Category: Christmas

Holy Innocent

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

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

Living For

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

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.

Bright Expectations

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

Recently I was introduced to the writing of Jon Fosse. The latest author to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, this accolade was recognised by Pope Francis, who praised the Norwegian’s “gentle testimony of faith“. As a leading figure in the world of creative writing, who exchanged atheism for Catholicism some years ago, the pontifical praise for Fosse is hardly surprising. The quality of the prose in the books authored by Fosse is the most striking aspect of his work. The books can be surprisingly brief – A Shining comes to just 46 pages in the English translation. Even as a slow reader I managed to finish this novella over breakfast. However, it is a work that lingers in the imagination, shaped by writing which left me with a sense of shimmering uncertainty. It is a book that makes you wonder ‘what was all that about?’ (in a good way). In terms of spirituality and faith it achieves a credible doubt about our perceptions and consequently allows something beyond our understanding to glow at the periphery of vision. In the words of the Nobel judges Fosse gives ‘voice to the unsayable’. In A Shining the protagonist’s certainties and confidence suddenly evaporate, and time and again what seemed logical is found wanting. Into this scenario comes the strange light of a shining presence.

“I don’t write about characters in the traditional sense of the word. I write about humanity”

Fosse speaking to the French newspaper Le Monde in 2003.

It is not easy to offer a narrative of spiritual enquiry in a Western world that is deemed disenchanted and post-religious. The skill of Fosse is to develop his text with painstaking honesty about the uncertainty of what we see, and the apparently random events that intersect with our lives. To reflect the language of the season, Fosse follows his evolving story with a constant determination. It feels as though his commitment and skill to write whatever comes next, draws us into the wake of his quest. As Fosse said in an interview: “To me, writing is listening, not seeing.” As we read, we are allowed to discover what Fosse has heard.

Across the world the church is celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany. The shining star leads the Magi on an extensive journey. Thankfully, they are also discovering that their search for the meaning of this light did not conform to their expectations. At first they seek the new King in a palace. If they had lacked the flexibility to reassess their beliefs about sovereignty, then the mission to find the King might have ended there. Herod knew nothing about it – and how could a future King be born without the monarch’s knowledge? Their determination overruled the power of their assumptions. Having made the decision to follow the star, and allow it alone to denote sovereignty, they left their homes; walked away from a palace; departed from a capital city; quit imposing accommodation; and completed their journey in humble – but holy – circumstances. This could not have been an easy journey and TS Eliot concludes The Journey of the Magi with reflections that suggest abiding questions: ‘were we led all that way for Birth of Death?’

Expectations can have the power to obscure the presence of things that are surprising, novel or outside our experience. The risk is that familiarity shapes our world as we anticipate it to be, and we make our way through life imposing a pattern that demonstrates little recognition of the differences we encounter. When something breaks through our imposition of normality, it might be said that we experience an epiphany. A vision of reality re-ordered which questions our everyday certainties. The Bible is full of such moments and they are often far from being comfortable or comforting. Easier to lie, like Lazarus, in the shroud of endings, than be re-awakened to new life; new insights; or fresh possibilities.

The Magi allowed the star to reveal unexpected news. They took their gifts where the star commanded, bypassing palaces and people of honour. In the end, when they reached a simple home, they fulfilled their mission with obeisance and splendour. The circumstances were circumstantial. The wise had committed to their truth and followed unwaveringly where it led. It was their resolve to be undeflected in their purpose that led them to a foreign infant of doubtful parentage, in an insignificant town. The encounter – in Eliot’s poem – leaves them ill at ease with life when they return home. It is a reminder that away from the saccharine carols and excesses of Christmas there is a Word revealed that can, if we listen, release us from the captivating assumptions that tame our spirits.

But the child that is Noble and not Mild
He lies in his cot. He is unbeguiled.
He is Noble, he is not Mild,
And he is born to make men wild.

