Where...it has been three weeks...

photo taken from http://guardianlv.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/Nigerian-school-girls.jpg

It has been three weeks.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since the abduction of 276 schoolgirls.

276 girls at school.

Forgive me if my words repeat, if I over explain, if I enunciate these bare bones facts as though I am speaking to people slow of thought and mind and manner.

It’s just that it has been three weeks since 276 schoolgirls were abducted

And I am speaking to myself –

For my thoughts have not drifted to these girls often enough,

My prayers have not been those of a heartbroken mother who does not know where her child is,

My passion has not been that of a fathers desperation to bring his family together once more,

My fervour has not been that of the communities torn apart by the taking of these precious young women.

Rather, I have watched it unfold, emotionally muted, hurried along by my own concerns and all of the ‘important’ things that I have to preoccupy my time with.

1 Deborah ​Abge
2. Awa ​Abge
3. Hauwa ​Yirma
4. Asabe ​Manu
5. Mwa ​Malam pogu

Why is that?

Why have I not cared enough to write, to wail, to rend my garments, to rail against a world that is in such brokenness that something like this can even occur?

6. Patiant ​Dzakwa
7. Saraya ​Mal. Stover
8. Mary ​Dauda
9. Gloria ​Mainta
10.Hanatu ​Ishaku

‘Boko Haram’

They were taken by Boko Haram.

Their name is a Hausa phrase.

It means ‘western education is sinful’…

11. Gloria ​Dama
12. Tabitha ​Pogu
13. Maifa ​Dama
14. Ruth ​kollo
15. Esther ​Usman

Right now, my western education feels sinful.

It has inoculated me against the needs of others.

It has made my world so small that only those things deemed important by the words of the media, which I so rapidly and rabidly consume, are on my radar.

16 Awa ​James
17 Anthonia Yahonna
18 Kume ​Mutah
19 Aisha ​Ezekial
20 Nguba ​Buba

I am told that I am the centre of my universe,

And so I am conditioned and moulded,

Informed and inspired,

By issues that are chosen for me.

The crashing of an airliner, which draws people to their twitter feeds with hashtags and cries,

Because, ‘the next time I get on a plane that could be me’.

21 Kwanta ​Simon.
22 Kummai ​Aboku.
23 Esther ​Markus
24 Hana ​Stephen.
25. Rifkatu ​Amos

The adoption by celebrities of the cause of a young boy dying from cancer,

Too young by far,

And very much inspiring,

Raising three million pounds in mere days.

Because cancer robs us.

26 Rebecca ​Mallum
27.Blessing ​Abana.
28. Ladi ​Wadai
29. Tabitha ​Hyelampa.
30 Ruth ​Ngladar .

A media mogul arrested for heinous acts against vulnerable women.

Because, justice has been served against those who think that they are above it.

31 Safiya ​Abdu .
32 Na’omi ​Yahonna.
33 Solomi ​Titus .
34 Rhoda ​John
35 Rebecca ​Kabu

A former IRA leader is being questioned over awful historic acts of terror.

And the whispers of ‘no more, please, no more,' are heard amongst communities that are hungering for the moving forward of all things.

Because, no-one wants to go back there again.

36. Christy ​Yahi.
37. Rebecca ​Luka.
38. Laraba ​John
39 Saratu ​Markus.
40. Mary ​Usman.

And our minds are filled with these things.

These ARE important things.

These ARE things that matter.

But they are not the only important things.

They are not the only things that matter.

41 Debora ​Yahonna.
42.Naomi ​Zakaria
43 Hanatu ​Musa
44. Hauwa ​Tella
45.Juliana ​Yakubu.

And then, the most shared story on the BBC news webpage today is that 5000 people have turned up for ‘knob throwing’.

In Dorset.

A knob is a biscuit.

That is the most shared story.

People throwing biscuits.

But it’s funny, because it’s called a ‘knob’.

And 5000 people turned up.

