Just over five weeks ago, my father died. Since then, I feel like I've entered another space in which I exist alongside myself. There is now another me: one which existed before the death of my dad, and now a new one which exists since that event. The two stare at one another, and occasionally manage to speak, but the words are muffled and hard to catch.
I was with dad just two days before he died. We talked that night about death and God. Dad told me that he often prayed, and that he wasn't afraid to die. In fact, he said, he was intrigued to see what comes after death, where the next stage of the journey would lead him. I don't think I've ever felt more humbled.
I made the decision that I would officiate at dad's funeral, hoping that I would be up to it. However, I knew that it was something that I wanted to do for him - my last, small act of service for the one who gave so much of his life in service to me. When the day came, I found the strength to carry out that task. Dad's words about what lay beyond life gave me hope for him, and for myself.
Go forth from this world, I prayed as the service came to its end. I knew then that dad was taking the next step on a journey into the Divine, into the rest that he had earned through the long years of his working life. And I knew that I had made the right decision to act as priest for my father. I offered it - still offer it - as a gift to him, a reflection of the love he taught me.
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Saturday, 25 November 2017
Tuesday, 25 April 2017
Things I have noticed #1
The longer I travel the journey of life, the more I notice that things do not stay the same. But right now I am finding that the rate of change is increasing; there are more and more things about which I do not feel the same as I did, say, two, three or five years ago.
Some are significant because they are huge shifts in my thinking or my outlook; some are significant because they occupy a small but regular part in my daily life.
Things I have noticed which are changing include:
1. I cannot write with music on in the background.
2. I cannot get the hang of A Game of Thrones.
3. I find a great deal of inspiration in the Divine Feminine¹.
4. I am becoming a vegan.
5. I am becoming more and more fascinated by the historical Jesus.
6. I am losing my taste for coffee.
7. I sometimes find it difficult to hold onto my concept of the God of the Christian faith².
8. I find it hard to listen to loud music for more than a few minutes at a time.
9. I get excited by the Spring leaves on trees.
10. I feel that I own far more things than I need.
¹ Brigid and the Old Testament figure of Wisdom are currently very important to me.
² I don't know why this is happening. It worries me.
I think that ten items will do for now, though there are more!
Some are significant because they are huge shifts in my thinking or my outlook; some are significant because they occupy a small but regular part in my daily life.
Things I have noticed which are changing include:
1. I cannot write with music on in the background.
2. I cannot get the hang of A Game of Thrones.
3. I find a great deal of inspiration in the Divine Feminine¹.
4. I am becoming a vegan.
5. I am becoming more and more fascinated by the historical Jesus.
6. I am losing my taste for coffee.
7. I sometimes find it difficult to hold onto my concept of the God of the Christian faith².
8. I find it hard to listen to loud music for more than a few minutes at a time.
9. I get excited by the Spring leaves on trees.
10. I feel that I own far more things than I need.
¹ Brigid and the Old Testament figure of Wisdom are currently very important to me.
² I don't know why this is happening. It worries me.
I think that ten items will do for now, though there are more!
Thursday, 27 February 2014
The priest and the yoga mat
In my yoga practice today, as I was trying to rest in Corpse pose, I suddenly remembered that today is one of my favourite days of the Christian calendar. For today the Church remembers George Herbert, the 17th-century poet and priest of the parish of Bemerton near Salisbury.
I love Herbert's poetry for its tenderness and beauty, and for its understanding of what it means to seek an encounter with the Divine. Herbert is wonderfully aware of the motives, the hopes and the hesitancy with which human beings approach God, and also of the complete love with which God responds.
My favourite of Herbert's poems is the third poem in a short series called Love. It sums up the feelings of inadequacy humans often carry when coming into the Divine presence, and yet in every line it portrays the overwhelming welcome and acceptance which is offered in return.
And perhaps, after all, there is a connection between yoga and Herbert's poem: both are an invitation into Divine stillness and rest.
I love Herbert's poetry for its tenderness and beauty, and for its understanding of what it means to seek an encounter with the Divine. Herbert is wonderfully aware of the motives, the hopes and the hesitancy with which human beings approach God, and also of the complete love with which God responds.
My favourite of Herbert's poems is the third poem in a short series called Love. It sums up the feelings of inadequacy humans often carry when coming into the Divine presence, and yet in every line it portrays the overwhelming welcome and acceptance which is offered in return.
And perhaps, after all, there is a connection between yoga and Herbert's poem: both are an invitation into Divine stillness and rest.
