A collision of times

 This weekend devout time and secular time coincide, though for different reasons. For the devout in the faith, after all the preparation of Advent, joy and gladness will have blossomed in the celebration of the birth of Christ. For the secular minded, food and drink and self-indulgence in a time of covid, as well as a celebration of family, will have come to the fore. 

The coinciding of these times will come to an end by next weekend. The devout in the faith will still have five days to take in the enormity of Christmas, before the times move on to Epiphany. The secular mind and heart will be thinking about and planning next year's holiday, as the daily papers and tv ads are filled with glamorous and sun-filled destinations for next year's summer vacation. 

And these two mind-sets, the devout and the secular, will not meet again until this time next year. Both have their rhythms. For the secular, the rest of the year is taken up by planning for the summer holiday, and the fulfilment of the same. There is a minor diversion for the chocolate feast of Easter to welcome spring, before summer holidays come more forcefully to mind the nearer to summer we are. And come September, minds and hearts turn to planning for Christmas, this becoming more insistent once Hallowe'en- a minor diversion- is over. For the devout, times of reflection, preparation and stripping back to essentials (Advent and Lent) will be followed by seasons of joy (Christmas, Easter) and quieter periods of learning and consolidation (Epiphany, Trinity). 

Both are rich in planning and execution, anticipation and fulfilment, cost and satisfaction. And truth to tell, the boundaries between these two visions is often blurred. Covid times have dented the application of the the secular model- holidays cancelled, families unable to meet; efforts are redoubled to make it work. Human effort. In the devout, much, most of the work is divine; we surrender to a movement of God. Let each find joy as they can. 

The graced ordinary revisited

 More evidence of  'the graced ordinary' this week; ordinary lives well-lived, doing the best they can in ordinary and sometimes extraordinary circumstances. I first became aware of this in the novels of the late (and to my mind great) Kent Haruf, and the still-alive Marilynne Robinson. The ordinary folk- the parents, the neighbours, the siblings of the person in the middle of the story are never the heroes, but form the moral centre of those books, while around them uncertainties, dilemmas, wrong turnings play out, with the graced, ordinary background lives to somehow anchor the chaos, bring the ship, in whatever state, to port. 

Thursday's gospel reading from the lectionary was the first verses of Matthew. Those dry, dull verses which give one account of the genealogy of Jesus. forty two generations, neatly arranged, of fathers and their sons who in turn became fathers, and only four women among them. But it struck me, in this line from Abraham to Jesus, that simply by living, marrying and having sons who in their turn married and had sons; all this somehow forwarded the purposes of God, brought the day of salvation nearer, until it was fulfilled in Jesus. 

Some of those names were notable, a few were heroes, but most were only a name, recorded as a son and a father. The graced ordinary- there's much to say for it as it brings forward the purposes of God.  

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The weather

 The weather is a constant topic of conversation here. And a topic to moan about; too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry......the list goes on. And on. It's a function of the changeability of British weather- four seasons in a day! 

There's an internal weather which we talk about less often, but is nonetheless real. The storms which boil up in us; the times we are becalmed, the sunny nature we remark on in someone we know, the cold personality, the dry humour. 

And no doubt we go through all these, and more at one time or another, oftentimes without understanding where this 'weather system' has come from. Why did I do that? Where did that come from? Meteorology is an inexact science, but probably far more exact that our self-understanding when it comes to our moods, our fluctuations, the way a storm can brew up inside us and overtake a sunny period. 

The hymn writer writes 'O still small voice of calm'. It's as if  part of the work of the Spirit is to give us settled internal weather. Not necessarily sunny, but calm. Allowing headway to be made, without the distractions and byways, diversions and accidents of stormy times. Headway would be good......  

Walking in the dark

 The car went for its service and MOT test this week; I delivered it early to the garage and walked back home - it took about 40 minutes- in the dark. In a half mile stretch through the countryside between our village and the garage, there were no streetlights. It was more dark than light, but just enough of the latter to know where the pavement was, even though the details of it were obscure. 

Was there ice there? or a small pothole? Was the grass from the field beside me encroaching on the pavement, making it narrow enough to be careful? I'll never know the answers to these questions- it was too dark to see the details. Suffice to say I arrived into our village, street-lights and all, and thus safely home. 

'I am the way' says Jesus. We may know the broad outlines of the road to follow, but the details, the hinterland, may be obscure, hidden from us. Nevertheless, we keep on keeping on, following him who gives us a lamp unto our path, a light unto our feet. It is enough.    

'Be good to me, O God.......

 .....your sea is so big, and my boat is so small'. This, or variations on it, is the famous Breton fishermen's prayer; often the first phrase- today's blog title- is missed out. It's struck me in times past that it's an honest statement of vulnerability, a plea for protection and safety.

But a re-acquaintance this week on retreat with the writings of Isaac the Syrian have helped me see it in a new way. This watery seventh century saint who grew up on the shores of the Persian Gulf uses the sea very often as a metaphor for God- boundless, inviting, home of great treasures. 

So I can now see the Breton prayer, uttered in colder, possibly more stormy and uncertain climes, as a call to explore, rather than a request for protection. Isaac would have us 'dive in' to God, be adventuresome, discover what the sea has to offer, wonder at its constant bounty. No need to utter a prayer for protection; God is good, the sea is good, we can revel in it, even far from land, know there are discoveries to be made, even in the depths. 

A boundless God invites us to explore. Shall we always paddle in the shallows?

what happens next?

Prof. Brian Cox's stunning new series 'Universe' - stunning because of the CGI stuff and the impossible numbers (know what a trillion years looks like?)- leaves me, and by extension, all thinking members of the faith- with a number of questions. But there are always more questions than answers, and perhaps the questions are more important..... 

To horse; he asserts, inter alia, that the universe will 'end' in 22 trillion years time, when the last star has burned up.(if I heard it right). I have no reason to disbelieve him. But it's a long time to wait for heaven- to put it at its simplest. Also, is that the right conclusion to draw, question to ask? 

I don't usually concern myself with the afterlife. It's enough to contend with whatever time I have here, making it holy and useful. But today being the feast of Christ the King, when at the end of the Christian year we celebrate the lordship of Christ over all creation, the cosmic Christ, questions about the end of time, the end of history, one's future beyond death, naturally arise. 

I will praise God this morning for the lordship of Christ over all. And continue to ask questions to which there may be few answers in this life. It's the reasonable, faithful response.     