46. Suzana ​Yakubu
47. Saraya ​Paul.
48. Jummai ​Paul
49. Mary ​Sule
50. Jummai ​John.

Maybe it’s because the media chooses what is important?

Maybe it’s because our minds can’t go there.

To that place where 276 school girls are abducted because a group of men deem that ‘western education is sinful’.

Oh, Malala Yousafzai, your heart must break.

51.Yanke ​Shittima.
52. Muli ​Waligam .
53. Fatima ​Tabji.
54. Eli ​Joseph.
55.Saratu ​Emmanuel.

School should be a safe place.

School should be a place where minds are unleashed, where potential is released, where a world in which 276 girls are abducted is broken into pieces and put back together again with hope and love and compassion at its centre.

56. Deborah Peter.
57.Rahila ​Bitrus.
58. Luggwa ​Sanda.
59. Kauna ​Lalai.
60. Lydia ​Emmar.

But, Nigeria is far away.

I don’t mean geographically.

It is only 4205 miles from London to Lagos.

61.Laraba ​Maman.
62.Hauwa ​Isuwa.
63. Confort ​Habila.
64. Hauwa ​Abdu.
65. Hauwa ​Balti.

It is 11389 miles from London to Auckland, New Zealand

And even that is the shortest calculable distance between my location and the place that my heart travels to so readily.

Yet the 4205 miles that lie between my desk and Nigeria feel like an insurmountable void.

66. Yana ​Joshua.
67. Laraba ​Paul.
68. Saraya ​Amos.
69. Glory ​Yaga.
70. Na’omi ​Bitrus.

It is a moot question, but one that nonetheless haunts…

‘Would the world care more if these were white girls from a ‘developed’ nation?’

71. Godiya ​Bitrus.
72. Awa ​Bitrus.
73. Na’omi ​Luka.
74. Maryamu Lawan.
75. Tabitha ​Silas.

Of course it would.

Of course we would.

76. Mary ​Yahona.
77. Ladi ​Joel.
78. Rejoice ​Sanki.
79. Luggwa ​Samuel.
80. Comfort ​Amos.

No-one wants to say it.

No-one wants to own it.

No-one wants to be like that.

No-one wants to admit to that.

81. Saraya ​Samuel.
82. Sicker ​Abdul.
83.Talata ​Daniel.
84. Rejoice ​Musa.
85. Deborah ​Abari.

But it remains nonetheless.

That thought, that truth.

That we just don’t care enough.

86. Salomi ​Pogu.
87. Mary ​Amor.
88. Ruth ​Joshua.
89. Esther ​John.
90. Esther ​Ayuba.

I WANT to disagree.

I want to be able to shout from the rooftops, even if I am the only one that hears my voice, that I am doing all that I can do to help in whatever ways I can to secure the release of those precious, precious girls.

91. Maryamu Yakubu.
91. Zara ​Ishaku.
93. Maryamu Wavi
94. Lydia ​Habila.
95. Laraba ​Yahonna.

But I can’t.

Because my heart is only just beginning to absorb the truth.

The girls are only now finding their way into my well shielded centre.

96. Na’omi ​Bitrus.
97.Rahila ​Yahanna.
98. Ruth ​Lawan.
99. Ladi ​Paul.
100. Mary ​Paul.

And why?

Because I now know their names.

180 of their names at least.

 

I don't know why it took me so long to think that knowing their names was important.

101. Esther ​Joshua.
102. Helen ​Musa.
103. Margret Watsai.
104. Deborah Jafaru.
105. Filo ​Dauda.

As I sit and read them,

as I stop and remember them,

as I light a candle,

as I whisper their given monikers,

they are real.

106. Febi ​Haruna.
107.Ruth ​Ishaku.
108.Racheal Nkeki.
109. Rifkatu Soloman.
110.Mairama yahaya.

And my inaction gives way to holy rage.

Rage that this situation had even a possibility of coming to pass.

111.Saratu ​Dauda.
112.Jinkai ​Yama.
113.Margret Shettima.
114.Yana ​yidau.
115. Grace ​Paul.

