A visit to our local nature reserve today revealed a very different picture from my previous visit, which was only yesterday. More or less continuous rain since then has raised water levels to such an extent that all the islands have disappeared (apart from the largest, and even that is looking vulnerable), and many nests will have been swamped or washed away.
I watched a coot whose nest, probably yesterday some way up the bank, was by now on the shoreline and very vulnerable. The bird eventually left the nest, and began with what looked like a fair degree of desperation to collect branches and twigs from a tangle floating some distance away, dragging them through the water at high speed, and then up onto the shore as though to strengthen the nest and provide some kind of barrier against the rising water. It was a doomed attempt, clearly - though by the time I left the other bird had joined in. It's hard to avoid some degree of anthropomorphism when watching two parents in peril such as these.
Sadly, as I write these words the rain is still falling steadily. However hard they try, there'll be no nest there tomorrow.
Friday 27 April 2012
Tuesday 24 April 2012
Singing
A small group of us met this afternoon just to sing. Some of those who came are living with Parkinson's - and they and the others who joined in are members of the local branch of Parkinson's UK, and supporters of its work.
There is some speculation that music, and singing especially, might be of help in turning back and correcting some of the symptom's of Parkinson's; but anyway, it's a good thing to do. You don't have to be good at it, though in fact the very amateur group that gathered today sounded pretty good to my ears (and, more to the point, to those of my wife, seated at the piano).
I sing a lot with choirs, and we spend a lot of time and effort patiently striving to sing accurately, harmoniously, and in a way that reproduces what the composer had in mind when he or she set down those notes on paper. I enjoy it, both the challenge of the task and the creative way in which we work together in harmony when we do choral music. But it's also good just to sing, without too much worry about how accurate we are.
Folk music in particular is the property of whoever chooses to sing it: songs that sprang from some particular pen, or pipe, or guitar fret, somewhere and sometime, but which have now been given away, and let loose in the world. Thank you to the anonymous singers and players who have given us so much. I was supposed to be leading today's group, but I can take no credit for the fact that were singing so well - music was already flowing in our veins.
Monday 23 April 2012
Thursday 19 April 2012
Who Cares?
Ann's and my Bible study this morning took us to look at the cleansing of the temple, as Mark tells the story. Topping and tailing that story is the account of the cursing of the fig-tree; and I've always felt a bit sorry for that poor old fig tree. It was bearing no fruit, granted, but, as Mark tells us, that was because it wasn't the season for figs! Is this the Jesus we know and love, we may ask, this man who curses a fig tree just because there were no figs ready for him when he wanted one? Isn't that more like how we behave - instant gratification being so much the motto of today's world - than what we might expect from the Messiah?
In fact, the story is closely connected in to the account of the cleansing of the temple. The temple was a place where the people might confidently come and expect to be fed, nourished, both in season and out of season. Instead, they got fleeced, forced into buying animals and birds for sacrifice, or to change their secular money into temple money for tribute, all at inflated prices. God's house had been turned into a business venture, a cultic shrine existing principally to support itself, rather than to bring nourishment to God's people. Jesus cleanses the temple, turning over tables, spilling coins, scattering pigeons, both as a deliberate and conscious acting-out of the prophecy of Malachi and as his own very personal and angry response to the gross injustice he found there.
And the next day Peter finds the fig tree shrivelled up and all but gone. Here is a parable of God's judgement acted out: we are reminded that those who know God and pledge to serve him stand under the greatest test of judgement. We are to bear fruit, to nourish those who come searching for God's grace. In short, we're called on to care, and to reflect and convey in our care the care of God for his people. If we are tempted to say, "We'll do that when the time is right, when we've got all our own affairs in order, when we're sure there is an appropriate surplus in our accounts," we are failing to serve as we are called to serve. "May no-one eat of your fruit," said Jesus to the fig-tree; a few short years after his death, the temple itself lay in ruins, not one stone resting on another.
In fact, the story is closely connected in to the account of the cleansing of the temple. The temple was a place where the people might confidently come and expect to be fed, nourished, both in season and out of season. Instead, they got fleeced, forced into buying animals and birds for sacrifice, or to change their secular money into temple money for tribute, all at inflated prices. God's house had been turned into a business venture, a cultic shrine existing principally to support itself, rather than to bring nourishment to God's people. Jesus cleanses the temple, turning over tables, spilling coins, scattering pigeons, both as a deliberate and conscious acting-out of the prophecy of Malachi and as his own very personal and angry response to the gross injustice he found there.
