Readers of RadioFar-far could be forgiven for thinking I've posted to my wrong blog today; 'Flowers in the Rain' by The Move was the first ever record played on BBC Radio One early on a Saturday morning back in September 1967. No mistake though: this week it could well also have been the theme song for the famous Chelsea Flower Show during what's now being described as "the wettest drought on record". To say May has been moist would be an under-statement.
It could only happen in Britain, couldn't it. We're renowned throughout the world for our love of gardens as much as our dependability in talking about our undependable weather. The combination of these two elements made for a classic Chelsea this year, as right on cue the heavens delivered a deluge for much of the six days of this start to the annual social season in the UK. Even HM the Queen, making her traditional visit with other members of the royal Family on Monday, decided that a headscarf was better than a soggy royal coiff as she toured the showground and admired the awesome achievements of dedicated amateur and professional gardeners from all over the world.
I've only managed a trip to Chelsea once, one evening in the early eighties. Understandably, tickets sell out weeks in advance so thank heavens for the BBC's excellent coverage,anchored by Alan Titchmarsh who himself has become something of a national treasure and a best-selling author to boot. It's only a pity the technical bods have yet to find a way to transmit smells across the airwaves, then we could really enjoy Chelsea in all its glory from an armchair.
Rain too is punctuating the last Bank Holiday of the Spring in what was traditionally known as "Whitsun Week" when the holiday always coincided with Pentecost before it was set for the last weekend in May regardless of religious timings. Yesterday afternoon, I went with my brother to enjoy the Brentford Waterside Festival, except most of the water seemed to be coming from the sky rather than the Grand Union Canal and the River Brent at this historic point where both enter Britain's longest river and, in legend if not in proven fact, Julius Caesar crossed the Thames.
Being British means stiffening your upper lip not with starch but with stoicism whatever the weather. That was evident from everybody at Chelsea this year and it was just as present in the hardy souls who braved the rain to enjoy the Waterside festival. This was once a bustling docks, where all manner of cargoes were transferred from the watery way to the permanent way of Brunel's Great Western Railway, and vice versa.
The steam trains and the horses which once pulled the barges have long gone, but the views of flora and even fauna along the towpath here can be as delightful as anything found in the grounds of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. Barges painted in colourful floral liveries vie with the wild flowers of the towpath for visitors' attention, and are all the more enjoyable when viewed from on board one of these lovely vessels. I was delighted to take a short ride aboard the "Pisces", one of the craft of the Hillingdon Narrowboats Association along with my brother who knows these vessels well and has a certificate in the delicate art of steering and turning them- no mean feet given that they are up to 72 feet/24 metres long!
For all that the weather has disappointed this week, it's ended with a great appreciation of the English spring in all its variety and colour. The great English landscape painter J M W Turner spent his early years in Brentford, commemorated in one of the town's hostelries, but even he could never have captured the scenes of natural wonder on hilltop or water's edge, as finely as God does in leaf and petal, stem and branch.
Britain has so much to offer the lover of greenery and scenery in it's watery reflections and garden paths, but as Rudyard Kipling put it "the glory of the garden lies in more than meets the eye". Or rather, as Jesus himself put it, "even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these".
Sunday, 28 May 2006
Sunday, 14 May 2006
Penalty Post Script
Little did I know when I wrote yesterday's posting what a thriller we were in for! After a scrappy start (twenty minutes of nothing particularly impressive), an own goal for Liverpool and then a gaffe from their goalie, things seemed to be going West Ham's way. Yet the match ended at full time with the score line at 3-3 -helped largely by a "hat trick" by Liverpool's Steven Gerrard. It remained so after extra time. Sadly this meant the result had to be decided on penalties, and perhaps inevitably Liverpool then went on to win. As Gerrard himself put it "we summoned up the spirit of Istanbul", referring to The Reds win on penalties in the European Cup just short of a year ago, another nail-biting escape from defeat.
For balance though, I should mention that no less exciting for Scottish supporters was the contest between the tiny team of Gretna, famous for its Green and teenage marriages of yore, and Hearts. The village team with a population of 600 had made it through to the final of the Scottish FA Cup, and their match too was level at full time and went to penalties. Hearts won 4-2, but Gretna surely captured the hearts of many a football crazy Caledonian.
Needless to say, this morning all the talk in the media is of "the greatest FA cup final for ages"- but the real action is yet to come. Love it or hate it, there will be no escape from soccer through til the 9th July with, supposedly, billions viewing the World Cup throughout the world. And English expectations once again move to the hope of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy in Germany, as they did against them forty years ago at the old Wembley Stadium.
The pessimist in me can't help thinking the hopes will all be to no avail despite all the flag-waving, but who am I to say. If a young guy can come from nowhere against the world to win the world, there's hope. Surely I must mean England's hero of 66, former West Ham player Sir Geoff Hurst, showing mixed loyalties this year by advertising for the German Tourist Board on London Underground?
Hardly. The young guy saving the world hung on a cross nearly two thousand years ago. With nails hammered excrutiatingly through his flesh to the post, he was there to save us all not on penalties but from penalty- our deserved red card from God. Yet he rose again in extra time- eternal time- three days later. His match on this earth lasted thirty three years. His legacy and the hope he brings has lasted far more than forty, indeed unlike Geoff Hurst or any sporting heroes, this hero will be with us always, until the end of the age. He has captured, and will continue to capture billions of hearts. He had rescued men and women for twenty centuries from a crushing defeat at the hands of a devilishly red enemy, by his own life given up for his side. Alleluia, what a Saviour!
