Wheat that springeth green

To be preached at Middleton and Geuffordd . . .

The scientist and writer Isaac Asimov told the story of a long sea voyage during which a fellow passenger, a Mr Jones, became terribly seasick. On one occasion, as he was feeling particularly green and poorly in a corner of the lounge, one of the ship’s stewards came up to him, laid a hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, “I know you’re feeling really awful, sir, but don’t worry - no-one ever died of seasickness.” To which Mr Jones replied, “Oh no, please don’t say that! It’s only the blessed hope of dying that’s keeping me alive!”

Most of the really good resurrection stories are to be found in St John’s Gospel, but here today is the exception that proves that rule, the lovely story told by Luke of the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, and their encounter with Jesus. They may not have been quite as low and desperate as Mr Jones, but they were pretty downhearted. They may not have hoped for death, but they were resigned to it - not looking forward to much else.

How well they knew Jesus we don’t know, but they seem to have been on pretty good terms with Peter and the others, so it’s a fair assumption that they should have been able to recognise him. So why didn’t they, when he joined them on the road? One writer suggests that, walking due west toward the end of the day (as they were), maybe the sun was in their eyes; but I think there’s more to it than that. This not recognising Jesus is something that turns up again and again as we read the Easter Gospels.

We’ll come back to that, though. For now, let’s reflect on the fact that it’s while they were talking about him that Jesus came up and joined them. While they were talking about him. Do we talk enough about Jesus? To one another, and to others? It does seem to me that the more we talk about him, the more he figures in our lives, the more likely he is to meet with us on the road. “I stand at the door and knock,” says Jesus in the Book of Revelation. But if we’re not talking about him, if he’s not in the forefront of our minds, then maybe we won’t hear that knock.

And when he did meet with them, what did he do? He explained things, he opened their minds to the truth. To the extent that their hearts burned within them, as they say later on. To be honest, you’d have thought they would have recognised him by this stage. Who else did they know who could expound God’s word with such freshness, such vision, such energy? Remember what people had said of him, back in Galilee? “He teaches in a new way, not like the teaching of the scribes and the Pharisees.”

But anyway, they still didn’t recognise him. It’s almost as if he’s playing with them, in a gentle way, testing them as well as teaching them, rebuking them for their slowness as well as opening their minds. This not recognising Jesus, then. I think the Gospel writers want us to understand that there is something fundamentally different about Jesus now. He hasn’t returned to his old life, he hasn’t somehow escaped from death. Easter begins something new, not an escape from the inevitable, but its defeat. And yet he is the same man, recognised not from his face but from the scars he bears, or recognised (as we shall see) in the things he does.

But I think as well that none of us is very good at processing the unexpected. We form our picture, our theory of how the world works, of how the world should be, and things that don’t fit in with that get set aside, dismissed, maybe just not noticed at all. I cam across someone I know the other day, but not in a place either of us would visit very often. She was coming straight towards me along the street; I smiled, waved, said “Good morning!” - and she just walked straight past. A few steps further on, she stopped, turned, came back and said, “Oh! sorry! I didn’t expect to see you here!” What we don’t expect to see, we don’t see, or at least, not straight away. So do we expect to see Jesus? Or maybe I should ask, WHERE do we expect to see Jesus? In the everyday business of our everyday lives? In our work, in our friendships? Be sure, he is there, but maybe if we don’t expect to find him, we won’t be aware.

Perhaps we reserve Jesus to a place like this, with stone walls and pointy windows, and are not aware of him, not able to recognise him, anywhere else. Here’s a challenge for all of us, one that frankly I don’t manage to face up to all the time, but we should all be trying our best: to place Jesus at the centre, to see if we can recognise him in all kinds of unexpected places, in secular places as well as in the ones that are labelled and identified as holy. It’s the difference between religion being one of our hobbies or pastimes among others, and religion - or let’s say faith, it’s a better word - faith being the reason why we do all the other stuff.

The two disciples said to the man who had joined them, who as yet they hadn’t recognised, “Where have you been all this time? Everybody’s talking about what happened to Jesus of Nazareth. We had thought he was the one to save us, to set us free, but then it all went wrong, it all fell apart.” That was their assessment, the picture, the world view, by which they were living, that controlled how they saw things. So the man explained things to them, pointed them round towards a different way of seeing things - but still they didn’t recognise him.

Two things that changed things: something they did, something he did. They invited him in. “Don’t go on, far too late in the day, we’ve got room, stay here.” Basic hospitality, something very much prized in the Middle East, but there’s a simple and basic message in this story, that acts of kindness can often bring unexpected blessings. And the simple fact that we’re all moved by them must say something about how we should be, who we’re really programmed to be, with one another. The film of the runner last Sunday helping his fellow runner who could hardly stand get to the line and over it at the London Marathon has gone viral.

Then there’s what Jesus does: he breaks the bread, and their eyes are opened. He breaks the bread. Here at this table we are most specially aware of him, most specially able to receive from him, here we are received, blessed, equipped, fed - and sent out.

There are disclosure moments in life; sometimes people call them religious experiences. Moments when the world seems sharper, more focused, when we see more clearly, when we fell more deeply, moments when the penny drops, when we understand, when we see. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that we use the same word “see” about both vision and understanding. In the resurrection stories, people failed to recognise Jesus because they hadn’t yet seen, understood, what had really happened. Every Eucharist should be a disclosure moment, for we’re not here just to remember, to look back, to hold a memorial service; no, the Greek word anamnesis which we translate as “remembrance” - do this in remembrance of me - actually means something much stronger, it’s about being in the presence of our Lord, being part of the supper he gives, in which he continues to be here among us, breaking the bread, here and now. Our risen Lord.

Our risen Lord, who assures us now as he told those disciples then, that love is come again, like wheat that springeth green - that love is victorious, is always victorious, is finally and completely victorious, over all that can enslave us, all that ties us down. The two disciples set out straight away, back to Jerusalem, to share the good news. That’s what happens when the penny drops, and when, instead of being resigned to death, we have seen what it means to live.

More about the Pied Crow

Our "pied crow" (not the genuine article, but a carrion crow with white feathers on each wing) has become a very regular visitor, helping to sweep up after other visitors to our bird feeders. The other day our local nesting carrion crows (the pair that laid into a passing raven on Great Garden Birdwatch Day) spotted him and sailed rapidly into the attack, driving him down into the woodland below our garden. Next time we saw him one of his wings was looking very shabby: my guess is that the other crows' attacks focus particularly on the white feathers. He has a sad life, really.

The same route down into the wood was taken at high speed by a sparrow hawk on Sunday afternoon. I just happened to glance through the window, and it went past like a bullet. They are remarkably aerodynamic - this was a pretty solid bird, but it hurtled past, making slight adjustments to clear our back fence by what looked like a fraction of an inch, and then pass between the trees behind. I didn't see what it was chasing.

Enchanter's Nightshade

I walk the central aisle of this green cathedral,
to find you shining with shy but serious intent
where beech pillars stand tall on either side,
bearing arched canopies to preserve the stillness
of this natural nave, this dark and shaded holy place.
You are Circe the enchantress, quiet dealer in potions,
the only flower remaining on this July morning,
for July is the darkest time in the beech wood.
But nightshade you are, by name and nature
if not by family: nightshade and enchantress.
Anemone, celandine and bluebell, the flowers of the day
have vanished with the Spring, and the long night is yours alone.
Your white roots spread in secret through the gloom from
where your spikes of tiny flowers rise from a ring of hearts;
and while I stand quiet within this holy place
I know I am in your thrall.

