Author: Chris Swift

A writer, researcher and speaker on faith, spirituality and wellbeing. Enthusiastic about spirituality and belief in a community setting; challenged and changed by the theological questions raised in daily life. Author of 'Hospital Chaplaincy in the Twenty-first Century (Routledge)

Hear Our Voice

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Churchyards are often depicted as ghostly places. A kind of hinterland between the lit windows of a “frowsty barn”, where prayers to the eternal are stacked, and the nearby houses and shops containing all the business of the living. Perhaps this cordon sanitaire around a church makes a fitting threshold between the mortal and the immortal. The hope of eternity and the certainty of the grave. They are always places that incline me to contemplation as I read each brief epitaph. How is a life of 90 years reduced to so few words? The dates of our arrival and departure; our names; perhaps a verse of Scripture or of sentiment. The information leads me to say, in whispered tones: “how young”; “how old”; “how many”.

Of course, this orderly arrangement of death feels a far cry from the magnitude of human loss recalled in the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz (in Polish: Oświęcim). Tomorrow marks 80 years since its liberation. During my ministry I have spoken with two people who were prisoners in that utterly dreadful place. One of them is still alive. The other, who converted to Christianity not long after the war, had lost none of her ferocity when I encountered her in 2016. Seldom have I met someone so passionate for justice; so committed to the common good; and so entirely unafraid of asking difficult questions. Such souls are the pillars of a forthright and determined decency which upholds the fabric of caring communities.

I have been to Auschwitz once. During the time of its operation there were no graves dug to bury each victim of the wickedness which thrived in this place. Murder on an industrial scale. I wonder how far outside its evil centre the graveyard would extend if each person had been given a decent burial? Miles upon miles in all directions. A cemetery that would be visible from space. Instead, the scale of destruction is remembered in the piles of shoes; hair and other remains of the horror carried out by one people against another. On the day we visited, standing by the remains of the camp’s cremators, as dusk fell, the recitation of prayers came as an expression of hope in the face of an atrocity whose remembrance had left us dumbfounded.

I fear that as the last survivors of this terror leave us, we are entering a phase when history may be repeated. It was the legacy of liberating the concentration camps, and the truth about them which shocked the world, that gave energy to so much humanitarian work in the second half of the 20th century. There was an air of determination that human beings must never be treated this way again by any state. Tragically, they have been and they are, but our tolerance of the intolerable seems to be growing. Like so many in Nazi Germany who had doubts about the regime, we wring our hands and turn away. The questions and demands are too great. We’d like to help but…

In the entrance to Leeds City Art Gallery there is a painting by the artist Jacob Kramer (1892-1962). Kramer was born on the eastern edge of Ukraine, then in the Russian Empire, and spent part of his life working in Leeds. His painting “Hear our voice O Lord our God” was given to the Gallery by the Jewish community of the city in 1920. The text relates to one of Judaism’s most important prayers. This theme of the work reflected the reason Kramer fled Russia: the Pogroms that followed the killing of the Tsar. In the painting the widowed woman offers an agonising cry and an aspect of despair. It brings to my mind the words of Jeremiah chapter 31:

A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more.

Let us remember, not to despair – but to act.

Midwinter Spring

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Most poets love the liminal. At the University of Hull, in the mid 1980s, the poet Philip Larkin served as librarian. I recall him saying that the reason he chose to live and work in the city was that “it was more the end of England than anywhere else”. Being at the margins suited his temperament and talents. Little wonder that he declined the invitation to become Poet Laureate. Far too central – too Establishment.

For TS Eliot the edge of England was a place in the middle, a remote inland location, which fitted the bill: Little Gidding. Here was “England and nowhere”. Perfectly pleasant, dull, undulating agricultural land, punctuated by small villages and hamlets. Like transmitters of divine communication, the tower bells of Great Gidding speak to the distant spire of the now defunct Steeple Gidding and, in-between them, lies the humble chapel of Little Gidding. There is nothing glamorous about these buildings and little to attract the people hurtling between London and The North on the nearby A1. Perhaps the occasional pilgrim seeking to walk in the steps of Eliot, or of Nichols Farrer but, by and large, a deep, settled and impenetrable stillness. Yes: this might well be the end of England.

