The Rose in Blessing

 

Flowering, immaculate

grows the winter rose

inside of you

Your soul, in wonderment,

expresses its form

But hush..

wait just awhile

for the soft breath of the merciful divine

is flowing within you

And a light will be lit that never dims

by day it illuminates your acts

by night, your dreams

Feel how the divine love enfolds you

Rest now secure in her arms

while your angel spreads her wings

above the Rose in Blessing

Magnificat

My soul magnifies God. 

What shall I do 

with this quiet joy? 

It calls forth the expanse 

of my soul, calls 

it forth to go singing 

through the world... 

Calls it forth 

to rock the cradles of death gently 
and without fear. 

To collect the rain 

in my spread hands 

and spill it like laughter. 

Calls it forth 

to bear into this world. 

A place where light will glisten 

the edge of every wing 

and blade of grass.

Shine along every hair on every head, 

gleam among the turnings of every wave.

Glorify the turning open of each life, 

each human hand.

*

Christina Hutchins, Maginificat - My soul magnifies God. 

Luke 1:46

Painting Annunciation - detail, by Fra Filippino Lippi

Yuletide Greetings

‘’Yuletide Greetings!” is the cheery message on one of my Christmas cards this year. Yuletide is a familiar term for this season, but where does the word actually come from? It seems that in Scandinavian lands ‘Jul’ or ‘Jule’ was, and still is, the term for the midwinter month, and there still exists the tradition of burning the Yule log on the hearth fire. 

But like the Christmas tree itself, many of these customs have been carried over from old pagan traditions. Even the very date of Christmas has nothing to do with the actual day of the birth of Jesus, but is believed to originally have been a celebration for the Sun God, perhaps to persuade that god to return to strength and brightness following the shortest and darkest days of the year.

It is a sad fact that when early Christianity was making inroads into Europe many pagan temples and sacred sites were destroyed by those zealously spreading the word of the new faith, and churches of the new religion were built upon the remaining foundations. So we have the buildings of one faith built upon the remains of the faiths which came before it, and new traditions and celebratory dates also were ‘built upon’ those of the previous faiths.

These layerings of traditions, dates and buildings tell us, not just what is, but what has been in our past. The ruins of the past are always to be glimpsed in the present. But what of the future? We cannot know what faiths and beliefs the future may hold, in a hundred, or even in a thousand years. Perhaps, like our own present, the distant future will contain the fragmented pieces of the beliefs which now dominate our world, which themselves have been replaced by other faiths which the unknown future holds. But what if we tread still further into the unknown? What if we reach out, not a mere millennium, but some five thousand years into our future?

Five thousand years ago the civilization of Sumer existed: a time as far into our past as we are imagining our hypothetical future. In that time there was no dominant male god. In that time there was a great goddess: Inanna. In that time the Supreme Deity was a ‘she’. Who would dare predict that in another five thousand years this will not happen again, and that ‘God the Father’ will belong among the ruins of a dim and distant past, which is our own time. Perhaps it will take far less time than another five millennia for this to happen, for these things do seem to happen in unpredictable cycles.

A tipping point is reached, and suddenly the landscape around us changes, and nothing is quite as we had known it. It is the landscape of faiths, of traditions, and we need to dig just a little way down to discover that our foundations are those of another faith entirely. Perhaps this is the time of the year to celebrate, not one faith in particular, but faith itself: a faith which renews itself through all the ages, finding new forms in its striving to bring a measure of trust and peace of heart. 

Painting Druids bringing the Mistletoe by Edward Atkinson Hornel

Magnificat

MAGNIFICAT 

What shall I do

with this quiet joy?

It calls forth the expanse

of my soul, calls

it forth to go singing

through the world...

to rock the cradles of death

gently and without fear.. 

to collect the rain

in my spread hands

 and spill it

like laughter...

Calls it forth

to bear into this world

a place

where light will glisten the edge

 of every wing

and blade of grass and

Shine 

along every hair on every head..

Gleam 

among the turnings of every wave.

Glorify

the turning open of each life,

each human hand.

from "Magnificat" by Christina Hutchin

My soul magnifies God.

Luke 1:46

*

The Visitation of Mary to her cousin Elizabeth is closely connected to the canticle 

of the Magnificat that she sang on that occasion.

