Transfigured

original painting by Dominic Martinelli - see:
https://www.dominicmartinelli.com/blog/the-transfiguration/

A wee reflection for this upcoming Transfiguration Sunday...

Transfigured                                              

Scrambling and scrabbling over scree, 

snaking their way along ridges 

on the barest of trails, 

they climb,

leaving earthly things behind. 

Clambering with effort around crags, 

avoiding cliff edges, 

looking up occasionally, and feeling dizzy, 

still they follow him. 

He ascends the heights 

like Moses did so long ago, 

he, who wrote the Law on stone. 

They pause awhile upon the mountaintop, 

almost, but not quite, the roof of the world, 

and suddenly, the light is blinding, 

bright, white; 

searing the scales from disciples’ eyes. 

And for a moment, here, closer to the heavens, 

they see him for who he truly is: 

magnificent and glorious, 

majestic. 

Shining amid rocky pinnacles 

the humble rabbi 

is transfigured – 

shot through with shafts of 

burning brilliant white, 

exalted, 

conversing in illustrious company. 

Moses, the Law maker, 

Elijah, the prophet, 

return to the mountaintop 

to meet with the Messiah – 

transcendent anointing. 

Senses ravished by unearthly beauty, 

desperate to stay, 

Peter babbles of pitching tents, 

unable to understand 

the mystery and glory of the moment. 

It passes. 

They slope back down from the summit, 

subdued, and told to keep the secret: 

a truth that they cannot comprehend 

when they descend 

and are more earthly-minded. 

And only after pain and grief, 

execution, 

and a resurrection 

will they truly see him for who he is once more. 

            c.Nik Mac

'Launching out' - a reflection on the baptism of Jesus

Launching out

They grow so fast. 

The new-born duly celebrated,
decorations are quickly packed away.
The hidden years flow by
until we see him,
a man of thirty,
standing by the River Jordan.

 
A new birth:
he will take the plunge,
immerse himself into his calling.

 
Having been the source
of good tidings so long ago,
the time has come
for spreading comfort and joy,
and speaking God’s freedom
in a time of oppression.

 
There will be upsets,
and noses put firmly out of joint.

 
The ending will be...
unexpected –
even though he’d tell his friends
to expect his imminent return.

 
But...
this first new day
must be marked.

 
He will slough off the sawdust
of a carpenter’s workshop,
follow his destiny.

 
As he stands dripping,
drenched in holy affirmation,
he trusts the One
he has followed
since before he can even remember.

 
Diving from high heaven,
a dove confirms
that all is well.

   c.Nik Mac

Thresholds: an Advent memory

The ward is all bustle and busyness as I enter. M is there at the desk and we smile a greeting. A little banter and small talk, some seasonal chat, and then:
'Anyone in particular...' I trail off, enquiring.
'Yes. I wonder if you'd be willing to sit with Mrs B in Rm 3? It's...' she pauses, looking for words. 'Well, she's close now, and, I've phoned the family, but they just said to call back after it's done.'
Almost in unison, our eyes meet and eyebrows raise. Perhaps the implied judgement is harsh: who really knows what goes on in families?

With a small nod, and an 'of course,' I head to the room, accompanied by M. Over the short time I've been here, I've come to have immense respect for the medical staff. Their determination to do everything in their power not to let anyone die alone, if at all possible, is admirable. In the midst of machines and beeps, of needles and tubes, they are the beating heart of the ward. 
'I've tried to make her comfortable, put the radio on, y'know, to give her some small dignity. She's unconscious, but restless. We've given her morphine for the pain but...' An apologetic shrug of the shoulders finishes the sentence. We stand, pausing at the threshold, looking in upon the tiny human gathered into herself with pain. Classic FM is playing 'The Coventry Carol'. Sombre, haunting notes weave themselves in and around the room: Bye, bye lully, lullay. 