And the next day Peter finds the fig tree shrivelled up and all but gone. Here is a parable of God's judgement acted out: we are reminded that those who know God and pledge to serve him stand under the greatest test of judgement. We are to bear fruit, to nourish those who come searching for God's grace. In short, we're called on to care, and to reflect and convey in our care the care of God for his people. If we are tempted to say, "We'll do that when the time is right, when we've got all our own affairs in order, when we're sure there is an appropriate surplus in our accounts," we are failing to serve as we are called to serve. "May no-one eat of your fruit," said Jesus to the fig-tree; a few short years after his death, the temple itself lay in ruins, not one stone resting on another.
Tuesday 17 April 2012
Bang To Rights
I was pulled up for speeding locally by one of the unmarked cars a few weeks back. I was on something of a mercy mission and simply had my eyes off the ball, not thinking about the 30 limit. I can't complain, and am very disappointed in myself. I take speed limits as seriously as any other aspect of the laws of our land and normally keep firmly to them - not least because I've seen what speed does to people - drivers, passengers, pedestrians - when there are accidents. But I would just want to say that there have been several occasions since then when I have observed marked and unmarked police vehicles exceeding speed limits. No problem when the blue light is flashing and there's an emergency to attend - but surely at other times the police should be subject to the same rules of the road as everyone else, and indeed should be setting an example to others?
Thought For The Week
"A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain."
Robert Frost
Robert Frost
Sunday 15 April 2012
A Little Rant About (Some) Drivers
Just drove back from Stafford to Welshpool; lost count of the number of drivers making all kinds of manoevres without using indicators. Indicators are not optional extras! They are designed to help other road users have some vague idea of what it is you might be thinking of doing next! Mind you, thinking about it, at least half of those I saw today clearly hadn't much of a clue themselves about what they were going to do next.
Friday 13 April 2012
Haven't Posted Many Pictures Lately . . .
. . . so here's a refreshing scene taken last June, near Bowness, Cumbria.
Thursday 12 April 2012
Swallow
On my way to a meeting today, I had a lot on my mind, decisions to take, thoughts to marshall, ideas to assess (not to mention trying to drive safely on a busy road). But then, unmistakably, flitting across the carriageway, my first swallow of the season! Apologies to those who have been watching them for ages, but this is definitely the first I've seen and I'm going to shout about it!
One swallow does not make a summer, and I suspect this one may well b e thinking better of its foray into the far(ish) north once cold and biting northerly winds strike up over the weekend and into next week. But it cheered me up no end. The message I received is simply this: life goes on, there's always something to hope for and strive towards, there's always a fresh start to make. However old and decrepit I may become in body, I hope that will always be the direction of my spirit: towards summer, and in expectant hope.
One swallow does not make a summer, and I suspect this one may well b e thinking better of its foray into the far(ish) north once cold and biting northerly winds strike up over the weekend and into next week. But it cheered me up no end. The message I received is simply this: life goes on, there's always something to hope for and strive towards, there's always a fresh start to make. However old and decrepit I may become in body, I hope that will always be the direction of my spirit: towards summer, and in expectant hope.
Someone To Talk To
I've been reflecting this morning on the story of the healing of blind Bartimaeus, in chapter 10 of St Mark's Gospel. There is so much in this story, which is the very last event before Jesus makes his entry into Jerusalem to the shouts of 'Hosanna' and the waving of palm branches.
And the first thing that strikes me is that this is a man with no name, something Mark makes very clear when he explains the meaning of 'Bartimaeus' for his Greek readers. This is a man with no name of his own, he's just known by those around as "Timaeus' son". Presumably, being blind, he didn't count, had no value or even identity of his own.
That was about to change. Jesus arrives, and crowds line the streets. I don't imagine any of them were being all that quiet, so the fact that Bartimaeus managed to annoy them by shouting only serves to underline with desperation with which he was yelling. But it's what he was shouting that is so important: "Son of David!" Here, at the very moment at which Jesus is about to enter the Holy City, is a man recognising him for who he is, and making the same confession Peter has made earlier - for the Son of David is the Messiah. Not just an interesting and challenging teacher and teller of stories, not just an inspiring preacher, not just a healer of the blind, even - but God's holy one, and the one long expected.
