Questions, I've got some questions. So runs the catchy musical mantra accompanying a BBC ONE trailer on TV at the moment for their local politics coverage on Sunday lunchtimes, the day of rest now providing no rest for budding and thudding residents of the corridors of power. Very appropriate, in a week leading up to elections for local councils in much of England (including my own home borough of Hounslow).
We all want our democratic representatives to give us some answers to persistent political posers, and we like to kid ourselves they'll provide solutions too. Sadly,reality, or at least that version of it presented by the media which so often has its own agenda, has reminded Britons this week that those we elect to govern are still just men and women with feet of clay. They will fail us, they will short-change us, they may even -horror of horrors- be economical with the truth. In short, they don't and never can provide answers or solutions to life's hardest questions.
Maybe another piece of music which I can't get out of my mind even at this early hour gives more of a clue though to where searchers might seek the answers that really matter. The BBC National Orchestra of Wales renders a tour de force performance of Murray Head's superb arrangement of Ron Grainer's timeless Dr Who theme over the closing titles of the second series of this revived science fiction classic. The Saturday night of another Bank Holiday weekend in the UK brought the third episode of what has become a Springtime "must see" on the BBC's flagship channel.
BBC ONE's station ident may sometimes be suggestive red flamenco dancers, but this family viewing ratings "banker" handled issues of love and passion, good versus evil and some eternal questions and human certainties - memento mori (remember you must die)- with great sensitivity last night.
At the same time, as has now become expected of the much-acclaimed revival of a forty-something show, it offered gripping drama, blockbuster action, polished performances and superb writing and character development. I won't spoil the plot for those who have yet to see the show, either in the UK or abroad, but "School Reunion" has to be one of the best ever episodes. I'll have no hesitation watching it again, soon. More details on this episode and the series at the official BBC Dr Who website (click on post title above for link).
Nevertheless, Who is the guy may well have been the answer for one of the ancient Doctor's most popular female companions on the journey, but for believers only Jesus Christ is the Way, the Truth and the Life- a man who will never fail any man, woman or child who He chooses as his companion (literally, sharing his bread), and who willingly goes with him wherever it may lead. We may still have more questions than answers, of course- anybody who tries to pretend that faith brings all knowledge, all at once is self-deluding. But unlike the Doctor's companions, we can confidently know that as he promised "I will never leave you, nor forsake you". And that's an answer I'm so glad I've heard!
Sunday 30 April 2006
Sunday 23 April 2006
Of Quaintness, Queens and Quasimodo
Happy St George's Day! A five-day feast of patriotic passion and affectionate tribute concludes today in England, with the celebration of our patron saint happily coinciding with the eightieth birthday weekend of probably the world's most recognised living woman, Queen Elizabeth II.
As "Defender of the Faith" and titular head of the Church of England, appropriately Her Majesty was honoured with a family thanksgiving service earlier today in her own "house [of Windsor] church", the Chapel of St George within the grounds of Windsor Castle. It is also the chapel to the oldest British Order of Chivalry, the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the motto of which is 'Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense'- meaning 'Evil be to him who thinks it'.
It was an appropriately spiritual hour to give thanks to her maker and ours for the enduring life and service of a woman who, though not 'born to be queen' has carried out her duties tirelessly through a long reign matched only so far in female monarchdom by her great-great grandmother Victoria. Just as in Queen Victoria's day, Elizabeth's has seen many startling changes, both for good and bad.
Meanwhile, co-incidentally, on the streets of the nation's capital, thirty-three thousand hardy souls fought the annual battle against the dragon of "the wall" for the sake of sport, achievement and noble aims. At Windsor, the penetrating lens of the TV camera revealed that the queen does, actually, carry cash, as she placed her offering in the collection plate for the benefit of local hospices. In London at the same time, many from all over Britain and indeed throughout the world were nobly running for the benefit of charities big and small, or in remembrance of personal loss.
These were the valiant foot soldiers who were striving to complete a twenty-six-and-a-bit mile course to trudge wearily to the finish line of the 2006 Flora London Marathon, past a sea of union flags- our national emblem itself being 400 years old this year - in the shadow of the Victoria memorial close by the monarch's London front door at Buckingham Palace. The extra "bit" tagged onto the marathon is no mere metric mistake, but the legacy of an earlier British king for whom the race was specially extended so that it could finish in front of the royal box at the London stadium in the 1908 Olympic Games. The distance has stuck ever since, but the "people's marathon" with runners dressed in costumes weird and wonderful as well as more conventional running attire, has been catching the public imagination ever since the strains of Ron Goodwin's "The Trap" first accompanied the TV pictures of this remarkable event 25 years ago.
