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.   

dogginess

 There's an unfortunate dogginess to the house at the moment as we look after two dogs- a black, and a honey-coloured Labrador. The carpets need extra vacuuming, the air needs spraying, or scented candles need burning, to keep the all-pervading smell of Labrador at bay, keep the shedding of dog-hairs under control. 

Do we all leave some scent behind, of joy or something more noxious? Something shed from ourselves, a blessing, or something irritating? I guess we do, and the dogs are sensitising me to it, in a house not used to doggy smells, nor dog-hairs everywhere. 

There is a verse somewhere in 2 Corinthians, I think, which says we are a sweet-smelling savour to God. We are the aroma of Christ. Well, that's far from what many people experience of Christians in these polarised days, where the 'in crowd' demonises the 'out crowd'. No sweet aroma there, or very little of it. If more grace were evident- and I'm talking to myself here- maybe the aroma would be sweeter, the atmosphere more breathable, liveable. Lord, have mercy, 

Parties

 Should a party raise anxiety for the host? Ideally, no, it should be a carefree occasion for all to enjoy the food, the drink, the company, the ambience. But there's always the niggle- 'is there enough food?' why didn't John and Fiona turn up?' 'is it warm enough?'..........

Presumably this was part of the context which motivated Martha to ask Jesus to berate her sister Mary into helping with the hospitality (perhaps not a party) when Jesus and his followers came one day. She was not alone in that anxiety- it was one I shared earlier this week when Mary and I hosted a meal for twenty-some friends in celebration of our golden wedding anniversary.  

Jewish views of heaven all seem to centre around food, feasting, fellowship- a good time had by all, or at least, by all the righteous (even in this instance a word to beware of). God as the host. Presumably, in his perfection, without anxiety that all was as it should be. 

Well, I look forward to that, if only for the awe-inspiring spectacle of God's perfect enjoyment of it all. Now that will be something to see! 

A saint near here

 Not far from here, in the north of Anglesey where we are on holiday, is the reputed landing place of St Patrick, when he was shipwrecked in the year 440AD. A cave with fresh running water, at the bottom of the cliffs, gave him shelter and water until the storm was over. A church now stands at the top of the cliffs, marking the spot. 

Back then, the saints seemed to live larger, more heroic lives. Back anytime- I think of twentieth century saints who were martyred for the cause of Christ's justice and peace- they seemed to live those larger lives. But this is merely to display ignorance of the even larger number of saints who simply kept on keeping on, pursuing quiet lives of devotion to God, in all times and in all places.  And ignorance too of the unknown saints who are being called on in our generation to lead heroic lives in the face of injustice, warfare and want in many far from comfortable places far removed from Anglesey. 

Which leads us, or should, to prayer. 'Remember your church, Lord, in many lands, especially......' as the Eurcharistic prayer has it. We may be on holiday, but it is not a holiday from prayer. 

The Angels

(I wrote this before I checked the facts- I thought today was the Feast of St. Michael and All Angels. It is celebrated on the 29th- this coning Thursday).

Odd that an angel should be a saint. But in another sense, quite fitting- a saint is a holy being, so why not? This commemoration is a reminder that there is a realm beyond the material. We practise our faith in the world of sight, sound, touch, smell, but conscious always that there is a 'beyond' which has a very present reality to us. We are, after all citizens of that 'state', dwelling here in this earthy domain. 

We do not know much of the citizenry of the heavenly realm, but that there should be messengers from there to here seems a reasonable assumption, and angels and powerful heavenly forces are those messengers. There is a 'wavelength' which aligns humanity and the angel world, and I am aware of it all to rarely. St. Michael's feast is a reminder that 'My soul, there is a country, Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars.......

May the angels who serve as a reminder of our citizenry elsewhere, guard us today, 

the sign of the cross

 J have been surprised, as I have occasionally peeked in, via the laptop, to the lying-in-state of our late Sovereign of happy memory, to see so many people make the sign of the cross, or an attempt at it, before the coffin as part of their mark of respect.  

I had no thought that the UK was so religious, Maybe it isn't; maybe it's what people think they should do. Maybe they think that, given the late Queen's faith, she would somehow appreciate a mark of faith from them. Whatever, it is heartening to see. 

The sign of the cross; the cross as a sign. Of God's activity in life, and in death. A sign I identify with as I make that sign over myself. More often, though I know technically how to make it, and make it often, I'm more like those who fumble, make an approximation of it. Given that my life will always be an approximation to what that cross means in the outworking of those who are content to make the sign on a regular basis, a fumble seems about right..  

The king

 For the past seventy years we have been used to the phrase 'the Queen' so that it's taking some getting used-to, to hear or see the words 'the King', such as on Friday night, when the strapline under Charles as he spoke to the nation via TV, was 'HM the King'. 

Yes, we know it's what he was born to become, but he's been waiting so long, and the queen seemed such a permanent fixture, that something of that expectation had slipped from this mind, at least. Well, the reality has arrived at long last for him. 

Christians can experience something of the same mindset with regard to the reality of Christ the King. We celebrate that feast on the last Sunday of the Christian year in mid-November, immediately before the beginning of Advent- an affirmation that Christ is all in all, is supreme and King in all creation. 