Jesus picks out his voice in the general hubbub, stops, and asks for him to be brought forward. It will be pretty obvious straight away that this man is blind, so, even without any special sensitivity or divine awareness, it should be clear to Jesus what Bartimaeus wants. Nonetheless, he still asks him - "What is it you want?" God knows our needs, and there's nothing we can tell him about ourselves or our world that he does not already know. But he still desires and welcomes our prayers, our imploring prayers as well as our shouts of praise and promises of service. He is someone for us to talk to . . . but he also chooses, himself, to need someone to talk to. Faith is not just about what theories you subscribe to in life, it's what you do about it, and the God who reveals himself to us in Jesus is a God who seeks relationship.
Bartimaeus receives from Jesus affirmation, identity and sight. All things that we need, too. And what does he do with this? He follows Jesus on the road. The essence of the disciple is that immediacy of response we see in Peter and Andrew, James and John and the others. Jesus called them, and they came, straight away. And here, at the close of the ministry of Jesus outside Jerusalem, is Bartimaeus doing the same. Throughout the Gospel of Mark up to this point, Jesus has ordered people to keep quiet, not to talk about what has been done for them, to go home. He does not say this to Bartimaeus. The time has come for the Messiah to be seen, and known, and, inevitably, to die.
And the first thing that strikes me is that this is a man with no name, something Mark makes very clear when he explains the meaning of 'Bartimaeus' for his Greek readers. This is a man with no name of his own, he's just known by those around as "Timaeus' son". Presumably, being blind, he didn't count, had no value or even identity of his own.
That was about to change. Jesus arrives, and crowds line the streets. I don't imagine any of them were being all that quiet, so the fact that Bartimaeus managed to annoy them by shouting only serves to underline with desperation with which he was yelling. But it's what he was shouting that is so important: "Son of David!" Here, at the very moment at which Jesus is about to enter the Holy City, is a man recognising him for who he is, and making the same confession Peter has made earlier - for the Son of David is the Messiah. Not just an interesting and challenging teacher and teller of stories, not just an inspiring preacher, not just a healer of the blind, even - but God's holy one, and the one long expected.
Jesus picks out his voice in the general hubbub, stops, and asks for him to be brought forward. It will be pretty obvious straight away that this man is blind, so, even without any special sensitivity or divine awareness, it should be clear to Jesus what Bartimaeus wants. Nonetheless, he still asks him - "What is it you want?" God knows our needs, and there's nothing we can tell him about ourselves or our world that he does not already know. But he still desires and welcomes our prayers, our imploring prayers as well as our shouts of praise and promises of service. He is someone for us to talk to . . . but he also chooses, himself, to need someone to talk to. Faith is not just about what theories you subscribe to in life, it's what you do about it, and the God who reveals himself to us in Jesus is a God who seeks relationship.
Bartimaeus receives from Jesus affirmation, identity and sight. All things that we need, too. And what does he do with this? He follows Jesus on the road. The essence of the disciple is that immediacy of response we see in Peter and Andrew, James and John and the others. Jesus called them, and they came, straight away. And here, at the close of the ministry of Jesus outside Jerusalem, is Bartimaeus doing the same. Throughout the Gospel of Mark up to this point, Jesus has ordered people to keep quiet, not to talk about what has been done for them, to go home. He does not say this to Bartimaeus. The time has come for the Messiah to be seen, and known, and, inevitably, to die.
Wednesday 11 April 2012
An Easter Poem
Each Easter morn’s a new blest tide of love,
A world set free from sin and pain of death,
Silver the dew, clear blue the sky above,
The myriad scents of spring fill every breath:
End of each sorrow, cure for every pain,
Risen and free, my Saviour lives again.
A world set free from sin and pain of death,
Silver the dew, clear blue the sky above,
The myriad scents of spring fill every breath:
End of each sorrow, cure for every pain,
Risen and free, my Saviour lives again.
Monday 9 April 2012
Thought For The Week
"Our Lord has written the promise of the resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in spring-time."
