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Good morning. Today, on the feast day of St Michael and All Angels or Michaelmas Day, I find myself remembering the church of Llanfihangel Rhos-y-corn which bears his name. It’s a simple medieval building on a mountainside, reputed to be the most remote church in West Wales. I was its vicar for sixteen years. One Michaelmas Eve, in an uncharacteristic burst of youthful enthusiasm, I decided to hold an all-night prayer vigil there.

By midnight my few courageous companions had given up and gone home. Even the church’s usual inhabitants had deserted me. The swallows had returned to Africa, and the bats had gone into hibernation. I felt lonely, cold, miserable and depressed. I went to the church door in search of consolation, but the sky was as black as pitch, with no sign of a star anywhere.

Returning wearily to my prayer desk, I picked up an anthology of Irish religious verse. By candlelight I began to read Seamus Heaney’s translation of a poem by St John of the Cross: the ‘Song of the Soul that knows God by Faith’. The Spanish mystic spoke of a fountain whose water flows and fills even in the depths of the night. His words gradually but inexorably began to dissipate my inner gloom.

When I went back to the church door an hour or two later the sky was filled with the stars which had, of course, been present all the time.

Heavenly Father, help us to be aware of your presence with us even when you seem to be far away. Guide us through dark and difficult times, leading us gently back into the light, encouraged by the faith and hope you give us. Amen.