Holy Innocents: a pieta

Posted on December 28, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

On the third, fourth, and most likely the fifth day of Christmas, too, I, like many of you no doubt, am spending some time catching upon a few things. One project seemed particularly and poignantly apt to the season: during Advent, some friends active in gun violence reduction and prevention asked for an orange stole to present to the speaker at their annual Vigil. (Find the story behind the orange stoles here.)

Advent anticipation aside, the days were overfilled and in the event, they passed on one they had already to hand, giving me time to fabricate a replacement, along with a few spares against future need. We’ve all done this – passed them on to share our prayers, commitment, the promise to pay attention to the plight of too many for whom the angels’ song of peace on earth is drowned out by gunfire, or by the echo of a single shot.

The stoles are cobbled together from whatever orange fabric I can lay my hands on in any given season; the constant that binds them together as a family – except for the orange colour – is the children’s handprint pattern that finishes each one off at the ends. It was that fabric, hauled back out onto the dining room table between celebrations, that caught me on the eve of the feast of the Holy Innocents, victims of Herod’s rage, pride, and violence.

In a flash of transference across time and space, I saw hands that would no more be held to cross the street, cupped to hold a splash of water, a cotton-seeded dandelion, a cheeky snowball. I saw hands that would not wash clean, reaching for the manger and the cradle over and over again, trying to reverse time. I saw hands at prayer and at work to end the ricochets that we continue to let loose among our children and their families; God help us and save us.

Because of Sunday, the commemoration of the Holy Innocents has been transferred to tomorrow. But their memory permeates this day, its work and its prayers, raised up by their brother, cradled in the arms of his mother: Jesus.

The observance of the Feast continues tomorrow.

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All in the family way

Posted on December 26, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

A sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas Day, 2021. Our services remain online at this time.

What does it mean to you to have been adopted as the child of God? As a child, and as an adopted child myself, I heard Paul’s words quite literally: that God had chosen, contracted, covenanted to make me a part of God’s family, a child with God’s name; a child welcome in God’s home. (Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7)

But John talks about this relationship, too. What does it mean to you to have been reborn, not of flesh but of the will of God – not as children adopted only but as children recreated and remade in God’s image? (John 1:1-18)

And then there is the vision of Isaiah. What does it mean to you for God to clothe you as a bridegroom, to adorn you as a bride, to prepare you for such intimacy and joy that we cannot imagine beginning to imagine with the almighty God? (Isaiah 61:10-62:3)

It seems as though the depth and strength and sheer closeness of God’s love for us defies any single image of relationship that we can dredge up and dress in poetic language. God is our father and our mother and our lover. 

And then, and then, God became flesh, and dwelt among us. If we cannot imagine ourselves as God’s bridegroom, as God’s bride, as God’s born and bloody infant, how much more impossible to understand that God chose to become a child of human conception and birth, to live as one of us, so that through his humanity and his glory we have received grace upon grace?

Whatever we make of Christmas, of the Feast of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ; when we dare to look directly at what God has done, it is staggering. It is more outlandish than angels and guiding stars and virgin births. It is something only God could have imagined to do. It is not something we would have dared to claim, but it is what God, through Jesus Christ, has invited us into.

To be adopted, reborn, married into, to take the family name of Christ, to become a Christian, as we talked about a few short days ago, means something. Christian, little Christ, child and sibling and friend of Jesus; to share in his name is a responsibility, and a gift, and a charge.

It is a charge to live as those who are free to live with grace and truth, not pride, not greed for power or profit, but grace to love those whom God has placed before us, and truth to recognize the image of God within them.

Not one thing came into being without the Word of God; not one child, not one person. To live into the family name of Christian means to live with them all.

The refugee and the reprobate, the sinner and the sullen, the arrogant and the ignorant: God grant us patience; the needful and the lonely, all are ours to love as Christ has loved us, not as a disciplinarian, but as lover, a parent, a companion in the way.

To be born among us, to become as one of us: how better could Christ exemplify the lengths to which love is called to go for God and for our neighbours, even for our enemies? Peace on earth, goodwill to all whom God has made …

And yes, there are sometimes family feuds and rifts and family members who need some boundaries and not everything can be solved with a kind word. There are times when we do not recognize what on earth is going on with one particular image of God or another. God knows, having dealt with enough of us who fail to live up to the family name on the regular.

