I would praise you

I would praise you
but in times like these, 
praise is hard.
I would praise you
but all around, politicians lie, cronyism is rife,
and those in power care little for the least of these.
I would praise you
but worldwide, oil spills kill,
ice caps melt, temperatures rise,
and apathy and greed are killing our planet.
I would praise you
but everywhere, COVID creates fear,
the poor are still poor,
and refugees flee their homes,
looking for safe harbours to take them in.

I would praise you
for in times so hard,
 praise is all I have.
I would praise you for all around, leaders fail and fall
and only you are faithful, and reign forever.
I would praise you
for worldwide, even marred,
 creation bears your imprint
and your sheer will holds and heals it still.
I would praise you
for everywhere you watch over widows,
 strangers, orphans
and feed the hungry,
and lift the ones bowed down. 

I would praise you
because in times so hard,
times like these,
praise is both call to faith and call to action.
I would praise you
because all around mortal plans crumble into dust
and your promise lasts for all generations.
I would praise you
because worldwide, you sustain all that is
and lives, and moves, and has its being.
I would praise you
because everywhere, you champion the oppressed
and bring the light of hope into the darkest places.
I would praise you
even when, at times, the offering of praise is made
through gritted teeth.
I would praise you. 
       Nik Macdonald 2021

Imago Dei

Imago Dei 

We bear the marks
of grace upon our face,
carry within us God’s DNA:
God-made.
Sparks of divinity
course through our veins;
our warp and weft,
the stuff of stars.
God shaped...
and so,
we are.

Heaven-made creatures,
birthed from earth,
we dance between the world and universe:
God’s own.
Flesh and blood
and soul and bone
combined in
holy mystery.
God loved...
and we,
God’s mastery.
                    c. Nik Mac 2020

of hills and river valleys...

On Thursday, I left the seaside behind, heading back to the Southern Uplands and to work. I love this time of year when the fullness of summer creates green canopies over country roads and the silage has been gathered up and formed into great, fat yellow cylinders ready to be packaged into black, pale green, and pink sacks for winter feeding - pink for breast cancer awareness, how excellent is that? The wee, fragile lambs of spring are sturdy and confident now, so big that poor patient mamas are lifted nearly off their hooves as their youngsters look for a cheeky feed.

Different sounds and smells here compared to the coast, the marked absence of herring-gulls fighting, for one. A family of swallows are annual, honoured eaves-guests and chat away in high-pitched peeps to one another outside the bedroom window in the early morning; four hatchlings this year. To the back of the house, where the Clyde loops and winds and becomes a natural boundary between newly-shorn fields, oyster catchers stalk the ground in search of snacks. Further along the valley, the hum of a tractor at work, a little late to the silage gathering. Closer, out front of house, the green and yellow of another tractor catches my eye. I watch it bounce along the road to turn off for the next field. Just like God, John Deere is ever-present.

At the moment, the field at the front is home to a flock of Bluefaced Leicesters. An odd-looking breed, tall with long, aristocratic noses and lovely sticky-up ears; they've now become a favourite. When I first arrived in the area I wondered if they were goats. Five years on, I am a little more advanced in the language and look of sheep, have learnt how not to get in the way at lambing time and have fed the occasional orphan lamb as needed. Yesterday morning, looking out at the field, I missed a perfect Kodak moment of what appeared to be synchronised sheeping. The flock had assembled by the gate. Rather than bunching themselves up, they were in a drawn out line of twos and threes, bodies all perfectly aligned, eyes all facing north-west and out to the valley as if watching the river. All were perfectly still. One of their number wasn't playing the game; in contrast, it was determinedly facing the other way refusing to conform. Or perhaps this was the star of the 'team' doing a solo? Having seen the young shepherd earlier in his trusty, rusty blue quad bike - with Don the collie at the back balancing on velcro paws - I knew the sheep hadn't come to wait for him. For fully five minutes, I watched them as they stood, stock still, poised and alert. I wondered what they were going to do. Nothing, apparently.
Sheep are weird.
Most of the farmers around here claim that the sole aim of a sheep is to see how quickly it can die.
Twenty minutes later, coming back by the front, they'd daundered off back up over the ridge of the hill and were lost to sight. Time now, however, to turn from sheep and turn to work.

Of estuaries and oceans

It must be because I'm by the seaside on holiday and staying in my wee bolt-hole, that I've been thinking of place...

