Dear Friends,
Grace and peace to you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.
As we enter the holy season of Lent, we often speak of ‘turning toward the light.’ Yet, as we prepare to lead our congregations through the wilderness, in a time such as this, I find myself reflecting on the profound necessity of the darkness.
I am reminded of my childhood, sitting on the back of my father’s bicycle as we travelled home after church services from distant villages. As evening surrendered to night, the paths would vanish into darkness. My task was simple yet vital: I sat behind him, holding a small lantern to catch a fleeting glimpse of the road ahead. When the path became too rugged to ride, we would walk. My father would hold the bicycle with one hand and my hand with the other. In those moments, darkness was not a source of terror, but of wonder. I remember the stillness being interrupted by a bush erupting in a burst of light as dozens of fireflies took flight, and the stars appearing with a clarity that the city never permits.
In our modern ministry, we often surround ourselves with artificial light. We focus so intently on the ‘visible’—on metrics, strategies, and certainties—that we risk losing the ability to see beyond them. We have conditioned ourselves to treat darkness merely as a symbol of absence of God or evil.
Yet we must remember: In the beginning, when the earth was formless and void, God’s Spirit hovered over the face of the deep (Genesis 1:2). Creation was birthed from that space, not in spite of it. Even science reminds us that the vast majority of our universe is composed of “dark” matter and energy—essential, yet unseen. The deep spiritual truth is this: life does not cease when the lights go out.
This Lenten season, I invite you to view darkness through a different prism. As shepherds of the faithful, let us re-examine the ‘encircling gloom’ not as a place of abandonment, but as:
· a source of learning where the lack of visual distraction forces us to hear the “still, small voice” more acutely.
· a source of faith where we learn to trust the Hand that leads us more than our own ability to navigate.
· a space of encounter where we meet the God who is present in “thick darkness” (Exodus 20:21), the unseen.
May I encourage you and your congregations to consider the London diocesan offering for this Lent around the theme Treasures of Darkness, exploring Christian discipleship in our uncertain times.
My friends, may we have the courage to see differently this Lent. Darkness is not the absence of God; it is a space where God is profoundly present. May we embrace the shadows of the desert, knowing that even there, beauty is waiting to be found.
I leave you with these words from one of my favourite hymns written by John Henry Newman:
Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on;
The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on.
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me.
May you have a blessed Lent.
I remain your servant in Christ,
The feast of St Valentine, 2026