Yet as a mother’s heart is burdened by the love of her child and a bridegroom’s heart aches for reconciliation with his bride (or a bride for her bride), and a father longs to reach into his infant’s mind and plant in it the knowledge that you, child, are beloved; that you, child, are my own; so God does not turn away from us, even at the cross, nor even at the manger.

And yes, sometimes it seems too much even to contemplate, busy as we are with the cooking and the cleaning and the cat litter boxes, the simple act of making ends meet, the not-always-simple act of putting one foot before the other; and yet to be born as one of us, to become flesh and live among us, sharing our burdens and our joy: how better could God exemplify to us the lengths that love will go to?

There is more to be said, but a new year is coming and God willing, we have time. In the meantime, in this mean time, we can do little more than wonder at the ludicrous love of God, who is beyond and above all that is created, coming to be with us after all.

Who would have thought it; who could believe it? And yet this is our testimony: that “the Word became flesh and lived among us, and …from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.”

“Grant [therefore] that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives; through Jesus Christ,” born anew among us and growing within us. Amen.

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Word, wordless

Posted on December 25, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

A brief message for Christmas Day

If, like me, you have memories from long before you learned how to talk, then you know that even before it speaks an infant tells itself stories and lays them down, woven into the foundations of who it is to become.

The Gospel of John tells the Christmas story in a new way, not with angels or shepherds, nor even Mary and Joseph. There is no manger; there is only the Word of God, come into a world that doesn’t understand it, yet speaking unceasingly of light, of life, of God.

Here, in the Christ-child, the Word has become wordless: an infant without language, whose knowledge of the world is brand new and ever-expanding. Yet this is the Word of God, beyond our comprehension, who called all things into being, with the unfathomable eyes of an infant whom we are only just beginning to hear, to heed, to understand.

Still, there is much to confuse and bewilder us. There are prayers that we have no words for, aches that we have no name for, love that leaves us speechless. We are, especially in a season such as this one, like infants, reaching toward God from the heart of our being; and like a faithful mother, God reaches back, holds us close, even sings to us, whether or not we understand the words.

The Word of God has become a wordless infant, and in that very Incarnation is the message that speaks volumes, that tells the story of God’s love for the world, God’s love for the people God has created, God’s love for you.

Not even the words of the angels: Do not be afraid, come close. But do not be afraid. The Word of God has been spoken into the world, the light of Christ has been born into the world, the love of God has been let loose, the glory as of a father’s only son, as of a mother’s only child, full of grace and truth.

And the Word became flesh and lived among us: Emmanuel. God is with us.

 

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Emmanuel

Posted on December 24, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

Emmanuel

Away from the crush of the crowd 
and the hubbub of the inn, 
aside in the stable
Christ is born;
in the silence that prepares 
for his first breath,
God speaks: 
“I am with you.”

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The longest night

Posted on December 22, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

Morning after the longest night,
like the first day of creation
when evening fell before the dawn;
as the dream goes before awakening,
the linened tomb before resurrection,
the twilight womb before the birth
of the Christ, all part
and particular to his Incarnation,
this nurturing dark that precedes
the light of the first new day.

This poem first appeared at the Episcopal Cafe

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Mary’s song, our song

Posted on December 19, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, 2021

I think that I’ve mentioned it from this pulpit before, but Mary was not the only Mary in her town. At the time that Jesus was born, around one in four or five Jewish girls were named one form of Mary or another.[i] Their naming may go back to Miriam, the clever and resourceful sister of Moses, who helped arranged his adoption into Pharaoh’s household and his exodus, along with all of the enslaved Hebrew people, their liberation from an empire of oppression. More recently, the descendant of the Maccabees, the Hasmonean queen Mariamme herself bore the name that once sang of God’s deliverance at the Red Sea. Whether the inspiration were ancient or modern, naming Mary could be seen an act of bravado, of rebellion, of faith in the promises of God that delivered God’s people from Pharaoh, and could be relied upon, so the hope went, to deliver God’s people now from the Romans and their puppet-potentates.

The name Mary cried havoc and announced the day of the Lord’s deliverance from the bonds of oppression. Mary’s word to the angel, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord,” was the acceptance of a mantle, the mantle of Miriam, the sister and peer of Moses. Mary’s, “Let it be with me” was saying, in effect, “Bring it on.”

