Preferring Nothing to Christ

I have been giving some thought to matters liturgical over the past few months. Six months ago I began re-reading a very insightful book entitled Mysticism and Narcissism, by Sr Kathleen Lyons. She entered Religious Life in 1945 and the book is her PhD thesis which she completed in 2015. Amongst other things, it provides a wonderful chronicle of the Church pre and post Vatican II and it is all seen through the lens of Religious Life.

Of late I have become a follower of footnotes and this book gave me many opportunities to delve deeper. (There is a special kind of thrill for me when I discover that we actually hold the Journal that is being cited or that Google will allow me to read online a chapter from a book that gets several mentions in the text.) So my delving deeper lead to read around modernism, ressourcement, aggiornamento, Sacrosanctum Concilium and Lumen Gentium. I started looking for patterns and common themes.

I realised pretty quickly that I am a thoroughly Vatican II catholic in terms of my experience of attending Mass. I simply have no memory of pre-conciliar liturgy. I grew up in the North East of England and looking back I can see that although the Mass was in English, much of the pre-conciliar mindset took a long while to shift. So despite Vatican II’s particular teaching on the centrality of the Eucharist, devotions were alive and well in my parish of the Holy Rosary in Sunderland. At the risk of sounding like St Paul, I can tell you that I have made the Nine First Fridays twice, the First Five Saturdays of Our Lady of Fatima also twice and attended the Novena to Our Lady of Perpetual Succour countless times. I have also contributed to Spiritual Bouquets, crowned Our Lady with roses as May Queen and practised hymns for a whole week to welcome Mother Teresa to my primary school.

I have spent a good deal of time these past months revisiting the things that nourished my faith journey. I realise that each element plays its part on my journey. The heavy devotional diet was my earnest search for mystery. And yet alongside that something new and very exciting was taking shape. Each week at school one of my teachers would produce a guitar and teach us a new hymn. The first hymn that I remember learning was ‘Colours of Day’. There was something about the accessibility of the words and the tune that allowed my seven year old self to really hear the Gospel. And looking at the words today, there is nothing that I have needed to ‘unlearn’ as an adult. ( And this for me is always a test of the soundness of the implicit theology.)

It’s worth quoting in full:

Colours of day dawn into the mind, 
The sun has come up, the night is behind, 
Go down in the city, into the street, 
And let’s give the message to the people we meet.

Chorus

So light up the fire and let the flame burn,
Open the door, let Jesus return, 
Take seeds of His Spirit, let the fruit grow, 
Tell the people of Jesus, let His love show.

Go through the park, on into the town, 
The sun still shines on, it never goes down, 
The Light of the world is risen again, 
The people of darkness are needing a friend.

Open your eyes, look into the skies, 
The darkness has gone, the Son came to die, 
The evening draws on, the sun disappears, 
But Jesus is living, His Spirit is near.

There is something honest and true about the simplicity of these words. They manage to communicate the Paschal Mystery, the Incarnation, the Mission of the Church.

Since becoming a regular user of Twitter I have exposed myself to many opinions and comments that are pretty much outside of my comfort zone in terms of theology and understanding of the church. There seems to be a kind of shorthand for all that is wrong with the post-conciliar church: ‘It’s all felt banners and singing Kumbaya.’ For some this will highlight a perceived lack of sophistication, for others it will be just what they needed at that stage in their life, or still need today.

For the past 25 years I have had a very sober diet of monastic hymnody. When you sing five times a day, every day, the words of hymns gradually become a part of your ‘inner theological vocabulary’. I am very much aware that the part of me that responds to poetry of these hymns was in some sense kindled on the day that I learnt Colours of Day. It was then that I was drawn into the mystery that ‘Jesus is living, His Spirit is near’. And every day since then I am called to make this a reality.

Sr Miriam

I have recently been re-visiting some of the documents of Vatican II. I have been focusing on Sacrosanctum Concilium and finding articles that really tease out the ecclesiological underpinnings of this document. It is easy to forget how ground-breaking this document was. In short, Sacrosanctum Concilium calls us to return to the sources (resourcement); it call us to revisit our baptismal promises and very specifically the Anointing with Chrism.

God the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ has freed you from sin, given you a new birth by water and the Holy Spirit and welcomed you into his holy people. As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet, and King, so may you live always as a member of his body, sharing everlasting life.

