Among the other blogs for Advent is this one by the newly retired Principal of the college where I trained for ministry.  Richard Kidd is using the medium of poetry to express thoughts arising from the lectionary readings.  Worth a look-see.

Today's PAYG opened with a beautiful recording of the Kings College Choir (which we all know means Kings Cambridge) singing Thomas Tallis Spem in Alium - which can be loosely translated as 'all my hope on God is founded'.  The reading was one of Isaiah's beautiful visions of restoration - the feast for all nation of food "rich and juicy" and "fine strained wines", of the removal of the veil of mourning, the shroud of death, an end to sorrow and shame (Isaiah 25:6-8).  The focus of the reflection was on shame, which was helpful, but I found myself drawn to hope amidst sadness and death...

A couple of days ago I had an email from a friend.  In the summer she buried her mother, and now her ftaher has been diagnosed with cancer.

Yesterday another friend told me that a school friend of theirs had died suddenly over the weekend, at the age of 52.

This morning I heard that a four year-old child had died after being in an accident on a railway level crossing.

The sadness and the sorrow are easy to identify, for they are all around us and touch our daily lives.

So where is hope in all of this?  And what is hope anyway?

Not wishful thinking, clearly, since it cannot change the reality of frailty and finitude, cannot undo what is irrevocably done.

Nor can it be other-worldly, an over emphasis on 'better places' or 'altered states' that deny the reality of anguish, sorrow and grief.

Hope is something other, something not ultimately definable, something tenacious that allows us to cling on, if by our fingertips, to the possibility, the promise that there, is more than just here and now: more than life measured chronologically or by academic or sporting achievement, more than wealth or health, more than pie in the sky when you die...  The possibility, the promise, that one day God will tenderly wipe the tears from our cheeks, kiss us better, and welcome us, with everyone else, in the new creation.

All my hope on God is founded... In Christ alone my hope is found... Spem in Alium... whatever hymn/song, whatever language, this defiant assertion continues to sustain frail and failing Christians through the inevitable storms of life.

It makes no snese to me, Lord,

That babies and children die before they have a chance to live

There is no rhyme of reason to the sudden end of life by accident or disease

No hint of justice that same families suffer over and over again

Yet I choose to hope in you:

To believe, against all odds that the promises are true

That you will prepare, are preparing, maybe have prepared

For all a future free of sadness or shame, regret or remorse, death or disaster

Lead me onwards, step by faltering step,

On the upward climb

That leads to fulfilled hope

Amen

As I prepared for last night's reflection group I decided to listen to the 'sing-a-long' CD from Merrily to Bethlehem (new edition!).  As I re-read stuff about the emergence of Christmas as a celebration linked to the Roman adaptation of the Persian 'Mithras', with Sol Invicta, just after the winter solstice, I heard a familiar tune, and instinctively started to sing along.  Alas I can't find a sung recording, but the music on an organ, can be heard here:

"Holy Child, how still you lie, safe the manger, soft the hay, faint across the eastern sky breaks the dawn of Christmas day..."

In my mind I was the nine-nearly-ten year-old child at a new school after a house move, who learned this song...

I'm a pretty unsentimental person - or so I like to think - but as I sang along, my voice cracked, tears flowed and I wondered what happened to that little girl...  Life has, on the whole, been good, and I am fortunate to be back in excellent health, with a fulfilling role, and many loving, supportive friends as well as strong family ties.  But forty years... where did they go?

That little girl was ever-so earnest, a stalwart rule-follower, an embryonic follower of Jesus, a model pupil, a big sister... so much has changed, and nothing has changed.

If I'm honest, I'm glad she could not know what her future held, both good and bad, happy and sad.  But in a way I almost miss her... she had an innocence now gone, a warm inclusivity that has been compromised, a sense of social justice lost along the way.

Forty years on, I want to care about (in)justice, I try, and fail, with inclusivity, my discipleship is still faltering and less than I would love it to be.  As for innocence, it feels long gone, facing one's own mortality strips away naivety (not the same as innocence) and forces reality and uncertainty and finitude to be accepted for what they are.

And yet, I still dare hope, still sing the songs, still trust that it is true...

"Holy child, whose birthday brings, shepherds from their fields and fold, angels choirs and Eastern kings, myrrh and frankincense and gold..."

Today it is my turn to post at the 25 Things for Advent blog and as life is busy, and as this is my rest day, I am cross-posting my words.  On this, my blog, I will then add a prayer.

Most mornings I use the Jesuit "Pray As You Go" devotions as a way of preparing myself for the coming day.  Cutting through the temptation to rush straight into the busy-ness of good and, arguably, hopefully, Godly work, it forces me to centre myself.  And it is a gift - someone else has done the work, all I have to do is receive.

I have a funny feeling we aren't so good at that - the receiving.  We are so conditioned that "it is more blessed to give than to receive" that we fail to bless others by allowing them to give to us.

Put like that, our pious endeavours are shown as selfish ambition.  God so-loved the world that God gave... Can we receive?  Will we receive?


If Advent heralds something that's topsy-turvy, maybe it is permissible to overturn a familiar scripture: "freely you have given, now freely received.."

What will I have the grace to receive today?  A compliment?  A smile?  An offer of help?  A conversation?  A hug?

Now here's the thing, God, you allow us to give to you

Faltering prayers and clumsy songs

You delight in our flawed endeavours to love one another

You receive generously are home-made, slightly skew-whiff, ill-drawn, over-glittered, glue-sodden, child-like praises we offer you...

Help us to receive,

First from one another,

Then from you

The beautiful, hand-crafted, personalised, thoughtful, generous, gifts born of love

AMEN

In yesterday's sermon (not one of my finest, it has to be admitted) I noted that in the lectionary gospel reading (Luke 21: 25 - 36) Jesus used a mini-parable in which he equated the new leaves emerging on a fig tree with the inbreaking of God's Kingdom.  I mentioned that throughout scripture plant and tree metaphors are often used in such a way.  As if by confirmation, in the evening service, we had two Isaiah readings (from chapters 11 and 60) each of which used 'tree' imagery.

This morning there is snow on the ground in Glasgow.  When we get snow the defiance of green shoots - the emerging leaves of spring bulbs - through the snow, the imagery becomes very apparent.  The signs are there.  The teeny weeny shoots are breaking through the dark earth.  New buds are forming on stark, bare trees.  The Kingdom of God is becoming... but as yet, you have to look carefully to see it, for its full bloom is not yet.

Maybe we should take a moment today, in the garden, in the park, even at the plant on the window sill, to seek out the tiny signs of emergent growth.

Maybe, too, we should look around us, for the other signs of God's Kingdom - glimpses of grace, mercy and love...

It's hard, Lord God, to spot the signs of new growth

New life

New hope

Hard because we have become so accustomed to looking for

Neon signs

Flashing Lights

Writing on walls

Supernatural intervention

Religious experiences

Open our eyes

Open our minds

Open to hearts

That we might spot

Just one green shoot

Just one tiny bud

And in it, glimspe more of you

Amen.