Extract from ‘Christmas’ by Stevie Smith

In the Midst

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

Increasingly I find Radio 4 a disturbing listen. Not because the content is controversial (usually), or offensive, but because every time I switch it on I realise how much I don’t know. Whether it’s In Our Time, or some other consideration of a niche topic, I’m made aware of the vast range and depth of human knowledge about which I was oblivious. One example of this arose last week, listening to the Seven Deadly Psychologies. While I certainly have views about why greed is bad, this programme delved into the mechanics of why this might be the case. In the discussion there was a fascinating debate about the fact that, generally speaking (but with notable exceptions), research has demonstrated that rich people have less empathy and compassion than poorer people. In charity, the poor overwhelming give away a significantly higher proportion of their wealth when compared with the financially advantaged.

One reason offered to explain this was that wealth meant people became more distant from communities. It was not possessing a fortune per se which caused this lack of compassion, but the acquisition of space. The consequence of an exclusive lifestyle is that it removes us from close company of our ‘fellow-passengers to the grave’, to quote A Christmas Carol. In turn, this increasing remoteness appears to dull the understanding of the thoughts and feelings of other people. Richer people often feel entitled to their wealth – and perhaps see poverty as simply other people’s failure to accrue resources. Perhaps some of the present UK Government should listen to this episode.

A crowded nativity scene in St. Hippolytus Pfarrkirche, Zell am See, Austria January 2023

While wealth and power no doubt brought King Herod a significant ‘exclusion zone’ this can hardly be said of Jesus. The narrative of the nativity describes a Bethlehem bursting at the seams. In the traditional portrayal, Jesus and his family are cheek by jowl with the beasts of the stall; receive a stream of uninvited visitors; and find themselves in a town where every bed is taken. Lack of worldly privilege ensured that Jesus grew up close to a wide variety of trades, in a community where modest livelihoods required people to cooperate.

Sovereignty in a cattle stall is one example of the paradox that runs through the Christian story. If wealth dulls our capacity to be compassionate it can also diminish our ability to recognise a God who expresses a preferential option for the poor. A God who, in Christ, is able to hear the plea of the Syro-Phoenician woman; the prisoner on the cross; the dilemma of the rich young man. Only when the Word-made-flesh pitches its tent in the heart of humanity is the gulf between God and creation closed. Ultimate power and splendour, commanding more space than we can ever imagine, chooses to renounce entitlement and make the ultimate identification with humanity.

For Dietrich Bonhoeffer the paradox lies partly in the idea that this God is not seen easily by those who have the most resources, or education, or stability in their lives.

“The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, and who look forward to something greater to come.”

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Knowing our need for one another, and our need of God, is a prerequisite for our spiritual growth and maturity. It is one of the reasons why Advent is an uncomfortable season. Many of us recognise the greed we feel for our own space, and to have the freedom to do as we wish. Community implies compromise and association, experiences which appear to have fading appeal in the West. However, to know God seems to require us to be immersed in the dependencies of human society – a truth which both Advent and Christmas impress upon us each passing year.

Advent’s Bitter Chill

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

The cold has come. In an era of climate change there is no guarantee that winters will bring us frost or snow – at least, not for any extended period of time. Parson Woodforde, an undistinguished parson in a small rural parish, would have been consigned to oblivion except for one unusual practice: he kept a diary. Woodforde’s world of the 18th century witnessed some of the final decades of the Little Ice Age, which began around 1300 and lasted until 1850. It is quite likely that the Christmas we call ‘Dickensian’ holds some folk memory of the unusually bitter weather that occurred before the Victorian era got into its stride. Woodforde’s winters are hard to imagine given our experiences today.

“We breakfasted, dined, &c. again at home. Very hard Frost indeed, last Night, froze above Stairs in the Stair-Case window quite hard. It froze the whole day within doors in a few Minutes – very severe Weather indeed – So cold last Night that it was a long time before I could get any sleep at all… We were obliged to have Holly-branches without berries to dress up our Windows &c. against Christmas, the Weather having been so severe all this Month, that the poor Birds have entirely already stript the Bushes.”

