When grace rides in new guises

I’ve only done it once. Ridden in a one horse open sleigh I mean.

There’s something surprisingly earthy about it: the sounds of the horse’s snorting; the bumping and jingling of the sleigh and its reins; the shudder, the squelch, and the jerk as the runners slide over rocky areas or move from hard snow into mud–coloured mush.

But there’s also something rather delightful about wrapping yourself up tightly against the cold and watching your breath make clouds in the crisp air as you move over the snow in a mode of transportation immortalised in song.

Stepping down from the sleigh into the snow and entering a wooden lodge to finish the journey with a steaming hot mug of spicy mulled wine (Glühwein) seems the perfect ending to a magical adventure.

Earlier that day I had experienced another magical moment, standing on the snowy streets of Innsbruck, gazing up over the amazing “Golden Roof” building toward the towering white peaks of the Austrian Alps behind. Whether it was those mountains, leaning in around us like nothing I’d ever seen before or the cold air whistling in and out of my lungs — it took my breath away.

There’s something unique about winter time in a cold climate. The night seems somehow darker, quieter, more all–pervasive, highlighting the bright twinkling of the inevitable Christmas lights.

Somehow the chill in the air seems to slow things down. The snow and ice add to the sensation that every moment is slowed and captured, like one of those exquisite ornaments made of some item entrapped in crystal.

Just as water freezes in the cold, there is a sense that time itself might be frozen ... waiting for something ...

On this particular occasion in Innsbruck my wife and I looked around, entranced not only by the snow covered city scene, but also by the frozen beauty manifested in the window of the Swarovski crystal shop.

As we stood there taking in the cold winter atmosphere, the low–level grumble of tourists and city life was suddenly broken by a loud clanging of bells. As we turned round, we were greeted by the sight of one of those mini road train things, like the ones constantly circling Darling Harbour.

But this train, rather than spruiking for tourist passengers was carrying an unexpected guest: old Saint Nicholas himself, obviously eschewing more primitive transportation, was being driven around the town, waving merrily to all.

A less than numinous moment maybe, but nonetheless one full of good cheer.

Looking back, I wonder if that almost holy, frozen–in–time sensation is why even we antipodeans in our land of sun–drenched Christmastime often cast our celebrations in terms of northern hemisphere imagery.

Like watchful shepherds or Good King Wenceslas, we look out in our imaginations onto a magically frozen scene, waiting ... and we remember a time when the world itself was waiting, in oppression and need, for an in–breaking, an irruption of God’s grace in the person of Jesus, the boy king born in Bethlehem.

For me, the season of Advent at its best is an opportunity to return to that magical sense of cold–stopped time, of a world waiting for some exceptional event to unfold.

And of course one part of that sense of anticipation finds its fulfilment in the familiar, welcome celebrations of Incarnation.

But another part of me continues to wait day by day for the unexpected — the moments when grace rides into our world in new guises, prompting laughter, joy and expectation.

For the world still lies in its hopes and fears — dark, dreamless streets waiting to be touched by the sparkling of lights.

And my sense is that God still waits with us in the crisp, cold moments of eternity, preparing light touches of grace.

Lindsay Cullen