...and deeper in debt? Sixteen Tons is a song I've always liked for some reason, and yet it has a rather cynical ring to it which doesn't reflect the the kind of guy I normally am at all, really. If you've ever wondered about the history of this song and its complete lyrics, just follow the link above. Fascinating- and there was me thinking it was a genuine old time folksong, rather than one written in 1947 for Tennessee Ernie Ford!
Sixteen tons? Now, would that be metric tons or good old imperial? Hey pal, we haven't got room for none of that Napoleonic rubbish round here with them SI units. Good old avoirdupois and pounds, feet and pints, that's the measure of this man.
"What is the guy going out about?", I hear you cry. "He's finally lost the plot!" OK, I know I go off at some rather unexpected tangents during these blogs at times but rest assured I am not going senile at the grand old age of forty-six (thank heavens they haven't metricated age yet!) which I turn today. It's just I'm thinking about work, rest and play- with preferably more of the latter than the former today.
Sixteen Tons is what I sometimes feel myself, and I've generally considered myself overweight for many years. And yet, according to the latest piece of scientific research, I'm probably better off staying the weight I am rather than trying to lose it as that can do more harm than good! According to the researchers, you see, constant dieting weakens the body- something which will decidedly not be music to the ears of the Atkins advocates and the Low Carb Lecturers or even the GI Groupies, the latest fashionable dieting craze supposedly being one that really works. Now, where have we heard that before.
Listening to and following advice can be pretty hard, because there is so much of it about and so often it seems to conflict with what you hear and read elsewhere. It often seems to make it even harder to make decisions for yourself and to make up your mind about what really matters to you in life. Hard enough for the man in the street maybe, but even more so when you really want to follow God's leading and guidance, as this MAMWAM- Middle Aged Man with a Mission- would most long to do.
Decision making is not just a problem in matters of the mass either- you are what you eat say some, but you can't reduce the wonderful complexity of the human condition to a few hundred grams -sorry, I mean a few pounds- of proteins, carbohydrates, fats and fibre, surely? The brain needs its food, but it also needs food for thought. It needs to look at all the variables, the "what ifs" and the "maybes" if it is to make sense. It needs to use that uniquely human attribute of imagination.
It certainly isn't easy at times though to combine imagination with practicality, whether you make a far-reaching decision in the heat of the moment, or whether you ponder something for days, months, weeks, years even in the hope of getting it right. Maybe dieting's a bit like that too: could someone invent a procrastinator's diet, please?
HALF-YEAR ANALYSIS
Or is it half-life analysis? Now I'm no accountant, although some of my best friends are. Most of the uni results are now out, and I recall it was around this point fifteen years ago that to my amazement I became Mark Savage, BA (Wales). A decade and a half later, I'm still a bachelor, and I'm still more of an arty (farty?) than a scientific saint. Unlike William Wales, however, aka Prince William, I've never aspired to be something in the city or even to get much involved with money in my daily working life. The realm of creativity and communication, and serving people has always been much more my forte and I've always supposed and aspired to use my skills in that realm using this wonderful tool of language we human beings both adore and abuse. In fact, I've often thought that my motto for life should be a line from one of my favourite Charles Wesley compositions which I've always thought should be the hymn of the would-be or actual writer:
My every sacred moment spend
In publishing the sinner's friend
In whimsical manner, that hymn always sounded to me like an advert for an eighteenth-century fore-runner of the Sally Army's The War Cry, though I didn't spot The Sinner's Friend on the magazine racks in WH Smith at Waterloo last Thursday. Computer Active had to suffice instead.
WELLINGTONS AND WAVES
So what was I doing in a newsagents at Britain's busiest railway terminus last week then? Trying to keep my cool in the middle of the summer's first real heat wave, that's what. Boarding a packed metal cabinet on wheels with hundreds of other human sardines in temperatures exceeding thirty degrees is not my idea of fun, indeed it seems like Midsummer Madness to me. Even with the blessed relief of the new air conditioned rolling stock which makes up the bulk of South West train's fleet now, there seems little sense in enduring such cramped conditions if you can avoid it. I'm not one of nature's natural commuters and would far rather have a fifteen minute walk to work than a fify minute combination of train and tube any day. And yet, apparently well over fifty per cent of the nation spend more than an hour on a train, tube or bus each day to get to and from work and would rather do this in pursuit of a job they enjoy than be nearer home.
Yet, last week I became both a West End boy and a commuter again, the latter for the fist time in five years. Choosing the hottest June week for years to start my new job in Central London may not have seemed a well-considered move, and I confess that for me the ideal summertime is one where the living is indeed easy and I could spend June to September every yearjust doing what I like, when I like. It must be something to do with being born in the hottest summer of the last century: I love this season, but I hate working in it! I'd far rather immerse myself in the cooling waters of azure seas and gaze on heavenly sunrises and sunsets and just contemplate the miracle of life at its finest which this month of June seems to crown for me every year.
But down comes an angel and pricks my bubble, and tells me to get on with my work- even if I have got another week off to enjoy summer leisure this week! I worked- or rather trained mainly- last week though as a favour to my new employer, because the current postholder leaves on the first of July. Thus it was I found the week of Midsummer and the time when the sun appears to stand still did at times seem to go on forever for me at work, and there were times when I thought "What have I done? I'm not a celebrity-get me out of here!"
