Lent 2 A homily for 8.00 John 3 1-17

Did you sleep well last night? I hope so…Tossing and turning as the hours tick past can be a wretched experience.

I wonder if that’s what brought Nicodemus to Jesus…Perhaps he had been mulling over something he’d heard and just couldn’t sleep till he’d cleared it up.

Jesus had started a train of thought that had ended with a really burning question…it must have been pretty overwhelming to actually get him out of bed

One question to ask God’s Son…If you had that opportunity, I wonder what you’d choose…what you most long to hear answered….

Think on that.

Meanwhile, though, back to Nicodemus.

Perhaps he's afraid of what his friends and colleagues will say if he's seen approaching this controversial itinerant preacher. Hence his nocturnal ramblings.

After all, he’s a respected figure …part of the establishment with a reputation to protect. He’s not in the same position as that rag tag handful of Galilean boatmen who could just drop everything and go where Jesus lead. He’s immured in his current way of life…

He’s too old for a fresh start…. But still he comes, armed with his deductions, in search of some answers..

You see, he thinks he has worked it all out.

Jesus is undoubtedly a Rabbi sent specially by God.

That’s the only explanation for the signs and wonders he, Nicodemus, has witnessed.

In grasping that, he’s half way there but recognising a heaven-sent teacher is not in itself enough to propel a man from his bed in the small hours. Something more is nagging away but he doesn't know what,- he is just aware of that vague feeling of disquiet which is often a sign that God is trying to get through to us, if only we will stand still and listen.

Nicodemus, of course, has come to listen, to be taught, but he must have found Jesus's response at best discouraging, - positively baffling indeed. Instead of being congratulated on his perception, - he does recognise the presence of God when he sees it,- he is told that he can't even SEE the kingdom, still less enter it. He’s still way off course. He needs to be born again.

"Ah yes, born again" we say, nodding sagely, for this has become a Christian cliche over the centuries, carrying with it all sorts of associations, helpful and otherwise. It is hard to imagine how very strange the phrase sounded to Nicodemus – who is much too adult to consider a new start.

We’re confident that we know much better than him, with his literal vision of re-entering the womb

Actually, though, his confusion has much to say to us, if we really think about a new-born baby. It arrives naked, totally helpless, dependent upon others for food, warmth, love, everything it needs to help it live and thrive. In the same way, Nicodemus and all who seek the kingdom must become totally vulnerable and helpless before God, accepting that without him we can do nothing. This isn’t easy in the twenty-first century, when we tend to feel that we have conquered the world and everything in it,

It wasn’t easy for the cultured, educated Nicodemus either. Total vulnerability never is.

Then, a newborn baby comes without intellectual and emotional baggage, with literally no pre-conceptions. Nothing is impossible, impractical, foolish, beneath that hypnotic newborn gaze

In contrast, when we find ourselves challenged by the Gospel, too often our response is limited by our ideas of what is actually sensible, or socially acceptable. It takes a lot of courage to dump all that we have learned about how the world works, even when we are becoming aware of the shortcomings of the system…but if we are starting from scratch, we can be more genuinely open to the radical implications of the gospel message.

Being born again might look a bit like that

Finally, a baby and its parents in those very first newborn days can become all the world to each other, giving and receiving absolute unconditional love. There are no distractions for the baby: he knows no-one else to love, and has no idea that his parents, brimming with good intentions, will ever let him down.

Absolute unconditional love…Where else do we meet that?

You don’t need me to answer that…

It is offered to us, today and always, by the God Nicodemus yearned for day and night

The God we meet in Word and Sacrament.

the God who loved the world – not just the good, not just the Jews, not even just the Christians - 

the God who loved the WORLD so much that he sent his only Son…

"Rejoice, oh dust and ashes..."

Fr Simon of Blessed, the alternative worship community from Gosport, has a rather splendid ministry of daily text messages...They arrive at random moments and always offer something worth reflection. Often their timing and content shout loudly "God-incidence!God-incidence!" as they feed directly into situations of which Fr S could not possibly be aware...and generally they move my thinking on in wholly positive and helpful ways.

On Ash Wednesday I was woken as  the morning text arrived,  a quote from wonderful Herbert McCabe

"When God forgives our sins, he is not changing his mind about us. He is changing our minds about him. He does not change; his mind is never anything but loving; he is love"

Familiar words, but always freshly inspiring, today they provided the backdrop for 2 wonderful Ash Wednesday services.

The day began with school worship...Timing was tight, so I couldn't even consider ashing all the children, but we did make ash by burning some nice juicy sins (written on scraps of paper) - using as our fire bowl a large Celebrations tin.

Thus, at a stroke, we not only prevented the vicar from burning the church down but introduced the idea that Lenten penitence is always fundamentally joyful...the coming together of our human need for forgiveness and God's irrepressible loving urge to forgive and restore.

But at the same time the process stirred another memory and brought home another truth.

You see paper doesn't burn well on its own.

The flames that leaped as I used the lighter soon burned out, leaving parts of the words - "Being unkind" "Being intolerant" "Forgetting to pray" still all too visibly present, reminders of a work in progress.

Then I remembered what I'd learned once before - that paper only burns successfully if you leave the source of heat there. The best approach is to have a candle in the firebox  if you want the flame to last.

For my own benefit, I'll labour the point. 

If you don't stay close to the source of light, joy and forgiveness - you're left with the reality of the person you really are, in all your untransformed grubby reality.

This Lent, I'm planning, hoping and praying to take time each day to get close to God, and allow God to get on with showing me the person God has always seen and always loved when looking at me...

And that will be something to celebrate!

 

Not for the first time, John Bell says it best

"Take, oh take me as I am.

Summon out what I shall be.

Set your seal upon my heart

and live in me"

The Lost Shepherd

At Llannerchwen I quickly fall into the pattern that has shaped my retreats for many years...After breakfast and morning prayer, I will usually spend the morning with the book that has called to me: this time, particularly, Peterson's “Contemplative Pastor”. I may well journal in response to it – often I'll do some art or craft work – and then in the early afternoon it's time to go for a walk.

The walks around Llannerchwen seem to be strangely illusive, if you try to follow the map that waits in the folder in each prayer-hut...but I think I'm beginning to learn that getting lost here is often the way to find out something important, a truth I might easily miss otherwise.

So that afternoon I set off confidently down the lane, relishing the sense of space and silence that the spring bird-song somehow seems to emphasise...Snowdrops and catkins spoke of spring waiting poised in the wings, but the daffodil buds remained tight and green...their triumphant glory will come soon, but not yet. But despite this, there was colour everywhere. The rich red earth, the thousand different greens of the deep moss that covers wood and boulders on this dampest of hill-sides. Springs burst from the bank, rivulets found a way through tiny ravines, chattering busily on their way, and for some time I was content to follow them down the hill, pausing to take in tiny details, remembering as best I could to say “thank you” that I was there, free to wander, to pause, to be.

At the bend in the road a track led off on the left to another house – but my way, said the map, was to the right – up through the farm and so back home. At first I followed a clear track through the woods, putting up a pheasant or two whose sharp “Cack, cack” seemed unreasonably urgent, at odds with my mood. At the edge of the woodland I reached a cross-roads: left would take me back to the lane, and a clear route back, but that did seem dull...With the whole of the Brecon Beacons to explore, who would choose a walk down a metalled round and back again? So I went on, following the green dotted line on my map, which told me that on through the farm yard lay my route home.

I could see the farm above me, and 2 men by a lambing shed (the sound of the flock grew louder as I climbed)...I worried, slightly, that I might be off course, trespassing unintentionally...but the map was very clear so I pressed on, and coming out in the farmyard followed a red painted sign whose arrow marked the way “Llannerchwen”.

