Out of dark soil sprouts new life,
from darkness springs embodied hope.
Both stretch for the illumination
of the cosmic landscape.
This reminds me of another Advent reflection by a gay Anglican priest, written in 1997, and still relevant today.
So I was in love with the dark; not a dark which was cold or menacing, not a dark in which nasty things lurked but rather a dark where I could begin to feel. The dark was nurturing, it was where, in church, I was connected to everyone else; living, dead, present or not, mentally disturbed, outcast, old, young, poor, rich, intelligent, of the establishment, or criminal - in fact, everyone gathered around that table. All Eucharists are like that for me but Advent held special mystery.
At the end of Advent the church plunges itself into a tiny stable and all the church throughout the world stands crowded into a small and dangerously revolutionary room in Bethlehem.
2 comments:
Beautiful! I did a talk this past weekend about making birthing Jesus a habit, and in it talked about uncovering where all our dusty old stables are...and birthing Jesus there.
Thank you for this--lovely poem and prose.
Your talk sounds interesting. It sounds like what the Quakers would call the inner Light, or the inward Christ, as described here by Andrew Brown, a liberal Christian.
Glad you liked the poem. Kitt's blog is excellent.
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