Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell
And held in ice as dancers in a spell
Fluttered all winter long into a lake;
Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,
They seemed their own most perfect monument.
There was perfection in the death of ferns
Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone
A million years. Great mammoths overthrown
Composedly have made their long sojourns,
Like palaces of patience, in the gray
And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii
The little dog lay curled and did not rise
But slept the deeper as the ashes rose
And found the people incomplete, and froze
The random hands, the loose unready eyes
Of men expecting yet another sun
To do the shapely thing they had not done.
These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.
One of my most vivid memories from childhood, and I have a terrible memory, is of the excitement I felt when our artificial green & silver tinsel Christmas tree with metal fold-out arms came down from the loft, along with boxes of ancient and familiar decorations. They had their own special smell that I have never found anywhere else. My favourite decoration was a pipe cleaner Father Christmas but there were also incredibly fragile glass baubles that I didn't dare to touch.
I remember the tree being decorated, and then that magical moment when the lights went on and a Christmas wonderland suddenly appeared! I used to sit cross-legged in front of it for hour upon hour, absolutely enchanted. To me, it was every bit as beautiful as the 'Tree of Souls' in the film 'Avatar'. I remember being quite shocked when our first family Christmas tree reappeared years later, having been replaced by a much more realistic (but less magical) tree, and I saw how small it actually was.
Above is a photo of my mum, probably before I was born, drying her hair in our old house with a quite lovely Christmas tree by the telly. I remember that hair dryer. That fascinated me too, and it always smelled of burning! This looks like a real tree, which I don't remember having at all. Our tree was more like the one below, but green. We were sophisticated like that! Happy times.
I am writing this on the Fifth Day of Christmas & four days ago, on Boxing Day, the Reverend Kate Bottley posted an image of a, still green and vibrant, 'real' Christmas tree propped up next to a bin. She commented that now is the time for driving around and rescuing lonely, discarded too soon, trees by taking them home. I always feel sad when anyone says, often with some pride, that they have taken their decorations down on 26th December, but in the case of a tree this seems particulaly sorrowful. I am so glad that there are Christmas tree rescuers abroad.
There is so much that we do now because 'that's just what you do'. We throw coins into water, cross our fingers, and engage in all manner of superstitions without knowing why; retaining the behaviour but losing the meaning. And so, of course, we have a tree at Christmas. It's 'just what you do'. I find our continued enacting of these superstitions affirming; what we once knew is just under the surface waiting to be refound, and so it might re-enchant our relationship with these magical trees to know that our ancestors have been bringing evergreens inside in winter for millennia.
Hedgehermitage evergreen wreath, 2018
Evergreen wreaths and garlands symbolised eternal life in ancient Egypt, China, and in the Middle East. During the Roman festival of Saturnalia houses were decorated with evergreens, and the people of Northern Europe held trees in the highest honour. That they were revered is evidenced by the story of 8th Century Anglo-Saxon missionary St Boniface felling Donar's, or Thor's, Oak; a tree sacred to the Germanic Pagans. The tree was said to have fallen in the shape of a cross and the wood then used to build a church dedicated to St Peter; a desecration indeed for so many venerable trees to have been cut down in the name of any god. But also a telling of how deeply loved trees were, how a people could be broken by taking their trees. For example, I remember only too well that one of the first acts of the Conservative/Lib Dem coalition government in 2010 was to begin selling off our national forests to huge public outcry, which I'm sure shocked even them.
It may seem strange then that Christmas trees have become such an important part of the Christian feast of Christmas. But, as we explored during Celtic Advent, there are often older and deeper tides at work. We could learn to trust them.
Our modern Christmas trees appear to have originated during the German Renaissance of the 15th and 16th Centuries, the first dated depiction being from 1576. They are sometimes linked with Protestant reformer Martin Luther, who is said to have been the first person to put lighted candles on an evergreen tree ~ possibly in an act of one upmanship against the beautiful cribs that were to be found in Catholic churches. As a species, we are so drawn by beauty.
By the early 18th Century Christmas trees had become popular in towns of the Upper Rhineland, but not yet in rural areas. Because the Lower Rhine was mostly Catholic, & Christmas trees were considered Protestant, it took a very long time for them to spread further.
It wasn't until the latter half of the 19th Century that the custom became established elsewhere. By this time, Christmas trees had become an expression of German culture & of Gemütlichkeit (warmth, friendliness, and good cheer, much like the Scandinavian 'hygge') amongst those who had set sail for other lands. We all need to take home with us in one form or another. Even so, the decorated tree remained a preserve of the nobility and upper classes. Princess Henrietta of Nassau-Weilburg introduced the Christmas tree to Vienna in 1816. By 1840 the custom had spread to France. And Hans Christian Andersen published 'The Fir-Tree', a fairytale about a little tree being cut down for Christmas, in Denmark in 1844.