For balance though, I should mention that no less exciting for Scottish supporters was the contest between the tiny team of Gretna, famous for its Green and teenage marriages of yore, and Hearts. The village team with a population of 600 had made it through to the final of the Scottish FA Cup, and their match too was level at full time and went to penalties. Hearts won 4-2, but Gretna surely captured the hearts of many a football crazy Caledonian.
Needless to say, this morning all the talk in the media is of "the greatest FA cup final for ages"- but the real action is yet to come. Love it or hate it, there will be no escape from soccer through til the 9th July with, supposedly, billions viewing the World Cup throughout the world. And English expectations once again move to the hope of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy in Germany, as they did against them forty years ago at the old Wembley Stadium.
The pessimist in me can't help thinking the hopes will all be to no avail despite all the flag-waving, but who am I to say. If a young guy can come from nowhere against the world to win the world, there's hope. Surely I must mean England's hero of 66, former West Ham player Sir Geoff Hurst, showing mixed loyalties this year by advertising for the German Tourist Board on London Underground?
Hardly. The young guy saving the world hung on a cross nearly two thousand years ago. With nails hammered excrutiatingly through his flesh to the post, he was there to save us all not on penalties but from penalty- our deserved red card from God. Yet he rose again in extra time- eternal time- three days later. His match on this earth lasted thirty three years. His legacy and the hope he brings has lasted far more than forty, indeed unlike Geoff Hurst or any sporting heroes, this hero will be with us always, until the end of the age. He has captured, and will continue to capture billions of hearts. He had rescued men and women for twenty centuries from a crushing defeat at the hands of a devilishly red enemy, by his own life given up for his side. Alleluia, what a Saviour!
Saturday, 13 May 2006
You'll Never Blow Bubbles Alone
The venerable John Motson, "Motty" to most, has just announced "the one and only FA Cup Final" on BBC One and indeed it's an event every May famous throughout the world: who needs FIFA and their World Cup every four years? I must confess I'm not really a soccer afficianado, but breaking my habit of recent years, I can't resist watching the build up to the 125th final and the traditional community singing- and I might even watch some of the playing action on the pitch as well.
This year's 22 men - not to mention the subs in the dugout-dribbling and tackling, striking and saving, represent the very vocal fans of two of England's finest teams on Wales's finest turf, the Millennium Stadium in my old university city of Cardiff. It should have been Wembley, of course in my home county of Middlesex, but that's another story. Liverpool and West Ham: the Hammers versus the crowd from the cop.
Whoever wins, at the end of ninety minutes action on the pitch it won't just be the players who are either exhausted or exaltant. The fans, the supporters will no doubt be hoarse from their singing and chanting of their respective anthems. I'm not quite sure how West Ham United came to be associated with "I'm forever blowing bubbles", but surely Liverpool FC's renditions of the Rogers and Hammerstein classic "You'll Never Walk Alone" will as always leave ne'er a dry eye in the stadium, or the house.
SURREY WITH THE FRIDGE ON TOP
I couldn't help thinking of the music and the match as I spent several afternoons this week bowlderising another Rogers and Hammerstein song, as I went out into Surrey, one English county without a premiership soccer side but with no shortage of other top class sporting venues. The annual Christian Resources Exhibition was held somewhat incongruously in another grandstand at Sandown Park Racecourse, on four of the loveliest Spring days so far this year. As a friend of mine wonderfully described it this week, "when May is firing on all cylinders, it can be exquisite". It certainly was, though it was pretty warm and I could have done with a fridge on my top to keep cool at times.
Instead, my half-time refreshment was a reviving coffee or cuppa as I took in the inspiring long view across a lovely part of the Thames Valley and my spirit soared with encouragement and imagination as I attempted to visit some of the 300+ exhibitors while sitting in on just a few of the 110 plus seminars on offer.
Christians of today have almost an embarrasment of riches on offer to present the gospel and to grow with God. Yet so often the media paints a picture of a secular society and of a church in decline. The success of this event, going now for some 20 years, belies that conceit and proves that the church of Christ in the UK is alive and growing, thank you very much.
Yet maybe it's time to remember too that much of what we think secular started with "Christian" activity. In medicine, education, the rehabilitation of prisoners- and yes even in sport, Christians were in the vanguard. What motivated these pioneers, as Gerald Coates, the founder of the Pioneer stream of new churches, noted in his seminar on Friday, was their commitment to Christ. Some of today's soccer teams began as church initiatives. Maybe today, if the church could get its act together and commit to mission rather than survival, yet again Britain could be a nation walking with Christ, who promised "I will never leave you or foresake you" , rather than walking alone on the road not even to Wembley or Cardiff but to nowhere.
This year's 22 men - not to mention the subs in the dugout-dribbling and tackling, striking and saving, represent the very vocal fans of two of England's finest teams on Wales's finest turf, the Millennium Stadium in my old university city of Cardiff. It should have been Wembley, of course in my home county of Middlesex, but that's another story. Liverpool and West Ham: the Hammers versus the crowd from the cop.
Whoever wins, at the end of ninety minutes action on the pitch it won't just be the players who are either exhausted or exaltant. The fans, the supporters will no doubt be hoarse from their singing and chanting of their respective anthems. I'm not quite sure how West Ham United came to be associated with "I'm forever blowing bubbles", but surely Liverpool FC's renditions of the Rogers and Hammerstein classic "You'll Never Walk Alone" will as always leave ne'er a dry eye in the stadium, or the house.
SURREY WITH THE FRIDGE ON TOP
I couldn't help thinking of the music and the match as I spent several afternoons this week bowlderising another Rogers and Hammerstein song, as I went out into Surrey, one English county without a premiership soccer side but with no shortage of other top class sporting venues. The annual Christian Resources Exhibition was held somewhat incongruously in another grandstand at Sandown Park Racecourse, on four of the loveliest Spring days so far this year. As a friend of mine wonderfully described it this week, "when May is firing on all cylinders, it can be exquisite". It certainly was, though it was pretty warm and I could have done with a fridge on my top to keep cool at times.