The Chapel, Little Gidding

Spaces at the end of things are, paradoxically, close to becoming something else. As the land of Wales begins to run out, the fields of England are drawing nearer. The final hours of a year beckon in the coming days of January. In these moments are the possibilities of change. Perhaps when we are between what has been and what is to come, there is a moment to redeem the past and shape the future. Transitions have a life and quality unlike anything else in human experience.

I write this having just said farewell to one decade and commenced another. This threshold puts me in mind of liminality, and the division of time humanity constructed from the ever rising and setting sun. Tempus fugit. Winter birthdays have their own character, when days are short and the light can be all the more impressive for its brilliance and rarity. In his poem Little Gidding TS Eliot wrote in response to the special quality of these days, as “sun flames the ice”, where “Between melting and freezing The soul’s sap quivers”.

Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire…

Extract from TS Eliot, Little Gidding

Byland Abbey, as seen reflected across flooded and frozen fields, 17 January 2025

Ancient ruins, perhaps especially religious haunts – scarred by the most bitter of human disputes – are also liminal places. Between past and present Byland Abbey stands in remote Yorkshire fields as one of the county’s many deserted religious houses. The area in the mid-1400s must have been a sight to behold – a countryside strewn with these ornate factories of prayer and produce. It is only a relatively short distance from Byland to the sites of Rievaulx; Rosedale; Newburgh; Mount Grace and Lastingham. For countless years. visitors have paused in these ruins and sensed the steps that lie below their steps; the footfall of centuries corralled into a single hallowed house. Lying less than two miles from Coxwold, Byland Abbey was visited by the parson-novelist Laurence Sterne on many occasions. He refers to the “delicious Mansions of our long-lost sisters”. Places to muse about the past and the present; to wonder perhaps, as he did about the English Civil War, of the repeatedly un-learned lesson of history, that in order to end one tyranny, we end up creating another. That sometimes the uncertainty of the liminal is far better than the heavy boots of certainty.

There are other places
Which also are the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.

Extract from TS Eliot, Little Gidding

A Season of Sterne

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For the past 18 months I have been journeying with the unlikely, contradictory and inspiring Laurence Sterne. In a few weeks’ time I’ll be making the formal launch of the Lent book which is the product of this reflection: A Sterne Lent: Forty Days with the Celebrity Parson the Church Forgot.

People have asked me, as well they might, why on earth I picked Sterne’s work as a muse for the serious spiritual reflections of Lent. There are a number of reasons. Firstly, being in the centre of York, I became aware of multiple connections with Sterne, all within a few yards of where I am living. Indeed, the cleric who built this house, William Ward, might be described as the creative impulse that launched Sterne’s literary career and consequent fame. This creative impetus took the form of Ward’s death. The demise of Ward opened the door to a deeply personal, bitter and decade-long dispute between the Archbishop of York’s legal officer and the Dean. It only ended when Sterne wrote his first book, a satire on the controversy, which was so accurate and witty that the Archbishop ordered all copies of A Political Romance to be burned. Thankfully a few survived.

Effigy of Richard Sterne, Archbishop of York 1664-1683. North Quire Aisle, York Minster

Inside York Minster, Laurence’s great grandfather lies in repose. This is Archbishop Richard Sterne, and his recumbent form was carved by Grinling Gibbons (detail pictured above) the notable Anglo-Dutch sculptor. Outside the Minster, but only a matter of yards away, are two civic plaques. The first is in celebration of Elizabeth Montagu, the “Queen of the Blues”, who led a group of privileged women interested in education and mutual support for the development of their respective interests. Montagu was a correspondent with Sterne and also his wife’s cousin. A little further along the same cobbled street is the plaque to Jaques Sterne, the writer’s uncle and one-time Precentor of the Minster. As a Prebendary, Laurence Sterne would often have been in the Minster, preaching or attending meetings of the governing body. On the opposite side of the cathedral, down the ancient Roman road of Stonegate, a stained-glass commemorative disk records the place where Sterne’s Tristram Shandy was first published. As it happens, this printer’s business lies in the lineage of the publisher of A Sterne Lent, Quacks The Printer, which is today found a short distance away on a road parallel to Stonegate.