But my angel and my friends soon bring me down to earth and encourage and advise me to hang on in there and try my new job out. And on balance, I think they are wise, unlike me at times. It's a watershed in the year- it's halfway point- and another in my life. If I so chose, I could drop everything and give up work altogether by realising my various assets- but would it make me happy? Would I really enjoy being a full-time beach boy accompanied by the sounds of summer?
Of course I wouldn't! Birthdays come and go, Summer comes to an end. The Bible writer is wise indeed when he tells us there is a season for everything. This may well be the season for flooded festivals and gooey gigs, for barbecue bashes and princely pomp- but it is just that, a season. Without an end to summer, where would be the room for the enjoyment of autumn colour, or a world in white with winter snow? God who brought order out of chaos knows our need of these things, though I've often wondered how people in the equatorial regions without proper seasons adjust. So, come next Monday morning I've to roll up my sleeves again and get working in my new role without the welcome hand-holding of another.
What God asks of us most is not that we constantly analyse everything, although of course it is important to ask sensible, intelligent questions about most situations life presents us with. My new employer offers such questions and some answers to these for Christians attempting to make sense of their faith and present it as relevant to an increasingly secular and cynical world. As such, I think I am going to enjoy working alongside them and playing my part in this- as long as I learn to cope with commuting again and somehow recognise that my own peculiar ways must seem just as strange to others as theirs do to me!
But at the same time, what God needs most is our co-operation and our simple trust. The spiritual man of the moment is good old Rocky, Cephas or Peter as Simon became and how often I feel I am just like him. It's "Petertide", when new ministers are ordained and the Methodist church holds its annual conference with plenty of analysis, talking, consideration and debate.
Peter, the man who one moment would go anywhere for his Lord and the next was denying him out of fear and self-interest hours before his best buddy died the cruellest death imaginable. It makes me weep to think how I too can be like that, and Peter's denial of Christ followed by the look in the saviour's eyes was surely the most powerful moment in Mel Gibson's masterful Passion of the Christ for me. Yet marvel of marvels, Peter became the great man of faith who began the church, equipped for works of service and healing, evangelism and teaching and so much more. What would we do without him? Perhaps the best advice on any birthday is to rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice! Summertime, and the living is Godly!
Monday, 27 June 2005
Sunday, 19 June 2005
First Service, Second Service, Third Service...
Tennis has some quaint terminology. Until I began to understand it's Anglo-French derivations, I used to think that the call "deuce" was a command to the man holding the bottle to get serving the barley water at Wimbledon. (think about it...). Thirsty work, tennis, especially if the 30 degree plus temperatures of this weekend continue into the solstice on Tuesday and beyond. No, it's bound to rain- the clouds have just been gathering especially for the start of play on Centre Court.
And as for the various services, what's all that about? Like any activity with which you are unfamiliar, the esoteric rules,ways and parlance of a new pastime, job or office can seem daunting at first. Such thoughts are much on my mind today, as I enjoy a lazy Sunday afternoon before settling down to paid work again- at least for a week, but that's a story for another post- bright and early tomorrow morning. Will I be able to pick up all the new skills and information I need to learn or apply in this job? Can I format the weekly e-mails correctly? Will I get my figurework right? It's both an exciting and a daunting time as I contemplate these things, but on balance I'm looking forward to this new opportunity even if it does mean a daily commute. I'll keep you posted and tell you more about the job as the weeks go on and my confidence builds.
This morning though it was divine service for me, as I substituted on the elder's rota at Christ Church for another member who is on holiday at present. I have to admit that the elder's tasks of a Sunday morning or evening at our church are not particularly taxing, normally limited to such tasks as putting the hymn numbers up on a board and "furnishing" the lectern with water and books for the preacher, and placing cross, offering platter and bible stand on the altar. All these things are small but necessary tasks to remind us of the majesty of the one we serve and that we gather to worship.
However, this morning there was a little bit more involved. It had been designated as an elder's dedication service, partly due to me coming back into this important role in the United Free Church of Feltham. It was an opportunity for leaders and congregation together to celebrate and recognise an office which, within the United Reformed tradtion which forms one half of our bi-denominational congregation, is an "ordained" ministry. So from that point of view, I'm already wearing the dog collar some would love to see me carry as my professional badge of office. Personally, I prefer to think of whatever shirt I am wearing as including a God-collar, for Christ is for life, not just for Sunday morning. That was something we are reminded of every time we sing "O Jesus I have promised", one of the hymns this morning.
After the dedication came the response of love and remembrance which is the proper function of Holy Communion. This service always means so much to me, as I contemplate the Lord's blood shed on the cross, and his body broken for me, that all my shortcomings, weaknesses and deliberate disobedience, selfishness and plain Sin might be forgiven once and for all. Holy Communion is an important time to reverence the Lord and remember him again, every time we celebrate it, until he comes again.
Today however, I was more than mere partaker of the bread and wine. Just as Our Lord washed his disciple's feet on the night he was betrayed, as a demonstration of what true servanthood means, today it was my task to serve the bread and the wine to our minister, and then to offer the small vessels of communion wine to the congregation. This was the first time I recall doing this, or certainly the first time for many years, but it was a very humbling and worthwhile service. Who knows whether the Lord actually still wants me to try for the full-time ministry ultimately? I don't know, and neither does anyone other than The Lord himself. Certainly not the hideous example of a God-substitute to whom the Daleks were beholden in Dr Who. I do know, however, that whatever the rest of my life brings, it needs to be offered humbly and obediently in his service. Of course, my talents, skills, graces and aspirations matter- God gives us our personalities for a reason, But what matters most is not what we are given, or how much, but how we use them.