I catch myself taking a deep breath as I move across one threshold and into another: a liminal space where past, present, and future mix. Here, life and death reach out, fingertips seeming to meet with just the barest of touch. Hearing is generally the last of the senses to shut down. As I approach the bed and the unconscious Mrs B, I greet her softly:
'Hello, Mrs B, my name is Nik, I'm one of the chaplains. M asked me to come and to sit with you awhile. I hope that's okay.' I settle on the blue plastic chair at the bedside, glance across at M and we nod. She disappears along the corridor. The room is graced with a generous window, and so I describe the day and the doings that are going on outside. It is a glorious winter's day. High up, a dissipating vapour trail interrupts the clear blue sky. Closer to earth, a gentle wind eddies about bare tree branches, while an empty Gregg's bag is pushed in fits and starts along the path. Flashes of blue and orange float towards goal - the entrance to the other side of the hospital across the square. The timely exit of a nurse creates an opening and it's in. Not long after mid-day, and the soft sunlight fills the room. The music has moved on, and a chattering Mozart tinkles playfully, all bright and breezy.

Time slows. We two are floating on a raft, adrift somewhere between this world and the next. There are moments of calm as well as restlessness. Who is this woman, reduced so much by illness? I wonder about her life, her loves, dreams and hopes - who and what formed the person she has become? In this moment, however, with only a stranger beside her for company, she is only truly known to God. I suspect that it's the case for all of us. Occasionally, I speak, or gently touch a cold hand when the pain causes Mrs B to groan and shift fitfully on the bed. Mostly, we have moved into silence, with a reassurance: 'I'm here. I'm just by your side.'  I hope that if she is  aware in some way, that my presence is not intrusive, but welcome. Ancient words form a pattern in my mind and I realise that I am praying the Aaronic Blessing, pausing at length at the end of each bidding. There is the overwhelming sense that another has joined us on the raft, even as the silent prayer follows its course. A momentary jarring, as the strains of a pomp  and circumstance march parrumphs along its way energetically. Such an oddly mixed play-list. I let the thought pass. The march retreats into the background and we land on holy ground.

For all the restlessness, when the moment comes, it is a relatively peaceful death. A long sigh, stillness. Seconds pass. An intake of breath, and out, and then she is gone. I place my hand on her now peaceful head, pray a blessing on her, then walk out to find M. As I leave, I realise that 'O come, O come, Emmanuel' is playing. I walk along the corridor with the verse sounding in my ear:
O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight...
Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel 
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Later, at home, as I light the Advent candles before dinner, I pause, think of Mrs B, her absent family, of M and the staff in the ward. I give thanks in this season of Advent for odd moments of grace in a strange world, liminal places, for the kindness and care of strangers, and for Mrs B - unknown to me, but in my own faith's understanding, known and named, and loved by God.
And, yes, for the curious privilege of this calling.

Prayer-O-Matic

There are times in life when inspiration is just utterly lacking,
or, when you're caught on the hop so completely, that words fail.
These tend to be the times when a particular prayer for a particular [and often peculiar] occasion is requested.
There are other times when, well...
it'd be kinda nice if someone else did the work.
What to do in times such as these?
I'm glad you asked.
After mulling over this wee issue during the week, I wondered just how useful a 'prayer for any occasion' template might be:
a Prayer-O-Matic, if you will

Given I've asked the question, it seems only fair that I offer a suggestion.
Here's a humble work in progress...

Dear
[insert deity name of choice],
we give you
[thanks and praise/ awe and honour/ a brief moment of our attention]
as we gather together on this
[day/night/am/pm/seriously random occasion]
to
[ask your blessing on x/ call imprecations down upon y].
Through the power of
[your Spirit/ the Force/ Greyskull]
may you
[cause this person/ group/ project]
to
[blossom and flourish/ wither and perish].
We are
[overjoyed/ excited/ secretly horrified/ quietly bewildered]
by this
[new ministry/ this bold initiative/ lipstick on a pig that's basically same old, same old].
Thank you that even now, you are
[with us/ gently backing out of the room, hopefully unnoticed/ beating your head against a concrete wall]
and that you
[hear us/ are inserting your fingers in your ears and singing 'la la la'/ sighing in despair].
We offer you our prayer in
[insert deity name of choice]
Amen.

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.