Instead, my half-time refreshment was a reviving coffee or cuppa as I took in the inspiring long view across a lovely part of the Thames Valley and my spirit soared with encouragement and imagination as I attempted to visit some of the 300+ exhibitors while sitting in on just a few of the 110 plus seminars on offer.
Christians of today have almost an embarrasment of riches on offer to present the gospel and to grow with God. Yet so often the media paints a picture of a secular society and of a church in decline. The success of this event, going now for some 20 years, belies that conceit and proves that the church of Christ in the UK is alive and growing, thank you very much.
Yet maybe it's time to remember too that much of what we think secular started with "Christian" activity. In medicine, education, the rehabilitation of prisoners- and yes even in sport, Christians were in the vanguard. What motivated these pioneers, as Gerald Coates, the founder of the Pioneer stream of new churches, noted in his seminar on Friday, was their commitment to Christ. Some of today's soccer teams began as church initiatives. Maybe today, if the church could get its act together and commit to mission rather than survival, yet again Britain could be a nation walking with Christ, who promised "I will never leave you or foresake you" , rather than walking alone on the road not even to Wembley or Cardiff but to nowhere.
Tuesday, 2 May 2006
Great Great Great Dott Com
From the tear-jerking drama of inspired fiction to the emotionally-charged thrills of great sport, this morning's posting moves on to the world of the balls, the balls. Yes, this morning's; the final of the 2006 World Snooker Championship has just ended after a last session which broke all tournament records by lasting five hours and eventually finishing well after midnight. More details at the official World Snooker website-click on the title above.
Into the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield, the city of sword and steel, strode two players who'd made it through eighteen days of play to show steely determination to win the coveted trophy, and a first prize of £200K (about $US350K). It was the first world championship in the game to be sponsored by an on-line gambling firm after years associated with the smoke-filled world of the tobacco magnates. The company certainly got their money's worth, as did the bleary-eyed spectators who stayed to watch the gripping, nail biting match between former world champion Peter Ebdon and young Scot, Graeme Dott.
Yet maybe the television viewers who stayed the course -even if they did lapse into slumberland for quite a while during the marathon evening, like me- got the best deal of all. Every nuance of emotion and almost every bead of sweat, was brought out by the lenses of the cameras as much as the physical brilliance of the playing duo in hitting their target balls with stunning accuracy through 31 frames over two days. If it's already riveting viewing, how much more so will it become when High Definition TV becomes the norm.
Peter Ebdon came back from being seven frames down to within three frames of victory by a last burst of brilliance on the night. In the end, however, he was beaten by the new champion with flair and yet grace. Perhaps this is what makes snooker such a gripping and entertaining event at this level. While the game has had its more notorious characters, tonight's final was the antithesis of mis-spent youth with which it has often been linked. Instead, both Ebdon and Dott showed true sportsmanship and praiseworthy acknowledgement of their rival.If only more could be like these two gentlemen in an age saturated by prima Maradonnas, bitter adversaries on the field of play and others who seem to have forgotten "it's not the winning, it's the taking part" that matters.
That's surely as true of life generally, as it is of sport; one reason maybe why St Paul uses the analogy of sporting pursuits when he encourages his hearers to press on towards the goal. Those who follow this spiritual precept with discipline and training, and the supreme coach's command to "love one another" to the end will find themselves in front not of a multi-million betting supremo, but of God made man, Jesus Christ. And that's a glittering prize worth more than any earthly trophy.
Into the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield, the city of sword and steel, strode two players who'd made it through eighteen days of play to show steely determination to win the coveted trophy, and a first prize of £200K (about $US350K). It was the first world championship in the game to be sponsored by an on-line gambling firm after years associated with the smoke-filled world of the tobacco magnates. The company certainly got their money's worth, as did the bleary-eyed spectators who stayed to watch the gripping, nail biting match between former world champion Peter Ebdon and young Scot, Graeme Dott.
Yet maybe the television viewers who stayed the course -even if they did lapse into slumberland for quite a while during the marathon evening, like me- got the best deal of all. Every nuance of emotion and almost every bead of sweat, was brought out by the lenses of the cameras as much as the physical brilliance of the playing duo in hitting their target balls with stunning accuracy through 31 frames over two days. If it's already riveting viewing, how much more so will it become when High Definition TV becomes the norm.
Peter Ebdon came back from being seven frames down to within three frames of victory by a last burst of brilliance on the night. In the end, however, he was beaten by the new champion with flair and yet grace. Perhaps this is what makes snooker such a gripping and entertaining event at this level. While the game has had its more notorious characters, tonight's final was the antithesis of mis-spent youth with which it has often been linked. Instead, both Ebdon and Dott showed true sportsmanship and praiseworthy acknowledgement of their rival.If only more could be like these two gentlemen in an age saturated by prima Maradonnas, bitter adversaries on the field of play and others who seem to have forgotten "it's not the winning, it's the taking part" that matters.
That's surely as true of life generally, as it is of sport; one reason maybe why St Paul uses the analogy of sporting pursuits when he encourages his hearers to press on towards the goal. Those who follow this spiritual precept with discipline and training, and the supreme coach's command to "love one another" to the end will find themselves in front not of a multi-million betting supremo, but of God made man, Jesus Christ. And that's a glittering prize worth more than any earthly trophy.
Sunday, 30 April 2006
Who? What? When? Where? Why?
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!
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, 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.
