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.     

 

How can I keep from singing?

 

Firstly, an apology for the lack of a blog in the last two weeks; endless technical problems....... but now, to horse! 

My life goes on in endless song/ Above earth´s lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn/ That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife/I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul/ How can I keep from singing?

Singing, but only by myself. Since covid struck, the choir Mary and I belong to- nothing fancy, just done for the joy of it- has not met to sing. We lack the technology to record individually and put it all together as though we are all singing in one room, and anyway, that smacks of a professionalism we don’t pretend to.

Song for me has been reduced to the croaks I can produce, and what I hear on the radio, or via CD. The earworm keeps it alive too.

The church services I led recently have been less than they could be, as there was no singing. The world has diminished by lack of expression in any form of live singing since the spring. 

Nevertheless, the heart continues to sing. In the face of all the goodness Audrey Assad’s song (above) witnesses to, how can I keep from singing?  ‘I will sing praise to the name of the Lord most high’ says the psalmist. In kitchens and bathrooms, songs and hymns are still sung ‘above earth’s lamentations’. Somehow, we can’t stop singing,  

 

The helium balloon

 Seven weeks! I don't know how much longer I can expect the helium balloon to last; it came as part of a present at the beginning of  September, splashed with the words 'Thank you' across it. It has hovered above the television now, a little slimmer, a little dented, slowly losing gas, but essentially at the same height as when it was newly installed. 

At this rate, it may be some weeks yet before it starts to lose height, ready to be disposed of. It has a certain staying power which I had not expected. I'm not ready to part with it. 

Staying power. It's one of the qualities we, adherents of the faith, are asked to exhibit. But that staying power is not the same as immutability. Like the helium balloon, I've changed. I hope I'm less of a gas-bag than when I first came into the faith; I may be a little dented, less able to float above the cares of the world, less of a shine to me, but I hope too that I'm still in some way broadcasting a message of thanks to God for his goodness.  Still up there, still there. 

We cannot account for the future, but hope that the trajectory taken so far, that long walk in the same direction of the way of the cross, finds us with staying power to the end. 

Years versus grace

 You know you're getting old when the case of medications is as big as the case you pack with clothes, when you go away. This sardonic thought struck me as I unpacked my stuff last week when we were away in Whitby- although let it be said that I take relatively few potions, and I recognise that multiple medications are not solely the province of those of us who are, shall we say, more mature in years. Okay, elderly.  

Numbers of thoughts crowded my head after this thought. 'I don't feel old/what is old anyway?/there is a vision of old age in the Old Testament as the crowning glory of a life'. And it is this last thought which is so intriguing, and which asks us to change our mind-set away from the number of years a life has lasted, to focus instead on its richness in wisdom and grace. 

Certainly this is a potent insight lighted upon by Richard Rohr, notable Franciscan monk and teacher; most clearly in 'Falling Upwards' a book about the 'second half of life' , Except this 'half' can be entered at any age, and marks the balance of life changing from the getting of 'stuff ' (position, status, wealth etc) towards the getting of wisdom. That ability to look beyond 'Does my bum look big in this?' to the serenity of 'Life has taught me...'   

There is something to be said for growing old disgracefully. But there is much to be said too for later years whose hallmarks are wisdom, serenity and grace. Like most folk, I commute between the two poles. But the compass points to a true north of wisdom, of grace. All I have to do is follow.      

  

Packing up for winter

 The garden is in retreat, as expected. The bedding plants and other annuals, which have been wonderful, are way past their best, and I'm gradually replacing them with winter pansies. The 'Judy Dench' rose is still giving its all in what I guess is a last show of orange and apricot, but the rhubarb has finished, and leaves are falling from the young apple and plum trees. That notorious thug crocosmia- but let's be generous, it does add a lot of vibrant orange and green to late summer-has been thinned out, to give breathing space to plants which surround it. And that's just the beginning......

Seasonal changes come in our lives just as surely as in the garden, although perhaps not with the same regularity. We blossom here, and wither, or winter, there. TLC is applied here, weedkiller, in a metaphorical sense, there. Newness comes and spreads, and self-control , or worse, limits what might unreasonably take over. 

The only constant in life is change. For some this represents a challenge- the unchanging certainty of the faith is what draws them, although I have not found unchanging certainty in the church. Nor would wish too. It is 'Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today and forever' who is unchanging, although our perceptions and ideas about him change. The church, bound by its contexts in time and place, mutates and grows and withers. 

It's a challenge, navigating the changeability/unchangingness of our beliefs and its contexts. Armed with metaphorical pruning shears and fertiliser, we tend the garden of faith as best we can, rejoicing in the beauty and work each season brings.