Are you the one? Reflection on Luke 7:18-35

‘Prepare!’
‘Make way!’
‘All will see God’s salvation!’
The crowds gather,
hear the call to repent,
are baptised
by the camel-haired prophet.
Is he the One
they’ve all been waiting for?
But he points, instead, to another.
Later,
when uncomfortable arrows of truth
find their mark,
the twitching Tetrarch
tries to tame
the wild man of God.
Starry vastness of open sky,
replaced by stone-walled cell.
No wandering wilderness here,
but rather wondering:
thinking of that other.
Are you the One
bringing winnowing fork and fire?
Or is it another?
Disciples dispatched,
come back,
with stories of signs
and words of encouragement.
‘Are you the One?’
is answered
by God’s kingdom breaking in,
predicted, expected,
yet strangely disconcerting.

c Nik

Centurion and Widow: a reflection on Luke 7:1-17

Centurion and widow
Had he always wanted to be a soldier?
To travel the world, fight for Rome,
and gather up honour and glory?
Had she always wanted to be a wife, a mother?
To settle down, make a home,
and calm her son with bedtime stories?

Had he ever imagined a land like this:
strange ways, strange words, strange God,
and he, with power, privilege, and prospering?
Had she ever imagined a lot like this:
hard times, hard hearts, hard loss,
her future like a vine uprooted, withering?

Different lives
and different journeys,
but both, outsiders in their time of grief.
Had they ever imagined a God
who loved both powerful and powerless,
who cared for foreigner and widow?
Conceived of a God
as patron of lost causes?
Dared to believe in a God
who’d draw the circle wider,
extend the love and blessing;
break down the boundaries
and welcome all?

c.Nik

Picture prayers: On St Columba's Day

'St Columba on his farm in Scotland' - Anthea Craigmyle

I love this painting by Anthea Craigmyle of St Columba: a homely, earthy depiction, which also picks up that sense of cheerfulness much attributed to him [although I do feel a sense of the Pythonesque - hard to resist humming: 'Always look on the bright side of life].

O God, who gave to your servant Columba

the gifts of courage, faith and cheerfulness,

and sent people forth from Iona

to carry the word of your gospel to every creature:

grant, we pray, a like spirit to your church,

even at this present time…

[prayer from the Iona Community]

Poems of the heart: 'The peace of wild things'

Last week, I was pondering things 'wild'... 

Today I was reminded of a poem by Wendell Berry - 'The peace of wild things'.

It's a tonic for the soul. 

                                                              When despair grows in me   

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

                                                           Wendell Berry

On the other side of Epiphany

Now that the old year has shuffled 'round the corner,  
and the new is just past a week young,
with the Magi finished visiting, and their faces turned homeward,
it is high time to pack away the vestiges of Christmas.
Empty boxes sit by tree stump, waiting to be filled with baubles,
bells, a replica Empire State Building, strings of light.
Colours of gold, purple, green - royalty, deity, life;
colourless white - purity.
I am slow in putting away the season of incarnation -
of Word made flesh and blood.
Unintentional lingering due to other calls on time.
Perhaps a subtle reminder that the message
of the child in the manger is one that can't be packed away -
that the work now begins, rather than finishes.
I'm minded of words uttered by the great American preacher Howard Thurman -
a chap who had a profound influence on Martin Luther King Jr.:

"When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart."

In the morning, before I dig the car out of the snow and head out
to visit folk, boxes containing Christmas will go back into hiding in the storage cupboard.
The message of new life, joy, liberation, and good news for all however, remains uncontained.

Music for the soul: Be Thou my Vision

Going a little off the point for NaBloPoMo, but still on a theme of hymns...

It may take a moment to get to the point, re. the title of this blog entry:
do bear with me...
Several years ago, in conversation with a pal, we were talking about funerals we'd been to.  Having put the world to rights about why this or that was perhaps not very good, or why such and such was really rather excellent, we moved on to our own funerals: what would we like when the day came?
While it ended up becoming one of the funniest conversations I've had, it was eminently practical as well. Said friend, normally a pretty quiet and
self-composed person, declared in the end:
'No! I want to go in style - I want the full works! I want a horse-drawn hearse; the horses -
with black feather headdress, a man to lead the hearse in front,
walking slowly and seriously. I want to be taken to the church that way,
with the beat of a slow drum to keep time. And then, the total pomp
and ceremony of a funeral Mass - with clouds of incense.'
We talked on, of readings, and hymns, and giggled our way through
the thought of hiring professional mourners, as they did, back in the day.
As an aside, said friend is a Pisky, with a seriously well-developed sense of
humour, and so high up the liturgical candle that you're in danger of nose-bleed...