Friday, 24 March 2006
Homeward Unbound
So often the news from the Middle East and Persian Gulf these days is dominated by heart-breaking headlines telling of yet another bombing, murder, skirmish or outbreak of the evil exchanges which it would be easy to imagine are the permanent currency of the region. How good it is today then to be sharing in the worldwide joy which greeted news yesterday of the release of 74-year old Norman Kember, and two of the other Christian peace activitists kidnapped with him last November.
How much more encouraging to people of faith though, like Mr Kember, to see God's hand in their release, and not just the well-honed skills of the world famous British Special Air Service (SAS) who apparently liberated Mr Kember and his Canadian co-workers from their captors.
Truly this is prayer answered, and I am so glad I joined the Trafalgar Square vigil last month to pray for their release and to stand up for what is right. Some may see their actions as foolhardy, and entering into strife-torn danger zones may not be the first choice of activity you associate with a Pinner pensioner. Nevertheless, these angels have rushed in where fools so often tread, and thank heavens for voices of sanity like theirs.
Even if the outcome was not a storybook ending- weeks of intelligence work and an outcome free of bloodshed did not spare Tom Fox, who was found dead two weeks earlier by a Baghdad roadside- here is an example for the scoffers and the doubters that the good fight can be fought with all might in the 21st century as much as the first, but without force of arms. Love and prayer can still be weapons of mass instruction.
Jesus Christ gave up his life and experienced the horror of the most painful and merciless of deaths, just that those he gave it for might live. Thank the Lord then, literally, that those who follow him do not always have to sacrifice their precious human existence as they stand up for what is right, and peace in our time.
Thank God for answered prayer, and may Norman Kember and all who work for peace in a world riddled by hatred always know Jesus' words of comfort and re-assurance: "blessed are the peacemakers"
How much more encouraging to people of faith though, like Mr Kember, to see God's hand in their release, and not just the well-honed skills of the world famous British Special Air Service (SAS) who apparently liberated Mr Kember and his Canadian co-workers from their captors.
Truly this is prayer answered, and I am so glad I joined the Trafalgar Square vigil last month to pray for their release and to stand up for what is right. Some may see their actions as foolhardy, and entering into strife-torn danger zones may not be the first choice of activity you associate with a Pinner pensioner. Nevertheless, these angels have rushed in where fools so often tread, and thank heavens for voices of sanity like theirs.
Even if the outcome was not a storybook ending- weeks of intelligence work and an outcome free of bloodshed did not spare Tom Fox, who was found dead two weeks earlier by a Baghdad roadside- here is an example for the scoffers and the doubters that the good fight can be fought with all might in the 21st century as much as the first, but without force of arms. Love and prayer can still be weapons of mass instruction.
Jesus Christ gave up his life and experienced the horror of the most painful and merciless of deaths, just that those he gave it for might live. Thank the Lord then, literally, that those who follow him do not always have to sacrifice their precious human existence as they stand up for what is right, and peace in our time.
Thank God for answered prayer, and may Norman Kember and all who work for peace in a world riddled by hatred always know Jesus' words of comfort and re-assurance: "blessed are the peacemakers"
Tuesday, 21 March 2006
Last of the Winter Whine
I guess I wouldn't be a British Blogger if I didn't hark on about the weather once in a while! It seems to be our most well-known national characteristic, and is a surefire conversation starter whenever meeting someone new- readers outside the British Isles take note if you've never yet visited these shores but intend to some day.
Today is officially the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, with yesterday being the vernal equinox when the hours of day and night were roughly equal. From here on in, lightwise at least we're coasting up to the summit of the year and the longest day in my favourite month, June- I can't wait for the longer evenings, especially when Summer time clicks in as the clocks go forward on Sunday.
Unfortunately, though, the climate's got a long way to go yet before it catches up, and today it is still as bitterly chilly as it seems to have been since the end of last year. Everywhere in the media and in the daily chatter of chilly choppers, the topic's the same: when IS Spring going to arrive this year? Even the poor daffodils are staying in hibernation for want of a bit of sunshine- though ironically in South-East England, it's rain we're needing rather more after the driest winter since 1933.
The BBC's weather experts are blaming it on a late autumn, knocking on to a delayed winter and hence a tardy spring. First time I've heard that one, I must admit, but it's a plausible theory.
Life often mimics the seasons in the same way, and indeed the writer of Ecclesiastes, often seen as one of the gloomiest books of the Bible, said that for everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens (New International Version translation).
Trouble is, it's not always so easy to read the signs of the changing seasons in our own lives- when we should be moving on from one place, activity or relationship, to another. If only we had the same clues, like the previously naked pussy willow now putting on its spring garb with the tree's soft and furry catkins, or the blackbird chirruping away in sheer joy as well as mate-seeking.
In fact, the clues are all around- and in less than a month, Christians will be replacing the long period of reflection, repentance and withdrawal of Lent with the dark events of Christ's passion followed swiftly by the annual marvel and revelation of the April opening of the empty tomb- and the resurrection! I've no doubt that Jesus's resurrection was an actual physical event, but how much more is it- especially with its timing in the Spring of the year in the place it occurred- the realisation of God's promises to us, and the hope that each new Springtime brings.
Why worry about the passage of the years and the fact we're all getting older? Why should age anyway be any barrier to achieving what you want to, or perhaps are even destined to do by the almighty? Why not instead be like the old codgers in Last of the Summer Wine wandering the idyllic countryside of West Yorkshire without a care in the world, taking each day as it comes and making the most of this extraordinary gift called life, as long as it endures. Surely that's no cause for whining, nor for pining, but rather for shining. There may be no sign of the sun, but we wait to be reminded that the dying son became the risen son-and that puts a spring in my step every day!
Today is officially the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, with yesterday being the vernal equinox when the hours of day and night were roughly equal. From here on in, lightwise at least we're coasting up to the summit of the year and the longest day in my favourite month, June- I can't wait for the longer evenings, especially when Summer time clicks in as the clocks go forward on Sunday.
