The Sands of Time....

... have trickled by for a long time since my last post. Study leave seems a long way away and I've been completely immersed in getting ready for a Public Inquiry relating to a local sand and gravel quarry. Apart from the fact that this area already has far too many "bad neighbour developments", these particular developers want to put a 15ft bund around two sides of the house belonging to an elderly couple in my congregation. It'll be like living in a WW2 trench. They are money grabbing swine and they have to be stopped.

I've read through a mountain of paperwork relating to all this and have to get my submissions in by the weekend. The inquiry's in June. Talk about a steep learning curve....

Anyway - have had little time to post, but wanted to include the following as it ties in with my study leave reading and made me smile. It's a quote from Terry Pratchett's "Good Omens".

“God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of his own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players, to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time”.

Study Leave - Part 4

When I was in primary school I took a packed lunch each day. Mum would wrap the sandwiches in greaseproof paper, stick a drink, some crisps and a biscuit in my lunch box and pack me off to school knowing that I had enough nutrition to keep me going.

But one day, about the age of six or seven, I must have got the end of a loaf because when I ate my sandwiches the bread seemed a bit tough. I decided in my little mind that I didn't like them, but I was canny enough to know not to throw them out in school. A teacher might see; or the janny; or maybe some other kid would spot me doing it and get me into trouble.

So I ambled home after school (those were the days when you could do that, aged six or seven), all the while wondering what to do with my lunch. Again, I didn't want to dispose of it on the way in case some of the kids who lived nearby saw what I was doing. Bereft of ideas, I arrived home with said uneaten lunch in my schoolbag. I knew this was a scenario unlikely to end well.

But inspiration struck! At the top of our first flight of stairs there was a wee room with the hot press, a few cupboards and an old upright piano. In a flash of genius I realised that there was a perfect little space between the back of the piano and the wall, just right for swallowing up uneaten sandwiches. So I clambered up on the stool and dropped the greaseproof paper package down the back and heard a satisfying thud as it hit the floor. Problem solved!

So successful was this little scheme that I made it a daily ritual. You see, I'd convinced myself that my sandwiches would always be hard and that I really didn't want to eat them. So this went on for weeks and weeks. It got to the stage that I couldn't get any more down the back, so I had to start shoving them underneath as well. You can tell that this room wasn't used much, can't you....

And then, judgement day arrived. Mum was hoovering the stairs and saw the corner of a package sticking out from under the piano. She pulled it out. It was a lunch. She stuck her hand in. Another lunch. Suspicions aroused, she moved the piano forward and watched incredulously as three weeks worth of mouldy lunches fell to the floor. Complete with maggots.

She called my name in the kind of way which tells you you're already in trouble, and when I stepped into the room and saw for myself the incontravertible evidence of my utter stupidity it was like scales were taken off my eyes. In my young mind I'd genuinely thought that those sandwiches would just disappear. Now I knew that they'd hung around, and that everything - my not eating, my futile attempts at concealing the evidence - was uncovered.

I hared down the stairs and hid in the wee cupboard under the stairs that folk in Ireland (and Scotland too, I think) call the 'glory hole'. I stayed in there for about three hours, dreading my father coming home. Mum didn't drag me out or anything, and my sister came and played games with me. I think she maybe even brought me some juice. Come to think of it, mum probably sent her.

Finally dad arrived, and I heard voices in the kitchen. Mum came through and told me gently that I'd have to go through and see him. I knew I'd reached the point where resistance was futile and steeled myself for the worst. But to my amazement there was no hauling over the coals. No smack or slap of punishment (they weren't really into that anyway). Dad just looked me in the eye for a long time, reading my face, and then he said "You know that what you did was stupid, don't you son?". I nodded. "And you're sorry, aren't you. You won't do it again, will you son?". I shook my head. "Well say sorry to your mother and let's just forget it ever happened."

..............................................................................................

I remembered this story on Study Leave, and tears came to my eyes when I realised that in many ways this is a picture of what Judgement is really like. Judgement is when the truth comes out. When we finally see the truth that we'd hidden from ourselves; the truth that we thought had got lost down some deep dark hole where no-one would ever find it.

God speaks that truth, and we are forced to confront it. Burning pain; shame; running and hiding; shutting ourselves off in the darkness. Hell, maybe?

But at the end comes a gentle summons, and the grace of a Father who only punishes to bring restoration, and refuses to punish when the lesson he needs to teach us has already been learned.

Thanks be to God.

Study Leave - Part 3

This is how I feel today.


















I am like a man buying a second-hand car. Walking around it; kicking the tyres; checking the mileage; looking for spots of rust or bumps and scratches that only reveal themselves on closer inspection.