Christmas Eve, 1796

Perhaps some of us have childhood memories, before double-glazing and central heating, which include times when there was ice on the inside of the windows. However, on the whole, better insulation and heating – combined with climate change – mean that fewer of us experience this degree of harshness in winter. In a different age, Woodforde’s diligent pastoral ministry was no doubt challenging and costly. It also had its rewards and, however difficult it might have been, the clergy were better-off than the vast majority of their parishioners. The question for many of them was how to live in the style they associated with being a gentleman, and living in houses which towered above neighbouring dwellings. Nevertheless, there is a lovely detail in the diaries of how the parson’s diligent ministry was recognised with anonymous generosity:

“Had another Tub of Gin and another of the best Cognac Brandy brought me this Evening about 9. We heard a thump at the front Door at this time, but did not know what it was, till I went out and found the 2 Tubs – but nobody there”.

Woodforde, J. (2011). The diary of a country parson, 1758-1802. Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd.

I’m not sure what quantity of liquor a tub contained but I’m confident it would have kept the parson and his guests well supplied during long winter evenings.

It is into this growing darkness and falling temperatures that Advent arrives. With Christmas Eve landing on a Sunday, this is the shortest period of Advent the calendar allows. Across the three frenetic weeks before Christmas the season urges reflection on sombre themes. Calling into a supermarket in the middle of York the other day, a member of staff on the till commented that it was so busy ‘you’d think the world was about to end’. Ironically, this may be the point where the extremes of consumerism and the message of Advent collide.

Worlds end all the time. In Gaza children have spoken about how they simply want things ‘to go back to the way they were’. Not that this was ideal, but there were homes, families, stability and some kind of future ahead. For them a world they knew has come to an end, in a way that is devastating. This is true across every theatre of war, where destruction is easy and instant – and building a meaningful future is slow, arduous and uncertain.

Advent can bring a chill that serves to focus our thoughts on the cost of these ongoing end-times, and the task of holding a light when surrounded by a cynicism that gives way to darkness. The cold reminds us of the need for homes, and the suffering of people who lack shelter, support or the means to find warmth. Advent tells us the sobering news that all we take for granted is only temporary, and we must be stirred and watchful for the moments God’s light breaks through. Parson Woodforde offers us perspective about the enduring nature of crisis. On Advent Sunday 1797, he wrote that ‘the present times seem to prognosticate e’er long very alarming circumstances. No appearance of Peace…’. To hold an improbable light in this fearful darkness is the work of Advent – and it is certainly needed no less today than it has been in centuries past.

This Doubtful Day

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

In Austria, on Palm Sunday, branches of pussy willow are used instead of palms to honour the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. In the parish church of Viehhofen, in Hinterglemm, I found a spray of pussy willow attached to a processional cross as part of the Christmas decorations. I am unclear about the reason for this, and a search of the internet turned up little. However, it seems a fitting nod towards the passion of Christ and serves as a reminder that events in the Christian year are interlaced in ways that are sometimes surprising.

In 1608 John Donne wrote about the coincidence of the Annunciation (25 March 1608) falling on Good Friday. (We don’t need to worry about that happening in our lifetimes, no matter how young you are, as it occurs next in the year 2157. It happened last in 2016). Donne reflected on ‘the head Of life at once not yet alive, yet dead’, the day when news of great joy lands on the remembrance of deep sorrow. News about the same person – anticipation of new life held simultaneously with the pain and suffering of that life being extinguished. In the calendar, the Church transfers the celebration of the Annunciation to another date. It is almost impossible to attend fully to both these extremities without experiencing some kind of theological breakdown.

All this, and all between, this day hath shown,
Th’ abridgement of Christ’s story, which makes one—
As in plain maps, the furthest west is east—
Of th’ angels Ave, and Consummatum est.

The conclusion of Donne’s poem: On Annunciation and Passion Falling on the Same Day

As a hospital chaplain there were many occasions when joy and sorrow were held in the same time. I shall never forget working in the neonatal units at Christmas, when all attention in the outer world was fixed upon a particular birth but, tragically, I was baptising and blessing lives that would not last the day. Every Christmas I think of those parents and families, for whom this date of joy in the world had become a time of painful recollection. Our annual baby remembrance service was held in early December in order to allow families a ritual of acknowledged loss, and then proceed to keep Christmas as well as possible for other children in the family.

