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St Aelred of Rievaulx

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Hebrews 2:14-18; Psalm 104:1-4,6-9; Mark 1:29-39

Since all the children share the same blood and flesh, Christ too shared equally in it, so that by his death he could take away all the power of the devil, who had power over death, and set free all those who had been held in slavery all their lives by the fear of death. For it was not the angels that he took to himself; he took to himself descent from Abraham. It was essential that he should in this way become completely like his brothers so that he could be a compassionate and trustworthy high priest of God’s religion, able to atone for human sins. That is, because he has himself been through temptation he is able to help others who are tempted.


Hebrews 2.14-18

. . .

Yes, but… My first reaction to the suggestion that Jesus faced temptation in the way that I do is, ‘surely not!’ If he was fully God as well as fully human, was it even possible for him to sin? St Gregory Nazianzus (and others) have insisted he was like us in all things except sin: the question is, what does ‘except sin’ mean?

Here’s where my training and practice in academic theology intersect with my practice of Christian faith. I can see myself, teaching on the Incarnation, assuming that we all know what St Gregory means: Christ Jesus is like us, but without the stain of original sin. He doesn’t need to be baptized (as we heard on Sunday), for he has no sin to be washed away. So far, so good. But how, then, can he help me? I understand perfectly what it means to say ‘we are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves’. The fact that St Paul himself confesses (in Romans 7) that he struggles to do the good, and fails, reassures me that I am not alone. St Paul understands, but how can Jesus understand that aspect of my humanity?

I realize I don’t believe it. Just flatly don’t believe it. Because a part of what we experience in sinful human nature is that bondage, the slavery to sin that makes the fall into temptation a habit of sinning. The one-off temptation to do something we clearly recognize is wrong, I am happy to admit that Jesus could understand. But the temptation to do something we’ve realized is wrong only after making a habit of it? That seems to me to be another matter entirely. And I don’t have any answers, only questions and more questions. I hope the writer of Hebrews is right, and there is help for us, especially those of us blundering along in absolute darkness with about as much hope of resisting the temptation to grab hold of something to guide us as a moth has of resisting the porch light.

Christmas eve

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2 Samuel 7:1-5,8-12,14,16; Psalm 88:2-5,27,29 (LXX); Luke 1:67-79


For I have said, ‘Lovingkindness will be built up forever;
In the heavens Thou wilt establish Thy faithfulness.
(Ps 88.2)

And…Zacharias was filled with the Holy Spirit, and prophesied, saying:
‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel,
For he has visited us and accomplished redemption
for his people,
And has raised up a horn of salvation for us
In the house of David his servant…
To give to His people the knowledge of salvation
by the forgiveness of their sins,
Because of the tender mercy of our God,
With which the Sunrise from on high shall visit us,
To shine upon those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death,
To guide our feet in the way of peace.
(Lk 1.67-69, 77-79)

. . .

God’s lovingkindness and faithfulness bear fruit; there is nothing idle about the character of our God. God’s ‘bottomless mercy’ (as one translation has it) does not just wait for us to return, but meets us on Christmas morning. God’s own joy comes to us, in tenderness and mercy, in faithfulness and love. I want to be caught up in that joy this Christmas, to be held secure in that love, which is eternal and unshakeable. And I want to know to the core of my being that Christmas means the saying is true which says:

The Lord your God is in your midst,
a victorious warrior.
He will exult over you with joy,
He will be quiet in His love,
He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.
(Zeph 3.17)

So I welcome the coming of John the Baptist, not least in my own heart, to make the way for Love to come into the world, for joy divine to enliven our hearts, to light the way for those (like me) who walk in darkness, and to guide our feet in the way of peace. Indeed, He who is coming is our peace, our light, our salvation. Let Love come tenderly and mightily, and find a dwelling place in me. Let it be done to me according to His will.