These first Christmas trees were originally decorated with coloured paper roses, apples, wafers, sweetmeats, and tinsel. I was stunned to learn that tinsel was invented in Nuremburg as long ago as 1610 and was originally made from extruded silver in order to enhance the flickering of candles.
Marcel Rieder, 1898, from Wikipedia
Modern Christmas trees have been said to symbolise the 'Tree of Paradise', or the Tree of Life, which once appeared in mystery plays given on Christmas Eve. This was also a day dedicated to Adam & Eve, and so the trees were decorated with apples to represent the Garden of Eden and its forbidden fruit, and with wafers to symbolise the redemption found in the Eucharist. Soon, these trees were taken into homes and the rosy apples replaced with red baubles.
In the British Isles the tradition of decorating homes and churches with evergreens at Christmas was long-established, but it was unheard of to decorate an entire tree until the 1840s. Our royal family had been doing so since 1800 when George III's German-born wife, Charlotte, provided one for a children's party. In 1848 their popularity spread when an engraving of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and their children enjoying Christmas around their tree was published.
Queen Victoria & family in 1848, Wikipedia
However, as in the Rhineland, it took a very long time for the idea of a decorated Christmas tree spread here. They remained something that only the well-to-do considered. That this had changed by the 20th Century is clear as, in 1906, a charity was set up to ensure that poor children in the slums of London could at least see a Christmas tree. By the 1920s everyone had them.
'Glad Jul' by Viggo Johansen, 1891
The Christmas tree's relationship with mainstream religion has been more difficult. In Russia they were banned after the October Revolution of 1917 and only returned as a secular symbol of New Year in 1935. By that time the star on top of the tree had become, not a symbol of the Star of Bethlehem, but of the Red Star of Communism.
Although the 'Hanging of the Greens has been a tradition in churches for many years, it wasn't until the beginning of the 20th Century that Christmas trees began to appear. Sometimes these take the form of a 'Chrismon Tree', which is a Christianised version of the traditional tree decorated with clear lights and gold & white symbols of Christ; a dove, a Celtic cross, a shepherd's crook.
During the 'Hanging of the Greens' Biblical passages and other readings are employed to explain the Christian significance of the holly, mistletoe, tree, and any other decorations; as though being part of the Earth and the season wasn't enough. No doubt this is to avoid accusations of syncretism; the merging of different religious traditions or schools of thought.
Personally, I have never quite understood the problem with syncretism, religious or otherwise. It's only challenge can be to those who have a power base to protect by controlling the thoughts and actions of their group of believers, which is all the more reason to embrace it.
The accusation of 'syncretism' is often used as an insult to imply that one is in some way weak willed or 'impure' in one's beliefs. It is seen as a betrayal, rather than as a sign of a healthy living system. And, of course, critics of syncretism must assume that their own chosen faith was originally discrete, or separate, something which is virtually impossible. No, like life on this planet, religion grows on an ever-expanding, contracting, and refining web of becoming, with filaments that weave, separate, and reweave, in ever more beautiful patterns if they are allowed to. Much like the roots of a tree; grounding, exploring, nourishing.
Perhaps it was my own long contemplation of our little family Christmas tree as a child that led me to this strange path of faith that I am on now. If so, I am grateful. My prayer for the year ahead is that we will all fall back in love with trees, and that they will lead us to a way of being more deeply rooted in ourselves and in a wild and holy diversity of belief.
And perhaps next Christmas there will be fewer trees abandoned by Boxing Day.
Christingle at Canterbury Cathedral, December 28th, 2019
The fourth day of Christmas commemorates the Feast Day of the Holy Innocents, or to give it its Old English name, Childermas.
Childermas, which has been part of the church year since the 5th Century, remembers the story found in Matthew's Gospel (2: 16-18) that, at the time of Jesus' birth, & fearing a challenge to his own power, King Herod of Judea ordered the massacre of all male children under two years old in the vicinity of Bethlehem.
Some estimate that between 6,000 and 14,000, or even 144000, children were murdered, although when considering the size of Bethlehem and surrounding settlements, it is more likely to have been a few dozen, if the event happened at all. Whether it is historical fact is debated, especially as it echoes Pharoah's attempted murder of the Israelite children in Exodus when he is warned that the birth of Moses will become a threat to his crown.
The beautiful but haunting 16th Century 'Coventry Carol' refers to the massacre of the innocents, and is a lament by a mother for her doomed child.
In the Middle Ages, Childermas was taken as an opportunity for role reversal, with teachers and pupils changing places and church services being presided over by 'boy bishops'. And it was once the custom to refrain from work on Childermas day and to avoid work on that day of the week for all of the following year; being taken as an opportunity to play perhaps. This playfulness is echoed in Spain where the Feast Day of the Holy Innocents is a time for pranks, much like our April Fool's Day.