All this is interesting – possibly – but there is more to A Sterne Lent than geographical convenience. Sterne’s work continues to be significant in the arts and humanities. Tristram Shandy has a sustained and enduring influence on English literature, and literature in other languages. In the fine arts Sterne’s legacy still generates new works. Yet in the Church, Sterne is largely forgotten. Unlike Samuel Johnson or John Donne, he is absent from the religious calendar. When I re-read Tristram Shandy, and took a look at Sterne’s sermons and other writing, I discovered themes that are relevant today and, in many respects, were absolutely groundbreaking in the 18th century. For example, he uses satire to make explicit the repeated absence of female voices from decisions about their bodies and financial independence. It never occurs to the men who pontificate on the acceptability of using a cannula to perform an emergency baptism, to seek a woman’s view about the matter. When spurious pseudo-scientific and legal arguments are cited during a dinner after a major church service, involving the disinheritance of a widow, no female voice is in the conversation.

I do not know what readers will make of A Sterne Lent. As DH Lawrence famously commented: “never trust the teller, trust the tale”. Perhaps that is true in particular for Lent books. Sterne is an unlikely figure to choose as a conversation partner for the most sober season of the Christian year. He is full of mirth; jocularity; and satirical juxtapositions. Giving up some pleasure for the sake of his soul would probably have seemed a bizarre suggestion to Sterne. He is full of humour and weaves a thread of radical and counter-intuitive thinking across his writing. Not only in the prose, but in the physical presentation of the novel, he deploys startling surprises, twists and turns. Like the fluidity of the marbled page, the narratives jostle together and suddenly find themselves emerging into a new and unexpected digressions. Is Sterne taking us for a ride – or on a revelatory and challenging journey? Never trust the teller…

The unsettling ambiguity of Sterne’s writing may help us see the world anew, and fashion questions we had not thought to ask. At a time when there is so much turmoil in the Church of England I would contend that this Lent book offers reflections which have found their moment juste. With a vacancy at Lambeth, Sterne’s writing on vocation, ambition and patronage, are as pertinent today as they were in 1759. If the Church is to change for the better it needs to interrogate and understand the historic power which continues to tick in the mechanism of its present. As any reader of Tristram Shandy will tell you, when it comes to important matters in life, we must at all costs mind what we are about – consider how much depends upon what we are doing – or live with the consequences.

A Sterne Lent can be obtained from Quacks books or Amazon – where a Kindle edition is available. The photograph at the head of this blog features Shandy Hall, Coxwold, the Museum dedicated to the life and work of Laurence Sterne.

Seaside in Winter

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This is by far my favourite time of year to be at the coast. Walks with the dog before dawn, watching the clouds change from bruised purple to dazzling gold. Hiking later in the day along headlands and across beaches, with few other walkers about. At night a deep darkness allows the Milky Way to be seen along with the winter constellations. When it is frosty it becomes an altogether magical scene. Only once did I find myself snowed in at a seaside cottage. It is a rare event, especially in a world affected by climate change. Slowly, as the day progressed, each of the three main roads out of Whitby were closed. With nowhere to go it became a good reason to stay in and put another log on the fire.

Oyster Catchers flying in the early morning along the coast at Sandsend

Observed from somewhere warm, the winter seascapes and landscapes offer drama and space for contemplation. This is the time when monarchs in mead-halls would demand that a saga was told. Perhaps a storyteller giving voice to the rich imagery of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight or, earlier still, Beowulf. Stories that reflect the darkness and magic of mid-winter, when the slightest covering of snow transforms the world outside. Perhaps it is hard for us to imagine, in an age of instant entertainment, the majestic scope and spellbinding intricacy of these substantial narratives. Like all knowledge passed down the generations, no doubt a multitude of minor changes occurred over the years which each teller making it their own tale. Eventually, multiple written copies started to keep the narrative in a form that was more stable, and the teller’s individuality became focused on the way of telling.