And yet, as we look around our very broken world, we know that in some deep sense, this is not so, at least not yet. And the temptation is maybe to downplay, forget, fail to see, possibly deny, the reality that Christ's triumph from the cross, his resurrection and ascension, has already taken place, and we are in the endgame, where the mop-up operation is taking place. 

Now and not yet. For Charles, the promise has been fulfilled. For us in the faith, we continue to pray 'Come Lord Jesus'. 

This time of year

 Although the church year begins in late November, it often feels to me, at least, as if the beginning of September- the new school year- has more of a sense of a new start about it. We caught Year 7 pupils walking to the High School on Friday morning, for their induction, without the rest of the school being there. Church activities which have been laid aside for the summer months begin again. It's difficult to resist the gearing-up feel which early September brings.

It's a reminder that the faith has about it that element of learning. Not just adding to the store of facts about the Bible, the peculiarities of this denomination as opposed to that one, and all the rest- it's about learning to inhabit the knowledge we already have. Living from the heart what one las learned in the head. 

In the end it's about wisdom. The getting of wisdom, the living from wisdom, the inhabiting the kingdom, the reification of all Jesus said about 'the kingdom of God', This requires more than school; it's about a change of heart and mind and soul which I find on no curriculum outside the faith.   

stumbling

(Apologies- I forgot to post this last Sunday)

Stumbling into heaven- it's struck me this week how apposite that is as an image of my pilgrimage. Unsure of the way, not very sure-footed when I do find the path, discovering it's all a surprise as the scenery open up before me,  tiring, even exhausting, wondering if I'll ever make it. 

I try not to be a tourist, with all the itinerary pre-planned, everything experienced through the microphone  of a guide, or from the hermetic seal of a coach window. More first hand, a bit riskier.. I think of a bus ride to Kampala, and having no idea how to negotiate the Kenyan-Ugandan border, afraid I would take so long ( the bus already three hours behind schedule) it would go without me. And the rest.....

There are landmarks, of course, places, people where the heart rises on seeing, meeting something familiar. In the faith it's usually the cross. Always a guarantee one is on, or near the right road. I stumble less near to it, although it often seems far from heaven. Nevertheless, it's some sort of guarantee I can stumble on ,continue with some degree of confidence. 

Dog-sitting

 We are looking after our son's dogs- Blake, a black Labrador, content and easy, and his daughter Parker, golden and nervous. She chatters all day in short whiny bursts. What has amused us most about her is the discovery of herself, or rather. of another dog, in her reflection in the tv screen. She cannot understand it. Staring back at herself, dimly, from the black screen is this other, who is not in this room, I will not attempt to say what goes on in her mind- if she has one. 

Through a glass, darkly; a phrase of St Paul as he writes to the brethren in Corinth, taking the metaphor of a Greek mirror, probably made of silver, or some silvery metal, reflecting very imperfectly the image of the one who looked into it. So it is with our present life- we see dimly what in God's good and eternal time we shall shall see and know and experience 'face to face'. . 

The dogs are alert, on watch, when they remember that their master is away, and will be back. Blake has found a perch on the settee where he can stand and look out of the window for signs of the car returning, when all shall be very waggy tails, whimpered joy. They long for the 'face to face'. 

Is it too much to echo their behaviour in the life of faith, with a longing expressed as 'Even so, come Lord Jesus'? 

Celebration

Mary and I celebrated, quietly, our Golden Wedding earlier this week. Cards arrived, and we have received two plants for the garden, but we had sought neither- after fifty years of marriage, what does one need?  We were content to be thankful, visit York for the day, and return home tired. Bur just to prove we are not stingey old curmudgeons, there will be family and then friends' celebrations later. 

It is a rarity in today's world to mark a 50th wedding anniversary. I'm not boasting here, just stating a fact. I hope we continue for a good many years to come.  Any marriage which survives this long will have been through several phases, and ours is no different. We are not the same people as in 1972.

I'm reminded of my relationship with God. Of long duration, but changed on my side many times over, as my perception of God changed. marked by stickability on God's part; love, and variously desperation and lack of other credible alternatives on mine. 

Still, it's lasted. Both marriage and faith have lasted. Just stating a fact. Above all, the grace of God, and of Mary to last out with such unpromising material as I am.    

watching

 I sat for three hours in a reception area at St. James, Hospital, Leeds (aka 'Jimmy's) while my son had treatment on his eyes earlier this week . It gave me much opportunity to people watch. The anxious, the talkative, the lost, the eccentric (an elderly man who filled his wheeled grocery bag with packets of crisps), the purposeful, the hurting;- all human life was there- red and yellow, black and white as the none-too subtle Sunday-school song has it. 

And yes, they are precious in his (that is, Jesus) sight, to continue that song, although I found myself wondering, after the book I had brought was finished, and I resorted to people watching, what barriers these precious ones had found in life, who had put them in an 'out crowd'  who had welcomed them, if at all, into an 'in-crowd', The shabbily-dressed old man who so carefully laid out on a seat some yards from me the eighteen on so packets of salt-and-vinegar crisps; who would give him a wide berth in daily life?

How good we are at assumptions! -when within the kingdom, the only one we need is 'all are precious in his sight'. The over-dramatised colours-red and yellow, black and white- can be erased after that. 