And at Canterbury Cathedral the Feast Day of the Holy Innocents is a day for their annual Christingle. This service raises funds for the Children's Society which works to support vulnerable children in England and Wales. It brings shame on us all that so many children in this country, the fifth richest in the world, are living in poverty and peril.
Canterbury Cathedral Christmas tree, 2019
In March, 2019, the Child Poverty Action Group (CPAG) estimated that there were 4.1 million children living in poverty in the UK from 2017-18 (9 in a classroom of 30). By 2022 this is expected to have risen to 5.2 million. 43% of children living in a family with three or more children are living in poverty. 45% of children from minority ethnic families are living in poverty, so too are 47% of children from lone parent families. 70% of children living in poverty are in working families. When a Government minister was recently asked about these appalling figures he replied that we could 'argue about the definition of poverty'. We might shudder when reminded that, in 2016, the Government abolished their own child poverty unit.
But then to keep children in poverty suits our Government because it provides fodder for their lucrative war machine. In Britain, 16 year olds can’t vote, drive a car, or drink alcohol, but they are able to join the army. No other country in Europe recruits at such a young age. Only 17 other countries in the world allow it, including Zambia, El Salvador, and Iran.
Between January and October 2017 more than 19,000 under 18 year olds applied to join the army folliwing the controversial 'This is Belonging' campaign, which was run in partnership with private recruitment agency Capita & designed to attract young people from working class and poor backgrounds, targetting children from deprived areas particularly; they are more desperate you see, more compliant.
In addition, thousands of schools across the UK invite in the military. This despite the UN committee on the rights of the child informing the UK Government in June to “reconsider its active policy of recruitment of children into the armed forces and ensure the recruitment practices do not actively target persons under the age of 18 and ensure that military recruiters’ access to schools be strictly limited.”
And, of course, the army may provide these young people with many good things but statistics show that, although children can’t be deployed on the front line before the age of 18, when they are those who are recruited from 16 are twice as likely to die.
It's estimated that more than 200 children, many who are eligible for settlement in the UK, remain living in terrible conditions in Northern France, with thousands more trapped in Italy and Greece. Clare Moseley, founder of Care4Calais, said: “It’s become absolutely horrible, I do not understand how it can be this hostile, how our country can behave like this, how they keep saying no to this.”
Matt's Bible Blog comments that, "Herod’s shadow still stalks the land.
Only that’s not true, is it? Because Herod’s not our shadow, he’s our mirror." May we all be grateful to the mirrors that show us who we are, not who we wish ourselves to be. And, if we can't bear our own reflection, let us change something.
This is relentlessly heartbreaking, bewildering, and dispiriting I know, and Christmas is so much about joy. But it also unfolds at the darkest time of the year, and it too has its dark side. If anything, Christmas teaches us how to negotiate the tension that we must increasingly learn to hold well if we are to keep our hearts open and be any use; gratitude in one hand and grief in the other, joy and despair, and discounting neither.
But how might we do that? Matthew 2 tells us that, after Herod had made his pronouncement, "what was said through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled:
“A voice is heard in Ramah,
weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because they are no more”, echoing the same words found in Jeremiah 31:15.
Here, Rachel is remembered as the archetypal mother who mourns and intercedes for her children. It feels significant too that her weeping is for her descendants' suffering in exile from the land of their birth. So many are in exile now, or feel unwelcome in this, their own land. And that is worthy of tears.
Childermas is a reminder to offer love, gratitude, and support to all those who work to make the lives of children better, but also brings an invitation to look deep into the mirror and to mourn, not a tale found in the Bible but the ways in which we fail to protect and love our children now. We must guard against hardening our hearts, and we must honour our tears as strength, not as weakness. Let our tears be the medicine that unlocks the door of compassion for all the world's children.
If you would like to offer prayers for our children I have added some links below. Both relate to the situation in the US where children are being forcibly removed from their parents at the border with Mexico and then detained in inhumane conditions, or returning from school to find their parents who had found a home in the US deported. It is horrific that these prayers are so very easily adapted to our own circumstances here in the UK.
I end with a slightly adapted version of my own prayer, written as part of our Novena for the Fallen Through in December 2017. You can read the full piece here.
Novena for the Fallen Through: Peace on Earth.
Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,
Holy Mothers of Peace,
Sisters of Reconciliation,
Singers of the Mending Song.
We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth.
We seek Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness,
in the depths of winter cold.
With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,
in the midst of anguish and despair.
We seek a Revolution of Love.
We expect Justice.
We speak for Peace.
We will not be shut out.
