is there a doctor in the house?

It ain't a pretty gown, but it *is* a doctoral gown, and given a happy viva experience on Thursday afternoon, I have earned the right to wear said gown.

The viva itself was, bizarrely, excellent fun and I enjoyed it immensely.  It also helped that when I walked into the room, both examiners had big smiles on their faces and commented that they'd enjoyed reading it - had to fight off the urge to go 'really?'  From the outset, then, the signs were good, and they were very skilled at ensuring I was relaxed.  An hour passed in a moment, and then I was told to daunder off while examiners conferred.  Walked out to my waiting supervisor and grinned and said 'it was actually fun!'  About five minutes later, we were both walking into the room, greetings and congratulations all round, and the inevitable corrections - albeit minor.  Ended up with 16 typos to fix; a request to move my pics and tables from the main body of the text into appendices [which made supervisor and self laugh - same conversation had been made last year and she had opted for main body of text...win some, lose some]; change my chapter numbering system; and a couple of 'just check this, is it right?' [I have, they are - idiosyncratic session clerk from 1580's and an early 16th century confessional guide - which spells 'first' as 'fist'].  The work itself is all fine 'n dandy.
So.  There we go.  Corrections to do and submit, and a graduation to sort out.  After back to back to back degrees, and 9 years of study, Dr Nik is leaving the New College building...

Johnny Knox, you've done me proud.

I am still grinning like a loon :) 

Consider the meerkat...at communion

'Sandy the meerkat ponders philsophy and theology'

Having just come back from a training conference, one session of which featured reflections upon communion...the things they don't teach you whilst ministry-training.

A placement several years ago...

It was Holy Week.
A Maundy Thursday communion at 'Fishing Parish'
My supervisor and I had co-written a liturgy woven through with reflective story and silence.
Communion was to be distributed, after which, once the elders had brought back the plates bearing bread and the wine cup dispenser, I was to lead us off into a time of intecessory prayer.
All was going well.
The initial hustle and bustle and busyness of the day that folk had brought into worship with them gradually ebbed away;
a holy hush filled the worship space.
The elders began to come forward after distributing the bread and wine.
As I leant down from my chair to retrieve my notes...
I slipped.
An audible gasp from the body of the Kirk.
Falling heavily on my hand, I winced in pain, but remained silent as I picked myself up quickly from the floor.
As I began to go into shock, my voice wavered as I uttered the words in a small voice:
'lllet uus prrray...'
I saw the visible swelling of my hand;
found it nearly impossible to turn the pages in my notepad.
The wavering prayers finished,
the last hymn was sung.
Blessing.
Dismissal.
At the door, the pain now almost unbearable with each handshake.
Back in the vestry - ice was seen to be needed.

Easter Sunday morning.
I arrived in the church hall, and saw three members of the choir giggling.
Seeing me, they suddenly looked...like naughty schoolkids who'd been caught by the bikesheds having a crafty fag.  [to my N. American friends - a sneaky cigarette!!]
I had a strong suspicion I knew what they had been giggling about.
I wandered over and, deciding to tease them, with the aid of a judiciously raised eyebrow I asked them if they might care to share the joke.
They guiltily confessed that indeed, they had been giggling about Thursday's mishap;
bu they hadn't meant to be mean.
I grinned - to their visible relief.
Of course it had been awful, but it was a ridiculous thing to have happened and I saw the funny side, etc. 
They gave an account of how they saw the whole thing happen.
'Well, one minute you were there behind the communion table...
and then suddenly, you disappeared...
and, well, we've never seen you move so quickly:
next minute all we saw was your wee head pop up from behind the table like...
like a...'
they stumbled to find the right word.
I looked at them, grinned and said:
'a meerkat?'
'Yes!'
We all giggled.
They then did have the grace to ask how my poor mangled hand was.

Several weeks later, on my last Sunday of the placement, the choir called me over before worship.
'We wanted to say goodbye and to give you a wee present' said one - who had been involved in the Easter Sunday conversation. 
A slight awkwardness, sense of naughtiness, and fumbling for words.
'We know you have a good sense of humour, so we are hoping you take our present in the way it is intended...'
The card and present was duly handed over.
Lovely wishes on the card.
Grins all 'round when I opened the present to discover:
a plushy meerkat with my clan tartan scarf.

But tell me: why didn't the training to be a minister manual have an entry re. 'what to do in case of falling off seat at communion and spraining your hand'?  It would have made what I experienced just that little less traumatic...jus' sayin'.