Martin Luther
Martin Luther
Easter
Sunday in Jerusalem. The sun sparkles on the white stones of the temple, and on the funeral monuments of the Kidron valley below. The Sabbath has been observed as it ought to be.
The people of the city, or a few of them, had watched as three men were crucified on Friday. But there’ll be no-one talking much about that this morning. After all, crucifixions are almost a routine event under this Roman occupation; the occupying forces like to stage a few at the Passover. It reminds the people who’s in charge; it’s a show of strength at this time of tension.
I should think that Pontius Pilate will have been pleased at the reports of his officers around the city. His garrison troops would have been carefully active through the festival, making sure their strength was noticed. Now, before too long the pilgrims would be heading home, and this crazy city could return to what passed for normal here. The tension would subside, and people could breathe easy. Things seem to have passed off without too many hitches.
Gnarled olive trees stand among the spring flowers in a garden outside the city walls. It is here that the man Jesus has been laid. The body was wound around in its grave clothes, before being carefully placed in a new tomb cut out of the cliff face. There he lay now, in a stone coffin in a stone cave, with a great stone rolled into place to close off the entrance. Pilate will have known the place. After all, it was he who had given the order that the body might be released into the care of Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Jewish council no less, to be interred in the tomb he had provided for his own future burial. Pontius Pilate had thought it prudent to place one or two men on guard, though; there’d been some popular support for this one.
Anyway, as this Sunday morning dawns, those who occupied the places of power in Jerusalem had retained their grasp on the means of power. The controllers remained in control. That’s how the world is. Nothing ever really changes. A few days ago, pilgrims coming into town from Galilee had shouted ‘Hosanna’, and thrown coats and palm branches onto the road. They’d found someone different, they’d found a teacher whose words burned like fire in their hearts. Was this man going to change the world? Was this the one God had promised he would send them? But now, nothing - the system has won again, as it always does.
Meanwhile, in the first dawning light of the first day of the week, a mysterious and even an unreal time, there are women making their way into the garden. The gnarled trunks of the olives are hazy and half-glimpsed in the white mist; the air is sharp and cold, and the dew on the branches and leaves soaks through the outer clothes of the women as they push past. Perhaps there’s birdsong, but far away. As they walk along the path through the garden, the women are surrounded by a reverent stillness. And as they walk, Mary and the others anxiously wonder how they can get into the tomb to anoint the body. How are they going to roll away that huge stone without help?
Then, through the mist they see the tomb, but not as they expected to see it – for the stone is already rolled away. That’s not good news, but disaster. It means something awful has happened, one more awful thing to add to the awfulness of their grief.
Yet by the day's end both the women, and the fearful disciples of Jesus, will be beginning to grasp a wonderful new reality. They will be beginning to understand that their Lord, the man whose final breaths they witnessed, is not dead, but alive. He has been dead, and now he is alive. And, knowing that, they now live in a different world. The Easter world.
There is, I would say, a Saturday world, and there’s a Sunday world. Those who entered the garden that morning, and those to whom they ran with the message of what they’d discovered there - they are now Sunday people, Easter people - and so are we; for we follow those first friends of Jesus by choosing to meet on the first day of the week, and as we do so then Sunday by Sunday we affirm and celebrate that on the first day of the week, long ago in Jerusalem, the world changed forever. We affirm that here and now we are citizens of that new world, that world in which the system no longer wins, the world in which death itself has died.
This morning is only the start of it. Easter in the calendars and traditions of the Church is not one but forty days - and all those days would be needed for this great mystery not to be solved or explained, but discerned and rejoiced in and lived with. Over that time the friends of Jesus will be moving on from their initial delight - “our Lord lives!” to understanding what that will mean for themselves, and for the world. Easter is not the miraculous escape of one man from death. We are not here to celebrate Jesus the escapologist; Jesus hasn’t survived anything, Jesus has not returned from anywhere. Resurrection is not the same thing as resuscitation; Jesus does not come back to life on Easter morning, he goes forward into life; something new begins.
Illusionists and escapologists entertain us; and as we marvel at a magic show we can amuse ourselves by trying to work out how the magician has managed to escape from what looks to us to be an impossible situation. But Easter is not an illusion; this is real.
We like to hear stirring tales of survival against the odds - solo yachtsmen, arctic explorers, travellers lost in the jungle. If Easter was that sort of escape, it would be a story worth telling. But that would still be a story still set in the old world, the world in which the system always wins.
