“I just want to be blessed”

My abiding memory of Christmas will be the person who said these words to me.

It was nearing midnight at the end of Christmas Eve. I was celebrating Holy Communion with a small but sincere congregation. We had just started on the Eucharistic prayer, when through the doors at the back of church, directly ahead of where I was facing, a young woman entered church with her two dogs. She wandered to the front of church, sat down in the children’s corner, and was quickly welcomed and shown where we were in the liturgy. The dogs busied themselves in giving the church a thorough ‘sniff-test’.

After the Eucharistic Prayer, I explained to the congregation that everyone was welcome around the table:

We welcome all baptised members of the Christian faith, regardless of your denomination, to come and receive the bread and the wine. If you would rather receive a prayer of blessing this evening, please come forward holding your service booklet.

Over the sound system, I played John Rutter’s Angels Carol (if you don’t know it, and even if you do, you must listen to the clip at the end of this post).

Have you heard the news…
that they bring from heaven…
to the humble shepherds…
who have waited long?
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Hear the angels sing their joyful song.

I turned to offer the bread and wine to the chalice assistants behind me, and when I turned back, she was there. Standing expectantly, hopefully, right in front of me on the other side of the altar.  She was dressed in pyjamas and slippers. She stood alone, with the congregation still sat behind her.

“What would you like?” I asked. “The bread and wine, or a prayer?”

“I just want a blessing.” She replied. “I just want to be blessed.”

I put down the bread and walked around the altar to join her. There, I stood with her, my arms on her shoulders. I asked her name, the names of her dogs, and I held her, and prayed with her for herself and for them. Then she skipped back to her seat, and chatted loudly through the rest of the service. She left at the end with a flourish of joy: “MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!” she shouted, as she held the entrance doors wide open, the dogs scampering around her feet.

I just want to be blessed.

It has stayed with me. Echoed through the days of the Christmas season. A bold, audacious, extravagant request, spoken through the vulnerability of the intoxicated girl in pyjamas. Not demanding, but confident. Not self-centred, but expectant that she would receive that which she asked for.

I just want to be blessed.

What might blessing look like, for us? For this person, it was about running to God’s table, hearing the story of divine love, receiving solid touch and whispered blessing. It was about standing before God, stripped to the simplicity of her pyjamas and slippers, and hearing her name spoken in prayer. It was about leaving in exuberance, filled with joy.

Her expectant hope and vulnerable approach seems to be the stuff of Epiphany. In Epiphany we celebrate the revelation of God’s love to all people. The magi were not Jews. They came from foreign lands, and their entrance onto the Nativity scene is a reminder of a divine love that is offered not just to an elite, select group, but to every person, regardless of their nationality, gender, sexuality or social status.

The prophet Jeremiah talks about God’s people being “gathered from the farthest parts of the earth” (Jer 31:8). Expectant hope, vulnerable approach, courageous humility: these are attitudes for the furthest corners of life. This is the stuff of Epiphany.

At my lowest, at my most distant, at my most vulnerable I hope I will remember the confident approach of my parishioner on Christmas Eve. And I hope she remembers something of it too. Perhaps her memory is hazy. Perhaps she now feels ashamed, or embarrassed. She needn’t. She modelled to all of us who were there that night what it means to run joyfully into God’s arms, stripped of everything that might otherwise keep us away. That night; however momentarily, however impulsively; she was blessed, and she came home.

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All travelling safely home: A meditation for Epiphany

On January 6th, we reach the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and the Christian calendar celebrates The Feast of the Epiphany: the arrival of the three wise men in Bethlehem, bringing gifts for the promised Jewish saviour. 

But these men were not Jews. They came from foreign lands, and their entrance onto the Nativity scene is a reminder of a divine love that is offered not just to an elite, select group, but to every person, regardless of their nationality, gender, sexuality or social status.

The prophet Jeremiah talks about God’s people being “gathered from the farthest parts of the earth” (Jer 31:8). I have tried to write this meditation from a “farthest corner” of my own – the deflated sense of normality that I return to after our Christmas celebrations, in what ought to be one of the most joyous times of the Christian year. Perhaps in the relative stillness of “normality”, away from the distractions of Christmas, we might receive again the real gift of Christmas: the love, acceptance and adventure of a life with God.

As ever, use this as it is helpful, and ignore it as it is not. 


On the thirteenth day of Christmas
The tree is well away
The house is hauntingly empty 
And the wind seems so much colder.

January’s darkness is not like December’s:
Pregnant with anticipation
As light and warmth swell
And holiday loiters promisingly on the horizon.

January’s darkness is bleak:
The embers of Christmas grow dim
And we notice (as if for the first time)
The gloomy days filled with worry and bustle.

But on the dark chill of Christmas’s thirteenth day
A band of angels gathers
As a day is just yet dawning
And a quiet herald whispers poems of hope.

In our darkest, furthest corners
Something in our souls is stirred.
A hand reaches in, to lead us from our gloom
As December’s embers flame again.

Star is swallowed by brilliant sunrise, and
Rising, we leave our emptiness behind
Drawn by Epiphany’s brightest light
To join a company of kindly strangers

All travelling safely 
Home.

Arise, shine; for your light has come
and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
Isaiah 60:1

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Sunrise over Lake Galilee