The whole of our Christian Life can be summed up in our call to image Christ as Priest, Prophet and King. It was this three-fold invitation which came to mind for me when I heard of Jean Vanier’s death. I have read many tributes to him and through them all I see a man who lived out his baptismal call with every fibre of his being.

PRIEST

Of huge significance for me is the fact that Jean Vanier wasn’t a priest or a member of a religious order. He didn’t use the well-worn paths of the institutional church to respond to the needs that he saw. In many ways he was operating on the fringes. And yet, there is a sense in which his whole life was Priestly. There are many ways of understanding Priesthood and since Vatican II we have been encouraged to explore the Priesthood of all believers. If you were to ask someone ‘What is a Priest?’ I am fairly sure that a first response might talk of the priest’s role in presiding at the liturgy. L’Arche is well-known for its simple rituals of sharing meals, celebrating important community events, and most especially of foot-washing. Jean Vanier founded a community that developed its own rituals and in this sense I think that we can say that we was a ‘presider’. He presided over the liturgy of people’s broken lives.

Another role which a priests fulfills is ‘one who intercedes for his people’. Jean Vanier’s intercession took many forms. He quietly made visible the lives of the invisible. He was their advocate.  In each small act he made God’s love incarnate.

PROPHET

I have always been helped by an understanding of obedience that I have heard expressed in Jesuit Spirituality: obedience is to want what God wants. Jean Vanier certainly embodied this. A prophet wants what God’s wants and takes upon himself or herself the role of communicating this to the world. The prophet’s role is to help others see the world as God sees it. In biblical terms this has involved speaking and sometimes acting symbolically. In his very being Jean Vanier has ‘spoken’ the values of the kingdom. His gentle presence and child-like simplicity are a powerful message to a broken world. He has also written extensively and in his work we hear the prophetic voice of one who invites us to see our own brokenness and the brokenness of others as BEAUTY. This is a strong prophetic message for our world. I have heard Jean Vanier speak of the spirituality of L’Arche as one of touch. This too is a prophetic message for our world. The pace of technological change is so fast nowadays, we click buttons and goods are deliver to our doors, we click buttons and send messages. It is possible to cut out a good deal of human contact for the sake of efficiency. We have less contact with each other and perhaps less opportunities for physical touch.

KING

Perhaps Kingship is the hardest of the three-fold call for us to grasp. Our direct experience of monarchy will vary so much depending on the country in which we live, our upbringing and perhaps our sense of history. My starting place is the Biblical notion of Kingship. In Ancient Israel the King had the power to shape the laws of society, he had a duty to care for the vulnerable, spoke to God on behalf of his people and he was to ensure peace in his kingdom. Jean Vanier founded a community which was based on inclusion. The ‘laws’ of L’Arche all flow from the desire to include and to build up community. Writ through Jean Vanier’s whole life is his care for the vulnerable and his desire for them to know that ‘they are beautiful.’ I am sure that all L’Arche communities have their ups and downs and ‘ensuring peace’ is unlikely to be something that is easy. By his presence Jean Vanier brought peace into a room. I have heard stories of people who didn’t even need to speak to him, just his being there resolved their hurts.

Jean Vanier has been described as a ‘giant’ in the spiritual life. From what I have read, I think he would certainly have drawn back from this description. And yet, his persona is certainly large for me personally. His life and work speak to me of someone who responded wholeheartedly to his baptismal call. And this response gives me hope too.

Whatever we may understand about life after death, can be sure that Jean Vanier now takes his place among priests, prophets and kings. He has trodden a path that we all can follow.

Sr Miriam McNulty

Image used by kind permission of Latvian Artist, Arta Skuja

As we begin the season of Advent, the Church offers us a range of images to help us prepare for the birth of Christ. The Gospel text for the First Sunday of Advent is from Luke’s Gospel, 21:25-28, 34-36. It’s a text that can at first sight raise more questions than it answers. The passage uses apocalyptic language and imagery which isn’t always easy to decipher. When I come across a Gospel text that is difficult to understand, I remember the advice of a friend who when preparing to preach on the Gospel uses the response to the Responsorial Psalm as an interpretive key. This Sunday the response is:

To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul.