Ministry: walking and talking and praising God

It is an ongoing process, this working through what it is, what it means, to minister with, and to, the people of God.

At the moment, I am back to that old metaphor of walking:
walking alongside,

walking with,

occasionally walking behind, cheering from the back as gifts are nurtured and nourished,

sometimes walking ahead, with head turned back, and hand beckoning in encouragement:

'C'mon, it'll be okay, this is a story that has a great ending, which is really a whole new beginning.  Don't be afraid.'

I am also back to a favourite word as well: 'story'.
As I walk in my probationer-minister's shoes, I ponder place and time as I minister here and now at 'Seaside Parish', and think about how both weave in and through the lives of the community of folk that I have grown to love and care for.
And as a student of history with a fondness for 'the story', I think of the many stories written into the life of this community, past, present, and future; stories that I have been told, stories being uncovered whilst listening in a living room and drinking tea, stories of hoped-for outcomes or of hope snatched away.
Gathered together, in this specific place, at this specific time, there are many stories held together by that one common story of an unexpected expected child, in a far-away land, at a far-away time, who grew in wisdom and grace, who used stories to point the way to a larger, deeper story...who was crucifed, died, was buried, and who rose again, and who calls us 'friend'.
We are a community of story, and of journey...
sometimes walking together
sometimes walking apart
occassionally walking rather shambolically
every so often walking in ways that surprise and astonish and delight
but always, always
walking in the light of God's loving faithfulness.

Perhaps then, to be a minister, is to acknowledge that this is not a sedentary task we're called to - although knowing that it is good to rest is also important in order to walk more fruitfully.
Perhaps it is to acknowledge that this is not a silent task we're called to -
although knowing the value of wordless waiting is also important in order to hear the story better.
Is the minister, in essence, a wandering story-teller - wandering and yet rooted in the community one is called to:
proclaiming in word, and in symbols, in speech and in gestures, the great story of God's journey to us - and our journey away and towards, away and towards him?
It is exhausting and joyful, life-giving and gut-wrenching, it is littered with the trivial and mundane and shot through with the transcendant, it is inspiring and humbling and a hundred million things in-between...and I wouldn't swap it for the world.     

'Knowing me, knowing you': a sermon for Sunday, proper 18yr C

This week, I decided to take a slightly more expository preaching tack, and went with a sermon on Psalm 139, with one very brief nod towards the end to the other passage to be read during the service, Philemon.
And while the references to ABBA are probably entirely gratuitous, hey, why not... *grin*
It's a rather workmanlike effort, but as it was finished at 2am, let's be frank, that hour is not my most shining hour...!
The congregation I'm with use the GNB, which is okay, but I was quite shocked at how verse 14 of the Psalm read in this translation - the sense of the verse is really rather lost.
------------------------------------------

Knowing me, knowing you' 

Let’s pray:

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

I have two confessions this morning:

One: I’m about to age myself terribly

And Two: I’m about to display my probably quite dubious taste in music.

About a thousand years ago, when I was little...

well, okay, a teenager,

I was absolutely obsessed by a particular pop group who were all the rage in Australia. 

And apparently they didn’t do too badly over here, either. 

I refer to Benny, Bjorn, Frida, and Agneta, otherwise known as...  

ABBA 

Me and my mate Deb thought they were fab, and, as you do when you’re a particular age and get a little obsessive about a band,

we collected everything related to them;

learned all their songs – and, another confession:

we sang our wee hearts out with them –

well, alongside the portable record player in my room.

We read everything we could find about them in the news and in the fan mags:

no bit of information, however teeny or seemingly trivial, escaped our notice. 

Simply, we wanted to know everything about them. 

In many ways, they were a huge part of our formative years, and they were familiar friends.  

Except, of course,they were not friends at all, and really,

when it came down to it, although we thought we knew them, 

we didn’t know them at all.

The writer of our psalm this morning is faced with a similar scenario:

wanting to know God yet, realising that the task is seemingly impossible, he - or she - confesses as much in verses 17 and 18:

‘O God, how difficult I find your thoughts – how many of them there are! 

If I counted them, they would be more than the grains of sand.’ 

Unlike me and my mate Deb, however, who would never truly be able to call ABBA our friends in any real sense,

the psalmist paints a picture of a relationship at a most deep and intimate level,

and, within that relationship, we begin to learn about – to know God – a little more. 

And what we learn about God here, can be placed under three different umbrellas:

God ... knows everything

God ...is ever-present

God...is all-powerful.

God knows everything – we see this particularly in verses 1-6.  

