Rachael Newham's Blog, page 2

And Yet Lent Reflections: Hoping

I wonder what hope looks like for you? 

Perhaps you see it in the bluebells beginning to pop up, or maybe when you get some good news pop up on your phone, for a change?

I’d hazard a guess that most of us wouldn’t expect our hope to come through tears and scars? We tend to think that hope comes from good things – right?

But when I look to scripture, I see hope spring in the unlikeliest of circumstances to the unlikeliest people. 

It comes in the early morning tears of Mary Magdalene as she goes to tend to Jesus’ body and finds an empty tomb and her beloved Lord.

It comes as Thomas asks to press his hands into the place when Jesus’ body was scarred from crucifixion and is not turned away.

It comes as Jesus walks a while with two heartbroken travellers on the road to Emmaus who cried “we had hoped” and saw their hope born afresh as Jesus broke bread with them. 

The hope Jesus brings did not come in the way any one expected it that first Easter – and so often the same is true today. 

I see hope when we gather at the communion table to eat the bread and drink the wine that remembers Jesus’ sacrifice – where his brokenness leads to our healing – because through it his grace is available to all. 

Our hope does not depend on where we come from, or what we do, but on the glorious interruption of God’s grace in our lives that stretches further than we could ever imagine to encompass those so often left out. 

And as we set our faces towards Calvary this week; we cannot rush through the darkness to get to the dawn of Easter Sunday. Our hope begins here and now as we walk slowly; lingering as we retell the stories of Jesus clearing the temples of all that gets in the way of true worship, is anointed with perfume and tears, as his blood and sweat mingle in the garden and as he takes his last breath. Our hope is not even quenched by the silence of Holy Saturday, when the altars are stripped bare – because it is a reminder that we are never abandoned to despair alone.

So let us not avert our gaze from Jesus this week, even when he walks the paths we’d like to avoid, but fix our eyes on him – the author and perfecter of our faith who is with us always, to the very end of the age. 

And Yet Lent Reflections: Lamenting

Lament is one of those words which can all too easily lose its meaning. We might understand it in the context of the book of Lamentations and in the voices of the prophets, but what does it look like in the world we live in?

Put simply, lament is bringing what hurts before God, or as author Mark Vroegpop writes “lament is how christians grieve”. It brings the twin realities of the power and goodness of God together with the pain and brokenness of the world. 

Lament is the bridge between our despair and our hope as it gives us a language to articulate our pain without letting go of our trust in who God is and in how He is working. The book of Lamentations is raw in its despair and questions; God’s people are far from home and far from hope. The Israelites must have felt as if their world had ended, their Promised Land was gone and all they could was stand amongst the ruins of their sin.

It’s into this place of hopelessness that the most familiar verse of Lamentations appears. 

“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope. Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning, great is your faithfulness.”

This verse of hope doesn’t ignore the agony and horror of their situation, it fix what they’re going through – but it reorientates them. 

The Israelites are still far from home, the Temple still lies in ruin – but God’s love hasn’t run out and it never will. They are still loved, God’s hope is still real – He hasn’t given up on them. The word translated here as ‘great love’ is from the Hebrew word Hesed which means loving-kindness or steadfast love and it’s not wishy washy – it’s the unquenchable love of the Father for his children. 

And it’s the same love bestowed on us.

We may be aching under the weight of our grief, breaking beneath the pressures upon us and around us – but God’s love has not given up on us. It is as true and powerful for us as it was the day we first believed. 

This is the truth on which our laments rest – that God’s love has not run dry, his compassion for us hasn’t failed and it never will.

I encourage you to spend some time with this verse over the coming week; write it on a post-it or in your phone and be reminded that God’s love is the reason we can lament – and it’s the reason for our hope.

“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope. Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning, great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:21-23

And Yet Lent Reflections: Grieving

The world feels heavy with grief right now, doesn’t it? As war rages, bills rise and we survey the wreckage of the covid-19 pandemic. It can be hard to hope amidst the grief, and we can struggle to know how or even if we are allowed to grieve as people of hope. 