Heat

 We survived the heat of the early part of the week- the thermometer in the warmest part of the garden went off the scale, but the likelihood in the open was about 39 degrees. The hart in psalm 42 was not alone in seeking the solace of a cooling stream- or at least an extra shower or two, all set to much cooler than normal. 

The park opposite was devoid of kids playing; the gardens we overlook at the back were empty. Everyone seemed to seek such cool as may be found inside, and truth to tell, there wasn't much of that. Climate change came with a vengeance. 

The prognostications on several fronts- climate change, cost of living, the war in Ukraine, the austerity which will have to come to pay for the government's profligacy- is not good. 300 new clients every day turn up at the UK's food banks. Fuel bills are likely to rise to £3000+ in the autumn. Prayer seems an inadequate response; I bang on about 'the common good' at all and every opportunity, but the common good does have a special resonance at this time.

'We must all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately.', as Benjamin Franklin said- although the likelihood is that the poor will be hung out to dry, and will certainly feel the heat, before the rich begin to suffer. This is the way of the world, although not of the kingdom of God. I wonder which way we shall choose? 

water

 Coming over the Pennines some weeks ago on our way back home from holiday, I was shocked at the low levels in the reservoirs high in the hills. The situation will be worse now, as the dry weather continues, and our profligacy with water continues. Water rationing is being mentioned. 

I was reminded of this again on Friday, when traffic queues in York near the hospital were caused by a burst water main. It gushed forth in force; traffic sprayed the pavement as in a heavy downpour.  Water is a finite resource- there will be suffering somewhere as a result of this leakage. 

A finite resource, and precious. Such a contrast to the infinite springs of water promised to the faithful, welling up inside us, the gift of the well-spring of life himself. We often stumble around in parched or drought mode, failing to see the reservoir at hand, failing to turn some spiritual tap to fresh supplies, and wonder at our ineffectiveness. 

St Isaac the Syrian imagined the believer swimming, diving, in an infinite sea of grace, diving deep for God's pearls. No shortage of pearls, no shortage of water, no shortage of grace. Divers wanted.      

Neighbour

 'Who is my neighbour?' asks the lawyer of Jesus in the gospel. Perhaps part of the sub-text here is 'I know the answer to this- and I'm quite satisfied with my relationships with my neighbours, thank you'. Ah yes, the tightly drawn circle with well-defined boundaries. Don't we love them? we know where we stand!

The lawyer has a reluctance to name the one who showed mercy to the stupid man who travelled alone on that bandit-ridden road between Jerusalem and Jericho. 'Who is the neighbour?'  'The one who showed mercy'. he replies to Jesus. Subtext- 'the damned Samaritan'. 

An invitation, almost a command, to widen the tightly drawn circle of those included under the heading 'neighbour'. That's how we may read the parable of the good Samaritan. Where are the lines in the sand drawn this morning, which we are being invited to cross. the circles we must widen?

This is not new, but it's always a question worth asking, always a question worth answering. 

Illusion

 The last time I was with the man standing before me making pennies disappear, was when he sawed me in half. That was at the celebration party for Tockwith church's 150th anniversary.  Tonight (well, Friday actually, as we party our way down the Ouse in York )  we're just as amazed and delighted at his skill, just as wondering 'how does he do that?' as he works his way round the tables with less exalted material than a box and a saw; pennies, cards, a pen. small oranges. 

Illusion and reality- finding our way though life's maze with a degree of wisdom and common sense keeping our feet on the ground whilst our heads are in the clouds. That has something of reality about it;  a  life-long task, distinguishing between life's illusions and life's realities. Like many, I find it hard to understand why large portions of the American church seem to have opted for the illusion that The Orange One is some sort of divinely appointed presence. And why our own C of E deals in so much management-speak, rather than prayer. 

Easy to say, easy to see- less easy to admit to one's own propensity for illusion. The prejudice, the false values, the unrealities, the false gods we deal with. But somehow I'm drawn back to the person of Jesus, what he said, what he espoused, as the touchstone for reality. Reality found in the fulness of a person's life, and not just in ideas. Something anchored to earth, whilst coming from the eternal. As I said, keeping feet on the ground whilst the head is in the clouds.   

  

Heaven

 Nantmawr, Shropshire, midweek

Sitting here on the patio in the afternoon sun, a gentle breeze making the heat bearable, not a cloud in the sky, and the distant sound of birds chirping- it's a vision of a sort of heaven. To complete the picture, a good book, a cup of tea, doors and windows flung open, sheep making their way across the steep hillside opposite. It's a very English vision of heaven, even though everywhere round here is blessed with Welsh place names,,,,,, so thoughts turn from the book I'm reading to wonder what other nationalities, other folk, would include in their heaven. 

Whatever, heaven is unlikely to be as we imagine. 'Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of  man what God has prepared for those who love him' St Paul tells the Corinthians. Well, not strictly heaven there, but it about covers it. Meanwhile, there is work to do to make what we know of this 'kingdom of heaven' a little more visible on earth- 'the kingdom of God is justice and peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit; Come Lord, and open in us, the gates of your kingdom'. 

Little time for the reveries of bucolic Shropshire in that. Work to be done. Starting from today -Sunday- now that holiday is over.  .  

