Easter 2 reflection: Thomas

Thomas based on Jn 20:19-31
Not for you 

the hiding behind locked doors:

Thomas, the doer;

practical, shrewd.

Even in grief –

especially in grief –

people have to eat

and food doesn’t just

appear as if by magic, 

does it?

Do you smile at the thought,

remembering a hill,

some loaves and fishes,

an unexpected, very large picnic?

Not for you

hemming yourself in from fear:

Thomas, the daring;

pragmatic, brave.

Even when risk –

especially when risk –

is looming,

you square your shoulders

and walk with him to Jerusalem

to die.

Do you wince at the thought,

remembering a hill,

a cross of wood and nails,

an unexpected, yet expected ending?

Not for you

closing yourself away:

Thomas, the anything but doubting;

prophetic, wise.

Even when faced –

especially when faced –

with the unthinkable.

Unlike the others, you worship,

for you see him as he is:

divine.

Do you laugh at the thought,

remembering the upper room,

his side, his hands,

an unexpected, yet predicted beginning?
     c.Nik Mac 2022

Easter Sunday - Mary - from John 20:1-18

Mary...

Entirely possessed –

bedevilled.

Your steps much lighter

since he met you

where you were.

You turned your face

toward the Son

and flourished.

Possessed now by grief –

a withering.

Your steps, are heavy

as you go to

where he is.

He turned his face

toward Jerusalem

and perished.

Self-possessed –

blossoming.

He blooms with life

in all its fullness

as he meets you

where you are.

You turn again

toward the Son...

astonished.
            c.Nik Mac 2022

Holy Week reflections - Thursday: 'The usual, unusual story'

It is the usual story, 

accompanied by the usual food.

It is the usual rabbi, 

accompanied by the usual group of disciples.

It is the usual conversation, 

accompanied by the usual jests 

and theological point-scoring.

That is, it is the usual, until the unusual happens.

Mid-meal, the usual rabbi suddenly rises 

from the table and starts disrobing.

This unusual action has got their full attention.

Dressed in just his tunic, a towel around his waist,

the usual rabbi looks unusually fragile.

Chatter stopped, they listen as the water falls into the bowl,

watch in silence as he kneels before them: as servant.

The usual meal has become unusually awkward

as the natural order of things is overturned

and feet are washed by the Master.

It is the usual way of things that Peter misunderstands

and then jumps in with both feet first.

The unusual usual rabbi teaches as he washes,

showing them the way of loving service.

All is upturned:

it is the unusual that is to become the usual.

Bread becomes body, wine becomes blood,

power is stripped of ego.

It is an unusual story, 

accompanied by unusual food.

It is an unusual rabbi, 

accompanied by an unusual group named ‘friends’, 

gathered through the ages.

It is an unusual conversation, 

accompanied by unusual love shown in word and action.

That is, it is the unusual, until it becomes the usual...

for, usually, love is a work in progress.

      I give you a new commandment, 
      that you love one another. 

      Just as I have loved you, 

      you also should love one another.

      By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, 

      if you have love for one another

  c.Nik Mac 2022

Holy Week reflections - Tuesday: 'We would see Jesus'

We would see Jesus
based on John 12:20-36

The cheers of Sunday, faded now,
replaced by whispered plotting.
Shadows stretch and linger –
darkness strives to overtake the light.
Time moves towards the hour,
inexorable, unrelenting.
Though even now,
there those who would see Jesus.
No more space for telling stories:
urgency brings forth
stark, unvarnished truths.
To see him
will be to witness
pain and death and grief;
a raising up
and cutting down.
In this defeat
he talks of ‘glory’;
the grain of wheat
upon the ground
bears fruit.
In sacrifice and service –
love is shown
in flesh and blood and bone.
                  c.Nik Mac 2022

Holy Week reflections: Monday - Martha and Mary, revisited

Martha and Mary, revisited.

Martha,
forever the ‘practical one’:
remembers the smell of death,
remembers her brother’s grave,
the Lord’s call to take away the stone
separating the lifeless from the living.
She remembers the sounds –
rock rolling away,
the voice crying
‘Lazarus, come out’,
the stumbled shuffling
of cloth-bound feet
moving from darkness
into light.
Mary,
forever the ‘spiritual one’
feels again the hot tears
on her cheeks,
her brother’s warmth
as she holds him,
not quite daring to let go.

Martha,
forever the ‘practical one’:
prepares the meal they will share,
prepares a celebration of life
for Lazarus, brought back, from tomb to home
with rejoicing and thanksgiving.
She prepares the places –
serves the meal
to hungry guests,
the Lord among them.
Smell of food
replaced by scent of nard;
its fragrance fills
the room.
Mary,
forever the ‘spiritual one’,
now, as priest, anoints then
wipes his feet
with hair unbound
as Judas scolds her
not quite daring to believe.
        c.Nik Mac 2022

Maundy Thursday, in a time of pandemic...

Maundy Thursday, in a time of pandemic...  

This Maundy Thursday,
there’ll be no shared meal around a table
for there’d be more
than two households who’d gather;
no washing of feet,
nor a beloved disciple coorying in;
no touching, no hugging—
and where a kiss is a betrayal
on a variety of levels.

In a time of pandemic,
when simple touch
can lead to death,
how then to show God’s love,
to do as Jesus has done for us?

Loving one another is:
a facemask worn;
the skoosh of sanitiser,
falling cool upon hands
when making entries and exits;
making space—
at least two metres.

There are other ways to practice love—
to touch hearts without touching:
be deliverers of medicines,
of food,
of news,
or, stay home—
for that, too, is an act of loving service.

Support the local food bank.
Phone a friend,
ask them how they really are—
and give the gift of listening
when, timidly, they tiptoe past ‘fine’
and move into harder honesty.

This Maundy Thursday,
we follow the command to love
by touching other’s lives...
without touching.
                    c.Nik Mac 2021

'She cannot throw his shoes away' - Martha and Lazarus

As a wee writing challenge to myself, I'm exploring different forms of poetry.
Earlier in the year, at writing group, we discussed the 'villanelle' -
think 'Do not go gentle into that good night', by Dylan Thomas, as an example.
One of our number had raised the subject, and then shared an attempt [brilliant]
that she'd written. It planted a seed. Now on holiday by the seaside, I've a little
time to write. In having a go at this form, I really enjoyed the winding thread of
rhyme and the pattern.