Love
(III) by George
Herbert
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
Sunday, 16 February 2014
Healing... and Love
From my sermon for 16 Feb 2014. The gospel reading is Mark 1.40-45
This
encounter between Jesus the nameless man is full of emotion: Mark
tells us right from the start that the man came to Jesus begging him,
and knelt down before Jesus to put his request. The man then puts a
searching request to Jesus, in which he clearly shows the faith he
has in Jesus:
If you choose to,
says the man, you
can make me clean.
Face-to-face
with this show of faith and feeling, Jesus makes his response. I
do choose,
says Jesus, be
clean!
And going against all the accepted custom and common sense of the
time, Jesus does something deeply wonderful: he touches the man.
Jesus reaches out both literally and emotionally, moved, as Mark
tells us, with pity, with compassion. And the man is healed.
Jesus
offers us here a pattern for the healing work of God's Church and all
who follow Jesus: the touching of those considered untouchable; the
loving of those thought unlovable; the welcoming of those thought
beyond invitation. This is the work of grace and beauty that Jesus
set himself to, the song that he sang in his life on earth. You and
I, if we hear the call of Jesus to journey with him, are called to
this work, too.
In
his poem 'Love', the priest and poet George Herbert portrays the
invitation, the love, the welcome that Christ offers to you, to me
and all who look to him for divine healing and acceptance. I would
like to end with that poem, and to invite us to consider what it
might mean for us to both receive and then offer that unconditional
love.
Love
(III) by George
Herbert
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
Thursday, 6 February 2014
Calling the Spring
As part of a Junior School assembly I led yesterday, I wrote a song to play to the school. We were thinking about Candlemas, and the presenting of the infant Christ in the Temple.
The song echoes the theme of Candlemas and the image of the Christ as Light to the World. But I also tried to include something of the role of Brigid and the idea of calling back the Spring to the Earth, one of the themes of the Celtic festival of Imbolc.
The lyrics of the song are below. The images in the song are deliberately ambiguous and, of course, it sounds better sung than read!
Calling Spring
In the darkness of the night
memories of warmth are far from sight.
Where have they run to?
Where do they roam?
Where is the place that they call home?
Where the mother, where the child?
Where the love that runs so free and wild?
Where have they run to?
Where do they roam?
Where is the place that they call home?
Calling, calling Spring back
to the earth again.
Calling, calling spring back
to the earth again.
Calling Spring to make her home
in every leaf and branch and stone.
Calling Spring back to the world...
In the darkness of the dawn
ancient eyes saw hope reborn.
Light to the nations,
hope for the world.Earth is the place that he calls home.
Calling, calling Spring back
to the earth again.
Calling, calling Spring back
to the earth again.
Calling Spring to make her home
in every leaf and branch and stone.
Calling Spring back to the world...
The song echoes the theme of Candlemas and the image of the Christ as Light to the World. But I also tried to include something of the role of Brigid and the idea of calling back the Spring to the Earth, one of the themes of the Celtic festival of Imbolc.
The lyrics of the song are below. The images in the song are deliberately ambiguous and, of course, it sounds better sung than read!
Calling Spring
In the darkness of the night
memories of warmth are far from sight.
Where have they run to?
Where do they roam?
Where is the place that they call home?
Where the mother, where the child?
Where the love that runs so free and wild?
Where have they run to?
Where do they roam?
Where is the place that they call home?
Calling, calling Spring back
to the earth again.
Calling, calling spring back
to the earth again.
Calling Spring to make her home
in every leaf and branch and stone.
Calling Spring back to the world...
In the darkness of the dawn
ancient eyes saw hope reborn.
Light to the nations,
hope for the world.Earth is the place that he calls home.
Calling, calling Spring back
to the earth again.
Calling, calling Spring back
to the earth again.
Calling Spring to make her home
in every leaf and branch and stone.
Calling Spring back to the world...
Wednesday, 5 February 2014
Candlemas Song
The beginning of February brings the celebration of the Celtic festival of Imbolc, Brigid's Day and the Christian festival of Candlemas. Imbolc marks the coming of Spring, the warming of the earth and the still-hidden possibility of new growth. Brigid is associated with everlasting fire, and with the abundance of the natural world at springtime. She is also said to be the mid-wife of Christ, just as the season of Imbolc is thought of as the 'mid-wifing' of the year.
