(for context: since Pentecost, our Hodge Hill Church community has been following a journey of exploring and deepening our discipleship that we've been calling 'Trees of Life' - sharing together in weekly readings and reflections that can be found here: www.treesoflifehodgehill.blogspot.com)
What can I offer
this Christmas Eve?
This Christmas Eve
in particular,
when this year
there has been
so much…
so
much…
so
much…
And
so much
has gone unmet
ungathered
unhugged
unshared
uncelebrated
ungrieved
unsaid.
And
we have lost so many
and so many
have fought
for breath
and we have been sick
and tired
and have had enough
more than enough
of this year.
What
can I offer?
In the bleak
mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
Christmas at midwinter
is no coincidence.
Midwinter
for those
who set the date
back in the mists
of time
amid the longest of
Northern hemisphere
nights
when the waiting
for dawn to break
seems to take
forever
when moods
can be as dark
and icy
and low
as the temperature
of the air
when food
is scarce
unless you are lucky
enough
to have squirrelled
away
when the earth
is cold
and hard
and all life
is hiding
or hibernating
or dead
Christmas
at midwinter
is no coincidence.
Not then
Not now
when the waiting
for dawn to break
seems to take
forever.
* * *
And yet.
Under the surface.
In the depths
of the dark night
and the depths
of the dark earth
and the depths
of the dark womb
What
is stirring
growing
unfurling?
That was
is
our Advent
question…
* * *
So now
in the darkness
we offer
our wintered world
our wintered earth
our wintered longings
our wintered hearts
this unending
Advent
and we wait
and
watch
this space
…
* * *
Our God, heaven
cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty —
Jesus Christ.
The
light,
says John,
shines in the darkness
And
all the ends of the earth,
says Isaiah,
shall see
the salvation
of our God
The
God
who cannot be
contained
The
light
that cannot be
put out
The
song
that cannot be
silenced
The
upside-down kin-dom
that cannot be
controlled
confined
co-opted
The
mighty
unseated
the rich
divested
the lofty
felled
the
lowly
lifted
the hungry
satisfied
the thirsty
fragile
tender
shoots
watered
tended
nurtured
grown
up
and out
and into
life
in all
its fullness…
* * *
So
in the bleak
midwinter
in
the dark
of the longest
of nights
has
the brightness
of mid-day
suddenly
appeared?
has
midsummer
suddenly
come?
is
the desert
suddenly
dramatically
in full flower,
the trees
clapping
the bees
buzzing
the birds
nesting
the lion
and the lamb
playing
together
in the
sunshine?
* * *
Or
is something
smaller,
quieter,
less dramatic
happening
underground,
in the shadows,
at the edges,
betwixt and
between
in
the common
ground
common
as muck
decomposing on the
compost heap
the
quietest
of dew drops
swelling
on the leaves
the
tiniest
of buds
greening
on the branches
* * *
‘The
unchristmas tree’,
by Rosie Miles & Nicola Slee
The
unchristmas tree has no lights
except what filters through its spaces
no
tinsel
except its own astringent needles
no
star
except those caught in its branches
no
presents
except the gifting of itself
The
unchristmas tree costs nothing at all
except the grace to notice where it grows
* * *
are
these
the signs
of the kingdom
we are
looking for
the
humble
stable-places
in our
unstable
world
will
these
suffice
be
enough
be full
of grace
and truth
if
we
accept
but the grace
to stop
and look
and look
again
and notice
where life –
unlit
untinselled
unstarred
unwrapped
unsold
unbought –
where life
as gift
grows
will
that
be
enough…
Enough for Him,
whom cherubim
worship night and day,
a breastful of milk
and a mangerful of hay;
enough for Him, whom angels
fall down before,
the ox and ass and camel
which adore.
‘and
a little child
shall lead them’
not
the usual
un-kind of
leader
but
the only
kind
who can lead
hand
in hand
with love
vulnerable
love
patient
love
slow
growing
trust growing
walking speed
love
persistent
falling and
getting up
again love
serious
feeding the
hungry
turning the
tables love
playful
wondering
experimenting
giggling
gurgling love
child-like
grace
truth
light
love
Angels and
Archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His Mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
Love
so simple.
And yet
in our bleak-masked
midwinter,
locked down
with iron-hard
restrictions,
distanced
from each other
a stone’s throw
or more,
a kiss
a hug
a cuppa
a song
together
none of these
is simple
and for that
we grieve
we are torn
hollowed out
ruined
longing
aching…
What can I give
Him,
Poor as I am? —
If I were a Shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part, —
Yet what I can I give Him, —
Give my heart.
‘Christmas,’
writes a wise woman friend,
‘presents people
of faith
with challenge.
Not least
among the challenges
is a question
of how the arrival
of God
as a baby
can be any sort
of serious gift
at all;
when we ask
what on earth
our own gift
to God
might look like
in return,
we find
an analogue…
The God worshipped
by Christians
cannot be held
by heaven
or sustained by earth
and yet is –
in the moment of Nativity -
nothing more
than a baby.
He is helpless,
unable to feed
or look after himself.
He is so vulnerable
that he could not
defend himself
if we sought
to hurt him.
Seemingly
his only gift
is to elicit
our love,
our kiss,
the offering
of a beating,
changing
heart.’
(Rachel Mann)
The offering
of our faith,
we might say,
‘green
as a leaf’.
That
is what I can
offer
what you can
offer
what the child
gifts
us
invites
us
into
the stable-place
that suffices
is
enough
The breath
of this child
fragile
warms
our wintered world
our wintered earth
our wintered longings
our wintered hearts
and where
it warms
there Spring
begins
roots
and branches
stretch
reach out
leaf-buds
green
hearts
beat
throats
clear
voices
raise
ruins
break forth
together
into
song.
* * *
Drawing
near, by Jan Richardson
It
is difficult to see it from here,
I know,
but trust me when I say
this blessing is inscribed
on the horizon.
Is written on
that far point
you can hardly see.
Is etched into
a landscape
whose contours you cannot know
from here.
All you know
is that it calls you,
draws you,
pulls you toward
what you have perceived
only in pieces,
in fragments that came to you
in dreaming
or in prayer.
I
cannot account for how,
as you draw near,
the blessing embedded in the horizon
begins to blossom
upon the soles of your feet,
shimmers in your two hands.
It is one of the mysteries
of the road,
how the blessing
you have travelled toward,
waited for,
ached for
suddenly appears,
as if it had been with you
all this time,
as if it simply
needed to know
how far you were willing
to walk
to find the lines
that were traced upon you
before the day
you were born.
* with deep gratitude to Rachel Mann for her wonderful commentary on Christina Rosetti's carol/poem, 'In the bleak midwinter' (in the book by the same name)
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