Rage that some of these girls are being married off for the price of $12.

Rage that these men are stealing the innocence of those who merely want to learn.

Rage at the thought of what might have been endured by these infinitely valuable, beautiful girls.

116. Amina ​Ali.
117. Palmata Musa
118. Awagana Musa
119. Pindar ​Nuhu
120. Yana ​Pogu.

Rage that tonight these girls might once more live in fear of what will happen next, instead of being safe in their community.

Rage that it has taken me this long to care.

Rage about what that says to me about my life and my priorities.

121. Saraya ​Musa
122. Hauwa ​Joseph.
123. Hauwa ​kwakwi.

124. Name missing from list
125. Hauwa ​Musa.

Rage that, even in my rage, I know not what to do.

I am impotent in the face of such horrors.

126. Maryamu Musa.
127. Maimuna Usman.
128. Rebeca Joseph.
129.Liyatu ​Habitu.
130. Rifkatu Yakubu.

I reel in the wake of my white, western privilege.

I wrestle with even these awakening feelings as they bear the hallmarks of a saviour complex,

Emerging from one who is free to sit on this, a national holiday, and pour streams of words out on to the page,

without being able to do a single effective thing to secure a release.

131. Naomi ​Philimon.
132.Deborah Abbas.
133. Ladi ​Ibrahim.
134. Asabe ​Ali
135. Maryamu Bulama.

I do not know what to do.

136.Ruth ​Amos.
137.Mary ​Ali
138. Abigail Bukar
139 Deborah Amos
140. Saraya ​Yanga

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

141. Kauna ​Luka
142. Christiana Bitrus
143.Yana ​Bukar
144. Hauwa ​peter
145.Hadiza ​Yakubu.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

146. Lydia ​Simon
147. Ruth ​Bitrus .
148. Mary ​Yakubu
149. Lugwa ​Mutah.
150 Muwa ​Daniel.

And so, I will write.

I will pen these stream of consciousness words

I will parse my thoughts and my feelings.

151 Hanatu ​Nuhu
152. Monica Enoch.
153. Margret Yama.
154.Docas ​yakubu.
155. Rhoda ​peter

I will put out into the universe the truth that these girls are no longer nameless to me.

156. Rifkatu Galang
157. Saratu ​Ayuba.
158. Naomi ​Adamu.
159. Hauwa ​Ishaya
160. Rahap ​Ibrahim

I will embrace the stench ridden reality that there is little that I can do,

That even these actions of pen to paper and fingers to keyboard speak of my privilege and arrogance and inaction.

161. Name missing from list

162. Deborah Soloman.
163Hauwa ​Mutah
164. Hauwa ​Takai.
165. Serah ​Samuel.

But these girls are no longer anonymous to me

And I will cry their names into the wind

I will scream the words as though a parent seeking a lost child.

166. Aishatu Musa.
167. Aishatu Grema.
168. Hauwa ​Nkeki
169. Hamsatu Abubakar
170. Mairama Abubakar.

When I can lobby I will lobby,

When I can awareness raise, I will awareness raise,

Should a plan come to light that I, with all my skill-less passion, can impact -  I will join.

171 Hauwa ​Wule
172. Ihyi ​Abdu
173. Hasana Adamu.
174. Rakiya ​Kwamtah
175 Halima ​Gamba.

I will post and I will rage and I will pray in a dervish of passion and intensity.

176. Aisha ​Lawan .
177. Kabu ​Malla
178. Yayi ​Abana.
179. Falta ​Lawan.
180. Kwadugu Manu.

I so desperately want to rescue them.

But, in this moment, all I have are their names.

 

Where...Twitter has baited me. Again.

***I am on sabbatical right now, and I’d promised myself that the only words I would write were in my journal, or working on ‘the book’, but as I lay in bed last night, tossing and turning, I couldn’t let these words stay inside my head. Maybe they should have, but here they are nonetheless .***

 

 

Oh, twitter, you have baited me.

I should know by now not to click on that link.