Thursday of the fourth week in Advent

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Malachi 3:1-4,23-24; Psalm 24:4-5,8-9,10,14 (LXX); Luke 1:57-66


And immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue loosed, and he spoke, blessing God. And fear came on all their neighbors. And all these things were talked about through all the hill country of Judea; and all who heard them laid them up in their hearts, saying, ‘What then will this child be?’ For the hand of the Lord was with him. (Luke 1.64-66)

. . .

‘What then will this child be?’ We know, because we have heard the rest of the story: this is John, who will baptize in the river Jordan, and will proclaim the coming of the Messiah. At the time of his birth, though, the signs only point to some divine purpose. The miracle of his conception and the wonder at his naming are marks of a promise whose fulfillment cannot even be imagined yet.

Promise. Advent is about that promise, fulfilled and being fulfilled, in the fullness of God’s own time. I wonder whether I do not have something to learn from my children’s anticipation this Advent. Of course, for them Christmas is still tied to the presents, the imminent arrival not of the child Jesus, but of Father Christmas. Nevertheless, I have something to learn from their hope, their joyful and eager expectation that the promise of Advent will be fulfilled on Christmas morning. Would it even occur to them to doubt that their stockings will be full, that something special will be waiting for them under the tree? I think not.

Yet I doubt a promise more certain than that. Our children depend on us, imperfect as we are, to give them what they need, and to keep our promises. Hard as we try, we may not always keep every promise. But God always keeps God’s promises, and this is the season we remember that, and celebrate it: ‘All the promises of God find their Yes in Him’ (2 Cor 1.20), that is, in Jesus. Still, it seems that Love is delayed, Hope frustrated, and Faith faltering. When will the promise of healing be fulfilled? When will the glory of God be revealed?

The people around John had to wait years to see how God’s promise would come to fruition in him. And so they ‘laid [these things] up in their hearts’. Some translations say that Elizabeth and Zechariah’s neighbors (like Mary, later in Luke’s gospel) ‘treasured…in their hearts’ what they heard about John’s birth. The treasure is not the fulfillment; the treasure is the promise. Because God is perfectly faithful, God’s promise is our treasure. I pray that on Christmas morning, in the noise of tearing paper and the sound of hymns being sung, I will hear God’s ‘Yes’, and remember again, deeply enough to carry me through the storm, that ‘faithful is He who calls you, who also will do it’.

Tuesday of the fourth week of Advent

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Song of Songs 2.8-14; Psalm 32.2-3, 11-12, 20-21 (LXX); Luke 1.39-45

My beloved speaks and says to me:
‘Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away;
for lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
is heard in our land. (Song 2.10-12)
. . .
This passage conjures up a rich and complex set of memories and images. I cannot read it or hear it without immediately being reminded that it was the text the priest chose to preach on at our wedding. I was hopeful then that I was about to embark on my happily ever after: ‘the winter is past, the rain is over and gone’. I thought we had been through a lot, we’d weathered the storm, and we were entering a time of peace and plenty. A month later, we found out that our firstborn child would have a congenital heart defect, very possibly a heart defect strongly correlated with Down Syndrome. Nothing could be established with any certainty until much later in the pregnancy, except that our baby would require heart surgery in the first few months of life. The storm was not over.
And still it rages, nearly ten years on. Storms within, and storms without. Very often, I find myself wondering with the disciples, ‘Master, do you not care if we perish?’ Marriage and family, far from being the heart of the ‘happily ever after’ I dreamt about, bring their own rain clouds and furious winds. When will the winter be over? When will the rains be over and done?
Advent comes in the midst of the storm; maybe Advent itself is not unlike the storm: it is a time of waiting in hope for what is not yet. Advent is a time in which we look for the salvation of our God, even as all creation groans with us, ‘Master, do you not care if we perish?’ Christmas will come, and Christmas will go, though, and I wonder whether this time singing ‘Hark the herald angels sing’ will cause the storm to abate. For the Great Hope may be already, in the sense that salvation has been accomplished, but I experience it these days almost exclusively as not-yet. Brokenness reigns, chaos erupts, and the harmonious order of God’s good creation seems to have vanished.
Far from the winter showing signs of ending, it seems like I am living in Narnia bound by the White Witch: always winter, and never Christmas. If only this Christmas, Christ would come again, and end the winter! I suspect that it is I who am spell-bound, my inner landscape thickly covered in the snow and ice of many winters of my soul. And the spell needs breaking; winter cannot rule forever, even in my own heart. And I know I have no more power to change the season in my heart than I do to change the weather outside.
So, I ask again, ‘Master, do you not care that we are perishing?’