The practical and pragmatic outcome of the conversation was, however,
a prod to go to the solicitor and get the will sorted. In said will, there's
also a funeral arrangements file. Dull Presbyterian that I am, and knowing
I'd never compete with friend, I've noted who I'd like to conduct the thing -
if they happen to still be shuffling about this mortal coil,
and also noted a bible reading and hymn.
The reading? The Prologue of John.
I am nothing, if not an incarnation nut - that text goes deep.
It's almost the best thing about Christmas worship for me:
God's 'yes' to the world.
The surprise of expected, yet wholly unexpected love.
And the hymn?
Always, always, 'Be Thou my Vision'
Text and hymn meeting in beautiful symmetry.
The version I like the best has the line:
'be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight'
It's a comfort, especially on my more numptyish of days,
for this 8 on the Enneagram.
A reminder that in the end, it's actually going to work out fine -
that when I've lost all shred of dignity,
I stand in God's dignity.
That, in a job that's about being real,
which calls me to strip away the pretence,
God's dignity suffices.
There's the reminder to, about delight.
Delight is good.
Delighting in God, better.

Psalm prayers: Psalm 3 meets Bartimaeus

On Sunday, we were exploring the meeting between Bartimaeus and Jesus on the outskirts of Jericho.

A few pages back in the Gospel of Mark, the disciples try to stop the children approaching Jesus. This time, as they leave the town of Jericho, the disciples and a large crowd try to shut down someone they believe should stay in darkness... Picking up on those themes, as I was reading Psalm 3 today...

A Psalm of David, when he fled from his son Absalom...

O Lord, how many are my foes!

Many are rising against me; 

many are saying to me,

‘There is no help for you in God.’

          Selah 

But you, O Lord, are a shield around me,

my glory, and the one who lifts up my head. 

I cry aloud to the Lord,

and he answers me from his holy hill.

          Selah 

I lie down and sleep;

I wake again, for the Lord sustains me. 

I am not afraid of tens of thousands of people

who have set themselves against me all around. 

Rise up, O Lord!

Deliver me, O my God!

For you strike all my enemies on the cheek;

you break the teeth of the wicked. 

Deliverance belongs to the Lord;

may your blessing be on your people!

          Selah

Bless the ones, O Lord, who are told 'no, he is not your God,'
the ones, like Bartimaeus, who sit at the side of the road
and who are told 'Shhhh!' by those who call themselves your followers.
But bless also the ones who are fearful that your grace is limited -
that there's not enough to share with all -
the ones who would deny that grace to others;
overcome fear with loving-kindness,
the desire for power with self-giving.
Teach us anew that there are different ways of seeing,
of being in the light;
and different ways of choosing darkness,
of remaining in the night.

Give strength to those whose heads are bent low from exclusion;
instil hope in hearts grown heavy with despair
in the face of a host of nay-sayers.
Sustain those grown weary from the doctrine wars,
and challenge those who would try to micro-manage
who you would allow into your kin-dom.
Shine light onto the pathways of peace and reconciliation -
that your love be shared with all,
that in your love, all are valued,
that through your love, all are delivered safely home to you -
for deliverance belongs to you, and no other.
Bless us and challenge us,
this day and always.  Amen

Picture prayers: Sieger Köder - Peter, Jesus, waves...

painting by Sieger Köder 

Sometimes, when there are no words, other ways of communicating can speak the more profoundly. The art work of Sieger Köder has often been that wordless well from which to drink in my own life. There's a deceptive simplicity to his paintings, but, I've found as I've sat awhile, reflecting on one or other of his works, that they both draw me in - deeper - and draw me out. Over the years, different paintings have provided a window through which to regain perspective, given a gentle reminder of where comfort and consolation can be found, or made me smile and be at peace. Father Köder's paintings have been a real gift, as well as helping me continually widen my understanding of how wide a word 'ministry' is; here, a ministry with brush, canvas, paint.