Unfortunately, though, the climate's got a long way to go yet before it catches up, and today it is still as bitterly chilly as it seems to have been since the end of last year. Everywhere in the media and in the daily chatter of chilly choppers, the topic's the same: when IS Spring going to arrive this year? Even the poor daffodils are staying in hibernation for want of a bit of sunshine- though ironically in South-East England, it's rain we're needing rather more after the driest winter since 1933.
The BBC's weather experts are blaming it on a late autumn, knocking on to a delayed winter and hence a tardy spring. First time I've heard that one, I must admit, but it's a plausible theory.
Life often mimics the seasons in the same way, and indeed the writer of Ecclesiastes, often seen as one of the gloomiest books of the Bible, said that for everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens (New International Version translation).
Trouble is, it's not always so easy to read the signs of the changing seasons in our own lives- when we should be moving on from one place, activity or relationship, to another. If only we had the same clues, like the previously naked pussy willow now putting on its spring garb with the tree's soft and furry catkins, or the blackbird chirruping away in sheer joy as well as mate-seeking.
In fact, the clues are all around- and in less than a month, Christians will be replacing the long period of reflection, repentance and withdrawal of Lent with the dark events of Christ's passion followed swiftly by the annual marvel and revelation of the April opening of the empty tomb- and the resurrection! I've no doubt that Jesus's resurrection was an actual physical event, but how much more is it- especially with its timing in the Spring of the year in the place it occurred- the realisation of God's promises to us, and the hope that each new Springtime brings.
Why worry about the passage of the years and the fact we're all getting older? Why should age anyway be any barrier to achieving what you want to, or perhaps are even destined to do by the almighty? Why not instead be like the old codgers in Last of the Summer Wine wandering the idyllic countryside of West Yorkshire without a care in the world, taking each day as it comes and making the most of this extraordinary gift called life, as long as it endures. Surely that's no cause for whining, nor for pining, but rather for shining. There may be no sign of the sun, but we wait to be reminded that the dying son became the risen son-and that puts a spring in my step every day!
Thursday, 16 March 2006
Wintry Wesleyan Walking
I wonder if John Wesley was ever frozen to the spot? Unlikely that one of the greatest preachers ever froze with fear with as he preached to the masses, but it must have been chilly atop his horse on his famous jaunts, totalling a couple of hundred thousand miles in all, spreading the Word of God throughout the British Isles. There were no centrally heated equines with all the latest accessories for foot and bottom comfort back then: being one of Ye Servants of God on the move was a jolly uncomfortable lot.
Yet Wesley carried on his world-changing work with incredible stamina, right up to the age of 88 when he died. He did so because he sensed a purpose and God's hand on his ministry. Beyond that, however, many historians believe John Wesley saved Great Britain from revolution in the mid-eighteenth century.
"My Hero" -spiritually at least- came much to mind on Thursday afternoon this week, as I trekked the famous streets of the City of London on a fascinating "Christian Heritage Walk" with my fellow Toolboxers on the penultimate afternoon of this fascinating and stimulating course. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the coldest mid-March afternoon for many years, but despite the discomfort we chilly pedestrians had to bear, the tour included a couple of warm churches and even a flame- of the Spirit, at least, warming the heart if not the body.
Having seen the memorial commemorating the Wesley's conversion on one May evening, as close as possible to where it happened, our tour then took us on to the Labyrinth which is the Museum of London complex and a fascinating memorial- which I'm ashamed to admit as a good Methodist I knew nothing about. The "Wesley Flame" outside the Museum of London is an impressive represnation of the kind of faith Wesley had, which motviated him throughout the second half of his life. Beyond this, there were many impressive and unusual sights, including the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew's, where in the mind's ear it was almost possible to hear the monks chanting. A very different world to the Wesleys, but all part of the rich tapestry which makes up Britain's spiritual past.
If the Christian Heritage walk took us back to London's spiritual past, Toolbox has been an education, and insight and an inspiration to help those of us who believe the time is right for a new spiritual revolution in the UK. A rewarding week gave the hope that we may yet see it happen, and the resources and ideas to help do it. Thank heavens for men and women of vision, faith and commitment.
Yet Wesley carried on his world-changing work with incredible stamina, right up to the age of 88 when he died. He did so because he sensed a purpose and God's hand on his ministry. Beyond that, however, many historians believe John Wesley saved Great Britain from revolution in the mid-eighteenth century.
"My Hero" -spiritually at least- came much to mind on Thursday afternoon this week, as I trekked the famous streets of the City of London on a fascinating "Christian Heritage Walk" with my fellow Toolboxers on the penultimate afternoon of this fascinating and stimulating course. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the coldest mid-March afternoon for many years, but despite the discomfort we chilly pedestrians had to bear, the tour included a couple of warm churches and even a flame- of the Spirit, at least, warming the heart if not the body.
Having seen the memorial commemorating the Wesley's conversion on one May evening, as close as possible to where it happened, our tour then took us on to the Labyrinth which is the Museum of London complex and a fascinating memorial- which I'm ashamed to admit as a good Methodist I knew nothing about. The "Wesley Flame" outside the Museum of London is an impressive represnation of the kind of faith Wesley had, which motviated him throughout the second half of his life. Beyond this, there were many impressive and unusual sights, including the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew's, where in the mind's ear it was almost possible to hear the monks chanting. A very different world to the Wesleys, but all part of the rich tapestry which makes up Britain's spiritual past.