Sometimes, we can be led to believe that grieving is somehow ‘unchristian’, and yet the call of Paul was not that christians shouldn’t grieve, but that we should grieve with hope. But what does it mean to grieve with hope?

I believe that the first step is to admit that grieving is holy work, that it is a natural and vital response to the losses of life. We have reduced it to something only experienced by those mourning a death; but there are countless losses that we go through and these losses deserve to be grieved before we can begin to imagine a future beyond the loss. Accepting our reality – even when it is painful allows us space to begin to hope. 

The second step is to bring that grief before God. Throughout scripture we see people calling out their grief; from Nehemiah’s weeping over the destroyed walls of Jerusalem to Jesus weeping over the same city years later, grieving to God allows us to invite him into our pain. 

It’s what our Jewish friends do so well through their practices of mourning; from sitting shi’vah in the aftermath of a bereavement to the thirty days of mourning which follows, these well worn practices give a language and structure to the wildest days of early loss. 

And the third step is to bring the loss and hope together. This is seen most beautifully in the Psalms; where there is a section called “Songs of Ascent”. It was believed to be written by the returning exiles as they looked back to the goodness of God in the past and returned home to a land that was now alien to them. Psalm 126 has this rhythm of sowing tears and reaping joy throughout it and it shows us that it is impossible to separate the two – we cannot have joy without first expressing our grief. 

Furthermore, this sowing of tears and reaping joy is something to be done as a community. We have to come together both to grieve and rejoice because God designed us to work best when we are connected to Him and connected to one another. We see it again in Romans, the call to ‘weep with those who weep’ and ‘rejoice with those who rejoice’ is one which reminds us that we don’t get to opt out one another’s pain – and neither do we miss their rejoicing. Whether now is your time to rejoice, or a time of weeping; we need to be able to find people to stand with us as we bring our whole selves to God.

Today we weep with those in Ukraine, those still isolated and shielding due to covid-19, those struggling to make ends meet – and we hold onto hope for those who cannot yet hold their own. We grieve because our world is so far from Eden, and yet we hope because our God does not abandon us. 

And Yet Lent Reflections: Celebrating

The world feels like it’s on fire right now, doesn’t?

You don’t need me to repeat the litany of bad news and despair, I’m sure.

Talking about celebrating when the world is on fire feels wrong somehow, doesn’t it?

And yet we are, undoubtedly a good news people. Our bibles recount the story of Jesus’ life in gospels – good news. 

But if we look closer, the gospels don’t seem to bear much resemblance to what we might imagine good news looks like. 

Luke’s gospel recounts the angels terrifying the shepherds working away on the night Jesus was born as they proclaimed: “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.” 

Joy for all people. That’s something worth celebrating, right?

What’s interesting is that the angels don’t proclaim happiness for all people, but joy. 

And joy is something greater and richer than happiness, with its roots in happenstance (chance) could ever be. The words used for ‘joy’ in the New Testament are used some 326 times, and yet in these scriptures we see a bloodthirsty King slaying a generation of newborn babies, the crucifixion of an innocent man and the persecution of the early church. The joy is not found in the circumstances people find themselves in, but in whom they trust their circumstances. 

True joy, our ultimate reason for celebration, is not found in happy situations or good fortune, but in the Man of Sorrows who died on a cross and rose again. 

As strange as it may seem, pausing to grieve and lament during Lent is a part of the fullness of Jesus’ joy. 

Even in the darkest times, it seems there’s a day to celebrate something, whether it be the International Day of Awesomeness (which occurred on the 10th March I’m told) or National Let’s Laugh Day (19th March), we haven’t forgotten to celebrate, but we have somehow lost our connection to celebration. 

I think the missing connection is thanksgiving. 

Thanksgiving and gratitude are what give celebrations meaning and heart, and it’s why it remains important to celebrate even when the world is on fire. 