The sea runs back against itself
With scarcely time for breaking wave
To cannonade a slatey shelf
And thunder under in a cave.

Before the next can fully burst
The headwind, blowing harder still,
Smooths it to what it was at first –
A slowly rolling water-hill.

John Benjamin ‘Winter Seascapes’

Fewer snowy days come in our time – although we are experiencing them in the UK as I write. Generally, winter days are milder, sometimes stormier, which perhaps makes the appearance of ice and snow all the more marvellous. Growing up my mother often said “we don’t get winters like we used to”. I didn’t believe her, thinking this was simply the effect of advancing years reflecting on memories of youth. Of course, she was right. These precious days, if and when they come, may cause disruption and difficulty as people go about their lives – especially for those who are homeless. But maybe they also invite reflection, wonder, and act as a reminder of the world we are all, to some degree, changing.

Holy Innocent

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The 28th of December is the day on which the Church marks Holy Innocents. It is a day that focuses on the harrowing account in the Nativity story told by Matthew, of the orders King Herod gives to slay all male children under the age of two. Fearing the emergence of a rival, the King makes his fateful decision based on the Magi’s interpretation of the star they observed. 

Children are all too often, tragically, killed in conflict. However, the targeted destruction of the young is rare. In wartime, as we see around us in the world today, children die, are injured and become psychologically damaged through conflict. In WWII, as a consequence of indiscriminate bombing, almost 8,000 children died in the UK. The worst affected city was undoubtedly Coventry. On 14 November 1940 huge amounts of ordinance were dropped on the city leading to a significant loss of life; the destruction of countless buildings (including the cathedral); and widespread civilian trauma amongst those who survived. A few weeks’ after the attack the Dean of Coventry gathered as many choristers as he could in the ruins of the Cathedral and broadcast a rendition of the Coventry Carol to what was, at the time, the British Empire. This carol, which comes from the medieval Coventry mystery plays, recalls the massacre of the innocents. It must be one of the bleakest, most sombre and deeply moving items in the canon of Christmas music. The wartime clip from Coventry is featured in an emotional and thought-provoking episode of BBC Radio 4’s series Soul Music.

Laurence Sterne, the 18th century parson-novelist, says remarkably little about Christmas in any of his writing or preaching. Yet there is a sermon on Holy Innocents. Sterne knew from personal experience what it was to lose a child. He describes the massacre of the innocents as being:

So circumscribed with horror, that no time, how friendly soever to the mournful, – should ever be able to wear out the impressions.

When I worked in the NHS I recall very occasional instances when a mother contacted the hospital to ask about the mortal remains of their child, who had died many years ago. This arose out of the fresh attention given to the issues of organ and tissue retention, and burial practices, following the Bristol Royal Infirmary and the Royal Liverpool Children’s inquiries. In some cases mothers had given birth to a living child, who had died within a short time, and the mothers were told to go home and in essence – forget about it. They were provided with no information about what then happened to their babies or where they were buried. Records were kept, but the existence of a baby’s body in amongst an adult “shared grave” was not recorded on the headstone: unlike the adults. Once or twice I arranged to meet a mother at the entrance to the local cemetery and took her to the place where the records stated her baby was buried. I hope that, in some small measure, this helped a grief which had lain largely unexpressed for decades.

Holy Innocents begs many questions of the Church, and of the world. How could God’s miracle of the incarnation result in so much terror and destruction? Why is it that we continue to tolerate warfare that damages young lives? How do we help survivors who have witnessed unforgettable horrors? There are no easy answers to these questions. However, the presence of Holy Innocents in the Church’s calendar stubbornly insists that even while the tinsel is still hanging, the most dreadful realities of the world cannot be put aside or forgotten. They are always there and, hopefully, stir people of good faith of every religion and belief to seek peace with added urgency. Because the innocents are still being massacred today.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

From the Coventry Carol, 16th century

A Modern Nativity

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As Christmas approaches, and the end of the year draws close, thank you to everyone who has taken the time in 2024 to read one of these blogs. As always, much has happened in the past twelve months, not least in those places still torn apart by violence and destruction. Our Christmas carols arm us not with weapons, but with the foolish hope of peace. The only humane, sane and holy hope which befits the dignity of creatures made in the image of God: and for whom in turn, and with astonishing grace, God chose to become human.