That was the underlying meaning of Jesus' parable of the talents. Today as I type this, the community of Feltham has been given another rare and special gift with the opening of a new church. As I type, the Riverside Vineyard Church are holding their first official service, a Community Opening celebration, in the former factory just yards from where I slaved over a hot exam paper thirty years ago. But Riverside are not the usurpers of the all too small community of faith in this place. Far from it. If we look at it aright, God is giving a whole new group of brothers and sisters with whom we can share the great work of serving him in this needy town. Exciting times, and I wish them well and hope to go to a service there soon. However, just not today. Three services might well have been the pattern for some believers of old and even more so for their ministers, but I need some r n'r now for an hour or so before going to the potentially poignant Memorial Service at St Dunstan's, our Anglican parish church. Along with the other recently bereaved, Matthew and I will be remembering our dear Mum, taken from us nearly three months ago now and of course never far from our thoughts. On this Father's Day, alright a commercial creation but still one when with those with paternal ties still will celebrate them, we will remember no doubt those two dear souls who served us selflessly for so long. For can there be a better act of devotion and service than parenthood? Surely not. And can there be a better memory of our dear Mum than to think of her today, as I contemplate a new job and many new opportunities. God is good, God is love, God is forever. He is for life, not just for Christmas OR midsummer.
And as for the various services, what's all that about? Like any activity with which you are unfamiliar, the esoteric rules,ways and parlance of a new pastime, job or office can seem daunting at first. Such thoughts are much on my mind today, as I enjoy a lazy Sunday afternoon before settling down to paid work again- at least for a week, but that's a story for another post- bright and early tomorrow morning. Will I be able to pick up all the new skills and information I need to learn or apply in this job? Can I format the weekly e-mails correctly? Will I get my figurework right? It's both an exciting and a daunting time as I contemplate these things, but on balance I'm looking forward to this new opportunity even if it does mean a daily commute. I'll keep you posted and tell you more about the job as the weeks go on and my confidence builds.
This morning though it was divine service for me, as I substituted on the elder's rota at Christ Church for another member who is on holiday at present. I have to admit that the elder's tasks of a Sunday morning or evening at our church are not particularly taxing, normally limited to such tasks as putting the hymn numbers up on a board and "furnishing" the lectern with water and books for the preacher, and placing cross, offering platter and bible stand on the altar. All these things are small but necessary tasks to remind us of the majesty of the one we serve and that we gather to worship.
However, this morning there was a little bit more involved. It had been designated as an elder's dedication service, partly due to me coming back into this important role in the United Free Church of Feltham. It was an opportunity for leaders and congregation together to celebrate and recognise an office which, within the United Reformed tradtion which forms one half of our bi-denominational congregation, is an "ordained" ministry. So from that point of view, I'm already wearing the dog collar some would love to see me carry as my professional badge of office. Personally, I prefer to think of whatever shirt I am wearing as including a God-collar, for Christ is for life, not just for Sunday morning. That was something we are reminded of every time we sing "O Jesus I have promised", one of the hymns this morning.
After the dedication came the response of love and remembrance which is the proper function of Holy Communion. This service always means so much to me, as I contemplate the Lord's blood shed on the cross, and his body broken for me, that all my shortcomings, weaknesses and deliberate disobedience, selfishness and plain Sin might be forgiven once and for all. Holy Communion is an important time to reverence the Lord and remember him again, every time we celebrate it, until he comes again.
Today however, I was more than mere partaker of the bread and wine. Just as Our Lord washed his disciple's feet on the night he was betrayed, as a demonstration of what true servanthood means, today it was my task to serve the bread and the wine to our minister, and then to offer the small vessels of communion wine to the congregation. This was the first time I recall doing this, or certainly the first time for many years, but it was a very humbling and worthwhile service. Who knows whether the Lord actually still wants me to try for the full-time ministry ultimately? I don't know, and neither does anyone other than The Lord himself. Certainly not the hideous example of a God-substitute to whom the Daleks were beholden in Dr Who. I do know, however, that whatever the rest of my life brings, it needs to be offered humbly and obediently in his service. Of course, my talents, skills, graces and aspirations matter- God gives us our personalities for a reason, But what matters most is not what we are given, or how much, but how we use them.
That was the underlying meaning of Jesus' parable of the talents. Today as I type this, the community of Feltham has been given another rare and special gift with the opening of a new church. As I type, the Riverside Vineyard Church are holding their first official service, a Community Opening celebration, in the former factory just yards from where I slaved over a hot exam paper thirty years ago. But Riverside are not the usurpers of the all too small community of faith in this place. Far from it. If we look at it aright, God is giving a whole new group of brothers and sisters with whom we can share the great work of serving him in this needy town. Exciting times, and I wish them well and hope to go to a service there soon. However, just not today. Three services might well have been the pattern for some believers of old and even more so for their ministers, but I need some r n'r now for an hour or so before going to the potentially poignant Memorial Service at St Dunstan's, our Anglican parish church. Along with the other recently bereaved, Matthew and I will be remembering our dear Mum, taken from us nearly three months ago now and of course never far from our thoughts. On this Father's Day, alright a commercial creation but still one when with those with paternal ties still will celebrate them, we will remember no doubt those two dear souls who served us selflessly for so long. For can there be a better act of devotion and service than parenthood? Surely not. And can there be a better memory of our dear Mum than to think of her today, as I contemplate a new job and many new opportunities. God is good, God is love, God is forever. He is for life, not just for Christmas OR midsummer.