Into All The World

I wonder where the disciples were gathered; all we’re told is that the doors were locked. They were vulnerable, and afraid. Was the room they were in the same room in which they’d eaten a last supper with Jesus just three days before? Was it the room in which he’d astounded them by rising from table and taking a towel and water, then kneeling to wash their feet?

His actions then had startled and shamed them. But Jesus had given them a lesson to learn, and a glimpse into their own future. He’d showed them just how they must take his message of love into the world. As their Servant-King he’d invited them to join him in the community of service. "This is my new commandment,” he said; “love one another as I have loved you.”

So perhaps they did return to that place after their Lord had been crucified. It was a secret location and therefore safe, and the shared memories of that last supper eaten with him might have been some comfort in their grief, a fragment to hold on to as their world fell apart.

John’s account of Easter begins with the visit of John himself and Peter to the tomb, how they found it empty and the grave clothes still there. Then comes the story of Mary Magdalene meeting with Jesus in the garden, and being given a message for the disciples. Imagine her rushing to them, bursting in on their fear and sorrow to exclaim, "I have seen the Lord.”

But their immediate reaction is confusion and uncertainty, not delight. They remain huddled together with the doors shut and locked, afraid of everything on the other side. They’re yet unable to understand the cross as anything other than defeat and the snatching away of all that they had dreamed of and hoped for; so of course they remain afraid of the forces that had killed Jesus, they remain afraid for their own lives, they still wonder how things could all have gone so wrong.

I don’t find it hard to imagine how the disciples felt. I’ve often enough done the same, locked myself in and the world out when I’ve felt sad or confused or threatened, when things have gone wrong, when something done or said has wounded me. And I’ve seen too many situations where grief hasn’t be set aside, where anger’s fuelled bitterness, where slights and grudges are allowed to fester. Times when we shut out even those who want to care and offer help, when friends can’t reach us.

Mary Magdalene’s words probably only added to the confusion the disciples felt. It was more than they could take. “Just what is going on?” they must have thought. Again, I can understand. The world around us often changes so fast it takes our breath away. We don’t understand, we can’t keep up; we’re tempted to hide away somewhere safe with our own little group, and not think too much about what’s going on outside. Was that where the disciples were on that Sunday evening?

Churches can themselves become safe havens. To a degree that’s fine. People should be able to find refuge in a church, after all. But I’ve known churches shut their doors a little too firmly. Let’s keep the world at bay, we’re tempted to think: the stuff we don’t like, the stuff we can’t process, the stuff that scares us. Churches like that tend to restrict their membership to people of like mind, with doors closed to anyone or anything that might challenge their doctrines. The doors were locked where the disciples were, but Jesus still joined them; hear what he said to them: “Peace be with you; as the Father sent me, so I send you.”

And he breathed his Spirit upon them. Jesus comes to us as he came to those first disciples. He’s unhindered by the walls we build around ourselves to keep others away and ourselves safe, he bypasses the doors we lock out of anger or anxiety, he breaks through our grief, our fear, our uncertainty.

And he does so as he did then, so he can speak peace to us and breathe peace into our anxious hearts. He comes bearing the marks of his suffering and death, bearing the wounds of the world, the wounds of our own grief and pain and sin. He is the one who died, the wounds are there for all to see, and yet these wounds are now transformed into new life.

Jesus shows the disciples the wounds in his hands and side, then repeats the words "Peace be with you." So they are twice blessed. And they saw - and we see with them - that the body of Christ, though risen, though alive for ever, still carries its wounds. And if the Church that takes his message into the world is (in Paul’s great image) the Body of Christ, it must also be marked with his wounds, as it engages with the need, the violence, the pain, the suffering of the world.

We are here today because the disciples did not stay in that safe and familiar room. They opened the doors, and Jesus sent them out into the world they feared, assuring them of his life, his strength, his vision, his presence. And so he sends us today, offering us the deep peace of his Holy Spirit, and lifting from us the power of fear, pains and grief, of shame and guilt to disable us and hold us captive. Jesus frees us so that he can send us to make a difference wherever we are, and to bring forgiveness and freedom to others in his name.

So let us pray:
Come to us, risen Lord Jesus, and send us out in faith to live and to share the good news of Easter. Fill us with the breath of your Holy Spirit, that we may breathe peace into fearful lives, love one another as we have been loved, welcome the stranger, make friends of enemies, and forgive the sins that bind others to the past; that we may serve those who need our care, and proclaim with joy the risen life that you offer to us, and through us to all the world. Amen.

Pied Crow

A pied crow has become a regular visitor to our garden of late. I should explain - there is a bird called a pied crow, common in Africa and also from time to time kept as a pet. It has a white neck and chest, and black head, back, wings and tail, and, although about the same size as our carrion crows, is I think better described as a small raven. The bird that visits us is a native carrion crow, but it has a substantial number of white feathers on each wing. It would look quite handsome, but is in fact a bit on the tatty side - very tatty in fact when we first saw it, with most of his tail feathers missing. He’s beginning to look a little more respectable now, but the very fact that he spends so much time prospecting around our feeders, something our nearby nesting crows never do, would suggest he’s been having a hard time.

The term for his condition, of white feathers instead of black, is leucism, which affects a wide range of common birds. Leucistic blackbirds are quite often seen, ranging from birds with just an occasional white feather to birds with only a few black feathers. No-one knows why blackbirds should display leucism more often than other species, though there is clearly a genetic elements here. Leucistic birds are not albinos, which are completely lacking in pigment - they partly lack the black pigment melanism. Other plumage abnormalities include melanism (extra black pigment, so darker plumage - this is often seen in pheasants), and less often, erythrism which is where  there are additional red pigments, and flavism with extra yellow pigment.

Do these plumage changes cause problems, I wondered, seeing how bedraggled our “pied crow” looked. Yes, is the answer, they can: having plumage that differs from the population 'norm' can give the wrong signals to other individuals, as well as perhaps making the bird more obvious and vulnerable to would-be predators. In addition, research suggests that feathers with reduced pigment may be less robust, wearing more quickly and reducing flight efficiency. They may also be less effective in insulating the bird against cold.

Unusual birds can often be attacked and driven off, and there are many instances of this happening to escaped cage birds, for example. But birds also habitually attack other species that are similar to them but differently plumaged; on these pages I’ve described how robins will attack dunnocks, and blue tits will drive away coal tits (this year, in fact, we have a particularly feisty blue tit using our nest box, and he will fly at almost any other birds that visits our feeders - I mention this because usually blue tits seem to be only one notch up from coal tits at the bottom of the pecking order).

Anyway, I think our visiting crow is most likely to have been attacked by fellow carrion crows spooked by his plumage irregularities. But he’s beginning to get quite feisty himself, the other day seeing off his more regularly pied relative, the magpie, with great promptness and efficiency.

Some you win, some you lose . . .

 A peacock at Powis Castle struts his stuff to a passing hen

How can she resist?

 I mean, this really is the business!

 Ahem . . . I'm over here!

 What do you mean, "I've got things to do"?

Oh well, other fish in the sea, I guess . . .

Easter

“What do you enjoy most about Easter?” When I asked that question to children in primary school, their answers included the Easter bunny, chocolate eggs, spring flowers and catkins. Ann and I went with our grandchildren to Chirk Castle last week, where the staff were getting ready for the National Trust Cadbury’s Egg Hunt. You may have noticed there’s a word missing. And the Archbishop of York and the Prime Minister made headlines as they complained to Cadbury’s and the Trust about the missing word Easter.

Much as I hate to disagree with the great and good of our nation, I myself was not that bothered. And anyway, the big poster as we approached Chirk Castle said “Easter Fun - come and join our egg hunt!” - so the word Easter hasn’t entirely been lost. And anyway, if I’m asked what Easter bunnies and Easter eggs have to do with what the Christian festival of Easter, my answer has to be: not very much.