Plain sailing for a while, up through one field but at the end there was a choice – 2 gates side by side and not a hint of which one would lead to the path home. It seemed to me that leaving the telegraph poles to my right was the better idea so I opted for the left hand gate and continued up the hill. Up hill had to be right – specially when I saw that woodland lay ahead, for my own prayer hut of Ty Siwan stands of the edge of a wood. It began to mizzle, in the way that seems a natural expression of the Welsh countryside. The mountains around me began to disappear into the mist and soon I could only see a few yards in front of me, as my glasses were fogged up. I reached the far side of the field, - but there was no gate, so I was forced to make my way round the edge in search of a way onwards. I crossed another field, still heading upwards, then another...I began to worry a little. The way up seemed to be much longer than the way down and the rain was beginning to make itself felt, the landscape closing in around me.

Finally I reached the far side of that field and saw ahead of me not the home paddock I had expected but a totally unfamiliar stretch of ploughed earth in which some distinctly scraggy sheep munched on roots and mangle wurzles.

No point in carrying on, then.

I had clearly missed my way, and would have to return to the farm and start again – or maybe even revert to the metalled lane I'd scorned before. It went against the grain to head back downhill, knowing that I'd have to climb again – but common sense dictated that this was the only way.

And then, as I crossed the second field, I saw another figure, hooded against the rain, holding a stout stick like the one that waited beside the door of Ty Siwan. I wondered if this might be a fellow pilgrim, or even one of the sisters...someone who knew where they were going and could thus show me the way home.

With a new sense of purpose I made haste towards her, - but as I crossed into the next field I noticed something – the shape of a long low building on the edge of a wood...A building I had completely failed to see as I toiled uphill, certain that my destination was just over the horizon. Suddenly I knew exactly where I was...which was fortunate because as I clambered over the stile into “her” field, the other walker turned and came towards me

“I don't suppose you know the way to Llannerchwen? I seem to have got lost”.

Suddenly lost sheep became shepherd as I pointed out the cabin and the stile, just across the field from us, which she too had failed to spot.

Together we made our way triumphantly downhill...over one more stile, and home!

If I hadn't been trying to follow her, I would never have seen the familiar landmarks that brought us home...If she hadn't retraced her steps, she too would have wandered around in the mist, getting colder and more anxious as one muddy field merged with the next, and the sheep seemed to mock up with their bleating.

I have to confess, I didn't admit to her quite how far off course I had been...nor the part that she herself had played in my change of direction. After all, we were both of us trying to spend a week in silence. But as I opened my front door and took off my muddy boots I could hear God's laughter and joined in. So much of ministry seems to involve treading a path that you believe is there, heading on a course that has been laid out for you, plugging along without much encouragement simply because you are sure that this is the way it has to be. I wouldn't be surprised if home really was just around the corner – but in struggling on uphill we run the risk of overshooting and carrying on, wasting time and energy forever. Better by far to find the courage to admit that we're lost, to turn around and seek another way, in company with others.

Too much or not enough?

Recently, thanks to my episcopal review, last week's retreat and a determination to avoid the dreaded burn-out, I've been spending some time pondering routes to a balanced life. Despite all the issues that I took with me, I know that by the time I left Llannerchwen last Friday I was properly present to myself, to others and indeed to God in a way that the breathlessness of parish ministry often precludes.

There are so many times here when, though I am trying my hardest to engage fully with the person in front of me, I'm horribly aware that I'm about to be late for the next appointment or am wondering what saying "Yes" to this particular request might mean for an already loaded diary...

That's just no good - for me, or for those whom I'm here to serve so it was a huge and wonderful blessing to come home without that sense of things pressing in which characterises life so much of the time...and it's a blessing I am keen to hold onto.

A bantam-buying expedition on Sunday and a flying visit to see Hugger Steward yesterday evening (OK, it's mad to drive to Cambridge and back for the sake of a 3 hour visit - but it was most definitely worth it) have helped so far, but I know that there are too many things clamouring for attention and it's hard not to be alarmed by them....

or at least, I was until a phone call with the son of the lady whose funeral I took this afternoon.

He, bless his heart, has been his mum's main carer throughout her illness and, like so many in his situation, finds himself somewhat lost now that she no longer needs his constant presence. He has mobility problems, which, he said, were now rather a blessing

"I'm glad it takes me longer to do things...it means I won't have so much time to fill now"

Perhaps, rather than agonising about the state of my diary I should just be thankful that there IS so much to get up for every morning. 

And, while the sun is shining, get out to walk the dog.

As part of my attempt to shake myself out of myself during last week's extraordinary retreat (when I have been aware of, and supported by, a network of friends who have reminded me again and again of love and hope and resurrection) I've been praying with the Northumberland Community Office, as I used to in the years before ordination.As well as taking us through Scripture, this Office includes a daily Meditation...As I prepared to come down from the mountain this morning, this is what I read. Every line makes me think of my godmum, J, and rejoice

“As the moorland pool images the sun, so in our hours of self-giving thou shinest on us, and we mirror thee to all. But of the other land, our heaven to be, we have no picture at all. Only we know that thou art there. And Jesus the door and the welcome of each faithful one.”

(Alistair MacLean)

I thank my God on each remembrance...

It was St Francis' day, just 4 months after my birth, when my parents brought me to baptism. They had waited a long time, 11 years, for the gift of a child and they both knew the reality of ill-health that gave us an uncertain future together. 

It would, perhaps, have been sensible to choose god-parents who were parents of small children too...to make tacit preparations for the day when they themselves might not be there to love and nurture their only child.

But they didn't.

They took loving risks – and those risks paid off 1000 fold.

Each of my three god-parents gave me something different, something precious which has stayed with me all my life – but of them all, J was the person whom I loved most in the whole world, after my parents.

She was a teenager herself that October day...and I cannot remember a time when I did not adore her and want to be like her. That might be expected in a small girl, glimpsing the glamorous wonder of young adult life as J and her friends appeared each summer, like a flock of exotic birds who brought colour and music and warmth to the rather adult world in which I moved. Of course I idolized her. To my child-self she was perfect – the prettiest of her group, her laugh the most joyful, her hug the best at mending wounds of any kind. But as I grew up I realized that her beauty and charisma was not just the product of childish admiration. It was who she was.

Later I would joke with my parents that if she found herself dropped suddenly in the middle of the Gobi desert, someone would materialize and offer to carry her luggage...J had the gift of making others long to do things for her, though most often she would be finding ways to do things for them.

When she fell in love, while working as an au pair in Denmark, and married out there I was, of course, both delighted and desolate. Her family (my unofficial extended family) still lived just down the road from mine but inevitably her trips home became less frequent. In time she brought home her first baby and that summer on the beach his Moses basket was part of the luggage of our shared family encampment – and I fell in love all over again, composing lullabies on my recorder and pouring over him, enthralled.

All my memories of J are of summer and sunshine. Though she was there, too, as an essential part of the Christmas celebrations of my childhood , it was, and is, in the sunlight on the waves that I will think of her most. She was no stranger to hard times too, losing her own father before she was grown up, and dealing with a broken marriage and, no doubt, all sorts of other sadness that she preferred to protect us from. I can see her, bursting with life and beauty as she stood beside Daddy's grave on the day of his funeral...pregnant with her beloved daughter, her blossoming a sign of hope and continued love as we grappled with the reality of loss.

That summer as Mummy fled to her favourite cousin, living in Holland, I too crossed the north sea and went north to Denmark, where J and her new husband were beginning work on the country cottage that was to be their home from then on. Things were quite basic that first year...but I loved it all so much...sleeping in the gypsy wagon at the bottom of the garden, watching J milk her goat and make a wonderful smokey goats cheese, picking tomatoes and collecting eggs, sitting drinking beer in her garden late into the long summer evenings...Even the rainy days were wonderful as I sat at her kitchen table, beside the range, with a delightful tabby kitten (“Jens Pussykin” by name) curled up on my lap and J and I talked and talked and talked – of life and hopes and dreams and sadness. I felt understood on every level there could possibly be...known and loved to my very core.

