a Sunday song

From the lectionary for today -

Colossians 2: 9-10
For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily, and you have come to fullness in him, who is the head of every ruler and authority. 

The song is 'Chi Rho', by Iona.
The picture to the right is 'Christ Enthroned from the Book of Kells, the subject of the song.





Colour of green

Green for the vine

For the leaves and the branches

The tree of life

Colour of red

Red for the wounds

That are deeper than I can know

How deep the flow

By Him all things, were created

By Him all things, were created

And the fullness, of the Godhead

Is in Him

Chi-Rho

Colour of gold

Gold for a throne

For the light that is blazing

From His face

Colourless white

For purity

White as snow, the colours flow

The mystery of Chi-Rho

By Him all things, were created

By Him all things, were created

And the fullness, of the Godhead

Is in Him

Chi-Rho

By Him all things, were created

By Him all things, were created

And the fullness, of the Godhead

Is in Him, Chi-Rho

In Him, Chi-Rho

In Him, Chi-Rho

In Him, Chi-Rho

the other guy in my life...

Dear Dad,
yes, I know, if nothing I am not consistent with regard to forgetting your birthday.  The note to self I leave in my mental in-tray is tattered and worn, and the writing is quite faded now.  But...
I do remember eventually.
Us academic types can get a bit preoccupied down in dusty corridors filled with obscure and sometimes bizarre pieces of information.
Opening a book, or working on a manuscript is a dangerous thing: you take a big breath and then plunge headlong down a deep well, not knowing when you'll emerge dazed and blinking back in the present.  To use the line from L.P. Hartley's book, The Go-between, 'the past is a different country, they do things differently there.'
In the past, due to all sorts of different circumstances, there have been long periods of geographical separation; that's just the way of things and certainly the way we've managed our relationship has been done quite differently - and I say that with fondness.
In the present, while the geographical separation continues, even in spite of being forgetful about such things as birthdays [not sure why my friends still persevere; it is not just you, I'm afraid!] I'm aware that there is hardly a day in which you don't cross my thoughts.
Perhaps it's that odd way of thinking that we both share - someone will make a comment and I will automatically have a song lyric to hand as a response.
Or particular turns of phrase.
Or particular ways of 'seeing' a situation.
And I suspect that if you were here now and we were chatting, we would be finishing each other's sentences, or weird each other out just ever so slightly because whatever one of us would have said, the other would have just been thinking it.  I love that very odd connection with you and it helps me remember that no, I was not found in a cabbage patch - I belong.
Truly, I am my father's daughter.

In each of our own ways, we've muddled along, trying to figure out how to overcome the gaps.  I think that one of the greatest gifts that you gave me was handing me some of those missing pieces to the jigsaw of my early life, via conversation, but also through all those photographs you had copied and sent.

So, on this 'not your birthday' day, I think I want to say to you, even despite my seeming slackness as well as a tendency not to emote that much in public, that you are a gift in my life and I love you Dad.
Hope there are many more birthdays!!
from your head-in-dusty-history-books-distracted-and-often-forgetful...
Nik x

the plus-side to idolatry...

Knox, accustomed to preaching against idolatry, looked down at the objects of veneration left by his devotees and quietly reconsidered his theological position...

New College, 

now a 

Bollywood 

film set

[with thanks to Crystal for the pic!]

Martha and Mary, the chocolatey version

This is a story about M and M,
as well as M & M's...

I'm remembering an all-age chat by my friend D in her previous charge - I was having a day off from my regular Sunday space.
And the gospel reading of the day was the same as this coming Sunday's reading, namely, Luke 10: 38-42 which contains a story of Mary and Martha.
In this particular story, Jesus has popped in to visit his pals and is sitting talking with them.

Mary sits at his feet in rapt attention...
but meanwhile a hot cauldron of bubbling resentment is brewing in the kitchen.
Martha is cheesed off -
seriously cheesed off at slacker Mary, sitting about, doing nothing, not helping provide the required hospitality.
Tsk.
And so the reading has often been commented on by way of pitting the M and M's against each other:
the pious Mary, seemingly so heavenly-minded that she's of no earthly use
and the practical Martha, so busy doing that she forgets to actually hang out with Jesus.
And the point from the pulpit, when pitting the M and M's against each other, has often been to denigrate all those faithful hard-working Marthas without whom stuff just wouldn't get done.
Well that just seems a tad unfair...
so let us now turn to chocolate to tease out this passage a wee bit more.

And back to my friend D who, when doing her all-age address, handed around a few large bowls filled with M&M's... and as she did told the M and M story.
In the end, what she concluded was that you need both Mary and Martha:
it's not a case of either/ or here...
So, as we ate the M&M's, and thought of M and M, we were reminded that while M&M's are the same inside, they are different on the outside ...
leading to the rather torturous but amusing conclusion that while M and M both loved their pal Jesus, they just displayed that love in different ways.

Well the chocolate in church was good at least  *grins*

Sacred space...

... at Linne Bheag.  

My friend Dorothy has just put up her Autumn programme of quiet days/ evenings.  She and Peter are fab.   The prog. looks excellent.  Check their web-site out here

signs of the times...?

