17 December

Readings: Genesis 49:2, 8-10; Psalm 72; Matthew 1:1-17

Recent years have seen the arrival in my extended family of four grand-nieces and two grand-nephews, daughters and sons to their parents, grand-daughters and grand-sons to their grand-parents, nieces  and nephews to their aunts and uncles, cousins to each other. These births have, obviously, brought great joy across the family, the fact that they are establishing a new generation making that joy more profound, the excitement more intense.

The first child to be born was for a short time the 'only child' of her generation and so a very powerful little person. She created, single-handedly, a whole new set of relationships which would not exist without her. She was the first in the third generation of my parents' offspring. She made her father to be a father and her mother to be a mother. She made her grandparents to be grandparents. She created uncles and aunts who were not uncles and aunts before. She created grand-uncles and grand-aunts who were not that before. In time and in space, we can say, the arrival of this little girl transformed many things.

So is it with the arrival of any child: there is now a new world. Babies come, the English poet William Wordsworth says, 'trailing clouds of glory', coming as they do 'from God, who is our home' and so 'Heaven lies about us in our infancy'. That's Wordsworth, a bit Platonist in the way he expresses things. But there is no doubt that the joy surrounding the arrival of the newborn child has about it such a purity and perfection, such an uncomplicated brightness, that speaking of the child coming from God is understandable. We do, after all, speak of the child as 'a gift of God' and he or she makes strongly present for us something of the divine goodness and power.

There is now another branch in our family tree and it is growing strongly. The genealogy is one level deeper than it was before. These children, newly arrived, take their place in that genealogy, begin a new generation, and at that we are all grateful and amazed. The extended family network is also made much more complex by their arrival. And for that too we are all grateful and amazed.

What about the child whose birth we celebrate at Christmas, Jesus, the son of Mary and Joseph, and the Son of God? Like any human child he establishes new things in the family and among the people to which he belongs. A new level is established in the genealogy of his family and a new network of relationships is set up.

In the case of Jesus we believe that what is established by his birth has significance for all of us. He comes trailing clouds of glory in a unique way because he is the uncreated Son of God existing from all eternity. He really does come from the bosom of the Father and is therefore the Child who can reveal the Father to us. Heaven lies about him not just in his infancy but all through his life, even - wonder of wonders - in his death because in his case the Father raised him from death into the new life of the eternal kingdom, an even more remarkable birth, the one we celebrate at Easter.

So Jesus adds another branch to the family tree of Israel and another level to the genealogy of God's people, whether we trace it back to Abraham, as the Gospel of Matthew does, or to Adam, as the Gospel of Luke does.

And a new network of relationships is established by the birth of Jesus. On an ordinary level he makes Mary to be a mother and Joseph a father. But on the level of grace his birth establishes the network of relationships that we call 'the Church'. Because he is the Son of the Eternal Father, the Father of all, and is born as our brother, human beings can now see they are all brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of this common Father. Because he is the Son in the 'family' of the Blessed Trinity, human beings can now realise that thy have been grafted onto a new family tree. It is not just the tree of Israel, the tree of Jacob and of Jesse, onto which the pagans are now grafted. That is also true. But, more deeply, it is the tree of God's own life onto which all human beings, Gentiles as well as Jews, can now be grafted.

Because of His birth we have a new dignity since the Son of God has become our brother. Because of His birth we belong to a new family whose reach includes all human beings without exception. Because of his birth the family tree is extended universally in space and eternally in time. It means that our stories - my story, your story, the story of my new grand-nephew - cannot be told without tracing our beginnings back to God the Creator and charting our future destiny forward to the life of friendship with God which is the life of the Blessed Trinity promised to us for all eternity.

By the simple fact of their birth we are all grateful and amazed at the arrival of new members of our extended family. We are preparing to be grateful and amazed again at the birth of Jesus, at what this Child has achieved by his birth and by his life, by his passion, death and resurrection: a radically new level of life for the human family, a radically new depth to the human story.

