Ash Wednesday

 How can it be Lent again? Sometimes it feels as if we never left last Lent. I will never forget the scramble to do an online service from the church building on Lent 4 last year. It was not much of a  Laetare refreshment Sunday. But we managed something and then came the rapid digita upskilling for us - among many churches. Within a few weeks, the choir in one of my churches was producing music from home - a discpline they have faithfully mantained for many months - interrupted sometimes with brief periods of singing together in the church building. Which is something that I hope none of us ever take for granted again.

But the calendar does not lie, and today is, in spite of my scepticism,  Ash Wednesday. The day on which we ponder our mortality - and  (re?) commit ourselves to spiritual disciplines that will help us to deal with it better - by reminding us that Christian faith and hope maintain that this life is not all there is. God transcends this life and draws us into eternity. So we will die - but it is then that we will see fully....

As a priest on this day I usually get to look healthy people in the eye, make a cross-shaped ash smudge on their forehead and remind them that they are going to die. It's impossibly meaningful and yet utterly mundane.

This year, we're doing it slightly differently. Congregation members have been able to collect a stone with an ash-and-varnish cross on it which we will use in our online service tonight (for which our choir have recorded a hymn, and anthem and a rather lovely plainchant version of Psalm 51  - all of which will be available on our You Tube Channel later)

But the reminder is there. As if we need it. For haven't we done more pondering of our mortality in the past 12 months than at any other time in many of our lives? Every decision at every level (Can I break the rules and walk with two friends? Should I visit my sick parent? Shoud I re-open schools? Restaurants? Who gets a vaccination today?) is governed by considerations of human mortality. Every single decision for the past year has been about saving people from premature death - or saving the ability of the Health Service to cope with patient numbers - which actually amount to the same thing.

I think that, like it or not there has been a collective contemplation of the fragility of life, and the certainty of death. Whether that will bring about lasting change in culture and lifestyle is another (much harder) question. So if, like me, you feel tht your have contemplated mortality enough, i'd like to offer another way of thinking about today. I was really struck by Jan Richardson's Blessing of Dust and the insistent question, "Do you not know what the Holy One can do with dust?" 

Into the dust of human life, God came, lived and died. And transformed that dust into something of eternal worth. So let us be marked, Jan says:

           for claiming

what God can do

within the dust,

within the dirt,

within the stuff

of which the world

is made

and the stars that blaze

in our bones

and the galaxies that spiral

inside the smudge

we bear.

© Jan Richardson  The Painted Prayer Book

What can God do with the dust of which we are made this Lent?

Wilderness

The Judean wilderness January 2019 - a traditional idea of wilderness?

Wilderness

Wilderness is wide.

Bare rocks are there –

No place to hide,

Exposed to all the elements

From every side.

Wilderness holds fear

Of dangers seen, unseen,

From far and near,

Threatening sounds and shadows

Are everywhere.

Wilderness can bloom,

Creative power is there.

Trees and plants find room,

Signs that life will flourish,

Death be overcome.

Wendy Ross-Barker

It seems like forever ago now but on Monday evenings we hold (held) something called Evening Stillness. A short introduction, then a reflection to help us frame our thoughts, and then around 20 minutes of silence. I love it. Thinking along a Lenten theme, I chose this poem for the 9th March. It has been sitting on my desk ever since and I keep returning to it.

It seems to be such a metaphor for where we are now.

We find ourselves in a strange new world where we are all staying at home. It might feel barren, wide with nowhere to hide. We feel exposed and vulnerable - like being in a desert.
It's a threatening place. One of the things I love to do is Godly Play and there are a number of the stories of God's people that take place in the desert. One of the lines in the stories about the desert is that you don't go there unless you have to. Like self-isolation and social distancing perhaps...

But God sometimes spoke very clearly to God's people when they were in thh desert. Think of Abraham entertaining the strangers in the desert, or the wilderness wanderings of Moses and his gang. So it can also be a place of creativity, and there are many signs that death will be overcome.

 I don't know about you but I have been enormously cheered by some of the silly videos and photos that people have been posting of their antics in isolation or quarantine.

There's this song by Sam Chaplin (apologies for the resulting earmworm)

Or this video of an amazing machine at home.

And then there's the beautiful stuff like this video of a Guildford choir singing wonderful harmonies whilst apart.

My current wilderness

 My wilderness looks a little like this photo at the moment - it's beautiful Spring, with lots of signs of new life in nature. Separated perhaps. But there is creativity and new life around. I hope you can share in some of that, and find peace and joy too.

The self-isolated woman at the well - John 4 A homily for 15th March 2020

I love the English language. It is ever-changing and evolving. Every year, the dictionary compilers add new words to the dictionary – and choose a word of the year. A few years ago, who knew what a selfie was? And why it may or may not need a stick?

I can’t help wondering if the word of 2020 will be a compound one, self-isolate. It’s a word I think we would never have used a few months ago. We would have known what it meant, but it would have seemed an odd choice of phrase  - how things change.