Given the ongoing CofE saga with Jeffrey John south of the border, as well as 'that which shall not be named' in the CofS, the following billboard perhaps puts things into a wee bit of perspective... we might want to add 'women' to that as well!

and where are we in this picture...?

Luke 10: 30-36
“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. ³¹Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. ³²So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. ³³But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. ³⁴He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. ³⁵The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ ³⁶Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”


Thinking towards Sunday:
let's imagine we're in this story...

Ruts.
Rocks.
Heat.
Although your pace is steady
you already feel exhausted.
Wiping sweat away,
you keep walking.

A stony road,
a scorching day,
a long but necessary journey.
White sunlight splitting the rocks by the roadside;
Heat shimmers and dances in the distance
under a hard, blue sky.
All is quiet,
yet not a peaceful quiet.
The air crackles with expectation.
An almost imperceptible sound as a pebble falls onto sand.
Your hair prickles at the back of your neck
as you feel eyes watch your every move.
Picking up the pace
you curse yourself for travelling alone.
It had seemed important at the time:
to make this trip...
but now you wonder if it was such a good idea.
The road twists and turns and the journey feels unforgiving.
Around a bend people stand,
watching, waiting.
You hold down your fear and keep moving.
No use.
Mocking laughter as they block your way.
Four of them -
and you lick your lips nervously
waiting for what you know instinctively 
will be a bad outcome.

It begins.
Harsh words.
Pushing, shoving.
Fists and feet connecting with flesh;
pain raining down upon your fallen body
until you just can't move.
Blood and agony.
Stripped, robbed.
Left for dead.

Time drifts.
In the distance, footsteps.
you groan,
waiting for them to finish off the job.
But these footsteps quicken and are gone.
The shadows stretch.
Someone else passes
and is gone.
Later - much later -
cool water pressed to your lips.
Wounds being washed and dressed amidst kind words.
You feel the hot tears falling down your face.
And then, just as everything swims out of focus and into blackness, you see a donkey....

Waking up several days later on a comfortable bed,
the innkeeper's wife tells you the story
of the one who didn't pass by.
Surprised,
your world-view is challenged
as you realise that 'those' kinds of people are...
human.

'I just want some peace!' A sermon for Sunday 4th July, 2010 Yr C

Readings:

Isaiah 66: 10-14

Galatians 6:1-10

Luke 10: 1-11, 16-20

Let us pray:

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight o Lord, our strength and our redeemer. Amen

A friend of mine was telling me a story about her older sister.

She’d had a hard day at work:

everybody wanting her attention,

all their needs terribly urgent and needing sorted immediately.

Her own work had suffered as a result.

So, she was very grumpy and frustrated by the end of the day.

She got back home and immediately had to get dinner organised for the family,

put a load of washing on,

feed the cat,

make sure the kids weren’t strangling each other.

And after dinner, sitting down:

more questions, more tasks,

no space to breathe or be...

Finally she snapped and yelled

‘I just want some peace!’

Utter silence filled the house.

A minute or so later, her 2 year old came up, looked at her with his big blue eyes full of care and love,

and in his desire to help his mummy,

he handed her a bag of frozen peas...

And in his doing it, she both got her peas, her perspective, and her peace back.

Ever since my friend told me that story, I’ve just loved it:

Loved it for its sweetness

Loved it for the misunderstanding gesture kindly meant:

Getting it wrong and yet, in the end,

through that risk-taking gesture,

actually getting it very right.

Peace.

What does it mean to be a bringer of peace to a world full of restless disquiet?

Peace.

It is a small word that carries an enormous weight of meanings on its back.

It’s a word packed with yearning and longing –

a yearning and longing that has echoed down through all the centuries of human existence...

In our Old Testament reading this morning,

that yearning is expressed by the prophet in terms of a new heaven and a new earth.

We heard about the city of Jerusalem portrayed as a mother in labour... with God as midwife...

And then a child is born:

a child that grows and flourishes,

is nourished and nurtured and comforted by God...

there is prosperity and national peace.

And yet...

It is an odd peace,

a tenuous peace –

The writer talks of God’s indignation against his enemies...

Peace is dearly bought

and in order to preserve it

there is the possibility that it may only be

done through struggle...

and, sadly, we are all only too well aware that the struggle for peace in and around Jerusalem continues even now.

Peace...

In our New Testament reading in Galatians, peace is also being sought:

Paul calls upon the Galatians to live peacefully amongst one another:

When people have transgressed –

when they’ve ‘crossed the line’,

Paul urges the Galatians to use gentleness in the way they go about restoring the relationships that have been damaged;

They are to bear one another’s burdens;

To ask tough questions of themselves not just each other...

To work for the good of all

and to never weary in doing what is right.

It’s a blueprint for harmonious living –

a way to demonstrate the peaceable,

the peaceful kindom of God.

Peace...

And what of our gospel reading?

Jesus sends out the 70/ 72 on a mission and they are given detailed instructions...

and the one instruction that really has stuck with me this week concerns words –

the words Jesus tells his followers to use:

the message of the Prince of Peace is that his disciples use words of peace.