In the old world, death still gets you in the end, however many cat's lives you might use up in the meantime. Death is still real and final, however cleverly you may wave the magic wand. But this isn’t that story. Jesus doesn’t escape from death, he enters death, he is dead. But on this golden morning he has broken through - he’s left the Saturday world behind, he’s shaken off the chains of death, and not just as a one-off, not just for himself. Jesus lifts from us the sting of death, he breaks its power once and for all. He takes from us the deadening impact of our sin and our denial of God.
Lazarus emerged from the tomb still dressed in grave clothes, saved from one death to fie another. But Jesus has left the grave clothes behind, and his disciples find them lying in the tomb. And he challenges us to be Sunday people in the Saturday world, and Easter people in the world that is still in thrall to the old system of fear and death.
It may look as though the system still wins, it may seem as we hear the news that the old power games are still up and running. On that first Easter Sunday morning Pontius Pilate will have been a relieved and happy man, happy to be still in charge, happy that nothing much had changed, that the Passover was done with, that things were the same as always. But in the mist of that first Easter morning, as a few people have begun to understand that silently but forever the world has turned upside down, the cross on which a man died has become a royal throne, and the love he proclaimed and lived and shared is revealed as stronger than death.
Some famous words from Archbishop Desmond Tutu: “Good is stronger than evil; love is stronger than hate; light is stronger than darkness; life is stronger than death. Victory is ours, through him who loves us.” Here is the truth of the Sunday world.
The people of the city, or a few of them, had watched as three men were crucified on Friday. But there’ll be no-one talking much about that this morning. After all, crucifixions are almost a routine event under this Roman occupation; the occupying forces like to stage a few at the Passover. It reminds the people who’s in charge; it’s a show of strength at this time of tension.
I should think that Pontius Pilate will have been pleased at the reports of his officers around the city. His garrison troops would have been carefully active through the festival, making sure their strength was noticed. Now, before too long the pilgrims would be heading home, and this crazy city could return to what passed for normal here. The tension would subside, and people could breathe easy. Things seem to have passed off without too many hitches.
Gnarled olive trees stand among the spring flowers in a garden outside the city walls. It is here that the man Jesus has been laid. The body was wound around in its grave clothes, before being carefully placed in a new tomb cut out of the cliff face. There he lay now, in a stone coffin in a stone cave, with a great stone rolled into place to close off the entrance. Pilate will have known the place. After all, it was he who had given the order that the body might be released into the care of Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Jewish council no less, to be interred in the tomb he had provided for his own future burial. Pontius Pilate had thought it prudent to place one or two men on guard, though; there’d been some popular support for this one.
Anyway, as this Sunday morning dawns, those who occupied the places of power in Jerusalem had retained their grasp on the means of power. The controllers remained in control. That’s how the world is. Nothing ever really changes. A few days ago, pilgrims coming into town from Galilee had shouted ‘Hosanna’, and thrown coats and palm branches onto the road. They’d found someone different, they’d found a teacher whose words burned like fire in their hearts. Was this man going to change the world? Was this the one God had promised he would send them? But now, nothing - the system has won again, as it always does.
Meanwhile, in the first dawning light of the first day of the week, a mysterious and even an unreal time, there are women making their way into the garden. The gnarled trunks of the olives are hazy and half-glimpsed in the white mist; the air is sharp and cold, and the dew on the branches and leaves soaks through the outer clothes of the women as they push past. Perhaps there’s birdsong, but far away. As they walk along the path through the garden, the women are surrounded by a reverent stillness. And as they walk, Mary and the others anxiously wonder how they can get into the tomb to anoint the body. How are they going to roll away that huge stone without help?
Then, through the mist they see the tomb, but not as they expected to see it – for the stone is already rolled away. That’s not good news, but disaster. It means something awful has happened, one more awful thing to add to the awfulness of their grief.
Yet by the day's end both the women, and the fearful disciples of Jesus, will be beginning to grasp a wonderful new reality. They will be beginning to understand that their Lord, the man whose final breaths they witnessed, is not dead, but alive. He has been dead, and now he is alive. And, knowing that, they now live in a different world. The Easter world.
