Category: Advent

President Obama has acted with great dignity and compassion in the days following the Newtown school massacre in Massachusets. Words are always necessary and seldom adequate, to express those deep longings and searing anguishes that can tear the heart out of us. Amongst the words he used was his rhetorical question about not allowing such tragic occurences to become routine. In addition to words, he came to visit, to offer his presence, to share the tears and the unanswerable questions of parents and colleagues and children. 

One of the most underplayed episodes in the Christmas story is the slaughter of the innocents. It rightly finds no place on our Christmas cards, though there are many older carols that describe and try to find a theological sense in a minor political atrocity which in Herod's day would have been 'routine'. Here the King launches a pre-emptive strike against children, and the political expediency of the action justifies the collateral damage, ensuring his power remains unchallenged. Death comes openly and irresistably, and human life laid waste.

The news this morning tells of ten young girls aged 7-11, killed in Nangahar province Afghanistan, because one of them accidentally hit a landmine with an axe while gathering firewood. No one set out to place a landmine amongst the children, but landmines are made to kill and maim, and planting them under sand and soil, they are simply death camouflaged and waiting. That no one planned such a tragic event is not the point. Somebody made that device and made it well – it did its job, with terrible efficiency and guaranteed results. Someone else planted it with lethal intent, and landmines have their own pre-set circuitry, and the lethal intent was realised in its murderous obedience.

All of which leaves me wondering about the President of the United States' heartfelt wish that mass murder of children must not become routine; the truth is, it has, and in more places than America. Weapons and devices manufactured for the explicit purpose of efficient, accurate, quantitative killing of human beings will always find fingers to pull triggers and hands to set detonators. Our own experience in Scotland and the lovely town of Dunblane means we have some understanding of the consequences of inexplicable violence visited on the innocent.

So I sit here wondering what the real human connections are between those weeping women and men in Massachusets, and those weeping women and men in Nangahar. Parents have lost their lovely children; innocent precious young human beings taken from us and from our world. I passionately believe in the precious uniqueness of every child; I cherish the human capacity to love and give our deepest commitments to children; and I utterly hold to a view of each human being as made in the image of God. As a Christian I am left today reflecting about the dangerous world we live in, and the paradox that human beings begin life in a place of great vulnerability, and depend on the love, safekeeping and provision not only of parents, but of their community. And into such vulnerability came the Son of God, a child whose birth triggered the power paranoia of Herod. And into, and out of, that maelstrom of violence a family fled for their lives – and God came close to us, Emmanuel.

So whether a military grade assault rifle and two highly engineered automatic pistols stolen from a mother's cupboard, or a cunningly concealed fully armed landmine detonated by a child gathering wood to keep her family warm, mothers weep. And the prophet's immense sorrow lingers in our hearing, "A voice is heard in Ramah wailing and loud lamentation. Rachel weeping for her children; she refuses to be consoled."

Lord have mercy.

Christ have mercy.

Lord have mercy.

This is beautiful.

By a little known artist, Francis Ashton Jackson, a fringe Pre-Raphaelite. 

Restored from a set of murals in a home for retired clergy.

 

Last night went to the midnight service in Skene. Carol singing for half an hour, then a thoughtful exploration of what it means to be wanted in someone else's life – Emmanuel, God who comes to us seeking welcome as the one who will always welcome us.

The magic was walking there and coming out into a clear frosty sky, It came upon the midnight clear was illustrated on a North Eastern sky, a star studded sky, sparkling with jewels whose light flashed aeons ago, and now reaches us at precisely this moment. I took time to gaze, and wonder, and ponder, and feel very small, but held within a purpose vaster than that same swirling galaxy, itself one of billions of such realities.

When I look at the stars what are human beings that you care for them – well as a matter of fact, says God, pretty special. "For unto us a child is born…and the word became flesh and dwelt amongst us, and we beheld his glory…"

Peace and joy to all who come here, not only today, but whenever you find your way here. Serve God wittily in the tangle of your mind – and the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your heart and mind in the knowledge and love of God….

 

 I found this remarkable exposition of a Psalm verse by Ambrose of Milan on a blog I now frequent regularly. Each day a substantial passage from the Church Fathers and Mothers is offered for meditation, often adhering to the liturgical and Saints' calendars. Will be giving Living Wittily a refresh during Christmas  and I'll give this and several other links worth dropping into for a horizon widening, or heart enlarging, or mind stretching exercise.

Meantime allow the strangeness and gentleness of a pre-industrial, pre-technological worldview to create images far removed from retail parks and shopping malls, forest stripping and greenhouse emissions, celebrity overload and unreal reality shows, credit crunches and Eurozones. Not that these don't matter – they matter so much that to live in the reality of them, and try to change them, the human heart needs resources deeper than human ambitions and capacities, and needs a centre that is more durable than the self-interested pursuit of personal and national interests. The passage deals with such strange things as sermons – but just for once, assume that each follower of Jesus who opens their mouth, has the opportunity to offer words that refresh, nourish, irrigate, and so are life-enabling, life enhancing and life-sharing. Isaiah 35 isn't seen as an Advent text – but the image of streams in the desert, alongside the promise in John 4 that the woman of Samaria would discover wells of water bubbling to eternal life are enough for me to make the connection.