Standing at my front door, I look to road's-end where the beach begins. Marram grass covers the dune, its pale green broken by bugloss blue, yellow ragwort, delicate purple milk vetch. The bushy buddleia continues on its take over mission, pushing up from the ground and spreading out, invading. By the tide-line is a scattering of sea-smooth stones, driftwood, a smattering of shells including the ever-present mussels after which the town was named - though older folk use a different name for this side of the river, remembering their fishing heritage: 'we're no' Musselburgh, we're Fisherrow.' High tide is mid-afternoon and the sun is beginning to peek out from dour clouds and lighten the mood. So close to the river-mouth the water is mixed up and muddied, never clear. This is not a beach where waves come crashing in; open sea is further out and here, although the Forth is broad, the tidal ebb and flow moves in a more kindly manner.

On coming back to this place, when I've been away for a wee stretch of time, it's the noise of the birds that always surprises - not quite Hitchcockian, but there are echoes of it as they flap and bicker overhead. Fierce creatures. Yesterday, a herring gull, presumably fallen in battle, lay dead beside the old wash-house in the courtyard. Still body gathered up, it was carried gently to the dune and buried, becoming part of the landscape more literally. Low tide then; the uncovered mussel beds the province of oyster catchers, black-faced terns, black-bellied dunlins, kittiwakes, the ever-present herring gulls, and two middle-aged wellied lug wormers searching for bait.

This morning, as the gulls pierced through sleep, in my half-dream state there were glimpses of another beach in a much wilder place; no gentle Scottish estuary. The sand was bleached white by a stronger sun and finely ground from free-rolling waves crashing on the shore. Blue-green transparent waves curled, glistening in the brightness of the light, then broke, surging into shore before pulling back out again into the deep. Somewhere, there was a hint of coconut oil in the sea-salty air....

It's been many years since I lived by the Pacific Ocean and yet, there it was in sight and sound and smell, and more so in the waves: there's something about the shape of a wave that marks its place in the world. Now, at the end of this day, the brightness and the vivid colours are still at play in my mind's eye, but it's the shape of waves that hold my thoughts. I look across to near where the kettle rests on the bench. Nestling nearby there's a jar of Vegemite and a box of Tunnock's wafers, symbols of the land of my birth, and the land I now call home. I wonder about the shape of my life, and how that marks my particular place in the world.

I am a pheasant plucker: a day [or 3] in the life of a rural minister

Along the lines of 'things they don't teach you in seminary...'
#169 Herding cows...
and
#170 How to 'dress' a pheasant...and a goose.

Conversations in cafes can be a dangerous thing.
I'd headed out of the parish and up to the local country town - pop. c. 2 000.
Happily meeting up with one of my elders for coffee, we were subsequently joined by one of her pals. Said elder and I had been having a blether about how fabby Harvest service had been, and the logistics of herding the 'cattle' created by the children of our five small primary schools from
schools to kirk, and back again
[they were awesome - way to go wee rural kiddies!].
Most of the cattle-wrangling was beautifully dealt with by my elder's hubby and a rather large pick up truck...
Meanwhile, Gertie the Highland cow, constructed by our school in the hills, was driven
down and then back up the hill by creative parent who had helped small people put her together.
All of this had been great fun, with a good buzz in both schools and the church, and with
the work of Send a Cow brilliantly flagged up and cheerfully supported.

Back in the cafe, having discussed the coos, the subject somehow changed to pheasants.
Friend of elder noted her husband was currently busy, as the season was on and he was out shooting.
I observed that I'd never actually eaten pheasant, wondered about 'shot' and
breaking of teeth [not much of a problem, apparently], and we chatted on about other matters.
Cue Saturday.
A text arrived:
'S wants to know if you would like a pheasant and a goose?'
Cue raised eyebrow, thoughtful look, grin, and text response:
'Okay. Cool. Thanks!'

Arriving home late Sunday afternoon,
I found an enormous goose and a plump pheasant hanging in a bag on my back door.
Bringing the bag in, I opened it and looked at the birds.
They met my gaze with dead-eyed stares.
The heads, wings, feathers, and legs, began to take on the feel of old still-life paintings
I'd seen in the National Gallery.
Thoughts then turned to the recent interview with Ministries Council concerning areas that might have been usefully covered when training; I refrained from responding 'a short course in the gentle art of butchering.'
Shaking myself out of my musing, I began to ponder practicalities.
Phred the pheasant should be manageable.
However, Gil, the goose, is big.
Surprisingly big.
Well, I like a challenge.

