SWEATING IT OUT AT THE JORDAN

THE BAPTISM OF THE LORD

A poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins nudges and tugs at my thinking as I prepare myself for the Mass of this coming Sunday, the feast of The Baptism of the Lord. The title of the poem is "I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, not Day". You can read it further down.

The beautiful window above looks at everyone in our church from the left hand side of the sanctuary, close to the Baptismal Font. It occupies the front of an alcove and is lit from behind by artificial light; a Light Box designed by my unworthy self many years ago.

I'm hoping that Hopkins' poem will help complete the picture before we renew our Baptismal vows together.

Our Christmas crib was cosy and rosy with that big handsome shepherd cuddling the lamb once again catching the eye of all who passed. Don't argue about historicity with those who come to kneel at the crib. They will be miles ahead of you and will have no need of any kind of biblical criticism. Where the heart is, truth has a safe haven.

It all began to fall into place on the night of our "Carols by Candlelight" service. Whatever the turnover of the cash registers on the High Street, those who gathered to sing that night, had no need of bargain offers of anything. They knew exactly what it was all about. BUT..

We've already begun the task of dismantling Christmas. The cards have come down from around the house and although the big handsome shepherd stays for a few more days, come Sunday he will be back in the cupboard with all the others until next Advent. BUT..

Though we may dismantle the bric-a-brac of our seasonal celebration we need not cast away the gift that IS Christmas. Look for him not among the stowed-away things that briefly warmed our winter days, nor yet among the gifts we placed beneath the tree. Look for He who IS Christmas not in any of these but rather look for Him, and find him, among the losers gathered for John's baptism at the Jordan. Unlikely though it may sound, it is there you will find him and hear him acclaimed, "my son, the beloved".

What abundant hope surges through us as we hear the Gospel for this feast. There among the storm-tossed and the confused, the guilt-ridden and the desperate we find "My son, the beloved" . We may have done our best to keep up appearances at Christmas time, but in real life we can simply be our own "sweating selves" for "the Beloved" has come to join us. He stands along side us as his Father's plan for our salvation starts to unfold, laying upon his son, the burdens of us all.

The Poem:

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.