Friday of the third week of Advent

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Genesis 49:2,8-10; Psalm 71:1-4,7-8,17 (LXX); Matthew 1:1-17


Give the king thy justice, O God,
and thy righteousness to the royal son!
May he judge thy people with righteousness,
and thy poor with justice!
Let the mountains bear prosperity for the people,
and the hills, in righteousness!
may he defend the cause of the poor of the people,
give deliverance to the needy,
and crush the oppressor! (Ps 71. 1-4)


O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti,
attingens a fine usque ad finem,
fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia:
veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae.

O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High,
reaching from one end to the other mightily,
and sweetly ordering all things:
Come and teach us the way of prudence.*

. . .

What is the salvation that the Lord has promised to Israel? We look for it in Advent, but I wonder sometimes whether I, at least, understand rightly what it is. In the first place, I think that it is not just about us, the human beings who struggle to be in right relationship with God and one another; it is about the whole of creation, with which we likewise struggle to be in right relationship. Not only does the Messiah come to judge and to govern in righteousness and justice; the mountains and the hills participate in the coming of the kingdom. Righteousness and prosperity spring forth for God’s people from the earth itself; under the government of God’s anointed, ‘all things’ are brought into harmony with God. So it is that the sweetness of the divine life comes to flavor creation. The delight of the harmony within God extends, according to God’s own desire, ‘from one end to the other’. In this way, the ends of the earth will see the salvation of our God.

In the second place, though, this salvation does not always come in the form we anticipate. (A baby? Born in a stable? Surely not!) Somewhat mischievously, I commented yesterday evening that God is not to be trusted. Not surprisingly, I got a look which communicated something between puzzlement and disapproval. I meant it in all seriousness, though: if what we expect from the God who saves us is deliverance from suffering and protection from tragedy, we are bound for disappointment. We continue to inhabit a fallen world, and live in it as sinful creatures, sojourners in the valley of the shadow of death. We are saved in the valley of the shadow, not from it. In that valley, God’s presence with us is our salvation: even in the darkness, we need fear no evil.

Often, very often indeed, I wish that salvation meant deliverance from the valley, that the light would dispel the darkness and not just shine in the darkness. But that isn’t what salvation means this side of heaven. Advent reminds us that we look forward to walking in the light, in fervent hope and joyful expectation. In the meantime, we rejoice that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

* About the O antiphons, see the Catholic Encylopedia & Wikipedia articles.

Wednesday of the third week in Advent

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Isaiah 45:6-8,18,21-25; Psalm 84:9-14 (LXX); Luke 7:19-23


Turn to me and be saved,
all the ends of the earth!
by myself I have sworn,
from my mouth has gone forth in righteousness
a word that shall not return:
To me every knee shall bow,
every tongue shall swear.
Only in the Lord, it shall be said of me,
are righteousness and strength:
to him shall come and be ashamed,
all who were incensed against him.
In the Lord all the offspring of Israel
shall triumph and glory. (Isaiah 45.23-25)


. . .

So says Isaiah, about the coming of the Lord’s anointed, the messiah. And yet, it doesn’t quiet look like what we might reasonably expect, given the prophecy. Jesus comes into the world not in glory and power, but in a stable. He is born not into the aristocracy, but to Joseph and Mary. When he begins his public ministry by attending to the poor and outcast, John is understandably (it seems to me) perplexed: ‘are you the One who is to come, or do we wait for another?’