Psychological sleeves have been rolled up:
I am mentally preparing for the preparing of the birds;
I have been watching 'how to dress a pheasant/ goose' type videos on youtube;
I have gone to the iron-mongers and purchased a mean-looking cleaver and
a wickedly sharp small knife [interesting walking up the High Street with said implements!];
I am glad I'm not squeamish;
I am thankful for generous gifts that will be put into the freezer once dealt with,
and which will then come into their own at Christmas.
I am a rural minister...we're a resilient and resourceful lot.

Homily for a hedgehog: a day in the life of a rural minister

Things they don't teach you in seminary #168...
pastoral care of hedgehogs.

Unusually, for this particular Scottish summer, I awoke to a blue-filled sky. A day working up in the hills in this remote rural charge awaited. By the time I hopped into the minister mobile, the blue had been replaced by deeper shades of grey once more, but all was well - I had slung my summer jumper into the car, alongside the guitar, music book, and diary. Sister Maria would be proud: a little later, the hills would indeed be filled with the sound of music, but before that particular music rehearsal for Taize worship, I had a pastoral matter to attend to...

Quickly nipping into my own local village coffee morning to wave at folk and grab the briefest of natters, I then headed up the back road to the hills. As usual, passing beyond the second cattle grid, mobile signal cut out and I was cut off from contact with the wider world. 'Virtual' existence would only be restored once I came back past the same cattle grid on the way down. Along I sped, up the winding road, past loitering sheep on heather-filled hills, and the occasional prospector panning for gold in the shallow, swift-running burn. After cattle grid number four, as the road turned again, I kept a beady eye out for the local red kite. No sign. It obviously knew the heavens were about to...open.

Minister mobile turned into the village, through the deluge, and crept up the main street, edging me closer to the important pastoral visit. The car glided up the long, red chucky-stone drive to the centuries-old house. Crunching along the stones to the doorway, I could already hear the fluffy, four-pawed inhabitant of the house barking a greeting. Door opened, flash of waggy brown and white tail... Smiles with the two-legged inhabitants, who ushered me into the small room to meet 'Blossom'...or possibly 'Clyde'. It must be tricky to be a hedgehog with an identity crisis. Trickier still, I suspect, if you're a wee orphaned baby hedgehog with a gammy back leg.

Gently - and gingerly - I held the small hog in the palm of my hand. We took it outside, to a special enclosure, with 'assault course', along with some chopped up chicken and strawberries. The fluffy pal who'd greeted me earlier watched over proceedings carefully. My task was to hide said bits of food for our wee hog to hunt down - part of its life-skills building. Wee hog was then released into the pen, snuffling and sniffling, and having a wander. It is quite a magical thing to see a wee beastie working out how to make its way in the world. After twenty minutes of hog-training, the small and unutterably cute soul was back in the palm of my hand, being walked back to the big house. I'm sure we bonded and made some kind of pastoral connection. At any rate, I was reminded briefly of St Francis, and his kindness to animals...he preached to the birds; I pastored to a hedgehog.
Have I ever said how much I love the randomness of rural ministry?!

NaBloPoMo, day 4

Ah, missed Day 3 of NaBloPoMo. Never mind. 

Both yesterday and today, I did drive around quite a substantial part

of my gorgeous parish today, however. The prompt for Day 4 involves

the posting of a photo - huzzah, piccies!! The pic is supposed to represent something

I see all the time, and thereafter, write a little on what the thing means, symbolises,

or reminds me of; this, in order to provide a wee glimpse into my world.

Okay. I'm on this.

Rush hour in the village...

The parish I serve in is very rural - lots of sheep. 

The posted pic was taken from my front door on a rather rainy day earlier in the year. 

There's a big field encirling the black and white house opposite the manse. 

From my office window over the course of this year, I've watched

the seasons of the farmer's year unfold - from lambing to breeding, 

to herding for tup sales, and everything else in between. Every day, 

in my travels in this parish of 180sq miles, there are sheep to the left of me, 

or sheep to the right of me, and occasionally a sheep who decides the grass 

really is greenest on the roundabout leading to the motorway. 

