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.