And here’s a thing:

in many of the psalms, God is way out there, the awesome, yet distant creator of stars and planets and solar systems.

Yet, while the awesomeness of God is not in dispute in this psalm, note the focus...

rather than look at the vastness of the universe, it’s as if a zoom lens is put on and suddenly, the attention of the Great Architect of the Cosmos is completely upon

us...

Verse one: you have examined me, you know me  

Verse two: from far away, you understand all my thoughts.

Here we get a glimpse of the God who is concerned with,

what might seem in the broader scheme of things,

the teeny, the seemingly trivial. 

The psalmist tell us that in God’s eyes,

we matter –

we are not incidental, but rather,

like the stars and the planets and the swirling galaxies we, too, have our place in the great scheme of things,

and that God watches over us, knows us –

knows us better than we know ourselves, 

and...

there’s a slight edginess to this knowledge:

God knows us completely,

for nothing –

not

one

thing

is hidden.  

The good, the bad, and the downright ugly...

all seen,

all known.

That knowledge could be almost discomforting, and you can see this from the way the psalmist moves the meditation on in verses 7-12

Suddenly, we find at verse seven, a certain twitchiness about being so completely exposed, a twitchiness that produces a desire to escape –

to try to run away from God. 

Except, as the psalmist oberves:

God is ever-present.

Whether the escape route takes us to the highest heights, or to the deeps,

to the extreme points of the compass at east or west,

or finds us attempting to hide in either blinding light or darkest night...

God is with us.

And in the midst of feeling crowded in by God on all sides, there’s this:

‘you would be there...

to lead me...to help me.’ 

And so the sense of – well, I’ll use the term –

the sense of feeling stalked by God is suddenly diluted...

God is ever-present because God knows us,

wants to lead us,

wants to help us. 

The constant presence of God is not menacing, the psalmist decides, but one of comfort.

And this sense of comfort continues as the psalmist begins to reflect upon God, who is all-powerful.

And again, rather than meditating upon the power of God within the context of the vastness of creation,

here we see the power of God in the small,

the almost unseen –

God who knows us so intimately that he knew us even as we were being knit together in the womb

God as a knitter – it’s a nice image...

God present even there in that small hidden place:

God powerful creator not only of the universe – the big – but also, of us – of the small.

And every aspect of God focused in upon, and concerned with, our well-being.

And here is where I have a wee problem with this particular translation of the bible...in verse 14, a more accurate sense of the text here would be:

‘I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works’.

‘fearfully and wonderfully made’ – that’s us:

We have been created by God with the capacity to do acts of appalling 

horror –

fearful acts...

and simultaneously, we have the capacity to do amazing things –

acts of wonderful kindness, bravery, generosity.

And the all-powerful, ever-present, and all-knowledgeable God gives us the ultimate gift:

rather than creating us and possessing us,

God sets us free to choose,

knowing that at times we will get it horrifically wrong

and that at other times, we will get it gloriously right.

It’s an awesome responsibility we’ve been given...

Which is perhaps why, when the psalm ends – and we didn’t read this bit out – but when the psalm ends, we find our psalmist,

having meditated upon the constant faithfulness of God,pausing...

and asking ‘examine me, test me, know my thoughts...and guide me in the everlasting way’.

The psalmist, while acknowledging how difficult a task it is to know God, nevertheless, in this meditation, can only respond by trying to articulate what is known from their own personal, lived experience of God:

that in every way imaginable,

God knows us utterly

and even so, accepts us totally;

that God is our constant guide and faithful companion on the way;

and, unlike that unrequited relationship with ABBA, that this is a relationship that is both requited, and eternal –                                              

that we are known by name,

and are more than useful:

we have been created in love,

are loved,

and are called to love.

As we ponder the One who knows us,

and who we in turn, are learning to know more deeply,

let’s take a moment of quiet to reflect, as we watch a short meditation on the psalm.

Let us pray:

God all-knowing

All-present

And all-powerful

We praise you.

We thank you that your faithfulness reaches beyond the heavens

That you are God of the big picture

And the minute detail;

That you are our comfort and our guide all the days of our lives

Help us to know you more deeply

And lead us on the everlasting way,

In Jesus’ name we pray... amen.

Friday Five: food fest

Ah dearie me, 'tis a wee while since I last played the RevGals Friday Five, but, given the circ's, how could I not?  *very big grin*
A couple of the questions were slightly trickier given my dual nationality context... and I could have cheated and answered 'haggis' to most of these.

