THOUGHT FOR THE MONTH

At the Stable Door

At every Communion, just as you are congratulating yourself that you are doing well to be in church at all on a raw winter's morning, your priest reminds you of certain conditions, one of which is that "you are truly and earnestly to repent you of your sins". Habit, which is sometimes an ally and sometimes a foe, may blunt the edge of the warning, for the regular communicant. Yet in Advent the words have a special urgency. Repentance is the air raid siren of the season, the inescapable summons to set our thoughts towards the kingdom of heaven.

It is an uncomfortable subject, for it implies that you have been mistaken. What you thought mattered so enormously is in reality of very little importance. Or it is downright wrong. Nevertheless, without repentance and humble confession of sins, our Christmas conviviality and vociferous greetings will bring us nowhere near to Bethlehem. Others will go into the Holy of Holies where the child is lying. All we shall know is the tinsel and the loud laughter, and the awakening on Boxing Day to a life that is just as hopeless as it was before.

The truth is, that religion is no religion when we are only religious when we cannot choose; if we part with our money when we cannot keep it; with our lust when we cannot act it; with our desires when they have left us. If we are to repent, let it be now, while the sins we cherish are still sweet and it is costly to part with them. And not, in our best moments, for dread of the judgment seat, but as our loving gift at the Cradle.

B.A.

Silent Worship

Sound fades into silence. I am dimly aware
Of feathery fern leaves in a shiny black vase;
Silver from windows lighting people at prayer,
Worn Bibles, reflected—wild flowers in jars.

I sense a stray sunbeam on dark polished wood,
Sharp creaks in the floorboards, the songs of the birds;
The hint of a beard—a tall girl in a hood,
Tasks left unfinished—my own bitter words!

Time pauses a moment! Deep—deeper still
The quiet intensifies. I shot out the birds,
The fragrance of blossom, the lights on the sill,
Silence speaks softly and low without words.

God rinses my spirit for one fruitful hour.
As waves on the water I feel His Love pass.
I drink the sweet beauty as rain from a shower
Fainter than falling of dew on the grass.

The Church clock strikes twelve, and the short meeting ends.
I must face the loud traffic and the whirlwind of day;
But first a firm handshake - a chat with my friends.
Strengthened for duty, I walk swiftly away!

A. Feetham
Hartlip School