She was a natural Franciscan – finding and celebrating God in all creation, rarely talking about the Creator but sharing His love with a directness that might have seemed naïve until you were exposed to it.

My resolve to be “just like her when I grow up” was probably confirmed unconsciously that first summer in Denmark and so many of the things that have brought me most joy in life – my children, my animals (the chickens were in part her birthday gift to me last year) the huge skies of the Welsh borders, the light playing on the waves , the sound of the canal water lapping against Polyphony on a summer evening – are things that I've loved and shared with her.

I remember her excitement and delight as I prepared for Cambridge, the long letters in her beautiful italic script that would arrive so regularly through my student years and beyond...

How did she ever find time, with 3 children, a husband a small-holding and a job? - but somehow she did. 

Why haven't I saved them all? That saddens me now, as I know they brimmed over with her warmth.

When things have been tough, we've cried together.

When they have been joyful, we've celebrated.

On my wedding day, it was J who took the place of my parents, dead then some 7 years, standing beside me in the “receiving line” so that I had someone to call my own as the endless stream of my new family and my old friends wound past...Her daughter was my bridesmaid – and my best J memory of that day was finding her surrounded by happy children, enabling them to play safely beside the swimming pool at my in-law's home. 

When we lived in London, I took my own children down to Sussex in an echo of those summer days of my childhood – and remember one golden day in Eastbourne when it was Hugger Steward's turn to be the baby in the basket as J, staying with her mum for a few weeks, played with Hatti Gandhi, helping her to find those sea-washed fragments of glass that we called mermaid's tears.

I never had to pretend with her. The unconditional love that she had offered to my child self continued through to the very end.

Is this all true? 

Is love painting an unrealistic picture?

It's certainly true for me...In asking J to be my godmother, my parents gave me one of their greatest gifts and I'm blessed by each memory of her. In her last months, she phoned regularly and we talked about what lay ahead, about hopes and fears and where to look for strength . Her last card to me speaks still of future hopes – of seeing us this year, of spending time on Polyphony. Whenever I go aboard now, I will give thanks for J, and smile through my tears as I remember again that love is stronger than death.

Small Epiphanies - an occasional series

Last Sunday, being the 1st in the month, featured its usual pattern of extremes in ministry. Thanks to my splendid curates I wasn't involved in the BCP "bookends" that usuall frame the day (an early Communion and a mid-afternoon Evensong up the hill) but this didn't mean I avoided the contrasts. You see, the morning featured the happy mayhem of an All Age Eucharist while the afternoon saw our monthly visit to the nursing home housed in the old vicarage, where we offer a Communion service in the day room for the mildly confused.

Since my splendid Reader started to join me, this has felt a far more comfortable experience. Though I've tried to make the liturgy both short and majoring on prayers and responses that are likely to have been familiar once, I very rarely feel that the congregation are in any way on board, and there was something very disconcerting about the schizophrenic dialogue that had me responding to my

"The Lord be with you" with the expected "And also with you"!

Now, though there may be just one voice answering me, we are at least in conversation once more - and it's also good to have someone else to encourage the congregation to actually consume the wafer and wine that we offer them. It's always a little hazardous and I find myself re-evaluating my theology of Eucharist very rapidly from time to time, as one especially absent lady has been known to remove the host from her mouth for a closer look and then leave it sitting on her knee - a definite challenge for conventional catholic theology!

Nearly every month as M and I embark on our lonely voyage through the liturgy I wonder what on earth we are doing...whether it would be better to bring a CD player and have a hymn sandwich...whether we are imposing Communion on those too frail and confused to stay away.

But last week, during a supervision with the curates, the Herring of Christ (TM) said something that has stayed with me. Since his priesting he has found that when giving people the host, he cannot help doing so with a little extra pressure, so that his hands emphasise the amazing words "The Body of Christ".

This...THIS fragment of unleavened bread...this morsel of holiness...is the gift that I bring you. Know the full weight and wonder of it.

I've been thinking of this as I've communicated through the week and at the nursing home on Sunday, as I read the Post Communion prayer, it all made glorious sense.

Where minds fail, sight, touch, taste can do their work

"God of truth, we have seen with our eyes
And touched with our hands the bread of life.
Strengthen our faith that we may grow in love for you
And for each other
Through Jesus Christ our Lord"

Candlemas sermon

What are you hoping for?
If you were invited to describe your dream of tomorrow – for yourself, your family, your church, I wonder what you'd say.
Perhaps you're not sure
Or maybe you've lost hope.
Even forgotten what you were hoping for?
If that's só, then today's gospel might just be for you.

Come with me to the Temple, to the outer court where crowds ebb and flow, and stallholders cry their wares
“Come buy – a kid for your sacrifice?” “Doves – turtle-doves....only the best”
Watch the bustle, the purposeful activity of the market-place.
Is this what you expected of the house of God?
Pause for a while, look about you
Watch for islands of stillness amid the surging throngs.
See that man standing quietly.....thoughtful.....
hopeful?

Ah yes...hopeful indeed, for this is Simeon.
Simeon the one who waits.
Who knows for how many years he has stood in hopeful expectation – the eyes of his heart straining to glimpse the “consolation of Israel” that the Messiah – the one anointed, chosen by God, would offer when he came.
Simeon, clinging to the assurance that he will not die before he has seen and known that Saviour.

Looking around him, he sees much need for consolation.
Israel is an occupied country once more, with a corrupt king and little to celebrate.
Though there is freedom to worship, there is no question but that Rome is in charge.
There is oppression and poverty even in the heart of Jerusalem – and it's here in the heart of Jerusalem that Simeon waits.

Still the crowds come and go, their faces swimming in and out of focus as Simeon continues his vigil.
Some look anxious – perhaps they come to the Temple to pray for healing of body or for peace in their family
Some look desolate – perhaps they come to mourn their dead.
Some look proud and happy – especially those carrying babies...Young fathers walking with a spring in their step, stopping to buy a sacrifice then going on into the second courtyard...Mothers, carrying their precious first-born sons – their gifts from God, to be presented to God once again.

And it's as one such group moves through the crowd that Simeon steps forward.
There's nothing, really, to distinguish this little family from many another.
Certainly they come without pomp and circumstance, with none of the trappings of wealth or status.
Just a man, a woman and a baby – and 2 turtle doves.
Yet as he moves towards them Simeon is sure.
THIS is the moment.
HERE is the promised salvation...seen as he takes the infant into his arms and praises God.
For Simeon, salvation looks like a baby boy, just 40 days old.

It would have been só easy to miss that family in the crowds...so easy to doubt that God's answer, the hope of Israel, might lie in that tiny fragile body.
I wonder if Simeon was, for a moment, disappointed.
He had waited for só long – had such high hopes – and now God's answer was this baby....
Hard to believe that here could be, in truth, the hope of Israel

Perhaps it's that way for us
We wait in hopeful longing – and then we miss the moment of salvation because our gaze is turned elsewhere, because we never expected it to look like this.
We wanted something bigger and bolder – something unmistakeable, that would convince all the world.......but God offers us a very different resolution.
Or perhaps we haven't even begun to wait in hope.
Perhaps we don't believe that we will ever see a new order, a world transformed by God's intervention
We've lost hope.

At this point, let's turn our attention to another figure in the tableau that our gospel presents.
Here is Mary, proudly bearing her first-born, still trying to make sense of all the extraordinary events, the incredible words, the outlandish visitors that have somehow been part of his birth.
Here she is, doing what seems right...just as countless parents now bring their child to baptism, not because they are sure of their faith but because, doubting themselves, they want to place their precious baby where God's love will surely fall upon him.
She brings her child, in nervous expectation.......and is greeted with these amazing words, unlooked for, and probably not that welcome.