We will be heard.
Room will be made.
We ask for nothing less than Peace on Earth.
We cling to the stubborn hope of light in the darkness.
We allow our waiting to become a prayer.
Mary, singer of wild songs, mother of the Light,
Mari, drummer of the wild hills, companion of Stars,
we ask for your help in the protection of our children,
suffering in poverty; cold and hungry, even now at Christmas time,
for the protection of our children,
called to war from a life of lack;
of opportunity, of wealth, of hope.
Kept poor to become prey.
We ask for power to come to the peaceful,
for love to come to the lost,
for hope to come to the hopeless.
Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,
Holy Mothers of Peace,
Sisters of Reconciliation,
Singers of the Mending Song.
We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth.
We seek Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness, in the depths of winter cold.
With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,
in the midst of anguish and despair.
We seek a Revolution of Love.
We expect Justice.
We speak for Peace.
We will not be shut out.
We will be heard.
Room will be made.
We ask for nothing less than Peace on Earth.
We cling to the stubborn hope of light in the darkness.
We allow our waiting to become a prayer.
Mary, singer of wild songs, mother of the Light,
Mari, drummer of the wild hills, companion of Stars,
We ask for bright paths to be illuminated for our children,
for lanterns to lead their way to futures
filled with possibility.
We pray for the day when the Feast of the Innocents becomes truly that;
a celebration of the child,
of the innocence of the young and the innocence in us all.
We pray for a time when our innocence is not taken by the things we have seen and what we know.
When we need not stand guard to protect our babies from the machine of war, power, and greed, but can lean back and be supported by the sweet waters of life knowing that they are safe to explore the world in freedom.
We listen for the hoofbeat of the Mari Lwyd,
we listen for the revolutionary Magnificat of Mary,
we look to the Star fallen to earth,
sing the Spirit in,
gather up the pieces of broken hope,
weave starshine in our hair,
stand with the saints with starlight at their brow, knowing that we also shine.
Like all that is born, Sun and Son,
vulnerable and new in the midst of this deepest dark,
May we be undefended and undefeated,
bright with possibility and hope reborn.
Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,
Holy Mothers of Peace,
Sisters of Reconciliation,
Singers of the Mending Song.
We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth.
We seek Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness, in the depths of winter cold.
With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,
in the midst of anguish and despair.
We seek a Revolution of Love.
We expect Justice.
We speak for Peace.
We will not be shut out.
We will be heard.
Room will be made.
We lift the shard of a shattered star.
We hold the vision of a shining light
of protection around our children,
allow innocence to be reborn.
We allow the wild hope of Peace on Earth to sink into our bones, and for our very bones to shine.
The Third Day of Christmas is dedicated to St John the Apostle, who is believed to have been the Beloved disciple & is purported to have written John's Gospel, as well as several other books within the New Testament, including the last, The Book of Revelations, although, as ever, these claims are the subject of much debate.
John is said to have been one of those closest to Jesus, witnessing both the Transfiguration and the Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. He, alone amongst all the Apostles, is said to have remained at the foot of the Cross with the myrrhbearers and other women. His Gospel is a work of mysticism, quite different from the more narrative styles of the Synoptic Gospels, Matthew, Mark, & Luke. Fascinatingly, John was often depicted in androgynous or feminised form in medieval art, and in his Gospel identifies Christ as the Word, or Logos, of God; a concept close to that of the Hebrew, Lady Wisdom, just as during his earthly life Jesus referred to all members of the Trinity in feminine terms.
Returning to John, his androgynous depiction is certainly something worthy of exploration and reflection, particularly for those of us who are deeply aware of the suppression of the Feminine Divine, which is certainly an issue despite our Medieval sisters' (and brothers') best efforts, but that is not what I want to write about today. Today, I want to share just a few lines from the beginning of John's mystical Gospel.
Although we have passed Solstice, we are still deep in the winter dark and I am craving simplicity and starlight. One of my favourite passages in the Bible comes from John's Gospel and it is a passage that I could spend the rest of my life contemplating without ever feeling the need to turn the page.
I am drawn to John's Gospel especially as it is connected for me with my beloved Cuddy/St Cuthbert. 'Cuthbert's Gospel', an early 8th Century gospel pocket book and the oldest known surviving example of bookbinding in the Western world, was found in Cuthbert's tomb and is dedicated only to the fourth Gospel. Although we cannot know, I like to imagine that Cuthbert of Lindisfarne chose to meditate on John's words above all others. And here are the words I love; like Mary's Magnificat, a life raft in a stormy sea...
'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.' (John 1: 1-5, NRSV)
Powerful words for our times, and all times, with layer upon layer of meaning; a passage of Creation, of stars colliding, and of galaxies being born. Here, truly, are words to sink into for comfort, and for liberation. Here, are words for the Resistance.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. In the beginning was the Word...