Jesus’ answer suggests something about what the ‘triumph and glory’ the Lord brings forth in Israel; he says to John’s disciples, ‘Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, the poor have good news preached to them. And blessed is he who takes no offense at me’ (Luke 7.22-23). The ‘triumph and glory’ cannot be separated from the healing and peace God promises to Israel.

It seems that the dwelling of glory in the land (Ps. 84.9) involves the gentle union of justice and love, and that salvation comes mightily and yet tenderly:

Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet;
righteousness and peace will kiss each other.
Faithfulness will spring up from the ground,
and righteousness will look down from the sky.
(Ps. 84.10-11)

Into that power and tenderness we are drawn, especially at Advent, as we await the One who comes in glory, heralded by angels, who is also the One who comes in Love. Into that Love we are drawn, by that Love we are healed, and to remain in that Love is the blessedness of our eternal salvation.

Monday of the third week in Advent / St Lucy

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Numbers 24.2-7, 15-17; Psalm 24.4-6, 7-9 (LXX); Matthew 21.23-27

I see him, but not now,
I behold him, but not nigh;
a star shall come forth out of Jacob,
and a scepter shall rise out of Israel;
it shall crush the forehead of Moab,
and break down all the sons of Sheth. (Numbers 24.17)
Remember, O Lord, Thy compassion and Thy lovingkindness,
For they have been from of old.
Do not remember the sins of my youth
or my transgressions;
According to Thy lovingkindness remember Thou me,
For Thy goodness’ sake, O Lord. (Psalm 24.6-7)
. . .
The contrast between the prophecy of Balaam and the prayer of the psalmist is striking: on the one hand, destruction; on the other, forgiveness. My first instinct is to look for the theme that ties them together (for example, Christ’s triumph over sin and death as the triumph over enemies foretold by Balaam); yet I hesitate to do so.
I hesitate, because I find that following Jesus and living in the world is a study in contradictions. I, myself, am a study in contradictions. The unity of the Scripture is a mystery, even as the Trinity is a mystery, the Incarnation is a mystery, and we ourselves are shrouded in mystery. To say that all these things are mystery is not, however, to throw up my hands in despair. Rather, it is a way of embracing the paradox that Advent points toward: the paradox of the Word made flesh, the light shining in the darkness. Advent is a time of hope; ideally it is a time of joyful expectation. (I say ideally because it is so easy to be distracted by the trimmings that we forget the feast we’re keeping.) But expectation is not fulfillment, and so Advent must also be a time of longing, longing for the Word to become flesh in us, and longing for God to deliver us from the power of sin.
The paradox of Christian life is captured beautifully by St Theresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein):

‘To suffer and be happy although suffering, to have one’s feet on the earth, to walk on the dirty and rough paths of this earth and yet to be enthroned with Christ at the Father’s right hand, to laugh and cry with the children of this world and ceaselessly to sing the praises of God with the choirs of angels, this is the life of the Christian until the morning of eternity breaks forth’.

Gaudetes Sunday

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The eyes of the blind will be opened,

the ears to the deaf will hear,
the chains of the lame will be broken;
streams will flow in deserts of fear.
So goes the first line of a song we used to sing in college, based on the passage from Isaiah 35 we read today. The blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk, and the poor have the good news preached to them: this is the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy in the ministry of Jesus. The answer to John the Baptist’s question is, ‘yes’: Jesus is the one.
The question that confronts me this Advent is simple and straightforward. It is the question that Jesus asks the man who sits by the pool at Bethsaida: ‘Do you want to be healed?’ Here is the one who brings healing; the one who makes all things new is coming in power and love, bringing light and life. There can be no doubt that healing is at hand, and it is for all who seek it. The man sitting by the pool answers Jesus in a roundabout sort of way, explaining why he is still sitting there and describing the difficulties he has getting into the healing waters. I’ve always been this way, he seems to be saying, and the healing that some seem to find here just isn’t for me.
Like the man by the pool, I hesitate. What would it mean to be healed? For him, it means a whole new way of life. Better, maybe, but nonetheless pretty scary. To be blind, and then to see? To be deaf, and then to hear? Not to be able to walk, and then to stand up and step forward? All these remarkable healings involve a total paradigm shift for the one being healed. Am I ready for that? Is anyone really ready for the amazing power and the limitless love of God that comes to us in Jesus?
Ready or not, here he comes. And that is good news–if scary news–indeed.