My first ever Friday Five is dedicated to Nikki, sister RevGal, who was hungering for an opportunity to write about Haggis. With that introduction, today’s FF is all about food!

1) Is there a food from a foreign land whose reputation led to trepidation when you had a chance to give it a try? Given I grew up in a country that rejoices in having a go at eating 'weird' foods such as snake, emu, kangaroo, croc, witchetty grubs, etc.  not a lot phases me.  I did slightly baulk at snails the first time I confronted the dish in a fancy French restaurant.  

Did you find the courage to sample it anyway? Yes
If so, were you pleasantly surprised or did you endorse the less than favorable reputation that preceded it?  Bleurgh.  And again I say bleurgh.  The taste wasn't the problem - it was smothered in garlic.  The texture was just...yuck. *shudders*  And in the name of all that's good and holy, never, never again.  Actually, while you're at it, I'm quite happy to pass on the rollmops, thanks.
 
2) What food from your own country/culture gets a bad rap?  HAGGIS!! It's marvellous stuff, especially with a wee dram.  Or, nodding in the direction of Australia and Marci...Vegemite.  Wonderful if scraped thinly on hot buttered toast.

3) Of what food are you fond that others find distasteful?  Well, given some folk baulk at haggis... but apart from that, ceviche infused with Tanqueray Ranjpur gin is something I could become very fond of.

4) Is there a country’s food, not native to you, that you go out of your way to eat?  I could, of course, cheat here and say HAGGIS!!!  But as my grandparents were Scots, it's kinda in the genes.  Um, does Danish pastry count, or indeed, Haagen Daz? :) 

5) What is your guilty pleasure food?  Chocolate.  And cookie dough Haagen Daz [disclaimer: other brands are available] 

Bonus: What was your most memorable meal (good or bad), either because of the menu, the occasion, the company, or some other circumstance that makes it stand out?  This year's incredible edible event was the 'Seven Courses, Seven Gins' meal in the company of three other intrepid diners.  A pal was the common link between the four of us and thought it would be a fun experiment putting us all together in the same room to see what sort of conversation might occur.  Pal of hers - and now friend of mine as well - is an amazing cook and he offered the gin-themed meal.  A different kind of gin was used in the making of each course, and as each course arrived, a shot glass of the gin also appeared.
For our aperitif, and kicking things off in style - Edinburgh raspberry gin fizz...
Hendricks cucumber sandwiches
Tomato and Adnams gin soup
Game terrine with Brokers gin
Tanqueray Rangpur gin ceviche
Sipsmith jelly as our palate cleanser...
Pork in Beefeater sauce
Saffron gin rice pudding.

A very merry evening indeed - and remarkably not one hangover the next morning.  Which is perhaps why it is actually a 'memorable' meal.  Given I am not really a drinker, this was out of the ordinary on several levels.

Ingredients for a memorable meal...

Watch, O Lord...

and with a majority of just 13, the UK will not take part in what would have been an illegal military intervention.  And yet some intervention needs to be made in Syria - but what, how, when, and by whom?  I feel so helpless in the face of institutions such as the UN seemingly unable to act, I despair at the hawks circling round - more like vultures - in various Western governments, who seem itching for a fight.  Regardless of whether and what kind of intervention occurs. or does not, in Syria the overall scenario is a grim lose-lose situation.  The use of chemical weapons on one's own people to retain power - represhensible.
In the face of unspeakable acts and appalling suffering, feeling numb, and having no earthly idea of what the best way forward would be, I turn to my old friend Augustine, and offer up the words of his prayer this evening:
Watch, O Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight,
and give Your Angels and Saints charge over those who sleep.
Tend Your sick ones, O Lord Christ.
Rest Your weary ones.
Bless Your dying ones.
Soothe Your suffering ones.
Pity Your afflicted ones.
Shield Your joyous ones.
And all for Your love's sake.
Amen

Creepy or comforting, or something else entirely...

The posted pic has been variously popping on the occasional facebook wall of this or that friend.  Invariably, the friend posting the pic tends to be an avid book lover - indeed, as am I.  The picture, apparently, is meant to convey the message that reading is one of life's comforting pastimes - and indeed, it can be.  But, try as I might, it is not the message that comes across to me.  Instead, I find the picture oddly discomforting and have been wondering just why I find this imagery, well...frankly incredibly creepy.