Great Expectations
Charles Dickens is more commonly associated with Christmas and the wonderful characters of Pickwick Papers. However, we do our great novelist a dis-service if we do not recognise he's a cheery tale of Old England for all seasons. One of the Pickwick stories does, I believe, feature a cricket match, but hardly one of test match standards. Perhaps our cricketophile readers would be able to tell me which book it comes from?
The "phut" of rubber on catgut (OK, it's nylon these days but who's checking!) will be the satisfying summer sound dominating TV screens for the next two weeks as Britain once again becomes a nation of armchair or deckchair tennis fans. Once again, poor old Tim Henman- and at 30 he is starting to seem old by the standards of the youthful professional game- carries the expectations of the nation on his shoulders of our first Wimbledon Men's win for goodness knows how long. Can he do it? Who knows.
Well I expect he does, at least the Doctor of that ilk would. Think what a bookie's nightmare would be the last surviving Time Lord if he happened to pop into a Cardiff branch of Ladbroke's next time he's passing through in the Tardis. He'd have it made, knowing in advance the result of every single sporting competition for the next 200 millennia plus. With all that dosh, he might even be able to upgrade to the GL version of the Tardis, you know the one, with its plush leather interiors and built in policeman. Fat chance the law would have against the Daleks though, and even the venerable Doctor himself nearly met his match last night in the thoroughly satisfying "season finale" of the resurrected Dr Who.
The BBC had high hopes of this resurrected classic series, and they have not been disappointed. Last night saw the latest re-generation, and with the transformation of Christopher Ecclestone into David Tennant, somehow you could tell this wonderfully realised sci-fi saga was in a safe pair of hands. Do you think the Doc though might turn his sonic screwdriver to tightening up our Timbo's racket strings? Then, perhaps, he might actually stand a chance against the moving monsters of his opposition in the shape of Messrs Federer, Hewitt and others. The speed of their delivery, the lightning pace of their reactions and their phenomenal footwork seem determined to exterminate British hopes in the wonderful racket game we invented once again. But I hope I'm proved wrong...
The "phut" of rubber on catgut (OK, it's nylon these days but who's checking!) will be the satisfying summer sound dominating TV screens for the next two weeks as Britain once again becomes a nation of armchair or deckchair tennis fans. Once again, poor old Tim Henman- and at 30 he is starting to seem old by the standards of the youthful professional game- carries the expectations of the nation on his shoulders of our first Wimbledon Men's win for goodness knows how long. Can he do it? Who knows.
Well I expect he does, at least the Doctor of that ilk would. Think what a bookie's nightmare would be the last surviving Time Lord if he happened to pop into a Cardiff branch of Ladbroke's next time he's passing through in the Tardis. He'd have it made, knowing in advance the result of every single sporting competition for the next 200 millennia plus. With all that dosh, he might even be able to upgrade to the GL version of the Tardis, you know the one, with its plush leather interiors and built in policeman. Fat chance the law would have against the Daleks though, and even the venerable Doctor himself nearly met his match last night in the thoroughly satisfying "season finale" of the resurrected Dr Who.
The BBC had high hopes of this resurrected classic series, and they have not been disappointed. Last night saw the latest re-generation, and with the transformation of Christopher Ecclestone into David Tennant, somehow you could tell this wonderfully realised sci-fi saga was in a safe pair of hands. Do you think the Doc though might turn his sonic screwdriver to tightening up our Timbo's racket strings? Then, perhaps, he might actually stand a chance against the moving monsters of his opposition in the shape of Messrs Federer, Hewitt and others. The speed of their delivery, the lightning pace of their reactions and their phenomenal footwork seem determined to exterminate British hopes in the wonderful racket game we invented once again. But I hope I'm proved wrong...
If you can't stand the heat, get out of the bedroom!
Boy is it hot! "So what do you expect?", I hear my unsympathetic critics in sun-starved Antarctica cry this month as they read this, "It is 'flaming June' after all"
Alright, I take your point and I've also taken a break of over a fortnight, I know, since my last posting to Anyway. But I can assure you, dear reader, that my absence hasn't been due to soaking up the sun, because until this weekend we've seen little enough of our celestial life-sustainer to rave about, nor have the temperatures been anything to write home- or indeed write blog- about for quite a bit of June which is now nearly two thirds gone, already and sadly.
We Britons are such a strange breed when it comes to the weather. When the sun doesn't shine,And it's cloudy all day,
And it's only the beginning
Of the Wombling day,
And you've got to do the washing up
For Madame Cholet .
Oh dear, I seem to have stumbled upon a Wombles website and entered into silly mode. Perhaps I've got Wombledon, or rather Wimbledon, on the brain with the prospect of another fortnight of glorious tennis starting in London, SW19 tomorrow, even if I can no longer laze and enjoy it in the afternoon since I start a training week in mh new job in London, W1 tomorrow. No, I think my remembrances of those furry "greens" of my teens ( I can't quite admit to them being from my childhood!) is more likely due to the heat. Excuse me while I leave the bedroom and go and do the washing up not for Madame Cholet but Matt and me, and have a nice cup of tea, the refreshing British answer to everything. Well it is heading towards three after all, and everything stops for tea.