I should read the name and know that no good will come of engaging with this.

I should leave it and click on that link that leads to funny cats,

or a boy demanding a cupcake,

or movie stars remaking something about Charlie biting a finger.

But…

///

People have been making lists again:

of rights and wrongs,

behaviour and belief,

thought and heart.

 

I survey the words and they read like poison – destructive and harmful and life depleting.

 

My blood pressure rises and my spirit screams out against these missives from men who claim to love and yet sow seeds of discord.

 

These seeds that take root in the hearts of those who don’t feel strong enough to challenge; of those for whom this is just another in a long line of messages which state that they are not ‘enough’; of those who have been under oppression of one form or another for so long that words which should bring life and health – words like Jesus and Scripture, like Spirit and Truth – bring a slow death to hopes and dreams and truth of beauty that is incarnated in ways which cause heaven to rejoice. 

 

Anger rises.

 

Anger for the ones who will be shamed and silenced and corralled in to spaces small enough for them to be controlled within – spaces that are too tight for their chests to expand and take in the deep full breaths of life that Pneuma, Ruach, Spirit, invites us to take.

Breath on me, Breath of God and fill me with life anew.

All too easily words spill out and occupy that 140 character world where:

enough is said, but not enough;

emotions expressed but meaning unclear;

arguments started but nuance denied.

 

And some give challenge.

 

They say, ‘What does it look like to the outsider when all that is seen is the infighting between people who declare that they are followers of Jesus?’

 

‘Is there not more power in words that bring life and truth and beauty and grace, in words that are civil and allow room to disagree without dehumanising and name calling and demonising of the ‘other’?’

 

‘Doesn’t scripture tell us,‘they will know that you are my disciples when you LOVE one another,’ not, ‘they will know you are my disciples when you have spats and fights and disagreements in clumps of words too short to allow for grace’?’

 

But, scripture tells me also that ‘perfect love drives out fear,’ and, whilst the writers of the words that so disturb would never claim that their love is yet perfected, their ‘love’ does not drive out fear.

 

It instils it.

 

Your words do not bring life.

They do not bring freedom.

They do not bring hope and joy and peace.

 

You see, you have a choice.

You do.

 

You can choose how to read and interpret and frame the words in scripture that appear to so define for you the rightness of your gender and the wrongness of mine – whether you would state your intent as boldly as that.

The ‘fit for all purposes’ nature of those bedecked with male anatomy, and the narrow parameters within which I, with all of my magnificent femininity, must operate.

You can choose to embrace a narrative which is bigger, which leaves space, which does not deviate from truth and life, but which enhances and brings harmony.

There is space for that within the words of God.

Believe me, there is.

You do not have to move from underneath the authority of Scripture, you do not have to stretch any points, you do not have to ignore any of the very few passages which talk about the role of women within the church.

You can choose.

And yet, you do not.

You choose systems of oppression.

But you won’t like me calling it that - ‘oppression’.

 You will make statements about Biblical Truth and God’s ordered way of life.

You will make statements filled with erroneous statistics about the decline of churches that are led by women, about the erosion of family values that happen when a woman’s role is enlarged beyond the already incredible realm of homemaking, about what happens to little boys when they see women in charge and what happens to women and their God given femininity when they are ‘forced’ to step up to the plate in leadership – presumably because the men have not been ‘man’ enough and left some kind of leadership vacuum only to be filled with ‘the ladies who lead because no-one else will.’

 

You might even go further and make declarations about women who will suffer the wrath of God for daring to operate in roles which are outside of the tight parameters that you choose to interpret from scripture. Doling out scare stories that are so preposterous, I almost want for you to continue as it so clearly shows the dark heart of what it is that you are saying.

 

But if something looks like oppression, talks like oppression and smells like oppression, then it most likely is oppression.

And, if this oppression is in the light; if it is public; if my friends who are intrigued by the life of Rabbi Jesus are coming across this stuff and drawing conclusions about what it means to be a Jesus follower from YOUR words, before deciding that they do not want a part of a system of belief that is obsessed with keeping women in the places that certain people deem appropriate for them?  