Mary knew the dangers of raising an eyebrow in a buttoned-down society, one under the chastening rod of the empire. She knew the dangers of childbirth in a pre-medical society. She knew the danger of singing a Magnificat that glorified the God of promise and prophesied the scattering of the proud and the unseating of the powerful. 

The Incarnation of Christ, the entering of God into human flesh, is an act that defies our expectations and shatters our exact rules about where God belongs and how God is allowed to interact with human nature. Mary knew it in her body: that God was not living down to our ideas of how these things were supposed to happen. In all sorts of ways, barriers and boundaries, barricades were being breached that had sought to keep the sacred and the fleshy apart, separate, sacrosanct.

And she was Mary, named for Mariamme, named for Miriam, who sang of God’s victory over Pharaoh at the Red Sea, who followed the pillars of cloud and fire, and while she may well have been afraid, she was not going to let that stop her living up to her reputation.

Just as God defied the imaginations of the Egyptians at the borders of the Red Sea, so now God was about to make a new way out of no way, and Mary wanted every part of it.

We are still a way from realizing the grand conclusions of the Magnificat. The powerful are not yet cast down, the fall of the Roman empire notwithstanding; we still suffer natural disaster and unnatural, violent division. 

A civil rights case here, a murder conviction there; justice trickles past us, but where is the torrent that Amos prophesied, that Mary sang?

Last weekend, deadly tornadoes blew through Kentucky, Illinois, Tennessee. We have witnessed the devastation and the aftermath of a natural disaster that was exacerbated, allegedly, by unnatural greed and inhuman interactions, by bosses who refused to let workers leave the shop floor to take shelter; by the perennial survival gap between the wealthy and the struggling. This is not the levelling that Mary imagined.

And there is this pandemic that seemingly will not let us go. Where is the healing of the nations?

Perhaps it is not enough to sing of it. Perhaps, like Mary, we need to embody the incarnation of God’s mercy, the growing of God’s justice, the birth of God’s new way in order to find our way out of no way.

In Mary’s town, one in every four or five girls born was named Mary. In our country, nearly two out of every three people calls themselves Christian. Just as Mary’s name meant something, called her into something, prophesied something, so the name of Christian should mean something for us who bear it in the world, should tell out something about God’s promise to us and through us.

Mary was named after a queen and a rebel slave and we are named after a radical religious type who preached counter-intuitive peace and love for enemies and friends alike and who died as a criminal, condemned by religious and state authorities, and who would not let even death deter him from bringing God’s mercy to the world and living God’s love in the world.

What Mary believed and proclaimed and laboured to reveal began deep in her own body, in the quiet mystery of her hidden organs, and it grew. How can we, from the small beginnings of our own embodiment of Christ, our faith in the goodness and mercy of God, labour and deliver good news to the poor, healing to the sick, justice to the oppressed, freedom to the prisoners, life to the dying? It is not beyond us; it is within us to do what God has called us into.

It seems as though the kingdom of God, the second revelation of Christ, is a long time coming, and there is much that we are afraid of, and much that we despair of, and too much that we have already left undone; yet, Mary’s song reminds us, God is already at work in the world. God has cast down the mighty, repeatedly; God has scattered the proud, perennially. God feeds the hungry with mercy, and pays attention to the prayers of the lowly. God is with us.

God is with us when we defy the injustices and entitlements of the world and respond instead with counter-intuitive kindness, counter-cultural mercy, radical devotion to the principles of peace, hope beyond measure, faith in God’s ability to break down barriers, to cross boundaries, to do whatever it takes to be with us, Emmanuel.

We are named, we Christians, for that first note of Mary’s song, the one who inspired in her courage and the imagination to live into her name, the name that launched a freedom movement onto the Nile in a Moses basket; the name that can do great things out of small beginnings, with strategic and rebellious mercy, with the insistence that God is with us, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and then some; and Christ’s new revelation is coming.

Amen: Come, Lord Jesus.

[i] Tal Ilan, “Notes on the Distribution of Jewish Women’s Names in Palestine in the Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods”, in Journal of Jewish Studies, Vol. XL, 1989

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Suffer the little children

Posted on December 17, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

Rumours of rumours; and the rub is that in this country, in this time, we cannot dismiss them as rubbish until the day is done and the sun has set over the farthest gate. It should not be this way.