We need not celebrate every passing fad; but we have to celebrate that which we are thankful for. 

And Yet Lent Reflections: Waiting

We’ve all spent much of the past two years waiting, haven’t we?

From the seemingly endless wait for restrictions to lift, isolation periods to end and the interminable wait to see if a second red line will appear on covid tests – in a world where waiting had become almost obsolete – we’ve been forced to face it head on. 

Enduring waiting isn’t something that seems to get easier, no matter how many times we face it. 

We are so often restless and impatient.

And we aren’t alone in it. Throughout scripture we see that God’s people are, more often than not, called to be a waiting people – but that doesn’t stop them struggling with it. 

We see Abraham and Sarah wait for their promised descendants, Joseph wait in a prison cell, the Israelites wandering the desert for forty years… I could go on! It seems that if we are to be the people of God, we are called to be a people of waiting. 

Lent is a similar period of waiting; there is no way to rush it, just as there was no way for Jesus to rush through his own wait and temptation in the desert. It’s so tempting to want to skip over Lent once we’ve eaten the pancakes and marked ourselves with ashes; and yet there are things that are learned best in our times of waiting and hoping. 

We know that waiting is painful; we realise that pretty quickly in life (try making a hungry baby wait whilst you prepare its bottle!), but what I’ve seen is that in God’s economy of time, our waiting is never wasted.

From the wait for the sun to rise, the wait for the flowers to bloom; God does something special when we wait with him.

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Psalm 40 is one of my favourite Psalms to return to in times of waiting; because it recognises both the agony of the wait and the preciousness of meeting God in our place of pain. “I waited patiently for the Lord, he turned to me and heard my cry”, the Psalmist says; and I wonder how long he waited before God “lifted me out of the slimy pit”? I remember reading this Psalm in the depths of depression, feeling utterly hopeless, and being comforted both that we have permission to express the pain of waiting. This is the gift of lament; not just that we can bring our unvarnished pain to God- but that we are not abandoned to it. 

As we journey through Lent together and explore what it means to find joy in lament, it’s my prayer that we are able to wait patiently together to hear the whisper of God which encourages us to be honest with Him and discover that He meets us in our pain and in our waiting. 

Mothering Sunday: The Mothering of Moses

Exodus 2:1-10

It’s some story, isn’t it?

And it’s one of those stories that gets told in children’s bibles almost minus the horror. The imagery I have is drawn straight from the Prince of Egypt film (as well as the theme song which has been in my head all week!), a wicker basket floating casually along down a calm looking river – I d; but the reality was much scarier and less picturesque. 

God’s chosen people, the Israelites were a people in crisis. They were enslaved and under threat, the promises God had given Abraham of a land to call their own must have felt very far away; but the second part of the promise, descendants to outnumber the stars was being fulfilled as from the family of Joseph, now long forgotten, the Israelites had multiplied rapidly. 

This rapid reproduction rate had the Pharaoh worried; so he gives his deadly orders – that any baby boy born to a Hebrew woman should be killed. It’s a barbaric, unthinkable order, the murder of countless baby boys in order to prevent the Hebrews raising an army.

But the Hebrew midwives, Shiprah and Puah enact their own rescue mission, telling Pharaoh that the Hebrew women gave birth too quickly – that the task couldn’t be done. This is the first exodus; and it was through the women that God saved. We never know the name of the Pharaoh – but we hear the name of the midwives – in fact the word ‘midwife’ appears 7 times in as many verses. 

Despite the midwives best work however, Pharaoh is still determined and gives the order that every Hebrew baby born should be thrown into the Nile. 

And it’s into these terrifying times that Moses is born. 

As I was thinking about this morning; I couldn’t help but think of the babies born in the past year born into a climate of fear that will hopefully be hard to comprehend when they’re told about it in the years to come. Hopefully our own Exodus from this pandemic is beginning; but it will live long in our memories and shape our world in ways we don’t yet know of. 