These are just some of those many quaint facts about our national life and ways which make me love being an Englishman, eccentricities and all. Sporting occasions aside, we're not really great ones for flag-waving in this corner of Britain, unlike the other nations making up the UK. It's rather a shame, really, so I'm happy to fly the flag of St George on this web page today-even if the feet of the middle-eastern soldier whose patronage we share with several other lands never touched these shores. So much of the folklore surrounding him and his saving of a maiden from an evil beast is, sadly, just myth.
Maybe however the ringing of bells throughout England would be a more appropriate celebration this Sunday- they certainly rang out at Windsor after this morning's service, which can be heard until 29th April by following the link above. The BBC almost grudgingly maybe chose today to give the last airing to the "Radio 4 UK Theme", but it was the bells of another St George's church - Benenden in Kent- which on the same radio station heralded the Second Sunday of Easter today , known quaintly in former times as Quasimodo Sunday. Victor Hugo's hunch-backed bellringer failed to save his love from a tragic end, but the victory of the resurrection is salvation, a happy and glorious end indeed, for even the vilest offender who truly believes, as eventually did "doubting" Thomas, remembered on this day in the church's post-Easter calendar.
Christians believe that the dragon, or rather the serpent, of sin -man's evil nature- has been slain with the red blood of Christ on the cross and his triumph over death that first Easter is surely worth celebrating every day- with bells and smells if that's your preference, but surely with a thankful heart.
Monday 17 April 2006
The Noisiness of the Lambs
What could be more appropriate and lovely a way to end the Easter holiday than a trip to a sheep farm. Lambs are of the essence of the season, and it was a delightful sight to see two of the fluffy darlings being born today at a sheep farm in the great English countryside. The picture above though shows a little artistic licence, as these were Devon lambs snapped on my recent visit to Lee Abbey.
The farm I visited nestles at the foot of the Sussex Downs. This beautiful part of England has long been a favourite retreat of writers, painters and poets. It's also a place I know well, and have had some very special moments with God and with people over the last eighteen years or so. At this time of the year, though, there's an extra joy in the air. Somehow the soil itself seems to sing re-birth now, echoed in the lovely Easter carol to a French tune, Now the Green Blade Riseth.
The arrival of these aahy animals, helped into the world by human midwifery, or rather midewery, was a highlight of Easter Monday for me. The place was also full of wide-eyed wonder from numerous Bank Holiday under-10 spectators and indeed from their Mums, Dads and assorted other visitors.
Little children and the way they see the world with such awesome wonder bring so much more to the enjoyment of life. Maybe it's no wonder that Jesus himself then said theirs is the kingdom of heaven. But as the Resurrection continues to be celebrated, the sweet taste of the new wine of the kingdom is now on offer again to one and all. Now that's something worth making the loudest noise about, whether adult or child!
Sunday 16 April 2006
Open up!
Happy Easter! Today is the climax of everything for Christians: a victory parade, in fact. Few greater songs can be sung than those I've just been warbling at the top of my voice in the dining room, watching the BBC's long-running series Songs of Praise in their celebration of Easter from Lincoln Cathedral, in Eastern England. Probably one of the most popular of Easter hymns, set to the tune Judas Maccabeus by Handel, says it all:
Thine be the glory
Risen Conquering Son
Endless is the victory
Thou o'er death hast won.
Easter Day celebrates the wonderful possibility and potential of humanity that, no matter how low we may seem to sink-even into the grave itself- there is the tantalising, exciting possibility of a life that never ends if we but recognise the meaning of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
April is the month of openings- that's what the word originally meant. Out in my back garden, the silver birch has burst forth with its catkins and all around trees and gardens are springing to life. But no matter how marvellous each springtime catwalk of daffodils, bluebells and blossom may seem, the greatest marvel is that God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that we might live and love forever. And that's surely something to sing about!
Thine be the glory
Risen Conquering Son
Endless is the victory
Thou o'er death hast won.
Easter Day celebrates the wonderful possibility and potential of humanity that, no matter how low we may seem to sink-even into the grave itself- there is the tantalising, exciting possibility of a life that never ends if we but recognise the meaning of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
April is the month of openings- that's what the word originally meant. Out in my back garden, the silver birch has burst forth with its catkins and all around trees and gardens are springing to life. But no matter how marvellous each springtime catwalk of daffodils, bluebells and blossom may seem, the greatest marvel is that God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that we might live and love forever. And that's surely something to sing about!