Of course, I like them both. What’s not to like? Rabbits and eggs are symbols of springtime and new life. And of course an egg looks a bit like a stone, but with life inside waiting to burst through the shell, so it can be a symbol for the tomb.

Having said that, egg hunts as a tradition may date from hundreds of years BC. And the name Easter may itself come from Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring. Springtime has long been a time for festival and celebration, and there might well be children probably be hunting for eggs in National Trust gardens even if the Christian Church had never existed.

The Jewish Passover was itself a spring festival, though of course it also celebrated the people’s freedom from slavery in Egypt. Easter as a Christian festival is celebrated in spring because it’s linked to the Passover. That’s also why the date on which it’s held varies from year to year.

The Bible tells us that the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus took place at Passover. Passover begins on the 15th day of the month Nisan in the Jewish calendar which follows a lunar cycle. In fact Passover begins on the first full moon after the Spring equinox, this year 10th April. And Easter is celebrated on the Sunday morning following the start of the Passover.

Spring celebrations and traditions from pagan times were incorporated into the Christian festival of Easter, egg hunts included. But alongside all the springtime fun is the true story of a man put to death in a shameful and barbaric way. His followers were sad, defeated, crushed by what happened, preparing to go home. That was Friday; yet on Sunday and in the weeks that followed, these people came to believe, and to begin to tell the world that he was not dead.

Whatever the Easter story means to you, whether you believe it without question or are still weighing things up, let me spend some time reflecting on what happened that day and what it means to me. I’d like to home in on these three words as I do so: peace, purpose, and promise, and as I do so I’ll be quoting some verses from John’s Gospel, which is where the Easter story is most movingly presented.

So peace is my first word. John tells how in the evening of that first Easter Day, with the doors locked in the place where the disciples had gathered, Jesus came and stood among them. And the first words he spoke to them were “Peace be with you!” This peace is more than just a sense of calm and tranquillity; the Hebrew word shalom speaks of peace that includes wholeness, completeness, wellbeing, security, serenity and harmony of life - and at the heart of it all, peace with God. Today we are reconciled with the one who breathes life into the universe.

Sin is what separates us from God, and therefore from that true peace of heart that is shalom. In John we find this: “God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son.” Easter is about God putting things right. Jesus is more than just a good man and a fine teacher; he is the Saviour who frees us from the shackles of sin that we ourselves could never break. His cross lifts from us the weight of our sins, reopens the way back to God. Because he is risen and alive, we are restored to a peace with God that on our own we could never grasp.

And his life gives our life point and purpose. Jesus went on to say to his disciples on that first Easter Day: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you”. Where will he send them? Everywhere, into all the world. Life throws up big questions: “Where did I come from? Why am I here? What is the point, the purpose of me?” Science and philosophy can only take us so far; for the third question I look to Jesus. Here’s something St Paul wrote in chapter one of his Letter to the Colossians: “Christ is the visible image of the invisible God. He existed before anything was created and is supreme over all creation. Everything was created through him and for him.” In Jesus we are brought close to God. He lives and we live with him, as Easter people, with lives that have purpose and direction.

Easter gives purpose to this bit of life, but it adds to that the promise of eternal life. At the end of his account of the risen Christ John tells us he wrote these things so that “you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name”. To complete the quote I mentioned earlier, “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but shall have everlasting life.” In another verse from John, Jesus says, “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it in all abundance.” Abundant life: not just long life, not just happy life - abundant life.

Jesus offers us a share in abundant life, in his resurrection life. When Peter and John ran to the tomb, they not only found it empty, they found the grave clothes still there. The sense of the Greek text is that the body had simply risen from them, leaving them behind. They were no longer needed. This isn’t a repeat of the resurrection of Lazarus, brought from his grave still wrapped in the grave clothes. This is not a return to the life that was; this is something new.

When Mary Magdalene encounters Jesus in the garden he gives her a message to take to the disciples: “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” In those words Jesus plainly tells her that we have a share in what he was done, that we have the same relationship to God. He’d taught his disciples to pray “Our Father, who art in heaven.” At the Last Supper he’d startled them by saying of the bread and wine “This is my body; this is my blood.” But it’s now, at the empty tomb, that these words are proved to be true. This is not a one-off event, but a new beginning in which all who live by faith are promised a share.

Egg hunts, cartoon bunnies, spring catkins; Easter’s a great time with lots to enjoy, and I shall enjoy every bit of it. But at the heart of this service and as we share bread and wine we find the one thing that really matters. We find what is unique and fundamental about Easter, we find the corner stone of our faith. Our Lord is risen, he is risen indeed. Death is defeated, sin has lost its power to enslave us; in this blessed day the way is opened for us, into peace with God, into purpose for living, and into the promise of eternal life.

Secret Signs

(My sermon for Maundy Thursday)

In 1688, the year of what historians call the Glorious Revolution, our kingdom had two competing kings. James II, ousted and exiled; and William III, William of Orange, invited and installed by the will of parliament, along with his wife Mary II, the only time our nation has had both king and queen regnant. Not everyone was pleased to see James gone and William and Mary installed. And at dinner a man might propose or drink a toast to the king with his glass held over a jug of water; those who supported the Jacobite cause would know he was pledging loyalty not to the king in London but to the exiled James Stuart over the water. It was a secret sign that only those in the know would understand.

There are secret signs in the story of this week too. Jesus was being closely watched after his entry into Jerusalem. Things were always tense at the Passover, the festival which above all others fuelled the people’s longing for freedom, and for a new king in the line of David. They were looking for the Messiah, the one anointed by God and promised by the prophets. And now this Jesus had declared his hand by riding into the city on a donkey, as the prophet Zechariah had said Messiah would do.

Pontius Pilate and his officers would have been anxious men, in a city bursting with people ripe for revolt. And the chief priests and the supporters of the dynasty of Herod were worried too. It was in their interest to make sure things stayed calm. They were wise men who knew the score. A self-proclaimed messiah who stirred the people into revolt would in the end be no match for the might of Rome. The priests and the supporters of Herod’s sons who still ruled parts of his old kingdom all knew they could rely on the support of Rome only so long as they could keep and ensure the peace.

Jesus needed to tread carefully. He had deliberately provoked those in power. Crowds of pilgrims from Galilee had cheered him with cries of Hosanna as he entered the city. As soon as he got there he went to the Temple to reclaim it on behalf of the poor, the ordinary folk, the people for whom God had a special concern. Jesus was stirring a hornet’s nest, but he’d things still to do before his enemies could take him.

Jesus had arranged the donkey on which he rode into the city without involving the Twelve. Nor did they know about the room reserved, where he’d eat with them on the eve of the Passover. He told his disciples to look for a secret sign: a man carrying a water-jar, which was always women’s work. Follow him, he told them, and he’ll lead you to the place that’s been prepared. It was important that his enemies didn’t get him too soon. There was a meal to eat, the one we call the last supper.

So here’s the storyline for this week: a provincial rabbi, elevated to the status of messiah by the naive and gullible people of his province, comes unstuck like so many before him, once he comes face to face those whose might and authority a hick like him could never understand. He didn’t have the men, the ideas or the power to win a fight like that. Poor man, on to a loser from the word go. Sadly out of his depth.

Hick from Galilee perhaps, but the powers that be must have been worried by Jesus. So by the end of this week it would have been a cause of some satisfaction that they’d been able to dispose of him so quickly and slickly. But maybe they should have been a bit surprised too. And maybe the more savvy among them might have wondered whether there was more here than met the eye.

