A meditation on Luke 2: 4-7

You’re in a draughty stable,
warm,
smelly,
straw,
animals ….
A young girl, teenager,
fussing over a cattle trough ….
A young man, a little older,
hovering, anxious ….
A newborn baby, wrinkled,
messy, sleeping ….

The place is quiet,
charged with excitement,
weariness,
and a strange peace pervading everything.

You find yourself
kneeling by the manger,
wondering what to offer ….

You remember your childhood,
early Christmases,
memories of people,
some no longer here …
good feelings, and not-so-good ….

(pause)

And you’re back in the stable,
kneeling on the floor,
and your memories
are wrapped in coloured paper
in your hands,
and you lay them quietly
beneath the manger.

(pause)

You remember Mary’s story,
and the angel,
and her shock
at God’s abrupt entry into her life,
and you think back
to a time when God burst in on you
unannounced,
surprising ….

(pause)

And you’re back in the stable,
kneeling on the floor,
and your memories
are wrapped in coloured paper
in your hands,
and you lay them quietly
beneath the manger.

(pause)

You remember Joseph,
and a dream held onto tenaciously,
and a life turned upside down,
plans wrecked
and replaced with uncertainty,
and you think back
to a time when God spoilt
or re-directed your plans.
Resented,
disruptive ….

(pause)

And you’re back in the stable,
kneeling on the floor,
and your memories
are wrapped in coloured paper
in your hands,
and you lay them quietly
beneath the manger.

(pause)

You remember the others,
shepherds,
wise men,
who came in obedience
to signs they didn’t understand,
and gave what they could
or what they had,
and you, in the quiet,
ponder what you have
or are
or want to be ….

(pause)

And you’re back in the stable,
kneeling on the floor,
and your memories
are wrapped in coloured paper
in your hands,
and you lay them quietly
beneath the manger.

(pause)

And now you’re back here,
in this place,
aware of the quiet,
and the presence of Jesus.

Remembrance Sunday

Remembrance Sunday is always a challenge for me. It's an occasion where the world and the church meet - seemingly in unity, but actually with very different agendas hidden behind the words.

Obviously it's right to remember those who died in war: love and sacrifice go rightly together, and those strands tie easily into our faith story. But it's a short step from there to claiming that God's on our side, not their’s - and that's a dangerous place to be. Or we were right, and they were wrong – and that too is dangerous.

I want to argue, that Remembrance Day demands work from us. That remembering the fallen with love should lead to repentance for pain caused. That (as I think Solzhenitsyn said) the boundary between good and evil lies within you and me, not "out there". That sin lies on both sides of the fence, and cannot be compared, since all sin requires repentance. I’m not sure the idea of a “lesser evil”, as some claim as justification, has any biblical validity.

So the grief we feel for our fallen friends or relatives is matched by the feelings of our “enemies”. Therefore condemnation of Auschwitz stands next to repentance for Dresden; and condemnation of atrocities in Burma, next to the viciousness of Nagasaki.

Prayer ?

What on earth are you talking about ?

Surely it’s just asking God for a whole list of stuff ?
Like going to Tescos,
except that I don’t want to buy food,
but health and happiness and things like that
– for me or for those I care about …..
Oh and sometimes I want to get bigger things off the shelf
like world peace and no starving people and so on !
And I guess, instead of paying for it with money,
God’s got a kind of goodness credit-card,
so that I can build up my balance
by being nicer and more caring.

But it’s not like that at all !

Prayer is not like shopping – it’s like dancing !

Imagine you’re alone on the dance floor,
no sense of embarrassment or inhibitions,
the music is fantastic – just makes you want to move
not just tap your feet,
but leap and flow and glide in the perfect expression of the music
but you’re not sure how to do it – it’s there, but not working
And you open your eyes, and there’s someone else there,
not a partner, but a guide
– someone who can show you exactly how to move
and they begin with basic steps – but even they feel right
and then the next, and the next
until you’re flowing and gliding and the music and you become one

And somehow, as you dance,
the music begins to touch those around you
most of them cannot hear the music clearly,
but they can see the grace of your dance
and are touched
and they too begin to catch the rhythm
and as they do so, they too are changed
they begin to find health and happiness for themselves
and your dance widens and deepens
and you find you movements gain passion and breadth
and somehow the steps involve the lost, the lonely and the least
and they too are changed, as you dance through their situations
and your prayers are answered
but through the music
not through Tescos

And then, right at the end of the dance,
the music comes to a gentle end
and you look up to find the musician was the Father
and the guide was the Son
and the music was the Spirit
and the dance floor is fading
as you see your friends and family weeping
and yet, even as their pain touches you
you hear the next song beginning
and now the dance takes hold
and sweeps through you in a whole new way
as the freedom of eternity allows you to express the music perfectly !

Copyright RT, 4/3/07

Joy & Pain

I thank thee, too
that all our joy,
is touched with pain.
That shadows fall
on brightest hours,
that thorns remain.
So that earth's bliss
may be our guide,
and not our chain !

A verse from an old Baptist Hymn - no idea of the title - that's lodged in my brain for years, and popped out whilst preparing for something else.

The Great Mystery

A poem by Carol Bialock

I built my house by the sea
not on the sands, mind you,
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.
A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted,
the sea and I.
Good neighbours.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences,
respectful, keeping our distance
but looking our thoughts
across the fence of sand.
Always the fence of sand our barrier,
always the sand between.
And then one day
(and I still don't know how it happened)
the sea came.
Without warning.
Without welcome even.
Not sudden and swift,
but a shifting across the sand
like wine.
Less like the flow of water
than the flow of blood.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight,
and I thought of drowning,
and I thought of death.
But while I thought
the sea crept higher
till it reached my door.
And I knew that there was neither flight
nor death
nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling
you stop being good neighbours.
Well acquainted,
friendly from a distance
neighbours.
And you give your house
for a coral castle
And you learn to breathe underwater.


A thought

"Now the curious thing is that ... I understood the sea in this poem as an image of the presence of God - the way he takes over our lives. When I showed it to a monk friend, however, he saw the slow advance of the sea as the gradual encroachment of the agony of the world upon one's consciousness. It is only now, ten years on, that I begin to understand what he meant when he said that the great mystery is that the two are really the same."

Source "Sharing the darkness" by Sheila Cassidy, DLT 1988, page 9

Jesus wept !

I am not very good as a Pastor. I know I am new at this, though I have done much else in my life so far, but I am still stunned by the messy lives of the people around me. I still assume that my life is a reasonable starting point for everyone, and then the pain of another breaks in, and I realise that I have been both blessed and sheltered. I try to re-form the view, to see with another's eyes, and the pain of it wells up within me till I feel hopeless and vulnerable and unable to see around it, and I let it slip away and settle back, troubled, into my own safe world.

The other day I called on a couple in the aftermath of a row. They'd asked me to call. There was an air of quiet viciousness that both seemed unable to see or change. Years of practice and hurt had honed their words so that each could draw blood effortlessly. Both expressed a desire to stay together, but neither seemed to have the energy to countenance the change required, nor the courage to lay down their weapons. I felt like a medic on a battlefield, dispensing bandaids wholly inadeqate for the wounds around me. I muttered platitudes and left and prayed. Their privacy resealed itself around them, so that now I just get polite responses. The breach in the wall has been shored up .... until the next time.

But I am not as I was. Some of their pain has lodged in my mind. I feel infected in a strange way. The pain and the hurt pops into my mind at odd moments. I wonder if this is part of being a Pastor: slowly gathering slivers of others' pain into the mind and soul ?