Advent, Part Two

We enter the second and final part of the season of Advent, the week leading up to Christmas. The liturgy changes significantly and is now focused completely on the Messiah, on the prophecies about him in the Old Testament, and on the accounts of his conception and birth in the New Testament.

From tomorrow, 17 December, until 23 December, the Church sings the seven great O Antiphons, ancient chants that address the coming Messiah as Wisdom, Mighty One, Root of Jesse, Key of David, Rising Sun, King of the Nations, and God With Us. These antiphons are used at Evening Prayer over the next week, a crescendo of expectation and prayer that culminates in the great joy of Christmas.

What follows here was written by Fr Columba Ryan OP (1916-2009) and published by him in the newsletter of St Dominic's, London, in Advent 1997. I have edited it slightly and added a few phrases.

On 17th to 23rd December certain very ancient Antiphons are used in both the Roman Catholic and Anglican liturgies. Nobody knows who wrote them, but they were already in use in the 8th century. So they have been on the lips of Christians for at least twelve hundred years. They have been adapted to form the verses of the popular Advent hymn 'O come, O come Emmanuel'.

An 'antiphon' simply meant something sung alternately between two choirs, and in our Western liturgy, the word often referred to the sentences that were repeated before the Psalms and Canticle to bring out the spirit of the season. These Greater Antiphons, also known as the O Antiphons, come before and after the Magnificat canticle at Evening Prayer. They describe the one we are expecting and bring out the longing with which we should be filled in the last days of Advent.

Let us take them one by one.

17 December O Wisdom [Sapientia], you come from the mouth of the Most High. You fill the universe and hold all things together in a strong yet gentle manner. O come to teach us the way of Truth.

Each antiphon begins by calling on the expected Messiah under an Old Testament title - in this antiphon the mysterious Wisdom personified in the Book of Wisdom chapters 6-9. Each antiphon then develops that title, in this case using Wisdom 8:1, 'Wisdom deploys her strength from one end of the earth to the other ordering all things for good'. And each antiphon ends with an invitation, increasingly urgent as the week goes on, to come and fulfil the promise of that particular Messianic title, here 'O come to teach us the way of truth'.

 18 December O Adonai and leader of Israel, you apppeared to Moses in a burning bush and gave him the Law on Sinai. O come and save us with your mighty power.

'Adonai', a curious word coined in the Hebrew Bible, is a kind of rhyming slang to avoid having to utter the unspeakable name of God.  This invocation comes from Exodus 6:13 where God spoke to Moses ordering him to lead the people out of Egypt, having appeared to him in the burning bush (Exodus 3), and later  given him the law on Mount Sinai (Exodus 19). The invitation is already more urgent: 'Come, save us with your mighty power'.

19 December O root of Jesse [Radix Jesse], you stand as signal for all the nations; kings fall silent before you whom the peoples acclaim.  O come to deliver us, and do not delay.

This Messianic title comes from Isaiah 11:10. The root, or stock, of Jesse is David, the son of Jesse. and the abashed silence of enemy kings is referred to there as well as in Isaiah 47:4.  The antiphon ends with the appeal, 'come deliver us and do not delay'. 

20 December O key of David [Clavis David] and sceptre of Israel, what you open no one can close again; what you close no one can open.  O come to lead the captive from prison; free those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.

Key of David and Sceptre of Israel are from Apocalypse 3:7, 'the faithful one has the key of David so that when he opens nobody can close', etc. echoing Isaiah 22:22. Now the invitation to come is, as in the next antiphon also, from those who despairingly sit in darkness.

21 December O Rising Sun [Oriens], you are the splendour of light and the sun of justice.  O come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.

The rising sun is another Messianic title, this one from Zechariah 6:12 (in older translations) and once again the invitation refers to darkness and light: come and enlighten us.

22 December O King [Rex] whom all the peoples desire, you are the cornerstone which makes all one.  O come and save man whom you made from clay.

The title now is from the prophet Haggai 2:8 (once again in older translations). There is a reference also to the key or corner stone, an image from the Old Testament which was of great importance for the first preaching of the resurrection of Jesus: the stone rejected by the builders has become the key or corner stone. And it is out of death that he has risen and become the king of a race made from clay but raised, by his power, for an eternal kingdom.

