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?