Below, my first attempt.
The subject matter is grief - with a nod to Joan Didion's 'shoes' in her superb
'The year of magical thinking.'  
Here, we have Martha, sister of Lazarus.
Perhaps this may come in handy over Holy Week, or at a bereavement service over Advent/Christmas.

Martha, on the death of Lazarus
She cannot throw his shoes away
and runs her thumb along the grooves -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

She feels the hollows toes have made,
and feels his presence in the room -
she cannot throw his shoes away.

She sits and holds her tears at bay
looks at his clothes, smells death’s perfume -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

She stumbles in her grief, feels rage,
feels numb, feels sad; how grief consumes -
she cannot throw his shoes away.

She rises, at the Rabbi’s gaze
and, shoes in hand, a small hope blooms -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

‘Come out!’ she hears the Rabbi say
and signs of life sound from the tomb:
she cannot throw his shoes away
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?
                                            ©Nik Macdonald, 19 Nov. 2019

Gone fishin', and other thoughts

Currently procrastin...er, pondering and reflecting upon the sermon for tomorrow.
*ahem*
It's been a different space, over the year since the end of August 2016, as I've moved from making use of the Revised Common Lectionary, to working through Brian McClaren's book 'We Make the Road by Walking' with the congregation. It's been fun encountering texts I've not necessarily preached on before, as well as finding other texts in quite different places in the church liturgical calendar than I've been used to.
Enjoyable.
Challenging.
Refreshing.
Engaging with story/stories.
Making me think in a slightly different way.
All good stuff.
Hopefully, the folk who've bought the book and aimed to follow along as they could, have also found it a helpful approach.
Currently wondering where we might go from 'Making the Road'...
Always the big question, really:
how to help folk engage with God a little more - new ways, and old ways, creative ways and more structured ways, in the mystery and the everyday.
And, following on, through that engagement, how to work out that engagement
in a context wider than just a 'me and my God' way.
I'm still passionate on the 'called to be in community' thing - a challenge in a world where
we seem to champion the individual over all, forgetting that none of us ever gets 'there'
completely by our own efforts.
Anti-Hayek bias coming to the fore: there is such a thing as society...darn it.

In the meanwhile, I've recently come across Steve Garnaas-Holmes' site Unfolding Light.
Some really lovely reflections in there, and I'm looking forward to gently working my way through some of his posts while I'm on a wee break.
Given that I'm off-lectionary at the moment, and meeting fish, rather than walking along the road to Emmaus, I'll be borrowing the following during worship tomorrow, for a short reflection:

Fish

Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach;

                  but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus.

         Jesus said to them, “Dear children, you have no fish, have you?”

                  They answered him, “No.”

         He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat,

                  and you will find some.”

                           —John 21.4-5

The surface is always blank.

The real, submerged.

Look down into that sky,

where beneath a vague cloud flashes,

—is it above or below?—

created, given, waiting.

There is another way,

another side of your little boat.

Beneath your dreary, fruitless nights

something graced awaits,

abundance exceeding your capacity, blessing

at which you laugh in wonder and fright,

a gift that bears you to the breaking point,

a net swelled with light and glory,

and not by luck, but given in love: a presence,

a companionship you hadn't recognized.

Heaven is offered, hearts are restored

in something as simple as a broiled fish, shared.

But first you learn a new way,

another side, the unrecognized friend.

And then, after the gift, the revelation,

you learn a new way, another side.

The Mystery doesn't leave you.

It leads.

Maundy Thursday reflections...

Some reflections for Maundy Thursday, written for a project that I'm involved with...


‘Radical’
It is a week that begins so well.
The crowds roar their delight as he rides into town:
Word is on the street.
He is teaching, healing,
and the crowds surround him.
Mid-week, the mood turns
along with the tables in the Temple.
Not good for business,
all this chasing folk from stalls,
making whips from cords,
berating them for just earning a living,
running about as if he owned the place.
These country folk don’t understand
the art of tact and diplomacy.
Hackles on backs are raised
while there are still some who seek a miracle.
His friends are getting twitchy watching
as he dances dangerously on the edge.
Wary, they walk the city
trying to keep a low profile,
keeping their heads down
and wishing that he would do the same.
He doesn’t play the game:
speaks out against the powers that be
for not caring for the least,
for loving privilege more than these.
On Thursday, his friends are fractious,
cracking under stress.
He bids a couple to go prepare a meal.
Over bread and wine and blessing,
he talks of his body breaking and bleeding,
wants them to eat the bread
and drink from his cup of suffering.
It’s all too much,
and they lash out at one another:
fingers point and accusations fly.
They fight for top position
on what is feeling like a sinking ship.
His words, though quiet,
cut through the conversation:
overturn their notions.
He tells them of God’s kin-dom,
built on loving service:
seeing, hearing, those ignored
and those unheard,
and making space at the table
for all.
Radical.
That kind of talk will get him killed....

'A time, and a place'

'The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to put Jesus to death,  

for they were afraid of the people.' 

In the city, in the halls of religious power, there is fear.  

The unruly rabbi has been causing trouble.
Proclaimed by palm-waving crowds,
popularity has gone to his head.
His habit of spending time with outcasts is offensive;
his unholy act of anger in the Temple is verging on the seditious.
They must put him in his place, contain him.

So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying,   
'Go and prepare the Passover meal for us that we may eat it.'
In an upper room, the table is made ready for the feast.
He is eager, they are puzzled;
wine is poured and bread is blessed.
The One who is the Word speaks into startled silence:
breaks bread, and says it’s his body, broken;
pours wine, talks of the shedding of his blood.
This, a meal, not soon forgotten.

'I am among you as one who serves.'
At the table, tempers fray:
ambition unmasked, they fight for power.
The beloved teacher watches as they squabble.
Three years and yet they’ve missed his point entirely.
Quietly, he pours water into basin,
takes the towel,
and kneels before them:
gives them the place of honour with a servant’s heart.
There is still a little time to learn...

'A growing darkness'
Symbolic actions could be incorporated into this reflection, 
either by the person reading, or done by another while this is being read.
This could be used just prior to Communion.  
Begin with lights dimmed, if possible....

Act I: The Plot 
(coins are placed on table at one side)
Shadows creep and darkness deepens,  
fear hangs heavy in the air.
Terms agreed - a secret meeting;  
betrayal, sanctified by prayer.