But I’ve skipped ahead in the story. 

Because our reading begins with the birth of Moses. 

And I’m aware that for some of you here today, or listening online, these words may hurt. You may have wanted to avoid today all together; whether because your relationship with your Mum is a painful one, you’re grieving or if motherhood is something you long for – or any other multitude of reasons, but I want to encourage you today as we look at three key women in Moses’ life; his birth  mother Jochebed, his sister Miriam and his adopted Mum Bithiah. Three women linked in the way they mothered Moses and the part they played in the Exodus story. 

I’m aware that this morning might be incredibly painful; for those who are longing to be mothers, those grieving their children or mothers, or simply those who aren’t with their Mums this morning and are missing them like I’m missing them! I believe that this morning we need to rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn. We want to rejoice with those who are celebrating with their Mums and children this morning, but we want to mourn with those who are apart, and who are hurting.

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And I’m going to look at three things in the story of these three women; and the first of these is that mothering is a verb. 

In this passage the three women mother Moses is very different ways and whilst for Jochebed it involved the physical act of giving birth; that wasn’t the case for Bithiah and Miriam. 

It’s hard to imagine how Jochebed must have felt preparing to give birth to a baby that could be killed, as writer Kelley Nikonhenda puts it “birthed life under a death order”.

But I love this next part; where the text tells us that she hides him because he is a ‘fine child’. Now it’s common that parents think their child is the most beautiful child to ever be born – the language here is linking us right back to the creation story. The word we have translated as ‘fine’ (tov) is the same word that God uses to announce that his creation is ‘good’ – and the material of the basket she puts her son in was an ark of sorts – lined with tar to keep it afloat we’re meant to see the parallels between Moses’ trip down the Nile and Noah’s ark which carried God’s faithful through the flood.

Jochebed’s mothering uses the force that Pharoah’s wants to use to kill her baby to save him. Does it remind you of another story where the power of death is used to save life?

Mothering is a reflection of God’s heart just as much as fathering is. It’s the power of love and life over the forces of evil and death. 

I love that. It’s all too easy I think to reduce mothering to disposing of dirty nappies, doing the school run and for me, standing in the freezing rain of the park yet again! But we see a vision here of mothering as something that is more than the sum of our day to day lives – it’s a reflection of the gospel and mothering is a verb of love.

And it’s one where everyone, parent or not has a role to play. 

As Jochebed sent her baby boy along the river in the hope of saving his life; Moses’ big sister, who we will later learn is called Miriam is keeping watch. I love this image of a small girl keeping watch over her baby brother as he floats along the Nile; mothering him from a distance and then stepping in to ensure that her own mother can remain a part of Moses’ life. She fights for Moses in her mothering, and her role in this story, arranging for her Mother to be paid for nursing her own child, allowing them to remain close is proof if ever we needed it that “we are mothers when we generate life as much as when we advocate for the quality of life.”

Miriam is often referred to as a prophet and when she later leads the Hebrews out of Egypt alongside Moses and Aaron, she sings a song that we only hear a snippet of in scripture, but it’s enough for us to connect it to the song of another young woman tasked with a role God’s plan of salvation. 

And it’s here that we meet Moses’ third mother; the Pharoah’s daughter Bithiah, born into unimaginable privilege and presumably well aware of the grief her Father’s policy is unleashing on the Hebrew people. 

She is an example to us all in how to use our privilege, isn’t she? And I expect it was a risk to take in this baby, but the text tells us that she felt sorry for him – other translations talk about her being moved with compassion and she allows herself to be led by her love, rather than her fear in the same way that Jochebed and Miriam did before her. 

It’s perhaps one of the greatest challenges of mothering; to mother out of our love rather than our fear and in reality we probably do both most of the time. 

I know I do! My little boy loves nothing more than to scale play equipment far too big for him and to make friends with everyone he meets. I am by nature, much more cautious and it’s my constant inner dialogue about which risks to allow him to take, to allow him to explore and not be too limited by my irrational fears – but protected by the more rational variety! 