This is a very helpful starting point as it sets the scene as one of relationship, relationship with the God of the Covenant. Our invitation to relationship began at Baptism, an invitation to find in Christ our well-being, our flourishing and our ultimate fulfillment. It is through this lens that we can view the challenging words of the Gospel.

The opening sentence is striking:

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘There will be signs in the sun and the moon and the stars; on earth nations in agony, bewildered by the clamour of the ocean and its waves; men dying of fear as they await what menaces the world, for the powers of heaven will be shaken.

It’s easy to read this as a prediction of disaster and guide to all that is wrong in our world. St Luke is writing for an audience who were actually going to experience a disaster- the destruction of the Temple. Our own hearing of these words is bound to be different and the next sentence of the text helps to broaden our focus:

And then you will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great Glory. When these things begin to take place, stand erect, hold your heads high, because your liberation is near at hand.

The coming of the Son of Man is good news for us and not something to be feared. We don’t need to cower, we are invited to stand erect and hold our heads high. If we go back to the response to the Psalm: To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul, there is a similar sense of being in a secure relationship with God. The coming of the Son of Man need not be a time of terror but rather a revealing of the world as God sees it.

Professor Tom O’Loughlin expresses something of this in his Lectionary resource book for Advent and Christmas:

At The End we must not imagine a giant Chasm, but the figure of the Logos, who shares our human nature, with all approaching him as their prophet, priest and king. Christ as King stands at the end of time gathering all the fragments of each of our lives, and of the life of the cosmos, and refashioning that existence so that nothing is lost.

So, at The End, we are drawn to the One who marked us as his own at the moment of our baptism. The One who invited us to pattern our lives on his, to live each day as prophet, priest and king. All the good we have ever done will be gathered together.

The End is the gathering of all the little pieces of our scattered and fragmented lives, all our joys, all our collaborations with the grace of God, all the goodness we have sought to create, the peace we have fostered, the reconciliation we have sought, the acts of kindness and mercy, the attempts to witness to truth in the face of falsehood or injustice. All these scattered actions are gathered into new existence that Christ can offer to the Father in the Spirit.

These words give me great hope and point me to a possible Advent practice. Perhaps my time this Advent might be spent identifying those ‘fragments’ and making my collaboration with the grace of God more conscious. I might also take the time to be grateful for the small kindnesses that I see around me.

However we spend Advent, the message of the last two verses of the Gospel text is clear:  ‘stay awake’.

Stay awake, praying at all times for the strength to survive all that is going to happen, and to stand with confidence before the Son of Man.

Staying awake requires patience and lots of it. We are unlikely to encounter anything spectacular this Advent and probably wont be involved in a spectacular battle. But what we can count on is ‘the steady tread, of prayer and hope and scripture and sacrament and witness, day by day and week by week.’ (Tom Wright: Luke for Everyone)

Sr Miriam

Tom O’Loughlin: Liturgical Resources for Advent and Christmastide

Above is the Canticle that we use for Vespers of the Transfiguration. It cleverly blends together a text from the New Testament and a text from the Old Testament. These texts are woven together seamlessly, with each shedding light on the other.

The composite text captures something of the feast of the Transfiguration. We move from the Incarnation to the God of all creation. It is almost as if we see one super-imposed upon the other. In the Gospel accounts of the Transfiguration there is a mingling of earth and heaven, old and new, prophet and disciple.  God’s faithfulness runs as a thread through the Old Testament and here on Mt Tabor that faithfulness is manifested in the transfigured Christ.

That this powerful experience takes place on a mountain should perhaps come as no surprise to the disciples. Indeed, from the beginning of history human beings have been aware of what we can call the existence of a ‘spiritual landscape’. Most fundamentally, God is ‘up’ and the evil one is ‘down’. God or the gods live on mountains and the evil one lives somewhere down in the depths of the earth. Human beings have always sought ways of connecting with the deity, of being relationship with the deity. Our ancestors developed ritual behaviours which were designed either to appease the wrath of the deity or to procure favour. Certain places became significant as meeting places with the deity.

The account of the Transfiguration is a mysterious text and one that isn’t always easy to understand. The words of the Canticle ‘Great indeed, we confess, is the mystery of our religion’ resonate with me particularly on this feast. When we celebrate the liturgy and hear the Gospel text we are given a glimpse of glory. And like the disciples, we too must come down from the mountain. Our task now is to look for those glimpses of glory wherever we are. And the more ordinary the place we find ourselves in the better.