There is, I would say, a Saturday world, and there’s a Sunday world. Those who entered the garden that morning, and those to whom they ran with the message of what they’d discovered there - they are now Sunday people, Easter people - and so are we; for we follow those first friends of Jesus by choosing to meet on the first day of the week, and as we do so then Sunday by Sunday we affirm and celebrate that on the first day of the week, long ago in Jerusalem, the world changed forever. We affirm that here and now we are citizens of that new world, that world in which the system no longer wins, the world in which death itself has died.
This morning is only the start of it. Easter in the calendars and traditions of the Church is not one but forty days - and all those days would be needed for this great mystery not to be solved or explained, but discerned and rejoiced in and lived with. Over that time the friends of Jesus will be moving on from their initial delight - “our Lord lives!” to understanding what that will mean for themselves, and for the world. Easter is not the miraculous escape of one man from death. We are not here to celebrate Jesus the escapologist; Jesus hasn’t survived anything, Jesus has not returned from anywhere. Resurrection is not the same thing as resuscitation; Jesus does not come back to life on Easter morning, he goes forward into life; something new begins.
Illusionists and escapologists entertain us; and as we marvel at a magic show we can amuse ourselves by trying to work out how the magician has managed to escape from what looks to us to be an impossible situation. But Easter is not an illusion; this is real.
We like to hear stirring tales of survival against the odds - solo yachtsmen, arctic explorers, travellers lost in the jungle. If Easter was that sort of escape, it would be a story worth telling. But that would still be a story still set in the old world, the world in which the system always wins.
In the old world, death still gets you in the end, however many cat's lives you might use up in the meantime. Death is still real and final, however cleverly you may wave the magic wand. But this isn’t that story. Jesus doesn’t escape from death, he enters death, he is dead. But on this golden morning he has broken through - he’s left the Saturday world behind, he’s shaken off the chains of death, and not just as a one-off, not just for himself. Jesus lifts from us the sting of death, he breaks its power once and for all. He takes from us the deadening impact of our sin and our denial of God.
Lazarus emerged from the tomb still dressed in grave clothes, saved from one death to fie another. But Jesus has left the grave clothes behind, and his disciples find them lying in the tomb. And he challenges us to be Sunday people in the Saturday world, and Easter people in the world that is still in thrall to the old system of fear and death.
It may look as though the system still wins, it may seem as we hear the news that the old power games are still up and running. On that first Easter Sunday morning Pontius Pilate will have been a relieved and happy man, happy to be still in charge, happy that nothing much had changed, that the Passover was done with, that things were the same as always. But in the mist of that first Easter morning, as a few people have begun to understand that silently but forever the world has turned upside down, the cross on which a man died has become a royal throne, and the love he proclaimed and lived and shared is revealed as stronger than death.
Some famous words from Archbishop Desmond Tutu: “Good is stronger than evil; love is stronger than hate; light is stronger than darkness; life is stronger than death. Victory is ours, through him who loves us.” Here is the truth of the Sunday world.
Saturday 7 April 2012
Holy
The one place in scripture at which we are brought fully face to face with the majesty of God is when we stand - or fall - at the foot of the cross. There are places where glory is presented in more conventional terms, as on the mountains of Sinai and the Transfiguration; but it is in the helpless and shattered body of the crucified Christ that we see, as nowhere else, what that glory truly is. Here we are drawn, challenged, convicted, changed by a love that calls us and claims us, even in the depths of our willfulness and sin.
Jesus says, "Except you come as little children, you shall not enter God's kingdom." Children have a capacity to delight in life, and a playful spirit, and a capacity to give and to receive love, that must rejoice the heart of God; but, more than that, children are dependent, and know they are.
It is the helplessness of the man who hangs on that cross, life draining from him, that - as we see what is really happening there - leads us to recognise and acknowledge our own childlike dependence on what only he can give us. Without him, our best endeavours are wasted; in him, a love divine meets with our own feeble efforts at love and transforms them, even as we are forced to face up to the impact of our own weakness and foolishness and sin.
As we gaze on the cross, what looks to us like a place of degradation, defeat and death is made by this great love into the only true royal throne, against which the finest and grandest of the royal thrones of earth are found wanting. And this man is hanging there both because of me and yet for me, instead of me. Praise the King of Glory.