23 December O Emmanuel, you are our king and judge, the One whom the peoples await, and their Saviour.  O come and save us, Lord, our God.

This is the best known of the Messianic titles. It comes from a familiar passage, Isaiah 7:14, which promises the birth of a child, the continuation of the house of David, a child to be called Emmanuel which means 'God with us'. The series closes with the great prayer come and save us, Lord, our God, which is what the season of Advent is all about.

In the solemn celebrations of Evening Prayer during these days, these Antiphons are sung to special and ancient musical settings. The great bell of the church was rung as they were sung.

A medieval acrostic from the first letter of each title in Latin, and taken in reverse order, made the dog Latin phrase ERO CRAS, meaning 'tomorrow I shall be there'.

Advent Week 3 Tuesday

Readings: Zephaniah 3:1-2, 9-13; Psalm 33; Matthew 21:28-32

'I must call round sometime.' 'It's great that we've met again, we must keep in touch.' 'It's a shame that we only meet at funerals.' So often promises are made that are not kept. Our intentions often run ahead of our time and energy. And the road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions. All those things we say we will do but never actually get round to doing ...

Jesus tells of two sons in today's gospel reading. One son agreed to do what his father asked, changed his mind, and failed to do it. The other refused to do what his father asked, changed his mind, and did it. Which of them did the Father's will?

The point is clear enough. Those in whom God's will is first made known, and who agree to live in accordance with its demands, may fail to be true to their word. Others who at first seem to pay no attention to God's will, 'in the end', or 'deep down', may actually fulfil God's will in their lives.

There is, of course, the possibility of a third son, the one who says he will do what his father asks and who actually does it. Jesus himself is, clearly, this kind of son. Although he does not speak of himself in this parable, the whole teaching of the New Testament about the relationship between Jesus and his Father testifies to this unity in his work.

Between Jesus and God the Father a unique and extraordinary unity prevails. United in conviction and in love, with a common purpose and a common mind, there is no competition between them. Each is self-effacing in that the Father is 'all for the Son' and the Son is 'all for the Father'. They find their identity in relation to each other. The success of the Son is the glory of the Father and the Son's work - his food - is to do the Father's will.

The garden of Gethsemane and the hill of Calvary remind us of the human struggle that this unity of Father and Son demanded. There are forces which would prevent the success of love, forces that pull down, tear apart, interfere. 'My God, why have you forsaken me?' and 'Father, into your hands I commend my spirit', are two sides of one mysterious coin. The eternal love of Father and Son is unravelled before our eyes in the human career of Jesus Christ, the Word of the Father made flesh.

The Christian faith calls Jesus 'Son' and it calls him 'Word'. The Son is the image of the Father, draws his life from the Father, learns from the Father. The Word is the expression of the Father, all that is in the Father - his wisdom and intention and plan. These eternal relationships are made known to us through the life and work and teaching and death of Jesus.

The third member is 'the Spirit', in whom the work of Father and Son is brought to completion and in whom we are taken into the network of relationships that is the Blessed Trinity, to become members of the family of God, daughters and sons of the one Father, sisters and brothers to Jesus.

To be true to one's word is a practical and admirable thing in human affairs. The relationship of Jesus and the Father teaches us that God is true to his word. He is faithful to the original purpose of his love. He calls all to share life in Christ, in the love of the Father and in the Spirit of tenderness.

For us to become united in our convictions and in our love, to live with a common purpose and a common mind, is already to 'become like God' and to live, as Jesus did, as a daughter or son of God.