But I don’t think that self-isolate is a new concept. In fact I think it’s something that appears in our Gospel readings today. The woman at the well. In Samaria. It was perhaps not the most obvious choice of route from Galilee to Jerusalem for an observant Jew like Jesus. Many would have made the detour to avoid the territory. The Jews and the Samaritans had a history of mutual hatred and  distrust. The dispute was almost a thousand years old by the time that Jesus met this woman. A theological and political dispute dating from the splitting of the northern and southern kingdoms. When Jesus told the story of the good Samaritan, he was telling a radical story of boundary-crossing that has been somewhat diluted over the years. When we hear Samaritan, we think “good.” When his disciples heard “Samaritan”, they thought untouchable. Beyond the pale.

Living water? The River Jordan at Caeserea Philippi

And the Samaritan woman that Jesus meets at the well might have been regarded as the lowest of even these Samaritans. She was, perhaps self-isolating. We don’t know, but we might speculate that her relationship history had made her shunned by the rest of the women in the village. She was there alone in the heat of the day. Or perhaps she was self-isolating. Having had enough of the gossip, the taunts, the sly looks, she takes herself away from where she can be infected, polluted, by the hatred and suspicion of others.

And perhaps today when we think of it like that, the gospel reading takes on a new light. In the state of self-isolation, Jesus speaks to the woman. He does not shun her. He gives the means to quench her thirst for the true God for good. Jesus comes to those who are isolated or who isolate themselves. He comes to the shunned and those who shun others. That is his mission. He does not come for those who are well, but those who are sick. 

His disciples can scarcely believe it. Why does he pay attention to this woman? For what reason are so many of their taboos being ignored? Just how unclean is Jesus prepared to make himself in order to have his message heard by others?

We have no idea what lies ahead of us over the next few weeks. But it is likely that many of us may need to take some time to be away from others. This may or may not be welcome to us! But there is a need to address and acknowledge the fear that is widespread.

Isolation is not a good thing, all in all.

Jesus created a community of believers, in his lifetime and after his resurrection, the Holy Spirit continued that work at Pentecost. The church is a gathering, an ekklesia. It is all about being together with other believers. But there might be a time ahead of us when it is difficult to gather. There might come a time ahead of us when we choose to remove ourselves from  other people. But Jesus is still with us. Jesus still brings living water. Jesus will meet us when we are on our own, away from others. Jesus will be there always, ready to enter into conversation with us. ready to reveal himself as Saviour. So don’t be afraid. We are His and he is with us.

And the woman – even from her isolated position was able to share her faith in Jesus. She was able to bring others to him so that he could share that living water with more people. Perhaps there’s our challenge – even if we become physically estranged from others, we might still be able to point them to Jesus.

An itch where my dog collar usually is....

Happy Easter! Christ is risen!
This Easter has been slightly odd. It's the first Easter in years where I haven't been responsible for anything happening in church. No liturgy to prepare or take part in. No sermon or intercessions or family service to lead. Nothing.

The Easter Cross at St Alban's Church, Southampton
where I served my title.

It has been lovely in lots of ways. I spent much of my time over the past few days worshiping in the beautiful surroundings of Winchester Cathedral. The three hours devotion on Good Friday was thought-provoking and moving. Judith Maltby's addresses did not shirk the difficult issues (including the latent anti-semitism in some of the readings and liturgy) and the choir were in sublime voice - Lotti's Crucifixus  was beautifully delivered. If I was to be a little critical, I'd have liked a bit more silence (although the supreme fidget I was sitting next to might have spoilt that a little anyway)
The Saturday evening vigil was full of the liturgical drama of the new fire, light and new life at the font (with one of my former 8 o'clock congregation being both Baptised and Confirmed) It was a gorgeous sensory experience but as the risen Christ was proclaimed and celebrated in the Eucharist, something odd happened. My throat was itching so I scratched it. And realised that I was itching exactly where my dog collar would have sat had I been wearing one. And in that moment I realised that while I had loved being ministered to by others, I really missed being the one proclaiming the resurrection, and taking, blessing, breaking and sharing the bread. My vocation as a Christian was certainly affirmed in all that we did together in that service as we all remembered our Baptism following a sprinkling of water by the Bishop, but my vocation as priest among the people of God was itching to be expressed.
Next year and probably for every other year until I retire (!) I will be doing that. This year was lovely. But confirmed in me (yet again) that vocation is a Godly itch that needs to be attended to. I look forward to doing that in a new place very soon.
Happy Easter - may you know the joy and peace of the resurrected Lord - and scratch where you are itching!

Imagining reality

The Great Hall

This week, the family went to the Warner Bros Studios at Leavesdon where the Harry Potter films were made. We're all huge Harry Potter fans in our house and we were looking forward to going very much. We were not disappointed. We spent hours there, and because it wasn't too busy we saw everything we wanted to see and had a go at a few things too. Like riding on broomsticks, casting spells and drinking butterbeer.