 

Truth where you find it

 A modern translation of the Apocrypha arrived yesterday; the only copy we had was in the Authorised Version, and in very small print. Something more modern (and less taxing on the eye) was called for after an encounter with the Wisdom of Solomon earlier this week, which astounded me with its truth.

The author is talking of wisdom, personified, as in many parts of the wisdom literature in the Old Testament. For me, it's easiest to think of this as analagous to, even identified with, the Holy Spirit. And it was a marvellous passage, which increased my understanding of the person and work of God-as-Spirit. 

This engaging with the Apocrypha might draw a sharp intake of breath, a knitting of brows, in some sections of the Christian community. But if  Wisdom/the Holy Spirit is intelligent, holy, unique, manifold, subtle, mobile. clear, unpolluted, distinct, invulnerable, loving the good, keen, irresistible, beneficent, humane, steadfast, sure, free from anxiety, all-powerful, overseeing all, and penetrating through all spirits that are intelligent, pure and altogether subtle  (Wisdom of Solomon chapter 7)- then why should not truth be found, be communicated to me from these scriptures?

I've come at this in a roundabout way; the Spirit/Wisdom  has spoken to me through the mundane, the ordinary, the quotidian stuff of life, as these blogs have tried to demonstrate. So why not through the apocryphal writings of holy men, the lives of holy men and women such as are found in that bit of the Bible which much of the faithful ignore? The defence rests, mi Lud. 

I shall carry on reading.......

The box and the present

 I and was amused earlier in the week to watch a young toddler unwrap his present, and then proceed to play with the wrapping paper. Every parent, everyone who has watched children, will smile a wry smile at this; we've seen it before. We've seen it before because we've probably done it before ourselves when young. The box it came in, the paper it was wrapped in, all more fun-filled than the present itself.  Well, boxes provide endless opportunities for creative play, don't they?

And this has a direct parallel with how we might approach the faith. Get so wrapped up in church that God misses out. Become so concerned with the fripperies that the relationship with God never materialises, or suffers as we put all our energy into the secondary stuff, forgetting the primary love, love for God. 

You would think that the Great Commandment makes it clear enough- to love God with all our passion, with all our prayer, with all our energy and all our intelligence ('The Message' translation), but we miss the mark more than hitting it, If our attention isn't on the fripperies, then it's somewhere else altogether, and loving God doesn't come into the picture at all. 

Advent is approaching- a penitential season. Time to take stock- the present inside the box (discovering the love of God again in a new way) or being content with the wrappings, seductive as they are. Seductive, but only wrappings. 

 

 

The swimmer

 On an exercise bike at the gym, I had a good view of the lane swimmers in the pool below- the accomplished, the smooth, the ones who were giving it their all in spite of a lack of proficiency. , ploughing up and down, up and back through the pool. 

I am not a good swimmer. I can make my way in the water, get from one end to the other, but little more. I realised as I watched the swimmers below me that I was more concerned, whilst swimming, to stay afloat, than to pay attention to the style, the efficiency of my strokes. Essentially I still had something of that old fear which I guess we've all had as we learn to swim- will the water hold me up?

I wonder how far this translates as a metaphor for love of God, trusting God, but more especially how my head belief is in tune with what my heart knows . How my love for God (your love for God?)  is infused with some remnant of a false picture of God, some vestiges of an authoritarian figure, or an uncaring one, someone who will let me down at some future point. 

Water has proved countless times it will hold me up. I love that floating experience, just lying there, held up, letting the water take me where it will. But in  my head there's still a doubt. Maybe we will never entirely rid ourselves of false notions of God, until we see 'face to face'. I have enough of the truth to know I am held up, and as I live in the waters of grace, I hope some of the falsity, the doubt, disappears. 

  

Passing a milestone

 It felt like a small victory over decrepitude when I saw the drop of blood  from my finger sink into the green liquid in the test tube; my iron levels were good enough to allow me to donate blood. It was almost more important to have a decent iron level than to donate this, my fiftieth pint. The iron level was the marker that must be passed.  

I started donating late, and will never reach a hundred pints; the regular sixteen week visits to various large halls filled with donors like me, interrupted in recent years by anti-malarial pills which necessitated a six-month break; but fifty is a satisfying number. Still, sixty would be better, so I'll keep on donating. Who knows, maybe sixty-five....... 

I had thought I might stop giving once I had reached the magic fifty pints. But no, the call is still there, in an email- formulaic, and sent to everyone who has reached this milestone- and so I'll go on as long as I reasonable can. 

The call of God works in a similar way- I come so far, thinking I've answered it, and find the call still goes on, find that Christ is still ahead of us, that there is road to travel yet.   

A wide mercy

Among the unlikely candidates for guiding me onto the Christian path I would place the 1944 Education Act, with its stipulation that there should be a daily act of worship in each school. This was where I learned my first hymns, still remembered today, and such an important part of the formation of a heart and mind attuned to God. 

It helped of course, that I loved to sing- still do- and that daily assembly at primary and secondary school channelled a love of singing into a proto-love for God. It gave the Spirit stuff to work on to awaken me more fully to the love of God, so that words sung became at last words believed, words experienced. 

All our experience is grist to the mills of the Spirit, to bring us to God. As I listen to people telling me how their story became part of God's story, no two are the same, and many have a part introduced by a phrase such as 'it may seem unlikely but....'. 

The wide mercy of God is able to harvest all our experience, in order to capture us into the love which frees.  

 

behind the words

 It struck me again this week that words are a mask as much as a revelation. I was reading Niall Williams' book 'As it is in heaven'- a beautifully told, deft and delicate love story, which might almost be a parable for the love of God, the grace of God. 

Stephen tells Gabriella 'I love you'. A phrase heard a thousand times a day. But as I read it I wondered, as we are such complex beings, what else he meant by it. Did he mean 'I need you'. What demands did the phrase bring with it, on top of the self-giving implicit therein? Well, no need to answer that particular instance, but it's worth reflecting on as a general enquiry- what else is being brought to the table when those lovely words 'I love you' are spoken?

When we talk of God, we talk of the perfect. So I wonder if God is the only one with the unalloyed right to say 'I love you' and have no other agenda. And where that leaves me, what my response might be, should be, could be. Awe/questions/doubts/surrender/resistance- these will occupy me for a while, head and heart being so small. My conversion is far from complete, mixed messages being my speciality. .        

cleaning

A week and more has passed since The Dog (our son's black Labrador) has returned to its owner; great was the rejoicing at the reunion. Since then, inter alia, we have been cleaning, and been surprised at where dog hairs have lodged themselves. Carpets, rugs- fair do's. Ditto the filter in the drier, although a frown crosses my forehead a week after his departure as hairs still show up there, 

But how come I discover dog hairs on the mattress, under where sheets, mattress topper, etc have been? 

