There is something about physical pain that strips away illusion with ruthless kindness. It does not ask our permission. It does not consult our theology. It simply arrives, settles into the body, and tells the truth.   For a long while now I have lived with a knee that has steadily refused to cooperate with my plans. There has been the slow narrowing of movement, the quiet calculations before stairs, the careful choreography of getting in and out of cars. Now the consultant has spoken plainly and a date is set for a total knee replacement. The body has spoken, and I am listening.   Pain has a way of bringing clarity, and one of the things it has clarified for me is how uneasy I have become with what might be called the modern cult of the present moment. We are urged, almost relentlessly, to remain in the now. We are told that the past is illusion, that the future is illusion, that suffering dissolves if only we can anchor ourselves fully in the present. We are encouraged to release our stories, transcend our wounds, and rise above the messy terrain of human experience.

Last year a number of our churches celebrated receiving their  bronze and silver eco awards. Others achieved or are working towards gold. There are forms to complete, targets to meet, audits to pass. Lightbulbs changed, insulation fitted, recycling carefully sorted.

This morning the light felt different; imperceptibly so, just softer. As though the day had exhaled. The birds began earlier than they have in weeks, and when I stepped outside with my first cup of tea there was that faint, almost scent of damp earth warming. Yes, winter is still in the air, the trees still bare, and yet something underneath it all has begun to stir.

I spent my day off knitting. Properly knitting. The sort of knitting where the kettle only gets boiled when you realise it’s gone cold again, and daylight quietly slips across the room without asking permission. And it struck me that this would be the perfect place to reflect on how our hobbies can become gateways into that elusive and deeply nourishing flow state - that place where we are fully, gently, gloriously present.

Today we start with a question. It’s something I have pondered for years, without ever quite arriving at an answer. Memory, of course, is a great gift,  we simply could not exist without it. But nostalgia is something else entirely.

I have spent much of my life attentive to the inner life and as part of this have studied many different spiritualities in order to discern. That is, to notice where spiritual paths merge, where they diverge, and where something that looks like light may, in fact, be driven by fear.

There is a particular kind of hush that settles at midnight on Christmas Eve. The world feels thinner then, as though it is holding its breath. And when the white candle is lit, the Christ candle, something stirs deep within us. A tingle, perhaps a quiet joy and even a sense that we are standing on holy ground. This is the heart of Christmas: Immanuel - God with us. God is not far away, and certainly not watching from a safe distance; instead God chooses closeness by stepping fully into the mess and beauty of human life. At midnight we proclaim something astonishing: that the Holy One, rather than hovering above the world, enters into it. That the Light is not afraid of the dark and that God is born into our lives. And yet, if we are honest, there is a danger hidden even within this beautiful celebration; once the candles are extinguished, the decorations packed away and ordinary life resumes. We can so easily slip, almost unconsciously, into believing that Christmas was a moment rather than a truth. That God was with us then, but now we must manage on our own again.

The winter solstice arrives quietly. There is no sudden blaze of light, no dramatic reversal of fortune. The longest night does not end with a trumpet call or a visible shift in the sky. And yet  something has turned. The direction has changed and the light has begun its slow, faithful return.

At this time of year, it can feel as though Christmas is everywhere and nowhere all at once.The lights are up. The shops are full. The calendar fills quickly. Yet so often the story at the heart of Christmas — the one about light entering darkness, hope arriving quietly, love choosing vulnerability — feels strangely absent from the public square.

Lately, many of us are sensing the world differently. The land feels more alive, the night more spacious and the wind more articulate. Even time itself seems to have slowed just enough for us to notice that we are not standing alone in the present moment, but at the meeting place of many moments at once.

There is a particular quality to the darkness at this time of year.It is not the darkness of despair, nor the empty dark of absence.It is the deep, gestational darkness - the kind a seed knows when it lies held in the earth, or a child knows in the quiet mystery of the womb.

At this time of year, when I hear the word Sabbath, my mind doesn’t go to rules or obligations. It goes to warmth.