Protection is an inescapable part of mothering; whether it’s Mum’s protecting toddlers from scaling heights or the fight to make the streets safer for women to walk it’s another reflection of the God who loves and protects with tar lined baskets and nails in a cross to protect us from a death without him. 

And when Bithiah draws the infant from the water, she too is playing her part in God’s salvation plan. 

I often wonder what it was like for Bithiah later on in the story, when Moses flees his title as Prince of Egypt to free his people from Pharaoh when she, like Jochebed before her will lose Moses to the wide world before him. 

Mothering is a verb of lament, as much as a verb of love. 

Author Rachel Moriston writes; “that is what it is to be a mother… to love and nurture that which is fragile, mortal, unpredictable, uncontrollable and ultimately not ever truly one’s own.”

Bithiah demonstrates this even in naming the baby that she mothers. The name Moses means ‘son’ in the Egyptian language, but it sounds like the Hebrew “Mashah’ which means ‘drawn out of the water.’ For her part, Bithiah’s naming of Moses honours his beginnings and the mother who came before her and in doing so foreshadows how he will grow to draw his people from Egypt in the Exodus. 

In this world in search of shalom, of the fullness of peace, we cannot have love without lament. And mothering of any kind involves sacrifice. 

It’s long been said that it takes a village to raise a child; and it’s something anyone who parents children will have felt especially keenly in the past year, as we have parented largely without our village. 

It takes a village because mothering demands sacrifice from us, not just in what we give up in terms of sleep and time, but because the call of mothering is to one day let go. Children are not raised so that they stay as close to us as possible; but to be dedicated to God and allowed to lead their own lives once they’ve grown. 

I think of Hannah, later on in the Bible, praying and weeping for the child she longed for, but raising him so that he would go on to be Israel’s leader and of course Mary, the who treasured the words of the shepherds in her heart, was told by Anna and Simeon that her child would cause a spear to pierce her own heart. She too would flee with her child to spare him from a tyrannical king – and see his own side pierced as he hung on the cross. 

Whomever we mother; children, friends, colleagues or neighbours, we play a part in a sacrifice which points us to Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice for the people of the world. Jesus welcomed children, yes but he also poured himself out for each one of us. 

Jesus lived as a sacrifice before he died as a sacrifice. He tenderly knelt and washed the feet of his disciples as his people were ruled by another tyrant in the Roman Emperor. Foot washing was a task so lowly that it was reserved for women, children, foreigners and the marginalised. Feet were calloused and dirty from walk It was, ostensibly women’s work and yet here was Jesus doing this work for his followers. Jo Saxton writes:

“[Jesus] tended to their wounds, washed off the dust and the dirt, washed the sweaty weariness. He saw where they’d been and how it affected them. He touched them, healed them, restored them and refreshed them for the journey ahead.”

And then he broke bread and shared wine with them, sharing of himself and pointing to the truth of what he was going to sacrifice for them. 

This is the work of mothering – and it’s the work of the church. Brene Brown said that ‘church isn’t like an epidural, it’s like a midwife’ and I love that. When we think of the Hebrew midwives we looked at right at the beginning Shiprah and Puah- they delivered babies into a dark world, holding hands and mopping brows, not taking away the pain of childbirth but coming alongside them and ushering in new life. 

We’ve looked at the mothering of Moses this morning, and I hope we can see that mothering – however it looks – is a reflection of the love of God for his family that welcomes everyone. That seats the sinners and the saints together to share in the body and blood of Christ as we will do at the communion table later on. 

And that as women all over the world pour themselves out for their children and in their communities; we can catch a glimpse of our God whose power parted the Dead Sea and whose love reached down from heaven to rescue each one of us. 

Through His Spirit may God bless those longing for their Mum this morning, 

May he comfort those who grieve for what was, or what could have been.

