Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?

We two have run about the slopes,
And picked the daisies fine;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
Since auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream,
From morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
Since auld lang syne.

Well, this really isn’t a hymn at all.  But it is New Year’s Eve and there is a bit of a tradition of singing this old Scottish song on this night.  Its words, a poem attributed to Robert Burns from around 1788, are about remembering old friends and shared adventures.  It seemed like a good idea to take a moment to do that at the end of this year.

There is much to be found when thinking about the conclusion of a year.  Obviously, the day is arbitrary and doesn’t really mean anything, but it has traditionally been an opportunity to reflect on the past twelve months.  There are often many wonderful adventures and experiences to recall, but there are also those that leave us heartbroken, disappointed and baffled.  Sometimes we come up with resolutions that, while not necessarily very effective, can be an interesting account of where we wish to travel in the coming year.  What we’ve done, where we wish to go.  A kind of annual measurement.

Thinking about our tendency to focus on what we’ve done and where we wish to go, I am aware that the poet’s words are really about something else.  As I read these words, what comes through is the idea that our adventures and travels and challenges and weariness are shared – and those with whom we share our lives, should not be forgotten.  It is the friends that are spoken of repeatedly.

Where would we be without friends?  Be they old or new or members of our families.  Those that share our adventures through the good and bad, and over time, are to be celebrated, remembered and toasted.  They carry us, they let us carry them.  They wipe away our tears, they listen patiently to our frustrations.  They cheer us on, and they laugh at our stories – time and time and again! They add colour to whatever we encounter.  They make our lives bright.

This is what I will remember about this year.  The friends who held me in their care.  The friends who listened and understood.  The friends who encouraged me and came along for whatever ride I suggested.  The friends who laughed with abandon.  The friends who simply remained constant.

It is a cup of kindness to have these friends.  It is a worthy thing to toast.

Happy New Year.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Still, still, still,
Weil’s Kindlein schlafen will.
Die Englein tun schön jubilieren,
Bei dem Kripplein musizieren.
Still, still, still,
Weil’s Kindlein schlafen will.

It is Christmas Eve.  For some, this is the night when we contemplate what Christmas is really all about.  We attend candlelit services, we sing familiar carols, we take a moment to receive the calm beauty of a sacred event.  It is a chance to be still – in the midst of the chaos of this time of year, the chaos of our lives, the chaos of our world.

It is also a chance to let our emotions flow.  For many, this has been a difficult year. There have been losses, there is confusion.  Things are not quite as they should be; all kinds of things have changed – some for the better, others not.  We are tired, we are anxious, we are uncertain.  We carry pain and frustration deep within, or close to the surface.  We need a break from everything.

So we take this moment to embrace the stillness and within it, allow all that we feel to be exhaled.  We listen to the angels singing – perhaps with the voices of those we know, perhaps with the voices of strangers from afar.  We breathe in the beauty, we allow ourselves a few tears. These voices offer us the comfort and assurance that we are loved and that we can find rest.

A moment of stillness and peace is my wish for you.  Merry Christmas.

All poor ones and humble and all those who stumble,
come hastening and feel not afraid,
for Jesus our treasure, with love past all measure,
in lowly poor manger was laid.
Though wise men who found him laid rich gifts around him
yet oxen they gave him their hay,
and Jesus in beauty accepted their duty, contented in manger he lay.

Then haste we to show him the praises we owe him,
our service he ne’er can despise,
whose love still is able to show us that stable,
where softly in manger he lies.

We’ve almost made it to another Christmas.  It is a beautiful time of year for many of us – filled with special events and traditions.  We are busy with decorating, gift buying, long lines at the post office and a lot of baking.  We anticipate seeing people we haven’t seen in a while, experiencing concerts, services and parties that only happen at this time of year.  It is the most wonderful time of the year, as the old standard Christmas song tells us.

Unless it’s not.

For many, this is one of the most difficult seasons to endure.  For all sorts of reasons.  Maybe it is a reminder of those lost.  Maybe it is a reminder of the end of another year of disappointments and failures.  Maybe it is a reminder of what we don’t have, and what we can’t possibly acquire.  Maybe it is a reminder of being unable to give what we had hoped to give.  There is loneliness, sadness, depression, pain.  To feel despair when the world bombards you with messages of sparkly joy and celebration, is like a slap in the face.  A constant reminder that what you feel is somehow wrong.

These words tell a different story.  They are about the possibility of those who stumble being offered a place of safety.  These words speak of the humblest of gifts being beautiful and worthy of acceptance.  These are words of love.

There is something very tender about how this love is expressed in this text.  The gentle image of a baby lying softly and contentedly in the manger is actually quite powerful.   Imagine that for a moment.  What if in the middle of the hustle and bustle, we allow ourselves space to feel softness and to be content?  Giving ourselves space to rest amidst the struggles and chaos of our lives.

This hymn doesn’t tell us that there are no stumbles or that everyone will magically find riches.  It tells us that who we are and what we have to offer is beautiful.  It tells us that love will accept us wherever we are and we will not be despised.  Reading these words, we are reminded that we are good enough.  I sometimes wonder if that knowledge can also give us the courage to offer this acceptance to those around us – living the example of soft and contented love displayed by the tiny babe in the manger.  Welcoming all that we receive with humility and grace, and offering our own beauty with kindness and generosity.