Poet, Malcolm Guite, captures the mystery at the heart of the feast.

For that one moment, ‘in and out of time’,
On that one mountain where all moments meet,
The daily veil that covers the sublime
In darkling glass fell dazzled at his feet.
There were no angels full of eyes and wings
Just living glory full of truth and grace.
The Love that dances at the heart of things
Shone out upon us from a human face
And to that light the light in us leaped up,
We felt it quicken somewhere deep within,
A sudden blaze of long-extinguished hope
Trembled and tingled through the tender skin.
Nor can this this blackened sky, this darkened scar
Eclipse that glimpse of how things really are.

On July 29th the Church keeps the Memoria of Martha, Mary and Lazarus. As it is a Sunday today, so they will more than likely go unmentioned. It’s a day that holds special significance for Benedictines. There are two collects given for Mass in a supplementary book which is used for all things Benedictine.

Heavenly Father,
your Son was received
as an honoured and welcomed guest
in the home of Bethany,
keep us close to the Master
in our work and prayer,
that, blameless in his sight,
he may welcome us into his kingdom.

Heavenly Father,
your Son called Lazarus from the grave
and sat at table in the house of Bethany.
May we serve him faithfully in our brethren
and with Mary ponder and feed upon his word.

Between these two collects pretty much all the distinctive elements of Benedictine life are covered. Two phrases stand out for me: ‘honoured and welcomed’ and ‘ponder and feed’. If you have read anything about Benedictine Spirituality you will have a sense of the place which hospitality holds. I was struck today that it is more than just welcoming, it is showing a very particular kind of care, a care that reverences Christ in anyone who crosses the threshold. Ideally we take this attitude with us when we leave the monastery. So this honouring and welcoming can take place wherever we are: in the queue in the supermarket, waiting for the lift, crossing the road. The list is endless.

In the second collect I was struck by the coupling of ponder and feed. We are familiar with the idea of pondering on God’s Word, perhaps a little less so with the image of feeding on the Word. St Bernard explores this image in an Advent sermon:

Keep the word of God in the same way as you would preserve bodily food. For the word of God is a living bread and food for the mind. So long as earthly food is stored in a box it can be stolen or nibbled by mice or it can go bad if it is left too long. But if you eat the food you don’t have to worry about any of these.

This is the way to preserve God’s word; Blessed are they who keep it (Lk 11:28) Let it pass into the innards of your soul, then let it make its way into your feelings and into your behaviour. Eat well and your soul will delight in the abundance. Do not forget to eat your bread, lest your heart dry up, but let your soul be filled as with a banquet (Ps 101:5, Ps 62:6) If you thus keep the Word of God, you can be quite sure that it will keep you.

Sometimes the bread of God’s Word can seem dry and hard, sometimes is it light and sweet. Refusing to eat is not an option.

The image of friendship presented in the texts which mention Mary, Mary and Lazarus is not saccharine but real. Thus too the daily reality of walking the monastic path. Sometimes there will be disagreements. This is brought out beautifully in an Anglican collect that I found:

God our Father,
whose Son enjoyed the love of his friends,
Mary, Mary and Lazarus,
in learning, argument and hospitality:
may we so rejoice in your love
that the world may come to know
the depths of your wisdom, the wonder of your compassion,
and your power to bring life out of death.

Sometimes arguments will be part of our path. Strong friendships can take the rough with the smooth. Martha, Mary and Lazarus incarnate for us this real friendship.

A column in the Church Times recently caught my attention:

Deliver us from the sources of the Evangelical Takeover, by Angela Tilby

I enjoy her insightful columns and almost always have my perception broadened by her writing. This column, which became the most viewed column by online subscribers, has caused quite a stir. She is looking at the Church of England’s initiative Thy Kingdom Come and raising her concerns. I really don’t have enough experience of the varied landscape of the Church of England or the initiative to be able to comment on her concerns, but what did resonate with me is her final paragraph.

The abandonment of traditional religion, with its respect for privacy and the slow nurturing of the person through unconsciously memorised texts and gentle counsel, has left a hole in the heart of society which is too deep for words.