Advent Week 3 Monday

Readings: Numbers 24:2-7, 15-17; Psalm 25; Matthew 21:23-27

One of the most striking things in the Sistine Chapel is the presence of the Sibyls among the Prophets of the Old Testament. At a certain level in the chapel, alternating with the long-bearded figures of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the others, we find the Sibyls of Libya, Delphi, and the rest. These are the pagan prophetesses or visionaries associated with different shrines of the ancient world. It is an expression in architecture and in art of a particular understanding of God's revelation which is in a unique way given to the Hebrews and through them to the world, but which is not without its witnesses also in all cultures and civilisations. The words of the Sibyls are regarded as 'messianic' also, like the poems of Virgil, texts in which are found hints, intimations, and premonitions of the Incarnation of the Word. Such sparks of revelation are to be found wherever human beings enter deeply into the pursuit of wisdom.

Balaam, a prophet of Moab, whose oracles we hear in the first reading today, stands between the pagan prophetesses of the Sistine Chapel and the greatest of the prophets, John the Baptist. He is a 'pagan' who seems nevertheless to be able to speak in the Lord's name. The Baptist is clearly intimately involved in the preaching and work of Jesus. The pagan prophetesses and prophets, even if from a great distance, are also somehow involved in the work of Christ. Balaam served his master Balak, the king of Moab. Threatened by the invading Hebrews, Balak asked Balaam to tell him what he saw regarding this people. Although he is a Moabite, it seems that Balaam believed in the Lord, the God of Israel. At least he has access to God's mind about the destiny of His people.

So we get these beautiful poems with some familiar Advent imagery - 'the king of Jacob shall rise higher, and his royalty shall be exalted' - and what we can only hear now as a prophecy of the One who is to come - 'I see him, though not now; I behold him, though not near: / A star shall advance from Jacob, and a staff shall rise from Israel'. Like all the prophets Balaam says more than he realises. In God's perspective, the prophet does not really know what he is talking about. From our point of view this ancient pagan seer becomes a poet of the Incarnation.

What does it mean for our teaching and our preaching? Clearly there are established and authoritative channels along which the preaching of the gospel takes place, where we expect to find it. But it means that there are many other places where we can pick up hints, premonitions, glimpses of the truth about God and about God's dealings with the world. All of these people - prophets, pagans, priestesses - are children of God and so none of them is excluded from the possibility of being a channel of God's truth for others. It may be buried deep in what they have to say. It may be beyond their own understanding completely. But God can use any of us as instruments for communicating His presence and His wisdom.

John the Baptist is the greatest of the prophets. It does not mean that the least of them, even an enemy of Israel like Balaam, might not also be used by God for the sake of His work in the world.

Advent Week 3 Sunday (Year A)

Readings: Isaiah 35:1-6,10; Psalm 145(146); James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11

From his prison John the Baptist sends messengers to enquire about Jesus. Doubt has set in. Earlier in Matthew's gospel we are told that John knows exactly who Jesus is, the one coming after him, whom he is not worthy to baptise.

Has he now got cold feet? Jesus' reply can seem cruel, especially if John is going through a time of doubt. Jesus tells him that he is performing all the mighty works foretold of the Messiah. Except one. The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the poor have good news preached to them, and even the dead are raised. So what is left out? 'The Lord sets captives free', as we read in today's psalm. The Messiah will also bring prisoners out of the dungeon (Isaiah 42:7; 49:9; 61:1). Presumably it is the Messianic work in which John has the most immediate personal interest as he languishes in Herod's prison, and it is strange that it is now omitted.

There is a strong tendency, dating from the very earliest days of Christianity, to see John the Baptist and Jesus as opponents rather than as partners in a common task. It is a tendency difficult to resist and it can mislead us significantly. Seeing them as collaborators in a common project helps us to understand what is happening here: they are learning together what the way would involve, what it would mean for each of them. Only a short time later Jesus himself will be in a similar situation (cold feet? a time of doubt?) when he falls to the ground in the garden, his hands weary and his knees trembling. At that point in his story the Baptist is already dead and Jesus has nobody to call on, nobody to ask about the meaning of what is happening, except the Father. And he prays, 'let this cup pass me by'.

