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Two weeks. Yes, that’s right. In just two weeks we will be on the cusp of the Christmas holidays. I wonder what you will do in those days, particularly the ones immediately after Christmas. That glorious time when nobody really knows what day of the week it is, whether the shops are open, or if the bins are being collected. If your Christmas holidays are anything like mine, they involve a fair amount of travelling. For some, that travelling begins as soon as term ends, racing out of school to disappear somewhere exciting. For others – like me – the travelling happens after Christmas, a yearly road trip, to grandparents, to greatgrandparents, to aunts, uncles, in laws: a type of Christmas pilgrimage. Christmas is full of travelling. Today’s reading sees Mary and Joseph make their journey to Bethlehem; soon after, the shepherds hurry to see the good news, the magi follow a star to distant lands, and then Mary and Joseph flee to Egypt in a far more anxious journey. Even our hymn today concerns people travelling. “Lo from the North they come; from east and west and south.” All this talk of journeys has made me think about travelling and its place in our lives and our faith. This week I have watched Strictly Come Dancing and Race Across the World. One has no phones, no flights, and a temporary pause to the race because of civil unrest in Guatemala; the other is full of glitter and spray tan and a weekend in Blackpool; both programmes explore how their contestants are “on a journey”. And this is nothing new. From the Wizard of Oz, to Forest Gump, from Moana to the Mandalorian, our culture is full of quests and pilgrimages. Some claim the greatest of these is the hobbits’ trek from the safety of the Shire, across Middle Earth towards the dangers of Mordor. However, over 1,000 pages of reading, or more than 10 hours of film isn’t for everyone: Lord of the Rings? More like Bored of the Rings? These films drag on and on – why can’t those hobbits just get where they’re going? That review says something true about many of us: we are impatient travellers. We want to arrive. We want to get there. Parents of young children know this well: five minutes into any car journey will come the inevitable: “How much longer?” “Are we nearly there yet?” As parents of such children, and with them in the car with us, it is likely that we will have exactly the same attitude: let’s get this over with as soon as possible. Cancelled flights, lost luggage, or overcrowded trains: most journeys and forms of transport involve frustration, impatience, discomfort and maybe even a little bit of rage. I like travel to be planned and predictable. I never did the student inter railing thing yet I do appreciate the freedom of unhurried journeys. When you are not rushing to arrive, or feeling cross about your arrangements, you can notice the scenery, enjoy the journey, even think. My favourite journeys are long car journeys, but with my husband, and without the small children. On such journeys, we talk, we reflect, we plan. On those occasions, I really don’t mind the traffic. Not all journeys involve transport. At this point of the year, as we cling on until the next end of term, we are on our slow, yearly trek through the academic calendar. We live by assignments, deadlines, submission dates, exams. But when people leave school, they often say the same thing — “It went so fast. I wish I’d appreciated it more at the time. ” Yes, being so destination-focused can mean missing what’s happening on the road itself. Yet there is a far greater risk: that the hassles and stresses of travel make us avoid journeys altogether. Why bother when it’s so hard? However, the world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page. These words, attributed to St Augustine, have been borrowed by travel companies to sell holidays: to encourage people to visit unknown places and embrace the world beyond their doorstep. Yet I cannot believe that Augustine is really talking about all-inclusive package holidays or gap years. This great thinker and church Father is encouraging intellectual and spiritual exploration, rather than inter-railing and back-packing. Perhaps, in line with Augustine’s encouragement, we should be delighting in all travel and exploration, especially in our thinking, and never seek instant, quick, or easy answers. We don’t have to and we certainly shouldn’t stay fixed in one place or perspective. After all, that is what Advent, beginning this weekend, invites us to do: it is not simply about counting down the days until Christmas, but about taking the journey slowly, learning to wait, to notice and to prepare for what lies ahead. Wherever you are going in the next few weeks, godspeed to you and please do travel safely. When you’re sat in a departure lounge and the flight is delayed, or you’re on your way to Granny’s house and the traffic is bad, or, because it’s one of those days after Christmas and nothing works properly, you find that you are on some god-forsaken rail replacement bus, by all means look forward to arriving at your destination but have it mind to enjoy the journey time and the travelling as much as the arrival. Journeys have to be taken, and should be taken, but they should be enjoyed, not just endured. The Christian story, especially at Advent and Christmas, reminds us that all journeys, including and especially the unexpected and the transformational, should be celebrated. In the words of today’s hymn: Shout as you journey home; Songs be in every mouth.  You don’t always need to know where you’re going, or indeed how you are going to get there. Treating all journeys, the actual, the intellectual and the spiritual, with this mindset, might leave us less frustrated by delays, changes, or bumps in the road and more open simply to seeing where the road takes us. Like Mary and Joseph, we might travel with uncertainty, and face difficulties, but we should travel with faith. Mary and Joseph survived without googlemaps: their journey certainly didn’t turn out as anticipated. In fact, their arrival in Bethlehem was only the start of a much greater journey, for them and for us.