It is the middle section of this quotation which interests me as I think that I find here a very good description of monastic life.

Visitors to a monastery are more than likely to encounter a respect for privacy, as this is written into the Rule of St Benedict. St Benedict is very clear that only those whose job it is are to approach guests.

No one is to speak or associate with guests unless he is bidden; however, if a brother meets or sees a guest, he is to greet him humbly, as we have said. He asks for a blessing and continues on his way, explaining that he is not allowed to speak with a guest.

Rule of St Benedict, Chapter 53

While this might appear a little cold, it is actually a safeguard and a wisdom. For monastics living within the enclosure a similar respect for privacy exists. Silence plays a major role in this.

Monasteries are places where the Word of God gives shape and form to all that happens during the day. Monastics gather several times a day to sing the Psalms and to listen to the Scriptures. Monasteries certainly are places of slow nurturing. Hearing the Scriptures daily is often likened to water dripping on a stone. Over time, a change occurs; a deep and lasting change of the heart. As the years pass, you find that you have indeed memorised some texts and these stay with you for the rest of your life. This is just one of the gifts that comes from trying to be faithful to the daily rhythm of prayer.

There is much about the Rule of St Benedict that speaks to me of gentle counsel. St Benedict has as a deep understanding for the weaknesses of human nature and speaks of his monastery as a ‘school of the Lord’s service’ (Prologue v. 45). While there is some debate about how we might understand the Latin schola, the image suggests to me an environment where there is the potential for counsel to be taken and life-long learning to occur.  But perhaps the verses of the Rule that speak to me most strongly of St Benedict’s attitude of gentle counsel come in vv. 46-47 of the Prologue:

In drawing up its regulations, we hope to set down nothing harsh, nothing burdensome. The good of all concerned, however, may prompt us to a little strictness in order to amend faults and to safeguard love.

Trying to force people to behave in a particular way rarely works in any walk of life. Whatever our experience of monastery life, organised religion, family life or the workplace it is worthwhile being open to those moments of gentle counsel.

https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2018/27-april/comment/columnists/angela-tilby-deliver-us-from-the-evangelical-takeover

Every so often there is an overlap between the cycle of scripture readings that we hear at our Sunday Eucharist and those that we hear at our Weekday Eucharist. During this year we hear Matthew’s Gospel at both Eucharists, though the sections chosen aren’t synchronised. The scriptural ground covered can at once feel consolingly familiar and a little disconcerting as you try to work out when you last heard the text.

Some portions of scripture have become so familiar to my ears that I almost don’t hear them. The Parable of the Sower is one such text. (We heard it on the 16th Sunday and on Wednesday and Friday of Weekday cycle of Week 16) I have to admit to a little impatience at being given an ‘explanation’ of the parable in the biblical text. By temperament I like space to wonder and time to sift through various possibilities before I come to an understanding.

Because familiarity has dulled my senses a little for this text, I find I need a little extra help to unlock the meaning. Sometimes this help comes in the form of a commentary or a piece of poetry. I’ve been greatly helped by Malcolm Guite’s book of poetry, Parable and Paradox. In his sonnet The Sower he writes these lines:

How hard to hear the things I think I know,

To peel aside the thin familiar film

That wraps and seals your secret just below

It takes time and patience for me to ‘peel aside the thin familiar film’, but when I do, it’s always worth the effort. This year I found that my thoughts stayed around just one word: ‘soil’. I took some time to consider the ‘soil’ of my life. In Benedictine monastic life there’s a stress on ‘this place, these people’. We call this stability. Some of the elements of the ‘soil of my life’ are set by my choice of monastic life and so there is s sense in which growing conditions should be good. And yet there is one significant variable and that’s my own disposition. My own disposition makes all the difference as to whether or not the seed will take root and grow. Often growth is silent, imperceptible.

As I reflected, I remember these lines from Joan Pul’s book, Every Bush is Burning :

The field in which we search is the space and time of your life and mine. And we are about the rhythm of planting and sowing, of ploughing under and of reaping. That process is sacred. The hope is always there that with the seed and and its silent growing, with the ploughing and its careful upturning, with the reaping and its multiple fruits, the treasure will slowly be revealed.