Alright, I take your point and I've also taken a break of over a fortnight, I know, since my last posting to Anyway. But I can assure you, dear reader, that my absence hasn't been due to soaking up the sun, because until this weekend we've seen little enough of our celestial life-sustainer to rave about, nor have the temperatures been anything to write home- or indeed write blog- about for quite a bit of June which is now nearly two thirds gone, already and sadly.
We Britons are such a strange breed when it comes to the weather. When the sun doesn't shine,And it's cloudy all day,
And it's only the beginning
Of the Wombling day,
And you've got to do the washing up
For Madame Cholet .
Oh dear, I seem to have stumbled upon a Wombles website and entered into silly mode. Perhaps I've got Wombledon, or rather Wimbledon, on the brain with the prospect of another fortnight of glorious tennis starting in London, SW19 tomorrow, even if I can no longer laze and enjoy it in the afternoon since I start a training week in mh new job in London, W1 tomorrow. No, I think my remembrances of those furry "greens" of my teens ( I can't quite admit to them being from my childhood!) is more likely due to the heat. Excuse me while I leave the bedroom and go and do the washing up not for Madame Cholet but Matt and me, and have a nice cup of tea, the refreshing British answer to everything. Well it is heading towards three after all, and everything stops for tea.
Thursday, 2 June 2005
June is Busting out all over
Well she'd better buy a bigger brassiere then, hadn't she! Sorry, I couldn't resist that: it may be thirty years this month since I took my O'Levels but the schoolboy humour in me fairly does bust out every time I hear that wonderful Rogers and Hammerstein song, and particularly when we get to this grandest month of the year from my perspective. Here's how that familiar refrain was introduced in Carousel:. I trust Richard Rodger's estate will not be sueing me for copyright infringement, but I have lifted it from "Jenn's Blog" which comes out fairly high on Google:
March went out like a lion, a whipping up the water in the bay.
Then April sighed, and stepped aside, and along came pretty little May.
May was full of promises, but she couldn't keep 'em quick enough for some.
And a bunch of doubting Thomases kept predicting that the summer'd never come.
But it's coming by gum. I can feel it come.
Loook around, look around, look around.
June is busting out all over--all over the meadow and the hill.
Buds are busting out of bushes and the little river pushes every little wheel that wheels behind a mill.
Because it's June. June. June. June.
Just because it's June, June, June!
You can just feel the vibrant summer hopes in those lyrics can't you. Well, it may be the case that "flaming" June- it's other most notable adjective- did that regularly in 1940s New England where the memorable musical is set, but in Old England we've not seen much sign of the sunshine in these first 34 hours or so of the mid month of the year. Bit more like the gloomy winter our friends in Oz and NZ are now commencing, I guess.
I hope the weather will soon improve, and particularly when it comes to the last week of the month when I celebrate my birthday- hence why I find this month so special. Blessed is he who expects nothing, so I won't tell you the exact date and you won't find it in my profile any more. It seems the only way you can get Blogger NOT to feature your "starsign" is to take out your birthday, a rather bad piece of programming in my view.
Many people view astrology as harmless fun, but it takes more than inanimate celestial objects to determine the future. Rather, the loving, compassionate, supremely intelligent One who is Father, Son and Holy Spirit, God in three persons, celebrates every birthday, every life and every passing. His care for us is so great that he takes an intimate interest in every detail of our lives- not just our feeble efforts to offer him our thanks and praise on a Sunday morning or in a mid-week meeting, or even in our private thoughts and moments that nobody else sees.
But this God is in no ways an interfering tyrant, which seems to be so sadly the way some have portrayed him. God gives us free will to make both good and bad choices each day, whether at work, rest or play. He doesn't need a Mars bar or a far star to determine the fates of individuals and nations for with a paradox our finite minds will never quite grasp, although we have free will "He's got the whole world in His hands" to quote a classic spiritual song which is just as joyful to sing in June as any other month of His year. Alleluia!
I'm grateful to my Ozzie friend "Lynn345", who you'll often find in the Friends Reunited Connections chat rooms, for pointing out the error of my ways in keeping a starsign reference up and prompted by her I took steps to remove it. Christians don't need to be self-righteous, but they should always be self-evident: the self in this case being God's very self as revealed in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Of course, the paradox does not escape me that Jesus' birth was heralded to wise men from afar by a star, but this like all of scripture needs to be read with intelligent discernment, which the Holy Spirit helps to give us. An alternative viewpoint of the Magi's appearance of course- and I'm aware that I'm at the wrong end of the year here but, hey, we've been talking about Australia where the seasons are back to front, after all- is that Jesus's coming into the world was of such cosmic significance that it brought even the sages of old, the wiseacres who went west, to their knees. Even they could not have known just what this most important event in the whole of human history was to signal for their age and the age to come- but they knew it merited the finest birthday presents going for the finest man ever to have lived!
March went out like a lion, a whipping up the water in the bay.
Then April sighed, and stepped aside, and along came pretty little May.
May was full of promises, but she couldn't keep 'em quick enough for some.
And a bunch of doubting Thomases kept predicting that the summer'd never come.
But it's coming by gum. I can feel it come.
Loook around, look around, look around.
June is busting out all over--all over the meadow and the hill.
Buds are busting out of bushes and the little river pushes every little wheel that wheels behind a mill.
Because it's June. June. June. June.
Just because it's June, June, June!