Perfect

 There's a verse in Matthew chapter 5 which has always troubled me, 'Be perfect, as your heavenly father is perfect'- and it's troubled me on a number of levels. Firstly, how can the imperfect be perfect? Secondly, if I strive for perfection, I am, as an imperfect creature, doomed to failure, and if I take this command to perfection seriously, and am always doomed to failure, this could seriously impact my mental health, my spiritual confidence; is this part of God's desire in my search for the unattainable?

Pity that ihis verse trapped so many into falsehood about what it means, and what it encourages us to be, to do. A better translation is 'be all-including, as your heavenly father is all-including' .Or, 'be indiscriminate in your loving and well-doing'  Well, still difficult, but a bit more accommodating of prejudiced eejuts like me. We love tribe- is he one of us? - and these words of Jesus are a challenge to tribal boundaries, in-crowd mentalities, exclusive zones. 

So, to love the next person whom I meet, even if it's Boris Johnson.......

unfinished

 There are one hundred and thirty three words that would fit into the last space in the weekly cryptic crossword. This, according to my laptop's crossword solver. I've been through them all once, and none seems to make sense in the context of the clue, and although the last two or three clues often benefit from being left for a day or  two, I suspect that this crossword will remain unfinished. 

Unfinished. Incomplete. It's a reality that life will always be this way. We say 'My life is complete', but I suspect it's the thought of a moment, a passing, possibly sentimental, feeling. There is always more to know, more to learn, more to be taken up into in the love of Christ. We don't know what, but we do know there is more. 

The Trinity season offers us the opportunity, now filled with the Spirit, to explore those familiar landscapes we have traversed in the salvation story from Advent to Pentecost. There are likely to be few places marked 'Here be dragons', but although we know the outlines, we all have room to plumb the depths, navigate the heights of of this salvation landscape.  Even though its exploration will be the task of a lifetime, and at the end, still unfinished. 

coronation

Today, as a jobbing priest, I shall perform my first, (and I expect, my last) coronation. The good people of Wistow, where I shall be presiding at Communion at 9 a.m. are bringing their Jubilee king and queen - drawn from the village's primary school, to church to be crowned. They will promise to uphold equity, mercy, justice, fairness, and support the people of Wistow. 

It will have little of the grandeur of the 1953 coronation, but I hope it lives in the village memory for many long years, as an occasion which brought people together, and reminded them of what kingship is about. 

One of the functions of a king is to bestow gifts- I remember the coronation mug, and the propelling pencil I received in 1953- the mug long gone, the pencil somewhere upstairs- I must look it out. Today,'  Pentecost, God will bestow gifts on his people through the giving of his Holy Spirit. These will go beyond equity, mercy, justice and fairness in the transformed lives of Jesus' followers, though those qualities are not bad as places to start. God is not stinting in his bestowal of gifts. We ask, he gives. It's as simple- and complicated- as that. King of kings; out of the riches of your grace, what will you give your people? What would I like?

Time

 I praise the gracious mercy of God, that, dwelling outside time, time has been gifted to us. This thought came to me on Ascension Day, last Thursday. It struck me that just as the Easter season in the church year is constructed to have seven weeks in it;- seven weeks to get to  grips with the mysterious reality of a Risen Christ- so we have ten days between Ascension and Pentecost to absorb that yes, Jesus is not here in earthly form. He really has gone. 

In fact this 'time to absorb the realities of mystery', are played out all over the Christian year, Four weeks for Advent, twelve days for Christmas, absorbing 'our God contracted to a span, Incomprehensibly made man'. ( I love that 'incomprehensibly'- twelve short days to wrestle with 'God....made man'), forty days of Lent, twenty weeks and more in the Trinity season to revisit the Jesus narrative with the full perspective from promise in Advent to completion at Pentecost. And then we start all over again.....

Time- in days, and weeks, months even- to absorb, accept, question, wrestle with, live with, push away, the immensities of the particular season. That's a mercy. So now, in Ascensiontide, I'm trying to looks at it from the point of view of the disciples who were there. Really gone? What next? Is this the end? What does 'the promise of the Father' mean? How can he just leave like this- such an anti-climax!  

The pondering and reflection are good, but are always overtaken by the next revelation- next Sunday, the gift of the Spirit. As so often, questions and reflections are met, not by answers, but by overwhelming grace. But then this prompts another time-consuming question...... 

spring

 Spring is three weeks early this year, they say- a sign of the changing times- climate changing times, that is. Already the roses are appearing, while some late tete-a-tete daffodils are still in bloom. The  'Rambling Rector' rose promises its version of heaven in the next week, with its luscious musky-honey-vanilla scent. If only it went on longer, instead of those glorious three or four weeks of its single flowering.

The urge to blossom and fruit is everywhere. The plum tree promises a bumper harvest, unless rain, wind and birds conspire to rob us. But lest I take all this for granted, I am aware that it comes at a price, and we have little time to pay our dues before climate catastrophe overtakes.

There is  a heedlessness in humanity which ought to be up there with the seven deadly sins, but somehow- probably because of our heedlessness, is not. Jesus rails against it, as did the prophets before him, as do the warnings on so much self-obsession, which obliterates the common good. Our need for more and for 'me' ruins the planet. 

Tis the gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free- and the two go together. In the endless search for personal freedom (from what? for what?), for more (to what end?) for 'me' (when did 'we' become less important?)  the linkage to simplicity has been lost. Such as a simple blessing, repeated year after year- the scent of a mass of roses on the still evening air.     