If the Christian Heritage walk took us back to London's spiritual past, Toolbox has been an education, and insight and an inspiration to help those of us who believe the time is right for a new spiritual revolution in the UK. A rewarding week gave the hope that we may yet see it happen, and the resources and ideas to help do it. Thank heavens for men and women of vision, faith and commitment.
Monday, 13 March 2006
Give us the tools.
Why do we lionise our heroes to the extent we can't recognise they are still only flawed humans? For surely, in their weakness can often be found their strength.
Winston Churchill is an unexpected example of flawed humanity who nevertheless achieved great things. Controversy has been stirred up this week over a new statue of Britain's great wartime prime minister. Nothing special in that, you might think; "Winnie" has been represented in bronze and stone in numerous locations. Except the new statue in Norwich shows Churchill in anything but the famous "V for Victory pose". Instead, he's shown in a straitjacket, representing the depression, or "black dog" as he called it, which he suffered with throughout his life.
Churchill frequently suffered bouts of dark meaninglessness in his life, yet this was the same man who said "Give us the tools, and we'll finish the job" when war was at its height. The public saw not his weakness, and indeed this and his strokes and heart attacks were kept from them to keep morale high. Instead, they saw Churchill inspiring them, stirring them on to great service and pride in what they could achieve, given the right tools for the job.
This week, I'm trying out a new toolbox myself, the popular regular course run by LICC for anybody in Christian service. I may not have to face the same battles as Churchill, but the tools of effective Christian service are the only way to ensure we can all play our part in winning a new battle, against apathy and nihilism, to finish the job for Christ.
Winston Churchill is an unexpected example of flawed humanity who nevertheless achieved great things. Controversy has been stirred up this week over a new statue of Britain's great wartime prime minister. Nothing special in that, you might think; "Winnie" has been represented in bronze and stone in numerous locations. Except the new statue in Norwich shows Churchill in anything but the famous "V for Victory pose". Instead, he's shown in a straitjacket, representing the depression, or "black dog" as he called it, which he suffered with throughout his life.
Churchill frequently suffered bouts of dark meaninglessness in his life, yet this was the same man who said "Give us the tools, and we'll finish the job" when war was at its height. The public saw not his weakness, and indeed this and his strokes and heart attacks were kept from them to keep morale high. Instead, they saw Churchill inspiring them, stirring them on to great service and pride in what they could achieve, given the right tools for the job.
This week, I'm trying out a new toolbox myself, the popular regular course run by LICC for anybody in Christian service. I may not have to face the same battles as Churchill, but the tools of effective Christian service are the only way to ensure we can all play our part in winning a new battle, against apathy and nihilism, to finish the job for Christ.
Friday, 10 March 2006
TW3
No, TW3 is not my postcode area, though it's not far away and the "Jubilee Mail Centre" through which the pedestrian post passes is even closer to where I sit as I type. This TW3 though was the short acronym affectionately adopted for the BBC's first serious attempt at TV satire in the mid sixties: That Was The Week That Was.
TW3 was daring stuff, even in that decade famed for liberation, though it started before the height of free love and flower power from 1967 onwards. Instead, TW3 blossomed in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis at a time when the Cold War was at its peak and concerns about 'Reds in the Bed' were everywhere. No more so in fact than when those reds might have the wrong sort of connections with both KGB officials and Tory Government ministers, as a certain John Profumo -who has just died at the grand age of 91- was to discover at the cost of his career after his brief dalliance with call girl Christine Keiller.
"It's over, let it go", intoned Millicent Martin each week, I gather, at the end of each TW3 show. I say I gather, because I've only seen the show in archive footage, being too young to remember its original screenings. Satire has a long tradition in British life, and indeed my birthplace in the next postcode area was home to one of the most famous political cartoonists of his era, William Hogarth.
Some things in the news though are always more tragic than funny, and to treat them as satire is of very questionable taste. The news in the last seven days has featured two very different groups of people, but each of them precious to the God who made them and so they should be to all right-thinking human beings with any sense of the dignity and sanctity of human life.
At long last, the obscenity which is apparently Guantanamo Bay, the US holding facility in Cuba for alleged terrorist suspects, is back in the public eye. In the face of worldwide condemnation at the indignity of the detention facility and the purported tactics of its staff, the American government has been forced to release the names of detainees, if not the prisoners themselves. Meanwhile, the inmates of "Gitmo" as it has become known are said to be enduring a regime of torturous force-feeding as they attempt to make their protests in desperation by hunger strike.
A week ago, I first heard about this latest outrage on BBC Radio 4's Today programme: for its effect on me, follow the link by clicking on the title of this post, which directs you to the following Saturday's Thought for the Day on the same programme. It was delivered by a friend of mine who knows how to use both humour and the power of the Word as occasion dictates. On this occasion, it's nothing to laugh about.
The same week saw an overdue reminder in the media of other captives equally precious and needing to be remembered. It's now just over one hundred days since the 74-year old British Christian peace campaigner Norman Kember was abducted, along with three of his fellow workers, in the tragic hell hole which is post-war Iraq. Supporters of Mr Kember and his compatriots had been gathering regularly near London's monuments to hard-won liberty to pray and pursue this case of four human beings only seeking the peace and freedom of their fellow human beings. They do so regardless of creeds and colours, or ideologies and isms. They do so out of love.
On Sunday afternoon, I knew I just had to join these supporters. It was the natural complement to my actions last Friday. The fact the vigil ended up being shown on Tuesday's TV news, a day when a recently-filmed video of Mr Kember and the others gave new hope was not what motivated me. Maybe what did, instead, was looking over to the peak of the building opposite the square where around 100 souls stood in liberty to remember four others who are not at liberty.