Mary, the mother of Christ, is also celebrated at this point of the year. The feast of Candlemas tells the story of Mary and Joseph taking the child Jesus to the Temple in Jerusalem to dedicate him to God. They offer a sacrifice in thanksgiving for their child and Mary receives purification after the rigours of childbirth. As they enter the Temple, Mary and Joseph are approached by the wise and aged Simeon, who praises God for the child who will bring light to the whole world. Having seen the promised holy child, Simeon places himself into God’s hands knowing that the end of his life is near. But Simeon also speaks dark words to Mary: there will be opposition to her son, and suffering and sorrow will pierce Mary’s heart like a sword – the pain of motherhood.
This poem, which I wrote for Imbolc last year, reflects on Mary’s experience in the Temple, the significance of her child and the themes of light, warmth and new growth which the Imbolc season expresses.
Candlemas Song
I was not there.
I did not dream my way
up prayer-worn Temple steps
as you did, Christ-Mother, that day.
I was not there.
I did not scan the gloom
or clutch a hand for courage
in the Temple waiting-room.
I was not there.
I did not hear the praise
which ancient ones sang of your child
at the midnight of their days.
I was not there.
I did not feel the sting
which bitter-sweet horizons
of your motherhood will bring.
But I am here.
And I would know a birth
to bring Divine Light’s love
into an aching, longing earth.
Yes, I am here.
And I would do my part.
O let a rising blade of Spring
strike fire into my heart.
Mary, the mother of Christ, is also celebrated at this point of the year. The feast of Candlemas tells the story of Mary and Joseph taking the child Jesus to the Temple in Jerusalem to dedicate him to God. They offer a sacrifice in thanksgiving for their child and Mary receives purification after the rigours of childbirth. As they enter the Temple, Mary and Joseph are approached by the wise and aged Simeon, who praises God for the child who will bring light to the whole world. Having seen the promised holy child, Simeon places himself into God’s hands knowing that the end of his life is near. But Simeon also speaks dark words to Mary: there will be opposition to her son, and suffering and sorrow will pierce Mary’s heart like a sword – the pain of motherhood.
This poem, which I wrote for Imbolc last year, reflects on Mary’s experience in the Temple, the significance of her child and the themes of light, warmth and new growth which the Imbolc season expresses.
Candlemas Song
I was not there.
I did not dream my way
up prayer-worn Temple steps
as you did, Christ-Mother, that day.
I was not there.
I did not scan the gloom
or clutch a hand for courage
in the Temple waiting-room.
I was not there.
I did not hear the praise
which ancient ones sang of your child
at the midnight of their days.
I was not there.
I did not feel the sting
which bitter-sweet horizons
of your motherhood will bring.
But I am here.
And I would know a birth
to bring Divine Light’s love
into an aching, longing earth.
Yes, I am here.
And I would do my part.
O let a rising blade of Spring
strike fire into my heart.
Saturday, 17 August 2013
The Seed: Symbol & Mystery - Thoughts for Lammas
A seed is a mystery. It is both beginning and end, life and death, nothing and everything. A seed sits easily in the palm of the hand, and yet grows into a living structure which can be twice the size of house. It is a single grain, yet it is the source of a thousand grains. It can be stored for many years, and then be stirred into life in days. A seed is the whole universe in a grain of sand.
And so a seed is a rich symbol of the process of living and dying. It is no surprise that the seed is often used in faith traditions to illustrate the spiritual journey, and the moving from one season to another. In the Christian tradition, Jesus often used the imagery of agriculture, the language of the land. He spoke about crops and weeds, good and bad soil, sowing and harvesting. Jesus wisely rooted his teaching in the things people could understand, and he used the symbol of the seed to illustrate a profound message about what it means to be human, and to live a life of the Spirit.
At the harvest, which is celebrated in the Christian festival of Lammas, the crop is gathered in and enjoyed, but the seed from which it came is nowhere to be seen. The seed does its work secretly, and through its death others are given a life-giving gift.
The Pagan season of Lughnasadh also centres around the mysterious and wonderful work of the seed. It is a time for the celebration of the grain harvest when thanks are given to the Harvest Mother - she who is the Seed, the Womb and the Soil. The harvested grain represents both food to sustain us through the coming winter months, and also the promise of hope contained in the seed to be sown in Spring.
To read the whole of this article, visit: Mystic Christ
And so a seed is a rich symbol of the process of living and dying. It is no surprise that the seed is often used in faith traditions to illustrate the spiritual journey, and the moving from one season to another. In the Christian tradition, Jesus often used the imagery of agriculture, the language of the land. He spoke about crops and weeds, good and bad soil, sowing and harvesting. Jesus wisely rooted his teaching in the things people could understand, and he used the symbol of the seed to illustrate a profound message about what it means to be human, and to live a life of the Spirit.