Lines in the sand

 Reading the first few chapters of Acts, the clues are all there as to how the faith began to free itself- not quite the phrase I want, but let it pass- from its Jewish roots. First the Samaritans are admitted ( chapter 8) then the Roman centurion Cornelius, a God-fearing Gentile, becomes a Christian (Acts 10) and in Acts 16 the gospel leaps over to Europe. 

Given the sharp intake of breath which greeted Peter when the Jerusalem brethren heard that a Gentile had become a member of the faith, we can imagine the lines in the sand which would have been drawn by the more conservative members in Jerusalem at all these developments, and how those lines had been erased, perhaps painfully, by the advances which the proclamation of the gospel made. 

God is always somehow ahead of us, and calls us into the work he is doing. And we love rules, to know where we stand, to have certainty- and that's fine, as far as it goes. It's a lifetime's work to straddle the tension between what we perceive as the surprising calls of God, and the perceptions of what we see as the limits of faith. Sharp intakes of breath are perhaps called for as we survey the dynamism of God's works in ourselves, our communities; but possibly fewer as we realise another line in the sand has been erased.  

the transfer of data

 As a self-described technodinosaur,  I would choose to set up the new ipad at 1030 pm, little realising that the process would take me long into the hours when I should be dreaming sweet dreams. I call it innocence, but most technosavvy folk would call it dumb, or worse. 

Fearing that the process had stalled/I had done something wrong/maybe it would be better to do this manually rather than by some magical osmosis ('Just switch on Bluetooth, it says here'), I googled The Question- 'How long does it take to transfer data from one ipad to another?' An hour seemed like a happy minimum, so with anxious glances every few seconds, we sat out the hour. And more. 

Until ipad heaven arrived and the process was complete. 

The metaphor doesn't completely transfer to the realm of the spirit, but the transfer of grace from its source in God to this faulty, anxious, reluctant, blocking, but-wishing-to-be-made-new subject will take a lifetime, and will not be complete this side of the dive into eternity. If only it were simple, like the ipad- ha!  

the crisis

 Today's epistle tells the well-known, well-loved story of Paul on the road to Damascus- so well known a story that a 'Damascus road experience' has entered common parlance. I take it that means a sudden change of heart, of mind. 

But the Acts of the Apostles is not a psychological study, and it seems to this observer that Luke fails to do justice to Saul/Paul- surely the nearer Saul got to Damascus, with his aim of arresting any Christians there, the more the incompatibility of his mission with the evidence he had gathered about Jesus, and the scene he had observed as Stephen was martyred, played on his mind and heart until a crisis point was reached as he neared the city. 

But what interests me more is that the crisis has to come to a head, work itself to almost a point of breakdown, of a shattering of Saul's personality, before we read of the voice of Jesus speaking to him.. There's a courtesy in this, which I find most striking, Given Saul's prodigious intellect and deep knowledge of Jewish tradition and scripture, I presume he exercised these to the fullest before he came to the point of seeing that he couldn't square the circle- and the Risen Christ steps in. 

I have a memory of the late Mahalia Jackson, gospel singer extraordinaire, singing 'He may not come when you want him, but he's right on time'. That squares the circle neatly enough and saves from breakdown, putting all back, over time, into one whole.. 

Two road diverged in a yellow wood.... and I- I took the one less travelled by.....

When we can't see a way ahead, the temptation to go back is strong. By and large we're people who like action, so better to go back than stay put until the fog ahead, the traffic ahead,- whatever- clears. At least we know, back there, where we are, the parameters, the risks, the comforts. 

Yet the great discovery of the faith is that Jesus is always calling on, calling us away from the past. There will be a forward movement, and periods of rest, and sometimes it may seem that 'calling us on' has a circularity about it. Revisiting the past with a new perspective. 

These thoughts arise from the incident towards the end of John's gospel where Peter says 'I'm going fishing', fails to catch anything, and Jesus, preparing a meal on the lakeside, tells him and his fellow fishers, to put the net down on the other side.

By a miracle of grace, even going back to the old trade produces results. But far more interesting are the unspoken, unrecorded comments over the lakeside breakfast. They are surely all about the way ahead; 'Are you really alive?' 'What does this mean?' 'This is very scary' 'Does this mean we are continuing to be with you, going round while you teach and heal?' 

You supply the missing questions about the way ahead. You can do that if you stay by the fire, in the now, eating the bread and fish Jesus gives. The questions may not arise if you go back to the old ways. In the light of what subsequently happens in the New Testament, which way lies growth?  Which, to go back to Robert Frost's poem in the title of this piece 'made all the difference'?  

The silence

I spent part of yesterday catching up with Diarmaid MacCulloch's radio essay, broadcast over five nights, on 'Silence'. I'm not at my intellectual best at 10.45 at night ( some might ask when am I ever at my intellectual best, but let that pass) so the five podcasts of fiften minutes each proved a blessing early on Holy Saturday.    

There's a symmetry in listening to an essay on silence on the most silent day of the Christian year. But a dissonance too; a wordy beginning to a day which is essentially about a quiet processing of the pilgrimage of the last forty days, or at least the last week. The silence of desolation and grief, inevitably bound up -we know the outcome of the story in today's resurrection- with incipient joy.