You can just feel the vibrant summer hopes in those lyrics can't you. Well, it may be the case that "flaming" June- it's other most notable adjective- did that regularly in 1940s New England where the memorable musical is set, but in Old England we've not seen much sign of the sunshine in these first 34 hours or so of the mid month of the year. Bit more like the gloomy winter our friends in Oz and NZ are now commencing, I guess.
I hope the weather will soon improve, and particularly when it comes to the last week of the month when I celebrate my birthday- hence why I find this month so special. Blessed is he who expects nothing, so I won't tell you the exact date and you won't find it in my profile any more. It seems the only way you can get Blogger NOT to feature your "starsign" is to take out your birthday, a rather bad piece of programming in my view.
Many people view astrology as harmless fun, but it takes more than inanimate celestial objects to determine the future. Rather, the loving, compassionate, supremely intelligent One who is Father, Son and Holy Spirit, God in three persons, celebrates every birthday, every life and every passing. His care for us is so great that he takes an intimate interest in every detail of our lives- not just our feeble efforts to offer him our thanks and praise on a Sunday morning or in a mid-week meeting, or even in our private thoughts and moments that nobody else sees.
But this God is in no ways an interfering tyrant, which seems to be so sadly the way some have portrayed him. God gives us free will to make both good and bad choices each day, whether at work, rest or play. He doesn't need a Mars bar or a far star to determine the fates of individuals and nations for with a paradox our finite minds will never quite grasp, although we have free will "He's got the whole world in His hands" to quote a classic spiritual song which is just as joyful to sing in June as any other month of His year. Alleluia!
I'm grateful to my Ozzie friend "Lynn345", who you'll often find in the Friends Reunited Connections chat rooms, for pointing out the error of my ways in keeping a starsign reference up and prompted by her I took steps to remove it. Christians don't need to be self-righteous, but they should always be self-evident: the self in this case being God's very self as revealed in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Of course, the paradox does not escape me that Jesus' birth was heralded to wise men from afar by a star, but this like all of scripture needs to be read with intelligent discernment, which the Holy Spirit helps to give us. An alternative viewpoint of the Magi's appearance of course- and I'm aware that I'm at the wrong end of the year here but, hey, we've been talking about Australia where the seasons are back to front, after all- is that Jesus's coming into the world was of such cosmic significance that it brought even the sages of old, the wiseacres who went west, to their knees. Even they could not have known just what this most important event in the whole of human history was to signal for their age and the age to come- but they knew it merited the finest birthday presents going for the finest man ever to have lived!
Maybe it's because I'm a Middle-Saxon
Mmm, well we may be in musical mode today, but I think we'll stick to the original 1944 title of Hubert Gregg's homage to his hometown which has been "covered" by the most unlikely of singers since it first brought cheer to the blitz-beleagured citizens of the capital over sixty years ago. It scans much better for starters, even if I may respectfully point out that London was once actually part of my native county of Middlesex, rather than the other way round when Greater London subsumed this historic bit of England forty years ago.
According to the Daily Telegraph obituary of the late songwriter and popular broadcaster last year, Maybe it's Because I'm a Londoner took Gregg just twenty minutes to pen while on leave from the Lincolnshire regiment. It's since been recorded by everyone from comedian Arthur Askey (a Liverpudlian) to Kirk Douglas- and even the Omsk Siberian choir, who sang it in Russian!
Gregg's contemporary Noel Coward, whose eulogy to a flower London Pride was another metropolitan melody which brought comfort between the bombs of those dreadful years of the Second World War, said in one of his plays "strange how potent cheap music can be". How right he was. It can also come in very handy however, when you're suddenly asked at a German wedding reception, fifty years after the war's end, to "do a typically English turn" on the spur of the moment, as I and several of my friends were challenged to do a decade ago this week at the wedding of one of the "Walker brothers" I mentioned in my posting on 20th May.
German wedding receptions are not for the faint-hearted! I can't now remember too many details of the earlier ceremonies, though this has little to do with the copious quantities of food and, of course, beer which were on offer throughout the proceedings. What I can recall though is that the festivities started around 3 in the afternoon in the pleasant surroundings of Glueckstadt, near Hamburg, and continued til around 1.00 the following morning (which happened to be Whit Monday in the UK). Eating a further feast at that time of the morning certainly seemed like a true "wedding breakfast", though the happy couple's first meal as man and wife had been consumed some time earlier. German law, for instance, requires a civil ceremony to take place before a church service- which often provides the opportunity for yet another celebration!
So what of our impromptu entertainment challenge? We were stumped! I am reasonably fluent in conversational German, but coming up with something everybody could join in with and yet reflected our party's own English roots was a tall order. In the end, all I could come up with was to suggest that we offered a rendition of Maybe..., even if there was a slight bit of dramatic licence since not all our party came from the capital. At the time, it probably sounded like a typically eccentric English idea, particularly given the circumstances and the time in which the song was written. Knowing now though that even the Russkis have warbled their way through this capital ditty, perhaps it was actually more of an inspired choice.
Well, we did our best to teach our German brothers and sisters and the happy couple the words of this simple song and it seemed to go down well. However, in a moment of madness at the end I decided it was time to inflict on the assembled guests my impersonation of the Westminster Chimes followed by the most famous "bongs" in the world, better known to one and all as Big Ben. Goodness knows why, but this brought the house down, though thank heavens it didn't bring the Houses (of Parliament) down. Perhaps it was the memory of this affront to his dignity though which silenced the mammoth bell for no less than ninety minutes last week, though the engineers say it was more likely due to the effects on Ben's aged inner workings of of that all too rare event of a London Summer, a hot day.