*

Painting "The Visit" by Dorothy Webster Hawksley, (1884-1970)

A Season of Waiting

On the threshold

waiting

for the golden light

that desires to mirror itself

in my heart

inside

is silence

Advent, we say, is the season of waiting. We might more truly say that Advent is the season of desire - and desire unfulfilled, at that. Waiting is a form of emptiness, but it’s an emptiness that implies expectation: we wait for someone or something, do we not? And we desire the arrival of what we await.

In our hectic world we constantly face a barrage of distractions, from the chattering voices of social media with which we constantly keep in touch via our ubiquitous smartphones, from the pressures of commercialism which urge us to buy, buy, buy, at the very time of the year when we should be retreating into ourselves in silent contemplation and reflection. For this also is an aspect of advent: it is – or should be – a time of quiet reflection.

If only we can manage to be silent in ourselves, to still all those chattering voices which distract us, then we allow the true spirit of advent to reveal itself. That sense of expectant wonder is always present. Advent is in every moment. And that moment is universal. “Peace, be still.” were the words we are told Jesus spoke to calm the storm on that far Sea of Galilee. If we allow those words to echo in our hearts, whether we are Christian or not, and whether we celebrate the Christian day of Advent or not, we allow the true spirit of a universal advent to emerge, and we find ourselves filled with a renewing spirit of anticipation, wonder and silent joy.

The Shepherdess

The night is cold: so cold and clear

that the bright stars above

seem closer: so close

that just by raising my hand

I can touch them. And I do.

They are my fingertip sparks.

I pull my cloak around me

for a little extra warmth.

But I am used to this hillside cold

where my wandering flock grazes

here among the wild rue and acacias

of the high pastures.

My flock and the circling stars are my companions,

and when I speak to my flock, I know

that they recognize my voice,

even know what I say to them.

At times I also speak to the high stars.

Then I must listen so carefully, so quietly

to hear the soft sighing of light

that is their astral language.

Not all can hear them, and even those who hear

that gentle sighing of the night

can know what is being said to them,

but I do, and I know that the stars understand me also.

Among my flock is a little one:

an orphaned newling, born out of season,

still uncertain of the world.

I feel her warmth beneath my cloak

and she feels my own warmth.

She is quiet now, asleep inside my cloak,

asleep beside my heart.

Tomorrow, when the stars are asleep,

I will carry her down the hillside,

down from these high pastures,

and we will both go into Bethlehem,

for that is what the stars tonight have told me I must do.

Painting The Shepherdess by Robert Gavin

The Silent Joy of Advent

Today is Advent, the day in the Christian calendar which is the first of four Sundays which look forward to the coming of the Christ child. But need we view this day as exclusively Christian? The word advent simply means an arrival – any arrival which we might view as significant. In this broader sense the word advent also contains the idea of anticipation, and that anticipation in turn contains a sense of joy and wonder. We wait in joyful anticipation, which could mean the coming birth of any child. 

Those of us who have children, who have borne children, will know that once that expected child has arrived into the world then it is impossible to imagine our world without the presence of that little soul in it. The universal period of advent is not four weeks, but nine months – although the sense of anticipation quickens, becomes more keenly felt, as the expected time of the birth approaches. During this time of advent we make preparations. We decorate the new nursery, we acquire the necessary furnishings – the cot, baby bath, and suitable decorations in the form of mobiles, cuddly toys and other items. We, as it were, prepare the nest. And this becomes another aspect of our advent: it is also a time of preparation. We lay the way for the expected new arrival.

But while advent implies all of these things, and whether we have children or not, it still is a term, a state of being, which can apply to us all. In our hectic world we constantly face a barrage of distractions, from the chattering voices of social media with which we constantly keep in touch via our ubiquitous smartphones, from the pressures of commercialism which urge us to buy, buy, buy, at the very time of the year when we should be retreating into ourselves in silent contemplation and reflection. For this also is an aspect of advent: it is – or should be – a time of quiet reflection.

If only we can manage to be silent in ourselves, to still all those chattering voices which distract us, then we allow the true spirit of advent to reveal itself. That sense of expectant wonder is always present. Advent is in every moment. And that moment is universal. “Peace, be still.” were the words we are told Jesus spoke to calm the storm on that far Sea of Galilee. If we allow those words to echo in our hearts, whether we are Christian or not, and whether we celebrate the Christian day of Advent or not, we allow the true spirit of a universal advent to emerge, and we find ourselves filled with a renewing spirit of anticipation, wonder and silent joy.