So the silence of yesterday was not empty. It wrestled with the many faces of love, the many costs of love in the life and death of Jesus. It backwashed into the wrung-out liturgies of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, surged greedily into today's resurrection, and finally found a resting place in the fact of God, allowing Holy Saturday to bring its own balm;

Silent, surrendered, calm and still, open to the word of God, 

Heart humbled to his will, offered is the servant of God, 

  

How it helped

The NHS blood service sent me an email this week to tell me that my last blood donation, after processing, went to the Royal Chesterfield Hospital. I was strangely moved by this information. I've known that my previous donations were doing good somewhere, and was happy enough about that, but the specifics of this new information touched me at a point my more general 'do-goodery' didn't. 

So, someone in the Chesterfield area is now (I hope) healthier, from my giving an hour of my time (and very probably several others donated  in the batch which went to Chesterfield)  to donate blood . The repercussions crowd in. What of that person's family? Are they now relieved, off tenterhooks, calmer, as as result of this transfusion? Speculation could go on and on. 

Somehow it's the parable of the sower again, in a very different context to what Jesus imagined as he spoke it. A small gift from me, a life is changed, and the family breathe once again. Maybe this qualifies for 'thirtyfold' - I'm content with that.   

trials, frustrations

 A cup of tea spilt on the table dribbled into the laptop. The world ended- for about an hour anyway, as I thought of all that stuff stored within, now gone to some computer black hole, never to return. But the sun still shines on the unrighteous (let the reader understand)  and here we are, up and running. 

This week we were in the Yorkshire dales for two nights. Such a different landscape from the flat plain of York. The dry stone walls and the limestone pavements, the crags, the cliffs and gorges, the outcrops of rock- surely there is enough stone here for every person on earth to build a house from the stones which rise to the surface after each winter? Does there need to be so much rock in such a small area that all the world can be housed from what lies on the surface?

Beyond the stones- which as you can see, amazed me in their outrageous quantity, my eyes were drawn to the cliffs and outcrops in the steep hillsides. Rock is a constant feature of the biblical narrative; 'lead me to rock that is higher than I' a favourite verse from the psalms. 

That higher rock was a constant companion during our brief stay. Given the landscape, he could not be anything else, anywhere else. Nor does he disappear down a black hole, never to return.  

Continuity

 At last I have finished the book Mary bought for me at Christmas-'Going to church in medieval England'. Not that it was hard going- at just over 400 pages I should have finished it long ago, but the shear wealth of detail made it necessary to put it aside about three quarters of the way through, in order to digest it.   

Thousands of years ago, when I took 'O' level history, the view prevailed that medieval religion was effete and exhausted, ripe for the renewal offered by the Reformation. That view was overturned thirty years ago and more by the likes of Eamon Duffy, whose' The Stripping of the Altars' painted a quite different picture of a vibrant religion in the centre of national and local life before the Reformation. The present book continues that narrative. 

Though much has been lost, I am struck by how much remains which is familiar. Much of the liturgy of the Church of England would be recognisable to a time travelling 15th century merchant or peasant. And that sense of  continuity gives some sense of stability among the tides of history. 

But liturgy has to be more than words on the page- it has to leap into our hearts, be expressed in our voices. It has to become the worship of the heart. Might all that is written and read by us today in hymns, prayers, responses, scripture, become real in our hearts. Otherwise it is lost.  

Cleaning

The house has been cleaned ready for the visitors this afternoon. Vacuum cleaner, cleaning agents, dusters have all been applied. Energy has been expended- a slight warmth in the body noticed. 

Now let's qualify that; the house has been cleaned in the parts the visitors are likely to go. The usual preparations, I imagine, in most houses when visitors are expected. Dusty corners remain. Unpolished surfaces too. 

If I take this as a metaphor for what Lent is about, this half-preparation will not do, although again it's about as far as most of us get. The 'turn away from sin, and turn to Christ' will leave us with unexamined habits, favourite attitudes still harboured and loved. 

We do our best, with limited insight into what makes us tick, what makes us who we are. Few can produce the 'hundredfold' harvest in the parable of the sower, but there is no berating  from Jesus' lips of the ones who produce thirty, sixty fold. The direction of travel is Godward, and I'm sure God will honour that. 

    

The pain

 The new training programme at the gym, set up at my request, has landed me in pain for three days. I want to walk the newly-designated St, James' Way in the summer, from Reading to Southampton, but in view of my great age and decrepit body, will probably attempt it in two halves, separated by 6 weeks or so. The present pain level makes me wonder if I will do it at all......

The training regime is designed so that my legs particularly will zoom up hill and down dale with no ill effects- the pain now is so that there will be little pain then. When I walked the camino thirteen years ago, it was the muscles in my thighs that caused me pain- the same ones as now. Memo to self; I must build up the strength and stamina on this training programme at a slower rate; bull in a china shop has proved unworkable in terms of pain and discomfort. 

All this came to mind before I fell asleep earlier this week, pondering 'How do I make a good Lent when already I try to be alert to God every day?' The unused leg muscles reminded me forcefully that there are some resources which have not been exercised for some time. From there it was an easy jump- a metaphorical one, dear reader- to identify some Lenten reading. 

Not all pain is bad- discuss.   

The good

 I love that wry optimism which sees rain as 'liquid sunshine'. We've needed it as 'February fill-dyke' has extended into early March. Well, the water authority will be pleased, even if the rest of us have to keep on smiling, and with wry optimism remind ourselves it's really liquid sunshine. I can say that here where there have been few floods, but maybe it doesn't hold elsewhere.