Earlier today, a conversation about said pic occurred over on facebook.  One friend wondered if the picture might be more 'comfortable' if the woman had her eyes closed, or if the book figure had a more recognisable face - an eye to eye, face to face kind of hug.  It was a good point and I said as much.  Another friend noted that he saw the pic as was - books are comfortable friends.
Various suggestions, and interpretations were made on the one image.
As to me, I offered that perhaps my discomfort was sparked off by reading and watching just a little too much in the sci-fi/fantasy genres. 
Dr Who came to mind: the book on the bookshelf looking harmless and inviting...the unsuspecting reader perusing the shelves, until, stumbling upon this particular title, chooses it, opens it, and the book - which is really some kind of alien creature - literally, draws the reader in.  Here, getting lost in a book, taking on more menacing overtones.

It's always an interesting thing to see how one particular person, thing, theory, can be viewed in different ways by different people. 
So many perspectives.  And all in their own way entirely valid. 
I remember being in a congregation many years back now [and many of the folk still much-loved friends] where the ongoing joke was 'where two or three [name of church] are gathered together, there shall be at least five or six opinions in their midst.'  It was true enough: trying to actually organise anything was a tad like attempting to herd cats - although incredibly lovely, bright and articulate ones. :) 

The way we see a thing, our different perspectives, was on my mind this last week as I grappled with the gospel text - Luke 13:10-17 - where Jesus heals a woman on the Sabbath.  I began to feel rather sorry for the poor old synagogue official, who was, after all, only doing his job, and who, I felt, was possibly terrified of the repercussions that might occur due to the healing: would this breach of the Law, as the official was interpreting it, result in a display of God's displeasure?  The fear of God literally prompting the official to rebuke Jesus?  It would be too easy to label the man as a 'jobsworth'.  In the context of both a covenantal relationship with God which entailed both privileges and duties, and from the perspective of holding to a providential view of God, the fear would be entirely well-founded. Beyond the mere 'jobsworth' label, what else might have been going on here and what was it that he was seeing; what was his perspective?  That's not to discount the possibility that he could indeed have been simply a 'jobsworth' but that also raises the question:what is it that makes someone so focused upon rules and regulations that humanity somehow gets lost in the equation?

And then, there's the woman herself; unnamed, as is the official.  She is defined by her illness, an illness that causes her to be severely bent over.  Her physical perspective is where her feet are - and the paths her feet take her.  Interactions with others are not eye to eye, or face to face [echoes here of the conversation about our picture above].  She can neither look ahead or up, only down.  And through her healing, her perspective changes, as too, her neighbours: she stands straight and tall, she sees others and others now see her differently as well.  The healing goes beyond a physical change of perspective. 
There's an identity perspective - she can now look up at those same stars that Abraham once saw: she is a child of a promise made long before.  In seeing the stars, her identity as a daughter of Abraham is reaffirmed.
And there's a wider change of perspective being offered to the community in the story concerning the meaning of Sabbath: reaffirming the celebration of liberation from Egypt through the freeing up of the woman from her bondage to whatever this illness was as seen to be entirely in keeping with the meaning and purpose of Sabbath.

Coming back to the starting point of the post, is that picture one of comfort?  For some, it is.  That's great, and I'm delighted it is so.  I still find it creepy, but it would make a cracking episode of Dr Who.  Stephen Moffat, all I ask is a 10% fee....

In the meantime, copied below is a reflection from the point of view of the healed woman - I chose to divide the sermon into three distinct compartments, in different styles, placed at different points in the service.  The first reflection was 'him' and was taking the point of view of the synagogue official, the second, 'her' copied below and in an attempt to get the feel of spoken word poetry format, and the third, 'us', hopefully brought the whole thing together, pondering on what the call to be God's faithful people might look like.

‘Her’

A transformed woman tells her story:

Freedom:
‘Woman,
you are free’
That’s what he said to me
that young rabbi:
‘free’.
And called to me
in the middle of the synagogue –
in the middle of the sermon,
in front of everyone.
I strained to look up
from the floor
Saw them all
Looking at me
And looking at him.
Saw him, seeing me.

Eighteen years;
Long and lonely
a life spent looking at my feet
not able to meet
anyone eye to eye
but always
always
eyes cast down
back bent
burdened by illness
and distress.
I was the invisible one
the neighbours shunned.
Quietly I shuffled through the village,
through my life,
not knowing what it was
simply
to be
free.

That Sabbath day
dutifully
I shuffled in to synagogue
listened to his words
and heard
the sermon stop
and words addressed to me:
‘Woman you are free.’
And compelled,
I crept across to where he was
and felt the kindness
as he placed his hands on me.
And I,
unbent.
Stood up,
stood tall
and blinked in shock,
amazed,
eye to eye with him
and called
on God in praise.