That building was South Africa House. What greater sign can there be of the ability of a higher power than avarice and hatred to overcome evil as once reigned in that country which became so villified by the world for its policies of division and apartheid. That peak had two words "Good" and "Hope", either side of the embossed image of a sailing ship presumably rounding the cape of the same name, though that day I thought of it rather more as the "Escape of Good Hope".
Human awfulness can often beach us on the shores of desperation but this is because we so often set our course with the wrong sails aloft. Faith, hope and love should power our three-masted schooner to lead us to the sea of tranquility found only in God's harbour.
Yes, sometimes, there will be laughter along the way, often there will seem to be disaster, war and tragedy. But, as one memorable sixties portrayal of Jesus had it, casting the Messiah as a clown, there can be 'happy endings' to the human stories behind Gitmo and Norman Kember et al. As apparently happened for John Profumo in his latter years, there can be release, redemption and even the promise of resurrection in the face of death. And, for those who believe, God will always have the last laugh.
TW3 was daring stuff, even in that decade famed for liberation, though it started before the height of free love and flower power from 1967 onwards. Instead, TW3 blossomed in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis at a time when the Cold War was at its peak and concerns about 'Reds in the Bed' were everywhere. No more so in fact than when those reds might have the wrong sort of connections with both KGB officials and Tory Government ministers, as a certain John Profumo -who has just died at the grand age of 91- was to discover at the cost of his career after his brief dalliance with call girl Christine Keiller.
"It's over, let it go", intoned Millicent Martin each week, I gather, at the end of each TW3 show. I say I gather, because I've only seen the show in archive footage, being too young to remember its original screenings. Satire has a long tradition in British life, and indeed my birthplace in the next postcode area was home to one of the most famous political cartoonists of his era, William Hogarth.
Some things in the news though are always more tragic than funny, and to treat them as satire is of very questionable taste. The news in the last seven days has featured two very different groups of people, but each of them precious to the God who made them and so they should be to all right-thinking human beings with any sense of the dignity and sanctity of human life.
At long last, the obscenity which is apparently Guantanamo Bay, the US holding facility in Cuba for alleged terrorist suspects, is back in the public eye. In the face of worldwide condemnation at the indignity of the detention facility and the purported tactics of its staff, the American government has been forced to release the names of detainees, if not the prisoners themselves. Meanwhile, the inmates of "Gitmo" as it has become known are said to be enduring a regime of torturous force-feeding as they attempt to make their protests in desperation by hunger strike.
A week ago, I first heard about this latest outrage on BBC Radio 4's Today programme: for its effect on me, follow the link by clicking on the title of this post, which directs you to the following Saturday's Thought for the Day on the same programme. It was delivered by a friend of mine who knows how to use both humour and the power of the Word as occasion dictates. On this occasion, it's nothing to laugh about.
The same week saw an overdue reminder in the media of other captives equally precious and needing to be remembered. It's now just over one hundred days since the 74-year old British Christian peace campaigner Norman Kember was abducted, along with three of his fellow workers, in the tragic hell hole which is post-war Iraq. Supporters of Mr Kember and his compatriots had been gathering regularly near London's monuments to hard-won liberty to pray and pursue this case of four human beings only seeking the peace and freedom of their fellow human beings. They do so regardless of creeds and colours, or ideologies and isms. They do so out of love.
On Sunday afternoon, I knew I just had to join these supporters. It was the natural complement to my actions last Friday. The fact the vigil ended up being shown on Tuesday's TV news, a day when a recently-filmed video of Mr Kember and the others gave new hope was not what motivated me. Maybe what did, instead, was looking over to the peak of the building opposite the square where around 100 souls stood in liberty to remember four others who are not at liberty.
That building was South Africa House. What greater sign can there be of the ability of a higher power than avarice and hatred to overcome evil as once reigned in that country which became so villified by the world for its policies of division and apartheid. That peak had two words "Good" and "Hope", either side of the embossed image of a sailing ship presumably rounding the cape of the same name, though that day I thought of it rather more as the "Escape of Good Hope".
Human awfulness can often beach us on the shores of desperation but this is because we so often set our course with the wrong sails aloft. Faith, hope and love should power our three-masted schooner to lead us to the sea of tranquility found only in God's harbour.
Yes, sometimes, there will be laughter along the way, often there will seem to be disaster, war and tragedy. But, as one memorable sixties portrayal of Jesus had it, casting the Messiah as a clown, there can be 'happy endings' to the human stories behind Gitmo and Norman Kember et al. As apparently happened for John Profumo in his latter years, there can be release, redemption and even the promise of resurrection in the face of death. And, for those who believe, God will always have the last laugh.
Thursday, 9 March 2006
Snowdrop
Puzzle of the day: what is the image on the left of this blog's masthead supposed to be? Most people I suppose would say, "easy, it's an asterisk of course!" OK, but that's a puzzle in itself: where did the asterisk come from? And no, don't tell me Gaul!
I look at this little symbol in rather more picturesque terms though: I think it's a snowflake or if you prefer, a snowdrop.
Snowdrops from the sky have been a regular sight in many parts of the UK this cold, dark season. We were warned back in the autumn that a long, hard winter lay ahead and the meteoro-prophets seem to have been proved right. It seems like a longer watch than usual for Spring, so I hope Bill Oddie's got plenty of nice hot Thermos flasks with him.
Our perception of time and its passage is an odd thing though, as a BBC TV series is currently examining. Astronomically speaking, Winter is no longer or shorter this year than it has ever been. It still lasts three months. But a succession of mornings scraping the ice from the car or regular TV news footage of kids enjoying themselves in the snow can make the coldest season seem to go on forever.
Perhaps that's why God created the other type of snowdrop, the mini blooming delight which has usually exploded from the ground in the second month of the year. It's a visual delight to the jaded winter eyes of any soul observant enough to spot it's tiny floral form.