Aware as I am of the shortcomings of my life, I see this as an illustration of the pernicious nature of that old fashioned word 'sin', which clings so closely, as the writer to the Hebrews puts it. I remain grateful therefore for the multiple ways of grace which keep me more or less tidy in the sight of God; those spiritual parallels to soap, hoovers, scouring  pads, mops and the whole armoury of cleaning stuff we use in our houses.      

Expectation

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a healthy Labrador, in possession of all its faculties, must be in want of food. Well, universally acknowledged, or more accurately, confirmed, at this address this week as we have looked after my son's Number One dog (of two) and seen lightning-speed activity any time there is the merest shadow of a hint that food may be being prepared or eaten in the next two nano-seconds. 

It could be scraps, or a treat; it could be a more substantial meal. Whatever, there is the expectation that whether the food is for human or canine consumption, there will be some, at least, that is destined for the pooch. It never fails.   

The expectation of being fed- I mean in a spiritual way. And of always being fed. I wonder if this is something of our experience? Or does our expectation of God wane at times, to the point where God passes out of mind, and being fed by the hand of God becomes of no importance at all. 

The pooch has something to teach me here........  

In sickness and in health

 It struck me, as the world wobbled uncontrollably, as I heaved my guts up, and as I had to crawl on hands and knees to the loo, and then ditto to bed- yes, dear reader, I have had a bout of labytinthitis this week, and I would not put it among the top ten cosy illnesses to suffer from- that with some sicknesses, the beginning of the sickness can mark the beginning of the cure. Perhaps better; the recognition of the sickness can mark the beginning of the cure; the sickness is brought to our attention. 'Do something about me' it cries.  

I knew what was needed in this case, having had this twice before; a course of Stemetil to stop the nausea, and steady the world's spinning. Several doses later, the desired effect has come about, although there is some way to go yet before the peak of rude health is achieved once again........

But this recognition; surely that chimes with the gospel view of sickness- be it physical or spiritual or mental? The recognition that something is wrong may not lead to seeking a cure, but in many of the gospel stories of Jesus' healings, that is the impetus for seeking his help. 

Odd that our sickness may contain the key to our health; I'm sure that's true in many cases of spiritual malaise.  Let's call the spiritual sickness 'sin' in its widest context- that which separates us from God. We know the cure; if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and purify us.... as the first letter of John has it.    

Crossword puzzles

I'll let you know straight out that it's a big sacrifice to put the Church Times crossword to one side- without even starting it!- to write this blog. Cryptic crosswords hold an attraction for me which is irresistible. A sign of my twisted mind, I suppose. 

If only the life of faith were like a crossword puzzle! Clear boundaries, always amenable to solution, black and white......... well, I guess we have helpful clues, but all the rest is missing. It can be something of a puzzle right to the end. 

St Paul talks of 'seeing in a glass, darkly', which about sums it up, in spite of one of clues being 'a lamp unto my feet, a light for my path'. Largely we make the best way we can, hanging on for dear life to the clues, aware that we make a mess of it all. 

One clue which I hold dear is the assurance that any attempt to navigate the path of faith brings joy to God's heart. With this, I'll happily stumble on; it brings infinitely more contentment than the completion of today's puzzle. Now let me see, 3 down........

The long-handled spoon

 I've made both marmalade and jam this week; for both I used the same long-handled wooden spoon I've always used. It (mostly) keeps me from burning myself on those spits of jam as it boils away. And keeps the jam from burning with the constant stirring. 

Over the years, of course, it's taken on the colour of the fruit, so that when dry and out of use, it's a chocolatey colour, distinct from the paler wood higher up the handle. Once in the fruit-and-sugar mixture, stirring away, it has even richer tones. Curiosity wonders how far through the wood the colour of the fruit has soaked. Only prudence prevents me taking a small saw to find out....

And the faith I profess, is it more than skin deep? How far into me has it soaked, aware as I am that I bear little resemblance to Christ, seem no nearer to the kingdom than forty, fifty years ago. It's a reminder that living this faith is a moment by moment affair. 'Now is the day of salvation, and now, and now, and now and...    

Fruit

 I have often been astonished by the fruitfulness of the earth, as I am now, looking out at the young plum tree in the back garden, one of whose branches is weighed down, bent over, with fruit. This week we are benefitting too from our own, and a neighbour's, tomatoes; 'while we are away and you are watering our garden' he said, 'help yourself to the tomatoes, otherwise they will just go to waste'.

A walk by the canal earlier in the week confirmed this fruitfulness in a non-domestic setting. Will anyone gather the elderberries, the hazel nuts, the blackberries, the cherry-like fruit of the service tree, all of which we passed in a short distance. 

This profligate fruitfulness has often struck me, and produces a sense of wonder each time I think of it. What was new this time was the tie-in with one of the lectionary readings for today, from James; that we are to be first fruits of God's new creation, That same profligacy, that same heedless race for fruit in massive abundance. 

Worth reflecting on; any fruit at all? sour fruit? diseased fruit? I suspect the 'end of term' report will say 'Could do better'. Note to self, and prayer to God- let there be fruit in me as per the maker's manual.  

Retirement

 Yesterday I visited an old priest colleague, who lives in the parish. He is afflicted by cancer, and according to him, spends most of the day asleep. The visit- not that it is by any means an exclusively priestly task- reminded me that although parish ministry is over, some of  its tasks and responsibilities remain- the visitation of the sick among them.

I realise that the opportunities which have come to me since retirement are those of a privileged class; financial security, food security, personal safety and good health have all bolstered the openings for leisure, learning and friendship which have come our way.  But should they decline, and should I be sleeping most of the day in that waiting room for death, there is still room for growth, although not in the areas I have already mentioned. 

One can always grow in God, given the intention. Much else may have gone, but one thing remains steadfast, sure; the love of God to his creation, and I hope to journey deeper into it until it is all in all.        

  

The name

 'All the most beautiful sound in the world in a single word.....Maria! I've just met a girl called Maria.....' - Tony sings in 'West Side Story'...... it's a secular echo of John Newton's 'How sweet the name of Jesus sounds, with its further line 'and may the music of thy name refresh my soul.....' Except that Tony's discovery is a hope at the beginning of love; John Newton's is something based on experience over time.

Long known, often sung, but I wonder how many have discovered Newton's truth? Can a name, the mere breathing, whispering of it, bring sweetness and refreshment?  That's been this week's earworm, in spite of the evidence of West Side Story, or John Newton. 