Act II: The Meal
(table is ‘dressed’ with a candle, at each end and lit; bread and wine is placed centrally on the table)
Friends now gather, drawn together,
Jesus calls them to the feast.
Blessing bread and wine, he bids them:
‘Do this to remember me.’

Act III: The Fight
(symbols of power - e.g. hammer, crown, or badge of office - are placed next to the coins)
As they eat, the talk grows heated;
bitterly, they fight for power.
Oil lamps flicker, shadows lengthen,
time circles closer to his hour.

Act IV: The Servant
(a towel and basin of water is added to the table opposite side of coins/ power symbols) 
Lamplight dims—their eyes upon him
as he speaks of sacrifice,
and of the power of humble service.
Judas walks out into night...

Ash Wednesday: Dust

'Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.'

It is a day of turning.
No.
It is a day of returning;
changing direction,
and purposefully,
step by step,
walking toward, not from, God.
This is a day of new beginnings,
putting down a marker
where we start afresh,
where we wander into wilderness
following footsteps that have walked this way before -
travelling with the great crowd of saints
following the way of Jesus.

It is a day of dust,
of ashes,
of remembering our mortality;
of remembering who we are
and whose we are.
Today reminds us that we are not gods,
but we are God's:
beloved.
The sign of mortality and love and belonging
smeared in ash upon us.

It is a symbol.
Yes.
It is also a promise;
of cleansing,
of mercy,
of showing to the world that this
is not all there is
and that death does not have the final say.
In the mark of ashes
the power of resurrection
waits to be rebirthed.

Sunday sermon: Easter, yr B

Texts/
John 20:1-18
Acts 10:34-43

Let’s pray:

May the words of my mouth
the meditations of our hearts 

be acceptable in your sight,
O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

‘Early on the first day of the week...’

The beginning of an old, familiar story.

The beginning of a story that cuts to the heart

of the Christian faith.

A story of darkness and light, for John’s recounting of that story begins

in the gloom and dark before dawn.

But we, as his audience,

know that light is coming...

The lone figure of a woman, Mary of Magdala,

makes her way through the darkness

to the garden tomb.

A tomb in which her beloved Lord has been placed 

after his recent, horrific execution.

As dark as it is outside,

Mary’s interior world is darker still.

She’s bereft. 

She’s grief-stricken.

And for Mary, the darkness is compounded

when she arrives at the tomb:

the massive stone covering the entrance

has been rolled away.

What’s going on?

What fresh horror is this?

In shock,     she runs.

Actually, there’s a lot of running

in this particular story.

She runs to find Simon Peter and the unnamed ‘other’ disciple - 

who most biblical commentators believe to be John.

She’s not sure what’s happened at the grave,

but whatever it is, it surely can’t be good.

Is there some conspiracy afoot?

‘‘They’ have taken the Lord out of the tomb,’ she says, 

‘and we don’t know where ‘they’ have put him.’

Even though they've killed him,

have the enemies of Jesus played one last cruel trick?

There’s no inkling here of resurrection,

of death defeated’,

only shock and maybe panic.

All of this happens, while it is still dark -

and for the writer of this Gospel,

darkness is working on several levels:

the darkness of pre-dawn;

the darkness of grief and despair;

and the darkness of confusion.

But we, as his audience, know that light is coming...

More running.

Peter and the other disciple run to the tomb.

The open tomb.

The first disciple peers in -

sees strips of linen,

the burial cloth,

grave clothes without a body.

And Peter, less hesitant, goes inside.

The cloth is folded neatly.

What’s happening here?

Does he think back to Lazarus,

remembering another tomb?
But when Lazarus emerged,

he was still bound in his grave clothes,

and needed help to get out of them.

This...is different.

There’s nobody here:

or, more to the point, no body.

The other disciple finally goes into the tomb.

We’re told that ‘he saw and believed’ -

but what is it that he believes?

Mary’s story of an empty tomb, sure.

But are we so sure that he believes

there’s been a resurrection?

Because, in our story, we have a

small editorial comment:

‘they still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead’.

Both disciples leave the tomb,

the rolled stone,

the garden...

and go home.

And, as they head for home,

is there a glimmer of belief, of light -

or are they still in the dark?

But we, who know this story well,

know that light is coming...

Light is already filling the skies:

as the morning sun breaks over the horizon

so too, the Son of God breaks the power

of death and darkness

and brings the light of hope,

the light of eternity into the world.

In the quiet of the early dawn,

the lone figure of a woman

can be seen in the garden,

weeping outside the tomb.

Having run back to the garden

with the two disciples,

she now dares to peer inside the open tomb.

The open tomb, that’s no longer empty:
Where the body should have been,

two shining figures are seated.

They ask a strangely obvious question:
‘why are you weeping?’

Obvious, because she’s standing there,

inside a tomb,

obvious, because the tomb contains - contained -

someone dear to her.

In the darkness of her grief,

she replies to the shining figures:
‘They have taken my Lord away,

and    I don’t    know    where they’ve put him.’

And then, another person enters the scene.

She has no idea who the stranger is,

but he, too, asks the same question

that the angels have just asked:
‘Why are you crying?’

And he follows it with another:

‘Who is it you’re looking for?’

She’s still in the dark as to who this stranger is.

All she wants to know is:
where have they put Jesus, and...

can she get him back?

For, at least if she can recover the dead body,

she can perhaps restore some dignity

to him at the last. 

Do one last kindness to him.

But she’s already living in the past:

clinging to it,

clinging to the comfort of the familiar -

for that’s what we do in the darkness of grief.

And, piercing through her darkness,

his voice:

he calls her name -

‘Mary’

and, in hearing her name,

the darkness is lifted,

the light pours in,

and she finally sees the Teacher.

Tries to comprehend this staggering truth -

he    is    not dead.

And she is the first to witness this.

Having followed him before his crucifixion,

she’s now sent to be a messenger -

an apostle in the broadest sense,

for that’s what the word means.

She’s sent to tell the other followers -

to bear witness.

As he calls her by name,

so Jesus calls her to tell the news,

the Good News:

to spread the light of hope,

the light of the resurrection,

the light of new life...

of freedom,

forgiveness,

and unconditional love.