And now when nights are clear
I walk outside
look upwards
to the sky
and count the stars
that Father Abraham once saw
...and ponder freedom,
and the law.

unclaimed treasure, or left luggage?

See this pic?
This, apparently, is me.

Am somewhat bemused by a post-church conversation over coffee.  The topic of conversation happened to be on the matter of lawn bowls [gads, I feel sooo middle-aged] but somehow relationship status entered the scenario.  I noted that 'as a single person, yadda yadda, yadda.'  My conversational counterpart responded with:
'Ah! You're one of God's unclaimed treasures.'
Marvellous.
I did respond, with a grin, that this was not quite correct: 'God has claimed me for his own.'
In a later conversation with some of the RevGals, a consensus was building that, perhaps the above was marginally better than being referred to as 'left luggage'. 
Regardless, I now feel the need to create a badge to wear, with the words 'God's unclaimed treasure' boldly emblazoned upon it.
Or, alternatively, written on a cardboard luggage label; after all, they're cheaper...

Yr C - 'I sing a song of the saints of God': sermon for Sunday 18 August, 2013

A sermon based on Hebrews 11:29-12:1-2
[part of a three sermon series]
not one of my better efforts but at this point, something is better than nothing..
 
As I was thinking about our text from the letter to the Hebrews which we heard earlier this morning, an old hymn decided to wander into my head –
and I’m not sure if it’s one that’s particularly well-known in Scotland, so bear with me if that’s the case...
It begins with these lines:
I sing a song of the saints of God, 
Patient and brave and true, 
Who toiled and fought and lived and died 
For the Lord they loved and knew.


It’s a cracking hymn, and I'm more than a little vexed that it's not in CH4, but never mind.
A particular verse in the hymn has always made me stop and think, and occasionally made me scratch my head –
the lines in the verse tell us a little about some of these saints of God:  
one was a soldier, 
and one was a priest, 
And one was slain by a fierce wild beast; 
And there's not any reason, no, not the least, 
Why I shouldn't be one too.
Now, I was never too sure *why* I should want to be a fierce wild beast, but never mind.

At any rate, this morning I find myself standing before you about to preach on that most un-Presbyterian of topics ‘saints’ – surely, Johnny Knox would be rolling in his grave underneath the car park behind St Giles Cathedral...
Against that is the thought that, every communion Sunday,
we say the Apostles Creed, in which we declare that we believe in
‘the communion of saints’,
So, given that, a sermon on saints it is.

Our verses from Hebrews this morning sounds like a roll call of the great and the good heroes of the faith – the saints of God, named and unnamed.
We start off with a list of named saints:
Moses – and the Israelites who followed God and who walked across the Red Sea as if on dry land;
The Israelites again, who, in faith, marched around the walls of Jericho and saw those walls come tumbling down...
The walls of the city in which contained Rahab, who through faith, had welcomed the Israelite spies...
an act which saved her life and which eventually saw her name appear as one of the ancestors of David and Jesus, in the genealogy you find at the beginning of the gospel of Matthew...

The list of faithful heroes continues, naming
Gideon, Barak,
Samson the strong and mighty,
Jepthah,
King David – beloved of God,
Samuel, and the prophets.
All apparently terrifically successful –
through faith, they fought whole countries and won.

And then we move to the exploits of some of the unnamed heroes of the faith:
some shut the mouths of lions
others put out fierce fires or escaped death by the sword.
God made them strong and gave them victory in battle...
And then there were women of such faith that dead relatives were raised back to life...
We read this list and it is easy to be impressed:
less ‘heroes’ of the faith, and more like ‘superheroes’.
These folk are winners in the race of faith...
it’s not hard to be inspired – they have the ‘wow’ factor.

But our writer to the Hebrews is not finished with us yet:
A bit like those old sales adds - you can almost hear him say:
‘but wait, there’s more’
And so there is.
But this list is rather different.
It’s a little edgier...
 And quite a lot darker in tone:
We hear of those whose faith resulted in torture and death,
Of mocking, whipping, and being placed in chains and imprisoned.
Of being stoned, or sawn in half,
or, who, unlike our first list, did not manage to escape the sword.
And of those who survived who were so poor that they had only the skins of sheep or goats to wear, and who slept rough in caves or holes in the ground...
Unlike our first list of victorious heroes, this latter list is filled with folk who, in their own life-time did not necessarily see the obvious fruits of victory,
as they ran the race that had been set before them.
Here is a case in point of faith truly being “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” as we talked about last week.
It was faith that enabled these folk to hope for a better world,
a brighter future,
To hope that darkness would be swallowed up in victory –
even it they themselves might not be alive to see that victory.