The name brings all of that person, all our experience of that other to mind; it pushes our buttons for good or ill. It feeds us, but not necessarily healthy nourishment; I guess we all know names, persons, who are less than sweet, anything but beautiful. 

Is our experience of Christ all sweetness, all refreshment?  Does he stand out above all others, unalloyed by bits of betrayal, barbs of sarcasm or whatever else vitiates our experience of others? Maybe this sweetness, this beauty, is part of what it means to be God.     

The geography of faith

 It struck me recently that faith has its own landscape; I should have known this from long exposure to 'The Pilgrim's Progress' but dim as I am, I hadn't made the connection. Bunyan's landscape, so clearly defined, so sprung from his own experience of living in the flat lands of Bedford, the regular walk  there from Elstow, the view of the distant Chiltern hills; all this and more was poured into Pilgrim's journey. 

I was thinking of a faith landscape more obliquely. Nothing so transformed as the Chilterns becoming the Delectable Mountains, more a quiet reflection with questions; where have been the sunny uplands of my faith journey? the impenetrable thickets, forest even, where any onward progress has been the hardest work.? the even, easy footpaths, sometimes in shade, sometimes in searing sun, at others in frozen blasts?

Other images suggest themselves; the cliffs, the seas, the valleys of shadows; all the earth could be in some way put to use as metaphor for some part of the faith journey. The abandoned roads, the productive fields and mines, the shelters, the fingerposts, the trackless wastes, the......... fill your own landscape. 

You never step in the same river twice; equally, this landscape will look different every time it is surveyed. But that's the exciting part! 

Looking for diamonds

 The questions they asked of Jesus! I'm thinking of todays' gospel reading in John chapter 6. Jesus has escaped the crowd after the feeding of the five thousand, and when they catch up with him, they want an explanation. How did you get here? Depending on how you say it, it could be an open question, but it could have anger or fear behind it. Certainly the questions which follow this one are a challenge to Jesus' authority, asking if he is a charlatan, or worse. 

You want another miracle, another show of the spectacular, Jesus tells them. But in this fraught atmosphere, challenging, possibly heated, comes the calm, solid and shattering truth 'I am the bread of life'. No answer to their questions, but.......

Most may have missed its import, weight, sharp truth. It does take a lifetime to absorb. We are faced with all our questions to God, all our questions about God, with the one he lobs back at us; 'Are you looking for the pearls you expect, or the diamonds I long to give?'

Santiago de Compostela

 Today is the feast day of St. James; this day brings back memories of the camino I made twelve years ago. The memories are mixed; the smell of the eucalyptus woods as we walked through them, the joy of meeting other pilgrims on the way, the loveliness of this part of Spain, the small villages we walked through, the comfort of the wayside signage which confirmed we were on the right track, And the joylessness of the endless road stretching ahead in the heavy rain, the acheing body at the end of the day, the wrong turns and retracing of steps, the blistered feet needing attention. 

I wonder how many pilgrims- not many, I'll be bound- can say that their journey in Christ has been one of unalloyed joy, of straight and level paths in shady sunshine. For most it will have been a mix of good times and -yes- bad. Closeness to God and times of estrangement. Consolation and desolation. 

But we keep on. We keep on keeping on. Part deeply ingrained habit, part because we don't know a better alternative- 'to whom, Lord, shall we go? You have the words of eternal life'. Part because it can always be better than this, part for the final promise, the beatific vision of going to God. 

The journey and the destination- a complicated mix. We press on towards the mark.    

   

The gardener's pleasure

 '.....my father is the gardener'. And why wouldn't he be? Planting, transplanting, taking cuttings, trimming, pruning, weeding, planning, mulching, watering, mowing, building, looking over- and the rest. And taking joy in it all, above all. 

I walk round the garden at least once a day just now. Just taking delight in it. Noticing what's new, what needs a little help, dead-heading the roses, removing a weed, harvesting a few strawberries and watering, of course. There's always something to do, something to rejoice in- the deep purple of the clematis which has just come into bloom, the way the vibrant orange rose fades to apricot, then to pink. The particular pleasure of watching the monardas flower- a plant a haven't grown before; the thankfulness that I didn't jettison the verbena when all seemed lost- it's come good, and is starting its small blooms. 

It gives rise to a thought I have never seriously entertained before- the pleasures of God. Yes, I know the verse 'my son, in whom I am well pleased' and have applied it to myself, to good effect, and to others in ministering to them; but it's a thought worth taking up, savouring, more often;- that this plant/person, this ensemble of plants/church/community, could be a serious source of pleasure to God. 

I can feel another stroll round the garden coming on; just for the pleasure of it.   

A kingdom, a house

 This 'building a kingdom' thing- a bit big, a bit abstruse for me. Even building a house in me seems like a hard thing, never mind a kingdom. 

The foundations, for one thing; are they secure? Do they go down deep enough? Will they support the rickety structure on top of them when flood and fire and wind and rain beat against this house? And as I look at the walls of my soul, cobbled together from this and that, constantly being replaced as they prove not fit for purpose, not strong enough; will this ever be a weatherproof house, where a king may live.  A palace it is not. 

The roof is leaky, with missing tiles; the whole is a shambles, constantly being fixed, sometimes with planning, most times with fire-brigade urgency. 

Yet a king lives there- I can't get over it. And sees it as precious, a palace. Maybe it will be, one day, God willing. 

Sinner

 Funny how religious people are considered to be self-righteous, when my guess is that most feel themselves to be quite the opposite- in need of some saving from themselves. I am one of those- alongside Pope Francis, inter alia, who are happy to be labelled by that old-fashioned phrase 'a sinner'.

It puts me in my place, a constant recipient of mercy and grace, striving for some little holiness, and helps me see that in spite of all the small triumphs I might put up in self-defence, if called to account for my actions, most are done with the most mixed of motives, and the golden nimbus I would put around my self, my actions and thoughts is made of the basest metal. 

Long ago there was a fruitless time when scientists of a sort looked for a way which base metal could be turned to gold. To no avail. but George Herbert built on this idea, although the riches he found were of a different order - 'this is the famous stone/which turneth all to gold/for that which God doth touch and own/cannot for less be told. 

So a sinner, yes, but with mercy and grace, something more- I'm a work in progress.   

Flotsam?