Having wanted to cling to the past,

she’s shown, in the present,

in the garden of that first Easter morning,

the One who is the light

that shines in the darkness:

the light that can never be put out,

the light who even the darkness

cannot consume or contain.

Mary goes, as bidden, to the disciples,

begins to tell the story of the One

who died and rose again.

A story, which, 2 000 years later, is still being told.

We, who are gathered here on this Easter morning, know this story:

know that the light has come.

That Jesus, through his life, and death,

and resurrection,

offers us new life in him -

a way out of the darkness -
the darkness of harmful cycles of behaviour,
the darkness of grief and despair,
the darkness of injustice, hate, and oppression.

He offers us a new way of being of living as his people,

his body here on earth:
a people who live in the power of the resurrection here and now.

Over these last weeks,

we’ve walked through the wilderness of Lent:

and, in this last week, have journeyed

with Jesus through Holy Week,

through the palms and the cheers,

to Gethsemane and betrayal in the garden,

to arrest, and trial, and jeers, and crucifixion.

And in the darkness of that death,

held our breath

as time stood still,

and watched and waited.

And, we have dared to hope -

for we know how this story ends:
that there shall be no more tears,

that darkness is overcome,

that death is defeated,

that the light of the world can never be put out.

Here, with an empty cross,

grave clothes folded,

and with resurrected alleluias,

the questions Jesus asked of Mary

in the garden echo down through the ages:
‘why are you weeping?’

‘who is it you’re looking for?’

And, like Mary,

he calls each one of us by name -

for in his life,

his death,

his resurrection

he brings us life, and light, and hope.

He calls us not to cling to a dead body -

not to cling to the past,

but to walk in his light here and now

and also to look ahead to the light of eternity.

Like Mary,

he calls each one of us to go,

to tell,

to share the Good News -

to call others,

to watch the darkness lift,

and the light pour in

as they, in turn, see the Teacher

and comprehend the staggering truth -

that he    is    not dead.

He lives still.

And we are his witnesses -

called by name

and brought out of the darkness

into his marvellous light

For we are an Easter people

and ‘alleluia’ is our song.

Christ is risen!

Alleluia! He is risen indeed! 

Amen.

Lent, day 29: gratitude

Smiling, and thinking of the Jeremiah text:

'"for I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, 

"plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  

Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you."'

Who knew that I would end up where I have ended up, and be so very happy?  

Well, okay, God.

Yesterday was another unbelievably beautiful spring day, in what I am discovering to be

an unbelievably beautiful part of the country.

Teeny lambs, days old, beginning to dot the fields, as the farmers in the parish work

flat out.  

Worship - my folk, during the all-age part of the service happily out of their pews

and talking with one another, having accepted a joint mission of discovery.  

They are coping with this strange, cheerful minister and her strange wee ways

very well, and very graciously.

And the sermon really hit home.  Especially when telling the story of 

Corrie ten Boom.  

After worship yesterday, I found myself grinning like a loon as I drove up the road.

Spontaneous prayers of praise, and such a sense of enormous gratitude:

good plan, God, jolly good plan.

It's not all fluffy wee lambs and such, but the tough stuff is good, meaty stuff too.

Being planted in a place you're meant to be is really quite awesome.

Lent, days 27 and 28(!): Sunday sermon, Lent 5B 'The fresh air of forgiveness'

SERMON ‘The fresh air of forgiveness’

1st reading: Jeremiah 31:31-34
2nd reading: John 12:20-33

‘Let’s pray:
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our
hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer.  Amen.

What is forgiveness?
Comedian Emo Philips tells a story
from his childhood.
He says:
‘When I was a kid I used to pray every night 
for a new bicycle. 
Then I realised that the Lord 
doesn't work that way ...
so I stole one      
and asked Him to forgive me.’

I have a hunch that this is probably not quite
the right approach when it comes to forgiveness!
So, what is the best approach?
And why bother with forgiveness anyway?

Let’s explore our reading from
the Book of Jeremiah...
First, some background context to help us
understand the text.
And we know some of this already - clues that from the book of Isaiah -
readings we looked at before Christmas.
Jeremiah is a prophet -
called to warn king and nation of their impending fate
at the hands of the Babylonians.
The Babylonians are the major power in the area.

Try as he might, Jeremiah’s words are not heeded:
he’s initially ignored, and later, actively persecuted:
by false prophets
by the priests in the temple
and by those who serve the king -
all of them are living in a state of denial,
none of them want to displease the king by
telling him potentially devastating news.
However, Jeremiah’s prophecies come to pass,
and the Babylonians conquer the nation of Judah.
To emphasise that they’re in charge,
they raze the Temple in Jerusalem,
bind the king in chains
and lead him into humiliating exile in Babylon.
In a stroke, the spiritual and earthly leadership
of Judah is destroyed.

With their king now gone
and, with the destruction of the temple,
those left behind are left wondering:
has God disappeared as well?
In the midst of all of this,
Jeremiah calls on God’s community to repent.
But he also reminds them of God’s faithfulness.
The shattered nation has not been deserted -
God is with them.
God will forgive them.
This, despite a lack of faithfulness
from his people;
despite turning to other gods,
despite their leaders - spiritual and national - priests and king - being corrupt,
despite a myriad of failings -
of exploiting, not loving, their neighbour,
of allowing injustice, not God’s justice,
to flourish...
...Despite all of this,
Jeremiah tells the people that
God is still with them.
Calling them to him
calling them to turn back to him
loving them
and forgiving them time after time.

In the aftermath of their defeat
by the Babylonians
Jeremiah tells the community of the
not-quite-as-faithful-as-they-could-have-been
that God is faithful, that God forgives.
And with forgiveness, there’s hope:
Jeremiah talks of a new covenant
that will be written on the people’s hearts -
a new way of being,
where being faithful is as basic as breathing.
God will wash away their sins permanently -
enabling the relationship to continue,
to blossom and flourish
not wither and fade into bitterness.
They are forgiven...
in order that they can move on,
and start afresh.

From our text, it would appear that God’s approach
to forgiveness is one of persistence:
God doesn’t give up even when, to all intents and purposes, things look hopeless.
Instead, the olive branch of forgiveness and reconciliation is offered;
the door, not slammed shut, but left open -
and in that act,
demonstrating a willingness to keep talking,
demonstrating hope,
demonstrating that forgiveness brings healing
and new possibilities.
And, given the merry run-around the people of Judah have given God,
demonstrating that forgiveness is not a sign of weakness
but a sign of strength.
Because the seemingly easier course of action
would be simply just to walk away.
Clearly, forgiveness... is not for wimps.