The 70 are told that whenever they come to a house, the very first thing they’re to say is:

‘peace be to this house’...

The mission is to go into unchartered territories,

carrying little else than a staff,

and to clothe themselves in words of peace.

To be peace-speakers,

Peace bringers to the places they go.

And to accept the hospitality they find when they go to these places, armed only with their peaceful words.

Now apparently, the root word from which hospitality comes from, takes in both host and hostile:

So in ancient near eastern cultures –

where hospitality was a sacred duty –

it was also a risky business:

Was the host entertaining someone who was hostile... or friendly?

So in that context, it seems to have made enormous sense that Jesus instructed his followers to state their peaceful intentions immediately upon arrival – to allay the fears of their hosts.

Because I strongly suspect that it’s not war which is the opposite of peace, but fear.

Fear of the unknown,

Fear of the different:

Fear of attack which drives people to make a pre-emptive strike...

and hurtle down the path to counter-strike and escalating conflict.

Peace.

Peace be to this house...

Two thousand years on -

here and now

as followers of Jesus in a post 9/11 time which seems to be so fear-filled, so fearful...

What does it mean for us, to be bringers of peace to a world full of restless disquiet?

If we listen to, and watch, the news from around the world

it can feel like the mission of peace is hopeless in the face of such overwhelming conflict and human tragedy.

The media visually bombards us with the

sights and sounds and effects of war

on a daily basis.

In order to cope with the horror of it all

we can become... numb to what seems almost the inevitability and normality of it.

We can find ourselves asking:

What’s the point?

How can I, one little person, possibly make a difference in the face of all of that?

There’s a fear that we can’t do anything at all

and that fear can paralyse us from even entertaining thoughts of trying to do something, anything that might make a difference.

On the other hand....

I believe it was Anita Roddick who once said:

If you think you're too small to have an impact, try going to bed with a mosquito in the room!

We are followers of the Prince of Peace,

who bids us, as he did the 70 so long ago

to be peace bringers...

it is our prophetic task:

to speak the words of peace in a world crying out

‘I just want some peace!’

And fumbling and falteringly,

armed with nothing more than peace words,

somehow we must take the risk and bring peace into the world.

And I wonder how we even begin to get our heads around this task -

this overwhelming, awesome task that Jesus entrusts us with.

And my own sense is, that we can only start from where we are and who we are.

There’s an old song that goes:

‘Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.’

Peace.

Peace be to this house... 

The process of peace starts with ourselves: 

Paul asks the Galatians to examine themselves, before pointing fingers or expecting too much of their neighbours,

or puffing themselves up with thoughts about how utterly excellent they are....

The process of peace starts with ourselves as we ask hard questions about what it is that causes the disquiet that we might have within us...

can we be people of peace if we are not at peace with ourselves?

I wonder if peace is like ripples in a pond:

Jesus at the centre as Prince of Peace

saying to each one of us:

Peace be with you...

And as we find the peace of the Prince of Peace,

the ripples spreading out, touching our households as peaceful and harmonious ways of living together are found

and spreading further to ...

our street –

our neighbours, our local area,

our church community gathered here...

eventually spreading until the words of peace touch the very edges of the world.

Or perhaps the process of peace is a little like a domino effect:

as each one of us determines to never grow weary of doing right, and follows the path of the Prince of Peace...

and speaks words of peace...

perhaps it causes all the little dominoes of fear to begin to topple?

I don’t know.

But what I do know is that each one of us, whether we like it or not,

is not utterly independent:

as John Donne put it:

‘No man is an island... ‘

We are each of us part of the whole of humanity:

connected.

Whatever we do

whatever choices we make affects others.

How each one of us chooses to deal with the fears that attack our own peace,

impacts upon not just ourselves but others.

So, do we set up a spiral of violence when we choose to lash out and attack - when our fears get the better of us?

Do we snap at someone and take offence where there is none,

because underneath our own fear of our inadequacy has been getting to us?

Do we condemn others for not doing something in a way that we think is the ‘right’ way,

because underneath,

we are fearful that our own way is being challenged?

Do we dehumanise people who are ‘different’ to us by giving them labels such as

‘asylum seeker’, ‘druggie’, ‘ned’, ‘feminist’ or ‘homo’,

because underneath, we are afraid of that which we cannot understand

and afraid that in some indefinable way these people threaten our very way of life?...

What are the fears that lurk deep within which bring us disquiet and disturb our peace...

Do our own undealt with fears set up a storehouse of potential conflict?

Or, do we choose instead, to test our fears, grounded in the peace that is given to us by the Prince of Peace?

And having tested ourselves do we choose instead to be counter-cultural –

to reverse the spiral of violence with words of peace?

Peace.

Peace be to this house...

On that first Easter day, words of peace were uttered in the garden by the angel of the Lord to the women: ‘Do not be afraid’...

Later, in an upper room, appearing to his disciples, Jesus’ first words were: ‘peace be with you’

The Prince of Peace speaks words of peace to us,

and to our ‘houses’ –

both internal and external.