Oh hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

From the Carol ‘It Came Upon the Midnight Clear’

A Modern Nativity by Miles David Moore

A noise at midnight in my garden shed
Drove the dog nuts. We stumbled out to see
A newborn baby sleeping peacefully
Inside a rag-stuffed wheelbarrow bed.
His mom and daddy stared at me with dread –
Two shabby working folks society
Cut loose. The single light bulb, hanging free,
Gathered a glow around the baby’s head.

What happened next? I’m not sure I can say.
I can’t describe just how I felt, or feel.
I heard a voice intoning, ‘You can stay’.
It offered them some blankets and a meal.
The dog stopped barking, which is not his way.
I had no earthly clue a dog could kneel.

Published in The Poet’s Quest for God: 21st Century Poems of Faith, Doubt and Wonder Ed. by Brennan, O., Swift, T. with Davio, K. and Cate Myddleton-Evans. Eyewear Publishing 2016.

Living For

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I am reading a book about the history of my new employer, Leeds Church Institute (LCI). History can be fascinating, both for the strangeness of how life was once lived and, occasionally, for the sudden resonance of a view or action which appears entirely modern.

The quarter century leading up to WWI is described in the book as “the golden age” of LCI. Wealth increased for some, and for others new legislation reduced working hours, meaning that in both cases more time and resources were available for recreation; discussions; hobbies; voluntary work; or religious associations. (The text “Eight Hours for Work, Eight Hours for Rest, Eight Hours for What We Will” was paraded on a union banner in 1889). It was the time when public schoolboys and undergraduates came to Leeds to live in “settlements”, often found in the poorer quarters of the city. Of course, this could be experienced as highly patronising and there’s a powerful quote in the book about LCI’s history from an older woman in one of these areas who declared: “I do so hate being ‘lived among‘”.

As we approach Christmas her words ring in my ears and remind me that the Incarnation was more than a gap year for an earnest deity. Public schoolboys didn’t renounce their learning, connections or resources when they came to reside among the poor. They were no doubt billeted in reasonable accommodation, forming a small community of young people who shared privileged backgrounds. These communities was set in a wider context of poverty; disadvantage and squaller. I can imagine many of these settlement workers, in future years, burnishing their credentials by referring to the time they “lived among” the poor. A year of their youth that bought the claim to a lifetime of social credibility.

“For all the rhetoric of ‘citizenship’, ‘democracy’ and ‘fellowship’, the governance of the settlements, at least in their early years, was in the hands of their patrician founders rather than their ‘members’.”

Freeman, M. (2002). ‘No finer school than a settlement’: the development of the educational settlement movement. History of Education, 31(3), 245-262.

The Word made flesh gives up language. The babe in the manger has no worldly connection that will hoist him out of misery. The infant son of a carpenter must play with the shavings on the workroom floor, and discern his own path through all the perils and possibilities of life. He must learn words and imbibe the teachings and practices of religion. As a young man driven into the desert, the vocation of Jesus is tested in the wilderness of the world, alone with his demons. Preaching, teaching and healing as a Rabbi he will come to challenge both temporal and spiritual authorities. Standing resolute before the powers of coercion and compromise, resolved in his calling and identity, will become the path to his destruction.

This is not living among. It is living with; it is living as; and it is living for.

Christian Mechanics

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When I left my previous employment I had no idea what would come next. One of my colleagues asked me: “what are you going to do?” Without thinking I replied, “God knows!” Perhaps this response emerged out of a rather hollow bravado, or a faith which was more certain in words than it was in reality. In the first instance, rather than look around for another job, I decided to have a sabbatical. These are often taken by clergy every ten years or so but, because I was employed outside the Church, I’d never taken one in the thirty years of my ordained life. In the summer of 2023, I began what became a fruitful, fascinating, and rewarding sixteen months of space, reflection and study. A friend once referred to me during this time as a “flaneur’” which I needed to look up (“someone who saunters around observing society”). Fair point.