We tend to think that Christmas should be a time when we are shielded from the harsh experiences of being human. Sadly, as the UK has witnessed, violent deaths have taken place over the festivities. Families have been devastated by loss when so much public narrative focuses on being together; reunited. Police officers speaking about these events have often said words to the effect that: ‘while this would be appalling at any time, it is particularly difficult coming at Christmas’. The remembrance of families will forever be made in a context of public joy and celebration.

It is the work of the Church to hold these things together. It is always both ‘our duty and our joy’. The word death is spoken in front of the family and friends of a child brought to baptism; in the joy of a wedding we are reminded it is ’till death do us part’. In a funeral we hear the language of a life to come, and resurrection. The wonderful life which Mary brings into the world is destined for abuse; mockery; humiliation; and a criminal’s execution. Donne called the coming together of joy and sorrow in 1608 ‘this doubtful day’. He knew not whether to feast or fast.

The crucifix doesn’t leave the church to make our Christmas feast more palatable. Neither is it wrapped in tinsel to pretend that suffering can be masked, so that our carols might be more joyful. Pussy willow seems a fitting decoration. A foreshadowing of the Passion that begins on Palm Sunday – but also one of the first heralds of Spring, and a reminder that in the death of winter, new life is promised.

The Stillness

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

In the stillness of a church where candles glow,
In the softness of a fall of fresh white snow,
In the brightness of the stars that shine this night,
In the calmness of a pool of healing light.

In the clearness of a choir that softly sings,
In the oneness of a hush of angels’ wings,
In the mildness of a night by stable bare,
In the quietness of a lull near cradle fair.

There’s a patience as we wait for a new morn,
And the presence of a child soon to be born.

Katrina Shepherd

Works of Darkness

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

The nose of a Springer Spaniel is a remarkable thing. Not simply the nose, but the overall capacity to find. Our morning walks now take place in darkness, and as I launch a tennis ball into a landscape of lesser and greater obscurity, I never doubt the ball’s return. It may take time – but another remarkable thing about spaniels is their tenacity. I watch as various search patterns are executed. There is always a careful eye kept on me, and if I start to head in a particular direction, the ground is swept from side-to-side in advance of my approach. Occasionally – very occasionally and after a long time – we concede defeat. However, almost always, the panting hound returns to my feet tail rotating in triumph, and discards the ball so that the whole routine can begin again.

In these shortening days we head towards the old feast day of Thomas, the 21st of December. As the Revd Richard Coles commented at the recent York Minster Carol Concerts, these are days when ghost-stories come into their own. Reading a section of Simon Armitage’s rendering of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (‘It was Christmas at Camelot…’), as well as A Christmas Carol, there is no doubting the antiquity of humanity’s imaginings during the days of darkness. In the Northern hemisphere this sense of gathering gloom, met with festive lights, seems an altogether fitting climate for Advent and the approach of Christmas.

The Collect throughout Advent petitions for grace to ‘cast away the works of darkness’. Looking at the world today it can feel that this call continues to go unheeded. Both cold and darkness will be the experience for many people, some of whom would never have imagined a time when they would need to choose between eating and heating. In the trenches and dugouts of Eastern Ukraine, soldiers will face winter warfare away from family and friends. In a world where wealth abounds for the few, most will struggle to find the basic securities and necessities of life. There is little need for ghost stories when the grizzly realities of life are so close at hand.

Once lost, it is never easy to retrieve from darkness the things we took for granted. Nevertheless, both Advent and Christmas feed the imagination of a better time; a more just world; and salvation from our own, dreadful, folly. Churches – at the only time of year when many people attend – are charged with holding out the vision and promise of something more worthy of our potential. To speak especially to ‘the people who walk in darkness’ and to stand with those who know their need of God. During the next few weeks we shall invite people in to taste something of the ancient hope the church is called to cherish and proclaim. More often than not, it won’t be the powerful who ask for grace so that we might live in light. As the poet Stewart Henderson puts it:

Don’t miss Christmas –
the splendour of it all
our brittle, gift-wrapped anthem
sleeps in a cattle stall
as the poor and lost and starving
weakly start to sing
it seems only desperate subjects
recognise their King.