However, there's something good and pure about letting the wryness go, and as it were, standing in the truth of rain being another form of sunshine. Many in this cynical and world-weary age would call it foolishness, naivete, cracked, but from a faith viewpoint, maybe it asserts powerfully that the sun only shines, as God only loves. There are clouds, but the sun keeps on shining, even if we don't see it. That all that comes to us can be turned to good, for those who would see it as such. 

There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

sang Leonard Cohen, in 'Anthem'. Do we see the crack, or welcome the light? 

comfort zones

 I don't know who coined the phrase 'comfort zone', but it's a brilliant way to encapsulate the routine, the safe- all the things, the people I'm -yes- comfortable with. I don't have to try hard here, I can work from default positions, I'm in control, there's little here which has about it 'here be dragons', as on those unmapped areas of early maps. 

Little which is dragon-infested, but not necessarily all.  Trouble is, comfort zones can be small, and paradoxically they can be uncomfortable. I may be safe, but I may hate myself for the default position it leaves me in. Comfort zones can become smaller, more restrictive. I've seen that in some people. 

By contrast, the faith invites us to a landscape with the widest of hinterlands. 'Explore' it says. Or to use another metaphor, God puts us in front of a huge crammed-full cupboard, throws open the doors, and says 'Go in, take what is necessary, and then, take some more, beyond the necessary, and keep coming back.' It's an endless landscape, inviting us to push on, leave the stockade, the comfort zone far behind. 

New worlds lie ahead. Explorers wanted for expedition. Experienced guide comes as standard.  

Bureaucracy

 In a crowded week, a task which has caused frustration;- helping a friend recently arrived here to get a covid booster. He has a certificate showing two vaccinations back home, abroad. Should be a simple task then to find a vaccination centre for the booster, which will set his mind at rest. Let's look at the info on the laptop..... and enter some info. Name? Date of birth? Name of doctor? Oh, it says you're not registered there. Let's try another way...ring the medical centre where you know you've registered, and speak to a receptionist to find the exact name you registered, 'I'm sorry sir, under data protection I can't tell you that information. Best ring 119 and speak to the national centre..' 119 duly rung; press a thousand keys before speaking to someone in the flesh, who says you need to google 'Tell the NHS about your vaccination', and enter the information there. This will register your foreign covid jabs, if the vaccine complied with UK standards, and then we can move forward......;

A jibbering wreck emerges from this mountain of bureaucracy. Yes, I understand the need of it, but negotiating it is another matter. Before you can do this, you need to do that, And before you do that you need to do the other. Ad infinitum. 

In the kingdom of grace and wisdom, I know of no forms to fill in. Need, expressed to the king, brings forth the grace and wisdom for the tasks of faith, however tangled or simple they present.  

  

The earworm

 This week it's been those opening word of Psalm 42; 'Like as the hart seeketh after the water brooks, so longs my soul after thee, O God...  ' chanted by a cathedral choir. Like all earworms, it's insistent, coming back at unlooked for times when my brain or soul or heart is not otherwise engaged. 

Yes, it exposes a truth, that at heart I am a seeker after God. An amateur, admittedly, who gives up all too easily, who keeps trying new paths,- if it were projected on a screen, it would look like an irregular wave with troughs and peaks, and probably large sections flatlining.

But it also brings to mind that age-old truth about God's quenching only causes us to thirst the more after him. Another way of putting it ; that other age-old truth, our choices capture us. They set us on a path, and this one, seeking God, inches us nearer. Perhaps micro-millimetres us nearer, in my case. With cul-de sacs, turn-backs, rest periods on the way.

Still, it says a lot about God as the persistent lover of my soul, that the thirst for him reappears. Like an earworm, that constantly needs expression, action, intention, surrender.     

The world in miniature

 It's something of a stereotype that Anglican clerics and trains go hand in hand. Think Rev Awdry, think 'The Titfield Thunderbolt', think Eric Treacy, Bishop of Wakefield.  And to some extent, I fit that Anglican/train stereotype, Not enthusiastically, not to the exclusion of other things, but nostalgically, wistfully. Since retirement, the model railway, or at least, its baseboard, has lain in the garage; there's simply not room to set it up in the house. But I've been thinking of a very much slimmed down version, something that would be at ease in the house, and plans are afoot to construct it. 

What I admire as I look at layouts in magazines, or see them on video, is their perfection, their detail. It's a perfectly controlled world, where it's always, say, 1959, always steam era, always summer. I jest. Grimy industrial scenes have their devotees, and also exhibit perfect detail. With many of these layouts, it's hard to tell that it's a model. It might be the real thing, captured on film all those years ago. 

And it's all perfectly controlled. All moves, slows-downs, accelerations, rests, stops; all at the behest of the controller, fat or otherwise. There is no freedom to do anything but respond to the electrical impulses, the will of the controller. How different from the home life of our own dear families!

For all its perfection, it is lifeless. I prefer the freedom, the wide and sustaining freedom to serve God as I would choose. Messy, sometimes chaotic, nevertheless I have real freedom in the grace of God, and I value that.   