Detail of Joseph the Carpenter by Georges de la Tour

Christmas Greeting

I wish all my readers great joy in the stillness of Christmas

to hearten and enlighten your New Year.

*

Painting The Shepherds by George de la Tour 

The Sister Stars

How high we are here;

seated somewhere

between the stars

and the sleeping town below.

See: we are so high

that we have but to reach out

to touch the moon’s bright face

as it rises to greet us from the horizon.

See: we are so high

that we need only to listen carefully

to hear the murmured whisperings

of the gods above

as they chart the tide of the affairs of men

asleep and unknowing in the world below.

See: we are so high

that we count ourselves

as sisters to the stars.

Continuing their journeys

our sister stars are unaware

that their wanderings, their very courses,

are traced out by us.

For nothing can happen in the heavens

unless we three decide that it will.

The truth is: the gods are helpless,

unable to act without our instructions

(although they do not know this,

and imagine that their schemes

are all their own).

And so we three sit here quietly

through the blue Arabian night,

making the decisions of gods,

naming new constellations:

here: the leopard,

with glowing twin-sun eyes,

there: the stooping falcon,

wings stretched between galaxies,

and there: the heroine,

riding a winged sphinx

to stars yet more distant than her own:

all creatures of our night-watch fantasy.

But even these things are pastimes,

pleasantries, mere diversions.

For our true purpose

Is to search until we find one star,

and one star only

among our myriad sister stars.

Somewhere, if only we can find it,

shines a star that will save the world.

and that is the star

which we will call down to earth.

Painting: Arabian Nights by Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant

Advent: Silent Wonder

Today is the beginning of Advent: the first of the four Sundays leading towards the Nativity. The word Advent means ‘the coming’, and, if we open ourselves to the spirit of Advent, these four weeks contain a heightened sense of anticipation, of expectancy, of hope, of waiting, and trusting in new life not yet fully known. 

Here in northern Europe the winter is advancing, and for me the winter is a time of silence. Nature grows more silent in winter. There are no leaves on the bare limbs of the trees to give us the breeze’s summery rustle, and many animals are less active. Even the birds do not sing their dawn chorus in the winter darkness – and when the snow lies thick upon the ground all seems to fall still in the muffled white silence.

Silence also is for me a part of Advent. It is this silence which lifts Advent beyond being a time of the Christian liturgical year into being a time which touches upon mysteries which are more universal: those mysteries of the heart which touch us all. When the spirit of Advent is combined with the spirit of silence we are in a state of waiting in silence. And when that waiting is a waiting with a sense of deep and joyful anticipation for what is to come, we create a space in which love can grow, in which trust may flourish. 

Love, hope, trust, silence, waiting in joy for what is to come, are all doors. Combining these doors together into one opens the door to the approach of wonder. But what is this wonder? To trust in love for what is to come, to allow our inner silence to grow in this time of waiting, allowing the loving-kindness that is the essence of the divine love to grow in us, is the true spirit of Advent: the spirit of anticipation, of silent wonder.

Detail Painting Madonna by Fra Filippo Lippi

Destiny

Calmly they approached, with the self-awareness that comes with the knowledge of their own vested power and sense of mission. Their apparel was opulent and exotic: the deep azure of far oceans wandered together with the ochres of the earth and the pure white of distant stars. There was a scarlet turban, and a headscarf of modest grey. One of the three wore a robe in which red fires seemed to burn. They came to a halt.

They bowed, and I returned their bows. "May peace be with you."

"And with you.” I replied. “You three are welcome in the fields of Efrath."

They asked for water, and I gave them my water pouch. One of them hung a chain of ivory-smooth shells around my neck. Then we settled ourselves down in the cool dusk of the approaching desert night, and they told me their story.

"We have come from the far east, where the sun does not hesitate in her rising. Each one of us is from a different region, but we are befriended as readers in the language of the stars. Our names will remain secret until the kingly child is born on the crossings of all roads. The western road will be darker and carry thousands of years of fear and decline. It is along the eastern road that we will travel back with new light in our eyes. The north road is melting ice on which no-one can tread. The south road is a basket of fruit that still must yield its bounty. We knew that in our lifetime the great star would appear. We began our journey as soon as we saw her rising, and now wait for her to be tethered in the heavens. We know that beneath her is the place where we are to bring our gifts. Even should we be forced to relinquish our authority, we choose to honour him. It is for him that we descry the stars." It was the one with the grey headscarf who had spoken. His mantle shimmered with ochre and white in the light of the rising moon.