If they did, they were right. Of all the signs he could have chosen to declare himself as Messiah, Jesus chose a humble way. He chose to ride a donkey. And now as he eats supper with his disciples he deliberately takes on the role reserved for the most lowly servant. He washes their feet. In this he reveals the true nature of the kingship he claims. There were no servants in attendance, we can assume, since this was a secret meal, eaten as the opposing forces drew ever closer. Maybe the disciples had wondered which of them would have to undertake the menial task of washing the grime of the streets from the feet of their fellows. That Jesus did it will have shamed them; disciples were supposed to see to their teacher’s needs, not the other way round.

But Jesus didn’t do it to shame them, he did it to teach them. We’re all better taught by actions than by words. “Let the greatest among you become as the servant of all,” says Jesus. He shows us the royalty of suffering, he presents himself as the servant king. Riding a donkey into the city was no stunt; this is who he is: “I am among you as one who serves.”

So bread is blessed and broken, and wine is blessed and poured. Tonight we join those who shared that last supper, repeating as we do so the song of Palm Sunday: “Blest is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest!” This is my body, he says, this is my blood. At this table we’re linked in to his sacrifice, and joined in him to one another. Here we approach the cross on which our king is enthroned, proclaimed, revealed, to know him in the bread he shares. For the world the cross may speak of shame and death, but it is the greatest of all secret signs. As we open our hearts to his love, the place of death is raised up to be the shining symbol of victory and life.

Dry Bones

Dem bones, dem bones dem dry bones, now hear the word of the Lord. One of the recommended books when I was a theology student was “Can these dry bones live?” by the theologian and Methodist minister Frances Young. She was asking whether, and suggesting how, the dry bones of the word of God in scripture could be made to live again. How shall today’s Church preach the word of God in a way that will make sense and convert hearts: that was her theme.

But Frances Young took the dry bones image from the Old Testament, as this was one of the visions that came to the prophet Ezekiel. This vision was an assurance to him from God that however hopeless things might seem, all was not lost. God would save and restore his people. Things did seem hopeless; the kingdom of Israel was lost, the temple lay in ruins. The people had been taken from their homeland to be hardly better than slaves, slaves in a foreign land. It was as though they were dead; and yet God would restore them, he would bring them back to their own land.

This would happen, but only when the people had come to their senses, only when they’d come back to the Lord. They needed to lose their apathy and timidity, they needed to et back their confidence in the Lord’s power to heal and save. Though all their hopes were like dry bones on the desert sand, they were still the Lord’s people. Ezekiel’s hopeful message was of God longing for his people to turn back to him, longing for them once again to seek his righteousness and justice, longing to give them back a life and identity and homeland they had lost.

Can these dry bones live? Ezekiel’s vision was just that: a vision, a dream. But let’s turn to our long Gospel reading, for it tells of the raising of an actual dead man, Lazarus, brother to Mary and Martha, friend to Jesus. Jesus wept at his tomb of Lazarus, and the crowd was moved by the obvious distress they saw in him. ‘He must have really loved him,’ they said. They were there to mourn, and they will have expected Jesus and his disciples to do the same. After all, they’d arrived too late to do anything else. Lazarus had been dead already for four days.

Jesus had delayed his coming. Lazarus is four days dead: long enough for death to be assured, and for the spirit to have moved on, to be no longer close to the body. No wonder Jesus wept. But having wept for his friend, he didn’t do what might have been expected. He didn’t give in to regret or despair; he didn’t join in with the mourners. This death was not a defeat but an opportunity, or so he told his disciples. In the love of God all is never lost, and Jesus is (as he declares) the way, and the truth, and the life.

That’s a promise and assurance that lies at the heart of all we do and believe as Christians. Jesus says: “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No-one comes to the Father except through me.” Our faith and fellowship depend on these words. Ezekiel the prophet was given a vision of life. Paul the apostle preaches about life as God’s promise to those who live by faith. But life is made real in Jesus Christ. In him we find the truth, scripture is fulfilled in him, faith is rewarded in him. However hopeless our cause and condition may seem to be, our destiny is not dead bones but spirit, and freedom, and life.

So to live in Jesus means to never give up hope; to live in Jesus means always to expect the unexpected. Look at our empty pews this morning. People say that the church is in terminal decline, and we can certainly get to feel that way. Well, Lazarus had been in terminal decline, and those who came to mourn knew they were mourning a dead man. And they were, until Jesus got involved.

Let me suggest that what fundamentally matters is not the numbers we get in church, nor our status and wealth nor influence. These things are of some importance of course, but before everything else what truly matters is this: is Jesus on the scene? Is he at the heart of what we do? Is our church, small or large, alive in him? Alive in worship, alive in fellowship, alive in service? Is the love of God flowing here? Scripture says: seek the Lord while he may be found, call upon him when he is near. The promise we find in prophets like Ezekiel, the promise we read in the letters of Paul, the promise confirmed in our Lord Jesus Christ is that when we do this in faith, God is with us, his Spirit transforms our fellowship and service.

Jesus leads Lazarus out of the tomb, and the Lazarus he brings out is still wrapped in his grave clothes. He is still mortal and fallible, he is still sinful and earth-bound. The Church, however Spirit-filled, however godly in intention, remains human, fallible, fragile and incomplete.  It doesn’t matter how much we love our church, and with what care we look after it, church alone can never bring salvation. On their own its liturgies and traditions are just so many dry bones; only Jesus can give life to the dry bones of our churches.

So our Passiontide challenge, as we turn towards the cross, is surely this: to commit ourselves afresh to Jesus as our way, our truth, and our life. To put him right at the heart of all we are and all we do - here in this safe and holy place, and also out there in our daily living as his Church dispersed into the world. For a Church with this faith will be light to the world and love to the loveless, in the name of Jesus who alone is life that is more than life, and love that is love for ever.

So can these dry bones live?  Yes, and they will: if we are living not for ourselves but for our Lord, knowing and confessing our own weakness, sinfulness and mortality, and open to the inbreathing power of his Spirit of peace and love.

Mothering

Today is Mothering Sunday, often called Mothers’ Day; for my nephew who manages a hotel, one of the busiest days in the year for their restaurant. My mother gets cross if I haven’t managed to find a card for her that says Mothering Sunday instead of Mother’s Day. She likes to keep to the traditional name, but it isn’t just that. Today isn’t just about being thankful for our own mums, whether they’re still with us or not, it also celebrates mothering in many different forms, our responsibility for one another, and the work we do to guide and protect one another, and the love we share.

Many of our best loved hymns celebrate God’s gift of love, and some of them we’ve sung this evening. St Paul’s wonderful words in I Corinthians 13 tell us that love is the best and most enduring thing we can possess; St John reminds us in several places that love is of the very nature of God; in 1 John 4 verse 16 we read “God is love, and those who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.” The word mothering speaks of a human love that reflects the love of God, a love that will cherish, nurture, build and transform.

Stafford is my home town, and my brother’s recently enrolled me in a Facebook site called “Stafford Remembered”. I’ve spent more time than I should at my computer keyboard lately looking over the fascinating old pictures posted there, and shared memories. Things from way back in my childhood became sharp in my mind as old photos triggered them. A picture of the old Stafford Market reminded me of a time when I can’t have been more than four years old. It was a Saturday, and I’d gone to town shopping with Mum. We were going into the market, through the arcade of shops in the old market entrance.

I was supposed to be holding on to the handle of my brother’s pushchair, but I let go. Town was fun, and I wanted to look around. Some of the windows in the arcade were very reflective - so I stopped to look at myself and pull a few ugly faces. Maybe if I made a really ugly face I might crack the window - Mum used to say that an ugly face would crack mirrors. But then I remembered Mum saying that if I pulled a horrible face I’d stick like that if the wind changed, so I stopped.