Friday 14 April 2006
A Nail of Two Cities
Good Friday. A major cosmopolitan city, full of races and faces up for a jolly on one of the big holidays of the year. Around the city centre, the sounds of music and the hustle of celebrations jostle for public attention.
Meanwhile, at the centre of local government, voices of reason are drowned out with "treason!", as a mob in the miasma cast their inevitable verdict on the innocent young man standing before them. The Roman occupation of this city leaves the passage of sentence to Pontius Pilate, who despite the warnings of his troubled wife who'd dreamt of trouble from the 33-year old before him, says "crucify!". Washing his hands, the civil powers with riot shields carry away the young teacher to be left for dead on rotten wood at the city rubbish dump.
This could be Jerusalem: how ironic it's name means "city of peace". It could be 1973 years ago, but tonight the BBC chose to move the drama, the pathos and the tragedy to another city which has known violence, agony and death at the hands of terror and life cut short. This is Manchester, England, AD2006.
As I type this, BBC TWO is airing the "as live" repeat of The Manchester Passion, a controversial but imaginative 21st century reworking of the story of the betrayal, trial and death of the Lord Jesus Christ. Gone are the sacred soundtracks of Handel and Bach, in are the often despairing music and lyrics of the Gallagher brothers of Oasis and the words of Williams, Robbie, minus the voice.
Is this reverent, is it appropriate? As M-people's Search for the Hero Inside Yourself echoes across the rain-washed streets of the North-West, should Jesus' people be mourning or moaning tonight with this radical re-working of the familiar passion narrative?
My own view is it's very appropriate. If anything causes a cynical, secular nation to look again at the most important event in history, it's to be welcomed. The message of the cross cannot be weakened by the creative licence of the 21st century, it can only be strengthened. It is timeless and free of cultural bias. Like the seminal Franco Zeffirelli film of a quarter of a century ago being shown again this weekend on ITV3, Jesus's story can bear re-interpretation in a thousand different ways without loss of its power.
Now, it is finished. Jesus is dead, taken down from the cross. How do you see him: Mad? Jester? Untied.
Buried in a borrowed tomb,the world now waits again for the answer. Promised passionately in the hero of heroes own words, one day soon it will get it.
Meanwhile, at the centre of local government, voices of reason are drowned out with "treason!", as a mob in the miasma cast their inevitable verdict on the innocent young man standing before them. The Roman occupation of this city leaves the passage of sentence to Pontius Pilate, who despite the warnings of his troubled wife who'd dreamt of trouble from the 33-year old before him, says "crucify!". Washing his hands, the civil powers with riot shields carry away the young teacher to be left for dead on rotten wood at the city rubbish dump.
This could be Jerusalem: how ironic it's name means "city of peace". It could be 1973 years ago, but tonight the BBC chose to move the drama, the pathos and the tragedy to another city which has known violence, agony and death at the hands of terror and life cut short. This is Manchester, England, AD2006.
As I type this, BBC TWO is airing the "as live" repeat of The Manchester Passion, a controversial but imaginative 21st century reworking of the story of the betrayal, trial and death of the Lord Jesus Christ. Gone are the sacred soundtracks of Handel and Bach, in are the often despairing music and lyrics of the Gallagher brothers of Oasis and the words of Williams, Robbie, minus the voice.
Is this reverent, is it appropriate? As M-people's Search for the Hero Inside Yourself echoes across the rain-washed streets of the North-West, should Jesus' people be mourning or moaning tonight with this radical re-working of the familiar passion narrative?
My own view is it's very appropriate. If anything causes a cynical, secular nation to look again at the most important event in history, it's to be welcomed. The message of the cross cannot be weakened by the creative licence of the 21st century, it can only be strengthened. It is timeless and free of cultural bias. Like the seminal Franco Zeffirelli film of a quarter of a century ago being shown again this weekend on ITV3, Jesus's story can bear re-interpretation in a thousand different ways without loss of its power.
Now, it is finished. Jesus is dead, taken down from the cross. How do you see him: Mad? Jester? Untied.
Buried in a borrowed tomb,the world now waits again for the answer. Promised passionately in the hero of heroes own words, one day soon it will get it.
Thursday 13 April 2006
Love Unknown
More songs have been sung about it, and no doubt more words written, than on any other subject. Great paintings celebrate it, sculpture captures it in metal, stone or wood. Great minds have sought to explain it, some have even gone out of their minds for want of it.