It starts alright..”Lord, now let your servant go in peace...My eyes have seen your salvation”
but as Simeon turns his focus from God to the scene before him the music shifts into a minor key
“This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel and to be a sign that will be opposed......and a sword will pierce your own soul too”
Who would choose to stand with Mary at this axis of joy and pain? And yet, this is só often where we can expect to see salvation.
Just yesterday I met with a couple who are planning their wedding.
In the past year, both their families have suffered huge, unwarranted tragedies – the sort of events that could derail your life and leave you feeling that all hope and meaning were gone forever.
Usually, when I first meet a couple I'm intent on the MARRIAGE and try to draw their thoughts away from that grand event, the wedding...but this time the wedding assumed a new power...it was their joint proclamation of hope in the face of death and confusion...the moment when, though a sword had pierced their souls, they nonetheless dared to look up and see salvation.

You may well be familiar with the proverb
“It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness”

Every time we choose hope, every time we proclaim salvation, however vague and uncertain it seems, we each of us light a candle.
You may have lost track of your own hopes, for this community, for yourself or for your loved ones......but the light that shone in the Temple that day remains with us.

Today Christmas tide comes to an end. We have to extinguish the light of our crib, turn from our celebrations of Christ's birth towards Lent and our preparations for His Passion.
For us, as for Mary, this is a day when joy and pain coincide.

But it is, also, a day when we light candles...many many candles.....as we celebrate “A light to reveal God to the nations....and the glory of your people Israel”

Those candles are our daily reminder of God with us.......Emmanuel.......with us in the joy of the Birth day but with us too when hopes seem to vanish, when we've lost sight of all purpose...even when we're too weary or short sighted to recognise His presence.

What are you hoping for?
It may seem incredible – but in that child, lying peacefully in Simeon's arms, all our hopes are realised, all our fears put to flight...
Here is salvation – fragile, uncelebrated but utterly non negotiably real.
It may not match our expectations – but it is all the salvation we are going to get, and, thanks be to God, all we will ever need.

Thoughts on welcome - a work in progress

This week, the UK press has been buzzing with the case of Mr and Mrs Bulls, Bed and Breakfast proprietors who in 2008 refused to allow a gay couple (in a civil partnership) to stay...The couple brought a case on the grounds of discrimination, with the Bulls providing a focus for the groups who believe that Christianity is being marginalised in 21st century Britain, and feelings running high on either side.

The judge in the first hearing found in favour of the couple, Steven and Martyn..but this doesn't mean that the issues are going away quietly. On Sunday I'm doing a live phone interview for local radio, as a former B & B owner with a rather different view.

I ran a B&B in the North Cotswolds for several years while our children were growing up...The main guest accommodation was in a small barn conversion, adjacent to the house – with guests coming over to the farmhouse for breakfast. This meant that the children were free to be loud and messy, while guests could enjoy the peace of the countryside...It also meant that I did not, for the most part, have to make difficult decisions about whether I felt comfortable with particular guests mixing with my children.
Important edit 

An anonymous commenter below alerted me to the possibility of misunderstanding here.

I should clarify here that I had and have no problem AT ALL with my children enjoying the company of gay guests...simply that if I had shared the view of the Bulls, I would still not have been in the same situation, in that my guests were not actually sleeping in my house. Once or twice people stayed with us who were, for example, particularly heavy drinkers: I did not have to worry that small children might encounter a guest unable to make it upstairs to bed, or rushing to the loo after one too many, because the guests slept in the barn.

I appreciate that this puts me in a rather different position from Mr & Mrs Bull – but I have to say that in their situation I would nonetheless have welcomed Martyn & Steven as guests

In part this is because I do not share the Bull's view that gay relationships are contrary to God's will...for me then, as now, a faithful, stable and committed relationship, whether straight or gay, is an expression of love to celebrate...and something that makes God smile.

But even if I held another view, it seems to me that their approach is not workable. Unless you demand a marriage certificate from every couple of prospective guests, it's surely not possible to marital status as a yard-stick to assess suitability.

There are many ways in which, as human beings, we sadden God.

Cruelty, selfishness, greed...

None of those is immediately obvious to the naked eye – so it's not practical to make moral judgements about whom to welcome on those grounds.

Why then, should we be selective about the issues that we treat as deal-breakers. It would be quite easy, on a quick reading of the press, to believe that Christianity is only concerned with issues of sexuality and gender - but that is so far from true

Those who are anxious that Christianity is under threat in this country are keen to present this case as one in which faith and Law are set against one another...My personal view is that welcoming all comers into my home was one way of reflecting the unconditional hospitality of the God, who doesn't demand that we have our lives in perfect order before we come to him. To be less than inclusive seems to me both unjust and unkind. 

As I was thinking about this, a friend posted a photograph of the words that she has over her desk: Micah 6:8

What does the Lord require of you? To do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.

Or, more simply still, "Love", said Jesus,"is the fulfilling of the Law".

Sermon for the Baptism of Christ, Yr A at Cainscross & Selsley

Isn't the Liturgical year amazing?
Two weeks ago, we celebrated Jesus's birthday...Last week we heard of the visit of the wise men....now today the baby has grown to manhood and his active ministry is about to begin, as he comes for Baptism in the Jordan.
It's also tempting to wonder about the hidden years. What was the teenaged Jesus like? Did he learn carpentry from Joseph? Did he tell wonderful stories with hidden meanings to his half siblings in the family home?
We don't know.
In fact, despite the Christmas carols that suggest otherwise, we actually know nothing about what happened to Jesus between the family's return to Nazareth and the moment when he turns his back on Galilee and seeks out his cousin, on the banks of the Jordan.

In this age of celebrity culture, it's almost unthinkable that a Saviour could ever stay hidden for so many years.....but perhaps Jesus is easier to miss than we might imagine. The star that shone to guide the wise men no longer brightens the way at the start of his public ministry, nor does it offer much help to us in our everyday search.
The truth is, Jesus often seems to be disguised, camouflaged by our own expectations.... though we might do well to look for him in our times in the wilderness.

Meanwhile, though, he might seem to be just one of the crowd that has come to listen to John, and obey his call to repentance...except, of course, that here is one who has nothing to repent...no sin to be washed away.
Poor John is baffled
“What are you doing here? This is no place for you...You already know and live everything I'm preaching on...how can I baptise you?”

It IS hard for us to grasp...small wonder that John was confused.
Perhaps, though, we should know by now that Jesus will always choose the way of humility...even when he comes to claim his God-given identity.
John is right that he has no NEED of baptism...but Jesus does this, as he does everything else, for our benefit. Acting as our representative, he shows us we need to do. He identifies fully with every flawed and broken person, each and every sinner who comes to baptism longing for a fresh start, a new identity.

For, you see, Baptism remains very much about claiming identity. Our gospel passage points to Jesus' identity revealed as he emerges from the waters, but we too receive a fresh identity through our baptism.It's an identity that
transforms how we see our life, our trials, our failures, our wilderness, and finally even our death.