Not that I am wanting too many hot days this Summer, mind, even though pundits have been saying for weeks that we are likely to have a repeat of the astounding temperatures reached in 2003 here in the UK. I hope not, personally: it's fine if you are bathing in the rare, balmy waters of the Channel, as I was at Eastbourne when the 100 degree fahrenheit mark was breached in August 03 at Faversham, Kent - my dear late Mum's birthplace- but not if you are about to become a London commuter for the first time!
Yes, the biggest news of this week for me is that I have been offered a new job! I still don't want to say too much about it until I have actually started, but it is with a Christian organisation based in Central London, just off Oxford Street, and seems to have many components which are "made for me". I can't pretend that I relish the prospect of a twice daily trot up to town, or rather the rattling of the rails, which is a commuter's lot even in these days of air-conditioned Desiro rolling stock on South West Trains. Nevertheless, the thought of once again having a regular income coming in, through my own earned efforts rather than my debt to a card company, and working with folk who have a genuine interest and commitment to the practical application of the gospel, fills me with anticpation and delight.
Not only will I have access to some fine Christian minds, the nation's top shops will be but a hop away -though I don't intend to indulge too much in those- and all the delights of the capital's world will be my Oyster (card) to flit between the sights after work or even at weekends. God moves in mysterious ways: who knows where this will lead? Have I made the right choice? These are never easy questions to answer. So many of life's decisions have to be taken on trust, but with so many choices open to us these days it is so easy to wonder whether you have made the right choice.
The plenty we enjoy in our present age, in our wedding feasts, our church suppers for Wesley day, or our weekend fare on our supermarket shelves are the dividend of our freedom- and yet it is easy to forget that those we fought in World War II knew the privations of war and the sacrifices of rationing far more than my privileged post-war baby boomer generation are ever likely to. Sitting downstairs in the kitchen at the moment is a seven pound, three ounce iced fruit cake, made by a former naval chef for the benefit of the fete I mentioned in Monday's posting, which was great fun. Much to my amazement, I won it, and collected my prize yesterday afternoon. How am I and my little brother possibly going to eat it all by ourselves? The answer I guess is we are not!
Today mind you could be an appropriate day to eat it, as apparently it's the anniversary of the Queen's coronation back in fifty-three when the eyes of the world and his wife were on London, as Queen Elizabeth the second brought the hopes of a war-ravaged nation and commonwealth to the altar of Westminster Abbey. Liz Windsor's Westminster World is a very challenged one right now, particularly as the politicos grapple with the ramifications of now two nations- the latest being Holland- voting against the new European Union Constitution.
Once again, Europe is at a crossroads, as it was sixty years ago, and in some ways it is a worrying time. I've never quite been convinced by the argument, to be honest, that a united Europe would once and for all prevent the prospect of further war in Europe. That's a lie furnished by idealism rather than the realities of the selfish human heart. At the heart of London, alongside the glacial megaliths and giant gherkins which house the world's financial supercorps, lies the splendour of St Paul's Cathedral, Christopher Wren's masterpiece which stands sentinel to the real victor of all war, Jesus Christ our Lord. "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life", remarked Dr Samuel Johnson, doyen of the dictionary and celebrated on a new coin in this 250th anniversary year of the publication of his first volume. I've never been one to disagree with him on this point- as I've already mentioned, I love my country's capital with all it's delights. As someone who just short of forty-six years ago was born in a London postal district, I can truly sing "maybe it's because I'm a Londoner", and mean it most of the time.
But more than that, I recall my first thoughts when attending my first German wedding: "We were at war with these people: why?". Of course, the reality we should never forget is that Britain was never really at war with "Germany" between 1939 and 1945, but with the evil regime of the Nazis which had supplanted most decent human values and compassion within that great swathe of Europe. So then, I'd be more prone to say, as a Christian, then as now "when a man is tired of loving, he is tired of life"
According to the Daily Telegraph obituary of the late songwriter and popular broadcaster last year, Maybe it's Because I'm a Londoner took Gregg just twenty minutes to pen while on leave from the Lincolnshire regiment. It's since been recorded by everyone from comedian Arthur Askey (a Liverpudlian) to Kirk Douglas- and even the Omsk Siberian choir, who sang it in Russian!
Gregg's contemporary Noel Coward, whose eulogy to a flower London Pride was another metropolitan melody which brought comfort between the bombs of those dreadful years of the Second World War, said in one of his plays "strange how potent cheap music can be". How right he was. It can also come in very handy however, when you're suddenly asked at a German wedding reception, fifty years after the war's end, to "do a typically English turn" on the spur of the moment, as I and several of my friends were challenged to do a decade ago this week at the wedding of one of the "Walker brothers" I mentioned in my posting on 20th May.
German wedding receptions are not for the faint-hearted! I can't now remember too many details of the earlier ceremonies, though this has little to do with the copious quantities of food and, of course, beer which were on offer throughout the proceedings. What I can recall though is that the festivities started around 3 in the afternoon in the pleasant surroundings of Glueckstadt, near Hamburg, and continued til around 1.00 the following morning (which happened to be Whit Monday in the UK). Eating a further feast at that time of the morning certainly seemed like a true "wedding breakfast", though the happy couple's first meal as man and wife had been consumed some time earlier. German law, for instance, requires a civil ceremony to take place before a church service- which often provides the opportunity for yet another celebration!
