December 24th

Tonight I re-read one of the stories of Jesus’ birth. Words about Syria. Words about Bethlehem. And today, as I was driving home for Christmas, I listened to this podcast with wonderful Miranda Hart, heard her tell her story, of chronic illness, of the loneliness of a story going unheard. And so today, on this last advent day, I wanted to write a real thing.

Fair warning about that realness. If you want to read on another day, a less Christmassy day. There isn’t as much cake and good cheer as yesterday. Hopefully though, there is good.

The reason I write about hope, is because, what is it?

Fourscore years in church, I’ve led, taught, sung, served, earnestly made notes, agonisingly prayed, pored over a tattered bible. I don’t have a good definition of hope. A fit-for purpose definition. I’ve heard many answers that don’t fit the question - thoughts too small for something so big. I’ve heard answers that gloss over. Answers that silence. Answers that deceive. Hope isn’t born in these things. These things can make hope unbearable.

I know, I know, God is hope. What does that actually mean? What is it people mean when they say it? How does that answer fit what we mean when we say, what is hope?

I am one of countless people living with the consequences of controlling religion. Left with limitations and barriers in each area of life, losses I’m still discovering, and ongoing harm, because the controlling religion is still allowed to go on. The reason I write about hope is because, what hope does this leave? When people say, have hope, what is it that they mean? How does that answer fit what survivors of religious abuse mean, when they ask?

(A few nice Christmassy things coming up, hang in there.)

This Perigrinatio with you over the last few weeks, gathering things along the way to carry in a pilgrim bag. Collecting definitions, discovering them, making them, these things bear hope, definable or not. People, the pup, penguins, pursuing justice. All these things.

Hope born at Christmas, hope born to us, all these things.

The steady glow of simple multicoloured lights, the years stories they hold. And yes, the Chritsmas cake, tasted with people I love. The sea. Robin stretched in deep and peaceful sleep beside me. The intimacy of prayer, the tangle of sellotape, the triumph of knowing a Christmas quizshow answer, the neighbours’ lights sending their stories into the world too.

Definitionless, but definite. These things bear hope. Some answers piece together, some are a pilgrimage away, some are nowhere to be found, some are born and reborn, some we bear.

And - but - what else?

Miranda talked about the isolation of her illness, coupled with not being believed. The added labour, the loneliness. I absolutely don’t know her experience, have never been through what she has. And, there was something in her story that echoed a story I know. The story of not being believed. Of harm not being worth fighting against. Of lives not worth fighting for. The isolation, and the loneliness, and the labour.

Hope, in the face of this church, of this world, can be unbearable. We need it, but what is it? What can bear hope through all this? Through those words about Syria. Words about Bethlehem. Through Trump and Not All Men and transphobia and Elon Musk and systemic injustice and Things That Are Painful At Christmas and all the things. What is it?

I drove home for Christmas bearing gifts, because I love giving gifts and I love people. I’m cosy now with Robin and multicoloured lights. I’ve been feasting on Christmas cake I had the time to make, watching quiz shows I had the safety to switch on for. How much hope have I really born, do I choose to bear, at this time About Hope.

I know there are all sorts of good reasons for good things. I know good things are good. And - but - you’re doing what you can, if I’m honest, doesn’t cut it, because much of the time, I’m not. I choose my own comfort. I look away. I don’t fight.

Despite knowing the story I know, of hope not being born to me, the isolation of others choosing comfort, the loneliness of the looking away, the labour of wondering Why doesn’t this matter? When will people fight? What is hope?

How much do I listen to the world’s question, and try to find a real answer? If my story doesn’t cause me to bear hope, really bear hope, what am I doing?

OK. Now I don’t know how to wrap up neatly. Without virtue signalling. Without dishonesty. Without saying something lyrical and comforting to people-please my way out of a Not Super Fun last email. Without the answers.

I want to do more of this one answer. To bear hope, whether or not it is born to me.

(Confession, also. Over the last twenty-four days I have been unable to discover if it’s born, or borne, or something else. It always looks wrong. I’m going to have to write “carry” just to be clear, even though it doesn’t sound as good.)

To bear hope, whether or not it’s carried to me. Bear discomfort and looking and fighting. Whatever hope is, to live out definitions, without knowing what they are. To Perigrinatio to discover them. To make hope. And perhaps discover what else God is hope might mean. God bearing hope into the world, God living out the unbearable hope, God being born.

Thank you for making this pilgrimage together. Thank you for the hope you bear in being Gentle Readers and Fellow Perigrinatio-ers. And, I hope there is Peaceful and Joyful and Hopeful in your Christmas day. A thrill of hope, where you are weary. Answers for you along the way.

PS I would love to know how you define hope. What does it actually mean? Once [gestures at Christmas] All This is done, email and let me know?

[Image description: sunset on the Ceridigion coast, at the bottom, dark shingle beach anda path just visible, at the top, a blaze of yellow winter sun about to set behind a hill, pale blue-grey sky with grey and peach clouds. Left, a cluster of small houses, some windows glowing in the light, and to the right, the sea.]