At the harvest, which is celebrated in the Christian festival of Lammas, the crop is gathered in and enjoyed, but the seed from which it came is nowhere to be seen. The seed does its work secretly, and through its death others are given a life-giving gift.
The Pagan season of Lughnasadh also centres around the mysterious and wonderful work of the seed. It is a time for the celebration of the grain harvest when thanks are given to the Harvest Mother - she who is the Seed, the Womb and the Soil. The harvested grain represents both food to sustain us through the coming winter months, and also the promise of hope contained in the seed to be sown in Spring.
To read the whole of this article, visit: Mystic Christ
Friday, 21 June 2013
Losing my religion..?
The latest blog post from Jim Palmer has got me thinking. My first thought was: Well, I'm clearly not the only one... Which quickly led to the thought: So I'm not going insane, then..!
Now, I ought to explain that I don't think I'm leaving Christianity, though there are many parts of that religion which drive me mad. But I certainly think I'm on a journey away from the Church. So much of it just doesn't speak to me any more. It seems to spend so much of its time looking around anxiously, patting its pockets to check that everything is still in place. However, I still love the people - probably more than ever. It's the people that are important, and their needs, fears, joys and hopes. After all, they're the things that Jesus cared about...
So, here's Jim's blog post. And a few very short reflections from me along the way.
16 things people report about their shedding religion journey:
1. You’re losing your religion but gaining your sanity.
2. Maybe you left church because it wasn’t helping you know God or grow spiritually.
3. You know you are on the right path but trying to explain that path to others is like nailing Jello to a wall, and you often feel misunderstood.
Ah, yes! Probably a path blending Jesus, Druidry, Celtic Spirituality and other eclectic elements of Paganism (if such a thing exists!). Hard to explain to most of my colleagues...
4. Your new life beyond religion isn’t quite as defined as things used to be.
5. You have twice as many questions as you do answers but strangely you’re okay with this.
6. Sometimes you doubt yourself, and crave a religious fix to make you feel better.
Oh yes - I still often crave a Choral Evensong.
7. You desperately wish someone (anyone!) would just accept you where you are right now.
8. Oh, for just a couple of people you could sit down with face-to-face and talk with about all this stuff without the threat of judgment and condemnation!
Thankfully, there are some good friends with whom I can do this. Bless you!
9. On Monday you feel free, and on Tuesday you wonder if you are going crazy.
10. Christ without Christianity, truth without theology, and community without church makes complete sense to you but it also makes you a heretic among some of your former friends who avoid you in the grocery store.
Yes, I think this describes my thinking pretty well...
11. You don’t know how to answer the question, “Are you a Christian?”
12. You refuse to divulge the books you are currently reading because you know it’s going to alarm the people who already think you’ve gone off the deep end.
Glennie Kindred, Emma Restall-Orr, Philip Carr-Gomm, Donna Farhi, Cassandra Eason, Tess Ward, Erich Schiffmann... Wonderful authors!
13. You get nauseated when you hear Christanese.
Well, some modern hymns are getting harder and harder to sing...
14. You’re not sure where your Bible is.
No, I do know the answer to this one..!
15. Suddenly you’re liking the people who were previously classified as “them.”
Erm, yes...
16. Prayer is more an authentic and powerful desire for the liberation of others and contributing to it, rather than a magic God-wand to save the day.
Jim ends the post by asking: Does any of this sound familiar? Well, yes, Jim, it does. And thank you.
Now, I ought to explain that I don't think I'm leaving Christianity, though there are many parts of that religion which drive me mad. But I certainly think I'm on a journey away from the Church. So much of it just doesn't speak to me any more. It seems to spend so much of its time looking around anxiously, patting its pockets to check that everything is still in place. However, I still love the people - probably more than ever. It's the people that are important, and their needs, fears, joys and hopes. After all, they're the things that Jesus cared about...
So, here's Jim's blog post. And a few very short reflections from me along the way.
16 things people report about their shedding religion journey:
1. You’re losing your religion but gaining your sanity.
2. Maybe you left church because it wasn’t helping you know God or grow spiritually.
3. You know you are on the right path but trying to explain that path to others is like nailing Jello to a wall, and you often feel misunderstood.
Ah, yes! Probably a path blending Jesus, Druidry, Celtic Spirituality and other eclectic elements of Paganism (if such a thing exists!). Hard to explain to most of my colleagues...