 

Well, you’d better believe that I count it as an act of LOVE to challenge you.

I will rail against and pray against your words. I will cry hot tears of anguish over them and write words of my own that flow from my fingertips like fire.

And I will do it all from a place of love.

A place of love for a Jesus who hung out with hookers and harlots, sinners and saints, bleeding women and weeping women.

A place of love for a Jesus who met a woman at a well and transformed her from the social outcast into one who led the whole town into the presence of Messiah.

A place of love for a Jesus who knelt in sandy ground before a group of men with rocks in their hands and challenged the legal system of the time, ensuring the freedom of a woman whose life was in the hands of men who would rather kill her than confront the reality of the fact that ‘it takes two to tango.’

I will do it from a place of love for the Jesus who, eschewing all social normity, first revealed his resurrected self in the garden to a woman.

Jesus chose that a woman whose testimony would be considered invalid in the courts of the land should be the first to speak the truth of the conquering of death and hell, of life everlasting, of the empty grave and the turning back of death itself.

She was the one who got to tell the tale.

Apostle to the Apostles.

A woman.

And so I will challenge.

I will do it in love.

I will do it in sentences of 140 characters if I need to.

‘People will know you are my disciples when you love one another.’

Sometimes love looks like calling you out on your crap.

 Because, my friends, half of the sky belongs to me and my sisters, and you do NOT get to put out our Sun.

where we bid farewell to 2013...

Well, 2013, you have been an absolute BLAST.

Seriously, this year has been one of the most crazily adventure filled, flying by the seat of my pants, exhilarating and exhausting, risk and faith filled years of my life so far.

My word for the year 2013 was ‘PURPOSED’, and I have tried to live into the fullness of that word with every fibre of my being…

I have leant further into the calling of ‘writer’ upon my life, and chosen to be intentional about investing time and energy into that calling – particularly in the first 6 months of the year. I joined a community of writers in ‘Story’, learning more about the what and why of the rhythm of a writing life. I finished my first Childrens Book, wrote a couple of chapters for another book, wrote words in other spaces, and learned more about the heartbeat of weaving story.

There have been adventures in Cambodia, Vietnam, Paris and Iceland…which included spending time in a Cambodian Police Station. It was all a misunderstanding. On their part. Honest.

I got to adventure with a part of our community as we journeyed to see some of the wider family in Uganda & Rwanda, with chances to learn and join our lives with those of our friends  in beloved Mama Africa. I got to see our young people press into the callings of the Kingdom of God in ways that still bring tears to my eyes.

The last third of the year was the most whirlwind mixture of Joy, Fear, Risk, Dreams Coming True, Exhaustion and Fulfilment that I think it is possible to feel all in one go as our very first HOME Venue opened her doors in Lightmoor Village, Telford, at the start of November (www.theHOMEorganisation.com).

 

I feel as though I have learned more about being true to vision & calling, having faith in the face of all odds going against you, patience, flexibility, the power of deep breaths and just keeping on going, than I ever thought would be possible to learn in such a short space of time.

 

I don’t think I have ever been this tired. Ever.

And the lessons just keep on coming.

But, every time a wave threatens to overwhelm, I get to stand back to back with my fabulous sister & business partner, survey the land and whisper, ‘we got to breathe life into this’. And, to be honest, even in the midst of some of the biggest (pardon the language) shit-storms that inevitably happen whenever you decide to leap into the adventure of Risk, there is Joy to be found that is unparalleled.

Something now exists that did not exist before.

I think it’s what we were all made for you know.

To dream and risk and leap and create and sow and love and shout into the darkness until life springs up, and then to nurture that life until all manner of things are birthed.

To be free to be all we were created to be, and to beckon others into that freedom.

To live PURPOSED lives.

Farewell 2013.

I may well sleep through your ending, but I wouldn’t have missed (most of) you for the world.

 

 

 

Where there are Angels...

It's the Eve of Christmas, a night filled with anticipation and waiting.