I stopped and looked around; and Mum and the pushchair with my brother in it were nowhere to be seen. And suddenly all the people around me seemed very big and strange. Ahead of me were the doors into the market hall. Mum must have gone in, but I couldn’t see her. It was all so crowded. I can still remember the feeling of panic, and I think I probably started to cry.

Whether Mum heard me crying or just noticed I wasn’t there I don’t know, but suddenly there she was. So I stopped crying, though I soon started again when Mum told me off. What she said was, “Don’t you ever go off again like that!” That seemed unfair when really she’d gone off and I'd stayed where I was! (Though I know what she meant.)

So there’s one memory of mothering. I’ve plenty of good memories of course: being cuddled and loved, getting presents, going to nice places, and things like being allowed to scrape out the mixing bowl when Mum made cakes on a weekend. But I do also remember getting into trouble and being told off when I was found out, and maybe being sent to bed early. And that is also mothering, because mothering involves both love and guidance, and guidance requires discipline and correction, from time to time at least. To love someone is to want the best for them, and that sometimes needs some hard words.

Tough love, I suppose. But mothering is also tough on the person doing it. It involves sacrifice; sometimes to provide for others you must do without yourself. One old man I used to visit years ago used to tell me how in hard times his mother would claim she’d already eaten at suppertime, when in fact she was doing without so that everyone else could have enough. Paul writes of love that “there is no limit to its faith, its hope, its endurance.”

So for me Mothering Sunday commemorates not only our actual mothers but all the ways in which we experience a love in our lives that conveys and reflects the love of God: a love that protects and provides, that nurtures and disciplines, that helps us to become ourselves, and that encourages us to grow, to discover and to dare. Love that is costly and sacrificial, that reaches our and gives what can hardly be afforded; and love that allows us to find our own wings, and to make our own way, that doesn’t imprison us, but sets us free.

The greatest of all symbols of love is the cross, for it is at the cross that Jesus shows us most fully what divine love is. The sacrifice he makes there both convicts us of our sin and liberates us from the sentence of death our sin brings upon us. On the cross Jesus gives all he has, all he is, and even as he hangs there dying he continues to care for those dearest to him.

Mothering Sunday is worth more than a card and a bunch of flowers. I’m so grateful to those who’ve mothered me over the years, not only my own Mum but many other special people. In their love I’ve been helped to discern and discover the love of God. I hope I can play my part in doing the same.

Random Thoughts

Yesterday nationally was a day of reflection on the events at Westminster earlier in the week, including the question of why it is that people should be radicalised into what is a perversion of the true tenets of Islam. For many, including the attacker last Wednesday, this radicalising process began in prison, something that needs to be more fully understood I think.  I find myself reflecting on this simple truth, though - that for every cruel and perverted act of terrorism there are hundreds of acts of heroism, self-sacrifice, simple kindness; and the reason by many of these go unreported is that this is so fundamental to what it is to be human that we more or less take them for granted.

The terrorist turned peacemaker Martin McGuinness has been laid to rest. This was a flawed man in many ways, and I can understand those who, like Lord Tebbitt, continue to mistrust him and his motives. But others who have met him and know him have noted the completeness of his conversion, the genuine closeness between him and Dr Ian Paisley in government, and his espousal of policies that have helped poor Protestant communities. Whatever his initial motivation, the peace process in Northern Ireland could not have begun without his active involvement, and for that we must be grateful, while hoping that from the present situation of political uncertainty in the province a new phase of collaborative government soon emerges.

Brexit will have an impact on that, of course, as on much else, and the trigger will be pulled by Mrs May next Wednesday. I remain firmly of the opinion that the UK should have remained in the EU, and angry that a simple vote after a deeply flawed campaign (on both sides, admittedly) will bring us out. My feelings now though are "let's just get on with it". I regret our disengagement, but it's not the end of the world. We now have to press on and find new ways of still being part of Europe, and of working creatively with the nations of the EU and those beyond. I have my doubts about the ability and competence of the present administration to achieve this, and am aware too that there are parties within the EU who will want to in some way "punish" the UK for leaving; but I hope and pray that goodwill and a constructive attitude will prevail - or at any rate, an honest assessment of the extent to which we and the EU still need each other.

On a lighter note, our garden was full of siskins this morning. We won't keep these delightful birds with us much longer, especially as the weather brightens and warms up, though one or two pairs will breed locally - we generally get a few young birds looking in through the summer. It's a real joy to see them, though they like most finches are messy eaters and leave quite a mess under our feeders.

I've been taking pictures of some of our spring flowers, so here's one to finish with . . .

Great Spotted

It's time this blog had another go at being a daily record. I had an interesting day yesterday doing chaplaincy at Hereford Cathedral. It's such a lovely building, and visitors receive a very friendly welcome. A lot of folk from around Ely and Cambridge were there yesterday, and I met others from Leicester, Birmingham, Kent, and a family from Australia. Prayers of course focused on the sad events in London on Wednesday, and on victims of terrorism and violence in so many parts of our world. Unusually, and perhaps because of London, the cathedral was completely still for every occasion of hourly prayers.

Back home for a good practice with Guilsfield Singers. Only two more weeks till our concert on 8th April. We need to sell every last ticket to stand a chance of breaking even, so I hope we do. The pieces (Stainer's "Daughter of Jairus", Parry's "I was Glad" and the Schubert Mass in G) are lovely. A few of us wandered across to the King's Head afterwards - Peter H has a plan to make this a regular occurrence, I think.

Although this is really my Thursday blog, I'm writing it on Friday morning, and I've just been out to replenish the feeders in our back garden. Sharp and cold - and in the cold air, a sudden drumming. I've heard our local great spotted woodpecker drumming at the other end of our road (or, to be strict, the woodland we back on to), but he clearly has now found a good sounding branch in the great oak more or less just behind us. When he is drumming from somewhere that close, it is an incredibly loud sound! And it will carry a good long way. The bird itself flew to the smaller oak immediately behind us, then off in to the back woods. Great spotted's are regular visitors to the fat chunks in one of our feeders, and a couple of local blackbirds have obviously been watching, because they are giving it a try now, and succeeding, albeit in a rather clumsy fashion. I can't imagine them drumming, though (not would it be possible, as a woodpecker's head and bill are specially structured).

Red Kite

(A poem in progress)

Brindley’s canal follows the contours
through a mix of greys and browns, yards and workshops,
half hidden behind tangled branches,
under a sky the colour of stovepots, the sun well hidden.
A spit of rain across my face has the feel of December
though the calendar tells me that it’s April.
Nothing much moves; the fishing sites along the towpath
are all deserted.  Blackthorn blossom on a stretch of scrubby hedge
is discoloured, dirty, the petals past their sell-by.

Those yards and buildings still in use
all look the other way, this canal is no longer relevant.
And many of them are merely derelict, shabby remnants
of the days when industry still meant bashing metal.
A cat stalks across one yard, intent on something I can’t see.
My eye is caught by a flash of yellow - coltsfoots,
rushing into flower well ahead of their leaves,
poke their scaly stems up through brick dust,
defiantly insisting that even under these clouds it has to be spring.

Up ahead of me a tangle of metal: pipes and girders
are twisted and turned to create a lattice tower,
seeming almost to touch the clouds; at their base
the bright green of the new growth of nettles.
Whatever this thing was, it no longer functions:
the adjoining buildings are roofless. But then, out of nowhere
it seems, a lifting, rolling, tumbling life force
in a russet red to defy the dark and grime of this day:
a kite, display flying for the sheer hell of it.

Or so it seems to me; the length of each wing amazes,
the fork of the tail, the way the bird tumbles
through the lattice, seems to be just falling, then recovers,
lifts back, sweeps away, banks round, returns.
I for my part cannot move. In the remains of old industry,
a new and dancing endeavour; and, as if in answer,
the clouds shift and in a burst of sunlight
the twisted metal itself catches fire, seems to dance.
Then all is still; but somewhere, a robin sings.