Jesus says, "Except you come as little children, you shall not enter God's kingdom." Children have a capacity to delight in life, and a playful spirit, and a capacity to give and to receive love, that must rejoice the heart of God; but, more than that, children are dependent, and know they are.
It is the helplessness of the man who hangs on that cross, life draining from him, that - as we see what is really happening there - leads us to recognise and acknowledge our own childlike dependence on what only he can give us. Without him, our best endeavours are wasted; in him, a love divine meets with our own feeble efforts at love and transforms them, even as we are forced to face up to the impact of our own weakness and foolishness and sin.
As we gaze on the cross, what looks to us like a place of degradation, defeat and death is made by this great love into the only true royal throne, against which the finest and grandest of the royal thrones of earth are found wanting. And this man is hanging there both because of me and yet for me, instead of me. Praise the King of Glory.
Friday 6 April 2012
Good Friday
Words from Psalm 31, a personal favourite :-
In you, O Lord, I find shelter: let me never be put to shame.
In your mercy, set me free: incline your ear to me, and be swift to save me.
Be my rock and my stronghold: a fortress, and a place of rescue.
For you are my crag and my bastion: for your name's sake, lead me and guide me.
Set me free from the net my enemies have laid for me: for you are my stronghold.
Into your hands I commend my spirit: for you have redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.
In you, O Lord, I find shelter: let me never be put to shame.
In your mercy, set me free: incline your ear to me, and be swift to save me.
Be my rock and my stronghold: a fortress, and a place of rescue.
For you are my crag and my bastion: for your name's sake, lead me and guide me.
Set me free from the net my enemies have laid for me: for you are my stronghold.
Into your hands I commend my spirit: for you have redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.
Wednesday 4 April 2012
Snow
Today's substantial snowfall here came as something of a surprise, despite the forecasts! We had several inches, and, although it won't stay around too long, it's still here, or some of it, tonight, and winter is back with us for what I hope will only be a brief visit.
Snow turns the world around into a sort of dreamscape, I always feel. That's partly because it has its own intrinsic beauty, creating a carpet of white to obscure the normal imperfections of the world and even change the nature and intensity of the light. But at the same time there is the way in which - as one goes out in it and tries to get on with the normal chores of life - a world coated with snow is reality subtly distorted so that it's the same place and yet somehow not the same place, all at once.
Well, today in fact, once I was halfway down the hill into town, I found I was below the snowline and all there was down there was sleet, with nothing much if anything sticking. So, once I'd made it across the first quarter mile or so, my working day was more or less unaffected. It was strange to find the snow (and the dreamscape) still in place here when I got back home!
Snow turns the world around into a sort of dreamscape, I always feel. That's partly because it has its own intrinsic beauty, creating a carpet of white to obscure the normal imperfections of the world and even change the nature and intensity of the light. But at the same time there is the way in which - as one goes out in it and tries to get on with the normal chores of life - a world coated with snow is reality subtly distorted so that it's the same place and yet somehow not the same place, all at once.
Well, today in fact, once I was halfway down the hill into town, I found I was below the snowline and all there was down there was sleet, with nothing much if anything sticking. So, once I'd made it across the first quarter mile or so, my working day was more or less unaffected. It was strange to find the snow (and the dreamscape) still in place here when I got back home!
Tuesday 3 April 2012
Moss
Decided to mow the front lawn tonight using the new mower, and set it for the lowest cut. The amount of moss it dragged up out of the lawn horrified me! I'm still trying to work out why front lawns seem more susceptible to moss than back lawns; in our present case, the front lawn is north-facing and often in shade, but that hasn't been true everywhere we've been. Perhaps in recent build houses the soil used under front lawns has been poor, probably the turf poor too - these will have been laid down by the contractors, whereas the back garden has been the responsibility, from the word go, of householders. Probably also the householders themselves have spent more time and effort on the private space of the back garden than the open and more public space at the front of the house.
But anyway, moss is generally a sign of overshading, poor fertility and, more importantly, neglect, when found in a lawn. Because it's green you don't notice too much straight away; the lawn sort of looks all right, especially if all you ever do is walk past it quickly on your way in or out. But in practice, what's happening is that the grass is getting shaded, starved and choked, and the impact is cumulative.