May those who long for motherhood be cradled by God’s love,

And may all who gather at this table to share in body and blood of God’s son

Be met with the joy of belonging together in God’s family. 

Advent Reflections Week Four: Love

If I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure how to write this last Advent reflection in the wake of the news of Tier 4 and tightened restrictions.

We are weary, aren’t we?

And we might not feel like rejoicing.

But I have a feeling that’s the reason we must rejoice – not to escape what is happening – but to lament – to rail at God for the injustice, poverty and isolation that the pandemic has highlighted and worsened.

The words of Mary’s song, the Magnificat; are a cry of justice, worship, power, promise and love.

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for God has looked with favor on the lowliness of the Almighty’s servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is God’s name.
God’s mercy is for those who fear God from generation to generation.
God has shown strength with God’s arm;
God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
God has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
God has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.
God has helped servant Israel, in remembrance of God’s mercy, according to the promise God made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”

Mary speaks of the power, love and justice of God.

Love that remembers the poor, the weak and the lonely.

Love that reached from the heights of heaven to the womb of a young woman and all the way to the cross at Golgotha.

As author Scott Erikson writes:

“The risk of incarnation is the risk of love.”

Love is the reason our weary world can rejoice – even during this strange Christmas.

And it’s a love which meets us in our deepest despair, our anger, our fear.

Best Books of 2020

What a strange year! But amidst there have been some incredible books launched. I’ve actually read more this year than last, partly due to lockdown and partly in preparation for writing my second book which comes out in 2021! These are a snapshot of some of the best – but there are many more so do check out my Instagram if you want to see what I’m reading and recommending at the moment.

So in no particular order, here are my twelve best books of the year – and a few honourable mentions with a quote from each one to whet your appetite!

This Too Shall Last, K.J Ramsey*

“When the church amplifies stories of healing and overcoming without also elevating stories of sustaining grace, she is not adequately forming souls to hold on to hope.”

Wintering, Katherine May

“Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.”

Where is God in all the Suffering? Amy Orr-Ewing

“The Messiah would bring an end to the brokenness of the world by being broken to bits himself.”

God Among the Ruins, Mags Duggan

“I wonder if we sometimes miss how God might want to minister to us because we are too eager to move on, too quick to relieve the ache we feel with the analgesic of activity.”

Finding Jesus in the Storm, John Swinton

“Life in all its fullness is not life without tears but life with the one who dries our tears and moves us onward to fresh pastures.”

God on Mute, Pete Grieg

“the incomparable story of Christ’s agony, abandonment and eventual resurrection – that story remain the greatest hope for a hurting world.”

Salt Water and Honey, Lizzie Lowrie

“Redemption isn’t about happy endings… [it] acknowledges pain, then invites it into a bigger story, giving it purpose.”

Almost Everything, Anne Lamott

“Tears will bathe, baptise, and hydrate you and the seeds beneath the surface of the ground on which you walk.”

Ready to Rise, Jo Saxton

“We need people who will not only clear the rubble of old ideologies and mindsets but also tend to those who have been broken and damaged by them.”

Women in a Patriarchal World, Elaine Storkey

“When we are left by love rather than fear, we gain more courage, and God often empowers us to be stronger and to see things more clearly.”

Dear Reader, Cathy Rentzenbrink

“Every book holds a memory. When you hold a book in your hand, you access not only the contents of that book but the fragments of the previous selves that you were the you read it.”

The Cure for Sorrow, Jan Richardson

“A blessings does not explain away our loss or justify devastation. It does not make light of grief or provide a simple fix for the rending, It does not compel us to “move on”. Instead a blessings meets us in the place of our deepest loss.”

Honourable Mentions

Lights for the Path, Madeleine Davies: A great book for young people navigating grief and mourning, one I’d have so valued in my teens.

Joseph, Meg Warner: A fascinating look at the story of Joseph through the lens of trauma and trauma studies.