And as we accept those words of peace into our own lives we begin a life-long task of speaking peace,

bringing hope and bringing peace into our world full of restless disquiet.

Of this lifelong task, Brazilian theologian and poet, Ruben Alves says:

‘Let us plant dates even though those who plant them will never eat them.

We must live by the love of what we will never see.

It is a ...stubborn commitment to the future of our grandchildren.

Such disciplined love is what has given prophets, revolutionaries, and saints the courage to die for the future they envisaged. They make their own bodies the seed of their highest hope.’

Peace.

Peace be to each one of us

And peace be to this house...

Let us pray:

Peace-giving God

Take away the fears that hold us paralysed,

Unable to be about the mission of peace that you have given to us.

Teach us to be your people of peace –

In our homes, in our neighbourhoods,

in our town... in your world

We ask this in the name of the Prince of Peace

Amen.

oh dear, I think I'm going to use the 'F' word...

I've been thinking about the 'F' word... no, no... not that 'F' word, the other one that seems to have, over time, become almost the equivalent in offensiveness in polite society - yes, 'Feminist'.... 

Gosh, but it seems like only yesterday when I recall discovering that if I wrote the word 'people' or 'human' instead of 'man' I:

1/ clarified whether I was talking about one bloke or the human species

2/ did not subconsciously affirm that the default position for humans - the norm, as it were - was basically male [and thus affirmed subconsciously that female was 'abnormal']

3/ included the entire human species.

It was a 'light-bulb' moment in my young adulthood and, in many ways, it was not particularly rocket science.  And it was about 25 years ago - which can technically be defined as a generation ago.

All these years later, I find it slightly unreal and even downright bizarre that inclusive language is actually an issue - even in these here halls of the academy.  It astonishes me that the majority of young women - this generation of women - who are wandering through the hallowed arches of New College are quite happy to describe themselves as 'men' in their written and spoken words ... and who utter the immortal line 'I'm not a feminist... but...'. When this phrase is brought out, I find myself sighing inside a wee bit.  And then I offer up the question:

'if you're doing the same job as a chap, would you expect to be paid the same money?'  

The answer is, invariably, 'of course!'  

And then I go on to note that, at its most basic, feminism is really about women having the same opportunities that men are given: it's about being given a 'fair go'.  It is not about having to hate blokes, wear dungarees, have no sense of humour, but it can be about that if you want it to be as well!  It's about having the same freedom of choice that chaps, because of the way we have constructed our society, seem to have.

It's also about recognising that the manner in which we operate as a society can be equally oppressive to blokes as well: the list of rules concerning what it is to be a 'real' man is as much of a yoke as the rules concerning what a 'real' woman must be.  And place gender identity constructs within a consumerist societal context and humans - yup women and men - become products, objectified, dehumanised. 

Yup, I know I'm not bringing anything particularly new to the discussion, but I think this is more an expression of my ongoing puzzlement about why women are still not yet all on equal pay; why the majority of politicians are still chaps; why questions concerning what women are wearing are deemed acceptable to ask in cases of rape when this is never asked in a case of an assault of a man: 'really, don't you think you were just asking to be beaten over the head with a hammer because you were walking down the road dressed in shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt and flip-flops?' C'mon, it never gets asked, does it...!??

And of course, my ongoing puzzlement with regard to ordination/ church ministry and leadership with the attitude amongst some folk that in order to be like Jesus, you've got to pee like Jesus... 

Ah well... all this sparked off, in part, by looking at a postcard I have from the 80's which I've copied and slightly paraphrased below:

Because... women's work is never done and is underpaid or unpaid or boring or repetitious and we're the first to get fired and if we expect to be paid the same as a man doing the same job we are called unreasonable and blamed for a downturn in the economy and making tea, baking scones, arranging flowers and perhaps teaching Sunday School is apparently the only form of 'acceptable' ministry and what we look like is more important than what we do and if we get raped it's our fault and if we get beaten we must have provoked it and if we raise our voices we're nagging bitches and if we enjoy sex we're nymphos and if we don't we're frigid and if we love women it's because we can't get a "real" man and if we ask our doctor too many questions we're neurotic and/or pushy and if we expect childcare we're selfish and if we stand up for our rights we're aggressive and "unfeminine" and if we don't we're typical weak females and if we want to get married we're out to trap a man and if we don't we're unnatural and because we aren't deemed responsible enough to decide if, when and how we give birth but men can walk on the moon...

I'm a feminist.

[with a sense of humour, but without dungarees...!]

Foxy Knoxy's word to the wise #4: the importance of humour should never be underestimated

Beloved brethren and sistren, in these image-conscious days [a plague on all images, I say!] the art of acquiring a good marketing agent is an important skill.
It is an art, alas, that those of us immune to the charms of idolatry have definitely not managed to acquire.
And so it has come to pass, in these latter days of godless frivolity, that we Reformers have been caricatured and much maligned for dourness, an earnestness of temperament, joyless zeal and even the occasional tasteless accusations that we are... shall we say... somewhat lacking in mirth and merriment.
Lies, foul lies! 
Did we not invent the
'Reformation Polka'? [one of Brother Martin's better moves, despite his dodgy theology]
Have we not laughed at the irony of Christian graffiti and quietly derided such dieting groups as 'be slim 4 Him' and 'more of Jesus, less of me'?