Infinite grace and freedom

 By a roundabout route, I have come this week to understand more of the scope of grace, and my limitless (note that word) freedom-in-God. I'm a big fan of arte.tv, the pan-european tv network, which although it doesn't broadcast live to the UK, has a wonderful i-player facility. This week I caught up with a programme on the the death marches from Nazi concentration camps in 1944-45. As the soviets advanced westward, concentration camps were abandoned, and inmates- no, let's call them prisoners- were forced to march under guard back to other camps on German soil. Thousands died on the way, either from exhaustion, disease, or were shot by the guards. Often the villages they marched through treated them despicably. If a train was provided, it was open cattle wagons; this in the middle of winter. I groaned at many points, shocked by what I had not known before. 

The depth of human depravity shocked me afresh. The depth of what we can do is only limited by our human finity. God has truly given us freedom of will and action -including the freedom to be as depraved as we care to be. But thankfully, the grace and mercy of God is far more extensive than even the deep, deep depths of our human depravity. It is limitless. These are easy words to say; I suspect many of us will have trotted them out without thought to what we have affirmed. This week I realised more of the dimensions of grace and freedom-in-God. That it is limitless became more real.   

Ok, slow learner. But still learning, and more thankful, more wanting to explore a bigger dimension. 

sunset

 It's been a week or more of spectacular sunsets here, which I am privileged to watch straight out of the front window. Every afternoon from about four to five o'clock this free show unfolds before me low on the horizon.  All different of course, in colour, form, intensity, length and breadth, in their interaction with cloud. All never to be repeated in exactly the same form. 

The casual glory is astounding. Why should this green and blue planet have  awesome sunrises, sunsets? Yes, I know it's to do with science, meteorology, and probably other -ologies besides, but it's not inevitable, is it, that we should be faced with such unnoticed, unrepeatable beauty day after day? Surely it's a gift?

'The heavens declare the glory of God' says the psalmist. Understated, but true in my book. Pointing to God's playfulness, inexhaustible creativity, wonder, desire for his creatures to enjoy life and beauty; point back to himself. It's something of a self portrait, not complete, but hinting at his personality. Rembrandt, in his fifty nine self portraits plumbed the depths of his own personality over a lifetime like no-one before or since, but these divine portraits just give us hints. Large ones, on a massive canvas, but whispers, maybe love letters, to those who would read them aright. There is still something to explore beyond all the -logies .        

the thought police

 I'm struck this week in the gospel narrative by the activities of the religious thought police. They're everywhere, squeezing into the back of the crowd to monitor, make note of, Jesus' activities, so threatening to the status quo. Not afraid to be seen, either- they question him at what seems like every opportunity; 'who are you? what right have you to do this? the law says otherwise!'

In truth, it's a role which most of us will have adopted at one time or another, although some have made it their life's work to make sure the rules/the prevailing culture/the law are adhered to, and preferably to the very last detail. In the end it's a joyless occupation, with bitterness and suspicion at its root. 

By contrast the impetus of the Spirit of God has about it a freedom, a joy, a life-affirming quality, I could do with it in bucket loads. There's a cynicism in the present culture, and God is far from front and centre. If only there were more instances of life-affirming joy in the endless dimensions of the kingdom! If only..... well, it could begin with me, although it would give the present-day religious thought-police reason to be active.....   

The crib

 The Magi arrived on schedule at the crib on Thursday morning, having travelled a few inches every day across the coffee table towards their destination. Everyone will have their own stories about their children's grasp (or otherwise) of what the Christmas crib scene meant; the two which remain for Mary and I are that the Magi were first understood as 'the grandads', a term which occasionally resurfaces as we contemplate the scene; and that an earlier stable, since replaced, with straw on the floor, seemed a suitably agricultural venue to run a toy tractor through, disturbing the peace of the Holy Family as they were knocked over........

There is something almost complete in the scene now- all the actors are there. It appears crowded, almost excited (and why wouldn't it be?) from certain angles. The latest stable- they have all been modelled from cardboard boxes and needed replacing after a while- is by far the smallest, hence the crowded feeling. All it requires is you, me, to be there. 

If you can imagine the scene in your mind, with all the 'extras'- animals, shepherds, wise men, an angel floating above,-where would you put yourself?  What, or who, are you drawn to in the scene? Do you see what shepherds and Magi see- someone beyond a baby?  

hidden, ordinary

 After the extraordinary portents surrounding Jesus' birth, he sinks into obscurity for about 30 years- about ninety percent of his earthly life- before he begins his public ministry. That is, apart from the pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem when he was about twelve, as recorded by Luke. 

These hidden years, these ordinary years, have had stories stamped on them of fantastical incidents- all found outside the canonical gospels. All dismissed as unlikely. Curiosity about this hidden life is natural, but it will have to stand as it is, a message to us that the ordinary, the routine, the repetitive, the unexciting, the workaday; all this is a fertile field for God. Luke records that it was in this period that Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, finding favour with God and neighbour. 

This new year will start with high hopes, heightened perhaps by the restrictions of recent times. Hopes of a resumption of a more .'normal' routine may have influenced our wishes for 2022. But it will be, as it always is, that in the ordinary, the routine, the unexciting, the repeated task, the workaday, that we grow in wisdom, in the favour of God and neighbour. Doing little things with great love, as Mother Teresa had it. Well, these little things account for ninety percent of life. Probably more.  .