Coming Undone, Terri White: A visceral memoir of the author’s mental illness – far from an easy read but so brilliantly written.

If Only, Jennie Pollock: A lovely book on contentment and hope – encouraging and engaging.

Endorsement

I was thrilled to endorse Liz Carter’s stunning book “Treasure in Dark Places” – as I said in my endorsement:

“Liz writes beautifully, and Treasure in Dark Places weaves theologically rich poetry with prose which faithfully echoes the tradition of lament with honesty and hope. A gorgeous companion in dark times.”

What have been your best books of 2020?

*Please note that some links are affiliate.

Advent Reflections Week Three: Joy

“Joy is nurtured, not by pretending everything is fine, but by holding our hope together with our grief, the good news with our sorrow, and naming both as reality. We practice joy because we are clear-eyed about our realities.”
Sarah Bessey

Advent is a strange time which both waits for joy expectantly and seeks the joy which pours through the cracks in our ordinary lives.  The shepherds had a dangerous and often unattractive job. They were most likely priests as well as shepherds, caring for the lambs which would be sacrificed at the temple. They lived in the space between the priesthood and the ceremonially unclean; and then God broke through their ordinary lives with an extraordinary angelic vision. 

Their words, as recounted in Luke 2:10 proclaim:

“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.”

Their joy when they met Jesus and later became the first evangelists as they shared their wonder, did not air lift them from their difficult circumstances (They most probably still had to return to the fields to watch their flocks the next night) but their encounter with Jesus changed their perspective.

Going forward they would hold the memory of the night God broke through the skies – and we do the same. The joy evoked from our encounters with Jesus doesn’t necessarily change the specifics of our lives – but it changes us. 

We need the clarity of joy which is honest about our happiness and our grief but keeps our eyes fixed on our Saviour, the man of sorrows who is the source of our joy.

And we need joy more than every this year. 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote:

“We can, and should also, celebrate Christmas despite the ruins around us.

“The joy Jesus’ birth is our reason to celebrate – despite the ruins of 2020. 

We need the clarity of joy which is honest about our happiness and our grief but keeps our eyes fixed on our Saviour, the man of sorrows who is the source of our joy.

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Advent Reflections Week Two: Peace

“Advent recognises the absence of peace, yet the exquisite certainty of its coming.” Kate Bowler

I sometimes think that peace is one of those words we’ve got wrong.

It is deeper and wider than the images of still waters or pure white doves, it is not meekness – it is shalom – wholeness in mind body and spirit and being reconciled to God through Jesus.

Advent reminds us that the Messiah was called “Prince of Peace” in Isaiah; when the angels visited the shepherds they proclaimed peace over God’s people: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests.” (Luke 2:14)

And yet the peace the angels bring, the peace Jesus brings doesn’t look how we might imagine it to.

For the shepherds it looked first like fear at the sights of the angelic hosts; and Jesus disrupted the lives everyone he met. When Mary and Joseph take the infant Jesus to the Temple, they meet the elderly Anna and Simeon who have been waiting for the Messiah for their whole lives, but Simeon’s words aren’t what we might call comforting.

“Behold, this Child is appointed to cause the rise and fall of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your soul as well.”

Simeon is warning Mary of the sorrow and anguish that will come with being Jesus’ mother – and the disruption He will bring to the whole world.

Jesus, the Prince of Peace came sometimes to disrupt the equilibrium whilst promising the hope of ultimate peace.

Advent, as Kate Bowler notes in the quote above, recognises that peace doesn’t reign – but it also reminds us that it is promised.

John’s gospel records Jesus’ words:

“Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled; do not be afraid.”

Jesus didn’t say that we would have no trouble (in fact he said quite the opposite!) but he promises His peace in the midst of the world’s lack of peace.

He sent the Holy Spirit to bring peace to our hearts when the world rages around us.

He gives peace of heart and mind whilst we wait for peace to reign – and this is part of the comfort we find in the heart of Advent.