Sometimes the labour is hard and you can feel as if the rhythm of daily life takes all your energy and little progress has been made. It’s not always easy to trust that ‘treasure will slowly be revealed.’ We can sometimes go in search of the sacred as we sift through the soil of our lives and forget that that process of sifting is itself sacred.

Built into the monastic way of life there are practices and rhythms that are intended to encourage growth of all kinds. Poet and priest, Malcolm Guite, captures this beautifully in his sonnet entitled  A Sonnet St Benedict:

I’ve been trying all morning to write a post for the Feast of St Benedict. I realise that the text of the Rule of St Benedict just bristles with meaning for me and this makes it hard to know just where to start. I have narrowed myself down to just two thoughts.

The first is connected with the image above of a trellis supporting the roses. The Latin word for Rule, regula, has a range of meanings. It can be used in the sense of a basic principle or guide, it can also mean rod, bar or rail. I’d like to think that St Benedict had all of these in mind when he wrote his ‘Little Rule of Beginners.’ It’s usual for newcomers to a monastery to see the Rule of St Benedict as a list of regulations and to focus on all the things that you can’t do. I prefer to see the Rule rather as a trellis, a support to help us grow and flower.

My second thought is the title of this post ‘The Way of Life’. These words are from v.20 of the Prologue to the Rule of St Benedict. In v.14 St Benedict sets the scene:

‘Seeking his workman in a multitude of people, the Lord calls out to him and lifts his voice again: Is there anyone here who yearns for life and desires to see good days?’

The monastic path is about life in all its fullness. We are given an invitation, an invitation which is hard to refuse. We are not promised that it will be easy, but we are promised that it will bring life.

¹⁹ What, dear brothers, is more delightful than this voice of the Lord calling us? ²⁰ See how the Lord in his love shows us the way of life.

I’ve always heard these verses as loving encouragement. God points out the way for us and we, with trust and courage, respond.

‘

The mystics believed that we are all born with a capacity for God (capax dei). St Augustine believed that this capacity makes it possible for the human person to be re-formed through God’s gracious gift.

It has become common place for society to be described as ‘post Christian’ or as ‘secular’. While it may appear that Christian values are all but forgotten in the way in which our ordinary lives are ordered, I think we may have lost sight of the fundamental truth that we all carry within us the capacity for God. This capacity won’t always be expressed in the traditional ways, but I do believe that in the heart of every human being is the desire to know that they are part of something much bigger than themselves. Every human being wants to be connected to someone or something that gives meaning to their life. We are made for connection.

St Augustine sees our re-forming in terms of the image of the Trinity. Just as there is unity among the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, so too, there is unity in a person’s memory, understanding and will. At the core of each human being is a mystery which reflects the great mystery of the Godhead. In the ordinary run of life it’s easy to lose sight of this mystery that we carry within us. We are often more of aware of our failures than our triumphs. Maria Boulding,  expresses this so well in her book, The Coming of God, which has become for me a personal spiritual classic:

All your hopes and disappointments, your joy and suffering, your achievement and failure, your ups and downs: none of it is wasted. Provided only that you consent without qualification, the work of grace is going on in you through the whole business of living, to hollow you out, to make you capax Dei, as the old mystics used to say, able to receive God. You yourself are the place of desire and need. All your love, your stretching out, your hope, your thirst, God is creating in you so that he may fill you.

How can you make space for God this Advent?

In the Orthodox tradition this famous Icon is known as Philoxenia. Translated literally, this word means ‘love of strangers.’ Its opposite, xenophobia, fear of the stranger, is a word with which we are all too familiar.

The Icon depicts the story in Genesis 18 where three unexpected guests are welcomed with lavish hospitality by Abraham and Sarah. There is a sense in which some risk is involved in providing such lavish hospitality. (Some commentators suggest that Sarah kneaded 36lbs of flour, which would be no light undertaking.) When you offer food there is always a chance that it may not be received well, that your guests may find some fault. There is also the chance that they may stay longer than is convenient for you.

Sharing food is a basic human response to another. It is a fundamental way of welcoming another. Once you have shared food with someone the relationship has shifted. It is just possible that in the act of sharing a stranger has become a friend.

It’s no accident that the highly successful Alpha Course structures its sessions around shared meals. A group of strangers comes together to share faith and food and in that sharing friendships are made.

Can you take the risk this week and welcome a stranger?