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.

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

A Good Friday

The phone rang at 9:15am and usually that means only one thing. Another death call.

So I picked up the handset with an already heavy heart.


But this time it was different. One of my elders with the good news that her daughter had given birth to a baby girl.

This was better news than normal.

Some people you just will to get a break in life.
New mum is one of those.

A few years ago this poor young woman
lost her husband and twin babies in a matter of months.

And still she comes to church.

God bless her. God bless them all.

Life comes, even in the midst of death.

**********************************

After hours slaving away over a hot PC to get things together for tonight's service, I had to laugh when a powercut at 7:15 put paid to another Powerpoint extravaganza.

The sight of Willem Defoe naked on a cross will have to wait for another year.

We decanted to the hall, taking only what we needed,
and had our service by the dim security bulbs,
candle and torchlight.

We sang a-capella, with a little guitar accompaniment,
and with readings and prayers,
one by one
we stripped away the layers of coloured cloth
we'd placed upon the cross.

Gold for heaven.
Silver for Sinai.
Red for the Temple.
White for the swaddling.
Brown for the carpenter.
Bloodstained for the crucified.

God, seeking to be understood,
peeling off layers of mystery
'til finally naked.
Stripped of clothing, friends and life itself.

God, whose face we cannot look upon,
hanging dead in the sky for all to see.

Pluscarden Reflections - Part 3

A few years ago my spiritual director of the time asked me to go and write my own obituary. This wasn't her way of telling me to 'go forth and multiply', but a tangential approach to helping me think through what it is I really value from life and want to be remembered for.

Boiling all of that thought down, the essence is this: I want to make a difference by helping others connect with God.

This is my hope and my heart. And the converse is my fear. A life where I make little or no difference. A life where I don't leave footprints in anyone's heart.

I took that thought with me to Pluscarden, and voiced it among the guys on the first night together. When I'm tired and overworked, these are the times when I wonder what it's all about and whether anything I'm doing has any lasting value.

The next day I realised I'd thrown an envelope in the back of the car - my treasurer had handed it to me as I left the church and I hadn't taken it indoors when I got home. I opened it and read these words from a young woman whose wedding service I'd taken just before Christmas (and I record them to show that God is good, not me!)

"We wanted to thank you for your beautiful service and acknowledge the time and energy you must have put in to personalise our special day. Your heartfelt words touched both Steve and I, and your warmth, humour and sincerity reached out to all of our weddings guests. In fact we were bombarded by friends and family who said it was the happiest and most joyful service that they had ever been to, and we owe that to you alone.... we look forward to continuing to see you on Sundays"

I see a providence in the fact that those words were there for me to read on that day. It was God's way of saying - "There you go. Take heart. These are the kind of footprints you're leaving"

Pluscarden Reflections - Part 2

Apart from the sheer magnificence of the building, the crowning glory of the Abbey is its stained glass, much of which was designed and manufactured by the monks themselves.

On the Monday afternoon I set off for a wander as the light was beginning to fade, and as I walked past the end of the Abbey I noticed something odd.

The stained glass window in the North Transept depicts Mary’s visit to her cousin Elizabeth, both women pregnant with unexpected sons. At that time of day the window was almost entirely dark because the chapel wasn’t in use, but there was a solitary light burning inside. The light from that bulb illuminated one small panel with uncanny precision; the one showing the women’s faces close together: loving, contented and united. Their faces stood out in bright colour, against the blackness of the rest of the window.

I stood there for a good ten minutes in the cold, soaking up this lovely image– passers by must have thought I’d lost the plot! - but I knew that God was saying something important to me through it. And what I think he was saying was this – “This is what you were made for. For intimacy, with one another and with me.”

If I could ask one thing for myself and for my church it would be this. To help people draw closer to God and enjoy a deeper and more intimate fellowship with him. For me, this is what the church is for. Everything else we might do, however important or enjoyable, is a distant second to that first priority. Mission, outreach, worship, social action – all these things flow from the ‘spring’ that is our own connection with God.

