The various members working within the Chaplaincy Centre at McMaster each take turns hosting our various ecumenical services. Since I got out of having to lead any last year due to my Entumouring, I took the first slot for this academic year: Advent.

I belaboured to the students who did come—all of whom were participating in the service itself—how I wish more students, faculty, staff, anyone with a pulse had also joined. I regret that. Our folks are Good Folks and I shouldn’t fall prey to the ol’ trap of the devil.¹ Obviously part of my frustration was that I was hoping to have an audience with anyone who wasn’t already convinced about what we’re doing in the chaplaincy, about why we do any of what we do, etc. But part of it was being overjoyed at getting to say something decidedly Christian, and emphatically, which is not always a part of this job, to folks who might not already have bought into the whole Jesus schtick. It’s a good schtick. I’ve kinda based my whole career around it despite everything else happening with the church and Christianity around the world.

Anyway, I wrote a reflection for the Advent service, which (as I say) is a sort of neutron-star-version of what we spend a month doing in the wider church. And my hopping-on point is Malcolm Guite’s poem “Everything Holds Together”, which he wrote just over a decade ago reflecting on the text of Colossians 1.² Colossians is probably my second or third most favourite New Testament text, and it doesn’t receive any attention during Advent.³

Ecumenical Advent Service
Reading and Closing Reflection
December 3, 2025

Malcom Guite, “Everything Holds Together”

Everything holds together, everything,
From stars that pierce the dark like living sparks,
To secret seeds that open every spring,
From spanning galaxies to spinning quarks,
Everything holds together and coheres,
Unfolding from the center whence it came.
And now that hidden heart of things appears,
The first-born of creation takes a name.
 
And shall I see the one through whom I am?
Shall I behold the one for whom I’m made,
The light in light, the flame within the flame,
Eikon tou theou, image of my God?
He comes, a little child, to bless my sight,
That I might come to him for life and light.

As we’ve listened, sung, and reflected in this service this afternoon about the themes of Advent—when normally in any Christian church you’d have four weeks to dwell on this mystery—we barely have time for the complexities of this season to wash over us. And whether you’re part of a community of people who worship every week, or you’re maybe more on the edges, or even if you’re just curious about this whole “God” thing—I’m grateful you’ve joined me here by the candle light today.

I read this poem by Malcolm Guite because I feel like it encapsulates all four weeks into one moment: the moment where the flame is lit and shows forth its brightness. It’s not a torch held aloft by a conquering king, or a prime minister, or a CEO, or a professor. It’s a dim spark clutched by the hand of a baby. The power that created a universe hidden in the meekness and vulnerability of someone’s kid. And yet, this kid would turn the world on its head, demonstrating how brightly God’s light shines through the hope of a better way of living; acts of peace that knock down the walls that divide us; bursts of joy that reveal our true selves buried beneath our masks; and most of all, the self-giving, self-sacrificing love that bonds us to one another, and to the God who created us.

In this season of darkness, I want to remind you that the point of witnessing to a bright light shining into our world is not so that we would stare directly into that light, blinding ourselves. We stare into lights like moths flying into bug zappers more than we would like to admit. We are awash in spotlights that demand our attention to things, to stuff that doesn’t matter, to ways of living that aren’t fulfilling.

The point of witnessing to a bright light shining in our world is that this light illuminates everything around us. It shows us what is real and what is fake. It reveals our wrinkles, our faults. But it also casts a halo around the good in the world—the people who help, who love. The trees and waterfalls that make us look up from our phones. The food that makes us gasp in surprise. The joke with a friend that makes us pee our pants in laughter.

The child born in Bethlehem comes to bless our sight—to shine a light in order that we might see others better than we see ourselves, to see everything around us the way God does. And this blessing is a promise, not an accident—we heard it in the readings from Isaiah, especially. “The glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.” Of course, back then the people were expecting a king in a crown to lead an army into battle, and what they got was a baby in a pile of hay, sharing space with livestock.

As the days continue to shrink, and the nights grow longer, may you nevertheless see what surrounds you by the light of Christ. May you revel in the wonder that we can gather and reflect and sing at all—only as gifts from the one who created us, who wishes to draw us near once again, and does so according to his promises. May we live not in fear of what might hide in the dark, but in joy that all shadows will one day be erased—and may we be courageous enough to bring our own lamps on this journey.

Amen.

1. C.S. Lewis was wrong…the devil’s greatest trick wasn’t convincing people he didn’t exist, but implanting in the first Church Growth Protestant that butts in seats is the only good indicator of “ministry” “happening”. ↩︎
2. You should click that link to hear him read it. ↩︎
3. I know it appears in the Revised Common Lectionary for Christ the King and Christmas 1 in Year C, but I still feel like it’s more Adventy. ↩︎