Extract from: Stewart Henderson, Don’t Miss Christmas’

The Passing Present

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

I am always moved by the sight of ancient stone stairways. The sag of centuries worn stone looks like a gentle impress made on fabric. Our forebears used some of the most resilient materials available to bear the steps of millions. Over time, the micro-erosions of clogs, boots and heel plates have changed that steely strength into the smooth aspect of stone turned through the mill of human transit. Like the steady drip of water on granite, the repeated touch of soles has altered what seemed unchanging and certain. If we stopped an individual at the top of the stairs and asked if they had left a mark on the stone during their ascent, they would almost certainly look back and answer: ‘no’.

On Christmas Eve for sixteen years, at around 5:30 pm, I would hover by the entrance to the oldest part of the Leeds General Infirmary. It was here that I met the choristers of Leeds Minster as they arrived to sing carols around the wards. This time of day on the 24th of December was always remarkably quiet. Visitors had left – or they were leaving their visit until the following day. Wards were as empty as they could be. Creating capacity before Boxing Day seemed to be a major management priority, and I once went with the singers onto a ward where there was just one patient. That will not be the case this year.

After arriving, the choristers would bustle into the nearby Boardroom where a buffet tea awaited. Following this festive offering they changed into their choir robes and formed two lines on the tiled floor of Gilbert Scott’s ‘St Pancras of the North’. Then, in the silence of its Victorian grandeur, a lone voice would hit the first note of Once in Royal David’s City. The choir joined in and we all processed up the split stone staircase to the Chapel on the first floor, the choristers’ steps falling where their predecessors had walked on this same day for over a century.

Christmas can incline us to nostalgia. In a world where the present seems to pass very quickly, surviving and looking forward can preoccupy our thoughts. Those quiet moments in the busyness of Christmas may lead us to remember other festivities and look back (either happily or uneasily) to our childhoods. On Christmas Eve, in waiting for the choir, there was the space to reflect on the history of the hospital and all who had walked these corridors since the 1860s. The poor who had sought help here before the founding of the NHS; the rich philanthropists who created it; and the eminent doctors, proud of their place in a rising profession. It isn’t hard to understand why Christmas is synonymous with ghost stories and a strong sense of the past. For all those years, on Christmas Eve, I felt I was keeping company with my predecessors.

The Chapel, Leeds General Infirmary

Once again, this Christmas is likely to be unusual for many people around the world. For the second year in a row the infection and illness caused by COVID-19 is expected to curtail the extent of our celebrations. Countries are closing boarders and battening down the hatches. Even if laws are not changed, we are being encouraged to limit our contacts and make sure we are vaccinated. Already the hospitality and entertainment sectors are suffering cancellations.

Restrictions imposed in response to the pandemic hit the headlines, but they don’t tell the full story of how people are responding to the experience. We know from occasional media reports, and perhaps from first hand knowledge, that countless micro-acts of kindness have helped people journey through this difficult and isolating event. The cards, phone calls and messages that have enabled people to feel valued and connected. The delivery of food, or medicine, that has allowed neighbours to keep safe and have the things they need. The vast majority of these small deeds will pass unreported. Research is unlikely to capture the scale, extent or consequence of these tiny impressions of compassion. The people doing them generally appear to feel these actions amount to very little. Nevertheless, they are part of the fabric of our lives, shaping and sustaining the quality of our relationships. When news reports convey the scale of problems facing humanity there is both comfort and hope in the knowledge that so much unregarded kindness happens at a local level. Love expressed with no expectation of reward, but done for its own sake, and found in the bonds of human connection which, at Christmas, are hallowed by the Incarnation.

People, look east. The time is near
Of the crowning of the year.
Make your house fair as you are able,
Trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the guest, is on the way.

Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)