Realising a Right Christmas

I am going to allow myself to enjoy these moments, and this entry, without worrying about pride. I think we've earned it, in our little congregation.

A few entries back I wrote about our Right Christmas campaign. This all started at Harvest time when I was preaching about the mustard seed, not just how it grew, but how the bush it became turned out to be a safe place for the birds to nest. I planted the central ideas of Right Christmas - choosing to simplify the way we practice it, and re-directing the cash towards people who really need a present at Christmastime - and stood back.

And boy, has the seed grown.

We've had a brilliant few weeks in the church. Lots of people have reassessed their priorities; lots of groups have organised low-key fundraisers to bring in some cash. We've been talking to the community about what we're trying to do, and found many people outside the church willing to lend a hand. There are far too many stories to tell, but for a flavour, here are just a few:

A kid's magic show with a local amateur magician drew in 50 children and parents and raised £200.

Instead of sending Christmas cards to neighbours, one couple sent them invitations to a fundraising coffee morning. There, as well as getting a 'fine piece' (i.e. good stuff to eat!) they got information about the school we're supporting in the slums of Dhaka, and the hundred children we hope to feed for a year. They raised £600.

I played a gig in our local cafe - Tarts and Crafts. It was an ideal venue - intimate with 30 or so folk there - and cosy on a cold winter's night. I had a ball playing. I used to play a bit on the folk scene in Glasgow, but this was my first 'solo' set. I told them they were very generous pitching up for two hours of Kum-By-Ya...! We raised well over £200 and forged better links with the community, and I even got a bit of street cred with the lads on the fringes of the church!

One group of women organised a Body Shop party and donated the profits - £100

One family are going without a starter for their Christmas meal, and another aren't having crackers. Small savings, but added up, they make a difference.

One elderly couple wrote to their family and asked them not to give them presents, but donate the money to Right Christmas instead. They raised £370.

Another family are organising an informal concert in our Hall for anyone who wants to come and do a 'turn'.

The kids in our teenage groups baked cakes for Sunday after church, and agreed to spend less on their Christmas party so funds could be re-directed to the campaign. Together, the young people of our church have raised about £200.

Our Christingle Service picked up on the theme of Right Christmas, and having gone through the usual patter about what it signifies, I suggested it could also represent our lives - our world of relationships (orange), the love (red ribbon) and protection that surrounds us, the good things (fruit/sweets) that we enjoy, and the hopes (light) we have for our futures. Then I reminded folks that many people in our world don't have these things. I showed them a series of slides where the Christingle is stripped of its adornments, one by one, until all that's left is the empty skin of the orange. Then I spoke into the Right Christmas theme. We raised £650 that evening.

I could go on.

We'd set ourselves the target of providing milk for 100 students at the school in Gulshan for a year, plus meals for the poorest kids. To do that we needed to raise £2300. Each Sunday, in Blue Peter fashion, I've put up a graphic of the 100 kids as little paper dollies, and depending on how much money has been raised that week, I've been able to colour them in. Last week I had to revise the graphic to include 200 kids. This week I've had to expand to 300 (the school takes 350 kids).

All told, we've raised more than double what we were hoping to raise and are sitting at £5000 with a considerable amount still to come, and Gift Aid to claim. It's not inconceivable that we might be able to feed the whole school for a year. I have such a warm glow telling you about this. I am proud of my people and what we've been able to do.

I am always my own worst critic, though. I have thoughts like "Ok - this isn't sustainable; it's charity not justice; what happens next year?" but whatever's lacking in what we've done, the simple fact is we've done something tangible to help these kids. And I feel good about it. So much of what we do in ministry is intangible, it's great to do something which has clear, measurable results.

This year Christmas feels right, and not just because we've raised the cash. It's because the cash is a side product of a congregation-wide re-think about the whole season which has seen many of us less frantic and stressed than in previous years. This is good. And we've had such a good time doing these things, with very little stress associated.

I know that charity isn't the gospel. But in the Christingle service I quoted not just John 3:16, but 1 John 3:16-18. We speak of love coming down at Christmas. But what is love?

"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth."