 Looking through my wash bag to review what needs replacing for when we go away, I'm surprised at the little bits of stuff I've gathered;  two lip balms half-used, ditto shaving cream, ditto shower gel .Three different sorts of tooth floss.   This washbag must be the personal hygiene equivalent of that black hole somewhere in the universe where odd socks go to die. 

A mid year resolution; to gather all these bits together and start to use them. Otherwise I can see that they will moulder on and probably still be there in ten years' time, probably completely unusable. 

It came as a gentle epiphany that there are mouldering corners of my life and its giftings which could be put to use in the service of God. We are usually aware of our more obvious gifts, the ones in daily use. And maybe we play to our strengths, and forget about the others which lie hidden, not called on regularly. What might these be? Is it time to bring them to the light, decide on their use, in the expectation of a more rounded service to Christ? 

Could flotsam become treen?- the found stuff on the seashore which becomes useful once more?

 

The power of word and gesture

 If any one doubted the power of word and gesture, that should have been dispelled this week by the actions of a certain footballer whose removal of two bottles of cola at a news conference, wiped -was it $4billion?- from the share value of  the manufacturer.

It's likely to be a temporary blip, but nevertheless, I doubt that Ronaldo would realise the financial impact of his gesture, and his one-word endorsement of water as an alternative. 

It's unsettling to realise what impact a word, a gesture might have; the wounds we carry from something said or done years ago, the affirmation we still feel from that hug, that look, those few words when we needed them. 

So I have little difficulty in accepting that the word Jesus spoke to the storm on the Sea of Galilee (from today's gospel in Mark chapter 4) had power. Spoken by the one characterised as 'The Word' , with all the authority of God behind him, behind the calming words he spoke. Rinaldo has cast new light on this for me. 

Let's imagine the words to the storm were 'Be still'. Behind them comes the unbidden phrase '......and know that I am God'. All words and gestures from Jesus lead to that- the power of knowing in the silence and stillness, the One Who Is.    

Keeping up

The first small flowers on the 'Rambling Rector' rose are through. nine yesterday, eighteen today. Tomorrow still countable, but within a week it will be impossible to number them. The fence will be covered with a profusion of creamy-apricot flowers. And the scent, especially in the evenings, with be heaven itself. 

The downside is that it will not last. This is not a 'repeat flower' rose; one show is all. But for the two or three weeks of its flowering, it is glorious. For its flowers, its perfume, and for what it adds to the ensemble of the garden at this time of year. 

But for now, it is the headlong rush into the impossibility of keeping up with it, counting the flowers as they open, which engages me. The profusion, the unstinting giving of the plant amazes me. There would be more flowers still, but I have pruned it back, afraid its weight would cause it to fall, damage itself, damage the fence. 

The impossibility of keeping up with it- for this week I shall shall be reminded of the work of the Spirit; I am forever behind, trailing in the slipstream, asking how I can deal with this much grace. And unlike this rose, the work of the Spirit keeps flowering, world without end . 

       

Graceless

 I gave blood on Thursday. Let the reader understand that I only do this for the chocolate biscuit after the donation is over, and for the strict injunction before I leave that no housework should be done, no, not even light dusting, for the next six months.......dream on. 

The donor-carer assigned to me was a disappointment. Efficient, yes, but no 'please', no 'thank you; in her her instructions. Just, 'do this', 'do that'. It jarred. 

Please and thank-you are such simple words. We teach them as one of the first things a child should learn. We call it 'manners'- the manner in which things should be said. They are a mark of a civilised and courteous human. But they can also be viewed as a sign of grace by the hearer. 

I've given blood many times, and sensitive donor-carers are attuned to the small details which settle the person in front of them into a good experience; the small talk, the 'please' the 'thank you', the gentleness with which an arm is handled. It casts an air of grace over the proceedings.

'Little things done with great love' as Mother Teresa said.   

Old Photos

 Yes, the photographs are in colour, but they are forty, fifty years old, and have faded to sludgy browns and greens. They have lost their sharpness and vitality, the vibrancy of their true colours. 'My pullover was a brighter blue, as I remember it- surely it wasn't that shade!'

Memory can be like that, leeching out the details, sometimes the whole picture. An incident one of us remembers, but the other has totally forgotten. Or only vaguely recollects.

Whatever, these old photos are a reminder of the gulf between then and now, Things were different then. All we have is the present to embrace in all its fullness, whilst admitting that the past has shaped us, and our present experience will shape our future. Thus the importance of 'Now is the day of salvation'. The present moment, while the kingdom is near at hand, and God 'a very present help'.

'Carpe diem!' -seize the day! the Roman poet Horace probably meant it to signify enjoying life while one can, but it can be a salvific motto. It probably wasn't religious language, but it's a religious thought.     

Waiting

 How much of our lives is spent waiting in queues of one sort of another; the bus stop, the supermarket checkout, the ATM. Or just waiting; on the platform for the train, the time between ordering them meal and its arrival. 

The worst is surely the airport, with its different waits to check in, get through security, to board, and that dead time when the doors are closed, and nothing seems to happen for ages, before the aircraft trundles off, again to wait in a queue for take-off. 

But today our waiting-ten days since the Ascension- is rewarded; waiting, just as Jesus told his disciples not to leave the city until the father's gift of the Spirit was given. Waiting can sometimes be a disappointment, but this gift of God's Spirit completely overtook the disciples, bowled them out into the streets full of pilgrims for the harvest celebration of Pentecost, to tell of the love of God for all. 

Anglican sensibilities will expect something less dramatic this morning, but the prayer 'Come, Holy Spirit' will be made, that God will energise again his faithful people, into the action that is always needed in one form or another after waiting. 

Opening up

 'And now in age I bud again.... on whom thy tempests fell all night', I couldn't quite place it- I was sure it was George Herbert, but knowing that he died at only thirty nine, the phrase 'in age' seemed inappropriate for one so relatively young, by today's standards. Recourse to his Complete Works, though, located the verse in 'The Flower'- my half-hunch was right.. 

Budding again feels about where we are with the country opening up. The personal possibilities seem wider, although still limited. But after fifteen months, the buds of opportunity are welcome; first fruits were seen on Monday- lunch with friends, outside. (No inside lunches till June). 

Buds are things of promise, a down payment on what is to come. As we have moved from Easter to Ascensiontide last week, and anticipate Pentecost, the buds of resurrection life have seemed to pause for ten days, before the flowering next weekend. And then comes the long Trinity season- a time to see that flowering in all its glory, as we recapitulate the Jesus story with the insights and dynamism of Pentecost added to the fizz of Easter. 'I once more smell the dew and rain....O my onely light, it cannot be that I am he on whom thy tempests fell all night.' 