The painting here is very possibly my favourite of all Köder's art work. Peter has stepped out of the boat. 
One. 
Two. 
How many steps before the initial enthusiasm that has propelled him above the water wears off, is replaced by a conscious 'oh my word, this can't be possible' thought, that sends him sinking below the waves? 
Stepping out in faith, he finds himself very quickly in over his head. 
The hand reaches up out of the water: 'save me'.
Another, stronger hand, reaches down into the water and does just that. 
In the background, the disciples look on.
Sometimes, I'm Peter.
Sometimes, I'm in the boat, looking on.

However, the times when I feel overwhelmed, sinking under, are the times when this particular painting wanders into my head. As I see it in my mind's-eye, I also notice that I'm somehow breathing again - and hear the thought, with a smile, that 'it's always good to breathe.' 
Echoing Ps 23: I find my soul restored. 
Sometimes, a picture prayer is worth a thousand words...

'A voice is heard in Ramah': a prayer

Helpless, near-speechless horror and again as I hear the news...
2 campus shootings on the same day.
The ever-present questions:
How many more?
How long until preventative action is taken
not repetitive excuses given?
And so, tired, and angry, and helpless prayer:

'A voice is heard in Ramah,
mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because her children are no more.' Jer, 31:15

Lord,
How many more?
How many sacrificed on the altar of violence,
of obsessive fetishistic gun idolatry
that puts 'my right to carry'
before a child's right to live?
How many hopes and dreams,
how many cherished ones
will perish
on campuses,
in high schools,
in kindergartens
while the endless circle of debate
and statistical manipulations
and justifications
are trotted out once more?
Even one life is one too many.

Lord,
How long?
What does it take to break
the cycle of violence
and hate?
But more so:
to break into an apathy
so inured into the psyche?
We are tired from weeping.
We are bent with grief
and sorrow and hopeless despair.

Lord,
Enough.
Teach us again
and again
and again
- until we get it -
of the preciousness of life;
to champion grace and kindness,
to seek your perfect love
that casts out every fear -
those fears that create a fortress mentality,
a neighbourhood arms-race in miniature.
Comfort the newest members
of a club not willingly joined:
the mothers, fathers,
sisters, brothers,
lovers, and friends
who mourn
and cry out
like Rachel.
Lord,
in your mercy...
hear this prayer. Amen.

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.

Psalm prayers: Psalm 2

'Why do the nations conspire,    
and the peoples plot in vain?
The kings of the earth set themselves,
and the rulers take counsel together,
against the Lord and his anointed, saying:
"Let us burst their bonds asunder
and cast their cords from us."

Power: who thinks they're in control, and who's really in control?
It's a key theme within Psalm 2, which also has a strong Messianic context.  Regardless of how powerful the nations, the kings, the peoples think they are, both singly and collectively, it is the One enthroned in heaven who holds the real power. The earthly kings are advised to follow a more circumspect course, to be wise.
Wisdom here is found in acknowledging that they are not God.
Wisdom is found in seeking a humbler path: the path of service.
On that path, there is refuge, and blessing....

Might versus right, O Lord,
and you watch
the jockeying for position,
the posturing,
the pride.
All pointless.
That is not real power.
Real power is found
in the tenderest of touches,
in the feel of water
on foot,
and a towel
wiping dry.
Real power is found
outside the gates of the city,
where the flotsam and jetsam
of life hang,
suspended upon wood.
Real power is found
in an early morning garden
at the open door of a tomb.
Real power is not
brokering fear;
it is found in words of peace -
angel-voice saying 'be not afraid.'
Real power is not
raging,
nor plotting,
for when power is real
it has no need of such devices.
Real power is
vulnerable,
compassionate, and self-giving.
You, who are enthroned in heaven,
You, who defined what real power is,
bless those who seek refuge -
the ones who walk,
the ones in boats,
the ones fleeing from misused power
that crushes dreams,
destroys hope,
that rides roughshod
over lives.
When the nations rage,
and the rulers of the earth
reach too high and
at too great a cost,
remind us anew that
real power
walks with the wounded
and the weary,
gives comfort to the suffering ones,
and creates a kingdom of refuge.
Amen.

Psalm prayers: Psalm 1

I truly need to be much more intentional in making time just to be, and relax into Scripture. 

