Author: admin

In spirituality as in much else I guess we all have our conceptual and devotional comfort zones. As in most other areas of life, a comfort zone is a good place to be, for a wee while. But living there long term does little to set free our imagination, stimulate intellectual curiosity, develop emotional stamina, sustain mental and physical health, or change much else about us so that we might want to be more than we presently are content with being.

Being a man, may be a biological accident, but it's also an inevitable part of my human identity, a partial and incomplete way of looking at the world, and therefore a limitation of horizon and persepctive that I need to allow for – being a man, I can only guess at what it was like to be a young woman, visited by an angel, who announces my future, and links it to the future of the whole creation. The Annunciation is one of the most stunning moments in the history of human religious experience, an event with comic and cosmic significance; comic, because it begins a drama that will resolve in an unimaginable triumph of love, life and goodness; and cosmic because the drama is the drama of the world's salvation and the redemption of all Creation. The great artists of the Renaissance saw this with instant clarity and portrayed it with magnificent anachronism, extravagant symbol, and theological sensitivity.

Now as a 21st Century man, I encounter such art and realise I'm out of my depth, summoned by a beauty beyond me, addressed by strangeness, compelled to read but uncertain of the language, and therefore needing a grammar of aesthetics and a dictionary of medieval religious concepts and affections, to help me unlock the syntax of images that say more than words. So a painting of the Annunciation like that of Vittore Carpaccio above, invites me to be perplexed, impatient, and conceptually disempowered – that is, it beckons me across the thresholds of my comfort zone. And only if I have the courage to go, will I discover through contemplative patience, and through intellectual welcome of new and different ways of knowing, yet one other way of theological encounter, spiritual openness and personal surrender – which is prayer and a deepening love of God.

And let's face it. Devotion to the Triune God whose life of eternal self-giving is ever interwoven in mutual love, and is inexhaustibly expressed in infinite goodness, and overflows in endlessly creative purposes, reaching out to embrace the Creation called into being by that same self-expending love, requires of us more than the complacency, contentment and constraints of our personal devotional comfort zones.

And so to Carpaccio's painting, and Advent. Because whatever else Advent does, it forces upon us a reconceptualising of what God is about, and what our lives are about. The Annunciation is an event that changes forever and a day, the life of a young woman. Theologically, it reasserts the limitless paramaters of grace, it redefines the nature of redeeming love, it reconfigures the hopes of a nation, a world and all humanity, all of which hangs on the yes of a young woman. That is what the painting is about. Look at it in that light – that crisis moment that awaits the words, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto me according to thy word".  

C S Lewis again:

"The pure light walks the earth; the darkness, received into the heart of deity, is there swallowed up. Where, except in uncreated light, can the darkness be drowned."

Letters to Malcom, ch. 13.

One of Sheila's Christmas card photos of our garden – this was before the big precipitation of Saturday.

Now I'm not one for ad hoc Advent miracle stories in which we all find our own angels doing their thing on our personal behalf.

But here's what happened.

I spend most of Sunday morning digging our way out of the house and clearing the drive.

Then I do the same for our neighbour who isn't up to that kind of thing now.

Next up the hill through snow deep enough to come over the tops of my wellingtons, to clear the road for my car, and to remove the 9 inches of frosted snow from it.

Job done I collect the snow shovel, scraper, long handled brush (only way I can reach across the car roof being so diminutive myself)

Walking back down I'm greeted by Dempsey, the big daft dug from next door, lolloping around in snow carrying his blue ball.

Drops it at my feet and demands I throw it – which I do, and it disappears into a snow drift.

Dempsey hasn't a scooby doo where it went, and sits there waiting to see what this thick wee human is going to do about it.

In a reversal of roles, he sits there and I go and retrieve it. 

Then in for a hot tea and a Nick Nairn crumpet – at which point I look for my keys.

The bunch of keys, car, house, and every other locked premise I'm repsonsible for.

  Somewhere in the deep snow, between the car and the house (50 metres or so of 18 inch deep all but virgin snow) somewhere, I dropped the keys.

Easily done. I had gloves on – was sure I'd pocketed them – clearly had missed, and the keys fell soundlessly into the snow.

At which point the snow plough went up the road and I had visions of my keys bulldozed under tons of snow and probably now buried till Spring.

The day got worse – more snow, so heavy it wasn't wise to be out poking in snow looking for keys.

So bad the car struggling up the hill outside the door had two people with shovels and grit helping it up the road.

I make a list of who to phone and how to get new keys, spare keys – the whole thing an embarrassing amount of trouble for other people.

Doorbell rings.

A polite person in white, holds out to me a bunch of keys which he knows are mine.

An angel. An Advent messenger. A heavenly visitor, who has for once heard my self-centred petitionary prayer to have my blessed keys returned.

A miracle. A sign that I am favoured amongst men!

Well. Actually. A man with a shovel who had been digging away the snow to get the car up the hill and who had come across a bunch of keys.

One of them was the Honda car key – only one Honda owner nearby. Keys must be mine. Rational deduction, not miracle.

Aye right! Sometimes the miracle is the coincidence of circumstances – what are the chances of dropped keys, deep snow, snow plough, stranded car, man with shovel, clink of keys and Honda logo, all coming together to that point when my doorbell rang and I'm faced with a man smiling through a layer of snow handing me my keys, for which I had prayed with intermittent desperation, once I'd stopped cursing my own carelessness? Huh?

Anyway, the rest of the day was spent in the wondering afterglow as I pondered these things in my heart :))

…….

For those interested, I have posted a more traditional Advent reflection over at Hopeful Imagination.

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given…." Advent is for me a time of theological excitement, a recurring reminder of the vastness and modesty, the miracle and ordinariness, the inexplicable mercy and unobtrusive normality, the indescribable gift and the unforgettable story, of what God was about when that child was born in Bethlehem. There are themes in the nativity stories that have fascinated and frightened, inspired praise and provoked puzzlement, giving many food for much thought while others could only swallow the stories with a pinch of salt. Virgin birth, divine promise, incarnation, divine intervention, angels, Christology, miracles and mysteries – not one of them a theological no-brainer.

The picture of the Madonna and Child is the focus of my first Advent blog post. It's from a school called the Master of the Embroidered Foliage. The early Renaissance artists knew a thing or two about theology as well as art – and they help us with the inexplicable mercy and the unobtrusive normality of the workings of the Advent God. You can read the post on this painting over at Hopeful Imagination. During Advent there will be a daily post at Hopeful Imagination – you may already have your Advent blog destinations arranged, but if you're looking for more, give it a try.