We celebrate John the Baptist as the one who prepared the way. Reflecting on his imprisonment and death we see that he prepared the way not just in the sense of introducing Jesus and then disappearing from the scene. He travelled the way before Jesus and in that sense he prepared it. They announce the same message, 'repent, for the kingdom of heaven is close at hand' (Matthew 3:2; 4:17). They meet the same fate, an unjust judgement and a cruel execution. And the arrest of John - all the gospels testify to this - is the signal that the time has come for Jesus to take the lead. A new and final phase of his public ministry begins.

It is all too easy to set John the Baptist and Jesus in opposition to each other. Our minds, which love to 'dualise', do this very quickly. John is about fear and threat, a God to be feared, and Jesus is about mercy and comfort, a God to be loved. Is that not so? No, it is not so. They belong together, for each one's mission is part of one complex moment, the definitive visitation of God for the judgement of this world.

This is the message realised and taught by the Baptist and by Jesus. Salvation comes about not by being removed from human experience - we are not saved from being human - but it comes about rather through human experience - it is God who is, in a term liked by some theologians, 'humanissimus', most human, and He has sent the Son to make us also more human.

What is promised is not a gentle, magical change, some kind of replacement. What is promised is a strengthening of us for what is going on, a refinement in the fire of judgement and love, a new power established where our hearts of stone used to be so that human experience, while remaining human, is radically transformed. Just as courage does not remove fear but enables us to act in spite of fear, so faith, hope and love do not replace human experience but enable us to believe, and to hope, and to love, God from within this human experience, even through death.

We believe in Jesus and not in John. But John is forever the one pointing us in that direction, introducing us to Jesus and to his message. He does it not just with his finger but by his own preaching. He does it not just by his words and his strange way of living but through his passion and death which prefigure the saving passion and death of the One he served.

It may seem like a sombre reflection for Gaudete Sunday. But the joy we are promised is not superficial or shallow. It is a joy born where justice and love have engaged with, and have overcome, the deepest darkness and the strongest evil. It is therefore a joy that is profound and lasting, a joy that is full and complete.

Advent Week 2 Saturday

Readings: Sirach 48:1-4,9-11; Psalm 80; Matthew 17:9a, 10-13

From the description of him given in the first reading it seems that Elijah ought to be immediately recognizable. He comes with fire and departs in fire. His words are a blazing furnace, a torch bringing famine, drought and destruction. Awesome is the word for it, even in the contemporary American use of that term, and we are not surprised that he should depart as he came, in a whirlwind of fire, on his chariot of fiery horses. He comes, we are told, to allay God’s wrath before fury breaks, to put an end to anger, to re-establish the tribes of Jacob, and to turn the hearts of fathers towards their children. It sounds as if he is the wrath and the fury rather than the one who prevents the wrath and the fury from breaking out.

John the Baptist is Elijah, Jesus says, he has come already, and they did not recognize him but did to him whatever they pleased. Rather than fire, blazing furnaces and torches, drought and famine, John came as a strange preacher of repentance, calling for water rather than fire, a baptism in which the people could confess their sins and ask God to cleanse their lives. In some accounts John’s words are fiery, he takes no prisoners, and his steely integrity finally provokes the fury that leads to his martyrdom.

In his reply to the disciples Jesus seems to refer to the passage of Sirach which is today’s first reading. Elijah / John will restore the tribes of Jacob, will restore all things, and see that everything is once more as it should be. This is so that what is to happen next, can happen; so that the one coming next, can come. He is a precursor, then, Elijah / John setting things right somehow before something more radical can happen, allaying the wrath before the fury breaks.

If Elijah is the prophet of fire, drought and famine, he is also the prophet of the still small voice. In his moment of deepest intimacy with God, it is not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire that Elijah is in God’s presence. It is in the still small voice, in the sound of fine silence, that Elijah is in the presence of God. The recognition of the presence of God, the acknowledgement of his prophets and messengers, is not then in dramatic cosmological convulsions, in awesome and terrifying physical events. Perhaps it will be like that at the end of time. But for now recognition of the presence of God is more radical, a matter of converted hearts, changed minds, new ways of thinking, new ways of responding, things opening up, things beginning to move again, sins forgiven, love reborn. Shutting up the heavens may be dramatic and fearful but opening hearts is much more radical, much more creative, much more fruitful for the world’s salvation. Oh that you would tear open the heavens and come down: this is the prayer of a later prophet, a prayer fulfilled precisely in the moment in which Jesus will be baptized by John, the Messiah baptized by Elijah.