I'm in danger of the Bible becoming a work book. Time to build in reflection spaces that aren't centred on the job! 
Psalm 1 is a useful reminder, I feel.
1 Happy* are those

   who do not follow the advice of the wicked,

   or take the path that sinners tread,

    or sit in the seat of scoffers;

2 but their delight is in the law of the Lord,

    and on his law they meditate day and night.

3 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.

4 The wicked are not so,

    but are like chaff that the wind drives away.

5 Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment,

    nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous;

6 for the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,

    but the way of the wicked will perish.

                                   *meh, I prefer the other translation, 'blessed'!

Which path, Lord?

What do we delight in?

What absorbs us,  

that we lose all track of time -

of light, of night? 

Let us drink deep from your word,

a reservoir of blessing.

So may we become

rooted and fruitful,

shot through with green;

blossoming, flourishing.

Prune away the scoffing cynicism

that withers budding leaf,

the restlessness 

of an ear inclined to listen elsewhere.

Open our hearts to delight,

to prosper in you.

In so doing,

may we look up,

branch outwards,

help others bloom and grow

and delight in you,

this day and always. 

Amen.

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

Lent, day 6: 'Homesick'

'Homesick'

When we love, when we tell ourselves we do,
we are pining for first love, somewhen,
before we thought of wanting it.  When we rearrange
the rooms we end up living in, we are looking
for first light, the arrangement of light,
that time, before we knew to call it light.

Or talk of music, when we say
we cannot talk of it, but play again
C major, A flat minor, we are straining
for first sound, what we heard once,
then, in lost chords, wordless languages.

What country do we come from?  This one?
The one where the sun burns
when we have night? The one
the moon chills; elsewhere, possible?

Why is our love so imperfect,
music only echo of itself,
the light wrong?

We scratch in dust with sticks,
dying of homesickness
for when, where, what.

Carole Anne Duffy - from New Selected Poems 1984-2004

The season of Lent is one of wandering, wilderness, exile.
We have buried the Alleluias
and wonder how we will find strength to keep walking.
It can feel an odd, dark time; hard.
Without the shout of acclamation,
how do we sing the Lord's song in this strange Lenten land?

Lent reminds us that we are exiles.
Pining.
Looking for light and straining for lost language.
Lent reminds us of our imperfect love;
a season that brings about homesickness
as we long for our heart's true home.
Amid the Lenten reminders, however, is hope.
We have buried the Alleluias
but we know they are there, waiting to burst forth from the tomb.
'We are an Easter people, and alleluia is our song'. [St Augustine]
Now is the time of yearning, longing,
of scratching in the wilderness dust with our sticks,
but soon and very soon the day approaches
for heart's-rest, and Alleluias,
and hope fulfilled.

'You're welcome!' - a sermon for Ordinary 13A

Texts:
Ps 89: 1-2, 5-16
Matthew 10: 40-42

One of my favourite kids worship songs

is a song by Fischy Music.

It’s a simple, cheery, song of welcome,

and the words are short and to the point:

‘Welcome everybody, it’s good to see you here    

- said x three -

gathered in this place.’

Who knows, I may yet get the chance to teach it to you all 

before I leave in September -

and this particular welcome song comes with actions - 

so you’ve all been warned!

Welcome...and actions...

In our gospel reading this morning,

we find Jesus talking of welcome,

a welcome that comes with actions...

a welcome that is, in this instance,

quite specifically aimed at those,

who follow God,

being made welcome.

Jesus says -

‘whoever welcomes you’ - Jesus is talking to his disciples here...

‘whoever welcomes God’s messenger’ -

prophets and preachers and anyone who proclaims the good news of God...

‘whoever welcomes a good man’ [or woman!] -

other versions of the bible translate this as

‘the righteous’

and lastly,

‘whoever welcomes the least of my followers’

and here, we have an action:

the welcoming of the least is linked to the most basic - 

the most fundamental - act of hospitality:

providing a drink of cold water.

In this passage, then, we see various

kinds of follower,

from the very visible, to the barely visible:

from the great and the humble, to those in-between.

And we learn that to welcome any who follow Jesus,

is to welcome Jesus himself.

Here we get a glimpse of how the followers of Jesus are, 

in effect, the body of Christ.

And we also get a glimpse of how we should see one another:

for in order to welcome someone,

we first need to see them.