If forgiveness is potentially so hard, then why bother?
We are the people of God.
Called to follow,
called to love as he loves -
and if last week, we talked of modelling
the manner in which God loves,
this week, we’re thinking about
how to model the manner in which God forgives.
We’re called to love as God loves
and to forgive as God forgives.
And I find it an interesting thing that so many of us
have trouble with forgiving ourselves for past mistakes.
If the God who created the universe, and all therein,
if the God who created us, and who loves us,
can, and does, forgive us,
then we should probably take notice of that,
and learn to live in the light of God’s forgiveness -
and forgive ourselves.

Every week, we think about forgiveness:
we pray about forgiveness -
as we pray the Lord’s Prayer:
‘forgive us our sins
as we forgive those who sin against us.’
Or, another way of putting it:
‘in the same way in which we forgive others...
forgive us, God.’

So, how are we at forgiving others?
Because, effectively, if we can’t forgive,
we get caught in an ongoing cycle:
holding that grudge,
nursing it close to our hearts, is a recipe for bitterness...
but there’s something else at play - and it has to do with power.
In the act of not forgiving,
we allow the one who has caused hurt,
who’s offended us,
to have a hold over us -
if we keep picking at the scab
it will always be there, raw and bleeding.
We’re trapped.
And it’s only through forgiveness
that we get our life back,
that we find both freedom and peace.

There are some people who would rather die, than forgive.
And effectively, that’s what happens:
relationships wither and die.
And, with no hope for healing,
we begin to wither inside as bitterness takes hold.
This, is not the abundant life that we’re called to:
it’s the opposite and it’s grim.
...The most powerful thing we can do
is to forgive.

In the struggle to overturn Apartheid in South Africa,
Nelson Mandela was thrown into prison.
Desmond Tutu observes that:
‘before Nelson Mandela was arrested in 1962, he was an angry, 
relatively young man. He founded the ANC's military wing. 
When he was released, he surprised everyone because he was 
talking about reconciliation and forgiveness and not about revenge.’
Mandela’s approach,
choosing the way of forgiveness,
paved the way for reconciliation and healing,
and for the nation to find a new way of living and being together.

Tutu describes forgiveness like this:
‘a room can be dank because you have closed the windows, 
you've closed the curtains. But the sun is shining outside, 
and the air is fresh outside. In order to get that fresh air, 
you have to get up and open the window and draw the curtains apart.’

Forgiveness is hard.
It requires that we admit we’re hurt -
it’s an admission of vulnerability that risks being open to further hurt.
It requires that we see the one who has caused the hurt -
not as a monster, or any other dehumanising term we might use -
but as a fellow human being.
Flawed - yes.
But, then, so are we.
And it’s in seeing the one who has caused you pain as human
that leads to pity...
and pity takes away the power dynamic
somehow lessens the rage...
paves the pathway to forgive...
breaks down walls -
a little like the Greeks discovered when Jesus agreed to meet with them -
for there was a wall of cultural hostility between Jews and Greeks
that needed breaking through in order to see the other face to face.
Jesus breaking down the walls, letting them in:
was forgiveness, in a seemingly simple action.

Sometimes we don’t get the chance to meet face to face
with the person who’s hurt us or our loved ones.
Sometimes they refuse to meet,
or acknowledge the wrong they've caused;
sometimes it’s just too late - they've died.
Even so: forgive.
Ask God to help you - he’s been in the forgiveness business a long, long time.
Forgive, so that you can live -
and let the light and fresh air in.

If you were to look in the papers, or on the internet, you’d find many stories
of forgiveness in action:
forgiveness given in seemingly impossible situations.
Forgiveness is not an emotion,
forgiveness is an act of will.
Some of you may know of the Dutch woman, Corrie Ten Boom -
she was a Christian speaker and writer.
Corrie lived with her family - her father, her two sisters and a brother.
They were a family of watchmakers who lived
a relatively unremarkable life, until the German occupation of the Netherlands.
They joined the Dutch Underground, actively working to hide
Jewish people escaping from the Nazis.
Eventually they were discovered.
Corrie, her sister Betsie, and her father Casper were sent to a concentration camp.
Only Corrie survived - released due to a clerical error.
She returned home, and, after the war wrote of her experiences
in a book called ‘The Hiding Place’.
Corrie later returned to Germany,
and, one night, after a speaking engagement
where she’d talked of God’s forgiveness,
a man approached her.
The following, is in her own words:
“It was 1947, and I’d come from Holland to defeated Germany 
with the message that God forgives. It was the truth that 
they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, 
and I gave them my favourite mental picture. 
Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander’s mind, 
I liked to think that that’s where forgiven sins were thrown.
‘When we confess our sins,’ I said, 
‘God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever. 
And even though I cannot find a Scripture for it, I believe God 
then places a sign out there that says, ’NO FISHING ALLOWED.’

The solemn faces stared back at me... 
And that’s when I saw him, 
working his way forward against the others. 
One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, 
a blue uniform and a cap with skull and crossbones. 
It came back with a rush—the huge room with its harsh overhead lights, 
the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the centre of the floor, 
the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s 
frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. 
That place was Ravensbruck, and the man who was 
making his way forward had been a guard—one of the most cruel guards.
Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: 
"A fine message, Fraulein! How good it is to know that, 
as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!" 
And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, 
fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. 
He would not remember me, of course—how could he 
remember one prisoner among those thousands of women? 
But I     remembered him. 
I was face-to-face with one of my captors 
and my blood seemed to freeze.

"You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk," he was saying. 
"I was a guard there." 
No, he did not remember me. 
"But since that time," he went on, 
"I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me 
for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it 
from your lips as well. Fraulein,"
—again the hand came out—
"will you forgive me?"
And I stood there—
I whose sins had again and again been forgiven—and could not forgive. 
Betsie had died in that place. 
Could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the asking? 
It could have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—
but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult 
thing I had ever had to do.
For I had to do it—I knew that. 
And still I stood there with the coldness 
clutching my heart. 