So what of our impromptu entertainment challenge? We were stumped! I am reasonably fluent in conversational German, but coming up with something everybody could join in with and yet reflected our party's own English roots was a tall order. In the end, all I could come up with was to suggest that we offered a rendition of Maybe..., even if there was a slight bit of dramatic licence since not all our party came from the capital. At the time, it probably sounded like a typically eccentric English idea, particularly given the circumstances and the time in which the song was written. Knowing now though that even the Russkis have warbled their way through this capital ditty, perhaps it was actually more of an inspired choice.
Well, we did our best to teach our German brothers and sisters and the happy couple the words of this simple song and it seemed to go down well. However, in a moment of madness at the end I decided it was time to inflict on the assembled guests my impersonation of the Westminster Chimes followed by the most famous "bongs" in the world, better known to one and all as Big Ben. Goodness knows why, but this brought the house down, though thank heavens it didn't bring the Houses (of Parliament) down. Perhaps it was the memory of this affront to his dignity though which silenced the mammoth bell for no less than ninety minutes last week, though the engineers say it was more likely due to the effects on Ben's aged inner workings of of that all too rare event of a London Summer, a hot day.
Not that I am wanting too many hot days this Summer, mind, even though pundits have been saying for weeks that we are likely to have a repeat of the astounding temperatures reached in 2003 here in the UK. I hope not, personally: it's fine if you are bathing in the rare, balmy waters of the Channel, as I was at Eastbourne when the 100 degree fahrenheit mark was breached in August 03 at Faversham, Kent - my dear late Mum's birthplace- but not if you are about to become a London commuter for the first time!
Yes, the biggest news of this week for me is that I have been offered a new job! I still don't want to say too much about it until I have actually started, but it is with a Christian organisation based in Central London, just off Oxford Street, and seems to have many components which are "made for me". I can't pretend that I relish the prospect of a twice daily trot up to town, or rather the rattling of the rails, which is a commuter's lot even in these days of air-conditioned Desiro rolling stock on South West Trains. Nevertheless, the thought of once again having a regular income coming in, through my own earned efforts rather than my debt to a card company, and working with folk who have a genuine interest and commitment to the practical application of the gospel, fills me with anticpation and delight.
Not only will I have access to some fine Christian minds, the nation's top shops will be but a hop away -though I don't intend to indulge too much in those- and all the delights of the capital's world will be my Oyster (card) to flit between the sights after work or even at weekends. God moves in mysterious ways: who knows where this will lead? Have I made the right choice? These are never easy questions to answer. So many of life's decisions have to be taken on trust, but with so many choices open to us these days it is so easy to wonder whether you have made the right choice.
The plenty we enjoy in our present age, in our wedding feasts, our church suppers for Wesley day, or our weekend fare on our supermarket shelves are the dividend of our freedom- and yet it is easy to forget that those we fought in World War II knew the privations of war and the sacrifices of rationing far more than my privileged post-war baby boomer generation are ever likely to. Sitting downstairs in the kitchen at the moment is a seven pound, three ounce iced fruit cake, made by a former naval chef for the benefit of the fete I mentioned in Monday's posting, which was great fun. Much to my amazement, I won it, and collected my prize yesterday afternoon. How am I and my little brother possibly going to eat it all by ourselves? The answer I guess is we are not!
Today mind you could be an appropriate day to eat it, as apparently it's the anniversary of the Queen's coronation back in fifty-three when the eyes of the world and his wife were on London, as Queen Elizabeth the second brought the hopes of a war-ravaged nation and commonwealth to the altar of Westminster Abbey. Liz Windsor's Westminster World is a very challenged one right now, particularly as the politicos grapple with the ramifications of now two nations- the latest being Holland- voting against the new European Union Constitution.
Once again, Europe is at a crossroads, as it was sixty years ago, and in some ways it is a worrying time. I've never quite been convinced by the argument, to be honest, that a united Europe would once and for all prevent the prospect of further war in Europe. That's a lie furnished by idealism rather than the realities of the selfish human heart. At the heart of London, alongside the glacial megaliths and giant gherkins which house the world's financial supercorps, lies the splendour of St Paul's Cathedral, Christopher Wren's masterpiece which stands sentinel to the real victor of all war, Jesus Christ our Lord. "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life", remarked Dr Samuel Johnson, doyen of the dictionary and celebrated on a new coin in this 250th anniversary year of the publication of his first volume. I've never been one to disagree with him on this point- as I've already mentioned, I love my country's capital with all it's delights. As someone who just short of forty-six years ago was born in a London postal district, I can truly sing "maybe it's because I'm a Londoner", and mean it most of the time.
But more than that, I recall my first thoughts when attending my first German wedding: "We were at war with these people: why?". Of course, the reality we should never forget is that Britain was never really at war with "Germany" between 1939 and 1945, but with the evil regime of the Nazis which had supplanted most decent human values and compassion within that great swathe of Europe. So then, I'd be more prone to say, as a Christian, then as now "when a man is tired of loving, he is tired of life"
Wednesday, 1 June 2005
Here are a couple of photos for posterity just so you can see what an ugly mug your correspondent really has! I say for posterity, because what I did hear you can no longer get away with as far as The Passport Agency is concerned: smiling is not permitted! By the way, the glasses have changed since this was taken four years ago, but the hair hasn't- there's even less of it now!
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