Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

Each year, in the final days of Advent, the Church slows its breathing and begins to pray differently. From 17–23 December, we sing or speak the ancient O Antiphons before and after the Magnificat at Evening Prayer, names addressed to Christ, drawn from the deep well of the Old Testament scriptures. The names are not explanations, but invocations. Not arguments about who God is, but longings.

Today, we begin with O Sapientia – O Wisdom:

O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High,
reaching from one end to the other mightily,
and sweetly ordering all things:
Come and teach us the way of prudence.

Wisdom, in the biblical imagination, is much more than intelligence or knowledge. Wisdom is God’s way of being present in the world – shaping, sustaining, and gently holding all of creation together. In Isaiah’s vision, which we lean into so deeply during Advent, the one who is too come will be marked by this divine gift of wisdom:

“The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding” (Isaiah 11:2).

Wisdom is as God wills it: given breath – not man-made or manufactured. It comes “from the mouth of the Most High”, a reminder that the world itself is called into being by God’s voice, and continually sustained by it.

What always strikes me about this antiphon is its tenderness. Wisdom reaches “mightily” from one end of creation to the other, and yet it orders all things “sweetly”. God’s wisdom is not coercive or dominant. It does not shout or rush. It persuades, harmonises, and draws things into relationship.

As a musician, I can’t help but hear that word “ordering” in a musical way. Sapientia is not about control or uniformity, but about a holy attentiveness, a way of holding many voices together before God. Each voice remains distinct, each is honoured, each is given space to sound. Divine Wisdom does not silence difference; she listens for how it might belong.

I think of composers and conductors who can hold complexity with patience and trust: the uneasy beauty of twentieth-century dissonance that stretches our ears and hearts; the shimmering grace of polyphony, where independent lines are woven into prayer; the quiet, mathematical faithfulness of Bach’s chorales, where scripture is ordered not to constrain it, but to let it speak. When Sapientia is present, voices begin to resonate rather than compete, and sound becomes communion. 

That ability to be at ease with difference, or at least open to it, allowing it to weave into the depth of our lives and relationships, is key to holy wisdom. But that feels like a quiet challenge in our world currently. We live amid noise, urgency, and certainty. We are encouraged to speak quickly, react instantly, and choose sides decisively. Advent invites a different way, one of attentiveness, which in our world is a rare thing. Wisdom, scripture tells us, does not judge by appearances or snap conclusions (Isaiah 11:3). It listens deeply. We need more of this: sitting in the uncomfortable, working through and working with difference, and finding common ground and respect.

We can pray this antiphon knowing that Wisdom does not remain abstract. In Jesus, Wisdom takes flesh, not as a distant idea or a powerful ruler, but as one who walks alongside us, noticing those others overlook, and refusing to be hurried into easy answers. Jesus teaches wisdom not by winning arguments, but by showing us how to live – faithfully, compassionately, and attentively before God.

The final plea of today’s antiphon is striking:

“Come and teach us the way of prudence.”

Prudence, a word we don’t use often. It encourages us to be wise, and to live faithfully – knowing when to act and when to wait – when to speak and when silence is the truest response. Prudence recognises that not everything is ours to control, and that God’s wisdom is already at work, often beyond our noticing.

To pray O Sapientia is to ask for teachability – and I have to say, this can be one of the hardest things: to be open to something new, to admit that we do not see the whole picture, to trust that even in a disordered world God is gently, patiently, sweetly at work, drawing all things toward life.

Today, I have chosen a simple plainchant setting of O Sapientia. You may want to listen to it, then gently recite the words of Mary’s Magnificat, and return again to the chant. I find that when I hear the chant a second time, the words have often been transformed by Mary’s song and hear and receive things differently.

O Wisdom,
coming forth from the mouth of the Most High
and ordering all things sweetly:
teach us the way of prudence,
that in attentive living and faithful waiting
we may learn to dwell within your life,
through Jesus Christ,
the Wisdom of God.
Amen.