I feel a parable coming on here. For isn't this so true of so much in our lives. We neglect things we ought to tend, we don't notice the steady declines in quality, in ability, in care. And then things start falling apart, and the remedy is probably going to have to be quite a drastic one. Holy Week is for Christians a time for facing up - boldly and honestly - to the truths about ourselves that we spend most of our lives ignoring, just walking past.
Meanwhile, a good chunk of my front lawn is now looking pretty poorly - yellow, sparse and bare. But it's on the way to getting better. Having cleared out the bad stuff, I now need to take the time and trouble to feed and encourage the good.
But anyway, moss is generally a sign of overshading, poor fertility and, more importantly, neglect, when found in a lawn. Because it's green you don't notice too much straight away; the lawn sort of looks all right, especially if all you ever do is walk past it quickly on your way in or out. But in practice, what's happening is that the grass is getting shaded, starved and choked, and the impact is cumulative.
I feel a parable coming on here. For isn't this so true of so much in our lives. We neglect things we ought to tend, we don't notice the steady declines in quality, in ability, in care. And then things start falling apart, and the remedy is probably going to have to be quite a drastic one. Holy Week is for Christians a time for facing up - boldly and honestly - to the truths about ourselves that we spend most of our lives ignoring, just walking past.
Meanwhile, a good chunk of my front lawn is now looking pretty poorly - yellow, sparse and bare. But it's on the way to getting better. Having cleared out the bad stuff, I now need to take the time and trouble to feed and encourage the good.
Monday 2 April 2012
Thought For The Week
O blessed Jesus, give me stillness of soul in You.
Let Your mighty calmness reign in me.
Rule me, O King of Gentleness, King of Peace.
John of the Cross
Let Your mighty calmness reign in me.
Rule me, O King of Gentleness, King of Peace.
John of the Cross
Man Of Sorrows
I had the immense privilege of being asked to sing the solo in the version of the hymn 'Man of Sorrows' that is included in Roger Jones' musical 'From Pharaoh to Freedom' last night at our local Methodist Church. It should properly be a soprano solo, not tenor, but we were not doing a full production, instead using the music (rather beautifully) to create the setting for a gentle and moving communion service for the start of Holy Week.
And these are tremendous words with which to begin Holy Week: "Bearing shame and scoffing rude, in my place condemned he stood, sealed my pardon with his blood: hallelujah! What a Saviour!"
On Saturday I was with another local choir to sing, among other items, the Allegri 'Miserere', that wonderfully inspiring setting of Psalm 51, a Psalm which is from start to finish the anguished cry to God of a penitent. It may well be that, as the Hebrew preface suggests, this is a Psalm written by David himself after his adultery with Bathsheba (and his conspiracy to cause the death of her husband). His are desperate words, with, at their heart, verses 11 and 12: "Turn your face from my offences, and wipe away all my misdeeds. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a form spirit within me."
The good news of this week is that we can know that this prayer is heard and answered; and that all the stuff that so drags us down has been shouldered in our stead by the 'Man of Sorrows', as he walks the road to the cross. The Psalmist writes (verse 17): "Lord, open my lips, that my mouth may tell of your praise." I was both proud and humbled to sing, "Hallelujah! What a Saviour!" May this be my constant refrain through this Holy Week.
And these are tremendous words with which to begin Holy Week: "Bearing shame and scoffing rude, in my place condemned he stood, sealed my pardon with his blood: hallelujah! What a Saviour!"
On Saturday I was with another local choir to sing, among other items, the Allegri 'Miserere', that wonderfully inspiring setting of Psalm 51, a Psalm which is from start to finish the anguished cry to God of a penitent. It may well be that, as the Hebrew preface suggests, this is a Psalm written by David himself after his adultery with Bathsheba (and his conspiracy to cause the death of her husband). His are desperate words, with, at their heart, verses 11 and 12: "Turn your face from my offences, and wipe away all my misdeeds. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a form spirit within me."
The good news of this week is that we can know that this prayer is heard and answered; and that all the stuff that so drags us down has been shouldered in our stead by the 'Man of Sorrows', as he walks the road to the cross. The Psalmist writes (verse 17): "Lord, open my lips, that my mouth may tell of your praise." I was both proud and humbled to sing, "Hallelujah! What a Saviour!" May this be my constant refrain through this Holy Week.
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