At the Jordan, God affirms his Son in words that only Jesus can hear...and those words are the reason that I specially cherish this scene.
This is just the start.
Jesus has performed no miracles, preached no awesome sermons. All his public ministry still lies ahead.
This is the very beginning and yet God declares
This is my Son, the beloved with whom I am well pleased.
As God looks on him, so God loves him, totally and unconditionally, from the very beginning.
No further action is necessary...There is no requirement to prove himself worthy of love.
And it is the same for us.
There is nothing that we can do that will make him love us more, or less. Loving is just what God does. That relationship has always existed…our Baptism and what follows is our response to it, but for God the love he bears us has always been there, always a given reality. So, what happens for Jesus, in that moment that the heavens are opened, is his realisation of the way things are..his recognition of an eternal truth.
He is God's child.
So are you.
I'd like to share a story that I found online, as I prepared to preach today.
It concerns an man who grew up in small-town America, his life blighted because his mother had brought him up on her own...He had never known his father, and carried that stigma each and every day, bullied by school mates, looked down on by neighbours.
But one day, things changed...A new preacher visited the town, and at the end of the service invited anyone who wished to talk to come and meet with him. Something in the preacher's words had touched the lad and he decided to go and talk...He wasn't sure what he was hoping for, but as he approached, with the sort of embarrassed shuffle that is often adopted by self conscious teenagers, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Compelled to look up, he saw the preacher’s smiling face. Then he heard the preacher say, “What’s your name, boy? Whose son are you?”
Before the lad could answer, the pastor continued,
“I know who you are. I know who your family is. There’s a distinct family resemblance. Why, you’re the son of God!”
Then the preacher put his arm around the boy and pointed him to the door and said affirmatively, “Now go and claim your inheritance.”
That's the call for each one of us...To claim and to live out our inheritance.
or us, as for Jesus, Baptism represents an affirmation of who we are before God, of his ever-present love for us, and our response.
That response is not simply a question of words repeated in an expression of repentance, trust and belief for one day only. It is a response that should shape our whole life…a response that may lead us to places of pain and desolation, to the wilderness if not to the cross.
By the door of St Matthew's, there is a holy water stoup, something that looks like a second, smaller font...As many of you will know, it was discovered in the undergrowth when the churchyard was being cleared some years ago. For a while it stood empty and purposeless..but now it contains water from the baptismal font, water that has been blessed for use in baptism.
It stands there to remind us that we were not baptised once upon a time, long ago and far away, but that we ARE baptised...immersed in God's love, changed by his Spirit...As you enter and leave the building, you might like to dip your fingers in the water and trace the cross on your forehead, as a reminder of this...and a reminder of the essence of our baptism.
We are created so that we may each of us hear and respond to God’s word of love for us. We recognise this as we look at Jesus, that love expressed in human form, and we are enabled to live in love through the creative power of the Holy Spirit, who hovered over the waters of our Baptism. It is the Holy Spirit who stirs us and empowers us to live out our true calling, as God’s beloved children, with whom he is well pleased.

A promise kept

Great excitement at the vicarage yesterday, as for once (probably the first time since I found myself doing such things at all) the first Baptism of the year took place before the first Funeral...I tend to do a fair number of both, but it always feels as if the funerals far out-number baptisms, whatever the statistics may say - largely, I'd guess, because there is generally a much deeper connection with those whom I meet in the context of bereavement, when there is little room or energy for pretence. I love officiating at all the "occasional offices" but too often the happier the event, the weaker the bond forged with the family. I believe with all my heart in having a totally open and unconditional baptism policy - how could I do otherwise? it's God's church, not mine! - and I recognise that this can mean that families come through our doors for Baptism when it's most unlikely they will forge lasting bonds with the church.

Yesterday, though, was a splendid exception. Baby William's baptism at lunchtime was a delight as his whole family were really focussed on what was happening...They responded when invited to, listened (and commented on) the address, and were pretty much a dream congregation, really. They even said, as they left "See you soon..." and I dared to believe that I might.

What I didn't expect was that, after all the excitements of a baptism and a family celebration afterwards, they would make the effort to return to church that evening to join us for our Epiphany Carol Service....but there they were, baby, parents and a clutch of other family members, holding their candles and singing with enthusiasm. They even stayed for mince pies afterwards, - but they can't have known what a difference their presence made to the way the New Year started. So very grateful!

Homily for Epiphany at All Saints

At this time of year, one of the favourite trick questions beloved by clergy tends to come to the fore.

It is, of course, “How many wise men visited Jesus?” or perhaps even “How many Kings?”

You all know better than to fall into the trap by shouting out “THREE” - though you'd be surprised at quite how many do...You all know that the idea of three visitors is based on the three types of gift mentioned by Matthew, around which a whole host of assumptions and stories has accrued through the years.

But today we remember those travellers, whatever their number, the wise men from the East whose journey to Bethlehem showed the way for all beyond Israel to seek the Christ born there.

We remember them because their journey is our journey, their search our own...whatever we may carry with us.

So now I'd like to tell you a story, one that was part of my childhood and that of my children too...the mythical tale of The Other Wise Man. You know, of course, that what we call myth is often a vehicle for deep truth, wrapped in a story that has no pretension to reality.

I think that is the case here...so, are you sitting comfortably?

There were four wise men, who were astronomers, scanning the skies, reading the signs of their times and comparing notes on their findings. They were expecting a new star to arise in the East signifying the birth of a great new ruler – and one day, the stars proclaimed that this King had been born.

Their plan was to set off when the star appeared, meet up and travel together bearing gifts for the newborn King. Artaban came from Persia, and carried with him the treasures of the orient – three priceless jewels, sapphire, ruby and pearl.

When the star appeared, he set off for the agreed meeting place, but on the way he came across a sick man by the roadside and could not pass by without offering help. After a delay, he reached the meeting point only to find the others had gone on without him.

So he sold the sapphire to buy a team of fast camels to cross the desert, hoping to catch up.

Too late!

By the time he reached Bethlehem, he found the town in uproar.

Mary, Joseph and the child had fled to Egypt, the other Wise Men had presented their gifts and gone home, and Herod had ordered the slaughter of all the baby boys. Artaban was appalled as he saw violence on every street corner, and came face to face with a group of soldiers about to tear a small boy from his mother’s arms and kill him. He tried to stop them, and eventually prevailed as mother and child were released, in exchange for the ruby.

So the fourth Wise Man travelled on to Egypt, searching high and low to find Jesus. He wandered for many years through different lands, always looking for the promised King, but he could not find him. Eventually he came to Jerusalem at the time of the Passover.

The city was crowded and the atmosphere tense.

Executions were taking place and he heard that one of those who had been sentenced to death was a man said to have had a strangely marvellous birth in Bethlehem, who had received gifts from three wise men. He was known to many as the Messiah, the Anointed one, the King.

Artaban hurried to the hill outside the city where this man was about to die on a cross.

But on the way, he ran into a group of men dragging a young girl away to sell her into slavery.

She begged him for help and he responded by giving her the pearl to pay for her freedom.

He was sad because this was the last of his treasures which he had kept for the King.

At that moment, there was an earthquake, knocking Artaban off his feet. He heard a voice speaking to him, the voice of the King saying, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you; for I was hungry and you gave me food, thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you came to me.’

The old man replied, ‘Lord, I have searched for you for thirty three years, but I have never seen you or cared for you.’

The voice of the Lord came again, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it for me.’

And so his journey, and his life work ended.

His treasures were accepted.

The Other Wise Man had found the King.’

So where is the truth in this much loved myth?

Do you really need to ask?

The Christ whom we seek shows his face to us in so many different ways...

We glimpse him in each other as we gather to worship, encounter him as we listen to his word, receive him in the breaking of bread.......but he's there to be found in all places of pain and need in our world.

We meet him in the flood victims of Pakistan, the homeless on the streets of Stroud, the recovering acoholic who likes to sit in St Matthew's if he is having a bad day.

We might meet him yet nearer to home, if there is someone who needs something from us – a family member, a colleague at work, a neighbour we recognise at church..

Christ may well come in the guise of a stranger, or, harder still, as someone so familiar to us that we think we know them inside out...and, you know, we all have a gift to offer.

Not jewels – he doesn't really need them...but gifts of love, of time, of service, which can be every bit as costly to the giver.

Today as we celebrate Epiphany we reflect on Christ revealed to the nations, the Word made flesh living among us as full of grace and truth now as at creation.