But forgiveness is not an emotion—
I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, 
and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart. 
"Jesus, help me!" I prayed silently. 
"I can lift my hand. I can do that much. 
You supply the feeling." 
And so woodenly, mechanically, 
I thrust out my hand into the one stretched out to me. 
And as I did, an incredible thing took place. 
The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, 
sprang into our joined hands. 
And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my 
whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.
"I forgive you, brother!" I cried. "With all my heart!" 

For a long moment, we grasped each other’s hands, 
the former guard and the former prisoner. 
I had never known God’s love so intensely, as I did then. 
But even then, I realized it was not my love. 
I had tried, and did not have the power. 
It was the power of the Holy Spirit.   ...
[Corrie Ten Boom, 'Tramp for the Lord'] 

Corrie Ten Boom’s story is a powerful story of forgiveness
and reconciliation under the most extreme of circumstances. ...

We are the kin-dom of heaven on earth -
spiritual kin, brothers and sisters called to live
as a community of reconciliation:
for as we have been forgiven,
by the One lifted up from the earth to draw all humanity to him,
so too, we are called to forgive -
it’s not easy, it’s costly.
For that’s what it is to follow in Christ’s footsteps:
we pick up our cross,
we remove all the obstacles that prevent us - and others -
from following him....
and we go out, into the world,
as God’s beloved and forgiven community:
to share the good news with others,
to be like ears of wheat that fall to the ground
and which sow the seeds of healing,
of peace,
of reconciliation,
and forgiveness.
To sow seeds of hope, and light, and life
and the message of      God’s      love.
And we do all this, with the One
who walks by our side
and who will give us the strength to keep us walking.
And to him be all glory, honour and praise, amen.

Lent, day 26: signs of forgiveness

This coming Sunday morning, we'll be thinking about being forgiven,
and of being a community of forgiveness.
And so, a wee meditative video - 'signs of forgiveness' to reflect upon, on
day 26 of these Lenten blogdays...

Lent, day 25: a little Lenten levity

The season of Lent encourages us to reflect, to examine our flaws and failings, our imperfections.
It can tap into the rawness of repentance that resonates with David's heart-felt horror at his actions, as seen in Psalm 51.
It can, however, also cause us to laugh at ourselves - see an attitude or an action, a habit - and realise that sometimes perspective is probably needed.
There are those times, perhaps when I'm not in the best place - a little too tired from too many late nights, a little stretched in places - when I begin to fall into the all too easy trap of taking myself just that little bit too seriously.  When that happens, the relentless drive to seek perfection begins to kick in, while perspective seems to get thrown out along with my sense of humour.
And, crucially, it's the ability to laugh at my own ridiculousness that keeps me grounded -
I need it for my sanity and for my soul's sake.
It's important to take a breath, laugh at my pomposity, and get on with living well, laughing often, and loving much.

It's telling, I think, that in his book The Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis has quotes from both Martin Luther and Thomas More on the subject of laughing at the devil - sin and the state of the soul is, after all, a serious business, even to the devil:
'The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn.'  Luther

'The devill...the prowde spirite...cannot endure to be mocked.'  More

While these little humiliations, or embarrassments, help to keep pride at bay, perhaps the wee silly things that trip us up occasionally are useful; a reminder that we aren't perfect this side of heaven, perhaps even a reminder that we're not the Messiah - we already have one.

And, with that, some very imperfect notices from church bulletins, for a little Lenten levity:

• Due to the Rector’s illness, Wednesday’s healing services will be discontinued until further notice.
• Bertha Belch, a missionary from Africa, will be speaking tonight at Calvary Methodist.  Come hear Bertha Belch all the way from Africa. 
• The Rev. Merriwether spoke briefly, much to the delight of the audience. 
• On a church bulletin during the minister’s illness: GOD IS GOOD; Dr. Hargreaves is better.
• Applications are now being accepted for 2 year-old nursery workers. 
• Don’t miss this Saturday’s exhibit by Christian Martian Arts. 
• A worm welcome to all who have come today.  
• During the absence of our pastor, we enjoyed the rare privilege of hearing a good sermon when J.F. Stubbs supplied our pulpit. 
• Irving Benson and Jessie Carter were married on October 24 in the church. So ends a friendship that began in their school days. 
• The ushers will come forward and take our ties and offerings. 
• The rosebud on the altar this morning is to announce the birth of David Alan Belzer, the sin of Reverend and Mrs. Julius Belzer. 
• Don’t let worry kill you off – let the church help. 
• Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person(s) you want remembered. 
• Helpers are needed! Please sign up on the information sheep. 
• The outreach committee has enlisted 25 visitors to make calls on people who are not afflicted with any church. 
• Low Self-Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday at 7 to 8:30p.m. Please use the back door.
• The audience is asked to remain seated until the end of the recession. 
• Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our church and community. 
• The choir invites any member of the congregation who enjoys sinning to join the choir. 
• At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be “What is Hell?”. Come early and listen to our choir practice. 
• The third verse of Blessed Assurance will be sung without musical accomplishment. 
• Announcement in the church bulletin for a National PRAYER and FASTING conference: “The cost for attending the Fasting and Prayer conference includes meals.” 
• The church will host an evening of fine dining, superb entertainment, and gracious hostility. Ushers will eat latecomers. 
• Potluck supper: prayer and medication to follow.

Lent, day 24: Psalm 51...misere mei, Deus

Today thinking of Psalm 51, the classic penitential psalm.  

Ascribed to David, and written in the aftermath of his adultery with Bathsheba, 

and the sanctioning of Uriah's death.  It is very much a raw cry of the heart, 

but a heart that is desperately seeking God's mercy.  

Can God extend mercy - can God forgive even to this extreme?

David discovers that the astonishing answer is 'yes'.
Hope, then, for all of us.

'O, Lord, in your mercy,'

the heart cries out.

When there is nothing left,

when the mind, and heart,

and soul align

and come to their senses,

always, always,

there is mercy mingled with love.

It is a strong love, this,

that looks beyond the mirk,

to see the worth,

and comfort and restore.

'O, Lord, in your mercy,'

and in that mercy,

the freedom of forgiveness;

the freedom to move away

from raking over old sins.

Forgive us when we fear

that forward movement of the soul;

when we choose instead to stay stuck fast

to old patterns,

old ways;

when we continue to lick old wounds

rather than to fall upon your

liberating mercy.

Teach us to accept your love

so graciously given.

Help us, in turn,

to love

and choose the way of mercy -

for ourselves

and towards others,

for only with mercy can there be abundant life -

life worth living.