Why, even on my death-bed, did I not ask for a cask of wine for my guests and joke in a most jolly and japish manner: 'well, I might be finished before you are, lads!'

Trust me, brethren and sistren, when you're standing looking down the abyss into the face of the oncoming apocalypse, the importance of having cultivated a well-developed sense of humour should never be underestimated...

[Um, incidentally, not that I'm bothered about image you understand, but does this Preaching BeardTM make my bum look too big?]

oot 'n aboot in Geneva...

Girly ministers-to-be
getting into the groove
wit da Reformation boyz...
dancing the
'Reformation Polka'... at the Reformers Wall, Geneva.


Top pic is an homage to the Knoxy statue pose in New College quad







Reformation: girls givin' it large...

... meanwhile, Nik gets a little closer to her main main foxy Johny Knoxy... :)

that 'most perfect school of Christ'...

Wall of the Reformers, Geneva:

Farel, Calvin, Beze, Knox 

Since the last blogpost I've been on a whistle-stop tour with a group of trainee Church of Scotland ministers to Geneva which, according to my main man Knoxy, was that 'most perfect school of Christ'.  
Things have certainly changed since JK's time, but it was just fabby:
to wander around the old town;
saunter about the Reformation Museum and then later the Museum of Geneva; 
spend a day at the World Council of Churches and then a trip to the Ecumenical Institute in Bossey; 
see the astonishing Reformation wall - hadn't realised just how big it was;
worship in both the Cathedral and the English speaking 'exiles' church.

For this Early Modern historian-type, it was heaven on a plate, and there were many high points.  
Possibly the two biggest personal highs, however, were:
reading a lesson in the Auditoire during Sunday worship...
and...
sharing a brief act of worship with friend John [no, not Knox!] in the Auditoire Calvin on the Friday night.  
Having visited the World Council of Churches that day, we placed symbols of different approaches to following Christ [rosary, icon, candle, open bible] on a small table in the middle of the group and picked up the theme of unity and diversity.  
We read from John 17 - Jesus' prayer for unity.  
We also read extracts from the very first sermon preached to the Marian exiles - by Christopher Goodman - and recently transcribed by my supervisor, who'd kindly sent it to me as she knew I'd be interested.  
Alluding to the discord and disunity in the Frankfurt church, Goodman's sermon was a call for unity.  
It was quite an awesome thing to read his words - long lost and recently discovered - in the place where he had preached them over 450 years before.
After a brief discussion on 'unity not uniformity, and diversity, not division', we rounded off with the prayer of unity, the Lord's Prayer and then stood and said the Grace.  
What made it particularly special was that there had been several odd 'coincidences' leading up to the actual worship service:
John and I had joked about 'stirring' the Reformed worship pot a little a few weeks before we went to Geneva... so I had packed a rosary and icon... and we'd already decided upon using John 17 before we arrived in Geneva.  
We didn't realise [I hadn't looked when I organised the worship rota] that we'd be on worship duty the same day as the WCC visit.  
During that visit, one of the speakers used the John 17 passage...
Worship had normally been conducted in the place we were staying and the night before, we'd decided to use the Goodman stuff... however, on the evening, we found out we'd actually be worshipping in the Auditoire where Goodman and Knox had worshipped.  Goodman's words in Goodman's church - neat.
If we had actually planned all of it, we couldn't have done it better as to effectively setting the scene.  I love it when a plan comes together in such a serendipitous way.   

Jesus saves... why didn't I??

And so, last Thursday, it came to pass that Nik pressed an affirmative button to install updates and encountered the horror of Vista crash and burn.  
Gah.
Tried many things 
[yes, I confess, even praying over the computer, oh dear...] 
but in the end faced the horrifying thought that I'd lost all my research, all my data... 
Handing in the laptop to the wondrous techie folks at New College, after some considerable and creative effort, they managed to retrieve my stuff and my computer was then rebuilt.
Phew.
So, now just rejigging and getting used to the feel of the old/new computer and sorting it all out into some semblance of pre-crash normality once more.

As a trainee minister type I, along with my peers, am encouraged to become a reflective practitioner - so lots of journalling and er, finkin' aboot wot I do, innit....  What has really struck me quite forcibly has been the odd sense of dislocation that I've felt over the time without my laptop - which is my only computer.  There was the understandable anxiety over the possibility of losing my academic research and all of my church resources [journals, files, sermons and other worship resources] but beyond that I just felt not only literally disconnected but psychologically disconnected.  
It was an odd feeling.
And intermingled with that oddness were emotions that are often associated with loss and grief.  Strange.
I've realised just how much time I spend using my computer - yes, for work, where it's essential - but also as a way of passing time/ faffing about/ chilling out.... 
Over the four day period of enforced non-computing, the days seemed at first to be... long.  