4. Your new life beyond religion isn’t quite as defined as things used to be.
5. You have twice as many questions as you do answers but strangely you’re okay with this.
6. Sometimes you doubt yourself, and crave a religious fix to make you feel better.
Oh yes - I still often crave a Choral Evensong.
7. You desperately wish someone (anyone!) would just accept you where you are right now.
8. Oh, for just a couple of people you could sit down with face-to-face and talk with about all this stuff without the threat of judgment and condemnation!
Thankfully, there are some good friends with whom I can do this. Bless you!
9. On Monday you feel free, and on Tuesday you wonder if you are going crazy.
10. Christ without Christianity, truth without theology, and community without church makes complete sense to you but it also makes you a heretic among some of your former friends who avoid you in the grocery store.
Yes, I think this describes my thinking pretty well...
11. You don’t know how to answer the question, “Are you a Christian?”
12. You refuse to divulge the books you are currently reading because you know it’s going to alarm the people who already think you’ve gone off the deep end.
Glennie Kindred, Emma Restall-Orr, Philip Carr-Gomm, Donna Farhi, Cassandra Eason, Tess Ward, Erich Schiffmann... Wonderful authors!
13. You get nauseated when you hear Christanese.
Well, some modern hymns are getting harder and harder to sing...
14. You’re not sure where your Bible is.
No, I do know the answer to this one..!
15. Suddenly you’re liking the people who were previously classified as “them.”
Erm, yes...
16. Prayer is more an authentic and powerful desire for the liberation of others and contributing to it, rather than a magic God-wand to save the day.
Jim ends the post by asking: Does any of this sound familiar? Well, yes, Jim, it does. And thank you.
Saturday, 30 March 2013
Welcoming and blessing
When I was thinking about this year's Easter Day Eucharist, I felt that the words that the Church of England had provided for the welcoming of the Easter candle and for the blessing of the Easter garden were, well, very 'dry'. There was plenty of lofty language, but very little sense of the beauty of light, or of the freshness of the garden.
And so, I decided to write my own words. I tried to create a sense of joy, wonder and promise - three things which I find in the mystery of the Easter story. I hope I have achieved this. See for yourself:
Welcoming the Easter Candle
Praise to you, O Christ, Light of the Earth,
breaking into the darkness of our night in the rays of Spring's dawn,
bringing vision and joy, warmth and peace.
Bless us who welcome this Easter candle.
May it be to us a sign of our enlightening,
and of our re-awakening to new life on this Easter morn.
As we receive its holy flame
may we also receive Christ, the Flame of Love and Life,
into our hearts and into our lives.
The Blessing of the Easter Garden
Blessed be you, Jesus, O Holy Gardener, risen with the Sun,
as you come softly into the garden
to surprise us with the good news
that the winter of death is over
and the Spring of new life is come.
And bless, we pray, this Easter Garden,
a living picture of our thankfulness to you
and a symbol of our hopes for new growth within our lives.
As Mary came to seek you in the garden
in the promise of early morning,
may we seek your coming in the dawning of this new season.
As Mary turned to ask where her Lord had been laid,
may we eagerly seek your presence in our lives.
As Mary thrilled to hear you speak her name,
may we respond with joy when we hear your voice whispering to our spirit.
Bless us as we take a new path this day,
and lift our eyes to see you as our companion on the way.
Amen.
I will find out tomorrow morning what effect these words have. In the meantime, I wish you a blessed Easter.
And so, I decided to write my own words. I tried to create a sense of joy, wonder and promise - three things which I find in the mystery of the Easter story. I hope I have achieved this. See for yourself:
Welcoming the Easter Candle
Praise to you, O Christ, Light of the Earth,
breaking into the darkness of our night in the rays of Spring's dawn,
bringing vision and joy, warmth and peace.
Bless us who welcome this Easter candle.
May it be to us a sign of our enlightening,
and of our re-awakening to new life on this Easter morn.
As we receive its holy flame
may we also receive Christ, the Flame of Love and Life,
into our hearts and into our lives.
The Blessing of the Easter Garden
Blessed be you, Jesus, O Holy Gardener, risen with the Sun,
as you come softly into the garden
to surprise us with the good news
that the winter of death is over
and the Spring of new life is come.
And bless, we pray, this Easter Garden,
a living picture of our thankfulness to you
and a symbol of our hopes for new growth within our lives.
As Mary came to seek you in the garden
in the promise of early morning,
may we seek your coming in the dawning of this new season.
As Mary turned to ask where her Lord had been laid,
may we eagerly seek your presence in our lives.