Sheep, and the attendant work around this industry, are very much part 

of the life-blood of this area. Having been a townie for most of my life, and

a coastal-based townie at that, the immersion into rural life has given me a fresh

way in which to read scripture.  Parables about selling off part of a farm to one 

of the sons, or of lost sheep being found, take on a slightly different significance

now: I certainly appreciate in a more nuanced way, the impact of asking

that a farm be split up. I also wonder about the metaphor of minister as shepherd -

and over the course of this first year in ordained ministry, am gently learning

this particular craft - a craft that is a life in the learning. It's an astonishing thing

to me, to realise that I have now been here for a year - possibly the quickest year

of my life - in what has become home amongst good folk. I'm also wondering

what that great Shepherd of the sheep has to teach me over the course of this

next year. In the meantime, I watch the sheep, and hopefully tend my people to

the best of my ability - and often find that I've a rather big grin on my face still:

I suspect I am possibly the most fortunate minister alive, and I am content.

blades of grass, rejoicing: finding the joy in Calvin

'There is not one blade of grass, 

there is no colour in this world 

that is not intended to make us rejoice'  

 John Calvin - from a sermon on 1 Corinthians

Poor John Calvin: he gets such a bad press as a joyless, dour, dusty and dry academic. 

There is so much more to him than the cardboard cut-out caricature. 

A man of his times, who had to make hard, occasionally unpalatable choices, 

yet he was not without joy. Behind the myriad words he left behind are gems 

such as the comment, above. 

Calvin took delight in order. 

Whether it was the manner of his faith and how it was to be arranged and attended to, 

the way governments were to be administered, 

the movement of one note to the next musically, 

or the tiny perfect detail found in the shape of a blade of grass, 

Calvin's faith was one based upon the beauty of simplicity, 

even amidst the very complexity of his theological thoughts. 

In an age of so much change, that quiet yearning for order, 

and of equating orderliness with godliness is wholly understandable.

There are hard sayings of Calvin, but that is not the entirety of the man.

I'm minded to re-read The Institutes once more, with a view 

to going deeper into an understanding of his spirituality. 

The last time around, I was just trying to get to grips with 

the thing as a system of theology in and of itself, particularly relating to church discipline. 

Now without the constraints of a thesis deadline, 

perhaps it's time to reflect on this work through a slightly different lens - 

to spend more time amidst blades of grass, rejoicing; finding the joy in Calvin.

Etched in the memory

It was Simmerdim, and the sun fell into the crossing of the Cathedral upon the orchestra.
The pink-red stone glowed under the soft light.
The music, delicate, stirring, delicate once more.
Bliss.
Reluctantly leaving once concert had done, the evening sky beautiful oranges, purples, pinks.
We drove out to the point, the lighthouse lamp blinking a welcome.
Watched the sun fall into the far sea.
The music, now playing in my head.
Peaceful.
Awed.
A time etched into memory.
When I hear the music, I am instantly back in that moment
of utter wonder, and my soul soars and sings with joy.
The music?
'Fantasia on a theme of Thomas Tallis,' by Ralph Vaughn Williams.

Praying the Lord's Prayer

As we begin a series focusing upon the Lord's Prayer in
the parish, a prayer on keeping company with God:

Creator God of limitless imagination,

who fashioned the universe 

and all the galaxies therein,

who breathed life into being

and formed the mountains and the valleys,

the forests and the ocean deeps,

and filled the world with creatures great and small;

who, from the dust, created us in your image,

and walked, and talked in dappled Garden-light

with the first two of our kind:

we come before you,

awed by your power,

inspired by the works of your hands,

humbled, that you,

who are greater than we can ever comprehend,

wish to keep company with us -

to hear the thoughts of our hearts,

and to speak with us as friends.

Lord, our God, our Father...

teach us to pray anew 

the prayer that Jesus taught us

and, help us to live it. Amen

down home on the farm

In amidst deadlines, writing reports, hanging out with the deceased Archbishop Forman of St Andrews [c.1465-1521], and lots of wind and rain more reminiscent of winter than late spring/ summer, I have been trying to encourage various plants to grow.
They've certainly been up against it so far this year.
The small greenhouse was blown down and contents scattered everywhere during the mini-cyclone that was the 23rd May.  Rescuing and replanting commenced.
After one gloriously hot day, which was probably the day we had summer for this year, the temp. dropped enough for said planties to shiver to their roots...
and when not freezing, the rain has been doing its level best to drown them.  But they will not give up - I'm impressed with their tenacity.
And this morning, I harvested my very first strawberry and ate it there and then - and it was gooooood!
I am officially a farmer :D

St Columba's Day, 2011

The High Creator, the Unbegotten Ancient of Days,
was without origin of beginning, limitless.
He is and He will be for endless ages of ages,
with whom he is the only-begotten Christ, 
and the Holy Spirit,
co-eternal in the everlasting glory of divinity.
We do not confess three gods, but say one God,
saving our faith in three most glorious persons.

taken from The Altus Prosator, traditionally ascribed to St Columba