Ravens

When we did the Big Garden Birdwatch in January our star bird was the raven (well, join star bird with the goldcrest, perhaps. We had hardly started our hour when there was an immense commotion, which turned out to be a fight between a raven and two carrion crows who clearly believed it to be trespassing on their space. For a moment or two twigs and branches were flying about in all directions in the great oak just behind our garden.

I’ve written before about the crow family - we get them all (apart from the chough, which is found along coastlines, and the hooded crow, the carrion crow’s northern counterpart, which doesn’t stray this far south). Carrion crows and jackdaws are always around our garden, generally in groups of three or four or so, though the other evening at sunset quite a substantial band of jackdaws came across, chattering away.  Magpies are often about, jays much more rarely, though one was standing on our shed roof one morning as I opened our curtains. Rooks are country birds, so not regularly to be found on our estate, but sometimes wandering past.

But we do get ravens, and I’m delighted at that, since they aren’t really town birds, even though you may well associate them with the Tower of London. Despite its reputation as a bird of ill omen, the ravens at the Tower are highly valued; if there are not at least six ravens in residence, the monarchy will fall, or so it’s said. They are pinioned birds, but even so they do occasionally stray off, and one had to be sacked for eating TV aerials.

In reality, wild ravens are birds of wild places, resident in mountainous regions and nesting on cliffs, and in quarries. They rarely stray far from their breeding range. However they were historically much more widespread, and it was human persecution that drove them into the wilder parts of our land. There are signs now that they are spreading. They eat carrion but also take small birds and mammals, and will forage for eggs, insects, small reptiles - they have a varied diet.

Ravens usually nest on ledges, but will sometimes build a large untidy nest high in a tree. They raise one brood, and start early in the year, building in February. There are four to six eggs, incubated by the female while the male keeps her supplied with food. The chicks fledge in about five to six weeks.

Ravens are very black, and very big. They are the largest perching bird species, and are found in many parts of the world. In flight, they are recognised by their large and fingered wings, and their diamond-shaped tail - and by their high flying and love of thermals. I recently saw one high above our garden, soaring with buzzards, who now and again attacked it in a desultory way, a turning of the tables perhaps, as buzzards themselves are often mobbed by smaller crows and jackdaws.

The Woman at the Well

Some thoughts for this Sunday (Holy Trinity, Leighton, and Newtown Methodist Church) - Lent 3:

Well, another week of changing shapes and shifting alliances in the world of politics. We’re ready to begin the formal process of leaving the EU; some folk are rejoicing, while others are horrified and feel disenfranchised and ignored. As expected, the SNP have called for a new referendum on independence; as expected, Mrs May has said no. I doubt there’s much stomach for indyref2 among the Scottish electorate, but maybe the SNP does have a point: the ground has changed. Meanwhile Sinn Fein’s new leader is calling for a new vote on the unification of Ireland, though I presume someone has to form a government in Stormost first. Is the break-up of what we hoped might remain a United Kingdom just round the corner? And will right-wing popularism start winning polls in Europe?

Immigration has been the fuel for much of this. It’s a growing cause of concern across much of the world, and certainly has been here in the UK. It was probably the decisive factor in the Brexit vote - certainly Mr Farage thinks so. Alongside that, there are growing ethnic and cultural tensions in most societies, and they’re being exploited in some places of power, by the current resident of the White House, for one. Wherever different peoples dwell in the same land there’ll be tensions I suppose, especially when language, skin colour or religious faith divide them. Many of the minority peoples of our world experience persecution: I can think of the small Hindu and Christian minorities in Pakistan, the tribal Karen people in Burma who even under the new democracy still seem to get a raw deal, Coptic Christians in Egypt, Muslims in the Philippines, Christians in Indonesia. Just a few from a very long list.

Religion was a big factor in the simmering tensions that existed between Samaritans and Jews at the time of Jesus. They were close neighbours who worshipped the same God and claimed Abraham as their father. But they worshipped in different ways and different places. They wouldn’t even share the same drinking vessels. The boundaries between them were very real, and taken very seriously. But in today's long gospel reading we see Jesus cross that line.

In fact he crossed more than the line of race and religion; his disciples would have been shocked to see him talking to a woman, alone and unchaperoned, even before they realised that she was a Samaritan. And I imagine that if they'd known about her many marriages and her unconventional household they'd have been appalled at that too.

The traditional collect set for today speaks about 'the way of the cross'. (I’ll use it as part of our intercessions.) The Way of the Cross, the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem traces the traditional route of the journey of Christ through the streets and the jeering crowds to Calvary. But we can think of Jesus walking the way of the cross throughout his ministry - an unsafe and unconventional journey on which he challenged the accepted status quo. He didn't teach in a safe and conventional way. He didn’t teach like rabbis were supposed to teach; and he made time for the sort of people no good rabbi would even look at, let alone teach.

In doing this he faced risk: on his journey, the risk of being misunderstood, rejected, and held in disrepute. And at the end of the road the risk of the cross. But only when boundaries are crossed and barriers forced open can things change for the better. Only when prejudices are challenged can things change for the better. Good won’t triumph over evil until people expose that evil, speak against it, take action to prevent the damage and heal the wounds, reach out to those who are denied justice. But too often too many of us simply let things be.

It can be uncomfortable to open yourself to others, to relate to, speak to, listen to those whose cultural choices, beliefs and ways of living are different from your own, maybe challenge your own; but Jesus shows us the way of the cross, which is inescapably inclusive.  Human fear, ignorance and self-interest put up barriers, but Jesus walking the way of the cross breaks them down. The way of the cross exalts our shared humanity over the barriers of race or culture.

But of course we’re not even united as Christians, so we’ve got a distance to go I guess. Christ’s call to serve him, sealed in the baptism we share and the supper he gives, demands unity as the basis for our Gospel mission; but historically we have let differences of order and interpretation and theology - and issues of politics and power - break his Church apart.

“Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it to be none other than the way of life and peace.” Words from today's collect. Jesus offered the woman by the well living water,  and she was keen to have this special water, because naively she thought it might save her time and effort, she wouldn’t have to go traipsing off to the well with her bucket. St John's Gospel’s full of people who interpret spiritual gifts in very worldly ways.

Jesus didn’t offer real water, but he does promise real life and real peace. The woman hoped for an easier life. What Jesus offers may n fact make our lives harder in this world: his way is the way of sacrifice, which means letting go of things we hold dear, letting go of the entrenched positions and set opinions that make us who we think we are. To go with Jesus we have to take up a cross, we have to take the road of risk and service. But this is the way to life and godly peace: to stay where we’re comfy is to miss out on that.

Jesus told the Samaritan woman that his people, the Jews, worshipped with understanding, while her people “worship what you do not know.” But true worshippers, Samaritan or Jew or whatever, are those who worship in spirit and in truth. God is spirit and those who worship him must worship in spirit and in truth. I’ve always been wary of the rules and liturgies and doctrinal formulations of organised religion, for God is more than mere religion. God is love, and God is found by those who seek him in love. And true religion is more than joining a club: it’s about relationship - a living, loving relationship with God: relationship that leads us into, and requires from us, a living, loving relationship with one another.

For Jesus the Jew, the Samaritan woman had got it wrong (as he told her). She worshipped what she didn’t know. But he still made time for her: she was still worth speaking to, and he still had a message for her of hope and love and acceptance. Those who we think have got it wrong are still worth a hearing, for they are sisters and brothers within the love of God. And when someone else gets something wrong, don’t assume that therefore you yourself have got things right, or at least, not completely. We’ve always more to learn, further to travel. Mission begins with listening, and requires humility. We can’t give unless we’re also open to receive, we can’t teach unless we’re also open to learn.

