On 11 November, across Germany, small children will walk through the dark streets carrying paper lanterns. They will sing slightly out of tune, someone’s lantern will catch fire, and somewhere a man on a borrowed horse, wearing a red cloak, will try very hard to look like a fourth-century saint. It is one of the loveliest traditions of the year, and many of us carry it in our bones even here in London.

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The story behind it is simple. Martin, a young soldier, rides through the gates of Amiens on a freezing night. A beggar sits there, almost naked. Martin draws his sword and cuts his cloak in two. That night, the legend says, he dreams of Christ wearing the half he gave away. It is a sweet story, and we tell it to children. But it is quietly radical. Notice where Christ turns up: not in the cathedral, not at the head of the procession, but at the city gate, in the cold, among everyone else. When we meet the hungry, the stranger, the person without enough to wear, we are not doing God a favour by helping. We are meeting God.

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That turns a lot of comfortable religion upside down. It suggests that the holiest place in London this winter may not be a church at all, but a night shelter, a food bank queue, or the doorway on your walk home. Also notice that Martin gives half. Not everything. Not a grand gesture that leaves him frozen. Just what he has, shared honestly. There is grace in that for those of us who feel overwhelmed by the needs of the world. We are not asked to save everyone. We are asked to stop, to see the person in front of us, and to share what we can.