Initially I fretted about not being so readily contactable, or unable to respond to something immediately.  
I wondered what to do with my time.  
I then wondered what I used to do with my time pre-pc dependence and began to think that prior to all the interweb jiggery-pokery I was a self-resourced, creative human being with lots of initiative.  It's disturbed me quite considerably to realise how much of that side of me I've allowed to atrophy.
The long days shortened as I remembered how to do 'other stuff' - the guitar was dusted off and music played... and the more I played the more my fingers remembered old tunes.  
I walked on 'my' beach, sat and ate dinner on the beach and watched sodden seagulls fly forlornly overhead - one of which helpfully decided to 'dump' on me and my meal... in novels I believe that such a thing is known as 'pathetic fallacy'... the seagull, my dinner and myself were certainly looking pretty pathetic!
I read.
I messed about in the garden.
I began to regain my perspective and my humanity.  

And the lesson this minister in training has learned? 
To be a little more 'intentional' in my non-work computer practices - take a day away from using it.
And, as to computers crashing and burning, and lack of backing up:
to remember that 
Jesus saves, go thou and do likewise....

apostrophes: the fundamentals

This marvellous pic. courtesy of 
the blessed Shuna!  

Recently, I have been worried.
Why?
I've noticed a distinct lack of apostrophes about the place.
To paraphrase Dylan, I've been finding myself asking: 'where have all the apostrophes gone?'

I need not have feared.
The answer would seem to be: 'gone to placards, every one'.

The writer of this sign - pic.  placed deliberately on the right of screen to match world-view - is the culprit.

An initial count has so far found 31 poor little apostrophes flagrantly misused and abused.  This, without tackling spelling errors - although I am especially fond of 'high fullutent'.
Unless the signwriter was actually referring only to one of each: one Muslim, one abortionist, one racist, etc.?  But this then begs the question: the Muslim's ... what?  Sandwich? Koran? Cup of tea?
Or, 'sport's nut's' - which sport and what kind of nut?

Surely, there is a special place in hell reserved for such needless wastage of apostrophes?
Yes, today I am very much in touch with my inner pedant.

the love Shack, baby?

It's the book some people love to love. 
It's also the book quite a few folk I know love to hate.
It's a Christian literary phenomenon!
It's a pile of ...?
Some not-very-deep musings on... The Shack

To be fair, The Shack was always going to have a hard time getting through the cynicism engendered by the over-hype.
I am an awkward customer when it comes to claims that 'this product changed my life' - crumbs, my becoming a Christian was tough enough, let alone being won over to The Shack.
I bought the book, but was I going to 'buy' the accompanying hype?
Did The Shack change my life?
No. It just irritated me.

The writing - oh, very, dear. So pedestrian in its pace that I visibly aged as I turned each page. It laboured some points so hard that I was left bludgeoned into a state of apathy. Did I care about the characters in the story-line? Not really. Did I find myself frequently humming the mantra 'oh, just get on with it, already'? Check. 

And yet, even thought most of the pores of my very being screamed at me to stop reading, I did keep reading. Even in the midst of the most profound irritation at poor grammar and schmaltzy story, I found myself stumbling across wee gems. I smiled at the description of walking on water. I occasionally grinned at the depiction of the Trinity - God the parent as a big Mama, cooking and nurturing and just generally looking out for everyone was, dare I use the 'c' word... kind of cute.

The Trinity... hmmm, I am left with some theological niggles- is The Shack in danger of a form of Modalism? 

Occasional sentences, in amidst some of the most abysmal writing I have had the displeasure to read, popped out at me with the profundity of a killer knock-out punch: surprising when it happens, but it does happen.

My sense of The Shack is that it's a bit curate's egg - good in parts. I also wonder if there's a cultural context that this Scottish-Aussie doesn't quite get? Maybe if you're from Northern America, the book just works better?  

So... someone who loved it: convince me I'm wrong. Tell me why this is the 'awesome, life-changing' book so many people claim it to be :)

'carry on reforming'

Gosh, a long time between blogs, but life has been stupidly busy with a project my academic supervisor and I had been working on.  Spent the last week at the General Assembly and am still processing: but here are some thoughts on this Trinity Sunday...

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about unity.

A couple of weeks ago, I was chatting to folks at the local sheltered housing complex before communion - 

observing that unity was something more than merely uniformity.

I remember saying that unity didn't mean that we had to be the same,

or think the same,

or eat, or drink, or wear the same things:

that we’re not created to be clones

but that we're called to be the people

God has created us to be - 

in all our wonderfully different and diverse ways…

And that the way that we express our unity is found in who we follow and in whose image we are created:

the God who is one, and yet, who is three.

As part of my placement duties,

I spent the last week wandering about the General Assembly:

sitting in on debates - nice work if you can get it!! - and it was certainly packed with some very different and diverse people.

I spent the time eating and chatting with commissioners;

enjoying cups of tea and good blethers in the New College garden with old undergrad friends –excited to be attending as commissioners for the first time;

And also watching someone I know and respect being thanked and farewelled for her work on behalf of the General Assembly to take up duties in a very different direction.