One of the fruits of this time was reading and learning more about a figure associated with Yorkshire and York Minster, Laurence Sterne. I knew of Sterne’s writing from undergraduate days and the many links with this mercurial vicar of the 18th century found in Yorkshire – not least the Shandy Hall Museum – became a focus of work to produce a Lent book. I ventured out by bicycle to visit various small churches connected to the novelist, not least Sutton-on-the-Forrest. Its pulpit steps, once used by Sterne, feature on the cover of the book.

While not looking for any permanent role, the post of director for Leeds Church Institute came to my attention. Perhaps this was the answer to “God knows”? In any event, I applied and was appointed. The Institutes were part of a movement in Victorian England which offered education and increased opportunity for people from poorer backgrounds. The first phase of these were the Mechanics Institutes. When the Rev. Walter Hook orchestrated the creation of the Leeds Church Institute it has been suggested that he was building a facility to develop “Anglican Mechanics”. In other words, to equip church people with a greater depth of knowledge about their faith and how to live it.

Arriving early on Monday morning (keen to get started) I walked around the city centre. In a small homage to the original home of the Institute, in Albion Place, I stopped for a few minutes to read the Leeds Civic plaque recording its creation. The Institute was ‘The powerhouse behind the advancement of religious and secular education on the principles of the Church of England’. The former home of LCI is in the main shopping area of the city, now decked out in all its Christmas glitz and glamour. I thought about what life must have been like there in the 1860s, when the building was opened. At that moment someone looking fairly dishevelled, who had perhaps spent the night on the streets, came and asked if I would buy him breakfast. I did. Walking a short distance further another man overtook me, apparently talking to himself, when he suddenly launched into an abusive tirade against a woman walking in the opposite direction. She stopped, I stopped, and we exchanged a look as she shrugged her shoulders and asked aloud: “what was all that in aid of?” The man continued on his way, still talking, gesticulating, and going at a good pace. Having checked that she was OK, the two of us carried on in our separate journeys.

Perhaps things have not changed as much as we might imagine since the founding days of LCI. During a phase of exponential growth in population, the philanthropists and civic leaders of Leeds faced a colossal task in addressing the basic needs of poorer communities. Today we would no doubt find their approach patronising and – possibly – coercive. The workhouses were in full operation and the poor had little access to either education or the opportunities that might change their circumstances. Walter Hook, the celebrated Vicar of Leeds, played his part in helping to found new churches and schools. His approach was allied to the principles of the Tractarian Movement, High-Church Anglicanism, but he had arrived at these independently of the movement. Unlike the dons and academics sheltering in ivory towers, Hook was the most significant figure of Anglo-Catholic reform in the parishes. Firstly, as a priest in Coventry, then in Leeds, he advanced the cause of High-Church liturgy and social action, enduring various attacks while he sought to fulfil his sense of calling. Newman wrote to him:

“You are in the thickest fire of the enemy; and I often think how easy it is for us to sit quietly here…”

Hook had not chosen an easy path, but his dedication to parish ministry and commitment to education has left an enduring legacy. It’s why LCI is still here in Leeds, in 2024, working to advance theological reflection and act as a creative fulcrum where spirituality, justice, and learning, meet and flourish. It’s mission remains both a daunting task, and an exciting enterprise.

  • At the head of this Blog: Old and new together – Dock Street, Leeds, close to Leeds Church Institute

This Mortal Life

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Pitched into the bleakness of winter arrives the season of Advent. In the northern hemisphere the beginning of Advent accompanies the slow march into darkness. Shorter days; longer nights; a steady drop in temperature. The themes of Advent – death; judgement; heaven and hell – match the somber mood of gloomier days. Threaded through topics of great moment, the story of the incarnation is pulled ever nearer. Alongside the readings in church of end-times and apocalypse, every village, town and city displays the brightness of festival lights. The cynical and despairing may shun these illuminations as simply a commercial gimmick; the cold work of retail-marketing to boost sales in a flagging economy. Yet for many of us, somehow, the glimmer of hope these lights celebrate, the baby lying in the crib, can never be given its proper price. There is something here, something to which Advent leads, which can’t be contained by the measure of this world, or our desire to conform everything to our own likeness.