Well, I'm not quite at that stage of disbelief about the past tempests. But I sense the buds, and with the guidance of 'my onely light' relish the thought of the coming flowers. 

  

Lost and found

 At last! We have been fruitfully engaged during the pandemic with family history; it has filled in some gaps, dismissed some long-held, cherished notions, and although leaving us with more questions than answers, has been an instructive pastime, much enjoyed. 

And at last we have been able to place A, someone we knew was distantly related, but unsure how, into the family tree. And it brings enormous satisfaction to have done it, after hours of methodical search going back many months. He is second cousin. once removed, to Mary's mum. 

Finding and 'foundness' are integral to the faith. It is much more than the satisfaction experienced in finding A's place in the family. It is mutual; the finder and the found both rejoice. I don't care that I don't know if I am the finder, or if God is, in a particular situation; the mutuality, the relationship is all. And to God I am not a second cousin once removed; I am  a son; prodigal more times that I care to admit, but always found again, always reminded of my sonship. 

  

Drought

 How long is it since it rained? No sign of April showers since, well, forever. There may be some rain later in the week, and I for one will welcome it. So early in the year to have the rain barrel empty! Meaning that the late summer timetable has moved to late April; the garden has been watered from the outside tap, just when seeds are springing up, and life straining to grow in the tubs and beds. I hope it does not portend a dry summer, with water restrictions.....

The psalmist knew of drought, and applied it to his soul; Like as the hart panteth after the water brooks, so longs my soul for thee, O God. My soul thirsts for God, even for the living God. And dry seasons of the soul are part of our experience, if we are alive to the movements of our spirit. An absence is noted, of, how can I put it? Refreshment? Life? Joy? All of these, and none of them; I struggle to fill any word with what that absence contains. (If absence can contain anything). 

Fortunately, there are the promises  in the good book that we shall be like a well-watered garden, a spring that shall never fail, a tree planted by the water side;  I am reminded of Eric Whitaker's 'Cloudburst' as I read these promises, and the wonderful noise of the rain in the latter part of that choral piece. Let it rain! And be accompanied by the rainy refreshment of soul.

building

 The past two days, in glorious sunshine, I have been building a pergola? an arbour? Well, a wooden structure in the back garden. It has been planned in my head, recast, re-planned for last several months, as problems have been thought through, and plans adapted in the light of  that thinking. It needed four hands to erect it, so the happy combination of good weather and a visit from our son enabled the structure to be built. Wobbly and unsteady at times, before all the joins were made, it stands steady now. Some finishing touches still need doing, but the effect I am hoping to achieve will take two or three years; climbing plants need to grow all over it before it is 'finished'. 

Gardeners believe in the future, it has often been said. Builders too. But more than that, gardeners believe in a good and stable future which allows time for growth and maturity, Gardens are always unfinished; there is always more to do. They are always a work in progress. 

As is cultivating the soul. There is always more to learn and experience of the God who helps us hone our lives to a vision of completeness, who is always ahead of us, always calling us, always wanting us to add to the work in progress. 

I am tired, and ache after the exertions of the last days. Soul cultivation can be tiring too. It can be sweaty and thirsty work, but there is always recourse to the never failing fountain of life. Even if the present reality doesn't match the hoped-for effect.

Unexpected

 'Ah yes, I was expecting you'; not a sentiment we hear from the lips of any of those who met Jesus after the resurrection. All the encounters caught the disciples, the women, the witnesses off-guard. It was in grief, in sadness, in disappointment, in doubt, in resigned 'we'll go back to fishing' that Jesus meets his followers. None expected the encounter; in many ways they were unprepared for it. The encounter turned expectations upside down. 

This is not to diss in any way the regular rhythms of prayer which the church commends to those who are serious about their faith and seek to encounter God. A discipline, a preparedness for encounter, a reminder that 'today is about meeting Jesus' is all to the good. Out of that can come the unexpected-meeting-with-grace. Like the couple I saw at the bus stop- needy, probably with multiple problems from the snatches of conversation I overheard- who out of the blue turned to me, wearing the day clothes of clerical shirt and collar, and said 'Father, please pray for us today'. Or the young traveller man in the changing room at the gym, who saw me put on my clerical shirt and collar as part of my clothing after the shower- I had just taken a wedding before coming to the gym- and (he) buck-naked, asked me to bless him. Unexpected encounters like these don't need a clerical collar. They do need resource, our disciplined prayer, and readiness to respond when the unplanned-for occurs, so that the kingdom of God , ever 'at hand' flows out of hearts at least semi-prepared, even semi-expected. .    

A turning point

 We're still at the stage of shock/disbelief/awe/fear/amazement in our Easter readings from the gospels. Not surprising, and these stages of grief-turning-to-joy should not be underestimated. For the disciples, their world had been completely turned upside down. They had in some way come to accept the unsettling of their world in the three years they had been with Jesus, but this new reality of resurrection demanded a bigger leap, a wider imagination, an exploding and emerging shift to all they had known. 

I imagine it was all pretty untidy, this acceptance of resurrection, with some casualties- ideas, cherished notions, if not people- along the way. But it had a collective feel about it; the disciples, the women, the witnesses, could explore the implications, the Lord's directions, together.

That untidiness is hinted at in today's gospel; Thomas wants evidence- a reasonable request- before he believes any more than the has gains of the last three years. Doubt and evidence; vital components of a lively faith, otherwise we have uncomprehending, blind, unreasonable, -and ultimately eminently mockable- cultic 'faith'. 

Yet Thomas ultimately comes to the deepest acclamation of faith in the gospels- 'My Lord and my God!' So let's hear it for untidy, disputatious searchers for truth, and help them on their way; who knows, they might venture as far as exotic, unimagined India  (qua Thomas) in the reality of the good news? 

The Old Words

 I have found the old words, the familiar words, helpful in keeping me on the path, relatively speaking, through Lent. 'We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you, for by your holy cross, you have redeemed all the world'. 'Hearken, O Lord, and be merciful, to us who have sinned against you....'' Lord, have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.' And the rest. 

The old words have a patina on them through constant and cherished repetition. They have proved strong and durable, and have put God back where he belongs, as the eternal subject and centre. I have retreated to my proper place, not the centre of my universe, but frail, sinful, in need of grace. 

