Category: Devotional

St Lucy’s Day

St Lucy’s Day, celebrated on 13 December, sits quietly in the heart of Advent, carrying a gentle promise of light in the year’s darkest days. Lucy’s name comes from lux, meaning “light”, and over the centuries she’s become a symbol of hope that refuses to be extinguished, even when nights feel long and heavy. She was a young Christian woman from Syracuse in the fourth century, remembered for her courage, her generosity to the poor, and her refusal to let fear define her choices. The stories about her mix history and legend, yet they all circle around this conviction that light belongs to God and can’t be taken away.

In Scandinavia the day has a luminous beauty all of its own. A girl dressed as Lucy wears a white robe and a crown of candles, moving through the early morning darkness while songs about light and peace are sung. It’s a simple ritual, yet it feels profoundly human, capturing that ache we all recognise: the longing for warmth, clarity, and kindness to break into the cold shadows of winter. Even without the candles and processions, the day invites a moment of quiet reflection, reminding us that small acts of courage and compassion shine far further than we imagine.

St Lucy’s Day whispers that light isn’t a spectacle, and it isn’t fragile. It’s something we carry, something we share, something that grows whenever we choose generosity over indifference, truth over convenience, or hope over cynicism. In the middle of December, it’s a gentle reassurance that dawn always comes.

Advent Joy Springs Forth

The Third Sunday of Advent carries a note of joy, yet it isn’t the shallow cheer of tinsel and glitter. Advent joy is something deeper, born not of circumstance but of promise. The prophet Isaiah cries out, The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Joy bursts forth in unlikely places, just as it did when Mary, a young woman in Nazareth, received the angel’s word and sang of God’s faithfulness. This joy doesn’t deny sorrow or struggle; it wells up within them, a sign that God’s kingdom is near.

Paul, writing to the Philippians, urges: Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! These words weren’t penned in ease but from prison. His joy didn’t rest on freedom or comfort but on the presence of Christ who was with him even there. Advent joy, then, isn’t about waiting for everything to be perfect before we rejoice. It’s about recognising the nearness of the Lord in the middle of imperfection, trusting that even in barrenness, God makes new life blossom.

John the Baptist, still in the wilderness, points beyond himself: Among you stands one you do not know. Even in his stark call to repentance, there is joy, because the Messiah is close at hand. Advent joy invites us to look for Christ’s presence in unexpected faces, in moments of kindness, in the whisper of the Spirit that meets us in our waiting.

This Sunday, a rose-coloured candle can be lit, softening the season’s sombreness with the warmth of joy. Its flame reminds us that joy is not naïve optimism but fierce hope – hope that God keeps his promises, hope that light breaks into darkness, hope that love will have the last word.

As we move closer to Bethlehem, may joy find us not only in carols and candles, but in the small, hidden ways Christ is at work. May it take root in us, steady and unshaken, so that even in a weary world we may rejoice, and our lives may shine with the gladness of the one who comes.

St Nicholas Day

St Nicholas Day, celebrated on 6 December, carries a gentle kind of magic that flows through many European traditions. It honours St Nicholas of Myra, a fourth-century bishop remembered for kindness that wasn’t loud or self-promoting, but steady, courageous, and rooted in compassion. One of the best-known stories tells of him secretly providing dowries for three young women by slipping bags of gold through their window at night. It’s a small, vivid moment that grew into a lasting symbol of generosity given quietly, without any desire for thanks.

In many countries, children still place shoes by the door on the evening of 5 December, hoping to wake to fruit, sweets, or small gifts. The simplicity of it makes the joy feel even richer. Rather than the grand spectacle that later surrounded Santa Claus, the spirit here feels gentler, more grounded in community, more like a whisper in the winter darkness reminding us to look out for one another.

What I love about St Nicholas Day is how it nudges us toward thoughtful generosity: the kind that starts with noticing who might need a blessing, then offering it without fanfare. It reminds us that giving doesn’t have to be big to be transformative. Sometimes the smallest gesture, offered in love, becomes the spark that warms an entire season.

Advent Peace Breaks In

The second Sunday of Advent turns our gaze toward peace, though not a fragile or shallow peace that simply papers over conflict. Advent peace is rooted in the promises of God, a peace that holds steady even when the world shakes. Isaiah envisioned a day when swords would be beaten into ploughshares and nations would no longer train for war. This isn’t just wishful thinking; it’s the vision of God’s kingdom breaking into our fractured world. Advent dares us to believe that such peace is possible, and it begins in the heart of those who wait for Christ.

John the Baptist steps into this season with a startling voice, calling from the wilderness: “Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.” His message isn’t comfortable, but it is necessary. The peace of Christ doesn’t come by avoiding hard truths; it comes as we open ourselves to repentance, to turning away from the habits and fears that keep us captive. The wilderness, with its stark silence and uncluttered horizon, reminds us that peace grows where we make room for God to act.