'O, Lord, in your mercy,'

O, Lord, whose property is always to have mercy,

in your great mercy,

you hear our prayer.

Thanks be.

Psalm 51, a psalm of David: 

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love;
 according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.
For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.
Against you, you alone, have I sinned,
and done what is evil in your sight, so that you are justified in your sentence
and blameless when you pass judgement.
Indeed, I was born guilty, a sinner when my mother conceived me.
You desire truth in the inward being;
 therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
 wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
 let the bones that you have crushed rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.
Do not cast me away from your presence,
and do not take your holy spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit.
Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will return to you.
Deliver me from bloodshed, O God, O God of my salvation,
 and my tongue will sing aloud of your deliverance.
O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise.
For you have no delight in sacrifice;
 if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased.
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;
 a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
Do good to Zion in your good pleasure;
rebuild the walls of Jerusalem, then you will delight in right sacrifices,
in burnt offerings and whole burnt offerings;
then bulls will be offered on your altar.

Lent, day 23: Sunday sermon, 4 Lent, yr B - 'The beloved community'

Continuing the series on 'The kin-dom of heaven: living as God's community'
This week, looking at 'The beloved Community'

1st READING: Ephesians 2:1-10
2nd READING: John 3:14-21



SERMON  ‘And the good news is: God loves’
Let’s pray:
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of
all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer.
Amen.

I wonder, well, at least for those of you who are old enough,
I wonder if you remember a bit of a trend back in the 70’s
and through the 80’s?
It felt as if no big televised sporting event was complete without
the camera inevitably panning across the stadium and passing a large
hand-made sign with
‘John 3:16’ emblazoned upon it.
Everywhere.
These signs were everywhere.
And then, at some point, I’m not sure when, they seemed to just fade away.
But not today: because here it is - we find this verse within our Gospel reading this morning.
John 3:16.
If we were suddenly put on the spot and told to recite a bible verse from memory,
I suspect most of us would know this one,
at least.
‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son 
that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.’

‘For God so loved the world...’
Back in the day when I was relatively new to the bible and to church,
and all this God-stuff,
I remember a conversation with a friend of mine.
We were talking about this verse.
‘Wow,’ said I, ‘God really does seem to love us heaps.’
She grinned at me and my teenage enthusiasm.  
‘Well, yes, he does, but that’s not quite what this verse means.
It’s not talking about how much God loves us,
it’s talking about the way in which God loves.’
It was a good lesson to learn.
It turns out that:
‘For God so loved the world...’
is not about the measure of God’s love
it’s about the manner of God’s love.

What then is the manner of God’s love?
It’s wide - big - vast.
It’s not just an individual thing, not just about you or me,
it’s about the world - the universe - in the Greek: ‘the kosmos’.
God so loved...the world...
that he gave his Son...
verse 17 - ‘not to condemn, but to save.’
‘Not    to condemn’ -
It seems that any time we look at the news,
read the papers, or watch films or tv dramas,
the community of faith really doesn't come across very well at all.
There’s a tendency - because it makes the story more dramatic -
to flag-up faith at the very extremes.
Reasonable, kind, everyday people, who happen to have a faith,
tend not to get interviewed,
tend not to be ordinary, relatively normal characters in dramas.
It’s all hard-line or nothing at all.
The result is, that an assumption is built up
by folk outwith the community of faith
that all Christians are scary, judging, condemning.
And I think this extends to other faith communities as well:
Muslims can be outraged by acts of terrorism and concerned
that those acts will somehow impact on how their faith community is seen.

Assumptions hurt.

Imagine if, simply because of the clothes you wore or because of your name,
people made assumptions about your faith.
Or perhaps associated you with a form of Christianity with which
you strongly disagreed.  For me, it might be like linking Christianity
to that which is practised by the Westboro Baptist Church in the USA.
Who are they?

They are members of an American unaffiliated tiny church –
a small group of people, mostly comprising extended family members -
who seem to be extraordinarily skilled in getting US media coverage,
and courting publicity through sheer controversy.                                                          
They specialise in picketing the funerals of gay people, but also the funerals of
service men and women -
shouting out horrible things to those in the midst of grieving;                                          
letting the mourners know in no uncertain terms that this is God’s just punishment
upon the country for allowing gay people to simply exist,
let alone to have human rights.
And the American news goes wild when this group comes into town to share
their understanding of ‘good news’.
And the reason this group is even cropping up here in the sermon
is due less to the issue they spend their lives protesting about,
but due more to their picket signs:
picket signs that have their slogan,
which begins with ‘God hates...’
and so their signs range from
‘God hates ...this person’,
to ‘God hates ...that group’.
Picket signs that you just can’t miss because they’re brightly coloured,
with those words, ‘God hates’ in big, bold capitals.
And the message that ‘God hates’ is spread -
all over the telly,
all over the papers,
and across the internet.

‘God hates’...?
That breaks my heart.
This group certainly doesn’t speak for me as a Christian.
‘For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, 
but to save the world through him.’
God did this, ‘for God so loved the world’ -
God loves, not hates....

Ephesians chapter 2 talks of God’s love -
‘because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, 
made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions - 
it is by grace you have been saved...’
...It is through God’s grace that we can walk tall, lift up our heads.
In grace and love we are, and will be, shown God’s incomparable kindness.
We are God’s beloved community.
This is the very antithesis of hatred.
God loves
God loves the world
God desires that the world is saved, is rescued - from itself.
From poor choices that result in
environmental disasters
in order to make some easy money;
from the situation in which the whole world
has more than enough to feed
everyone on the planet,
and yet people starve to death...
and even in this United Kingdom,
where the constituent parts are deemed
to be prosperous,
we see and seem to accept the
rise in food banks.

...God loves
God loves the world
God desires that the world is saved, is rescued - from itself.
from poor choices based on naked power and might is right -
where young women who dare to go to school are kidnapped or terrorised,
and young men are radicalised through frustration, alienation,
and a sense of disempowerment.
from poor choices based on
misunderstanding or manipulation
where entire groups of vulnerable people
pay the price for a lack of vision
or self-serving decision-making.
...God loves
God loves the world
God desires that the world is saved, is rescued - not   condemned.