Saturday of the second week in Advent

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Ecclesiasticus 48.1-4, 9-12; Psalm 79. 2-3, 15-16, 18-19 (LXX); Matthew 17.10-13

O God, restore us,
And cause thy face to shine upon us,
and we will be saved.
Even the shoot which Thy right hand has planted,
And on the son whom Thou hast strengthened for Thyself.
It is burned with fire, it is cut down;
They perish at the rebuke of Thy countenance.
Let Thy hand by upon the man of Thy right hand,
Upon the son of man whom Thou didst make strong for thyself.
Then we shall not turn back from Thee;
Revive us, and we will call upon Thy name.
O Lord God of hosts, restore us,
Cause Thy face to shine upon us,
and we will be saved. (Psalm 79.3, 15-19)
. . .
This is the story of God’s relationship with his people: God raises up his people, and God’s people wander. Far from God, we struggle to see God’s face, and we experience God’s rebuke. But there is nowhere to go except back to God, who alone can revive us, who alone can restore us to light and life. Interesting that the reviving here precedes the ‘call[ing] upon Thy name’: we do not even have the strength to cry out to God without God’s help. Truly, ‘we do not know how to pray as we ought’ without the Spirit of God who moves us to pray.
And it is the story of God’s relationship with individuals, too, at least with this one. God calls, and I hide. God’s love pursues me, and I turn away. Truly, I do not know how to pray as I ought: I pray for the wrong things, and my will is mortally corrupt. I cannot call upon the name of the Lord without the Lord’s own strength, without being moved by the Spirit, without having my will broken. I cannot but ask the Lord to take this cup from me; yet I cannot insist on my own will.
I have strayed far from the text. I do not know what to say, except:
O God, restore us,
And cause thy face to shine upon us,
and we will be saved.

Friday of the second week in Advent

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Isaiah 48.17-19; Psalm 1.1-4, 6; Matthew 11.16-19

Thus says the Lord,
your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel:
‘I am the Lord your God,
who teaches you to profit,
who leads you in the way you should go.
O that you had hearkened to my commandments!
Then your happiness would have been like a river,
and your integrity like the waves of the sea’. (Is. 48.17-18)
Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
nor stands in the way of sinners,
nor sits in the seat of scoffers;
but his delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law he meditates day and night.
He is like a tree planted by streams of water,
that yields its fruit in season,
and its leaf does not wither.
In all that he does, he prospers. (Ps. 1.1-3)
. . .
This is the most difficult of all sayings for the hardened sinner: obedience is your happiness, your integrity, and your delight. To hearken to God’s law, and to turn away from the sin that has become your way of life is the way of peace and joy; true pleasure is to be found in righteousness; that is, in God alone, who makes our way righteous, our path blameless, and who teaches us the way in which we ought to walk.
This Advent, more than any other, I identify easily with those who walk in darkness. I realize that I have spent too long in the far country, preferring my own way to God’s, and trusting in the world’s false promises of happiness and security. I have yet to rise, however, and turn back toward the Father’s house. That is why I identify with those in the darkness before, and not after, they have seen a great light.
And so I long this Advent, with a hope deeper and wilder than ever before, for the Light that is coming into the world, and to sing with faith renewed on Christmas morning:
O ye, beneath life’s crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.

For I know, though I cannot perceive it, that the Light shines, even in my darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.