas is here again, earth’s praises ring:
Have we a gift for Him – what shall we bring?
Love was His gift to us – for love he died:
Love we will give to Him this Christmastide.

Alex Turnbull

Holy Land Shepherd

Burnt porridge

You think you’d LIKE to see an angel, do you? No. Not something to like. We were boiling up a bit of gruel on the fire. To this day when I smell gruel burning I feel … it takes me there. Burned porridge, and, – look, I’m not one of your religious types. I’m trying hard to keep this clean, not use bad words.

This thing was there, and yes, we were all s – we were all – This thing was there. Bigger than a house. Burning light. A lots of wings, claws, legs, a terrifying face. Then something like a human shape, wavering like looking at fire. That’s not why I nearly peed myself. Not the claws, not the face. It was a sense – look, I don’t do touchy feely, woman’s stuff? OK? Don’t do it. But I just wanted to hide. Wanted the ground to swallow me. Found myself thinking of things I’d decided to forget.

And then it spoke. It told us not to be afraid. It was quite clear this was an order. You ever tried to stop being afraid because something terrifying gave you an order? I knew I couldn’t – and it made me even more afraid. And the thing spoke of the Messiah – and we all know what the day of the Messiah is like, don’t we? Fine for you holy bods, sure. People like me? Darkness, that’s what. Threat.

And then the thing told us to go to the village and find the Messiah.

Look it was like the burned porridge. It was so f, flaming ordinary. Not a Messiah like what I expected. Not darkness. A baby, wrapped up just as all little ‘uns are – and lying where busy mothers put them, in the work room, safe in the manger during the day while the beasts are out. It was so – look you don’t expect great masses of flame and when you get them, you don’t expect a message about a baby all safely wrapped up. You just don’t.

And you don’t expect one blooming great mass of fire to turn into countless masses of fire, none of them any smaller, all singing in complex harmonies. I like a song – I’m one they always call on to sing at weddings and the like – you may well think us a rough lot, but we have our songs. And I ain’t never heard the like of this. I can’t tell you what I’d give to take a part in a song like that. A good deal more than I possess – that’s what.

Then an empty hill – well, it seemed empty. Just us, the sheep and the burned out saucepan.

Advent

“Come,” Thou dost say to Angels,
To blessed Spirits, “Come”;
“Come,” to the Lambs of Thine Own flock,
Thy little Ones, “Come home”.

“Come” – from the many-mansioned house
The gracious word is sent,
“Come” – from the ivory palaces
Unto the Penitent.

O Lord, restore us deaf and blind,
Unclose our lips tho’ dumb;
The say to us, “I come with speed”,
And we will answer, “Come”.

Christina Rossetti (1830-94)

apocalypse comprehended

I had hidden from others how hard I struggled for faith in those first days. What kept me going, what empowered me, was the candle flame of life that licked and flickered in my belly. The son I carried, so tiny, made me courageous for his sake, for he had nobody on earth to defend his honour or to protect him – only me.

So I struggled, all brave face and hidden terror.

Then came the extraordinary one moment. I stood there, and I was supported by the sudden unexpected grace of my old cousin, and in that one moment total certainty filled me.

All generations would envy me, and with me, those like me. The reviled. The weak. The barely-hopeful. They would learn where God’s favour lay. Right was prevailing. The strong, the rich, the self satisfied, they were doomed. God’s strength was not hidden any longer, it was made plain in my life, in the lives of those like me. It was we who were filled with faith, and the longing for justice, and we were satisfied with mercy, filling our mouths and hearts until there was no room for more, until the grace of God ran down our faces like the juices of an overfull mouth of grapes.

I stood there exultant, and the glory of the moment lit dark moments of terror whenever they threatened to engulf me for years to come. Always I would remember when the flame of the small life shone from within me as the brightest thing in the world.

Home for the holidays?

So many plan to travel home (flights permitting) this Christmas. Home is important at this time of year. And it should be.

And yet:

The emphasis on home in this season is at variance with what is happening spiritually, with what we celebrate as Christmas. To engage this tension is to understand why we have such difficulty sustaining these images, why Christmas comes but once a year, stays so little time, and creates as much havoc as holiness in our lives. It is the romance – a wonderful, if temporary high. But it is reality which accompanies us for the long haul.