We are called, at this season and beyond, to seek

revelation, that life changing experience of Christ alive in our world, so that like the three Wise Men we may be ‘overwhelmed with joy’ and offer our lives as a gift to the new King.

Looking forward, looking back

I'm snuggled in bed with Theo the kitten purring loudly on my chest - and with just a few minutes of typing time before he launches into another round of Kill the Cursor, his new favourite game. Maybe time, then, for a quick round of Janus, a reflection on 2010 as it vanishes in the mist behind me and just a quick glance at what might lie ahead...

2010 was the year I'd been dreading for so long.

24 years ago, when my DD Hattie Gandhi was first placed in my arms, I threw myself heart and soul into motherhood and from then on a large part of the landscape of my life was defined by my children, shaped by their needs, enlivened by their joys...Of course I knew (and know) that they were simply "on loan", that however precious the ties, however deep the connections, my task as a parent was to work myself out of a job, to make my children ready to manage life in a world which, one day, will not include me at all - and over the past 5 years I've been learning what that process really feels like as each in turn moved from school to university.

Helpfully, of course, those 5 years also saw my own transition from curate to incumbent - so that instead of the responsibilities of nurturing and launching 3 young adults I gained responsibility for 2 radically different communities, their spiritual welfare, their exploration of God in the every day....Despite this, though, I was dreading autumn 2010 when my younger son, blogname The Dufflepud, would depart for university and my firstborn would complete her MA and step out into the adult world of work.Because my own parents died when I was 18, this whole chapter is uncharted territory - I don't even know how NOT to do it (though I guess I'd suggest that the approach my parents inadvertently adopted is probably not the ideal!!).

So - 2010 loomed, black and scary on my horizon for quite a long time....the knowledge that I would turn 50 (which certainly sounds grown up, even if it doesn't feel it) compounding the problem. Surely I'd emerge from THAT year a radically different being - assuming there was anything left of me at all.

If that all sounds rather silly - your view of the situation is entirely correct!

Yes, 2010 saw the departure of the "last child" but though I miss them all inordinately, there are so many other things crowding into my life, from chickens (the birthday present that asserts each day that life begins at 50!) and the Christmas kitten to a whole raft of new and interesting jobs within the diocese, and new connections and relationships within the parish too. The few evenings when I was home alone last term (I think there may have been 4 all told) were blissful islands in a sea of busyness, rather than bleak little encounters with a lonely world....I even managed a few evenings with dear and special friends, and a spot of proper cooking...and I met a whole collection of new chicken-keeping friends with whom to share. I coped, I really did - and even enjoyed myself!

Yes, my children were STILL responsible for the highlights of the year - the wonderful surprise birthday party that gathered so many loved and loving people that the whole evening was an exercise in counting my blessings in human form - the pride at Hattie Gandhi's wonderful MA distinction - the joy in meeting and coming to love Hugger Steward's GF - the delight in hearing of new discoveries, new interests as the Dufflepud settled into university.

But perhaps the greatest joy of the year was one that came from near-disaster, when the Dufflepud missed his grades for his first-choice university. He and I were both shell-shocked, and a bit of me just wanted to wail and gnash my teeth at an unkind universe....His siblings, however, are made of stronger stuff and between them looked after both his practical needs - sorting out a kind of "Cabinet War Room" to help him negotiate the complex process of UCAS Clearing - and the more sensitive issues of self esteem in a family where A grades have been almost taken for granted. The way the children operated that day was perhaps the best gift in a year of many gifts - for they showed me in everything they did that they were indeed the sort of caring and competent adults that I longed for them to be - and that, when the time comes, they will indeed look after one another.

So maybe 2010 was indeed the year that I grew up - and it turned out not to be so frightening after all!

2011 - who knows? But whatever lies ahead, I've some wonderful people travelling with me - and more Love than I can imagine leading me on.

He came unto his own...

This, my third Christmas as priest in charge in these two parishes, has been unlike any Christmas I've yet experienced.

Fellow clergy will be familiar with the strange "festival maths" which means that every other year half the regular congregation are away from home, celebrating with their distant families - while the following year numbers soar as the families descend on them in their turn.

This year, though, was something rather different.

Heavy snow and wickedly icy roads kept many people at home. We had to cancel the Carol service at Church in the Valley (though many a carol was sung in a blissfully full and friendly pub that same evening) and Midnight Mass at Church on the Hill...the latter definitely a prudent decision given the extreme gradient of the path from road to church.

Down in the valley, one sterling soul had made a fantastic job of clearing the church path and we were all set for Christmas services as usual. The Crib service was a delight, featuring baby George as baby Jesus and a multitude of the heavenly host plus an assortment of shepherds (plus guinea pig lamb), a cow herd (complete with huge & cuddly cow) and one King full of oriental splendour. Increasingly, families opt to attend on Christmas Eve and then leave church alone for Christmas day - but that's fine, once you're used to this idea.

What really startled me this year was the absence of regulars at both Midnight Mass (maybe less surprising, given the weather and the age of many of my core congregation) and again on Christmas Day. At Midnight we had a good turn out overall - but the vast majority were visitors....Out of some 80 in church, I think that just 11 were familiar faces- which poses a few questions.

I guess on one level it's very simple....If you only expect to attend church at Christmas and Easter, then you are more likely to make the effort to get there even if conditions are less than encouraging - whereas if you fully expect to be there Sunday by Sunday for many years to come, then what is one Christmas among many?

I would certainly hate to think of anyone risking life and limb to worship with us - even on the highest of festivals - and I'd never make the mistake of thinking that absence from church equates with writing faith out of the festival....but all the same, it does seem odd that worshipping with your church community is simply not a priority for many. It never struck me that my parents, for example, were in any way "extreme" church-goers - but the year that my father broke his wrist and was unable to drive, a taxi was organised to get us all to church on Christmas day - because it was simply unthinkable that we should be anywhere else on that day of all days.

Clearly we are now in a very different place - with different expectations.

It was a joy to celebrate the birth of Christ with those who came through our doors.

It was a privilege to sit for an hour beside one young man who arrived as the last celebrating family departed on Christmas morning, and needed to take time to talk through his hurts and confusions in a safe place.

Being a priest in these communities is very special - a privilege and joy in so many unexpected ways. It's only fair that sometimes the struggles are unexpected too...

but I'm glad that it fell to another to read John 1 this Christmas. There might have been a bit too much reality in it for any semblance of comfort.

Or perhaps I'm reading it wrong.

Perhaps I should just smile quietly and say "It was ever thus......"

Sermon for Christmas Day 2010 All Saints, Selsley.

I know we’re all short of sleep and high on excitement, but I wonder if you’d join me in a brief imaginative exercise this morning. Due to some utterly and unbelievably cataclysmic event, there is just one copy of the Bible left in the entire world, and now this too is under threat. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to copy out as much as you can, to preserve it for the future. Where do you start? Is there one passage that tells you enough about God and his ongoing love-affair with faithless humanity to suffice if all else vanishes?

To be honest, I’m not quite sure, but I’d put up a spirited defence for the Gospel that we’ve just heard.

It is sometimes called the Christmas Gospel,- which is strange, when you rreflect that it mentions neither baby, mother, shepherds, angels nor any other nativity essentials. Nonetheless, it’s one of those must-have passages, without which it’s hard to imagine our worship at Christmas. John’s words are so dear and familiar that it’s tempting to side-step any attempt to engage with them, and simply allow them to communicate directly with our hearts,- surely the best place of all for the Christ-child to lodge.

Well, yes and no.

In one sense, of course, the Incarnation is too great a wonder, too great a miracle to comprehend.

It beggars understanding. It is indeed a holy mystery....

However, the problem with mysteries is that we tend to sit back and accept them; we’re confident that, if intellect has failed, amazement itself is a sufficient response. This mystery, however, is rather more demanding, for it draws us in as well.