When Ambrose says the words of Jesus are like clouds of refreshment, torrential rivers of joy, deep wells of life-giving, he is exulting in the Word made flesh, that comes to live amongst us, and in whose words are eternal life.

………………………………………………

Drink, then, from Christ, so that your voice may also be heard.

Store up in your mind the water that is Christ, the water that praises the Lord.

Store up water from many sources, the water that rains down from the clouds of prophecy.

Whoever gathers water from the mountains and leads it to himself or draws it from springs, is himself a source of dew like the clouds.

Fill your soul, then, with this water, so that your land may not be dry, but watered by your own springs.

He who reads much and understands much, receives his fill. He who is full, refreshes others.

So Scripture says: If the clouds are full, they will pour rain upon the earth.

Therefore, let your words be rivers, clean and limpid, so that in your exhortations you may charm the ears of your people. And by the grace of your words win them over to follow your leadership.

Let your sermons be full of understanding. Solomon says: The weapons of the understanding are the lips of the wise; and in another place he says: Let your lips be bound with wisdom. That is, let the meaning of your words shine forth, let understanding blaze out.

See that your addresses and expositions do not need to invoke the authority of others, but let your words be their own defence.

Let no word escape your lips in vain or be uttered without depth of meaning.

Ambrose of Milan (c. 337-397): Letter 2, 1-2. 4-5.7:  from Office of Readings for the Memoria of St Ambrose, December 7^th, @ Crossroads Initiative.

Funny how unrelated things come together sometimes.  A TV personality caused outrage by suggesting strikers should be shot.

Explanations about being satirical with a sharp edge, or words taken out of context, or apology that people were offended, didn’t redeem the situation.

They simply betrayed the dangerous deficits of compassion, understanding and ethical responsibility that can lurk in what is intended to make people laugh.

 

Then I had a discussion with some students about laughter. A sense of humour is an essential attribute if we want to learn, understand, enjoy and come to love human beings. Humour and humanity come from the same word family.  What we laugh at says something unmistakable about what we live for and how we look at the world. Laughter with people creates deep bonds of togetherness, head nodding, hand-clapping, shoulder-shaking mirth, and joy in the oddity of things. Laughing at people is divisive, and tries to diminish the one laughed at.

 The contrast of inhumane non-jokes about other human beings called strikers, and one of the nicest compliments I ever read couldn’t be greater: “he looked humanely forth on human life”. The greatest humorists manage to bring humour and humanity together. Then our laughter brings us close to tears, because we see ourselves, our ridiculous, wonderful , mistake-making selves, in their work.

Advent is the time we celebrate the birth and humanity of Jesus, ‘when God almighty, came to be one of us’. Christmas joy is because Jesus shows us the God who does not mock our humanity, but takes it and restores it, and redeems our own humanity in that great original act of generous love. Emmanuel. God with us.

The two images are carefully chosen – the one smiley amongst the blue down in the mouths – and the Annunciation (Botticelli) of what would become good tidings of great joy, to all peoples. The juxtaposition of humour, humanity and the redeeming touch of God.

For some years now I've enjoyed the poetry of U A Fanthorpe. Her collected poems range across human experience as seen by a perceptive, compassionately critical poet whose emotional intelligence and moral sensibility make hers a voice that 'looks humanely forth on human life.'  Reflecting on the NHS, or the loss of passion and humanities in the Universities, or identifying those who now inhabit 'the draughty corners of the abandoned Welfare State', she has little interest in acid and lament, but rather holds up human experience to a scrutiny that is looking for what is of value, what is the dignity, what the obligations we all have to each other, to enrich and nurture life, and resist what withers, diminishes and devalues.

She always writes poetry for the Advent Season and most earlier collections include some of these – others are written for friends and family.

 

The Gardener at Christmas

He has done all that needs to be done.

 

Rake, fork, spade, cleaned and oiled,

Idle indoors; seeds, knotty with destiny, rattle

Inside their paper jackets. The travelling birds

Have left; predictable locals

Mooch in the early dusk.

 

He dreams of a future in apples,

Of three white lilies in flower,

Of a tree that could bear a man.

 

He sits back and waits

For it all to happen.

U A Fanthorpe, Collected Poems 1978-2003 (Calstock: Peterloo, 2005) page 400

 

There is a part of my mind that doesn't want to say anything about Jeremy Clarkson.

But there is a larger part (it's made up of conscience, intellect, emotional intelligence – 0h and moral coherence) that simply wants to dissociate my own capacity to think, feel and speak as a human being whose world has horizons wider than gearboxes, and whose values are about more than speed, power and self-centred indulgence growing like giant hogweed out of an overblown ego.

