i-Llan: connecting faith, life and scripture

Words for Winter
I wonder what words you associate with winter. One that I came across in a book, Winters in the World: a journey through the Anglo Saxon Year by Eleanor Parker, comes from an Anglo-Saxon poem: it’s ‘winter-sorrowful’. I love the sound of it and, for me, it sums up how I so often feel at this time of year. The days are short, dark and cold, and, although the solstice is past and days are growing longer again, I know there’s more hard weather to get through before spring finally arrives.

Perhaps that sounds depressing, but I find something positive in accepting winter sorrow rather than denying it. Too often, western culture wallows in other people's tragedies while putting pressure on people to present a cheerful facade. Sorrow is seen as a mental illness rather than a natural part of life's cycles. (I am not thinking here of the genuine illness and tragedies that befall us, but the normal ups and downs of life.)

The rhythm of the seasons is deep within us, and it’s as well to listen to it even though it’s hard to resist the pressure to stay as cheerful and busy in winter as in summer. In the north, winter is a natural season of rest, retraction, hibernation. For pre-industrial societies it was certainly a time of hardship. Anglo-Saxon poets describe winter as an invading army bent on destruction, imprisoning everything in 'fetters of frost’—a stark reality for war-torn areas today. For those in financial hardship, it’s still a time of struggle to survive. I’m grateful for the technology and good fortune which provides me with warmth, shelter and food. (Two days without water because of a burst water main made me even more appreciative when the taps started running again.) But the poets also wrote of spring and hope.

The winter solstice is the turning point of the year. In the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, midwinter is often used to mean Christmas. Just as the year is at its darkest, we celebrate the birth of Jesus, ‘the true light that lightens the world’ (John 1. 9). So this Sunday, in midwinter darkness at the dawn of a New Year, I offer you words of hope in two blessings of light. Take time to dwell on them, and receive their warmth and encouragement.

The first is from today’s readings, ancient words that resonate with St John’s imagery of divine light.
The LORD bless you and keep you;
the LORD make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you;
the LORD lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. (Numbers 6. 24-26)

The second is an Irish blessing that is warm and homely in tone as it reminds us to offer welcome to others who may be winter-sorrowful.
May the blessing of light be on you.
Light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you and warm your heart
till it glows like a great peat fire,
so that the stranger may come in and warm himself at it,
and also a friend.
May the light of the Lord shine from your eyes
like a candle in the window, welcoming the weary traveller.

To close, here’s a short poem on hope. Whatever your level of winter-sorrow, may you have hope to carry you through:

Dark days
and bitter nights;
Soil seized in ice-hard grip.
As the earth turns towards the sun
Bulbs stir.

May 2023 be a year of blessing for you.

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Transcript
The animals at the crib

On Christmas Day in the chapel where I was worshipping, I was struck by the number of sheep at the crib. Then it occurred to me that a Christmas crib is incomplete without animals—the ox and ass, and at least one lamb. And, of course, the camels with the magi on a nearby windowsill making their way to Bethlehem to arrive on 6 January.

Of those, the Bible only mentions sheep out in the fields. And given that the ‘shepherds went with haste’, I don’t imagine they took any of their flock with them. I assume some unlucky shepherd—probably the boy, or perhaps the oldest and slowest—was left in charge in the fields.

We can infer the nearby presence of animals given that Jesus was cradled in their feeding trough. And I really hope Mary didn’t have to walk all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem given her advanced pregnancy. So I’m grateful for the donkey. (Yes, the donkey is there in the photo.) Similarly, camels, even horses, are a safe bet, though would they have gone in or would they have been left out in the street in the charge of the smallest pageboy?

Whatever the facts of the matter, it comforts me that animals are such an integral part of our imaginings of the nativity.

Ruminating further, I realise there is a deeper theological aspect to this. I often talk about God, in Jesus, coming to share our human life. But, the Christmas gospel tells us that
‘Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.’ (John 1. 3)
And St Paul writes to Christians in Colossae that
‘all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. . . through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.’ (Colossians 1.16, 17, 20)

In other words, in Jesus, God came to share all life on earth. Animals have as much place at the birth of the Lord of Creation as humans do.

Jesus grew up a country boy and his teaching is full of examples from farming life and the natural world. Miracle stories tell how he had power over natural forces: he calmed a storm, walked on water, fed 5000 people with five barley baps and two small fish. At his death, the earth quaked and the sun was hidden.

Today we are well aware of the climate crisis. I sometimes wonder whether, when people express concern for the planet, their concern is actually only for the human race. The planet may change but will survive. But human activity condemns many species as well as our own to hardship and possible extinction.

The animals at the crib remind me that I am one small part in a web of connections that bind all life together. Christmas is not just for humans but for the whole earth.

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At the end of a stormy week, a reflection on the story of Jesus calming a storm and asking, 'where is your faith?'

The Sunday readings referred to are:
Genesis 2. 4b-9, 15-25
Luke 8. 22-25
They, and the full text of the collect prayer, can be found here.

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A reflection on two verses from Psalm 84 and their relevance to the spiritual pilgrimage of Holy Week.
The podcast mentions this prayer, a litany of the disciples of the servant
from Andhra Theological College, Hyderabad, South India:
Help us to follow you on the road to Jerusalem, to set our faces firmly against friendly suggestions for a safe, expedient life, to embrace boldly the way of self-offering, of life given for others’ gain:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you into the city, to claim its whole life for God. whose image man bears, to confront the ambitions of the power-hungry, the inhuman orthodoxy of the legalist, with the startling message of your present action, your living power:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you into the temple of your chosen people, to erase from the worship of your Church all that hinders the sense of your presence, the free flow of your Word, to open up your house so that it may be a house of prayer for all people:
Help us to follow you. Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you into the upper room to share your meal of bread and cup, to accept our common place in your one Body, broken to create a new Man:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you into the garden, to watch with you, ever vigilant for signs of the dawning of your new day, to struggle unsparingly to understand and to carry our your perfect will:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you into the judgement hall, to stand mocked and condemned for daring to speak direct of divine forgiveness, daring to claim God’s personal commissioning, daring to disrupt the plans of unscrupulous leaders for the control of the masses; to stand for those whose right to stand has been usurped:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you even unto the Cross, to share in carrying your cross like Simon the African, to recognise our life in your death, our hope in your self-spending love, to die to all within us that is not born of your love:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant.

Help us to follow you out of the dark tomb. to share daily your resurrection life, to be renewed daily in your image of love, to be used daily as your new Body in your service to the world:
Help us to follow you, Christ the servant. Amen

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The Trinity is a doctrine that uses big words and abstract philosophical concepts.
But, at its heart, the Trinity is about personal relationship and mutual desire.
This episode reflects on how the doctrine developed and uses Leonard Cohen's song 'Dance me to the End of Love' to explore the idea of the Trinity as a divine dance of shared love.

i-Llan is part of alisteningspace.uk