It's only a start. A drop in a pond. But it's done in the name of Christ and it's sent ripples round our little world, and the little world of Gulshan Literacy Project in Bangladesh.

God, I'm grateful for what you've done through this.

St Hackett's - I'm proud of you.

The Food Of Love?

The American writer and minister Frederick Buechner says that we need to pay close attention to those special moments in life when something brings a sudden tear to our eyes.

He’s talking about those moments when, inexplicably, and sometimes embarrassingly, we find ourselves getting misty-eyed for reasons we don’t fully understand.

It could be something beautiful that does it; a sunset or a starry night, or the sight of a newborn child.

It could be something that stirs our souls – a piece of music we love, or a smell or sound or taste that fills us with nostalgia for a past we’d long forgotten.

It could be something we see or hear or read that awakens something within us – some nameless hope that we’re only faintly aware of in the back of our minds most of the time.

Buechner argues that when we find those sudden tears coming from nowhere, for no particular reason, God’s trying to tell us something.

Towards the end of last yearI taped the BBC Choir of the Year programme because Roo's piano teacher was conducting one of the choirs, and though I enjoyed their performance, two other choirs stood out for me.

The London Bulgarian Choir came out in traditional costumes and blew everybody away with their verve and incredible close harmonies. There's a plaintive element that tugs relentlessly at your heart strings, but the harmonies are sweet as honey. It's an intoxicating blend and on the strength of this performance alone I went and sourced a CD on the net so I could listen to more.

Chantage - the eventual winners - performed a remarkable piece called "Christ's Love Song", written by the composer Richard Allain. It's an incredibly complex piece, breaking into 13 parts at one point, but for me it's an aural picture of what it means to be held by the mystery of Christ's love.

Why the tears? Well, once again, it's the ability of music to point us beyond ourselves to the one who is the beginning and end of all things. The more meditative Bulgarian pieces, and Christ's Love Song, speak of the profound yearnings of the human soul, and the sweetness of our ultimate union with God.

And what's God saying?

Your heart is good, my son, and one day its longings will be fulfilled.

London Bulgarian Choir: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GEDbKe038o

Chantage: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0QMkE8-B4M

Shell shocked

Most of my week's gone on getting things together for our FIRST EVER St Hackett's Youth Group weekend. Remember that episode of Father Ted with Graham Norton as Father Noel Furlong? Arran jumpers and singing 'The Whole Of The Moon' at 3am in the dingiest caravan in Ireland? Well that's not going to happen.....!

Anyway - little time to blog this week, but a supplementary to my last entry. If you're joining us at this point, the question was "why is it that some things are better seen when we don't look straight at them?"

I still haven't processed that, but let me submit the following as supporting evidence:

Yes indeed - a shell. Drawn by me several years ago. Nothing exceptional about it except that I really can't draw for toffee and this is probably the best piece of art I've ever produced. It is unmistakeably shell-like.

My spiritual director at the time had given me a little task to do. She asked me to draw something, anything I liked, but to approach the task in an unusual way. She asked me not to focus on the edges and contours of whatever it was I'd chosen to study, but to look at the space around it. At first I thought she was bonkers (and told her so) but by the end of the session I knew exactly what she meant.

It was difficult at first, trying not to focus on what was so obviously in front of me, but looking at the space rather than the shell, softened the whole process and led to results I never thought I was capable of.

And I know now why she gave me that exercise. At the time there were a lot of things looming large in my mind, and she'd often tell me 'not to hold them so tightly'. Drawing my shell was an object lesson in how much better (and easier) things can be when we approach them with a little latitude. Makes sense?

TODAY'S SHIMMERING INSIGHT OF GLORY: You found God? Great!! If nobody claims him, he's yours in thirty days.

The Nearly Man

I saw him sitting there on the church steps as I drove past on my way home. A young man, I think, but all I saw clearly was the garish pink polo top he was wearing. Cresting the hill I swung the car left, passing his stationary Audi, and slowed to a halt in our driveway, just a hundred yards from where he was sitting, head bowed, outside my church. People only come to our churchyard for one thing during the day time; to lay flowers and remember the dead.