As Mary thrilled to hear you speak her name,
may we respond with joy when we hear your voice whispering to our spirit.
Bless us as we take a new path this day,
and lift our eyes to see you as our companion on the way.
Amen.
I will find out tomorrow morning what effect these words have. In the meantime, I wish you a blessed Easter.
Monday, 25 March 2013
Calling the Spring
On Sunday, we celebrated the Spring Equinox at Forest Church where the theme was 'Christ the Gardener'. It was a beautiful ritual, and throughout it was the idea that Christ comes to bring new life in his role as the gardener in John's gospel.
And particularly moving was the element where we were invited to call up the Spring from the depths of the Earth and to draw down energy and warmth from the Sun, making ourselves into the place of connection between Earth and Sun. The ritual leader said:
We begin by drawing the energy up from the earth... Feel your feet connecting with the cold earth and, like a tree, send your roots deep, deep down, to where the spring has started to uncoil...
...Breathe in deeply, and draw the energy of spring... up through your feet and into your whole body. With each out-breath hold that heat in the body...
Extend your sense upwards to the distant sun... Draw down the warmth of spring into the cold earth beneath you, through that connection you have established in your mind and in your body...
This was a very profound moment for me: that I could be a co-creator in the birthing of the new season of the year, and that I was a part of the coming of Spring. It was not just happening around me - it was happening through me.
There was also a link to yoga practice in the drawing-up of energy into the body through the feet, as we do when we stand in Mountain Pose or Tree Pose. In this part of the practice I am always reminded that I am part of the tapestry of creation, and that I may grow by learning from the ways of creation. The mountain and the tree are my teachers.
And particularly moving was the element where we were invited to call up the Spring from the depths of the Earth and to draw down energy and warmth from the Sun, making ourselves into the place of connection between Earth and Sun. The ritual leader said:
We begin by drawing the energy up from the earth... Feel your feet connecting with the cold earth and, like a tree, send your roots deep, deep down, to where the spring has started to uncoil...
...Breathe in deeply, and draw the energy of spring... up through your feet and into your whole body. With each out-breath hold that heat in the body...
Extend your sense upwards to the distant sun... Draw down the warmth of spring into the cold earth beneath you, through that connection you have established in your mind and in your body...
This was a very profound moment for me: that I could be a co-creator in the birthing of the new season of the year, and that I was a part of the coming of Spring. It was not just happening around me - it was happening through me.
There was also a link to yoga practice in the drawing-up of energy into the body through the feet, as we do when we stand in Mountain Pose or Tree Pose. In this part of the practice I am always reminded that I am part of the tapestry of creation, and that I may grow by learning from the ways of creation. The mountain and the tree are my teachers.
Saturday, 2 March 2013
Figs, apples, trees
This Sunday I'm all into trees in my sermon. And, as we have the reading of the fig-tree in the vineyard (which has become the apple tree in the translation below!) I wanted to use that theme with my folks at church this Sunday.
Matthew's gospel, chapter 13 verses 6-9:
Then Jesus told them a story: “A man had an apple tree planted in his front yard. He came to it expecting to find apples, but there weren’t any. He said to his gardener, ‘What’s going on here? For three years now I’ve come to this tree expecting apples and not one apple have I found. Chop it down! Why waste good ground with it any longer?’
“The gardener said, ‘Let’s give it another year. I’ll dig around it and fertilize, and maybe it will produce next year; if it doesn’t, then chop it down.’”
Here is the final part of my sermon:
...Who is the gardener? Is this Jesus, coming to give us one more chance, to pick us up after we have fallen, to speak words of encouragement when we have failed to hit the mark and to set us on our way again? It seems likely that it is Jesus, for the gospel story is full of occasions when someone is given a second chance by Jesus. The key, it seems, is what we do with the second chance we are given - and the third, and the fourth and the fiftieth. Will we bear fruit? Will we strive to live up to our calling? Will we make the most of the opportunity to be who God calls us to be, acknowledging and valuing our differences and our individuality, and celebrating that in others?
Matthew's gospel, chapter 13 verses 6-9:
Then Jesus told them a story: “A man had an apple tree planted in his front yard. He came to it expecting to find apples, but there weren’t any. He said to his gardener, ‘What’s going on here? For three years now I’ve come to this tree expecting apples and not one apple have I found. Chop it down! Why waste good ground with it any longer?’
“The gardener said, ‘Let’s give it another year. I’ll dig around it and fertilize, and maybe it will produce next year; if it doesn’t, then chop it down.’”