Advent peace doesn’t ignore pain or deny the violence of our age. It looks straight at them and still proclaims that Christ is coming. Jesus said to his disciples, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” His peace isn’t tied to circumstances or politics; it flows from his presence, steady and unshaken.

And so the candle of peace is lit this week, not as a decoration but as a declaration. It flickers against the shadows, reminding us that even the smallest light is stronger than the darkest night. Each act of reconciliation, each word of forgiveness, each quiet moment of prayer becomes part of God’s peace breaking into the world.

Advent peace doesn’t wait for everything to be settled before it arrives. It comes quietly, like a child in a manger, and yet it carries the weight of heaven’s promise. As we prepare the way, may our restless hearts be stilled, and may we live as signs of that kingdom where justice and mercy kiss, and peace holds us fast.

St Andrew’s Day and Advent Sunday

Photo by Geert Rozendom on Pexels.com

When St Andrew’s Day falls on the first Sunday in Advent, the themes of both occasions sit naturally together. Andrew is remembered as the disciple who recognised something stirring in Jesus before many others did, responding with a straightforward willingness to follow. His simple announcement, “We’ve found the Messiah” in John’s Gospel, has the feel of a light being switched on rather than a dramatic revelation. Advent begins with that same sense of early illumination: the quiet awareness that something significant is approaching, even if it isn’t yet fully seen.

The first Sunday in Advent often highlights Jesus’ call to stay awake and keep watch in Matthew 24:42–44. This isn’t a demand for anxiety, it’s a reminder to pay attention. Andrew’s life echoes that posture. He listened, observed, and took practical steps towards what he sensed God was doing, then encouraged others to come and see for themselves.

Seen together, St Andrew’s Day and Advent’s beginning underline a simple pattern of faith: noticing, responding, and preparing. They point towards the value of small beginnings, steady attentiveness, and readiness for the arrival of light, peace, and renewal.

Advent Draws Us Deeper

Advent isn’t a season that leaves us skimming the surface of things, rushing about with lists and lights, though it’s easy to let it become that. At its heart, Advent is an invitation into waiting, watching, and yearning. It slows us down to listen for the footsteps of the one who is coming, the Christ who once entered the world in Bethlehem, who comes to us now in Spirit, and who will come again in glory.

To wait is to admit that we aren’t in control, that we can’t make the kingdom arrive by our own effort or force. We wait like Israel of old, who longed for God’s promises to be fulfilled. Isaiah spoke of a people walking in darkness who would see a great light, and Advent teaches us to hold that promise close in our own darkness. In our world of wars, injustice, and sorrow, waiting doesn’t mean passivity. It means watching for God’s movement with eyes sharpened by hope.

This season also deepens our longing. The carols and candles are beautiful, but they’re meant to stir something deeper than sentimentality, a hunger for Christ’s presence that nothing else can satisfy. Mary’s Song in Luke 1 shows us that longing isn’t quiet or tame. It bursts out with joy and prophecy: He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty. Advent asks us whether we dare to share in that longing, whether we let God awaken a hunger for justice, peace, and mercy in us.

And Advent draws us deeper into love. As Paul writes in Romans 13, The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armour of light. We prepare not just with candles and wreaths, but with acts of kindness, reconciliation, and generosity. Each gesture of love becomes a way of making room for Christ.

Advent is not shallow waiting, but holy depth. It’s the pause before the music swells, the silence before the dawn. It invites us to wait, to long, and to love until Christ fills our emptiness with his presence, and our world is Illuminated with his coming.

The Advent Season Beckons

As the days shorten and winter settles in, the season of Advent beckons us into a sacred rhythm of waiting, watching, and wondering. More than a countdown to Christmas, Advent is a spiritual invitation to journey inward, towards mystery, hope, and transformation.

Rooted in the Latin word adventus, meaning coming, Advent marks the anticipation of Christ’s arrival, not only in the manger of Bethlehem, but in the quiet corners of our hearts and the unfolding of history. It’s a season that resists haste. In a world that prizes immediacy and spectacle, Advent whispers a counter-cultural truth – depth is found in stillness, and meaning in the slow unfolding of time.

The liturgical practices of Advent, lighting candles, reading prophetic texts, singing hymns of longing, are not mere rituals. They’re signposts guiding us deeper into the mystery of incarnation. The first candle flickers with hope, the second with peace, the third with joy, and the fourth with love. Each flame illuminates a path through the shadows of despair and distraction, drawing us closer to the heart of God.

Advent also invites us to confront the ache of waiting. Like the prophets who cried out for justice, like Mary who pondered the angel’s words, we too are called to dwell in the tension between promise and fulfilment. This waiting is not passive, it’s active, expectant, and transformative. It teaches us to listen more attentively, to see more clearly, and to love more deeply.

In this coming sacred season, we’re reminded that the divine doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes, it comes quietly, in a whisper, a flicker, a breath. Advent draws us deeper not by offering answers, but by awakening our longing. And in that longing, we find ourselves drawn ever closer to the mystery of Emmanuel – God with us.