My heart goes out; my heart remembers one day when two of the three were still in high school and there were rumours. One decided to stay at home, and I wept for the anxiety that we have bred and our children bear. One decided to go to school and I wept, watching love walk away from me, the closing doors illuminated by blue and red lights, a mockery of the Christmas lights dancing up and down the neighbourhood. It should not be this way.

When my child was very young, I was tucking her into bed one night, and she was distressed. I asked why, and the reply was that at any moment, an asteroid might smash into the earth and destroy it, ending all life and all knowledge of life in an instant. Rational arguments about probabilities, space stations, forecasts, warnings, and probabilities again did nothing to soothe the young soul. “But you can’t tell me it can’t happen,” she insisted. …
Children already know that the world is dangerous. They do not need their fears magnified; their imaginations will take care of that without encouragement. They see dragons in their sleep.

Whom Shall I Fear? Urgent Questions for Christians in an Age of Violence (Upper Room Books), 89, 91

In Isaiah’s vision of peace, “a little child shall lead them” (Isaiah 11:6); but we are not casting the vision before our children of peace but of lockdown drills and guns secreted in backpacks. The guns belong in lockdown, not the children.

In Children Under Fire: An American Crisis, John Woodrow Cox finds that, “If children did not have access to guns, well more than half the school shootings over the past twenty years would never have happened” (p. 291). The guns belong in lockdown, not our children.

About halfway through our march in Cleveland, I found myself on East Ninth Street directly behind a woman with a young child in a backpack carrier like the one I had used when my children were younger. Too small to walk so far, the little one’s legs and feet hung from the carrier, bouncing and dancing with her mother’s stride. A sign attached to the out fabric of the child’s traveling nest said, “My preschool class does lockdown drills.”
I wanted to fall to my knees on the spot and repent of my dismal stewardship of her world, but the crowd swept me on.

Whom Shall I Fear, 95

It is past time to repent. It is no time to be simply swept along. The guns belong in lockdown, not our children.

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Because love is the miracle

Posted on December 11, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

For Megan and Jacob

One says
that your first miracle
was at a wedding:
celebrating love,
astonishing, intoxicating –
the kind of stuff
to leave you 
walking on air.

Love is what it takes
to make the other
miracles true:
to calm the storm,
soothe the sick,
to keep the dead alive,
to forgive and not to forget,
with heart and soul and body.

At the wedding, 
at first
you said that this
was not what you
were called to do,
then, looking on
you saw the bride
and groom, love 
shimmering between
and you remembered
what love is for 
and that you are for 
love, that
you have been for eternity;

You raised your hand
in blessing and
toasted them with wine.

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Karl Barth, St Paul, and the stickiness of sin

Posted on December 8, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

A homily for Evensong at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland

It is said that Karl Barth once commented upon the Anglican style of liturgy:

“If the Anglo-Saxons would not make their phylacteries so broad and so long! I went to an Evening Prayer at which the Lord’s Prayer was said twice and the Gloria five or six times. I said to them afterwards, ‘If I were the good God, I would reply to you in a voice of thunder, ‘All right, that will do. I’ve heard you!’”[i]

Which is to say that I feel a little shy about bringing Barth to church with me this evening. But Barth was not one to shy away from the conflicts and ambiguities and frank paradoxes of religion and theology and our strange and wonderful relationship with God, our Creator, Christ, our Redeemer, or the Holy Spirit, who defies definition.

Take this passage from the Epistle to the Romans, in which Paul, converted and convinced of his salvation nevertheless wrestles with the stickiness of sin and its ability to contort his every effort of will into something less than righteousness, so that he cries out for deliverance.

Barth, in his commentary on this passage, is almost as sunny and gay as St Paul himself.

“Religion,” he writes, “spells disruption, discord, and the absence of peace.”[ii]

“Conflict and distress, sin and death, the devil and hell, make up the reality of religion. … Religion possesses no solution of the problem of life; rather it makes of the problem a wholly insoluble enigma.”[iii]

So that’s helpful.