The theology Keith Ward puts forward is pretty shiny, and I like the look of it, but I'm not sold on it just yet. I need to get under the hood and check out the workings in a bit more detail before I'm ready to put my money on the table.

Am feeling a bit tired by all of this, and a bit displaced by being out of routine. Mind you, I always feel a bit on edge when I enter a salesroom and have tough choices to make.....

Study Leave - Part 2

Yesterday was Rosie's birthday and it was great to be off and able to chill out a bit. We opened presents in the morning and went out for tea with the kids after school.

In between, I got caught up in a worthwhile but lengthy visit about replacing some of our church windows, so it was a less studious beginning to the fortnight than it might have been!

This morning I've been going further through Keith Ward's "What the Bible Really Teaches".

This is what it feels like:




















A whirlwind of ideas and texts swirling around in my mind at breakneck speed; yet the whole thing moving forward slowly and methodically.

Much disorientation, but every now and again I glimpse something beautiful and shining on the margins of the storm. And I want to grab those things and hold onto them because I know that they're important. Vital, even.

Study Leave - Part 1 of many

Look at that optimistic title there.... pure class. How long do you think I'll keep this up?

Yes - two weeks of Study Leave. One here and one in God's Own Country on the north coast of County Antrim. Lots of beard stroking (my own beard), coffee brewing and pleasant thumbing through life changing tomes. After seven years incarceration - whoops, I mean in divine service - I bloody deserve it.

The 'study' part will involve a closer look at Universalism. This has been on my mind for some time. Put simply (for I am not a person of great depth) I want to be a Universalist in my heart, but my head holds me back. More specifically, that part of my head that's filled with scary Bible stories and stern voices from my past. Sometimes my own stern voice.

Quite where this is going to lead I don't know, but I'm determined to enjoy the journey. I'd like you to join me for as much of it as you can, in the midst of your busy, non study-leave existence.

To begin with, I'd welcome suggestions for titles for the 'essay' that the good people at 121 George Street (church HQ) will require in return for graciously giving me a two week break after seven years incarceration - whoops - I mean divine service.

Preferred options so far:

1) A wideness in God's mercy. How good is the good news? (this is the serious one)

2) 99.8% of all human beings who ever lived will burn forever in a fiery pit. Is this good news?

3) Saving the one sheep. Why we really shouldn't bother about the other 99 because it was their fault anyway.

4) Blogging - the ideal way to evade your study leave assignment.

Progress so far. Have drank lots of coffee, gone for a walk, updated my answerphone message, set up an out of office reply on the email and read chapters 1 and 2 of Keith Wards "What the Bible Really Teaches" which has reassuringly confirmed that I am not a heretic for sliding into a more open stance on the status of Scripture. At least, as far as Keith's concerned.

I think that's not a bad morning's work....

Blessings

FBL

Beginnings

The hours I spent in that room.

It was at the top of the house, three stories up.
Smaller than the other bedroom on that floor,
which my sisters occupied like possessive lionesses.

Twin beds, an ottoman, a chest of drawers
and a wardrobe, only just concealing the alcove
which was all that remained of a fireplace.
Far and away, the best hiding place in the house.

The years I spent in that room.

I remember stories with dad,
and listening to him shushing my baby brother to sleep
in the next bed.
I remember delirious nights there – swimming in and out of a haze while mum kept vigil at the bedside.
I remember clambering onto a chair and opening the skylight.
Getting a birds eye view across the other rooftops,
all the way down to the local park.
Or sitting there on wet days
listening to the raindrops drumming angrily
off the window’s curved plastic.

I remember hours spent hunched over home computers,
or reading books;

discovering the kind of music I liked,
discovering writing.
Discovering girls.

And then, at the age of 18,
I remember discovering God.

I’d been in the church all my life.
Knew the books of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation
and most of the stories in between.
I’d been to Sunday School, Children’s Church and Bible Class,
I’d belted out the choruses, rhymed off the catechism, and sat through the sermons.
I’d spoken about God, sang about God and read about God.

The years I spent in that church.

And then, at the age of 18,
after all that hand-me-down belief
and reluctant dutiful attendance,
I discovered God for myself.

Not in a holy building,
or with my nose stuck in the Bible.
But outside under the stars.
with friends around a campfire.
A night of laughter, food and chat;
love even.
God was with them, somehow,
those young Christians.
And suddenly I knew that he wasn’t just with them
He was with us; with me – right at that moment.

The unseen guest who’d dogged my dreams
and haunted many a waking moment
with the ghost of his possibility,
was there among us.

And the shivers I felt
weren’t just from the chill September air.
It was the finally knowing that God is.
And the understanding that with that truth
I would have to change.

But you know what?
In those moments, that scarcely mattered.
What mattered more
was the realisation that my world had changed.
My world had always been too small;
but from that point on I had a bigger canvas to paint my life on.