Love. A four letter word, and yet the most powerful weapon in the universe.
Where does it come from? What is it anyway? Is not a better question, on this cusp between "Maundy Thursday" and "Good Friday" Where did it go?
To a kangaroo court and a timid Roman consul. To religious officials with eyes blinded to any view but their own. To a crowd shouting praises to their king a few days before on Palm Sunday, now baying for his blood. In less than 24 hours, they got it.
This is love unknown. This is the force that brings me to tears, as I write this in my loneliness this late Thursday night, with my brother away at Scout camp and my mother no longer with us. Perhaps I feel more lonely tonight than I have ever done since I was a nine year old boy longing for a friend, and to whom the Passiontide hymn of my title meant then, and still means, so much.
This is Savage bearing his soul. I hope perhaps my British, male readers will give me forebearance. We just don't tend to do things that way here. We're not supposed to show our feelings but instead keep a stiff upper lip and never betray our emotions.
Yet this is folly. Maundy Thursday was when He whose hands flung stars into space knew the absence of love, sweated and wept with worry for fear of death and want of a friend. Even his closest companions of three years, those who earlier that evening had shared the sacred family feast with him, would not stay awake with him as he anticipated the agony of what was to come. When the "authorities" came to arrest Jesus of Nazareth, they all fled. Not one, even the most professedly loyal, would follow him to his fate nor defend him in public.
The saddest fact of life is that, ultimately, we are all alone. We seek love in all its many forms throughout life, but nobody can come with us on that most painful, final of journeys.
Except one, who did- alone, deserted even by his God (his own father, in fact). He was to die the cruellest death imaginable, reserved for the most heinous of criminals.
Jesus wept. Jesus bore injustice, sorrow, desertion. This is love.
This is the reason I live, and its why I need to blog tonight. May you too know this love this holy season.
He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.
Love. A four letter word, and yet the most powerful weapon in the universe.
Where does it come from? What is it anyway? Is not a better question, on this cusp between "Maundy Thursday" and "Good Friday" Where did it go?
To a kangaroo court and a timid Roman consul. To religious officials with eyes blinded to any view but their own. To a crowd shouting praises to their king a few days before on Palm Sunday, now baying for his blood. In less than 24 hours, they got it.
This is love unknown. This is the force that brings me to tears, as I write this in my loneliness this late Thursday night, with my brother away at Scout camp and my mother no longer with us. Perhaps I feel more lonely tonight than I have ever done since I was a nine year old boy longing for a friend, and to whom the Passiontide hymn of my title meant then, and still means, so much.
This is Savage bearing his soul. I hope perhaps my British, male readers will give me forebearance. We just don't tend to do things that way here. We're not supposed to show our feelings but instead keep a stiff upper lip and never betray our emotions.
Yet this is folly. Maundy Thursday was when He whose hands flung stars into space knew the absence of love, sweated and wept with worry for fear of death and want of a friend. Even his closest companions of three years, those who earlier that evening had shared the sacred family feast with him, would not stay awake with him as he anticipated the agony of what was to come. When the "authorities" came to arrest Jesus of Nazareth, they all fled. Not one, even the most professedly loyal, would follow him to his fate nor defend him in public.
The saddest fact of life is that, ultimately, we are all alone. We seek love in all its many forms throughout life, but nobody can come with us on that most painful, final of journeys.
Except one, who did- alone, deserted even by his God (his own father, in fact). He was to die the cruellest death imaginable, reserved for the most heinous of criminals.
Jesus wept. Jesus bore injustice, sorrow, desertion. This is love.
This is the reason I live, and its why I need to blog tonight. May you too know this love this holy season.
He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.
Wednesday 12 April 2006
The Spirit is Willing
Yet the flesh is all too weak, this week. And yet, frail human flesh clothed the deity at this passover period in Jerusalem, twenty centuries ago.
Here we are, half way through Holy Week already. From the joy and expectation of Palm Sunday, we've already moved on to the fast-paced, familiar saga of love and betrayal which this most solemn of Christian remembrances recalls. The last week of life of Jesus Christ, before he was mercilessly crucified "to make us good" saw the climax of his ministry, yet all his friends turning away from him in his most needful hour.
Forgive me if my own flesh is weak, i.e mentally tired, to offer too much by way of reflection at this special time. But really, it has already been said so much better by the words of grace of the Holy Bible. Read the gospel of John's final chapters this week, and you meet the deep, deep love of Jesus revealed in his final days and hours. If you've a spirit willing to receive, never will you read more precious words.