And I'm beyond tired. I'm at the end of myself. There's nothing particularly wrong with that, as it's often when I come to the end of myself that I find so much more of God. But I am bone weary.

For the first time in my walk with Jesus I'm not going to make it to Midnight Communion tonight. For me it's a night that is normally filled with old friends and older words echoing in the candlelight, waiting for the strike of midnight, when Body broken and Blood shed will be shared - celebrating the bairn who grew into a man who lived in a way that was so outrageously full of grace that he had to be killed...but Love always wins.

Tonight will instead look like PJ's and ginger beer and a candle lit at midnight to celebrate light and life. And, this will be enough.

A couple of years ago I wrote a piece to be read as the framework for our Midnight Communion Service at Christ Church Purley. I thought I would share that here tonight.

It's spoken by an Angel, from their perspective - and it is written to be spoken word rather than read...but it still stands.

Angels we have heard on high.

Blessed Christmas Eve...

And so, we arrive at tonight.  A time of waiting, a time of watching, a time of anticipating.

Waiting is hard.  Humans seem to find it almost impossible.  For us angels, waiting has become something of an art form.  Not the inactive kind of waiting, you understand…more the kind of waiting in which you understand that the story needs to be told, and it needs be told in order, almost breathed into being, like a snowflake being born, crystallising, growing, becoming the thing of beauty it was destined to be.

More fragile than that though. 

When Father chose to give you all free will and invite you to participate in the story we knew that the infinite number of variables that threw up would mean that we never had a quiet moment again.

 We’ve been waiting you see, us angels.  Right from the dawn of creation when all the morning stars sang together, and we shouted for Joy. 

 We saw the sheer delight of the Father as he walked in the Garden with Eve and Adam in the cool of the day.  We knew His hopes and dreams for you all, the things he longed for, the plans He wanted you to join Him in.  We saw His heart leap as He called you His children, and we knew that from that moment onwards, there was nothing He wouldn’t give for you.

 We were there at that awful moment when the evil one, who had made such bad decisions in leaving the family of God, helped Adam and Eve to make equally bad decisions and eat from the fruit of the tree…

 Our hearts broke as we saw the tears of Father as He took an animal from His perfect creation and killed it so that he could use its skin, clothe them in their newly recognised nakedness and remove their shame. 

 The very first sacrifice, right there in the garden.

 And from that moment on, nothing was the same.

 As Father placed one of the cherubim at the gate of the Garden, never to let his children in again, we saw His heart break as He watched his creation leaving that place of perfection that He had crafted with His own hands, to wander in the rest of the land.

 And, boy, did that wandering continue.

 We met Hagar in the desert and ministered to her, speaking of Gods plans.  We went into Sodom & helped Lot to get out of that place, we cried out to Abraham from heaven, we entered into Jacobs dream – you know, the one with the ladder, and us going up and down and up and down…

 We travelled with the Israelites in the Desert, God sent us before them into the promised land to prepare the way, as He did so many times.  You wouldn’t believe how much ‘preparing of the way’ Father asks us to get up to. 

 We met Balaam on the road, and saw when God opened up the donkeys mouth and let him talk.  Now that was REALLY something. A talking Donkey. 

 We spoke to Gideon and told this scrap of a boy that the Lord was with Him, and that he was a mighty warrior.

We were there with King David and we saw his mistakes, and the mighty things He joined Father God in doing. 

 We fed Elijah when he got too tired to carry on.

 We fought for Daniel and closed the mouths of the lions in the Den.

 And the prophets, oh, the prophets.  The conversations that God asked us to have with those crazy, wild, amazing men.  If it weren’t written down in the word, you would never believe it. 

 Wild times indeed.

 We have stood with Father and seen Judges and Kings and Prophets come and go.

 And in all of this we waited, and we watched and we saw the Father at work, desperately giving His Children every chance possible to return to Him and the way He meant for it all to be in the beginning. 