I wrote a few days ago that Christmastide once lasted until Candlemas on February 2nd. This was shortened to the 'Twelve Days of Christmas', or Twelvetide, by the Council of Tours in 567 CE. They also filled each day with saints' feast days, whilst declaring the first three days of the year to be a time of strict fasting, both designed to prevent Christians, which was more or less everyone at that time, indulging in the merrymaking associated with Christmas and New Year.
Nevertheless, Twelvetide is full of interest and, although many of us now use it as a day to recover from eating far too much chocolate,
the Second Day of Christmas, December 26th, is almost wonder-full as Christmas Day in terms of tradition.
Here in the British Isles, it is primarily known as Boxing Day. There are several competing theories for how the day got its name. One is that it was the day on which tradespeople, postmen, and delivery boys, would receive a 'Christmas box' of money and/or presents from those they provided services to. The term dates back to the 17th Century and Samuel Pepys mentions it in his diary entry for 19th December 1663. It seems that this tradition is connected to an even older one where servants would be allowed to visit their families on the day after Christmas Day and would be sent off with boxes of presents and leftover food.
This sharing of what we have, and acknowledging that we often have more than we need, echoes the medieval tradition of alms boxes, which were placed in areas of worship to collect donations for the poor. As an aside, might I recommend the film 'The Man Who Invented Christmas', an imagining of the six weeks which Charles Dickens spent writing 'A Christmas Carol'. The film ends by telling us that not only did the book bring huge renewed interest in Christmas itself but also caused a massive increase in charitable donations! Returning to alms boxes, these may have again echoed the Roman/Early Christian tradition of leaving metal collection boxes outside churches to collect donations for the poor on the Feast of St Stephen, which falls on December 26th.
15th Century alms box periodoakantiques.co.uk
Boxing Day has been a bank holiday in the UK since 1871 and, if not used as a recovery day, it is often seen as an opportunity for shopping in the Boxing Day sales; accumulating even more for ourselves, rather than sharing what we already have with others as tradition dictates.
Returning to St Stephen's Day, this is a national holiday in many countries regardless of whether Boxing Day is observed there. According to tradition, Stephen (5-34 CE), whose name means 'wreath' or 'crown', was the first Christian martyr. He was a deacon in the Early Christian church and was stoned to death in Jerusalem for denouncing the Jewish authorities of the time. He is mentioned in Acts 6 as one of those given the task of ensuring a fairer distribution of alms to Greek-speaking widows, who it was felt were being slighted in favour of their Hebrew-speaking sisters. Stephen was also part of a group which organised the distribution of food and charitable donations to poorer members of the Christian community, a tradition continued for many hundreds of years through the collection of alms for the poor on his feast day.
This is echoed, of course, in the popular carol, Good King Wenceslas, in which a king braves a winter storm to give alms to a poor peasant on St Stephen's Day. We might also remember the king's page who, in the freezing weather, was offered warmth by walking in hus master's footsteps; a better justification for feudalism we might never see! But, of course, it also reminds us that we can't do life alone. Sometimes we all, whether rich or poor, need to 'shelter in the footsteps,' of another.
The source legend of the 1853 carol by John Mason Neale is that of Saint Wenceslaus I, Duke of Bohemia, 907-935 CE. Immediately after his death a cult dedicated to him rose up in both Bohemia and England. Within a few decades four biographies, or hagiographies, of his life were in curculation praising his piety. Indeed, it was partly these which inspired the enduring image of the 'righteous king'. It was said that Wenceslas, rose from his bed every night and travelled bare-footed giving alms to the poor, to widows, those in prison, and anyone he found in need, so much so that he was considered a 'father of all the wretched.'
Whilst we might bemoan the ineffectual nature of charitable giving in challenging the systems of injustice that create its need, and rightly so, there is no doubt that the image of Wenceslas, like Dickens' story of 'A Christmas Carol', has inspired many to acts of kindness and, until justice comes, those of us with more do share some responsibility to share what we have. St Stephen's Day, and Boxing Day, are a reminder of that and may provide a quiet and contemplative space in the busyness of the season to consider where we ourselves take our stand on the line between charity and justice.
In a world where our determination to help others is turned against us, used as justification by those in authority for doing less and less to support the vulnerable, how might we negotiate this landscape with our hearts and hope intact? Which fire; justice or charity, do we choose to feed, and how might we ensure that those around us who have less than we are warmed by both?
We might begin by seeing charity not as an end in itself, as we are encouraged to do, but as a vital part of making reparations to those with less in a world where many of us benefit from the divide between rich and poor, even if that might mean that we ourselves are less protected from the metaphorical 'winter cold'. Charity at its best is justice, not kindness, in action. We might remember on his feast day that Stephen did not content himself with redistribution of wealth. He also spoke truth to power, and died for it. No cosy, soporific, charity for him. This is about what's right. The second Day of Christmas reminds us.
