They used to call this time Advent … twinkling windows of sentimental promise marking the progression … and now it’s more like a NoName brand of MerryMix, not quite fully responsive even to flaming brandy. This ain’t a grinchy mood coming on. It’s a confession of sorts. As old structuring of expectation gives way to the telling of the foretold: in an instant, in an inner cascade of holy instants which communicate like micro-dots of the entirely new – subversively thrilling the foundations of that which is about to topple. A tipple before you topple, vicar?
The other night, with my beloved, I moved into more of an Easter than a Christmas by entering into the meaning of having taken physical form. It came as an irresistibly delightful fire of certainty (sitting nicely at the heart of the glowing hearth of midwinter) delivering actuality with communication from within-beyond. Even though words tend to stage-fright in the presence of annunciation, what could be rendered later would be that resurrection and ascension are not sequential. They are gloriously (and humbly) simultaneous.
As I write this, almost for no reason at all, I am remembering something I heard from Good Ole Boy country up here in Alberta some time ago. This local lad was riding a mule in the bush and they came across an invisible line (apparently this happens with mules from time to time) and there was no way the creature would cross it. No stick, no carrot. Nothing would work. So the rider turned the mule around and eased him over the line backwards. He and I gave great praise to that mule last night. And here’s to all our crossings … happily into ever onwards.