Here we are, half way through Holy Week already. From the joy and expectation of Palm Sunday, we've already moved on to the fast-paced, familiar saga of love and betrayal which this most solemn of Christian remembrances recalls. The last week of life of Jesus Christ, before he was mercilessly crucified "to make us good" saw the climax of his ministry, yet all his friends turning away from him in his most needful hour.
Forgive me if my own flesh is weak, i.e mentally tired, to offer too much by way of reflection at this special time. But really, it has already been said so much better by the words of grace of the Holy Bible. Read the gospel of John's final chapters this week, and you meet the deep, deep love of Jesus revealed in his final days and hours. If you've a spirit willing to receive, never will you read more precious words.
Wednesday 5 April 2006
Radio Alert
The Radio 4 UK theme will be lost to the airwaves around the queen's eightieth birthday, somewhat ironically. For more on this, visit my radio blogspot "RadioFar-Far", following the link on the right.
Saturday 1 April 2006
Heaven in Devon
Please excuse the cyber-silence through the last week of March, but your blogger has been in a place where the wonders of Wi-fi, let alone a mobile phone signal, still don't quite reach. I've not actually been taken up to that place where, like the apostle Paul who claimed some experience of it, we all hope to go one day, but spending four days in England's second-largest county during a finally enwarmed Spring has certainly given a taste of it.
Lee Abbey-click on the post title above for more information- was my location of choice for a four day retreat coupled with a visit to an old friend and my uncle and aunt, who have the good fortune to live around this impressive part of the British coastline. Although I'd visited my family in the area several times, it was my first visit to this famous Christian holiday and conference centre, which was founded in the difficult times following the Second World War. Many Christians then were seeking a spiritual renewal for England while the politicians sought to attend to "practical" needs with the founding of the welfare state. Lee Abbey was one result of the Christian vision, and in the intervening sixty years it has thrived to become part of a widely-respected movement with worldwide support.
I'd been meaning to come down to this beautiful location for many years, and I'd known of Lee Abbey for around two decades though only recently discovered just how much more the Lee Abbey movement has to offer. The first week of Spring "proper" though provided an ideal prompting for this young man to 'go West' for my own Lent reflections and something of the wilderness experience, because it immediately followed the first anniversary of my dear Mum's death on 26th March. With some irony, in the UK this year that was Mothering Sunday, which is our equivalent of Mothers' Day and often called that, though its origins long pre-date the May celebration of these precious ladies in several other countries.
I also happened to be asked to preach at my church on the evening of Mothering Sunday, which went well although I had wondered how I might be able to handle such a co-incidence of timing. I should not have worried; God carried me and my brother through the happy-sad memories of that day and the past week has been memorable too as I seek to move on after this loss.
In Devon, as in Heaven, my past, present and possible future were joined as God made his presence felt a little closer to me and the other dear souls gathered in "Tarka the Otter" country. It was good to meet some new folk and have some enriching, intelligent conversations - food for the soul- as well as a delicious selection of great "grub". With the South West Coastal path skirting the Lee estate, though, fortunately I've found I've lost weight rather than put it on in the past week!
High Lee, How Lee, Holy
The ever-inspiring Brian Draper was the main speaker at the group I attended; follow the link on the left of this page to Brian's always blogspot. Though I'm not sure whether he'll have anything to say about Devon, what he does say he always does skilfully and intelligently with far fewer words than me. Although I'd heard or read some of what Brian said at Lee Abbey in other contexts, I nevertheless found so much of it helpful and challenging stuff. It was an excellent encouragement for all those of us seeking to show that the Christian faith is still as relevant in the very different cultural landscape of 21st century Britain as it was in the first century Holy Land. Another lovely coincidence, incidentally, was that was where I was on this very week sixteen years ago.
Besides the questions applicable to our society in general, the loss of a parent, or indeed any close loved one, naturally causes one to look afresh at the often complex, all too brief experience we call life: how have I used it so far, and how am I going to use the rest of it? What can I do, what can't I do? How do I fit into the grander scheme of things and the way the world is going?
At least, these are some of the many questions I have asked myself during the last twelve months, though it has to be said that they are the sort of probing enquiries that thinking, feeling individuals- whether people of faith or not- should be asking regularly if life is to be lived to the full. Sadly in the Western World today, in my view at least, all too many individuals cheat themselves and others by settling for something less and paddling only in the shallows of life, rather than exploring its wonderful depths.