So I’m sad when I see religion being either defensive or triumphal, and I’m sad when I see religious people wanting to stay safely behind high walls that they themselves have built. For that’s not the faith Jesus calls us to in today’s Gospel; that’s not the faith he himself modelled in this encounter with the Samaritan woman. His is a faith to break walls down, to open ways to dialogue, his is a faith that is provocative, adventurous, and ready to be involved, actively engaged with people where they hurt, where they have needs, where they have questions, and even where they make demands.

The way of the cross requires that we take risks and engage with the other, with the person who is different from us. It requires that we do mission, and that we share what we have. But while we certainly have something to teach and to share, to do it well we need also the humility that allows us to listen and to learn. Mission is effective when those who do it are themselves open to change and challenge. To walk the way of the cross is to walk as a vulnerable pilgrim. But also to walk with confidence: for in Christ we have found the way of life, which he offers as a blessing for all to share.

In The Desert

My sermon for tomorrow, Lent 1, at All Saints' Parish Church, Middletown :-

“Forty days and forty nights thou wast fasting in the wild.” Today, on the first Sunday of a forty days of Lent which very conveniently began on the first day of the month, we read of Jesus being led by the Spirit into the desert, into the wilderness, to be tempted there by the devil.

I don’t know what your image of a desert might be; I was looking the other day at as aerial photograph of a man and his camel crossing the Arabian desert. They were tiny figures in a waste of sand that was utterly beautiful but also very scary, for there was nothing else in sight, no landmark to find the way, no place to find food, no place to take refuge.

So deserts are scary and dangerous, but in scripture the desert has a more positive role: it’s a place of testing and of renewal, and what happens there is useful and necessary. We sometimes speak of desert experiences, or wilderness years. If they happen to us we don’t feel very blest. My desert experiences over the years have been times of intense spiritual dryness, times when prayers just seemed to bounce back at me, times when I felt alone and unsupported; so not good times, even in retrospect. But looking back I can see how being tested in the desert often did begin something new in me: tough times, but I came out of them spiritually stronger, more aware, and more sensitive.

But I’d never have chosen to go there. They were crisis points, painful times I wouldn’t want to see again. Today we recall Jesus going deliberately into the wilderness. He didn’t have to go, he wasn’t there by chance or by mischance, though we are told he was led there by the Holy Spirit. So it was a place he knew he had to be, and the Greek word we translate as “led” (by the Spirit) is a very strong word - but even so, Jesus was in the desert because he chose to be.

And he chose to go there because he needed that time of testing, to arm himself for the spiritual battle that would be there throughout his ministry. Before he did anything else he had to identify, isolate and deal with the temptations that might otherwise lead him astray.

Does it seem strange to you that Jesus of all people needed to do this? Surely the Son of God would have it all sorted from the start? But Jesus the man is truly and fully one of us, and like us he was tempted. The Lord we praise and follow may be God’s only begotten Son, but here in the Judaean desert all his majesty and might are laid aside. He is completely one of us, except for this: right from the start he will be entirely focused on the will of the one he teaches us to call “Our Father”.

So this morning we’ve heard again the story of how Satan tries to turn our Lord away from the path of obedience, something you can be sure he went on doing wherever Jesus was. But in these forty days in the desert Jesus acted decisively to confront the pressure, and get the measure of his opponent. When he emerged from the desert he was ready for the task.

Temptation is something that’s always there when we’re trying to be good Christians. And temptation works on us by placing something - an ambition, a desire, something coveted or envied - where God should be in our lives. It’s like an itch: hard to resist, but when you do give in to it the relief never lasts long. All you do is start the itch up all over again, and in the end the damage done to our spiritual selves can be hard to repair. So when we pray: ‘Lead us not into temptation’ (or, in one modern version of that prayer, ‘Save us from the time of trial’), I hope we really do take those words seriously; temptation is a serious matter.

Jesus deliberately allowed himself to be led into temptation, so that in the desert he could isolate the chief temptations he’d be facing throughout his ministry, and beat them down. In Lent our task is to reflect his determination - this is a time to look for growth, root out the weeds, face up to things; it’s a time to be serious about temptation and what it does to us. But let’s not be at all negative about Lent. It’s a time of blessing and opportunity: God’s gift to us - a desert time of fasting in which we can isolate our own most dangerous temptations, and beat them back.

So we should make good use of Lent, like Jesus in the desert. It’s not just about giving something up. It’s about dealing with the things that have too big a place in our lives. It’s about getting serious about who controls us, about what God wants from us, and the stuff that stops us responding to him as we should. It’s our chance for a really good spiritual spring-clean, not just so we feel better in ourselves, but so we can better serve our Lord, be more tuned in to his will, have cleared out the rubbish that gets in the way of that.

The thing about the temptations Jesus faced in the desert is how plausible they were. Was it bad to turn stones into bread? Think of the hungry mouths you could feed, not just your own! Was it bad to do some crazy thing that would dazzle people into faith? Isn’t anything that would win you disciples worth a shot? Was it bad to go for political power, to want to rule over the kingdoms of the earth? You’d surely do a better job than those who already had that power!

Temptations are plausible. Most of us don’t want to do bad things, so we’re not tempted to do bad things, just tempted away from doing good things: something that’s harder to spot, and harder to beat. That’s why we need this holy season.

Jesus might have done a lot of good if he’d gone along with the devil. He might well have lived a lot longer, and he  might still be remembered as a great leader whose rule was a golden age. But in truth his life would have been an abject failure, for he’d have let himself be turned away from the way of the cross; and the true and decisive victory of love over sin and death that was his task and his destiny would never have happened. He won in the desert a victory that was the vital precursor to the victory he’d win on Good Friday, the victory of the cross.

You and I are marked with the sign of that cross, so Lent is our time to take seriously what being marked with a cross should mean. It’s about the necessary discipline of faith; it’s about what I need to learn and receive as a disciple of Jesus, and what I need to do and to give as an apostle for Christ. Here is the simple question that begins my keeping of Lent: where, truly, is my Lord in my life?

Snowdrop

A poem I wrote in January, nearing the end of its revision process . . .

On a morning of hard and brittle brightness,
with a chill to the air that waters the eyes,
I venture forth as I must
 to check the greenhouse heater,
when my eyes are caught by a new white,
cleaner than the silvery rime,
half concealed under a leafless shrub.
And yes: the green-fringed steel helmets
of our first flowering snowdrops
have somehow broken through
the tumbled frosted leaves left there from autumn.
We are here, they say, we are here,
shining their defiance to the cold crystal sun.
It is a matter of some astonishment;
to be honest, I had forgotten the bulbs were there.
We are weeks away, really, from spring,
but here is an early wisp of its resurrection breath.
Everything else is still playing dead,
but this gentle plant chooses to bloom regardless,
green and white, white and green:
sweet as a drift of snowflakes,
and yet hard as a bag of nails.

Some Thoughts About Fasting

A sermon for this Sunday (New Street United Church) :-

I remember going into one my local schools when I was still in full time ministry to take school assembly in the first week of Lent - and being really quite surprised to discover that none of the children seemed to have given up anything for Lent. They knew something about Lent: that it began on Ash Wednesday, and that people ate pancakes on Shrove Tuesday to use up the rich food they couldn't eat in Lent. But no-one seemed to have thought about giving things up.

We haven't really done ”giving up things for Lent” this year, said one of the teachers later in the staff room. But when I was the age of those children giving up things for Lent would have been something we at least thought about as children, whether or not our teachers did it as a theme or project.