And here I am, 22 years later.
Older.
Maybe a little wiser.
And a professed servant of the one
whose spirit moved among us
that autumn evening,
in the firelight at Glenariffe

22 years of chasing him, following him,
losing him, denying him.
22 years of all the wonderful, maddening foibles
of life in this thing called church.
And my heart is still not at rest,
Because the spirit won’t rest
until God has finished his work in me, and in you;
and brought us to the place
where that fleeting sense of his presence
stretches out to fill all the time we will ever know.

That encounter
set a fire in my heart
that still smoulders.
A desire to know this God;
and be known by him,
and make him known
in a world shorn of wonder.

The hours I spent in that room, from that day onwards;
poring over the Bible I liberated from my sister’s bookshelf.

I remember the smell of the pages,
and the old-fashioned look of the print.
I remember learning from the apostles,
the prophets, the psalmist. the evangelists.
Hearing their words, Gods words,
as though spoken directly to me
for the first time.

Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls.

See, I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live, and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him.

Those words came to me like a long lost letter
from a Father I’d never known.
Or the wise counsel of a new friend
who spoke as if he’d known me for years.

Suddenly I had a direction to my life.

And suddenly I had a community to call my own.

Church became more than a duty –
it became the place where I could meet with other folk
who were making the same journey.
People who’d caught the strains of God’s song
and were trying their best to hum the melody.

I remember going to University with a newborn faith, weeks old,
and finding a whole group of people
who were singing this particular tune.
And I found a home among them.

I remember the different churches,
each demonstrating some new facet of this vast God
whose household I had stumbled into.

The church in Sutton,
a milder offshoot of the Brethren movement,
where the congregation brought prayers and readings and insights from their daily living
into the place of worship.
No clergy in sight.
Just the fellowship of believers
sharing their experience of walking with God.

I remember the Afro-Carribean church in Handsworth,
the exhuberant worship
and simple thanks
that flowed forth from the lives of those big hearted,
wide-girthed women in the choir.
All dressed in yellow one week.
All in blue or lilac the next.

I remember the struggling wee church in Saltley.
Trying so hard to work out how to be good Christians
in a neighbourhood where 70% of the residents
were of a different race and religion.

I remember the meals, the discussions, the debates;
learning how to pray; learning to respect the vast diversity
of Christian experience.

I remember those formative years with great fondness.
And though I paint them with a rosy glow,
I wouldn’t change a thing about them.

For they laid the foundations of what I’m giving my life to.
The pursuit of God.
And the honouring of him
in the midst of this rag-tag assembly of broken but becoming people
that we call the church of Jesus Christ.

Our God Is Many Things

Just back from a weekend away with Ruchill Church where I used to work. It's the first time I've led a whole weekend away for another congregation and though it was a lot of work, it went well and I was really blessed by the experience. We went to the Atholl Centre in Pitlochry and enjoyed a couple of days of worship and banter and catching up; warm fellowship despite the blizzards outside!

We were looking at the theme "God is Closer Than You Think" picking up on the John Ortberg book of the same name.

On the Friday evening I ripped off an idea I'd read in a book by Adrian Plass and got them to write a poem (though they didn't know that's what they were doing!). I asked them to complete this sentence anonymously and as honestly as they could.. "At this moment, for me, God is......"
I then arranged their responses in an order which sounded poetic and drew out how differently people were experiencing God in that moment.

Here is the result - it's called "Our God Is Many Things". Please forgive the gendered language if it annoys you.

OUR GOD IS MANY THINGS

Our God is many things…..
He is leading me, keeping me going, shaping me.
He is planning, working and answering.
He’s getting closer to me and my heart.
He’s distant in my life, and not an active participant.
He’s goading me.

Our God is many things…..
He’s huge; he’s good.
He’s waiting.
He’s in everything.
He’s not immediate.
He’s difficult to talk to.
He’s hard to understand.

Our God is many things….
He’s beginning to get closer.
He’s wanting me to be closer and deeper.
He’s near, but I need to stop more and enjoy his presence.
He’s a gracious friend on whose friendship I presume too much.
He’s someone I know I should experience, but life takes over and I’m not motivated enough to love.

Our God is many things….
He’s constant, despite my feelings.
He’s wanting me to draw near to him.
He’s what I most want.
He’s available, but I don’t seem to be interested.
He’s squeezed in at the end of the day;
there, but not the focus.

Our God is many things….
He’s getting closer by the minute.
He’s a great God who has done wonderful things.
He’s unfathomable.
He’s not a priority.

He’s very close to me.
He’s the furthest he’s ever been.

Our God is Many Things.

I'll reflect on what that reveals in my next post