In the first of her meditations for Advent, Leonie Caldecott reflects that what we are stumbling towards in the darkest moment of the year is something worth making an effort for: a God who lives in every nerve and sinew of our human condition

This year, Christmas feels a long way from the starry-eyed expectations of childhood. The upheavals of the pandemic, the sting of personal loss; the beleaguered balance in which the planet hangs. A creeping desertification seems to wrap its cold fingers around the season. The more the world cranks up its campaign for a materially perfect Christmas, the more the disjunct intensifies.