As we stand at the threshold of a new year, the Church invites us not merely
to turn a page on the calendar, but to enter more deeply into the mystery of
Christ’s revealing love. January is often a month of contrasts: the world
around us feels cold and dim, the festive lights have been packed away, and
yet the liturgy of the Church glows with the bright promise of Epiphany. In the
very heart of winter, when the nights are long and the earth appears dormant,
the Gospel speaks insistently of manifestation, illumination, and hope.
We begin this season with the great feast of The Epiphany of the Lord, when
the wise men from the East – Gentiles, strangers, seekers – are drawn by a
light they do not fully understand. They come with gifts, not knowing exactly
what they will find, but trusting that the star has guided them to truth. Their
journey is our journey. Like them, we offer what we have – our time, our
talents, our material wealth – placing them at the feet of Christ so that he may
use them for the building up of his Church and the blessing of the world.
Epiphany reminds us that our generosity is not just a practical necessity for
parish life, but a spiritual act: a participation in the self-giving love through
which God reveals himself.
This revelation continues in the feast of The Baptism of the Lord. In the
waters of the Jordan, Jesus steps into the depths of our human condition,
sanctifying the very elements of creation and opening for us the way of eternal
life. As the heavens are torn open and the Spirit descends, the Father
proclaims, “This is my beloved Son.” It is a moment of profound unveiling:
Christ is made known, not only to Israel, but to all nations. And in our own
baptism, we share in that epiphany. We, too, are called to make Christ
known, to be living signs of his presence in a world that often struggles to see
beyond its present darkness.
Epiphanytide, coming as it does in the deep midwinter, invites us to persevere
in faith even when warmth and light seem distant. This season teaches us
the spirituality of winter: to trust in what we cannot yet see, to keep the flame
of devotion alive when the winds of life blow cold, and to root ourselves more
firmly in prayer, worship, and acts of charity. Like the Magi journeying by
starlight, we walk by faith, guided by the quiet but unwavering radiance of
Christ.
Our journey through this season finds its fulfilment next month in the feast of
Candlemas, or The Presentation of Christ in the Temple, when we celebrate
Christ as the Light of revelation to the Gentiles and the glory of God’s people
Israel. On that day, candles are blessed and carried – a reminder that the
light which shone over Bethlehem and guided pilgrims from afar now burns
in our own hearts. Candlemas marks the hinge between Christmastide, the
unfolding story of his earthly ministry, and the events of Holy Week and
Easter. It invites us to carry the light of Christ forward, not as something
fragile, but as something triumphant, entrusted to us for the sake of the
world.
May these weeks of Epiphanytide be for us a time of renewed clarity and
purpose. As we journey through the coldest and darkest part of the year,
may we do so with confidence that the true Light has come into the world, a
light the darkness cannot overcome. Let us offer our gifts with generosity,
our lives with devotion, and our witness with courage, that Christ may be
revealed afresh in our parish, in our community, and in our own hearts.
With my prayers and every blessing for the year ahead.
Your sincere friend and parish priest,
Fr Nicholas
Well done to all participants of this year’s Parish
Christmas Card Scheme – we raised £875, slightly
up on last year, which with gift aid where applicable
made a grand total of £1,057.00 for church funds.
An excellent result.
Thank you to all the 49 families,
couples or singeltons who joined in with the
fellowship, and a special ‘welcome’ to those who
joined in for the first time.
For Christians, one word recaptures the essence of Advent: we are waiting.
But that word presents us with a problem. How many of us, honestly, are
waiting? And if we are, what exactly are we waiting for?
Plenty of people say, “I just can’t wait for Christmas to come,” and for all sorts
of good reasons: the return of loved ones long absent, a welcome break from
classroom tyranny, a new computer game, that outfit in the shop window,
Christmas carols and all their charm, or the annual battle on the north face of
the Christmas turkey. Good reasons indeed.
But how many of us find ourselves saying, “I just can’t wait for Christ to
come”?
Here lies the difficulty: why should we wait for Christ to come at all? Why wait
for someone who has already come, someone we already have, someone
who is actually here? Christ came one midnight clear, wrapped in the
swaddling bands of a child. And when he left us, paradoxically he remained
with us. He took from us the physical charm of his presence – the face his
mother knew so well, the voice that was music to the ears of his friends. And
still he is here, now.
So what exactly are we waiting for? His final coming on a pink cloud,
separating saved sheep from damned goats? If so, you might not want to
hold your breath.
If there is no Christ to wait for, it is little wonder that Advent means so little to
the average Christian, let alone to anyone else, and plays second fiddle to the
advertisements urging us to buy, buy, buy. I am not saying we shouldn’t
celebrate the first Christmas, remembering it lovingly and reliving it each year
in our worship. I am asking whether waiting for Christ makes any sense when
he surrounds us and rests within us. Is our waiting mere pretending –
playacting, holy make-believe?
Then there is the human experience of waiting – both joyful and painful. What
was it like for Mary to wait for Jesus? As a man I can only imagine; only
mothers truly know. Jesus was there, and yet not quite there – not in the way
she longed for, not as he would be in a stable a hundred miles away. In the
meantime there was the paradox of pregnancy: years of joy offset by days of
discomfort, anxiety and fear, and sleepless nights. Those sleepless nights I
do know something about!
And then came that night – amid the dung and dust of a Palestinian stable –
when Jesus was born of her. He came to light, came from her to her. Of
course, he was hers before, but what a difference one night makes. This
was what Mary had been waiting for; here Jesus became real, enfleshed, in
a way he had never been before.
So what does all this say about our Advent? It tells us that we do not wait
for Christ to move toward us; we wait for Christ to come alive within us. The
real question is: how alive is he for you? If Christ is thrillingly alive for you, if
he is as real and breathing a presence as your nearest and dearest, close
this magazine and go and do something more worthwhile.
But if Christ within you is still an embryo, if you have not felt him move or
been startled by his gentle kicking, if you do not embrace him as a friend,
then perhaps his birth in you is long overdue. If Christ is someone you ‘soak
up’ on Sundays because the ritual is familiar, while the rest of the week is
Christ-less (not sinful, just Christ-less), then these next twenty days may be
demanding ones.
What did Mary do when the angel left her? “Mary arose and went with haste
into the hill country” – to the home of Elizabeth, who needed her help. Here
our own Christmas frenzy might actually help us. Every shop window and
colourful commercial urges us to give. What we must rediscover is that the
best gift is always symbolic – regnant with meaning that money cannot buy.
A gift is most perfect when it stands for the giver, when in the giving I offer
something of myself.
Like Mary, we must activate our waiting. Give yourself. Bring Christ to your
neighbour, especially to those who resemble him only because they seem
pinned to a cross. If, like Mary, you carry Christ to someone who needs
your care, the effect can be quietly transforming.
This kind of Advent is not easy. Twenty-odd shopping days to Christmas;
twenty or so days to shop for Christ – for a living, breathing Christ. It might
feel too short if we had to travel to Bethlehem or Calvary, or Ukraine.
But the good news for Advent shoppers is that the risen Christ has been
seen here. In fact, you can find him anywhere in Northampton, on any face
– if you want to, and if you have eyes to see.
Happy hunting.
Your sincere friend and parish priest,
Fr Nicholas
Some of St Matthew's services (most Sunday mornings and some special services) are live-streamed or recorded for those who cannot attend church in person. Under GDPR, the church must gain the consent of anyone whose image may be captured, as this constitutes collection of "personal data". This includes clergy, readers/intercessors, musicians and congregation.
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