Watching – I did a lot of that: watching and listening:

watching some of the high ceremonial – 

trumpeters, and folk in costumes from the Lord Lyon's office, or in judges wigs, perhaps symbolising the relationship between church and state;

watching the vast mass of commissioners interact with each other –

whether in debate, or over meals –

in a mostly friendly manner …

symbolising perhaps, the communitarian nature of the church…

but mixed in with that,

watching some folk jealously guarding their small empires:

from small clusters of men in dark suits having ‘quiet chats’ in corridors,

to a rather fierce, though kindly, voluntary door steward.

And we celebrated the 450^th year of protestant reformation in Scotland – with a special service on Sunday – and with a display which ran all through the week in the foyer of New College.  Perhaps this symbolised the continuity and change of the church down through history. 

There were also some rather astonishing fashion sights to behold:

the one which particularly stuck, being the minister who got up to speak to the Assembly wearing a large woolly jumper complete with huge burning bush logo – it was certainly eye-popping!  Um, perhaps symbolising dodgy taste in fashion?  :)

It’s been a fascinating and diverse week, as the body of Christ, represented in the form of those gathered at the General Assembly, did it’s business.

The church coming together once again to assess and discuss its mission, its message, and the mechanics involved with that.

As I watched the debates, I learnt how not to make a point:

in a long discussion concerning ministry the mood of the GA was made known very vocally –

a commissioner who had already spoken at length several times rose from his seat once more, and asked the Assembly if he could just make a response to someone’s point:

a spontaneous and universal cry of ‘no’ rumbled and echoed through the Assembly Hall, which I confess made me giggle.  

The man, quite wisely, sat back down.

In the debate centring around the report from Minstries Council, Assembly decided that unrestricted calls for ministers were a luxury that we as a church could no longer afford, and began the process of exploring how reviewable tenure might become the norm.

In another debate Assembly also had some fairly strong opinions concerning the banking system and bonus culture in the face of the growing divide between the richest and poorest in society.

Overall, my sense, as I spent time at the General Assembly was that, as a church, our future must not be about creating little empires,

or doing our thing in our small corner –

we work best as church when we work together:

in self-giving relationship based on

mutuality, trust, respect and love…

Which has at its heart an understanding that all of us are made in the image of love –

in the image of God…

God who is one, yet three…
in perfect community...

in unity and diversity.

It's an ongoing challenge, but it is after all, the spirit of reform - 

the church is always reforming, semper Reformanda and all that... 
or, as Prof. Dawson paraphrased, when addressing and encouraging the folk gathered for the Sunday evening special service, 'carry on reforming!'

It'S HELL in the Niger Delta

Today was Shell's AGM.  Amnesty International have been targeting the company on its appalling environmental record in the Niger Delta.
For the folk who live there everything tastes like oil. The air hangs heavy with the smell of it.
In the life-sustaining act of breathing, lungs are filled with it. 
Creation and creature being twisted and destroyed in a dance of death-for-profit.
 Fire and flame...

Amnesty International target Shell quite specifically for the illegal practice of gas flaring.
In the cycle of the church year, we are moving towards Pentecost, the feast that celebrates the birth of the Church and the gift of the Holy Spirit, seen as tongues of fire.  An interesting juxtaposition: death-giving fire and life-giving flame.  And so, a prayer for creation at Pentecost: 

God of creation, the earth is yours

with all its beauty and goodness,

its rich and overflowing provision.

But we have claimed it for our own,

plundered its beauty for profit,

grabbed its resources for ourselves.

God of creation, forgive us.

May we no longer abuse your trust,

but care gently and with justice for your earth.

Amen.

                                                    Jan Berry, in Bread of Tomorrow

divided by a common language...

Met with a lovely and wonderful friend the other day, who had come along to the citizenship ceremony earlier in the year.  Photos were produced, one of which has me staring into space and looking bewildered - ah, I'm nothing if not consistent on that score!

Had a subsequent conversation with a USA'un PG pal on the interesting scenarios you can find yourself in when you speak English, but not like the folks who speak English in the country you happen to be inhabiting.  Like USA'uns and Canadians, when I say 'pants' I am talking about trousers... but say the word to a Brit and a smirk and a raised eyebrow is often the response....
As an Aussie, when I say 'thong' I am thinking of footwear, but again, the word elicits a smirk followed by a snigger if said to a Brit, as they are thinking of quite skimpy underwear.
If Lord Vader moved to the UK, his gravitas and ability to generate fear would soon melt away amidst a sea of sniggers.  The Force may be strong in this one, but not strong enough to break the divide that separates users of a common language....

Given the current state of play with UK politics, Cameron and Clegg seem to have been talking enough language in common to allow a coalition government to form.
Interesting times.
Wonder how soon we'll be back at the polling stations?
It is an odd state of affairs tho' which sees Scotland with only one Conservative MP being governed overall by a ConDem Westminster alliance.
I suspect Alex Salmond is quietly smiling as he tucks into his pie and pint: very curious to see if this will build up a desire and a push for independence.

Ah well, to paraphrase Mel Gibson's account of Wallace: they may take away our freedom, but they'll never take away our Tunnock's.