That is the point of it all.

John’s fourteen verses sum up so much, from the cosmic grandeur of creation to the breathtaking immediacy of Christ’s birth.

“In the beginning”…as Genesis, so John. Here, we’re concerned with the roots and origins of all things, establishing beyond doubt the identity of the Christ with God the Creator.

“The Word was with God and the Word was God.”

But existence is not all. Our God is bent on a relationship, on communicating Himself with his creation…He is not only a being, but the Word. However a word (even the Word) can communicate nothing unless someone is ready to receive it, to listen or to read, to get the message…God communicates with God-self within the Trinity, but God also reaches out in longing to communicate his love to us.

So there is something close to pathos in our failure to recognise and connect with God:

“He was in the world…yet the world knew him not.. He came to his own, but his own received him not.”

It’s incredible, isn’t it? The One who framed and formed everything, allows himself to be shut out of his own creation because he wants us to choose to know him. He who needs nothing, puts himself in a place where he needs us, - us!

And, lest the Word be heard once and then forgotten, here He is made real, visible solid flesh. Incarnate. The Word translates himself into a language we can understand, the language of humanity. The glory of God is too vast for us to comprehend, so He sets it aside, and chooses to limit himself to our scale, so that we might have a chance of recognising and responding to him. As Irenaeus put it, writing in the first century of the Church,

“He became what we are, to make us what he is”,- or alternatively, in the words of the singer/songwriter Joan Osborne

“What if God was one of us?”

The message of the Gospels is that there is no “what if?”…God was and is forever both divine and, amazingly, “one of us”. Incarnation. And when we recognise this, when we too glimpse his glory, we become a new humanity ourselves…

“children born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.”

For the message is not for one time and place only and John’s Prologue does not just look back to the dawn of time, nor confine us to the historic realities of 1st century Palestine. The word WAS made flesh....Yes, the birth of Jesus was an actual historical event, which happened at a specific moment in time, -even if not on 25th December in the year 0.!

For a problem arises if we try to distance the Christ child; to look at him only through the stained-glass filter of history, to keep Him safely at arm's length "Away in a manger".

That Greatest Gift of All was indeed first given in the stable in Bethlehem,-but if we’re content to leave it there then all our joy and celebration is in vain. However, to bring it from history into the present, and ensure that the good news the angels brought to the shepherds, is indeed good news to all people, is to involve ourselves dangerously in the story. No longer can we view the Incarnation as a once and for all event. We have called upon the Holy Child to "be born in us to-day"....

If we really mean that, we are offering ourselves as God-bearers, accepting the responsibility laid on us in John’s gospel for "as many as received Him".

In a few minutes, we will receive Him in the Sacrament of bread and wine,- and that unbelievable blessing should draw forth a response from our whole selves. It is up to each one of us to bring the living reality of Emmanuel, God with us, out of the soft focus of the carol service and into the world He loves so much.

The Word is to be made flesh IN US.

God longs to communicate with us, but having got the message, we are called to live it and show His living reality “full of grace and truth"

I don't really send Christmas cards...

With much love to all my friends, near and far...

Thank you for sharing love and laughter in the past year. 

Christmas blessings to you and yours

The service that didn't happen

Tonight I should be busily lighting the candles given in memory of so many, to lend Valley Church a beautiful welcoming glow for those arriving for our annual service of Carols by Candelight.

I might be playing the piano so the choir could have one last run through of their two solo carols.

I would surely be scanning arrivals anxiously until all the readers were safely in church, armed with their readings and primed to end each, in the approved Kings fashion

"Thanks be to God".

But I'm not.

Instead I'm at my desk, drinking hot ginger and waiting the return of my menfolk, who sallied forth a couple of hours ago in search of a Christmas tree.  It's bitterly cold out there, so by rights I should be purring gently at finding myself indoors with a cat at my feet....but instead I'm more than a little miserable, since I'm only here because our carol service has been cancelled.

I accept that my judgement on these matters may be somewhat skewed.

Yesterday I drove some 50 miles in the worst conditions I have ever experience on UK roads, in order to officiate at the wedding of a very dear friend. Even in a Volvo with snow chains fitted it was quite an alarming ride, but once I knew that the couple intended to go ahead nothing on earth would have kept me away. Plans had to be changed as 10" snow made the reception venue impossible, the groom was 2 hours late, as a 45 minute journey took him something like 4 hours and there were gaps among the guests, of course, but all of us there were united in our love for the couple and our determination to celebrate with them on this happiest of days.

Our commitment to friendship was not going to be shaken by the difficulties of getting to a country church in the worst snow for years. We really wanted to be there.

Meanwhile, the snow-struck congregation at church in the valley this morning was doubled in size by the presence of a family - three generations gathered from far and wide to dedicate a memorial in memory of a grandfather and uncle who now lie in our church-yard. Some had come from villages on the hills around Stroud, some from much further afield but they were all there, full of good humoured tales of hazardous journeys, to support one another and honour their dead. When it was announced that there would be no coffee today because there was no milk, they cheerfully helped me make black coffee and offered it to those of the regular church family who made it into the hall.Of course we could have rescheduled the dedication for a warmer time, but they wanted to be there today, having made a commitment to one another and to their dead.

Given these two examples of determination in the face of whatever the weather might bring, it's not really surprising that I feel a bit grumpy at the cancellation of our Carol Service. In comparison with conditions yesterday, things really aren't that bad here. Of course I understand that nobody wants to put elderly bones at risk...and it would be truly awful if one of the group of once-a-year attenders slipped on the way to the service and did themselves harm but what saddens me is how very ready everyone was to abandon the service - and just how few of our core congregation actually got here this morning. There was a crucial PCC vote after the service, or I fear that numbers would have been even worse...

I know it's not fair to draw comparisons...I realise that I'm in danger of grossly oversimplifying and adding 2 and 2 to make 5 - but it's tempting to make assumptions about priorities that are profoundly discouraging. 

Of course worship is not all about church, and being an hospitable church community can happen on any day of the year, not just at the carol service...but still and all, there are questions around tonight that I'd just as soon not have to answer.

One of the things that the community loves about valley church at Christmas is the star that appears, miraculously, atop the tower - the gift of a local family who not only construct it annually, but also get it safely into place.

On Friday afternoon it was shining out proud and confident.

Today the snow had obviously led to some bulbs blowing - the framework is there but only one bulb is alight. To say it looks half-hearted would be a definite overstatement.

Homily for a Carol Service

Tonight was the Village Carol Service at church on the hill.

Last year, the Herring of Christ produced a splendid service using the readings in "Times and Seasons" on the theme "good news for the poor".

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this did not go down too well with the PCC of Church on the Hill, who felt that he had "missed out on the meaning of Christmas".

Hmmn...Room for debate there, I'd say.

However, since they had so clearly been miserable with the service we had prepared we invited them to put it together themselves this year - and their decision was to go purely with the "Christmas story", using Luke (mostly), Matthew (for the wisemen) and of course, John.

I told them that this was fine, provided they didn't mind my breaking with tradition to give a short homily as I was unhappy that they were presenting the nativity story so out of context, and this was agreed.

Then my printer decided, with minutes to spare, that it needed to recalibrate - so whatever I said tonight, it wasn't exactly what I had planned.

Given that all the readings except my own were from the Authorised Version, I suspect the cause may be lost already....

Here's what I had hoped to say (no idea what I actually said...but suspect it was rather different)

In the past week websites and papers of a vaguely churchy disposition have been making much of a recent survey which reveals that for 48% of the population of the UK, the birth of Jesus is completely irrelevant to their celebration of Christmas.

It might be tempting for those of us in the churches to snort disapprovingly and mutter something indignant at this point – but I can't help but wonder if this is largely our fault.