What are we to make of these lists?
Of this great cloud of witnesses to the faith who, following in Jesus’ footsteps picked up the baton of faith and ran with determination the race that the writer to the Hebrews talks of?
We sit back and read of these saints of God, and of their adventures in the faith,
sometimes awed,
sometimes shocked,
and occasionally horrified...
and maybe somewhere deep down we perhaps think that it is all very well for them:
they were, after all, exceptional and extraordinary people.
Well, yes, but no.

I discovered another list – though not in the book of Hebrews:
a list that tells another side to some of the saints of God... these people who allowed themselves to be open to God and to be used by God to do mighty things.
Check this list out:
Noah got drunk
Abraham was too old
Sarah laughed at God’s plans
Isaac was a daydreamer
Jacob was a trickster
Joseph, well he was a show off in that fancy coat of his.
Moses stammered
Miriam gossiped
Gideon was insecure
Samson – let’s just say ‘my, my my, Delilah!’
Rahab was a prostitute
Ruth was a foreigner
David was an adulterer and murdered Bathsheba’s husband.
Isaiah...er, preached naked for three years
Jeremiah struggled with depression
Jonah ran from God...
and in the New Testament:
Zaccheus was too small
the woman at the well had had five husbands
Martha was a worrier
Mary Magdalene was demon-possessed
Peter denied Christ
the Disciples fell asleep while praying in the garden
Thomas doubted
Timothy was too young
 Paul was too religious
Lazarus ...
Lazarus was dead!
These ‘superheroes’ of the faith... were everyday flawed and fallible human beings, who God called.
Now I want to show you a picture of some of the saints of God I know...
and you might know some of them too...
[turn on the live stream camera or have large mirror and a prepped person to use it - so congregation see themselves reflected]
There they are... look around...
Look at the saints of God.
You – yes you.

You are God’s fabulous and fallible and faithful saints
Called not to straighten your lives out before serving God...
but called as you are for who you are,
and with all the gifts you have been given by God, to use where you are.
And while you might not ever be called to wrestle with fierce wild beasts,
you are called to participate in the great race:
And it’s not about being the fastest man or woman alive, like Usain Bolt, nor is it about being the strongest, or the fittest individual...
This is a team effort.
It’s a great relay race that generation upon generation of Christians have been involved in –
whether they’ve run, skipped, jumped, walked, hobbled, limped, wheeled or dragged themselves, or propelled themselves forward through the sheer power of thought if they weren’t able to physically move...
All passing on the baton of faith to the next generation and keeping the flame of faith alive.
And here and now, we are that generation who are running the race, holding the baton;
everyday saints just getting on with life.
And if you sometimes don’t think you’re good enough,
or sometimes struggle to believe that God calls you to run so that the baton can be passed along for the next leg of the great relay race,
there’s quite a neat line from Oscar Wilde who observed that
 ‘every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future’.

The last verse in the hymn ‘I sing a song of the saints of God’ states:  
They lived not only in ages past, 
There are hundreds of thousands still. 
The world is bright with the joyous saints 
Who love to do Jesus' will. 
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea, 
In church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea; 
For the saints of God are just folk like me, 
And I mean to be one too.

God doesn’t call superheroes – they don’t really exist except for in comic books.
God calls us:
Calls us, imperfect yet beloved, people to fix our eyes on Jesus,
the pioneer and perfector of our faith:
calls us to run the race.
And, as we do so, we are cheered on by that great cloud of witnesses who remind us that, as we run, we are not alone –
we run the race with everyday saints past and present and are a part of something so much bigger than we can possibly imagine...
but in faith we have hope:
hope for a brighter future -
We may or may not see that future, but we run the race knowing who holds the future in his hands.
And to God alone be all glory...

Let’s pray: God of all the nations, you rescued your people out of the Red Sea and delivered Rahab from battle; you rescue the lowly and needy from injustice and tribulation. Surround us with so great a cloud of witnesses that we may have faith to live by your word in our time, courage to persevere in the race set before us, and endurance in the time of trial. Amen

'our sins, like piles...'