After looking at all sorts of hymns over the past many years, I am endlessly amazed at how many songs have been written through the ages that so beautifully reflect the emotions and experiences we share as humans.  Through time and across cultures.  This is one of those, and while it may not be familiar to all, it has always struck me as being powerful in its haunting melody and simple words.  Words that, I think, are quite appropriate at the moment; words that for many are appropriate far too often.

This is an old German carol thought to go back to the 17th century, although the earliest printed version is from the mid 1800s.  It is the traditional text about Mary walking in thorns from which a rose will eventually emerge.  A lovely image, in its acknowledgment of pain and its promise of better things.

Maria walks amid the thorn,
Kyrie eleison,
Maria walks amid the thorn,
Which seven years no leaf has born.
Jesus and Maria.

What ‘neath her heart doth Mary bear?
Kyrie eleison,
The little Child doth Mary bear,
Beneath her heart He nestles there.
Jesus and Maria.

Lo! roses on the thorns appear!
Kyrie eleison,
As the two are passing near,
Lo! roses on the thorns appear!
Jesus and Maria.

For the past three years, we have collectively lived through a situation most of us could never have dreamed up.  It has, in some ways, felt a bit like being dropped into a dystopian novel or apocalyptic movie.  For those of us living in the relative comfort of the developed world, it has probably been the single biggest life altering event of our lives.  Most of us have never had restrictions placed on our day to day lives.  We’ve never had to give up our activities or completely change our work habits.  We’ve never seen empty grocery store shelves, we’ve never had to wait for anything.  An uncertain supply chain is a new concept, and missing milestones in the lives of our friends and family has been emotionally challenging.

Life has continued during this time.  Babies were born, people died. We had birthdays and weddings and concerts in whatever ways we could.  We missed things and it broke our hearts.  We were forced to see the cracks in our worlds and we continue to grapple with what that means moving forward.  Some of us lost a great deal.  All of us felt out of sorts – wandering through a wood filled with thorns.

But, if I’m honest, I see that a rose has wilfully emerged from all of this.  A rose with many, many thorns, no doubt, but a thing full of beauty and fragrance nonetheless.  During this time I have learned that there are friendships that are stronger than I could have imagined.  Friendships filled with laughter and care.  Friendships that are true.  I have learned that, while sometimes incredibly painful, it is of immeasurable value to behave in ways that reflect one’s beliefs.  Even if there is a cost.  I have learned that life must be lived to its fullest, whether our lives are filled with modest or elaborate things.  Fullness is about how much we take in, how much we value each moment and savour each one as a blessing.

The image of a rose blooming from its thorny stem is a powerful one.  Life is hard.  And yet, beauty can always emerge if we are willing to tend the plant from which this treasure grows.  But roses are also a gift given, a gift that can express love and friendship and commiseration.  As we seek to understand the experiences we’ve had over the past few years, perhaps this is where the real lesson lies.  We have faced something together that has offered us the opportunity to learn about each other.  To  learn how very much we need each other and our gestures of care. To seek out needs and find gifts that fill them, knowing that they can sooth so much pain and fill our world with healing beauty.

Kyrie eleison.

I was flipping through the Advent section of my hymnal the other day, looking for something to ponder this week, and I came across this song with music and words going back to the 16^th and 17^th centuries.  It’s not the type of music that we hear often – not something that gets recorded and arranged by all sorts of people at this time of year.  But it has stood the test of time.  It is a hymn that we often sing at my church during Advent, and I almost always, upon seeing it listed, have the immediate response of, “I don’t really like this one.”  I’m not sure why because, inevitably as I sing or play it, I realize that this is far from the truth.  It grows on me every time.  It is both strangely joyous and thoughtfully peaceful.  It is familiar, but not completely.  It comforts with its unusual rhythms and considered words.

Comfort, comfort, O my people, speak of peace, now says our God.
Comfort those who sit in darkness, mourning ‘neath their sorrows’ load.
Speak unto Jerusalem of the peace that waits for them.
Tell of all the sins I cover, and that warfare now is over.

In the past couple of weeks, several dear friends of mine have been confronted by the deaths of loved ones.  These moments can be filled with darkness and sorrow.  Whether these passings are expected in old age or arrive far too soon, the emotions can be overwhelming.  It is not surprising that music is often used as a way to mark these passages, and that it provides comfort to those who remain.  Music is a remarkable thing.  It opens space for us to face life’s challenges.  It gives us these special rooms in which to mourn, to cry, to laugh and to celebrate.

As part of the preparation of the Advent season, this hymn acknowledges that things are not always easy and certainly never perfect.  But within that imperfection, we have a role to play.  We are reminded of our responsibility to the world right now, and our responsibility to a peace that has yet to arrive.  Our preparation is about possibility.  It is about giving comfort to those who mourn and speaking of the peace that we all crave.

Offering comfort and speaking of peace seem quite simple.  But, I suspect, they are not actually that easy to accomplish.  True comfort is given when we put ourselves aside and seek out what is needed by those living beneath their sorrows’ load.  That can be very difficult – we all think we know what is best! We are rarely able to fill every need, but there is something about choosing to truly see what the needs are that is a humble kind of giving; a generous kind of comfort.  And surely peace can emerge from this simply because it is a powerful thing to be heard.  Especially within our sorrow.

So we continue to prepare.  As we do so, listen for the needs that swirl around us.  When we hear them we offer more than a moment’s respite – we offer space in which peace can be found; space in which peace can grow.  And, we offer deep and meaningful comfort.