One year Ann and I were visiting Istanbul during Ramadan, and I have to say we were quite impressed by the way they kept the fast. It reminded us of how Lent used to be kept, but often isn’t really, any more. I do try to keep Lent seriously, but I’m not always all that good at it. This year I’ve decided to use Lent as an opportunity to lose some weight, by giving up some of the things that aren’t good for me and trying to take a bit more exercise.

But I’m aware that that in itself isn’t a Lenten fast. That’s just me on a health kick, or me making an attempt to keep in my present size of trousers. The fact that I’m looking for sponsorship, and that the money I raise will go to charity goes some way towards making it more of a Lenten fast, but it still doesn’t compare with the Lenten fasts of old. For although they involved giving things up, they were chiefly about drawing nearer to God. Fasting in Lent is about developing ourselves as disciples, and clearing out some of the stuff that gets in the way. Jesus in the wilderness was challenging the temptations that would be there throughout his ministry, and tuning his mind to his Father’s voice.

Well, I wish people took Lent more seriously, like we used to. And not just for old time’s sake: when we keep Lent as a fast, we’re consciously imitating the example of our Lord in the wilderness; it’s an opportunity to draw close to him, and like him to make a choice for God over the things of the world.
Don’t we sometimes say, “Well, it's the way of the world,” when we want to justify what we do or what we join in with? As though if everyone’s doing it that makes it all right. Lent is a chance to consciously not do that. We have forty days to put away the things of the world, the things we own or value or desire or are tempted by, that can become petty gods in their own right. Not to just going along with what everyone else does but to choose God’s way instead.

Having said that, I suppose when I was a child fasting in Lent was itself going along with what everyone else was doing. You gave up things for Lent because that’s what everyone did, and it’s what Mum and Dad told me I should do. So in that sense it wasn’t my own personal choice. In Isaiah chapter 58 we read that God doesn’t want us to fast just because we’re supposed to and that’s what the rules say. To fast has to be my own personal decision and desire. It’s not about outward observance, it needs to be a matter of the heart.

So a real fast is a swim against the stream. It’s tough. We fast to control our own desires, and make space to hear what God is saying to us, and so we can say yes to him. That’s what Jesus was doing in the wilderness: taking time aside before he began his ministry of teaching and healing and proclaiming the kingdom: time to face up to the temptations that would always be there, time to be sure he could master them right from the start. So he went away from the world to focus his heart and mind on his Father’s will. Indeed, scripture tells us he was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, and the word in Greek is a strong one, almost “he was thrown into the wilderness”.

So Lent for us too is about following where the Spirit leads us - in giving things up, and also in taking things up; it’s about disciplined spiritual exercise, it’s about facing up to things. And that’s important and necessary for Christians, by no means an optional extra. It’s fundamental to the task in hand, of following Jesus, of speaking, working and witnessing for him. Temptations are always around us; and temptation is an insidious thing, it’s rarely blatant or obvious.

Think about Jesus in the wilderness, you’ll remember the temptations he faced there. He wasn't being tempted to do things that were obviously bad. That’s not how the devil works, not at his most effective anyway. Jesus was tempted to sort out his own comfort first, he was tempted to opt for short term options, to take short cuts, and he was tempted to seek popular acclaim. Were these bad things? Why not feed yourself and other hungry people? Why not dazzle people into faith, why not go for political power? Think of the good you could do. The temptations Jesus faced didn’t look evil; why not choose your own way, work for your own success, do your own thing? But they would have taken him away from the path he had chosen, of doing his Father’s will, in obedience and service.

If sin came clearly labelled as such, it might not be so hard to resist. But sin is often all too plausible. We persuade ourselves that the ends justify the means, or perhaps that a degree of collateral damage is acceptable. It isn’t and it never was. The Bible word for sin, “hamartia” in Greek, is actually about missing the mark. A bit like throwing a dart and missing the number you’re aiming for. Unless every part of what we do is praiseworthy in God’s sight, then sin has crept into our lives somewhere. Two linked phrases in the Lord’s prayer are, “Thy kingdom come; thy will be done.” The one requires the other.

A real fast is a fast with no cheating. In my schooldays, we used to walk out to the park surrounding a big country house maybe a couple of miles away from our school. It was an easy enough walk, and there was a lake in the park that was good to swim in. We knew that on the high gates that led up to the house there were notices saying 'Private - No Trespassers.' So we didn’t go that way. Along a lane nearby there was a fence we could climb that didn’t have any signs telling us to keep out. So if we had been challenged (we never were) we could always claim we didn’t know we were trespassing.

But we knew we were, really. When fasting it isn’t enough just to look good. We might impress our friends, but God sees into the heart. Fasting is about getting right with him, being honest with him, and not just looking pious. If it’s not the real thing, it’s not worth doing. My Lent fast this year will I hope save a notch on my belt; but I need also to control the things within me that lead me away from true obedience to God, so along with giving things up I shall be taking things up: I hope to be more prayerful, more aware, maybe take on some new commitment this Lent. I intend to read, to listen, to reflect.

In forty days of testing Jesus overcame the plausible voices that might have tempted him away from his Father’s will. His life expressed to the full his Father’s love, a love he shares with us and offers to the world. A love to motivate our serious keeping of Lent; fasting is our gift of love back to God, our response to the love in which we know we are held.

And all of that begins on Wednesday, Ash Wednesday. In the service I’ll be attending I’ll hear the words 'turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ'. And that's it. Not a divine entrance exam - we’re already citizens of heaven, but my small but grateful gift of love, in response to God’s boundless love; in fasting I need to be giving myself, in obedience, in discipleship, and in praise.

A few signs of spring . . .

. . . early days yet, though!

On Having Fallen (2)

My poem, published in my collection "The Angel on Next Door's Drive", based on the section from Mother Julian quoted in my sermon :-

I stumbled on my journey home, confused as the shadows lengthened,
and, looking back along the grey and darkening road,
I stood alone, my head bowed low,
to sense God meet my questioning sadness
with His blest word of grace.

It seems He allows us to fall so much harder and more painfully
than ever we did before,
having given ourselves at His call,
having been so quick and eager in our desire to serve.

And how easy then it is
for those of us who are not very wise
to imagine at the time of falling
that all that we have done has gone to nothing,
that having fallen here so hard, no-one could ever rise.  And so I thought;
and yet it is not so.

For these are words I found in my heart:  that here we need to fall,
need also to be aware of that falling;
for had we not fallen we should not know
what so much we need to know -
we should not know how weak and wretched in ourselves we are.
And neither should we know as a reviving warmth in our heart
our Maker’s true and marvellous, His own transforming love.

For in the heaven to come we shall truly see
and we shall know for ever
how through this life we bear the marks of our grave and grievous sin,
bear them as stains we could not clear;  yet we shall see in spite of this
how His love for us remained at all times
unharmed and undiminished - that for all our dirt and sin, even as we lay helpless in the ditch,
we were never less valuable to Him.

And so it will be
that through our experience of this falling,
we shall gain a knowledge great and wonderful
to sustain us - we shall know this for sure:
the love we have in God, He holds for us for all eternity.

And here is love
which cannot and shall not be broken by our sin;
here is love for ever strong to save, and - praise Him - all-sufficing.
In our fractured humility, and for all the sharp heart-pain of our falling,
we shall find ourselves upraised and lifted high, ever to be
held firm and sure and safe within His arms of grace.

For, as I paused in thought beside the road, these are the things I learned:
that I am nothing of my own, yet have everything in my God;  and
though we may fall, and may be allowed to fall,
yet our heavenly Mother
cannot and shall not permit Her child to die.
And praise be to Jesus, almighty, all wisdom, and all love:
may His name on lips of sinners, upon these lips of mine,
be now and forever blest!