Daffodils have a similar effect on me. They are the flower of Wales and of March, and every time I see one my heart fills with joy. Indeed, so fond am I of these yellow-trumpeted splendours that I have one on permanent display in my Eastbourne kitchen in the form of a poster. It bears the wording "But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua Chapter 24, Verse 15). Amen to that!
Lent is a time of patient waiting. It will always have forty days (OK, it's actually a few more because Sundays don't count but let's not be pedantic!). It can seem long and hard at times, particularly if a favourite activity or food has been forsaken for the duration.
But God has promised he will never leave us or forsake us- even in the darkest days, as I endured in Lent last year during my Mum's final illness. The hope of Springtime is embedded in the DNA of every flower piercing the barrenness of our garden deserts,as the elusive sun heads northwards on its course towards the equator. But the promise of Easter is in every buried bulb bursting from the soil, as new life is offered by the rising son year after year.
I look at this little symbol in rather more picturesque terms though: I think it's a snowflake or if you prefer, a snowdrop.
Snowdrops from the sky have been a regular sight in many parts of the UK this cold, dark season. We were warned back in the autumn that a long, hard winter lay ahead and the meteoro-prophets seem to have been proved right. It seems like a longer watch than usual for Spring, so I hope Bill Oddie's got plenty of nice hot Thermos flasks with him.
Our perception of time and its passage is an odd thing though, as a BBC TV series is currently examining. Astronomically speaking, Winter is no longer or shorter this year than it has ever been. It still lasts three months. But a succession of mornings scraping the ice from the car or regular TV news footage of kids enjoying themselves in the snow can make the coldest season seem to go on forever.
Perhaps that's why God created the other type of snowdrop, the mini blooming delight which has usually exploded from the ground in the second month of the year. It's a visual delight to the jaded winter eyes of any soul observant enough to spot it's tiny floral form.
Daffodils have a similar effect on me. They are the flower of Wales and of March, and every time I see one my heart fills with joy. Indeed, so fond am I of these yellow-trumpeted splendours that I have one on permanent display in my Eastbourne kitchen in the form of a poster. It bears the wording "But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua Chapter 24, Verse 15). Amen to that!
Lent is a time of patient waiting. It will always have forty days (OK, it's actually a few more because Sundays don't count but let's not be pedantic!). It can seem long and hard at times, particularly if a favourite activity or food has been forsaken for the duration.
But God has promised he will never leave us or forsake us- even in the darkest days, as I endured in Lent last year during my Mum's final illness. The hope of Springtime is embedded in the DNA of every flower piercing the barrenness of our garden deserts,as the elusive sun heads northwards on its course towards the equator. But the promise of Easter is in every buried bulb bursting from the soil, as new life is offered by the rising son year after year.
Wednesday, 8 March 2006
Taking a Second Look..(and a third, and a fourth...)
Now there was me thinking it was only women who'd spend hours trying out a new outfit only to leave the shop unsatisfied!
I've spent much of the morning so far trying out various new looks for this blogspot, using the various templates that are available from the infinite-floored department store of ideas which is Google. I've tried red, I've tried blue, I've tried green- all favourite colours of mine.
OK, superficially they looked appealing in the "mirror" of the Google samples- but try to fit them to my figure, or should I say my words, and they just don't look right on me. However, I did allow a few alterations to my current suit- such as the links now added to your right, and a new profile and description.
Otherwise, we're back to the same template I've been using for most of the last eighteen months, at least for the moment. If any design geeks out there have any bright ideas, I'm open to suggestions. Maybe really though it's weighty words rather than outer clothing I need to change: I'm still working on that one folks, as I attempt to work out my waistline and work out my own salvation too.
In fact, every Lent provides the opportunity to stop and look at ourselves in the mirror of the life of Jesus, who spent forty days listening to the beguiling sales pitch of the tempter, before rejecting it all because he knew he had to put on the garment of rejection. He knew where he had to look for that. It was not to a catwalk nor was it a pec-talk, but his was the most important purchase decision anybody has ever taken in this world- of blood.
The hanger of the cross on Good Friday, where God shed his human clothing in naked awfulness, is where Lent is ultimately focussed. If we fix our eyes on Him, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside when those spiritually-minded intentions to cut out the fat have failed. Our inner clothing will be transformed; no makeover show could ever do that but a simple decision of faith can.
I've spent much of the morning so far trying out various new looks for this blogspot, using the various templates that are available from the infinite-floored department store of ideas which is Google. I've tried red, I've tried blue, I've tried green- all favourite colours of mine.
OK, superficially they looked appealing in the "mirror" of the Google samples- but try to fit them to my figure, or should I say my words, and they just don't look right on me. However, I did allow a few alterations to my current suit- such as the links now added to your right, and a new profile and description.
Otherwise, we're back to the same template I've been using for most of the last eighteen months, at least for the moment. If any design geeks out there have any bright ideas, I'm open to suggestions. Maybe really though it's weighty words rather than outer clothing I need to change: I'm still working on that one folks, as I attempt to work out my waistline and work out my own salvation too.
In fact, every Lent provides the opportunity to stop and look at ourselves in the mirror of the life of Jesus, who spent forty days listening to the beguiling sales pitch of the tempter, before rejecting it all because he knew he had to put on the garment of rejection. He knew where he had to look for that. It was not to a catwalk nor was it a pec-talk, but his was the most important purchase decision anybody has ever taken in this world- of blood.
The hanger of the cross on Good Friday, where God shed his human clothing in naked awfulness, is where Lent is ultimately focussed. If we fix our eyes on Him, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside when those spiritually-minded intentions to cut out the fat have failed. Our inner clothing will be transformed; no makeover show could ever do that but a simple decision of faith can.
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