Oh dear.
Oh.
Very.
Dear.
It is, I am beginning to learn, possibly the task that ministers love the least: the cycle of the year turning around inevitably to the task that is the 'musings from the manse', 'ministerial mutterings', or 'pastor's ponderings'.
I refer to the blurb that is the minister's slot in the parish magazine/ newsletter.  
Now, as a probationer-minister, in theory, this little task should not necessarily be my problem as yet.  Indeed, my wondrous and fab supervisor will be writing her blurb for the mag at some point this week.  However...in a bid to get me used to the whole thing, 'probationer's ponderings' will also have its own wee slot while I'm at parish-by-the-sea.
Joy abounds.

I'm reminded of the many times I've read such things, with variations on a theme as they begin:
'Friends, as I sit looking out the window of the manse study, watching the blossoming of Spring/ the first falling leaves of Autumn/ the frost-covered garden on this Winter morning...etc...I am reminded of God's...[insert divine attribute here, continue to claw about desperately for rather tortuous spiritual analogy].'  I suspect that very occasionally, what one really, really, really wants to write down is less er, 'weather-orientated'.  But how to avoid drowning in what could be the equivalent of a cheese-fondue?

Mind, I feel the potential for a competition coming on: prizes - by preferred type of cheese - for most torturous analogy?  Below, my own humble offering, as I reflect upon piles...feel free to join in.

'Dear ones, as we move towards Autumn, I find myself contemplating piles.
Countless piles.
Currently the falling leaves are covering the ground, 
and groundskeepers and gardeners everywhere are amassing piles...
of these fallen objects, now no longer displayed in all their glory but
discarded, damaged, decaying.
Friends, as I ponder piles, I am minded to think of our own fallen lives.
Each of our sins, amassing like spiritual piles, 
cluttering the interior landscapes of our lives:
ruined remnants reminding us of our formerly whole and glorious relationship with God.
But friends, be comforted: 
God can heal our piles 
if we only hand them over to Him.'

'our sins, like piles...'

blessed and speechless

I had been planning a quite different day yesterday.  It involved a gentle and quiet morning, followed by friend Fran and I daundering off to explore the loveliness that is Seton Collegiate Church. The plan then involved heading down the road to stay at Fran's for a couple of days.  My wee bag was duly packed and friend Fran arrived.  A small change to plan: Fran was going to stay in order to take me out for a quiet birthday meal in town.  Off we went to Seton CC, initially set up as a local parish church from the 12th c and then, in the 15th c, being furnished by priests to sing masses for the souls of local nobles the Seton family - gaining collegiate status in 1492.  It has been a place I've been meaning to have a wee look at for several years now. 

The weather was gorgeous, the sun filtered through the woodland path that led to the church, and then as we passed through the old stone entrance, in the midst of beautifully tended lawns, there it was in all its pinky-brown stone glory with uncompleted spire.  Glorying in the beauty of the surroundings, we strolled about the gardens, carefully avoiding the 'burrowing bees' [shades of 'Harry Potter' anyone?] - this, at any rate, according to a sign.  We walked in and inspected the place, with no other souls in sight.  Given it was just the two of us, we put the accoustics to the test - singing a psalm, several versions of the Lord's Prayer, and a MacMillan Sanctus.  The sound bounced about the old stone wonderfully - even though neither of us are particularly wonderful singers!  A lovely way to spend the afternoon.

And then, home. 

Quick change for quiet meal in town.

I was puzzled, however, when, after having parked on George IV Bridge, we kept walking...and walking, past all the usual restaurants and headed along the way to the Mound.  Things began to get more mysterious as we passed the last two 'obvious' eateries and walked towards New College where Fran decided to pop into Musa, the wee cafe by the school, to 'just see Sue for a minute'. 

Something was not quite right, but I shrugged, and said I'd wait outside as it was a lovely evening.

No.

I was coaxed into Musa and, just as a cog in brain began to turn, the door opened to reveal a host of friends who had apparently been brilliantly discreet for weeks - lots of plotting and planning and I had not heard a whisper.

Can those eyebrows lift any higher? No. I think not.

'SUPRISE!' indeed - I had been played like a fish - it was beautifully done.  Possibly one of the most astonishing, fun, touching, and best moments of my life.  Utterly speechless and utterly humbled by how many folk had worked so hard, and so quietly, to help put the whole thing together, to turn up or send their good wishes, and to cheer me on as I marked a year which for me ends in a '0'... and special thanks to friend Fran for being inspired to organise and coordinate the whole thing.  What a wondrously eclectic mix of friends from all the various strands of my life... and such generosity.
I'm left astonished, amazed, humbled, and very very grateful. 
I am truly blessed.