Fading

Grass people,
Glory flower,
...fade.

(Painting by me)

Remember

In conversation with a couple of housemates today these words of C. H. Spurgeon came to mind. Of course, they came into the context of the topic we were discussing but rather than recount that, the words can speak for themselves:


Remember, therefore, it is not your hold on Christ that saves you — it is Christ; 
it is not your joy in Christ that saves you — it is Christ; 
it is not even faith in Christ, though that be the instrument — it is Christ's blood and merits; 
therefore, look not so much to your hand with which you are grasping Christ, as to Christ; look not to your hope, but Jesus, the source of your hope — 
look not to your faith, but to Jesus, the author and finisher of your faith. 
We will never find happiness by looking at our prayers, our doings, or our feelings; 
it is what Jesus is, not what we are, that gives rest to the soul. 
If we would at once overcome Satan and have peace with God, it must be by “looking unto Jesus.” 
Keep your eye simply on Him; let His death, His sufferings, His merits, His glories, His intercession, be fresh on your mind; when you wake in the morning look to Him; when you lie down at night look to Him. 
Oh! let not your hopes or fears come between you and Jesus; follow hard after Him, and He will never fail you.




And for those who like beards, another Spurgeon quotation...

Let it go

A college friend just posted a verse of this fantastic poem:

let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or         
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it 
was sworn to 
go

let them go - the                                                                        

truthful liars and 
the false fair friends
and the boths and 
neithers - you must let them go they
were born to go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love

~ e.e. cummings ~


...which reminded me of one of my favourite's: 

The Windhover (To Christ our Lord)

I CAUGHT this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, 
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

~Gerard Manley Hopkins~



...and of the breaking out of new life from the ashes of destruction


*picture from here: http://cooleiststuffever.wikispaces.com/Mythical+creatures

The epiphany of the epiphany

Reading this yesterday and this a few days ago kept me awake last night (or it could have been the cheese combined with the latest Sherlock episode). As the tamed cynic post emphasises, the Magi (the wise men described in Matthew 2) were off by nine miles. They went to Jerusalem the seat of power and wealth to look for the king predicted by the star as that is where they expected to find him - not a few miles down the road in dirt, poverty and ignominy. So many still expect to find Christ in the presence of the powerful, the well-off, the intellectually and culturally noble, the charismatic and the 'clean' whether that be in the guise of the priests dripping in gold,  the power ministers in their limousines, the cathedrals of learning, the charismatic preachers with loud music and huge crowds, or in the nice wholesome family image which in so many circles is presented as the epitome of Christianity - but is that where he is?

In the past few years, the most powerful sense of the presence of Christ that I have come across has been in a prison which predominantly incarcerates sex offenders - paedophiles who have become the 'lepers' of our century, the unclean and despised and yet who, in this group, were searching for Christ. This is purely subjective, I know, perhaps there are many finding Christ in the economical, moral, or aesthetic high spots and, if so, may they continue to do so. But, for those who are not, perhaps you are looking in the wrong place.

Image taken from here: http://www.crown-industrial.com/frames/Graphics/sallyport_sm.gif

The time has come

The time has come, fear not.

Well this advent project has come to an end, it is advent no more but the day of the celebration of the incarnation. 

I like this poem by Luci Shaw, it touches on the impact of the incarnation - there is not a big fat Santa or a slice of turkey in sight. Here are the last stanzas:

"...for who can endure the day of his coming?"
Malachi 3:2

In our nights
our complicated modern dreams
rarely flower into visions. No contemporary
Gabriel dumbfounds our worship,
or burning, visits our bedrooms.
No signpost satellite hauls us, earthbound
but star-struck, half around the world
with hope. Are our sensibilities too blunt
to be assaulted with spatial power-plays
and far-out proclamations of peace?
Sterile, skeptics, yet we may be broken
to his slow, silent birth, his beginning
new in us. His big-ness may still burst
our self-containment to tell us, 
without angels' mouths, Fear not.

God knows we need to hear it, now,
when he may shatter, with his most shocking
coming, this proud, cracked place,
and more if, for longer waiting,
he does not.

We stood on the hills, Lady,
Our day’s work done,
Watching the frosted meadows
That winter had won.

The evening was calm, Lady, 
The air so still, 
Silence more lovely than music 
Folded the hill.

There was a star, Lady,
Shone in the night,
Larger than Venus it was
And bright, so bright.

Oh, a voice from the sky, Lady,
It seemed to us then
Telling of God being born
In the world of men.

And so we have come, Lady,
Our day’s work done,
Our love, our hopes, ourselves,
We give to your son.

Composer: Bob Chilcott

Picture the Beauty 24

Day 24 - Silent Night

This evening's beauty is more visceral than visual, the stillness and peace of silence. I am 'stranded' in my uni town due to storm-induced travel chaos and will be picked up by my parents tomorrow morning instead of the journey I had planned for this evening and it is so, so quiet around here. The place I live, which is usually a hive of activity, is almost empty, the roads are basically clear and there was barely a soul in town when I went for a walk earlier - an unexpected but fitting way to bring this reflective advent project to a close.

#

A glass of wine would have been nice, though; should have thought of that before the shops shut...tsssk.



Update: Co op was open and the situation is rectified; cheers, mi dears!

Picture the Beauty 23

Day 23 - Afternoon tea by candlelight

Today's beauty was a lovely afternoon tea by candlelight (it was dark by 3.50pm) with delightful company and crockery. Seeing as the tea was with my polymath friend Simone, the chat ranged from the nature writer and closet panentheistic theologian Richard Jefferies to hand-knitted sweaters based on a seamless Scottish design from the 19th Century. 

Staying with the Scottish theme I was then treated to haggis at the home of the warden and his family and entertained by a fellow guest from Cuba playing the piano. Some fig, almond and raw chocolate truffles dipped in green and blacks chocolate were made for the two occasions.

Delightful crockery:

...with truffles in the background

Delightful guest:

This day has also involved a bit of delayed gratification in terms of beautiful things. On Saturday evening I was given some wonderful smelling vanilla tea - not sure whether to drink it or just to keep it to be sniffed - and a lovely home-made Christmas pot-pourri. As neither were wrapped I didn't have the dilemma of to open or not to open. Last night, however, I was given a beautifully wrapped gift, many hours have passed and I have still not opened it, it just looks at me tantalisingly... my mother would be amazed at the self-control displayed by yours truly.