The strangest thing Elijah will do is turn back the hearts of fathers towards their children. It is a puzzling expression. Are the hearts of fathers not naturally turned towards their children? Does it mean that the order of creation has become so distorted that only divine power can enable fathers to do something which ought to come naturally to them? It is an essential part of the mission of Elijah as the angel Gabriel explains it to Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, when he brings him the news of his son’s conception (Luke 1:17): he will turn the hearts of the fathers to the children. Perhaps it continues this theme of opening rather than shutting, opening to the future and to what is yet to be, to what the young are bringing, opening to new life, fresh and original, rather than relying on old ways, old patterns, old compromises.

We can if we wish entertain ourselves with images of cosmological convulsion, fire and thunder, earthquake and erupting mountains. But the work of the Spirit is otherwise, internal, deep down, radical, hidden for the most part, until it bears fruit in the awesome works of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

Advent Week 2 Friday

Readings: Isaiah 48:17-19; Psalm 1; Matthew 11:16-19

Jesus does not condemn the people for their fickleness. In fact it is not clear whether such fickleness has any moral significance at all. It may be the result of sin, this tendency in human beings to focus on the limitations and weaknesses of situations and of people. But it might also be a consequence of the fact that, as St Augustine says, we are created for God, to enjoy the infinite good, and so any finite good will necessarily leave us unsatisfied. Whatever the reason for it, it is clear that human nature is still as it is described by Jesus in today's gospel. If a John the Baptist shows up we will find him too rigid, too ascetical, too humourless. If a Jesus shows up we will find him too indulgent, too soft, hanging around with prostitutes and other shady people.

So we are, seeing always limitations, weaknesses, arguments against doing things, the imperfections of other people. Pope Francis, in his closing address to the extraordinary synod held in October 2014, gives an intersesting analysis of the discussions that took place. His talk is becoming quite famous, not least for the analysis of various temptations which he gives. They link up with the reality spoken about by Jesus in today's gospel.

Pope Francis identifies six or eight temptations, ways in which we are pulled into partiality, in danger of allowing the limitations and weaknesses of other positions to pull us away into prejudice and exclusivity. So we might be too rigid or we might be too liberal, we might want to come down from the cross and soften the challenge of the gospel so as to be popular with people, or we might want to turn the bread of life into stones, matter that is inedible, that weighs people down, laying on people burdens which we do nothing to help them to carry.

It seems to be about the same kind of issue: partiality, exclusion, feeling obliged to point out other people's limitations, never being fully satisfied with anything.

The solution to which Jesus ponts at the end of the gospel is that we should seek wisdom. Wisdom is broad and deep, as spacious as the mind of God. It means trying to see things as they are seen by God and held in God's mind. Wisdom includes, forgives, seeks to understand, tries to combine rather than to separate. Pope Francis also turns in that direction, talking about the Holy Spirit working through the discussion and dialogue and arguments of the synod. Asking the Holy Spirit to be present in our gatherings and synods and councils means asking God to help us to be open to the views and opinions of others which are as valid as my own, open to the experiences of others which are as valid as my own.

Thomas Aquinas says that this is how the Holy Spirit works in the time of the Church, through what he calls 'colleges', meetings or councils of human beings, discussing and reflecting together in the light of God's Word and in the power of God's Spirit. It is in that fraternity or communion that wisdom is sought and wisdom is to be found. Pope Francis has coined the ugly word 'synodality' but his meaning is cleare. Working together, thinking and talking together, including everybody in spite of their prejudices and limitations - this is how to seek the way ahead, to discern what the Spirit is saying to the Church. Staying close to the source of life, like the tree in today's psalm, and working together in councils and colleges: this is how we seek wisdom, this is how we share together the life which Jesus has already shared with us.