* In Ireland, the Isle of Mann, and parts of Southern France, St Stephen's Day is also 'Wren Day'. I will be writing all about that in another post.
Sometimes I wonder
if Mary breastfed Jesus
if she cried out when he bit her
or if she sobbed when he would not latch.
And sometimes I wonder
if this is all too vulgar
to ask in a church
full of men
without milk stains on their shirts
or coconut oil on their breasts
preaching from the pulpit
off limits to the Mother of God.
but then I think of feeding Jesus,
birthing Jesus,
the expulsion of blood
and the smell of sweat,
the salt of a mother's tears
onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth,
feeling lonely
and tired
hungry
annoyed
overwhelmed
loving
and I think,
if the vulgarity of birth is not
not honestly preached
by men who carry power but not burden,
who carry privilege but not labour,
who carry authority but not submission
then it should not be preached at all.
Because the real scandal of the Birth of God
lies in the cracked nipples
of a 14 year old
and not in the sermons of ministers
who say women
are too delicate
to lead.
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.
Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche.
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.
We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?
Into this climate of fear and apprehension,
Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in
the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancour,
Come the way of friendship.
It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps
quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.
Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they
walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening
all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark
corridors.
In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.
We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled
by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.
I began writing this on Christmas Eve & am finding it hard to believe that Advent has ended already! Although I had planned to write on all forty days, this is my twenty-sixth sharing and I feel quietly proud of that, especially considering all that has unfolded, both personally and politically, during Advent. I want to thank everyone who has come along with me in this journey into the dark and thank you especially to everyone who has made lovely comments, both on line and when I've been out and about. It's such a wondeful affirmation of my work and a real encouragement. I have already begun dreaming of what I might write about next year. I am thinking of changing the name to 'Wild Advent', or perhaps 'Hedge Advent'. Let me know what you think.
I have also decided to continue writing through the Twelve Days of Christmas and the whole of Christmastide, which lasts until Candlemas on February 2nd. We are quite justified in leaving our decorations up until then so don't let anyone tell you otherwise!
Here in the hedgehermitage we have adopted a tradition of burning the evergreens from our Christmas wreaths at Candlemas, which is a lovely way to end Christmastide and wake up the year. And the period from Christmas to Candlemas is forty days, mirroring both Celtic Lent and the Lent preceding Easter. To claim this time back in any small way is part of the Beautiful Resistance. It's loss is due either to the Industrial Revolution or to the dictates of the Church-as-Institution, both of which have sought to control us for their own benefit. We can resist in all manner of ways, and what could be more symbolic than reclaiming the deep winter and decorating our homes with evergreens until the light truly returns, not just until Boxing Day or Twelfth Night?
But, first, it feels right to end Advent properly. The last week, or few days, of Advent introduces us to an intensely female space populated by Mary and, in this land, by the Welsh Mari Lwyd, both travelling by starlight. That they become more prominent now, in the dark womb of the year, seems right. We are waiting for a birth after all. And so it is meaningful indeed that the fourth candle in the Advent Crown is dedicated to Love and to Mary; she who gives birth to Hope, and to a wild and radical resistance whose light has continued burning for two thousand years.
On the night of the UK Election, when it became clear that all hope was gone, it was Mary's defiant song, the Magnificat that repeated in my head; "From henceforth, all generations shall call me blessed." To claim our blessings in such dark times is a wild resistance indeed. And, heartbreakingly, "S/he HAS filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty." This is my prayer.
Some, particularly those who know my history, wonder why I now go to church and call myself a Christian, although I still find labels divisive and unhelpful. Mary and her Magnificat are a big part of that, because here is a faith that, far from being apart from the world, embraces it, a faith that, at its best, when it finds injustice, 'goes towards' it rather than turning away. It is written almost into its atoms that it should be so. Here is a faith of 'God embodied', present in human form, and not just human but radical, subversive form, standing against Empire and oppression, standing alongside the most vulnerable and oppressed, identified with and one of them. A wounded healer. As someone pointed out on Twitter just the other day, Jesus rejected the 'worthy'; those with both secular and religious power and, instead, chose to spend his time with thieves and sex workers; homeless, victimised, shining like the sun.
And here in the Magnificat is his mother; a young woman, a teenager, declaring her defiance. This is not the Mary, meek and mild, that we have been sold by the modern institutional church. This is Mary calling for revolution; the World Turned Upside Down.