This morning, I’d like to tell you about six words that changed my life. Before I start, I realized after I’d written this, that it’s a moment that’s lived in my head, for 20 years, which I’ve never shared with anyone – but I share it with you, now. Once upon a time, I lived and worked in London. I commuted each day on the Central Line: that flat-lining red on the underground map that pierces the city’s smokey heart before bouncing a guilty getaway towards Essex. I’d survive my cramped and sweaty tube journeys with all the usual tricks: reading a book with my face in someone’s armpit; guessing what kind of a day the person next to me had, based on the state of their work clothes; and challenging myself, on the way home, to a game of nap-gamble: could I sleep for exactly long enough that I’d wake up in time not to miss my stop? It was high-stakes: my stop, Ealing Broadway, was the end of the line: missing it meant waking in a cold sweat to find that the train was already taking me back to work. One such ordinary journey home took place in the hot heights of Summer. I’d spent a very sweaty 45 minutes trying to read my book whilst squished unthinkably close to a man whose shirt – creased, untucked, and flecked with specks of broccoli and chocolate pot pudding – told of a particularly unfortunate day at the office canteen. At Ealing Broadway, the train expunged us all – apart from that day’s nap-gamble losers – and I emerged into the night with hundreds of others. Then my day changed. Flooding through the ticket barriers, I saw a man at the entrance to the station. He stood out immediately because he was boldly facing commuter deluge head on, like a fish swimming up-river. He was evidently hungry, homeless and begging for small change. I’d always been taught that the best way to help the homeless was not to give money directly, but to give to relevant charities – so I just looked at the man, slightly sheepishly, and said “sorry mate”. In a sudden, quiet, gently smiling blaze, his eyes fixed on mine as he said those six words : “At least you spoke to me.” At those words, something shifted in my head; I glimpsed in a flash how it might feel to be rejected by society; to be in the country’s busiest, most iconic city, yet washed over by a wave of a thousand commuters who look right past you. “At least you spoke to me”. Now I need to be clear here: I was a young adult, in my twenties, and I’m not suggesting you start speaking to strangers on the street: as young people, you should actively avoid doing this. But there’s a powerful principle here: to reach out to the vulnerable; to validate those on the edge; to show compassion to those others overlook – this you can do in all sorts of ways. Jesus was the master of it. Did you spot the odd details in our reading, as he meets the woman at the well? Collecting water in the Middle East 2000 years ago was done by women – but usually early in the morning (before it got too hot) and usually in groups, because it was a social high point of the day. But this woman is there at noon – blazing heat o’clock – and she’s alone. Why? If we read on, we’d find out: she’s an outcast, shunned by her community: “cancelled”, we might say today. Worse, she’s from a community that itself was excluded: Jesus’ community and this woman’s community were arch enemies. This conversation should never have happened. And yet here’s Jesus, reaching out to this outcast woman with six words of his own – “ Will you give me a drink?” The conversation changed her life. It’s not a one-off. We don’t have time for the full stories of Jesus reaching out to Zaccheus – the hated tax collector who Jesus went to tea with; or the countless times Jesus healed those whose medical conditions tragically made them outcasts; or the time a shunned woman crashed a party to pour perfume on Jesus’ feet, to be rebuked by the hosts, but welcomed by Jesus. Jesus never waited for any of them to be socially acceptable enough, or cool enough, or clever enough, or talented enough... Reaching out to the lost, the unseen, the excluded, exactly as they were, was Jesus’ whole mission, right up to what happened on the Cross. Romans 6:8: “For God showed his love for us in this: whilst we were still sinners, Christ died for us”; or 1 John 4:10: “This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us.” Jesus’ loving kindness is grace : not kindness that needs to be earned or qualified for; not “kindness because” – but “kindness anyway”. So what about you, today? You can choose your point of reflection – from Jesus’ loving grace in this Bible reading, to the moments in our friendship groups where we really annoy each other and it might be time for a bit of “kindness anyway”. Some of you might head for a lifetime of leadership and service where your career sees you reach across boundaries to care for the excluded who society chooses not to see and finds it hard to love. I hope so. But there’s something you can do today , too; and at the very least it will show you that I’ve been listening in recent assemblies. What would happen to our school if we took the “quiet leadership” that Rosie spoke of on Trafalgar Day, or the “bold compassion” that Ben spoke to us of on Wednesday, and multiplied them by the accumulation of marginal gains that Dr Clark endorsed week before? What would our doorways and corridors, our classrooms and study spaces, our changing rooms and practice rooms and our pitches and our palace, be like, if adorned with a thousand tiny daily expressions of “kindness anyway”? A thousand “at least you spoke to me” moments? That’s just one or two each, by the way. I see so much of this here already – but what if we all did it? What would happen then?  Well: let’s see, shall we? Because let me remind you where I started: I didn’t tell you, grandly and nobly, as I emerged from that stuffy train dabbing the sweat from my forehead, that I changed a man’s life at Ealing Broadway that day. No: I told you that he changed mine.