Here is the final part of my sermon:
...Who is the gardener? Is this Jesus, coming to give us one more chance, to pick us up after we have fallen, to speak words of encouragement when we have failed to hit the mark and to set us on our way again? It seems likely that it is Jesus, for the gospel story is full of occasions when someone is given a second chance by Jesus. The key, it seems, is what we do with the second chance we are given - and the third, and the fourth and the fiftieth. Will we bear fruit? Will we strive to live up to our calling? Will we make the most of the opportunity to be who God calls us to be, acknowledging and valuing our differences and our individuality, and celebrating that in others?
Thursday, 21 February 2013
Welcome
In this season of Lent Christians look towards the cross, the place where God most fully demonstrates his love for his world.
But though a sign of love for Christians, the cross has often been wrongly used to generate emotions which get in the way of our coming to God: guilt, shame, unworthiness, self-blame.
It may help to recall the one thing which Jesus leaves his friends before he goes to the cross. Not rules, not a list of instructions, not even a religion, but a meal:
When the hour came, he took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. He said to them, I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer...Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.'
A meal is a place where relationship is made and strengthened. A meal is a sign of welcome, acceptance and belonging. A meal is an act of equality and of healing, both for body and soul.
A meal cannot be forced or enjoyed under pressure; it is always an invitation. And there are many in 21st society whose lives are tired and bruised from having been mistrusted, betrayed or forgotten and who are seeking healing, welcome and acceptance. There are many who feel, through experience or intuition, that church does not welcome them, or that God is not interested in them or that faith is not possible. Where is their place at the table? Who is preparing the meal to which they are invited?
And what of you and I? Perhaps we are among this number, sharing some of these feelings. Perhaps we, too, need to hear the invitation which followers of Jesus have listened for down the ages. Or perhaps we simply need to be reminded of that invitation so that we can learn again how to offer it to others.
The poem 'Love' speaks beautifully of invitation and welcome. It is an encounter between the character of Love which is, perhaps, the figure of Christ, and a guest who seeks a welcome. As the poem unfolds, the guest cannot help but feel that she is not worthy to be present at the meal. Surely there is some great sin which means that she should be turned away?
But, no. Love will not hear of it and Love can see only the guest's need of rest and of refreshment. It can be our welcome, too, if we will accept it.
Love
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.
So I did sit and eat.
George Herbert
But though a sign of love for Christians, the cross has often been wrongly used to generate emotions which get in the way of our coming to God: guilt, shame, unworthiness, self-blame.
It may help to recall the one thing which Jesus leaves his friends before he goes to the cross. Not rules, not a list of instructions, not even a religion, but a meal:
When the hour came, he took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. He said to them, I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer...Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.'
A meal is a place where relationship is made and strengthened. A meal is a sign of welcome, acceptance and belonging. A meal is an act of equality and of healing, both for body and soul.
A meal cannot be forced or enjoyed under pressure; it is always an invitation. And there are many in 21st society whose lives are tired and bruised from having been mistrusted, betrayed or forgotten and who are seeking healing, welcome and acceptance. There are many who feel, through experience or intuition, that church does not welcome them, or that God is not interested in them or that faith is not possible. Where is their place at the table? Who is preparing the meal to which they are invited?
And what of you and I? Perhaps we are among this number, sharing some of these feelings. Perhaps we, too, need to hear the invitation which followers of Jesus have listened for down the ages. Or perhaps we simply need to be reminded of that invitation so that we can learn again how to offer it to others.
The poem 'Love' speaks beautifully of invitation and welcome. It is an encounter between the character of Love which is, perhaps, the figure of Christ, and a guest who seeks a welcome. As the poem unfolds, the guest cannot help but feel that she is not worthy to be present at the meal. Surely there is some great sin which means that she should be turned away?
But, no. Love will not hear of it and Love can see only the guest's need of rest and of refreshment. It can be our welcome, too, if we will accept it.
Love
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.
So I did sit and eat.
George Herbert
Saturday, 22 December 2012
Advent Darkness, Advent Light
Advent is the season of darkness. Throughout the four weeks of Advent, we speak of darkness gradually giving way to light; we pray that Jesus the Light of the World may come to us once more; we sing of the Light of Christ shining into the darkness of our hearts; we light candles amongst the holly and ivy of the wreath as a visible sign that we anticipate the coming of Light into our world.
And, of course, as we make our journey through the Advent season, we mourn the loss of natural light in the world outside. We rise in the dark, we come home in the dark, we climb into bed in the dark. Our minds and bodies sometimes forget whether it is seven o'clock in the morning or in the evening, so similar is the level of darkness outside the window. We see less by natural light - the world seems dulled, almost like a theatre backcloth than the real thing we knew in spring and summer.