Mary by Ben Wildflower
A friend once told me that she had 'found a guru' and had been instructed to rid herself of her anger in order to truly follow her spiritual path. What does this mean in a world of injustice? I want no part of a spiritual path like that. I know that I wouldn't find Mary there.
Mary’s ‘Magnificat’, found in Luke 1: 46-55, is the longest set of words spoken by any woman in the New Testament’ and considered by many to be deeply subversive. It was Mary’s spontaneous response to being declared ‘blessed’ by Elizabeth, who at that time was pregnant with John the Baptist. One might suggest that it was subversive enough for two such strong women to take centre stage in such deeply patriarchal times, but there are so many layers to this story.
It is believed that Mary was barely a teenager when she became pregnant with Jesus, and that Elizabeth was likely to have been more than sixty years old, certainly well past child bearing years. For women of such different ages to call one another friend and confidant as equals is subversive indeed. And Mary’s song of blessing is not one of simple joy; it is threaded through with fear; the fear of a young girl, unmarried and pregnant at a time when to be so risked social ostracism and humiliation. Indeed, under Jewish law, she was at risk of stoning for adultery.
Even in that context, she sings for hope, defiant in the face of danger. It is this defiance which caused the Magnificat to become a “radical resource for those seeking to honour the holy amongst the conflicts and suffering of real life.” (Rev. Carolyn Sharp). It has often become a source of strength for those on the margins who have struggled for liberation. Indeed, from the 1970s in South America, despite the authorities presenting her as an image of piety, Mary became Maria Libertadora, Mary the Liberator, an extremely powerful and important symbol of revolution.
During British rule of India the Magnificat was banned from being sung in church. Dietrich Bonheoffer, who was executed by the Nazis in 1945 having worked for the German resistance movement, was deeply devoted to Mary. In a sermon given at Advent in 1933 he said,
“The song of Mary is the oldest Advent hymn. It is at once the most passionate, the wildest, one might even say the most revolutionary Advent hymn ever sung.” In Guatemala in the 1980s the fascist Government banned its recitation considering it to be ‘too dangerous’.
During Argentina’s ‘war’ against political dissidents, the ‘Mothers of the Disappeared’ placed Mary’s challenging words on posters all over the capital plaza and the display of her song was subsequently outlawed by the military junta. And, of course, Mary too understood the pain of the loss of a child.
More recently, in 2012 Russian all female punk band, Pussy Riot, became famous when they invaded the Cathedral of the Holy Saviour in Moscow and sang a protest song against Vladimir Putin's re-election. The song they sang was a prayer to Mary. Part of the lyrics translate as, "Mother of God, you're a feminist, come and help us. We know you're with us in our protest. Holy Mary, drive Putin away..."
Mary sings of the ‘world turned upside down’, of a time when the “rulers will be brought down from their thrones”, “the humble will be lifted up”, and “filled with good things” as the “rich are sent away empty”. These are themes which often rise in our midwinter traditions. The Mari Lwyd, or Grey Mare, of South Wales, and our soul caking and wassailing traditions, ensure the same sharing of resources from rich to poor. We also have customs such as the ‘Lord of Misrule’, who was often a peasant chosen by lot to preside over Christmastide festivities ~ a reminder that the social hierarchy was maintained by consent, rather than by right. I think that it would be of benefit for some amongst us to be reminded of that now.
Last September I heard Jeffrey John, the Dean of St Albans Cathedral, speak on Mary. One of his subjects was 'Mary the Revolutionary'. As an illustration of the long tradition of relating to Mary as rebel he quoted his favourite Mary poem, written by Mary Coleridge in 1900.
MOTHER of God? No lady thou!
But common woman of common earth;
'Our Lady' ladies call thee now.
But Christ was never of gentle birth;
A common man of the common earth.
For God's ways are not as our ways:
The noblest lady in the land
Would have given up half her days,
Would have cut off her right hand,
to bear the child that was God of the land.
Never a lady did God choose
Only a maid of low degree
So humble she might not refuse.
The carpenter of Galilee:
A daughter of the people, she.
Mary sang the song of het heart.
Never a lady had so sung.
She knew no letters, had no art;
Yet to all mankind in woman's tongue
Hath israelitish Mary sung.
And still for men to come she sings
Nor shall her singing pass away:
He hath filled the hungry with good things -
and the rich he hath sent empty away."
( Mary Coleridge)
It seems fitting then that Advent ends as dusk falls on Christmas Eve and darkens into a night that was once known as Mõdraniht; Night of the Mothers or Mothers' Night, a vigil held by Anglo-Saxon Pagans and attested to in the 8th Century by the Venerable Bede. Although this was not a Christian festival we could choose to deepen into the way in which this night celebrating the female ancestors and the Mother Goddesses of Old Europe resonates with the story of Christmas. We might all then sit in vigil and contemplate and support those who bring light to birth in the winter dark.