His comment on The One Show about those involved in yesterday's strike are too crass, stupid, nasty and morally repulsive to repeat. If you didn't hear it, or the fallout, google his name.

It's Advent – and one of the most perplexingly predictable episodes in the Christmas story is what those with power do to those who are powerless – it's called the slaughter of the innocents.

Not that Mr Clarkson can compare with Herod and his methods of silencing dissent, holding on to power and eliminating opposition. But the instinct to identify, demonise and eliminate any threat to self interest is always the temptation of power – and thankfully Mr Clarkson has no executive power. Which is a good thing, a very good thing.

Incidentally I've never watched Top Gear. I think it's presenter should be taken out and made to apologise in front of all the families ( many of whom will be his ex-viewers) he had the insolence and brutality to besmirch with words that are socially toxic and ethically inexcusable.

Two or three years ago I bought this CD, because a year earlier I heard Sanctuary and Christian Forshaw on the radio, performing Let all Mortal Flesh Keep Silence. I was converted there and then. Since then I've listened to Forshaw's music whatever the time of year. His performances on the saxophone, and the accompnaying organ, soloists and ensemble create a sound that for me is unique in its range from intensity to serenity. The saxophone solos have the capacity to evoke profound feelings of joy, or longing, and sometimes that mystertious combination of both for their are few things touch our deepest longings more tenderly than joy remembered or joy anticipated.

One of my ambitions is to hear Christian Forshaw at a live concert, most of which take place in England, and often at times I'm not free to postpone other responsibilities and just go! But it's on my must do list – along with several other events / experiences I want to attend or make possible. Maybe I need a  must do this year list – which would include coffee with an as yet unmet friend, a visit to the Amsterdam Art Galleries, and a Christian Forshaw Concert. Mhmm. These would do fine!

Meanwhile, if you're tired of the run of the mill Christmas CD avalanche of average, go to Amazon, get this CD, and redeem advent by recovering or rediscovering that joyful longing that beats at the heart of our Faith, "The Word became flesh, and dwelt amonst us…"

 

Advent is my favourite liturgical season. The cycle from First Sunday through to Epiphany is redolent with the great Christian virtue of hope. My favourite book in the Hebrew Bible is Isaiah. The combination of promise and patience, yet the contrast of waiting with urgency, and the simplicity and complexity of what is going on in the heart of God that will invade the heart of the world, all come together in six weeks of growing anticipation and impatience for celebration.

In recent years my interest in art and theology, and in art as a theological and spiritual resource has grown into a questioning of all kinds of iconoclasm. The iconoclast sees a significance in art that is sinister, subversive of Christian truth as they see it. Maybe that is because they read art rather than see it, analyse it rather than gaze at it, are scared of its beauty rather than filled with wonder and caught up into the sheer splendour and loveliness of that which is beautiful, true, and good.

In any case, for myself, I now spend time looking, gazing, contemplating, – and yes questioning, wondering, imagining. And what I find is that as I look and question, gaze and wonder, contemplate and imagine, I pay attention to my feelings and emotions and allow them to come into friendlier conversation with those processes of intellect and thought that insist on understanding. And in all of that I come to recognise that understanding isn't about 'getting it'; but rather, 'getting it' has little to do with understanding and much more to do with response.

And to that extent perhaps transformative learning is that kind of learning that integrates the informed mind with the responsive heart, enabling thought to be affective, and feeling to be thoughtful, but not getting hung up on which is which, but simply accepting the response of who we are, to that which is transformatively Other. And if the Other is indeed transformative, then who I am is changed in the encounter. That, I think, is why I want to go and see art in its beauty, truth and goodness. That's why the art gallery is for me a place of deeply human and pervasively spiritual encounter. 

And for Christians some of the greatest art, and the most transformatively evocative painting has given expression to those subterranean aspirations of the human heart which run in the theological depths of the nativity cycle, from annunciation, to the visitation, to the nativity and beyond. In such paintings thoughtful emotion, contemplative wonder, imaginative exposition and human creativity inspired by devotion, coalesce in the creation of such beauty as reconfigures our worldview.  

Burne Jones is famous for his Christmas angels. But this sketch of Mary and the infant Jesus has delicacy of touch and gentleness of line, and softness of tone.

Of course the subject matter has inspired great masterpieces from iconography to Renaissance masters, but I've often been moved more by the preliminary sketch, the idea in outline, which seems to be the more expressive for not being fixed and made permanent in a final work.

This is an idea being born, its incompleteness and preliminary status suggesting a living conception, a paradox of provisionality and finality, because it portrays its subject in definitive lines.

Is there a theological claim, or at least a theological clue, when the incarnation is portrayed in such ambiguity, the sketch that points to the masterpiece, but which stands in its own integrity even if the masterpiece is never attempted. The divine makes do with the human, the eternal inhabits time, spirit is embodied in flesh, and thus God comes to the world as the Creator to the creature, and inhabits the limitations of God's own art. Maybe so, or not. In any case, this is beautiful – and beauty itself points to God.