The angel came to Mary by night – a visit which comes with the comforting assurances of the love of God, and leaves with the discomforting reality that his ways are not ours. God promises to be with Mary, but the assurance is not of safety and security. From this moment, home will never be home for Mary again. God’s presence in that young woman’s life is not that of hearth -loving husband, nor of powerful protector. God will be with Mary violently and vibrantly, in a child conceived in mystery and born on the move. Joseph had it right: this strange visitation is an embarrassment beyond explanation. All the romance we have woven to wrap the reality in cosy warmth, to make it bearable, will never be enough to contain it.

This is the way with God. He will not be contained. That was the message delivered to Mary. He will dwell in the midst of us. That is why the Christmas we see each year is a fleeting thing, as ephemeral as we. Like all the romantic residences we erect to snare the wandering spirit of God, it is too weak a net to hold the force that gives all things life. Even in the sheltering warmth of our fanciful crib, we bend over a baby born of tension, a child of earth.

Adapted from Sam Portaro, Daysprings
Cowley Publications, Boston 2001.

apocalypse always

Papyrus is expensive. I smooth my hand over it. Greek, too, in its own way is expensive. A language which takes my mind in difficult directions, where I need to concentrate to get the full natural value from the words. Though these days I dream in Greek.

I take up the pen, dip it in the ink. I sigh. It is so clear in my mind. I see circle after circle, each holier, more perfect than the next. Daily life, the Temple, the Holy Place, the Holy of Holies. Then, far and far beyond them, Jesus himself. I see him offer himself. How magnificent is it to do that? To take your very life, for that is what blood is, and to pour it away for others. To do it once, and to do it always. Nothing is holy beside that.

And all I have to offer to get the enormity of this across to people is papyrus and ink. I am translating. Hebrew into Greek. One culture to others. I am trying to draw people up, on. I see them stop, willing to be children in faith, never growing, never learning. They fail to see the enormity of what is done for them. They fail to see the life, the very life dashed out willingly, openly, once and always.

Really I do not know if I can ever get that across to them. And all I have is pen and paper. I sigh again. The ink on the pen is dry. I dip it again. I write: ‘When Christ came into the world…’

First Coming

He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.

He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He dined with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine. He did not wait

till hearts were pure. In joy he came
to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.

He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.

We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

Madeleine L’Engle

The Wicked Fairy at the Manger

No gift for the child

No wife, kids, home.

No money sense. Unemployable.

Friends, yes. But the wrong sort -

The workshy, women.

Petty infringers of the law, persons

With notifiable diseases,

Poll tax collectors. tarts;

The bottom rung.

………..His end?

I think we’ll make it

Public, prolonged, painful.

………………………………

Right, said the baby. That was roughly

What we had in mind.

…………………………………………………….

U. A. Fanthorpe ( Christmas Poems – BC-AD,  Peterloo Poets)

wrong apocalypse

Heat burned. The sun baked, destroyed. The water was all the more delightful in contrast. Fasting until hunger died, water never failed to give joy. I dunked them all. I took all who came, and turned them round, washed off the past, set them on track to become true children of the father-of-us-all Abraham. I was so wide, so radical in my acceptance. Nobody fell outside the scope of my message. Collaborators, extortioners – I told them all they could live a life as acceptable to God as the next man.

But it was a balanced message. I did full justice to the demands of Heaven for radical purity. I told them all to repent. I spoke of the one who would come. I spoke of the joy of his gathering in those who I was winnowing clean, but I also spoke of the terror of fire. I spoke of the destruction of evil.
Now I turn to and fro, to and fro, pacing this small cell. For I thought I knew the one who was coming after and he has let me down. Where is the radical purity? Where is the constant demand for repentance, the new life? Fire? Fire?

He forgives, not the Heavenly One, him – alright, I offered a new start, but in return for repentance. He just – he just offers it. He gives it away free. He cheapens it. He cheapens the Lord.
I offered them cool out of the fire, I gave them water and cleansing, and I gave to all who were sorry. I hear tonight he went to the house of a self righteous Pharisee, who would never recognise how his own wealth was an affront, and he had a common tart draped over his feet, and he just sat there, stuffing his face and talking about how they were all forgiven. And not one word of judgement, not one. This one offers no fire of any kind, nothing to burn up, transform, consume.

And yet, and yet. Some things that he says chime true as a bell. Some things that he does. So I pace here, waiting, waiting for my disciples to report back. My heart sinks. I had thought I would not die before I saw the One Who Is To Come.

Is this self-indulgent one with his easy words, that One? Would it be better or worse if he was?