And remember too that, unlike the linear ideas of Conservatism and its ilk which feed from a well that can only run dry, these radical ideas of fairness, of equality, and of justice espoused by Christ, and so many others, are reborn and renewed every year in an endless cycle. A prophet who speaks truth to power, a troublemaker, a king who refuses an earthly crown, he will be cut down until we learn to do better, until we give up our scapegoating and our crowning with thorns. And for Christ's sake, for Mary's, and for our own, I hope that we do that soon, but, for now, rejoice that the Prince of Peace has been born again, vulnerable, fragile, all too human, and luminous with Hope.
This Advent has been a powerful journey for me because it has taught me about longing (and the loss that goes with it). From singing 'O, Come Emmanuel' on a Dover roundabout to welcome refugees in a hostile world, to repeating the Magnificat as a little raft to cling to on the night of the Election when it felt that everything vulnerable was thrown under the wheels of endless greed, I have learned that longing is where hope and despair collide, and it is the hope that keeps us singing.
Advent has ended. Christmastide is here!
References:
Jeffrey John at Southwark Cathedral, 12th September, 2019.
Approaching Solstice, Seabrook, Kent, 19th December 2019
'Then God said, "Let there be lights in the expanse of the heavens to separate the day from the night, and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years."' Genesis 1: 14
I have found myself in a wordless place over recent days and so unable to share the many half-formed thoughts that have settled into my bones and moved under my skin in the Midwinter dark. I have though been grateful for this deeply dreaming womb space in order to allow the unformed to take form, or that is what I hope.
As I write I am awaiting the moment of Winter Solstice; in the British Isles this will be at 4.19am on Sunday, 22nd December. As the day unfolds there will be a Sunday service, the fourth of Advent, and a carol service in the afternoon. I am muchly looking forward to both, but the Winter Solstice carries an older tide that must be acknowledged before the fourth candle is lit; a welcome light, kissed awake by the Midwinter sun to celebrate our successful journey through another longest night.
It has been mentioned to me several times of late that it is perhaps wrong to mix spiritual work with politics, especially in the wake of the recent UK election. Whilst I acknowledge that this is not the path for everyone and it is important not to create further division as best we can, I vehemently disagree with this position. For me the work is to mend the broken threads between the sacred and the profane until all life is re-enchanted. And politics, which takes many forms, is often the place where heart and hope come to catch a spark. Why would we want to hold Spirit separate from that? It seems to me that its wisdom is badly needed there. When I have walked with so many others in the Grenfell silent walk, or stood on a cold and rainy roundabout in Dover at the Refugees Welcome vigil, the Christ that I know is with me.
It is the same for the older, wilder festivals of our pre-Christian ancestors; our barrow makers, our henge builders. It is also often suggested that to follow these older festivals, so deeply attuned to the rhythms of the Earth, is 'superstition' and to be avoided. Again, separation is used as a tool to disempower us; politics with Spirit at its heart is less easily taken over by greed and hunger for power. Spirit with the land and the stars at its heart is less easily co-opted for the benefit of secular, dare I say, Imperial ideology. Christmas tells us that 'God so loved the world...'. Why then would we not acknowledge and celebrate evety aspect of it? We need to root back in until every bush is burning.
The journey of the Winter Solstice sun. Image: NASA
And so we come to Winter Solstice, the acknowledgement of which Sarah Sunshine Manning, citizen of the Shoshone-Paiute and Chippewa-Cree tribes, describes as a 'decolonial act'. And so it is. In this post-Industrial world, where our only worth comes from how much we produce, we are not meant to slow down, or grieve, or gather together to tell stories, or sit to share food, or rest. It just all takes too much time, time which could be more productively spent in other ways. Time itself has been colonised now and we need to take it back. We need to remember when we were able to sink into the season, into the moment, without a thought for the next. And Winter Solstice, and the longest, darkest night, are the perfect time for that. Which is why I value so deeply that, as I write this, I am listening to a single bird singing for the rebirth of the Solstice sun. It is a perfect moment; my own creativity held in a chorus of grace notes.
'S/he made the moon for the seasons. The sun knows the place of its setting.' Psalm 104: 19
I want to end by sharing my favourite Midwinter Solstice poem; 'Approaching Solstice' by Patricia Monaghan, which never fails to make me cry.
Snow on Blackheath, 2011
Approaching Solstice, Patricia Monaghan Yes, friends, the darkness wins, but those short days so celebrate light: Today the lemon sunrise lasted a few hours until sunset, all day the snow glowed pink and purple in the trees. This is not a time of black and white. My friends, outside us. Among us, too, let's sing what winter forces us to know; Joy and colour bloom despite the night. We measure warmth by love, not by degrees.