Perhaps there is also in Advent a feeling of emptiness - a feeling that, below the surface of the pre-Christmas busy-ness, nothing is growing. A feeling, perhaps, that our reserves of energy are low, that our defences are shaky. Certainly at this time of year we are susceptible to attacks on our immune system. Illness and darkness make us aware of our vulnerability, our human frailty.
But perhaps there is some meaning, some wisdom in this darkness and emptiness. Perhaps this is where we are meant to be at this stage of the Advent season? For we are creatures of flesh and blood, creatures of this earth - maybe the key lies in knowing how to adapt to this time of year, how to align ourselves with the seasonal changes we experience, and how we can learn and grow from them? Perhaps the darkness of this time of year is given that we may learn to still ourselves, to take shelter, to learn patience and, as we wait for the light to return, to reflect.
This is the point in the year when the light begins to grow around us. The Winter Solstice, which occurred a few days ago, marks the point in the natural cycle of the year when the days begin to grow longer and darkness gives way to natural light. For us who anticipate the festival of the birth of Christ, the re-birth of sunlight points us to the greater miracle of the birth of the Son who is the Light of the whole world.
But at this stage of the Advent season we are not quite there yet - there is another part of the journey to travel. In today's gospel reading we watch Mary, the God-bearer, hastening on her journey to her cousin Elizabeth's house. She makes this long trip on foot, over rocks and stones across the countryside, in the heat of the sun. Mary is not anxious or over-protective as she brings forth the Holy Child, she is embracing life. She does not seem to be worrying whether the way is too hard. Rather, she seems to draw strength from the soft light which glows and grows within her, enriching her soul. Everything else is in second place.
Perhaps we can allow our emptiness and darkness to enrich us and to speak to others. Perhaps, like Mary, we can stop worrying for five minutes about trying to make everything perfect, and give ourselves a chance to receive the Light. For the true Light, that gives light to all people, is coming into the world. Let us offer our hearts as a hearth and home for that light to burn within us.
And, of course, as we make our journey through the Advent season, we mourn the loss of natural light in the world outside. We rise in the dark, we come home in the dark, we climb into bed in the dark. Our minds and bodies sometimes forget whether it is seven o'clock in the morning or in the evening, so similar is the level of darkness outside the window. We see less by natural light - the world seems dulled, almost like a theatre backcloth than the real thing we knew in spring and summer.
Perhaps there is also in Advent a feeling of emptiness - a feeling that, below the surface of the pre-Christmas busy-ness, nothing is growing. A feeling, perhaps, that our reserves of energy are low, that our defences are shaky. Certainly at this time of year we are susceptible to attacks on our immune system. Illness and darkness make us aware of our vulnerability, our human frailty.
But perhaps there is some meaning, some wisdom in this darkness and emptiness. Perhaps this is where we are meant to be at this stage of the Advent season? For we are creatures of flesh and blood, creatures of this earth - maybe the key lies in knowing how to adapt to this time of year, how to align ourselves with the seasonal changes we experience, and how we can learn and grow from them? Perhaps the darkness of this time of year is given that we may learn to still ourselves, to take shelter, to learn patience and, as we wait for the light to return, to reflect.
This is the point in the year when the light begins to grow around us. The Winter Solstice, which occurred a few days ago, marks the point in the natural cycle of the year when the days begin to grow longer and darkness gives way to natural light. For us who anticipate the festival of the birth of Christ, the re-birth of sunlight points us to the greater miracle of the birth of the Son who is the Light of the whole world.
But at this stage of the Advent season we are not quite there yet - there is another part of the journey to travel. In today's gospel reading we watch Mary, the God-bearer, hastening on her journey to her cousin Elizabeth's house. She makes this long trip on foot, over rocks and stones across the countryside, in the heat of the sun. Mary is not anxious or over-protective as she brings forth the Holy Child, she is embracing life. She does not seem to be worrying whether the way is too hard. Rather, she seems to draw strength from the soft light which glows and grows within her, enriching her soul. Everything else is in second place.
Perhaps we can allow our emptiness and darkness to enrich us and to speak to others. Perhaps, like Mary, we can stop worrying for five minutes about trying to make everything perfect, and give ourselves a chance to receive the Light. For the true Light, that gives light to all people, is coming into the world. Let us offer our hearts as a hearth and home for that light to burn within us.
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