Easter Day finds me in that same world, but where old words 'Christ is risen- He is risen indeed!' make it possible to continue, with hope that the little mortal wounds we suffer, or inflict, through life, are provisional. The parts of me which have died or have inflicted death on others, can have a resurrection, so that I and others- indeed all creation- can be whole. Christ comes walking towards us out of the future, bringing his kingdom of love, peace, joy justice, and all that is good and lovely. The old words are shot thorough with life, with gold; they touch me and resurrect even me.   

Rules and grace

 Last week I wrote of grace. This week I'm firmly back in the world of rules; I write to a prisoner on death row in the US, and twice recently my letters have been returned since the envelopes were non-standard. The first time I sent the letter in an envelope of the palest shade of grey, not knowing that they should be white. Letter returned to me by the authorities, undelivered to its recipient. So I put it in a white envelope, and sent it off. Letter returned, ditto. The interior of the envelope was blue, printed thus presumably to prevent prying eyes seeing the envelope's contents. But still not good enough; the search is now on for that rare beast, a white envelope with a white interior- and it ain't easy to find. 

Ah yes, rules. If only we knew them all, could keep them all. If only I was aware of the rules, handed down since childhood, that govern my life- even better, aware of the rules that govern yours, so that I don't cross them. Put like this, together with the variable rules of every society, written and unwritten, changing and unchanging, petty-fogging and common-sensical, public and private, new and old, there must be an infinite number. No wonder we are confused, transgressing at every turn, 'in thought, word and deed, through negligence, through weakness, through our own deliberate fault.'

All of which is somehow transcended for those in the faith by grace, which in a world of infinite rules, allows me to move forward, The promise is that I shall not be trapped in failure to keep the rules, anxiety that I have transgressed, and thus immobilised; but experience the green pastures, the goodness and expansiveness of salvation, of grace, which put rules into a perspective which acknowledges their place, but allows me to see the shocking truth that grace is sovereign. This coming week exemplifies the clash of rules and grace- in spite of the insistent and deathly voice of rules, grace overcomes.  

I'm ahead of you

 I'm conscious of the shortcuts I take in my relationships. I'm interested in what job you have, so that I can judge your economic status, which in my foolishness I assume to be related to your education and intelligence. Armed with this, I think I know how to come on to you. In the end it's 'you' servicing my needs. 

There is an alternative, of course. I could just listen and let you unfold yourself. I could give you wholehearted attention, and pick up the signals about who you are, and not what you are. But I guess so much of modern life is about 'my time is precious, and I have to make a quick decision about you- are you worth investing my time in?' 

I don't see that in Jesus. I see him taking in, drinking in, the whole person. 'What would you like me to do?' Such a simple question, but it gets to the heart of the matter. No assumptions, just getting the person in front of him, who has his whole attention, to express their deepest self. 

I could learn from that- if I had the time. .    

Grace is where we find it

 I have long maintained to friends and mentors that I find my theology not in the myriad books which formally fall into that category, but in the novels and stories I read. Truth to tell, it's often a defence against doing something I find difficult; and it's an aspiration often, rather than a reality. But in my Book Club meeting last week, theology snuck up on me out of nowhere. 

Towards the end of the two hours' discussion we were devoting to a story of Kamila Shamsie, the word 'atonement' popped up. I've been grappling with it since then, praying about that word, seeking truth in it. A memory from way back that it was William Tindale sometime in the early 16th century, as he translated the Bible into English, who gave the word its theological slant- a shade of meaning it had not carried before. Now, five hundred years later, I cannot see it in any other way than that; and I struggled to see Shamsie's characters  in any atonement light. 

My thoughts and prayers since the Book Club meeting have added to my Lenten journey, as I know how from from 'at one' with God I have been, how little merged into the likeness of Christ, how costive my love of God and neighbour. 

Fortunately, there are still weeks to run in this Lenten season; time to make amends, time for grace to operate, time for atonement to become something more real in me.       

Blood Donor

 I gave blood earlier this week. Not that I missed it afterwards; life continued as normal. 'This gives me a free-pass on housework for the next six months, doesn't it?' I said to the Donor Carer who was attending to me. She was not sympathetic, but it was worth a try. 

The actual donation took about eight minutes; the health checks, identity checks, waiting, etc took up the rest of the hour. I wish I'd signed on to donating earlier- I was in my forties when I began, and want to get to fifty donations (just two needed to reach this point) before I think I may retire; age brings complications. 

For those within the faith, it's not so big a leap of the imagination to go from blood to the wine in the chalice at Holy Communion. The wine is meant to bring to mind the blood of Christ, shed on the cross. A sip of the wine is life-giving to me, at the cost of the life draining from the crucified Christ.

I've booked my next blood donation appointment for about twelve weeks' time. I should reach my fifty donations by the end of the year, all things being equal. I only wish that there was the same certainty about holy communion. These covid-months are the longest time I have not taken the life-giving elements. I feel the life draining out of me. But today a local church where I help has decided to open for Easter. A booking, as it were, for a transfusion of life. 

Ice cream Lent

 If memory serves, there was a court case some years ago where a small artisanal ice-cream maker wanted the label 'ice cream' to refer only to products such as his, which contain cream, and little else. The products made by the big food corporations should, as they were more properly whipped, frozen and flavoured margarine, be called something different.. 

Naturally, he lost. Bur maybe he had a case. A reminder of the real thing, not something ersatz. I've never quite looked at the stuff I bring out of the freezer to serve with apple crumble without having a jaundiced eye as to what I'm eating since that time. Frozen margarine lacks any sort of appeal. 

And so to Lent. Like Advent, it's a time we are called back to the real, to forsaking the ersatz. Instead of the expectation of Advent, the note here in Lent is one of lament. Not a frame of mind and heart we indulge in very often, but in this covid-bound time, one we could do well to think of all that we have lost, all that could be repented, all that could change for the better. 

Could be appealing. As well as being personally called back to the rich and creamy fundamentals of the faith, it could lead us into visions which properly would find their voice in 'Thy kingdom come.' All underpinned by the age-old invitation 'Taste and see that the Lord is good'.       

New Perspectives

 I've never found a way in to those early chapters of Genesis since rejecting them as a teenager as records of fact. Recently however, they've found a way into me- as records of wisdom. On this level- one I freely admit has probably been plain as a pikestaff to you, dear reader- I can't mine them deeply enough. 

Take Genesis 1, for a start. Poetic, beautiful, but not a record of fact. Hold the horses! Let it be seen as a picture of the way God worked; a bringer of light, structure, rhythm, growth, new beginnings, renewal, goodness. And continues to work thus, so that we see consistency and eternal values in God's being and nature. 