Let's watch and see...

hung out to dry...

Yesterday ceremonies were held to commemorate VE Day.  In London, at the Cenotaph, GB, DC and NC walked together towards it and placed wreaths.
As I watched I wondered if, at some point in the near future, they might symbolically place wreaths in some dusty corridor of Westminster, as an acknowledgement that the old polling system had played its part in the nation's history. 
An acknowledgement that it had served its time, but had finally been replaced by a better, fairer, more representative system of voting.
As a way of avoiding the head/ heart dilemma of the current practice faced by those who vote.

Thursday was polling day.
I duly wandered off to the church hall - which had been transformed into a voting shop - received my ballot paper and walked across to the booth to make my x in a box.  Problem was, there with pencil poised in hand, staring at the wretched piece of paper, I was still undecided.
It's a tricky old thing.
I'm a person inclined to vote:

1/ women fought for that right, and in recognition of that alone, I vote

2/ plus, if I vote, I can then justifiably exercise my democratic right to whine, whinge, lambast and occasionally make disgruntled noises at those in positions of political power

But there I was, faced with making a decision regarding who I deemed worthy of being given that x in the box, feeling rather gloomy about the options. 
Would I vote with my heart? 
Would I vote tactically?
I opted, reluctantly, for the latter.

The current system is not working.  Voting when you have to make the heart/ head decision... voting for the person you don't most prefer, because they at least might stop someone else you'd really rather not come into power... is not the most positive way of approaching the matter. 
We need reform.
   

Seems a few folk in polling booths were faced with that same dilemma, as evidenced by the fact that we still don't have a government.  GB is still sitting in Downing St while Cameron's lot have not got a majority and Cleggy is suddenly in the position of being really rather interesting to both Labour and Conservatives. 
Hung parliament.
And the speculation rages:
Will Clegg make a deal, and if so, who with... and at what cost to the soul of the LibDems?
Will we all be back at the polling booths in the not too distant future trying to make our marks make some kind of mark on the political and national life? 
Does any of it make one jot of difference?
Just how much non-story political news can be created by the 24/7 broadcasting media?
On this latter I suspect to hear a piece at some point on the style of tie knotting as indicative of each leader's psychological state of mind - they've pretty much done everything else.

We are poised on the brink of a golden opportunity that could effect electoral change  -
to see political history made,
and to witness a system that is not truly representative of those marks made on ballot papers all over the lands of the UK consigned to history.
Will it happen?
Hung parliament: hung in suspense.
Will the system end up being hung, drawn and quartered and a new way found?
Will we all just be hung out to dry yet again?

Interesting times.

a penny drops...

detail from a Gradual, c. 1500 of an Easter Mass setting... note the sleeping guards!! 

A mid-week evening in the midst of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.
The post-service ritual of cuppa and chat before we all headed to our homes.
One of the ministers in the parish grouping led me across the room to meet a member of her congregation.
A question was asked.
I pondered, a little uncertainly.
And then said 'yes'.

The 'yes' came to fruition last night in the shape of delivering a mini-lecture on the beginnings of Protestant Reformation in Scotland and the place of John Knox in the midst of all of that.
And as I shared the stories of 450 years ago I thought again of the real flesh and blood people just getting on with the business of living their lives: all so very human.
I love the story of Knox, holed up with other Protestants in St Andrews castle, during the siege:
of Knox being so reluctant to accept his calling to preach the Protestant cause.
Of being asked and categorically stating that God was definitely NOT calling him to be a preacher.
Of being publicly challenged, whereupon he promptly burst into tears and ran to his room.
And of wrestling miserably for several days until reluctantly agreeing.
Human... and humans... all getting on and in the process becoming part of the patchwork of human history - some recorded, some not, but all connected and woven together into an amazing rag-bag tapestry.
There are dark and torn and scratchy bits: the bits that make you despair and cry at the horror that we, as humans, can create around us.
There are places sewn in gold thread: golden, shining moments that make you stop in awe and wonder when we, as humans, somehow move beyond our fears and reach out and risk practising planned and random acts of generosity... and in doing so, make the world and life that much more beautiful.
And amidst the darkness and the shimmering gold threads - the good, the bad and they ugly! - there are all the colours in between... making up the whole.
The 'life's rich tapestry' metaphor is an over-used metaphor, I know.
And yet somehow, last night, in a small room talking about human beings doing very human things
I realised again why I do love what to some is 'dry, dusty and dull history':
I love it because I see that although times and circumstances and mind-sets may change,
perhaps the human heart does not.

I read letters, and records of meetings, and side comments in margins of psalters of long ago
and see a tiny part of somebody's life.
Tiny snippets and snapshots of story which show hope, and joy and sadness.
Of human lives motivated by fear and love.
And am convinced of the truth in the old saying: the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Human beings are history - past, present and future - and what a marvellous thing:
I have the joy and the pleasure,
in the midst of sometimes hard slog,
of spending this part of my life doing what I do -
looking at the stories of people.
How can that NOT be amazing and interesting?
I guess, last night, I realised just how much I love this part of my particular story.