There are no Words.

The situation in Syria is no topic for Christmas eve. It's too easy to shelve, in their range and vastness, with the uncomfortable issues that might plague us any other day of the year. Christmas, for all it's supposed to be about sharing, giving and love, is also incredibly selfish. It's about what I want – the gifts, the traditions, the family time (lucky bonus if the rest of the family agrees to these principles) – and what I do not want is cold images of mass beheadings, reports of troops kicking down doors and murdering screaming families, or the ancient fear of a dark and powerful evil raising its ugly head again, sinking bloody teeth into the pages of history to ruin my feelings of warmth, and joy's security. Despite a pricking conscience, I must confess, I found the reminder to be unwelcome – which is selfish when you consider those for whom forgetting is not an option.

Yesterday I was discussing this topic with a friend. The familiar sense came over me as we talked, and I found I had less and less to say, as my mind opened wider and wider to the horror of the images I had seen and deliberately forgotten, and to the terror of what he was describing. I felt overwhelmed, overcome with the sense of helplessness. So far away from anything I know, it may as well be an invading black mist in a fairytale, for I've no idea how I would find it, or how I might combat so great and so advanced an evil. My courage, my valour, if I should prove to possess any, or at the very least my burning zeal – or perhaps it is desperation – is not a weapon I might wield against any foe. For this reason, it is easier to soothe the burn of its urgency, and to forget – society's greatest fault: diffused responsibility equates to universal exemption from the obligation to act. Even acknowledging that I find to be a most depressing reality.

I might have answered it in a number of ways. For one, it brought home to me how divine is the gift of prayer. What a blessed gift, to have the ability to reach out using a number guaranteed to answer. As someone to whom such devastation often is heard (before it is forgotten) as a call to arms and has been near to signing up several times, it is the greatest salve to my mind to know that something I do, can and will make a difference. Not to say that an almighty god relies on the pleas of lesser beings, but in the smallest way, my little voice and the groanings of my heart which words cannot express (Romans 8:26), are understood and are felt by one who knows all, hears all, and controls all. His might is sufficient for them. And that is a great comfort.

As we discussed what one might do in the face of this, for having been fearfully awed by the regimes of Hitler and Stalin together in high school, neither of us wanted to look back and say “We didn't know” or “We did nothing”. On the other hand, what might my puny contribution be worth to an NGO? What might my zeal in my limited sphere accomplish for those who needed it?

In younger days I would have expressed my fervour, and diverted the darkness of the topic by suggesting that I ought to be president. Depending on the mood, this would successfully redirect the conversation, or perhaps allow me a soap-box to air my social conscience and assuage the assault of my conscience, believing I had 'done my bit'. But the suggestion seemed hollow. I was assured through hard knocks a a few more years' experience that I was no ruler, and would never be able to steer a country clear of the calamity I wish all people to be rid of.

“We need a world president” was what came to mind. What might such a man do?

And at last, I remembered. Given the time of year, it took me long enough.

We need a world power, one with might and power to break the rod of the oppressors and rob them of their sinister strength; one which might bestow peace and comfort to those who had been victims, to those lost in desperation and darkness, to those living in the literal land of the shadow of death.

An infinite moment, reminding, humbling.

The people walking in darkness

have seen a great light,

on those living in the land of the shadow of death

a light has dawned...

Every warrior's boot used in battle

and every garment rolled in blood

will be destined for burning

will be fuel for the fire.

It was imagery lifted straight from the prophesy of Isaiah, which has been my Christmas reading.

And you've already guessed what follows:

For to us a child is born

to us a son is given,

and the government will be on his shoulders

And [even so] he will be called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

There are no words.