Bible 40 Themes 01 Creation

Creation begins in silence, in that deep and holy mystery before words, before time, before even the first breath. Then comes the divine utterance that breaks the stillness. God speaks, and everything stirs into being. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. It’s such a spare line, yet it carries the full weight of existence. The writer of Genesis doesn’t try to prove God’s reality or outline his methods; the story simply opens with him, because nothing else can be understood without that beginning. Every galaxy and mountain, every tide and atom, rests on that quiet, intentional act of love.

Creation isn’t something sealed away in ancient history, it’s the heartbeat of the present moment. Each sunrise that washes the world with colour, each newborn cry that breaks into the air, each stubborn seed pushing its way through dark soil continues that divine creativity. God didn’t set the universe spinning and then step back. He remains the sustaining pulse of life, still speaking light into our darkness, still breathing hope where we’ve forgotten how to look for it. Creation tells us that life isn’t random or accidental; it’s a gift, shaped by love and held by grace.

When we pause beneath a starlit sky or feel the wind threading its way through the trees, something deep within us recognises the signature of the one who made us. We’re woven into this creation too, shaped from dust yet filled with God’s breath. That truth draws out both wonder and responsibility. If creation is sacred, then caring for it becomes sacred as well, whether that means protecting forests and oceans, tending to our communities, or treating one another with gentleness and dignity.

“In the beginning” isn’t only a statement about the universe’s first moment; it’s an invitation for us now. Each day we’re offered the chance to begin again, to create goodness, beauty, and peace in the small spaces we inhabit. The same Spirit who hovered over the waters still moves through us, steadying us when life feels chaotic, guiding us when the shadows seem too deep, and helping us shape something new, hopeful, and alive.

Bible Reference: Genesis 1

Reflection for a Church Anniversary

Although not able to attend Stockton Salvation Army this morning (Sunday 16 November 2025) I’ve been able to reflect on the Bible reading at home.

Exodus 13:17 to 14:14 is a gentle reminder that God’s guidance is often longer, slower, and wiser than the paths we’d choose. When Pharaoh finally lets the people go, God doesn’t take them by the quickest route but leads them by the desert road towards the Red Sea, knowing they aren’t ready for the shock of conflict. There’s something tender in that, something that speaks to the long story of every church and every believer: God doesn’t rush maturity, and he doesn’t abandon us when the journey bends in ways we never expected.

The pillar of cloud and fire becomes a symbol of that patient, steady presence. By day and by night, God stays ahead of his people, guiding them with a quiet constancy that doesn’t demand attention but offers reassurance. When I think of my own church celebrating its anniversary, I see echoes of that presence: the unexpected turns navigated with grace, the seasons of joy, the times of strain, and the quiet ways God has held the fellowship together. Even from a distance, I can be part of that gratitude.

Then comes the moment of fear: the roar of Pharaoh’s chariots behind, the sea blocking the way ahead, and the people crying out in panic. Their protests feel painfully human: Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? It’s the voice we all know when pressure closes in and the future feels impossible. And into that fear, Moses speaks words that settle deeply into the heart of any congregation marking its years: Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you’ll see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today… the Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still (Exodus 14:13–14).

A church anniversary is a moment to breathe in those words again, to remember how many times God has made a way where none seemed open, and to trust that he’s still leading, still guiding, still walking ahead with a faithfulness that doesn’t falter. Even at home, I’m grateful for the journey so far and hopeful for the road still unfolding.

Truth’s Melody in Creation

Psalm 98 rises like a bright dawn, calling us to lift our voices because God’s faithful love keeps breaking into the world, renewing what’s weary and reclaiming what’s lost. It remembers that God has made his salvation known and revealed his righteousness to the nations, and those words feel especially powerful when justice and truth seem fragile.

The psalm reminds us that God’s rescue isn’t hidden or selective; it’s public, generous, and rooted in a goodness that refuses to be diluted by human failure. When we’re tempted to believe that dishonesty carries the day, Psalm 98 quietly insists that truth still has weight, still has substance, still has a heartbeat.

The invitation to sing a new song becomes more than poetic instruction; it’s a gentle protest against despair. New songs rise when truth has been defended, when justice has been honoured, when mercy has touched what was broken. They rise when people refuse to succumb to cynicism, choosing instead to trust that God’s character remains steady. And while the psalm shimmers with joy, it’s not naïve joy. It’s the kind that knows darkness well yet refuses to let darkness write the ending.

Then creation joins in, rivers clapping, mountains shouting for joy, the whole earth exhaling praise as the true judge draws near. It isn’t the joy of avoidance, but of alignment. Creation longs for God’s judgement because his judgement isn’t cruel, it’s right. It sets things straight, restores dignity, exposes lies, and shelters the vulnerable. In a world where truth can be bent and justice delayed, the image of God coming to judge with equity feels like a deep breath for the soul.

Psalm 98 invites us into that hope, to stand with creation and sing, trusting that the God who loves truth and upholds justice is already at work, already moving, already drawing near.