 We saw Him hope as His people once more returned to His ways, and we saw His heart shatter every time they once more started wandering…

 And we were there at that moment, 9 months ago.

 That precious, priceless, beautiful, heart breaking, inspiring moment when the community of God – Father, Son and Holy Spirit – decided that now, now was the time…

 9 months…it’s a long time to wait.

 But here we are, on this night.

And we don’t have to wait much longer.

 We stand here on the eve of all things new.

The world is literally waiting with baited breath.

You may not be able to hear it, but it really is. 

 All of heaven is waiting.  All of creation knows that this night is going to change everything.

The community of God - Father, Son & Spirit - apart for the first time.

 When He, when they, told us the plan - that Jesus was literally going to come and inhabit and be amongst the Children of God, we had to catch our breath.  We knew that this was no new thought to Him, to them, and we saw that even in the midst of telling us there was a glimpse of sorrow mixed in with the joy. But that is another story to be told.

 The details of the plan emerged, and we loved the part that we were going to get to play in its telling.

 A wonderful woman called Elizabeth, who had not had children up until this point, was going to give birth to a child called John, who would be known as the Baptiser – someone who would follow in our line of work, and prepare the way for Jesus and His journey. 

 Gabriel got to go and tell Zechariah, Elizabeth’s husband of the part that they would play in the story.  He made this beautiful speech – ‘I am Gabriel, I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news.’  I can still remember it now. 

 

A beautiful moment.

But what followed was even more precious.  Mary, a young girl, who SO loved Father, was going to be the one. The one who got to carry the Saviour, the one who got to nurse the creator of the heavens and earth. 

The maker of all things, whose hands flung the stars into space and whose voice raged over the waters, the one who spoke all things into being was going to become a child, a baby, and she was the one who would bear Him. 

Gabriel was sent again to give the message, and as He delivered it and spoke words that held such promise and hope and joy, we all waited to hear her response. 

 You could almost sense every angel in heaven and on earth leaning towards them, waiting to hear what came next.  And our hearts burst with joy as we heard Mary singing out her song to Father…’My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my saviour, for He has been mindful of the humble state of His servant.’

 Beautiful, just beautiful.

 Father really did choose well.

 We reassured Joseph, Mary’s husband to be, through a dream, and spoke words of comfort to him.  This was no ordinary situation after all.

 And then, this time of waiting.

 Mary was the one who was pregnant, of course, but at the same time it felt like the whole of creation was pregnant - with hope, with anticipation, with barely held back joy at what was going to happen.

 And, 9 months on, we arrive at tonight.

 Mary & Joseph had a long journey into Bethlehem.  We were with them all the way, of course, whether they felt it or not.  Father wasn’t going to have them make that journey in any other way than with us surrounding them.

We saw the look on Mary’s face.  Tired, worn out, dusty from the journey.

 We saw the worry on Josephs face as he realised that there was no-where for them to stay. 

 Life becomes socially hard if you have a pregnant unwed fiancé.  People tend to not want to have you in the spare room.

 But, he found somewhere. 

Not what he would have hoped for, but something at least.

 I know that Joseph doesn’t realise it, but the fact that Jesus, the Word become flesh, will be born in the most humble of places, with nothing to His Name but His Name – the Name above all other Names – well, this fact will echo through the whole of the story that Father is telling.

 A story in which the lowest is raised to the highest, where the first will come last and the last will come first, whisperings of a revolution.

 And tonight, tonight those whisperings become a reality.

Mary is pushing, Joseph is encouraging, and the World is waiting.

 It’s nearly here.

He’s nearly here.

Can you feel it?  He’s doing a new thing.

Lean in…can you hear the whisperings of Hope?

 And so.

The night for which we have waited for so long is upon us. 

Creation can breathe once more.

There are shepherds to tell, songs to sing and stories to unfold…and now, I depart.

 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was with God in the beginning.  Through Him all things were made; without Him, nothing was made that has been made.  In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not put it out.

 The Word became flesh and made His dwelling amongst us.  We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only, who came from the Father. FULL of grace and truth.