You see, we aren't very good at helping people to understand why those events of long ago and far away are anything to do with us at all, só small wonder if they get the idea that we are celebrating something rather beautiful but quite unreal – meant for tiny children to present to us wearing tea towels or tinsel but nothing to do with life in the adult world.

The words of our carols can play into this too........whoever heard of a baby who made no crying? or a child that "throughout their wondrous childhood did honour and obey" his parents?

Or, come to that, a stable where all was calm and bright after an unplanned midnight delivery?

Just look at the windows in this church – and the depictions of the nativity on almost any Christmas card. 

It's all beautiful and clean – and utterly unreal.

Actually in a small way we're even contributing to the problem tonight.

I wonder if you noticed anything odd about the title of our first and last readings?

“In the sixth month” came first and “in the beginning” at the very end

That doesn't quite make sense , does it?

But it's the way that we invite people to look at Christmas

We ask them to leap straight into the middle of the story – without thinking about what came before, or what might come afterwards. But we've no hope of ever understanding a story if we don't have some idea of its context.

We tell people about the baby and the manger but not about the reason that baby was born.....as an incredible demonstration of God's love for us, that was to be presented even more clearly when that baby grew up and hung upon the cross.

Jesus was born because of the kind of people we are – all of us – when left to our own devices.

We're people who like our own way...people who are inclined to put ourselves or our families before the needs of others........and só there are still people homeless, people starving, people struggling with life in a world where others are able to enjoy plenty, comfort, luxury...

God arriving in our world as the baby in Bethlehem shows us another way – the path of self sacrifice that leads to the cross, but beyond the cross to the new life that Easter celebrates.

Christmas isn't a one off, isolated event but part of the story of God's love affair with the human race that has continued since the dawn of time and will continue til all of us are safely gathered into God's loving presence.

Through the ages, people have recognised this and chosen to live according to God's invitation to love...and their lives have shone to transform the dark of the world, reflecting that light which is at the heart of God...that light which St John's gospel celebrates.

Só this Christmas I invite you to take your part in the story, - the story which spans time and stretches into eternity.

You won't need tea towel or tinsel...just come as you are, like all the visitors to that stable......but go home changed, transformed, bearing Christ's light yourself.

Great Expectations - a sermon for Advent 3 Year A

This is the season of Great Expectations.

I’ve spent a lot of time in our schools in the past couple of weeks, and of course excitement is running high. Already we've had the Infants' Nativity and a trip to the pantomime and pretty much any conversation with the children veers round to a discussion of Christmas within seconds. Even while many of their parents are struggling to find money for the essential treats, the children are confident that all will be well.

Against this, let me set the expectations of the families for whom I have conducted funerals in the past weeks, those whose worlds have been shaken, almost blown apart, Death is no respecter of the season so there are many whose current hopes are focussed on the sheer need to survive…to get through this period which clamours for celebration in such a way that the memories won’t scar all future Christmas times.

Our expectations of the Christmas season can be painfully unrealistic

This is, notoriously, a time when family breakdowns are most common, when the suicide rate mounts disturbingly – and surely part of the reason for this is the gulf between expectations and fulfilment.

It’s a gap that it’s all too easy to fall into…and very hard to climb out of.

But of course, we usually have a pretty clear idea of what we’re expecting…

a happy time spent with friends and family, a bit of church, lots of singing, candles in all directions, and almost certainly more food than we really need. There may be additions and subtractions from this list, but I’d guess it’s not that far from what we imagine will happen to most of us.

Contrast this with the great expectations of our Scripture passages this morning. The writer of Isaiah's prophecies, like James, is sure of one thing – a day of salvation and glorious restoration will come to pass.

But there's no calendar with little doors to open, to help the count down. Instead there's a long wait in the dark, clinging to the hope that things will not always be this way, that there are good times ahead.

Isaiah paints clear pictures of this restoration – images of new life springing forth unlooked for in the dryest, most barren places…healing for those who most need it…consolation for all.

He is clear that we can look for this with the same confidence that we look for the growth of a plant once we have sown the seed...

The Lord WILL come, bringing with Him judgement, healing, reconciliation, restoration – as essential to God’s DNA as the growth of a crocus flower from its bulb, or a wheat stalk from a grain planted carefully in the earth,

This will come to pass. Never doubt it.

John the Baptist recognised the first shoots of the kingdom when his cousin Jesus came to him for baptism – but then began to doubt his own confident proclamation. His expectations were great, sure enough, but the reality he was living looked pretty much like disappointment. Cast into prison, seeing no signs that the Roman occupation might be lifted, he began to panic. Had he got it wrong? Was Jesus the One they had been waiting for? He just didn’t seem to be behaving as a Messiah should.

But, of course, the clues are all there in Isaiah…in that key text for Jesus’s ministry, the passage he read once in the synagogue, but lived out each and every day

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to bring the gospel to the poor…he has sent me to heal the broken hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind.”

Listen, he says to John….these are the things that have been happening.

Maybe not exactly as you expected, - but here’s the evidence.

The Messiah is here.

So…expectations fulfilled, but in subversive, surprising ways.

In fact, there should have been, as it were, no surprise in the surprises.

God has consistently worked to subvert our expectations.

It’s there in the Isaiah passage, where the lame leap and the dumb burst into triumphant song…it’s there in the song of Mary

He has scattered the proud in their conceit

Casting down the mighty from their thrones and lifting up the lowly

Our God will never let matters rest.

Wherever there is injustice, wherever the weak are disadvantaged, the vulnerable oppressed, there God is at work, intent on turning things upside down, on launching a revolution that is Good News for the poor.

Small wonder, then, that these words, a manifesto of the Kingdom, come from the mouth of an unmarried teenage mother, - poor, disgraced and a woman! The least of the least, but told that she will give birth to the child who will change everything but for the whole world.

And so Mary's hopes flower into the song that we call Magnificat - a song of justice for all people, the justice of a God who just won't play according to our rules.

Our God won't stay at a safe distance, suitably remote and divine.

Our God rolls up his sleeves and gets involved...

Our God becomes one of us by laying aside his power, his glory..and arriving where he might least be looked for...A small overcrowded town in an occupied country in an unimportant corner of the Roman Empire...

His people thought they were ready. Through the ages they had been more or less alert, - expecting some act of dramatic intervention to restore their fortunes, some decisive action that would lead to the fulfillment of all those wonderful prophecies. But when the time came, they were all looking in the wrong direction, and so God crept in among them as baby born not in a palace but in poverty, a baby soon to be a refugee, a baby destined to disturb the very people who had expected the Messiah to bring comfort to Jerusalem.

Great expectations dumbfounded!

And now we too wait.

We wait with joyful excitement for our celebrations of that baby's birth. We open the windows of our Advent calendars, wrap our presents, send our cards...but do we really expect God's active involvement in our here and now?

And, if we do, are we ready to join in?

We may be brimming over with our own Great Expectations, but for God's sake we need to cling tightly to our knowledge that the season of Christmas is not for the victorious but for the struggling.

So these weeks of Advent are not an invitation to excess but a proclamation of hope in a dry land. Yes, we can have great expectations indeed - but they must involve giving as much as getting, as we explore what it means to reflect God's kingdom in our thoughts, words and actions.

In a world where poverty and despair seem to have the upper hand, where and how should we search for the breaking of Good News?

Will we look for it just here in Church, or dare we expect it in those places that might seem unlikely...in the traffic queues that stress us as we rush into town for "one last thing", in the Big Issue seller standing outside Subway, in the contents of yet another Christmas letter..

We may not be expecting it, but if we look there will be Good News, - never doubt it - Good News beyond our most extravagant hopes and dreams...but we need to participate in the work of God that will bring it about.

Don't forget, the God for whom we wait is the God of Magnificat...the God who loves to subvert our expectations...and who invites us to join with him in turning the world upside down.