Perhaps putting Barth into some biographical context might shed light on his frightening insights. He wrote his commentary on Romans relatively early in a career that would sink him deep into the mire of systematic theology and draw out of him the utter and devoted dependence upon God’s grace that looking into the vortex of our incomprehension will evoke.

He lived through two world wars. In the shadow of the first he was accused of pacifism; in the gathering clouds of the second he was criticized for militarism.[iv] Yet he was consistent in his strong belief that the justice and mercy of God do not authorize the kind of bullying might that characterizes nationalism, and he was appalled at the capitulation of too many churches to those dangerous forces. One might say that any compromising of the gospel in order to achieve greater power to proclaim it is at least misguided, self-defeating, perverse. 

There is a reason that Barth still resonates in our public theology amphitheatres.

While Barth knew clearly on which side he stood when it came to the sin of anti-Semitism, the siren song of nationalism, not to mention the seductive destructive power of the atom bomb, and while he was not shy of his duty as a political man to, as he once put it, “make it clear with whom I would like to be imprisoned and hanged,”[v] yet he knew just as clearly that salvation comes from somewhere very different.

“The kingdom of God is a foreign country, so foreign that even the saints must pray …” he wrote in his commentary on this passage from the Epistle to the Romans.[vi]

And here is the key to the hope, even joy, that both Paul and Karl embody even as they decry their own sinfulness, their own helplessness in the vice of sin that grips them.There is no political program nor self-justification that can free us from the consciousness that we fall short of the good that we feel so strongly should be available to us. But there is Jesus.

The good that I want to do I cannot, and the evil that I would avoid, I cannot. “Now,” says Paul eagerly, “if I do what I do not want, is it no longer I that do it?” That is, can I separate my actions from my will, my impact from my intention, my life from my imagination?

But these, Barth writes, “are perilous opinions.”[vii] They offer false comfort, when the only true consolation is Christ. They are perilous, too, I might add, ethically, offering a kind of acquiescence with the messiness and mercilessness of the world: “I hate that this is the way that the world works (I will good and not evil), but I am helpless to change it, so it is enough to despair of it.” Even Barth fell prey to it. As he has said, “There is no sinless Christian.”[viii]

This, too, is not the gospel of repentance that Christ calls us into. It is the hymn of the compromised conscience, the power-hungry church, the secular creed of false unity.

No, says Barth, the fact that my conscience is piqued at every turn is correct, and should not be denied. It reminds me daily that as often as I pray, “Thy will be done,” (which is too often in our liturgies for Karl, you might recall); as often as I pray it, I am reminded how far I am from doing God’s will, and how great the gulf is between Creator and this creature made dimly in Their image.

But the corollary is glorious. For, “Who … is aware of man’s real wretchedness, save he who is aware of God’s mercy?” Barth lectured his students in Bonn.[ix] We know our sin, we are convicted of it, Paul discovered his error in persecuting the followers of Jesus only when he was confronted by the living Christ himself, the revelation and reality of God’s saving mercy.

“The kingdom of heaven does exist already; from God’s side action has been already taken for our good. To pronounce the name of Jesus Christ means to acknowledge that we are cared for, that we are not lost. Jesus Christ is man’s salvation in all circumstances and in face of all that darkens his life, including the evil that proceeds from himself.”[x]

So it is that Paul can proclaim in one breath: “Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

In this season of Advent, when we are advised by the prophets and the preachers to prepare ourselves for the coming of the kingdom, the second coming of the Christ, while our consciences are chilled by apocalyptic fires and the dumpster fire of the world around us, when we despair of doing the good that we will and denying access to evil even in our own jealous hearts, it is the Incarnation of Jesus that reminds us that all is not lost; that nothing, in fact, is lost, since God, the originator of all things, abides in mercy and sustains us. 

Therein lies our freedom, this is our hope, our way, our truth, our life: not a reconciled conscience but a reconciling Christ, God with us, God for us, and a grateful sinner, weeping at his feet, drying his soft body with her hair.

Amen. 