The Exmoor National Park, in which Lee Abbey is situated, is a breath-taking place where appreciation of the beauty of nature should come naturally to anyone circulating the blood of humanity. Steep granite cliffs slope down to secluded, tiny bays on the Bristol Channel, that stretch of sea where the moodiness of the Atlantic Ocean becomes moderated by the warm winds of the Gulf Stream as it kisses British shores for the first time. I can well understand the appeal of the place.
If you're looking for refreshment and renewal, come on retreat to divine Devon. Choose the wonderful Christian community of Lee Abbey for your stay, and you too can experience a taste of heaven, and you won't find it in a Clotted Cream tub.
Lee Abbey-click on the post title above for more information- was my location of choice for a four day retreat coupled with a visit to an old friend and my uncle and aunt, who have the good fortune to live around this impressive part of the British coastline. Although I'd visited my family in the area several times, it was my first visit to this famous Christian holiday and conference centre, which was founded in the difficult times following the Second World War. Many Christians then were seeking a spiritual renewal for England while the politicians sought to attend to "practical" needs with the founding of the welfare state. Lee Abbey was one result of the Christian vision, and in the intervening sixty years it has thrived to become part of a widely-respected movement with worldwide support.
I'd been meaning to come down to this beautiful location for many years, and I'd known of Lee Abbey for around two decades though only recently discovered just how much more the Lee Abbey movement has to offer. The first week of Spring "proper" though provided an ideal prompting for this young man to 'go West' for my own Lent reflections and something of the wilderness experience, because it immediately followed the first anniversary of my dear Mum's death on 26th March. With some irony, in the UK this year that was Mothering Sunday, which is our equivalent of Mothers' Day and often called that, though its origins long pre-date the May celebration of these precious ladies in several other countries.
I also happened to be asked to preach at my church on the evening of Mothering Sunday, which went well although I had wondered how I might be able to handle such a co-incidence of timing. I should not have worried; God carried me and my brother through the happy-sad memories of that day and the past week has been memorable too as I seek to move on after this loss.
In Devon, as in Heaven, my past, present and possible future were joined as God made his presence felt a little closer to me and the other dear souls gathered in "Tarka the Otter" country. It was good to meet some new folk and have some enriching, intelligent conversations - food for the soul- as well as a delicious selection of great "grub". With the South West Coastal path skirting the Lee estate, though, fortunately I've found I've lost weight rather than put it on in the past week!
High Lee, How Lee, Holy
The ever-inspiring Brian Draper was the main speaker at the group I attended; follow the link on the left of this page to Brian's always blogspot. Though I'm not sure whether he'll have anything to say about Devon, what he does say he always does skilfully and intelligently with far fewer words than me. Although I'd heard or read some of what Brian said at Lee Abbey in other contexts, I nevertheless found so much of it helpful and challenging stuff. It was an excellent encouragement for all those of us seeking to show that the Christian faith is still as relevant in the very different cultural landscape of 21st century Britain as it was in the first century Holy Land. Another lovely coincidence, incidentally, was that was where I was on this very week sixteen years ago.
Besides the questions applicable to our society in general, the loss of a parent, or indeed any close loved one, naturally causes one to look afresh at the often complex, all too brief experience we call life: how have I used it so far, and how am I going to use the rest of it? What can I do, what can't I do? How do I fit into the grander scheme of things and the way the world is going?
At least, these are some of the many questions I have asked myself during the last twelve months, though it has to be said that they are the sort of probing enquiries that thinking, feeling individuals- whether people of faith or not- should be asking regularly if life is to be lived to the full. Sadly in the Western World today, in my view at least, all too many individuals cheat themselves and others by settling for something less and paddling only in the shallows of life, rather than exploring its wonderful depths.
The Exmoor National Park, in which Lee Abbey is situated, is a breath-taking place where appreciation of the beauty of nature should come naturally to anyone circulating the blood of humanity. Steep granite cliffs slope down to secluded, tiny bays on the Bristol Channel, that stretch of sea where the moodiness of the Atlantic Ocean becomes moderated by the warm winds of the Gulf Stream as it kisses British shores for the first time. I can well understand the appeal of the place.
If you're looking for refreshment and renewal, come on retreat to divine Devon. Choose the wonderful Christian community of Lee Abbey for your stay, and you too can experience a taste of heaven, and you won't find it in a Clotted Cream tub.
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