It can often feel, as it does this year, that there is temerity in setting out lights as the nights draw in. How dare we suggest, imply or hint, that something might come to defeat the darkness? It is the ridiculous hope written down by John in the Prologue to his Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not”. Like Handel’s taunting rendition of St Paul’s words asking Death where its sting has gone, the hope that light might eventually overcome personal darkness, and the darkness of our world, feels an outrageous folly. Perhaps this is so because “the bleak midwinter” can feel so tangible, close and all-encompassing. Nordic countries have recently issued booklets to their citizens about surviving war. Sometimes it is so much easier to embrace fear and resignation, than fasten our eyes on something hardly visible; beyond the horizon; too good to be true.

Advent candle-bridges are a tradition in the windows of homes along Minster Yard in York.

Advent is not for everyone. The images of apocalypse and the ending of time are neither comfortable nor reassuring. “Like a thief in the night”. We cannot be permanently vigilant – we need to sleep. The metaphor suggests that the completion of things will come when we are oblivious to its approach. There is no warning or alarm. We will be shaken our of slumber and the myths with which we live will dissolve in the presence of the Divine reality. In another sections of Handel’s Messiah, we are reminded of the “refiner’s fire”. Who may abide the day of his coming?

Advent reminds us that we cannot control the appearance of sudden and defining events. We are always only a heartbeat away from immortality, and our own encounter with what Sterne’s character Tristram Shandy refers to as “this great catastrophe” which will – at some point – overtake us and bring our experience of this world to an end. Of course, following Friday’s vote in the UK parliament, it appears that there will be limited control, for some, about when that moment arrives. However, as one person said during the debates about this issue, it may also give rise to “internal coercion” and perhaps lead people to opt for something which does not reflect their personal wishes about either motivation and timing.

“We are standing upon the edge of a precipice, with nothing but the single thread of human life to hold us up”.

From a Sermon delivered by Laurence Sterne, quoted in A Sterne Lent 2024

Advent is – and should be – disconcerting. Angela Tilby’s excellent reflection in the current issue of The Church Times draws attention to Archbishop Laud’s prayer for the church. It is a succinct and impassioned petition for truth; peace; purity; and reform in the institution. All of these virtues and corrections are needed now almost as much as they were required in the 17th century. Canon Tilby concludes her piece with a simpler prayer which she wrote some years ago, but one which feels as pertinent as ever for 2024:

As light in the darkness,
As hope in our hearts.
Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Angela Tilby, The Church Times 29 November 2024

  • The photograph at the head of this blog features the underside of York Minster’s three metre wide Advent wreath, with the interior of the central tower seen in the centre.

Holding Still

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Over the past few days I drafted a blog, as I do most weeks. It was largely a litany of despair about the state of the Church of England and the nadir of leadership and direction to which we appear to have sunk. Today is the final Sunday in the Church’s liturgical year, but it might also feel like the dying days of a once great institution. Perhaps, if its demise would ensure more people’s safety and sanity, there will be those who think that extinguishing the final embers would be an act of kindness for all concerned. The Church has failed in one of its primary obligations – but I cannot quite abandon the idea of what it might be.

Instead of a dismal diatribe about the Church’s failings (mine included) I have decided to take a different tack. The “idea of what it might be” includes resurrecting the often unseen but invaluable work of spiritual and pastoral care. In early 2020 I was looking for a poem to accompany some reflections for a retreat, but couldn’t find anything that would fit. Given this sad lacuna in English Literature I decided to pen my own verse and, for better or worse, I offer it on this final Sunday of the year as the slightest intimation of what at its best has been, and might still be, in the life of the Church’s sacramental pastoral care.

Holding Still

This work of holding;
of the the task of being
still, in order to hear.
To shift weight without

disturbance; to keep
the hushed, spare –
space; the silence into
which another speaks.

It is not nothing;
this attending and
anointing; this taking
and bearing and blessing.

To touch what has died
with the strength of love;
to see in ashen form the
hope of resurrection.

The image at the head of this blog is a photograph of a ceramic sculpture by Antonia Salmon, entitled “Holding Piece”