[i] Mark Galli , Karl Barth: An Introductory Biography for Evangelicals (Eerdmans, 2017), accessed via Scribd: https://www.scribd.com/book/482210637, p. 164. A footnote attributes the source of the quote to Eberhard Busch’s Karl Barth: His Life from Letters and Autobiographical Texts, trans. John Bowden (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976), 1–32

[ii] Karl Barth, The Epistle to the Romans, translated from the sixth edition by Edwyn C. Hoskyns (Oxford University Press, 1933), 266

[iii] Barth, Romans, 258

[iv] Galli, 127, via Scribd

[v] Galli, 98, via Scribd

[vi] Barth, Romans, 263

[vii] Barth, Romans, 262

[viii] Barth, Romans, 263

[ix] Karl Barth, Dogmatics in Outline (Harper Torchbooks, 1959), 71

[x] Barth, Dogmatics in Outline, 71

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It’s (not too) complicated

Posted on December 5, 2021 by Rosalind C Hughes

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, the Sunday after yet another school shooting, during a continuing global pandemic, and other concerns … Readings may be found here (we read Baruch for our first lesson).

On this, the Second Sunday of Advent, we pray, 

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins… (BCP, 211)

In the third season of The Good Place, the ethical complications of life are explored. It is not so easy, we find, to forsake our sins and walk in the ways of righteousness when even choosing a tomato to buy at the grocery store has implications for fair labour, the environmental impacts of pesticides and long-distance transport, and so much more, even before we get to any question of whether it tastes good! 

Even so, repenting of our sins, paying heed to the prophets, may not be as hard as we sometimes make it. Sometimes, it is simply a question of kindness, of doing the most merciful, the most loving, the most human (as Christ embodied and exemplified humanity for us) thing.

The prophets promise that God, in due course and good time, will level the mountains and raise the valleys out of their shadows and make straight the pathways before God’s people, that everyone might make their way toward Jerusalem, cast as refuge and the resting place of the children of God.

To do the work of righteousness, then – to love God, and follow in the footsteps of Christ, to love our neighbours as ourselves – means nothing less than to remove the obstacles from before the feet of those stumbling towards justice, towards equity, towards salvation, towards peace.

On a communal level, it means heeding the prophets’ warnings that chasing after wealth at the expense of the poor is plain wrong. 

It means following the example of Christ who did not care who was in or out of network, whether they were Jews, Gentiles, madmen, women, nor even what day of the week it was, when it came to offering works of healing mercy. His healing was available even to the woman who dared only creep under the crowd and touch his cloak.

It means clearing any obstacles that litter the paths of people made in the image of God, obscuring their dignity.

It means removing the plank of racism from the foundations of all of our functions and replacing it with real and radical justice rather than whitewashing over the cracks.

It means beating swords into ploughshares, guns into shovels, removing them from the hands and the lives and the deaths of our children. There is no deeper shadow cast than the deaths of children, and the enormity of the problem before us is our mountain to climb.

But Jesus once told his disciples, if you have but a mustard seed of faith you may move mountains (Matthew 17:20-21).

Better still, the prophets have told us that God is with us in the work, that God will level the ground that God has created, and bring righteousness and justice, which is mercy, to the earth.

On the personal plane, heeding the prophets and repenting of sin often means simply to do the most merciful, most loving, most humble thing available in any given situation, any God-given opportunity.

If you have ever had to fill in the ground where an old, old tree once stood, then you know that the work is not done in one day. There is filling and raking, seeding and growing and mowing of grass, and where do all of those mushrooms come from? And in a year or two the ground will have settled and sunk once more, and you will have to start over again, and again. Just as when we learn better we do better, the work of repentance is repetitive, and cumulative, and it does build toward righteousness, if it is a labour of love: Love for God, love for our neighbour, love for our enemies, as well as for one another.

I am confident, with St Paul, that you who have begun a good work will bring it to completion with the help of Jesus Christ. It is my prayer, with St Paul, that our love for God, neighbour, enemy, and one another may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help us to determine what is best, and to do it (Philippians 1:6, 9-10).

John came, eating wild honey and locusts, a simple life, preaching a baptism of repentance from sin, so that the crooked should be made straight and the rough ways made smooth, and so that all flesh might see the salvation of God (Luke 3:1-6; Isaiah 40:3-5).

It is not too complicated for us. The mountain is not too high and the valley not too cold, since God is going before us to pave the way; since Christ has gone before us to give us knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of sins.

In this way,

“In the tender compassion of our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
To shine on those who dwell in … the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace” (Canticle 16, BCP).

Amen.

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