I cut the engine and sank back into the seat, realising I'd a choice to make. I sat there deep in thought for a good few moments, well aware that this would probably look weird to Rosie if she'd happened to look out the kitchen window.

Part of me - the efficient, jobsworth part - tried to play it down. It was none of my business... he probably wanted to be left alone to grieve... there was work I needed to be getting on with. Yadda yadda yadda. The coward inside me nodded and reminded me that I could be walking into a difficult situation here. Maybe he was on something; maybe it was my case he'd be on, because I was a minister and God - this God who's building he was sitting outside - had stolen someone precious from him. What if I ended up in the firing line?

But despite whatever reason those arguments contained, I knew, viscerally, what I had to do. I had to get out of the car and walk round to see that stranger. I don't wear the cheesy wristband, but I know that's exactly WJWD. So screwing up my courage I trudged round to the front of the church, without answers or anodyne; but by the time I'd got there the steps were empty and the car was gone.

Who the man in the pink polo shirt was I'll probably never know, and maybe the conversation we never had wouldn't have been life changing for either of us. But as I think about it, maybe the encounter was all about that choice I made in the car; the choice to risk vulnerability in the thin hope that somehow I could be an angel, a messenger of God to him.

Maybe next time I won't be so slow to spread my wings.

TODAY'S TRANSLUCENT PEARL OF WISDOM: Life consists in what you do, not what happens to you. Things happen to a stone.

Slow Work?

Ok - so why the title?

Well the phrase "slow work" comes from a poem by Jesuit priest and paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. I came across it a few years ago and felt a deep resonance with what he's saying.

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are, quite naturally,
impatient in everything to reach the end
without delay.
We should like to skip
the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being
on the way to something unknown,
something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability –
and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you.
Your ideas mature gradually –
Let them grow,
let them shape themselves
without undue haste.
Don’t try to force them on,
as though you could be today
what time and grace and circumstances
will make you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
And accept the anxiety of
feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.

For someone like myself, in transit between old certainties readily received and new convictions hard won, these are good words to hang on to. These things take time. It's ok not to have all the answers. Take it one step at a time. Trust that God is there, leading you. There's something about this that has the absolute ring of truth for me.

I remember as a kid feeling my way into the sciences at school. In the first few years of secondary education they'd tell you about atoms and you'd assume they were hard little spheres, like mini marbles. Then, later on, they'd explain that they were more complicated; that inside the atom was this core with protons and neutrons, and orbiting around them in different 'shells' were the electrons - tiny planets spinning around a tiny nuclear sun. Then, just when you'd got that into your head, they confessed that it was even more complex! These electrons didn't actually move in shells, but existed in probability clouds around the nucleus. I remember these grey forms seriously illustrated in dense textbooks - some looking like smoothed-over Charles Atlas dumbells, others like the petals of some cosmic uber-flower. Better still, Heisenberg told us that we couldn't know an electron's position and speed at the same time anyway. And that's before we get into quarks and mesons and bosons......


And here's the point. You can't jump from A to Z in one effortless bound. There's a whole lot of learning you simply have to go through before you're ready for Z. There's slow work to be done. You have to take each model, flawed though it is, and get it into your head before you're ready for the next one.

Moving between models is painful (just ask Rod Stewart). Certainties have to be divested and unknowing has to be embraced, and that inevitably brings some instability. But in the long run, the work is worth it because a better model, a deeper understanding, emerges which allows you to do more and think better than ever before.

For years now I've felt that instability in my theology as I feel my way towards an understanding which can cope with all that I've had to leave behind. But at the same time, in my spirit, I have a growing sense that what lies ahead; indeed what already surrounds me, is far better than I've ever known. A God more embracing, more loving, more generous than I could ever have believed. At times I catch glimpses of that God, and on occasions rarer still, I might even reflect something of him to others. For the hope of knowing more about that kind of God, I can accept the anxiety of feeling myself in suspense and incomplete. Thanks, Teilhard.

TODAY'S WORDS OF PROFOUND WISDOM: There's always an easy solution to every human problem: neat, plausible and wrong