...‘For God so loved the world...’
Not a measure
but the manner in which God loves.
We are loved, rescued,
are free from condemnation.
As followers of Jesus - the One who came to free us -
as a community of the beloved,
what is the measure of our love:
for God
and for the world that God loves in this way:
‘that he sent his one and only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish 
but have eternal life’?
As God’s community of faith,
how do we model the manner of God’s love for the world?
For this is what we are called to do as his beloved community:
to model love, not hate, not condemnation.

Emerging from a sense of the church as God’s beloved community,
called to model love, the term ‘The Beloved Community’
took on a broader, more global context for the great social
justice campaigner, the Martin Luther King.
Steeped in the Christian tradition,
and stemming directly from his understanding of the good news of the gospel,
King’s vision was for a nation - a world -
in which people were treated with equal dignity and respect,
where people were judged
‘not by the colour of their skin, 
but by the content of their character.’ [I have a dream speech]
For King, the vision of ‘the beloved community’ was one in which
all people could share the good things of the earth -
where ‘poverty, hunger, and homelessness will not be tolerated because
international standards of human decency will not allow it.
Racism and all forms, bigotry and prejudice will be replaced
by an all-inclusive spirit of sisterhood and brotherhood...
where love and trust will triumph over fear and hatred...                                                      
and where peace and justice will prevail over war and military conflict.’
[from The King Centre - www.thekingcenter.org/philosophy]
King stated that the:
‘goal is to create a beloved community and
this will require a qualitative change in our souls
as well as a quantitative change in our lives.’

Thinking of his words, I’m reminded of the hymn
‘let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me’
Each one of us is a member of God’s beloved community -
called to model God’s love - God’s belovedness - to others...
For ‘we are his workmanship, 
created in Christ Jesus to do good works’.
As we grow in the knowledge of God’s love for ourselves, and each other,
our default position of just looking out for our own interests is re-set:
because, as those who are beloved,
we understand more fully the good news of God’s
immeasurable love for the whole world - and, in the
sharing of that good news - the gospel of God’s love,
we incline to King’s wider understanding of the beloved community -
as we work towards the creation of a place where all are valued -
and where we find the image of God in those we encounter in our daily lives...
and where we seek, in small and big ways, to respect the dignity of all...
As King also said:
‘darkness cannot drive out darkness. 
Only light can do that.  
Hate cannot drive out hate.  
Only love can do that.’
As the kin-dom of heaven of heaven on earth,
we work to bring about the
kingdom of heaven on earth -
To be bringers of light,
and to live and love in such a way that the good news -
the good news of God’s love - actually does come across
as good to a world starved of goodness and love.

...‘For God so loved the world...’
Not a measure, but the manner in which God loves.
And the manner in which God loves is good news indeed:
transforming,
life-giving
and very much worth having.
Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Lent, day 22: Glory be to God for dappled things

A poem of praise, on this dappled day...and just squeaking in under midnight: 'Pied Beauty'

Glory be to God for dappled things -

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh fire-coal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim'

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise Him.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Love this poem for its affirmation of difference - 'all things counter, original, spare, strange,' etc:

the affirmation that all things can praise, not just those that are the default norm, that conform, are regular or regulated.

Also, what's not to love about the rumble-tumble rhyme and rhythm of this poem?

Painting beauty with words.

Lent, day 21: Psalm 1 - music meditation

A short one today... a music meditation by the Sons of Korah.
Many years ago, I read a wee book 'Leaf by Stream', a meditation on Psalm 1.
Was thinking of it earlier today in the context of what it is to follow,
what it is to delight in the Lord,
and, what it is to be blessed.
The imagery in the psalm, as it describes those grounded in God,
is one of my favourites:
'they are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their
fruit in its season,
and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.'

Lent, day 20: Psalm 139: the 'stalker' psalm

Day 20 of the blogdays of Lent - and the mid-way point of this 40 day discipline.
Life slightly overtook the blogging, so days 18 and 19 have had to bite the wilderness dust.  Ah well, back to it...

I've been thinking about the Psalms these last couple of weeks.
Quite a lot.
In particular, I've been rather mindful of the raw honesty and the range of human emotions on full display within them.
There are beautiful comforting psalms;
instructive psalms;
psalms of praise and joy and adoration;
psalms of lament;
and psalms of sheer, unadulterated rage.
Sometimes there's a psalm that might even contain all of the above.

Today I've been mulling on Psalm 139.
I remember a very long time ago learning three big words about God,
or more precisely, about the nature of God.
Three big words [aka the 'big 3'], all beginning with 'O':
omnipotent
omniscient
omni-present.
Occasionally, in those early days of being a Christian, discussions
would be had in youth group or bible study, and given half the chance,
the 'big 3' words would manage to shoe-horn themselves into the
conversation - basically, because I was fair chuffed with myself for
being a wee bit clever, but mostly it was because not having had much of a
church upbringing, I was just pleased to have a handle on some of the
language of the faith.  A little knowledge is a helpful - or dangerous - thing.

While all three of the 'big 3' are contained within this psalm, the emphasis is
very much on both knowledge and presence.
God's thoughts are vast, and, God knows all of our thoughts.
There is nothing that is not known to God.
God is.
God is present.
God is present at all times and in all places.
Wherever we are, God is there also.
There is nowhere that God is not.
I'm minded of the old 60's song 'Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide'.
Given the 'where can I go from your presence' context, I often refer to this
as the 'stalker' psalm.
Hemmed in behind and before, there's a sense that this ever-present God
pretty much has our number, has got us pegged, and won't let us get away
with a thing.
Even our thoughts are known before we think them.
So, how to live with that?

The psalmist, I think, tries to deal with it by, initially, trying to say
what s/he thinks God is wanting to hear, and in doing so, adds a hugely
jarring note to the psalm in vv19-21:
'kill the wicked',
'your enemies are my enemies',
'I hate them too.'
A deflection, perhaps: pointing to 'them over there...'?
Very human.

How though, do we deal with the God who knows us completely
and who is with us every second of every day, no matter where we are?
Perhaps the comfort comes in that very fact:
there is something incredibly liberating about being so completely known,
and yet, being so completely beloved.
The great, vast, transcendent God sees us for who we are,
and loves us, and will not let us go.
Filching and twisting a quote:
perhaps it's when we approach God with an attitude of
'here I stand, I can do no other'
that we begin the process of leaning into, and living in, God's love.

In the meantime, a song...