The God who sees us

calls us to see each other -

but more than that:

to see the spark of the divine in one another:

to see God in each other.

There’s something of the sacred then,

in the act of welcome.

But, in order to recognise God in one another

how do we see God?

The way in which the writer of our psalm sees God,

whilst singing God’s praises,

give us some helpful clues concerning the nature,

the character of God.

The psalmist sings:

‘O Lord, I will always sing of your constant love;

I will proclaim your faithfulness forever’. ...

In the reading, ‘constant love’ and ‘faithfulness’ just keep cropping up -

in this particular extract, we get to hear about

both of these attributes three times.

Then there’s the uniqueness of God:

‘no one in heaven is like you...’

God is seen as ‘awesome’,

‘none is as mighty’,

God is ‘powerful’ and ‘strong’.

 We see how God’s strength can calm the

‘angry waves’ of the sea -

which, several centuries later will be demonstrated by Jesus,

on the Sea of Galilee,

in a boat,

in the midst of a fierce storm...

The psalmist praises a God who is

supreme,

creative,

imaginative:

The heavens, the earth -

belong to God,

who created the world

and all therein...

And in the midst of the psalm,

we have a key statement which gives us a huge steer,

not only in how we see God,

but how we see each other -

how we welcome each other.

That statement?

‘Your kingdom is founded on

righteousness and justice;

love and faithfulness are shown in all you do.’

At Presbytery on Thursday evening, the Moderator 

reflected on the various fruit of the Spirit: 

love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 

gentleness and self-control -

this list coming from Paul’s letter to the Galatians. 

And it got me wondering about how these are demonstrated

each time we see one another -

each time we welcome and worship and walk with God together.

While some of these may come a little more easily than others,

the list serves to help us begin to tease out

those kingdom values of

righteousness and justice

that the psalmist sings about,

for righteousness and justice is bound up

with building each other up

in love, in joy,

by being patient and kind,

good and faithful, gentle,

and having some modicum of self-control...

okay, let's just not mention chocolate biscuits!!

But welcome is not only about us.

While our gospel reading 

‘invites us to explore in depth the quality of the welcome 

that we offer to one another within the Body of Christ...

we must also reflect on the welcome we offer

to those who are not yet a part of this body.’ [FOTW]

For, echoing last week,

we worship a God who not only sees us,

we worship the God who sees the outsider:

in the case of last week, Hagar.

How then, might we extend God’s welcome

to those on the edges or outwith

the community of Christ’s followers?

...Sometimes, it may be as simple as a random act of kindness...

acts like the ones in the wee film that [ppt person]'s going to play for us now...

[FILM]

Who are the people around us,

unseen,

unnoticed,

ignored by the wider community?

As we wander through our neighbourhoods,

or along the High St,

who might we see?

who are the unwanted ones?

the unwelcome ones?

who are the thirsty ones -

the ones that we could give a drink of water to?

That we could extend God’s welcome to?

the ones who we see

as God’s beloved ones -

or even,

as Christ, in the stranger’s guise?

One very practical thing, that you,

as a congregation are already doing,

has recently been to come alongside

the work of the [name of local group] Project...

seeing young homeless folk,

and helping them to turn a space into a home

when they’re offered housing.

[Seaside Parish community worker] was telling me on Thursday morning

that through your care and kindness,

the second of the starter packs

has already been given away.

Another young person has been given more than a cup of cold water:

that particular way of extending welcome is a ‘welcome to your new home.’

That’s just ...awesome...

I may be biased, but...so are all of you -

Keep up this good work:

the work of active welcome.

Practicing acts of kindness -

whether random or intentional -

is part and parcel of extending welcome:

to welcome someone

is to acknowledge their existence.

In a time and culture that’s geared towards suspicion and mistrust,

the act of welcoming someone is perhaps 

the most radical thing that we can do:

and welcoming those deemed

the last and the least -

those who some would prefer to be

out of sight and out of mind,

is a pretty random act of kindness indeed:

something that seems to make no sense...

And yet,

in God’s kingdom of righteousness and justice it makes complete sense.

For in the radical act of welcome,

as you see,

really see others

you may just come face to face with Christ.

And now, to him be all glory, honour and praise.  Amen.