“All of destiny resides in the star, and so our own as well.” said the woman robed in red fire, “But we also journey to the City of David. In our baggage we carry sweet herbs and soothing unguents, for in the Holy City we will dress wounds. Of the precious flowing  myrrh which I have brought with me, I will give half to the kingly child. The remainder is for those in Jerusalem. They shall know the scent and the salve of peace.”

“You underestimate the danger,” I said. “Jerusalem is a town full of spies. Whoever defies the will of the great Herod is made a ghost.”

"My power resides in the mountains of Ethiopia," said the woman. "To earthly kings I am untouchable."

“We have descried the coming of the kingly child in the stars,” said her blue-robed companion, “And we have seen that our journey is under the mantle of divine protection. Therefore we fear nothing and no-one. I have the purest gold of alchemy for the child. It shall be wrought into a crown when the time is right.”

“In earthly value our gifts are great,” said the sage in ochre and white, “but for the child such gifts will be humble. For this child will be spoken of in the ages yet to come, and by those yet to be born. Our names will only be mentioned in his presence, for to him they are already known, as all is known in each breath which he breathes. Our own words and deeds are no more then the scent which I bring to him: it burns and fills the air with sweet perfume, and then it evaporates. May the scent of the sweet divine have mercy on him."

“Do not go!” I said. “Do not go to the palace of great Herod. Choose instead your way straight through the fields of Efrath. Far from the worldly powers of the palace you will find the child. That is where you also will find those who are most in need of your healing and consoling gifts. That is where the story of your coming will be told in scents and rich colours.”

But they shook their heads. Either they could not or would not listen. Instead, they gathered themselves up in their finery, the array of their apparel shaming the white face of the moon. The three travellers gestured a farewell with the finality of destiny. “May peace be with you,” I heard the woman say, “for we anticipate a time of peace to come!”

Image adapted by David Bergen from a painting by Jean-Leon Gerome

The Door

The Door

How long have I journeyed to come this far?

Nine months? A thousand years? Longer?

There is no way of knowing

for time is only created by my moving through it.

Behind me there is no time;

only a past with no past

lying silent, abandoned

reaching back with questing fingertips

to the first spark of creation.

And the light which I see ahead – is that the future?

But how could the future be so bright, so glorious?

I feel afraid for what might come

for such glory only comes with sorrow

and the praise of angels

is the same song as their lament

and my last yesterday will be the world's first tomorrow.

I move onwards in spite of myself

for I am the irresistible force

which has been gathering itself through the ages

and my first breath shall be my last

and my sorrow shall be my glory

and my pain shall be the soft sigh of angels’ wings

rustling with quiet redemption

as the world tells my story.

Advent

Advent

On the threshold,

waiting

for the golden light

that desires to mirror itself

in my heart.

Inside

is silence.

Annunciation ~ Words of the Angel

You are not nearer God than we;

he's far from everyone.

And yet your hands most wonderfully

reveal his benison.

From woman's sleeves none ever grew

so ripe, so shimmmeringly:

I am the day, I am the dew,

you, Lady, are the Tree.

Pardon now my long journey's done,

I had forgot to say

what he who sat as in the sun,

grand in his gold array,

told me to tell you, pensive one

(space has bewildered me).

I am the start of what's begun,

you, Lady, are the Tree.

I spread my wings out wide and rose,

the space around grew less;

your little house quite overflows

with my abundant dress.

But still you keep your solitude

and hardly notice me:

I'm but a breeze within the wood,

you, Lady, are the Tree.

The angels tremble in their choir,

grow pale, and seperate:

never were longing and desire

so vague and yet so great.

Something perhaps is going to be

that you perceived in dream.

Hail to you! for my soul can see

that you are ripe and teem.

You lofty gate, that any day

may open for our good:

you ear my longing songs assay,

my word - I know now -  lost its way

in you as in a wood.

And thus your last dream was designed

to be fulfilled by me.

God looked at me: he made me blind....

You, Lady, are the Tree

- Rainer Maria Rilke