Silent Night?

One of the things I love about Christmas is singing carols. We try not to sing carols in Sunday worship during advent (we stick to the advent hymns). But there are still plenty of other times to sing the carols - the familiar and the new songs that tell and retell the story, that remind us of layers of meanings, and that are just fun to share. We have had various carol services, and there have been carols playing over the sound system for the last week or so.
But - like many others, - I have had the lurgy over the last couple of weeks. The aches and pains passed quite quickly, and even the sniffles disappeared pretty fast. But then there was the cough.... It's not too bad, but it does flare up when I giggle - or when I sing! And so I have been not singing. It happens at various points in the year, since whenever I have a cold, it hits my voice. But somehow, it has more impact not singing the carols.
Talking to others, I'm not alone in this. Somehow, missing carols is more frustrating than not singing at other times of the year.
And it leaves me wondering why? Is it because we sing them for such a short period - miss them now, and there's twelve months before they can be sung again? Is it because we - some of us at least - have sung them all our lives, and their familiarity draws us into security and comfort, especially when life feels pretty grim? Is it because they are such beautiful examples of poetry and music (no - I don't think so!)?
All of these might be true, and none the worse for that. But I am also wondering if it there is more. Is it that the wonder of Christmas - of Incarnation, the Word become flesh, Immanuel - that this is more than we can say. And singing, making music, letting ourselves go in the experience is part of our wonder and worship.
May Christmas blessings be yours.

Swords and Plough-shares?

Our carol service/concert was on Friday evening, and very good it was too. Our own instrumentalists and choir, together with the Mary Ward singers and the choir of the Japanese fellowship all took part in leading us, and there were several opportunities for the congregation to sing as well. And we interspersed the music with readings which told the story of "the passing on of the light", starting from the creation right through until today. It was good way to anchor our celebrations in the whole story of the action of God with people.
As part of our reading, we passed on a light. We had decorated the church using, among other things, large light sticks. We took one of these, and each reader passed it to the next, symbolising the light being passed through history.
All of which was fine, until we looked closely at the light sticks - light sabres, modelled on the weapons used in Star Wars!
Which raises an interesting point. Was this an appropriate symbol of our celebration of the light and life that enlightens everybody coming into the world, as the gospel of John puts it? Can the coming of the Prince of Peace truly be recognised with an, albeit fictional, weapon?
It is a question - or at least, a form of a question, that arises in all sorts of areas. To what extent do we live the life of the Kingdom using the patterns, tools and structures which are not of the Kingdom? Clearly we can't live in an isolated bubble, far away from the messiness of the world as it is. We live in a political, financial and power-wielding world. To opt out of that, to say we have nothing to do with it, to pretend we are not part of it - those are options that are not open to us.
But how do we "sing the Lord's song in a strange land" as the Israelites in exile had to question - how do we celebrate the coming of the Prince of Peace in a context of violence, power-politics and fear? Can we use light sabres to do it?
I don't know the answer - only that the question won't go away. Part of me wants to say that we take the weapons, structures and manipulations of that which is not the Kingdom and refashion them. After all - we didn't use the sabres to fight during the service.
But I am left wondering if that is enough. Some of the youngsters who were present were fascinated by the sabres - and did fight with them. The pull of their identity as weapons is very strong. How do we prevent ourselves from being drawn into the patterns whose remaking we are looking for?
I do believe worship plays a part here - the telling and retelling of the gospel truths about who God is and so who we are becoming; that regular reminding of the truth of our identity on Christ which can get so easily overwhelmed by the often louder voices.
And so it is reassuring that several people asked me - usually flippantly- just why we were using light sabres as symbols in our carol service. There is enough gospel identity among us to recognise the inconsistency. And that will do as a reminder of what that gospel identity is.

Simon's back!!! Such good news - after a three month sabbatical, Simon has returned and the ministry team is back to full strength again.
Sabbaticals are an important part of a minister's development and ongoing growth. They fit easily into a professional model of continuing professional development, and into the kind of self-fulfiment concept that is very prevalent today; my right to do what I need for my health, wellbeing or what ever it is. It is easy to look at sabbaticals as very individualistic. But as Simon has made clear elsewhere in saying thank you, sabbaticals are in fact very communal experiences. They can only happen, for example, if there is a team, or something approaching it, to allow the space for somebody to take that time. We are fortunate at Bloomsbury in having a ministry team which makes sabbatical a possibility, and we have been very fortunate during this sabbatical that many people have been able and willing to take on various responsibilities, so that nothing which ought to have been done was left undone.
The notion of sabbatical comes, of course, from the theology of sabbath; the gift of one day in seven in which not only is no work required, the people of God are actually forbidden to work, and commanded to rest in trust that God can sustain the world without our help.
Again, it is easy to see such a command as individualistic - my time off, my obedience to God, my guilt when I work too much. But the command was not given to individuals. It is a call to a people, a community. It is the people who are to celebrate being without doing on a regular basis. The Jewish community has developed this around household celebration - the gathering of the family for Sabbath, the sharing of the stories, of friendship, of hospitality.
As a community, at Bloomsbury, we are very busy. There is a lot to do. We do a lot, and are rightly proud of it and pleased with it. But, as Simon's sabbatical has shown us, one of the gifts we can give each other is also the possibility of sSabbath; of space and time to be - celebrating, recuperating, praying, relaxing.
On behalf of the ministry team I want to thank everybody who helped us manage while Simon was sabbaticalling. Let's explore more ways in which we can do this for each other, and in which we can do it as a community.

This week, the Bloomsbury family has been at a funeral. Given the age profile of our congregation, we actually have very few funerals. But there was one this week. And what made it harder was that it was for a boy of 3 days old. No funeral is easy, but a funeral for a child who has not yet lived has a particular pain.
But we did it. We read the scriptures, and heard the promises and offered the prayers.
And we cried, and we said that we were angry. And we tried to understand, and we tried to accept that we will not understand.
Any death brings us face to face with mystery - and the death of a child most particularly. What is it to be alive? What is it to die? How do we find meaning, and what point is there?
These are questions we can usually pass by, or avoid thinking about because there is so much else to do. But when we stand in a wet graveyard, facing an open grave, then they cannot be avoided.
And I find that I have no answers. I speak the promises and offer the comfort that they affirm. But they are promises, not answers. The questions stay. And it feels very appropriate to Advent; hearing - and holding on, if only barely - to the promises, without being able to see yet what they really mean.
Just as it is is easy to avoid the big questions, the unanswerable questions in being busy, being useful, being fulfilled, so it is easy to move straight to Christmas with its strange fulfilment of promise and its wonderful truth, and to overlook the waiting, yearning, wondering of Advent. I would like never to do again what I had to do yesterday. But if I have to do it, Advent is the right time.