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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Reflection on trusting God prompted by the readings for the second Sunday in Lent.
Genesis 15. 1-12, 17, 18
Psalm 27
Philippians 3.17 -- 4.1
Luke 13. 31-35
This Sunday’s readings are here.

A poem by Charles Causley, I am the Great Sun, from a Normandy crucifix of 1632 echoes the mood of the gospel. You can read it here.

A helpful prayer of trust from Thomas Merton starts:
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me. . .
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
You can read it in full here.

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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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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