Or the story of the fall. The woman saw in the tree of the knowledge of good and evil something to delight the eyes, good for food, and a way to wisdom. All this had been found already in God and his provision, but now it was fixed on secondary things, on what was not God, but something lesser. 

I'm a latecomer to this school of wisdom. My eyes gave been fixed elsewhere, on the lesser things, but light and renewal and growth are beginning to take place. There may yet be found in me some trace of holy wisdom.     

Family History

 Researching our family history takes up each Thursday morning during lockdown- it's been on the 'to do' list for some time, and has surfaced again. Some of the research, once we get into the rhythm of how to do it, is straightforward, but some connections Mary wants to make refuse to give up their secrets. So far. We live in hope that further research will yield answers, although we are not convinced. The release of the 1921 census results, next year, may provide some clues, but will also- it is my confident prediction- leave us partly in the dark. 

I come from a long line of cotton workers and other sorts of skilled workmen on the male side. Reflecting the times, the women were servants and shop assistants, when not bearing and rearing children. All these, their personalities, their prejudices, their successes and failures, their moves, their hardships, end up in me. Scraps of their humanity make me. 

The same is true of the faith; the scraps of childhood hymns, half-remembered, the people who helped shape my beliefs, the scriptures which have come alive over the years, the choices I made in life, end up in the rag-bag of stuff I call faith, held together with the glue of commitment to God in what I hope reflects outwards and upwards his love to me.

It's not neat, probably not logical, and probably won't ever be. It's a work in progress, and I shall always be, in this life anyway, partly in the dark. But partly in the light, too. 

The head that once was crowned with hair...

 Increasing baldness over the years has led me to adopt a Grade 1 approach to hair care. Easy to maintain, and far enough removed from looking like a criminal to maintain some of the dignity my position in society requires......... dream on. But when the hair gets a bit too long, drastic action has been resorted to, and once again I've shaved my head, as the services of a hairdresser are not available in lockdown. 

Yes, I admit it, I look liked I've served at least 20 years in jail. It is not handsome. Nor was it easy, especially as I hacked around with the electric shaver, not having any hair clippers. But half an hour's work, finally presided over by Mary's ministering hands at the back of the head where I couldn't see, has completed the task. 

And then oil on the head, partly to calm and heal all the nicks I had made. It gave the task a biblical feel, a biblical edge, made it holy, a symbol of something more than necessity and tidiness. 'Thou hast anointed my head with oil' says the psalmist, a reference to sanctifying, set aside for God. 

Well, in these lockdown times where one day seems pretty much like another, anything which reminds us of vocation, of the ultimate purposes of our lives, is welcome. There it was, an ordinary task of hygiene and necessity, given a dimension unforeseen. The life less ordinary, courtesy of God.     

In search of the essay

 Whatever happened to the essay? That extended piece of writing which allowed an author to say his or her bit on a topic of choice, with erudition and wit, not to mention excursi as time and theme allowed .Its natural home was The New Yorker and prime journals- I hesitate to use a word as louche as 'magazine'- of that ilk.  These thoughts are prompted by a recent reading of an essay by Gore Vidal, now deceased, but at one time the urbane, deadly skewer and scourge, inter alia, of the inconsistencies of American policy.

The essay demanded of its readers time to read it and digest it, to absorb its erudition, enjoy its unfolding, take note of its thesis. So different from the home life of our own dear experience; who has time to read something  that long? We rely on much shorter snatches of news and opinions, views, reviews and sound-bites to mould our world picture. 

This has implications for the faith. I wonder who, apart from priests and academics, reads the longueurs and tight arguments of theology nowadays. Indeed, who reads the Bible? I changed the epistle reading (legitimately- it was a lectionary alternative) at a service one time, and the churchwarden, Bible in hand, said to me 'You find it- I'm no good at this'. If we do not read the text we say we live by, how can we judge that what we hear, sing, pray, preach, bears any relationship to the faith, handed down? 

The intercessions of St, Jude, patron saint of lost causes, are needed here. Enabling a good read, not only of the scriptures, but of much that shapes and shakes our world, so that we have some understanding of where we come from, where God wants to take us, and how near to, or far from that our primrose path may be taking us.    

Finding pasture

 There are some who have embraced the faith because it offers answers, security, a haven where with like-minded believers they can be together rejoicing in their salvation on the inside of the sheep fold- that sheep fold which Jesus talks about in John chapter 10. Here in northern England, dry stone walls in a roughly circular shape have a narrow entrance, one person wide, to an inside large enough to hold a flock of sheep, who enter the area one by one through that small entrance. The shepherd sleeps across the entrance, protecting his charges. 

But it is outside this hugger-mugger enclave that the sheep find pasture. Inside can become fetid and arid, its little area of grass soon finished, its earth churned up by many hooves milling about. Inside is safe, out of the wind, maybe out of some of the rain and snow, guarded by the body of the shepherd, and all that is wonderful- but it's not the place to be in daylight hours. It's oh no! out there that the pasture is found; yes, along with  possible dangers, but more importantly with the experienced shepherd who leads his flock to pasture, with the sure knowledge of where that pasture can be found.

I've had my share of holy huddles, I'll admit, but am less and less drawn to them. Out there is so much more exciting, vibrant, so much more satisfying. In these covid-days, though, out there is not as accessible as it was. Virtual out there via Zoom and its stable-mates is the best we can do; what opportunities have presented themselves to you in this way, such that the safe confines of lockdown- home have given way, even though only virtually, to exciting, satisfying pasture out there? 

It's been a while.....

 I think it was the beginning of November- about ten weeks ago- since I was able to blog. Some gremlin in the works has prevented access to the site; or has wiped what I wrote, on the few occasions I accessed the site, as soon as I pressed the 'publish' button. A clean-up of my laptop by an outside company I have used from time to time, has ensured that this, and other issues too numerous to mention, but which could all come under the heading of 'decidedly off-kilter', have now been sorted. 

Off-kilter is what I find myself being, many times. Clogged up, failing to deliver, off-centre, unable to connect. No, I am not a robot, a machine, but the analogy applies. And a clean-up generally restores function. A realisation that God is near, and not far off; a self-appraisal which recognises how much in need of grace I am; a seeking forgiveness; a bringing of God back to the centre of the picture. Sometimes this realisation of the need for a clean-up comes several times a day; sometimes it's been a while. 

The central fact is this; the clean-up, the restoration of grace, makes real what I say in the creed each Sunday- that I believe in the forgiveness of sins, and the resurrection of the body. That's how forgiveness is- a resurrection from malfunction to something short of popping on all cylinders, but still ready to go, clarified, clean.