Amen

After nearly six years, I can hardly call myself '.newly retired' any more. And all things must pass, though, as St Teresa added' God never changes'. Age has brought its infirmities, and I think the time to end these crumbs from off the children's table has come. 

I look back on a period of blogging whilst in parish ministry which saw over four hundred posts, and a solid number here- about 650 in all, some good, some bad, some few nuggets, but all marking something of my journey in God, some stumblings into heaven, where the landscape always astonishes me with its unfamiliarity- so much to be learned. 

So this is the last posting. New pastures, new landscapes, call, and I wait to see the journey, the landscape ahead. Eventually it will lead to a city, the Good Book tells me, but I shall not be able to report from there. 

Travel well. The Lord be with you. 

fresh bread

 There's nothing like the smell, then the taste, of fresh bread. Hot, straight out of the oven ( more likely the bread making machine today), or cold, thickly cut, preferably with raspberry jam. Heaven!. The fragrance of home baked bread lingers for most of the day; I smell it late in the evening as I come down the stairs. 

I am the bread of life, says Jesus. Chew on me. Let me be refreshment and nourishment for you. Let me be heaven for you. 

Mmm. The invitation's there, and the bread, I have found, is always fresh,  worth chewing on. It's made real each week, it's a reminder every week, in ' The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, keep you in eternal life', as I eat the bread at Communion. Let it be- a constant source of nourishment.  

connected

 As I write this, I am looking across to my son on sofa, with his dog. Yes, The Dog, of whom I have written before. He lies across my son's lap, one paw resting on Matthew's chest, his head on Matthew's knee, half his body connecting with his owner. 

Matthew meanwhile is on his phone. But The Dog is content;- he doesn't have to have Matthew's constant attention- he is satisfied with connection, in this case, physical. 

It speaks to me of our relationship with God. We don't crave his attention all the time- we are content to be connected. For us, it's prayer, the eucharist, worship, and the rest, but without the physical element of God here in bodily form. 

What image could you offer to encapsulate something of your connection with God? 

Waiting

 When The Dog was with us over Christmas and New Year, I was struck by his alertness to his master's presence, his master's absence. Once, when the master ( our son ) was cleaning the car, The Dog positioned himself with front legs on the arms of the sofa, and so was able to see any movement out of the front windows towards the activity around the car. Or else put himself by the lounge door, sniffing for any tell-tale signs that the master might be just behind it. 

I do not claim that these actions are in any way unique, just that they find parallels in the gospel narratives. Through Advent we observed a period of waiting, expecting, culminating in the season of Christmas, when the promise of a Messiah, a Saviour for humankind comes about. The human equivalent of tail-wagging was much in evidence as Christmas dawned.

Here on the first Sunday of Epiphany, that waiting can be seen again, as Jesus manifests himself to the world in different ways. ,By that I mean that the waiting and expectation can now be up-close and personal, waiting, variously patiently and impatiently, for Jesus to reveal himself to us, alert to any sign he is near, he is with us. Yes, Immanuel, 'God with us'- with US, even me, even ME! What will be your equivalent of tail-wagging as the wait is over, and Jesus reveals himself to me, to you? How low are your expectations of God?

Christmas iignored

 The crib scene was set out at one end of the coffee table, and the magi at the other, ready for them ( the magi) to move a few centimetres each day across the table, and arrive at the crib scene at Epiphany. 

Then the dogs arrived for Christmas, in company with our son. Mayhem ensued with waggy tails causing the magi to land on the floor a good metre away, and the crib scene now virtually hidden behind the cushions the dogs are not allowed to use,  all piled on the foot stool. The retrieved magi have become conflated with the crib scene; it's the only way to keep them safe. 

Thus a scene emerges which encapsulates Christmas in the minds of many, No distinction is made between Christmas and Epiphany, and the birth of Jesus is virtually hidden behind the piles of presents and food, never-mind the discarded boxes, ribbons and wrapping paper. 

Still, Christmas is a season, and not just today. There will be time after son and dogs have left, for the crib scene to be as it should be, out in the open, cushions replaced on the sofa, and the magi now a little closer than before the mayhem. Still time for the real heart of Christmas to be seen.   

Advent

 I'm reading Diana Athill's evocation of her privileged childhood in Norfolk. ( She knew many of the great writers of the 20th century from her long career as literary editor at the publishers Andre Deutsch.)  She writes at one point of how she saw her grandparents' faith- ' .....much more like the conduct of people moved by common sense combined with an ideal of gentlemanly behaviour  than it did like the conduct of people  seeking communion with God .'

This came shortly after my morning devotions, and the thought the what we long for in Advent is the coming of the One who will enable us to be gloriously and fully human. As Irenaeus wrote- 'The glory of God is man fully alive;.'

The two viewpoints stand in stark contrast. One, which seems oh, so dated, so class-bound, so English, and the other so freeing, so universal, so adventuresome. 

I recognise that my own crabbed existence is not the same as that Athill describes, but it does direct my prayers to something wider, bigger, deeper, summed up in the Advent longing 'Come, Lord Jesus;.  

Quiet

 I wonder how Jesus found it, coming back into crowds with their pressing needs, their inquisitiveness, their cynicism, their condemnation, after a period of quiet spent in prayer, alone. I ask this after the better part of four days on retreat, by myself last week, Coming home to company/talk/the daily round et al, has made me long at times for some of that quiet and silence I experienced on retreat. And prompts the speculation as to how Jesus found it. 

It is at best speculation; we'll never know the answer. Presumably he was able to meld the quiet and the crowd together, given his mission, his person, his being. 

For me, more difficult. I go back to 'In quietness and confidence shall be your strength'. Strength to face the hurly-burly of daily life. And bring a quiet soul into that hurly burly.