It was fantastic to see such familiar sets and scenes for real - the Great Hall really is spectacular, and we loved the potions classroom, the Gryffindor Common Room and boys' dorm, Diagon Alley, Dumbledore's office, Hogwarts Castle.... and all of it really The Triwizard Cup, the golden snitch, Buckbeak, Aragog, the Ministry of Magic. Objects, characters and places that are familiar both from the books (where they looked slightly different in my mind at least) and the films where of course they emerge from the designers' imaginations.
On reflection, although this was the "real stuff they used in the films", none of it was really real. Just like in any other movie, props are made and manipulated by the talented crew to appear to do things they don't do or have characteristics they don't have, and this is even more pronounced when the film is about a magical world that has come from the imagination of a talented storyteller. Sadly, the magic wand my daughter bought in the gift shop is showing no sign of being magical at all (although as we're muggles we probably couldn't make a real one work anyway....) and the Time Turner I bought has failed to provide me with any extra time in any day. So it was real stuff and yet, not really real  - if I'm still making sense.

The Sword of Gryffindor

When the Harry Potter books first became popular, I remember having conversations with Christians who were concerned that the "witchcraft" themes would become an unhelpful influence for children. As the saga continued and more books were published, I think it became clear that the books were filled with influences from the Christian story, and the climax (SPOILER ALERT) involved the sacrifice of one for many and a resurrection to boot. So perhaps those early fears proved groundless.

But the books and films and spin-off merchandise are all the product of a very creative imagination. And I've been pondering the power of imagination all week.

Hermione's time turner. My own is yet to produce
 a single millisecond of extra time!

I'm in a Diocese where the Synod recently set four strategic priorities, including to "re-imagine the Church". I love to use imagination in Bible study, in preaching and in worship, and some of the best feedback on preaching I've had is where I preached a completely narrative sermon, imaginatively re-telling the story from the point of view of one of the characters.
 Human imagination is undoubtedly a precious and powerful gift from God. Christians do need to use imagination to properly engage with God's mission because it inevitably involves change.
Perhaps there is a hint of this in Jesus' words to his disciples that we need to become like a child to enter the Kingdom.
What does it really mean to be good news to the poor, to bring sight to the blind, freedom to captives? What does that look like in 2014? In the case of the churches in my Diocese (and probably elsewhere too) we need to accept that it probably doesn't mean more bums on our cherished pews, and also that re-imagining the church will mean that quite a lot of what we already hold dear will have to change beyond recognition.

J.K Rowling's imagination produced a world of marvels and much-loved characters. It's fantastic and fun and  a story which contains lots of important truths. And still none of it is really real.
In contrast, Christian imagination used for the transformation of disciples and through them the communities they live in, can produce something that is really real. For if we're imagining God's Kingdom, we're imagining the most real reality there is.
In my "do nothing" moments this Lent (for more, see here) I've been doing a bit of, what I like to think of as, holy day-dreaming.
I have yet to come up with a world of Muggles and Quidditch (and that's been done already anyway) but perhaps those moments will allow me to catch a glimpse of eternity and inspire me to do my bit to re-imagine, not just the Church, but the world which it is here to serve.

Not busy

This year I am not busy for Lent. To find out more, click here.
It involves intentionally sitting still and doing nothing for at least 10 minutes every day.
Sounds simple?
Well, the idea is simple but the execution is proving much harder than you might imagine. The temptations are endless - radio, TV, internet distractions, books sitting around to be read, magazines and papers with tempting articles, music to be listened to.
I have decided to not have the radio or any music on. I really am trying to still my mind. I failed on Ash Wednesday completely. On the Friday I forgot. But from the attempts I have made so far, here is what I have learned:

1. 10 minutes is a long time. I set a timer and the first day I did it, I kept looking at it. This did not help time pass more quickly.

2. I will remember lots of things I need to do as soon as I sit still. However I have decided not to pick up the pen and write them down as that definitely counts as Doing Something. I have yet to discover if I will always remember these things after the 10 minutes is over, or if I will forget them entirely. Or indeed if it matters if I forget them entirely. Perhaps I will find out that it's OK if some things just don't get done.

3. It is easier to do this when I'm not running a busy parish. But perhaps that's why I need to get into the habit now so that when I do get back into a parish, it's already a regular part of my discipline.

4. It is much easier doing nothing when the puppy comes and sits on the sofa with me and I can stroke her velvety coat. I have convinced myself that this still amounts to doing nothing. After all, who could resist this?

All change

Now gone to a good home!

Today has been a difficult day in lots of ways. A final service in my title post, where I just about managed to retain my composure and although I know I gave the final blessing, I'm not sure exactly how.

Then lovely cards, flowers, astonishingly generous gifts, and  a lovely feast even although it's Lent. I know I have friends here who I will be sure to stay in touch with, and to think of how much I have grown and changed and learned priest-craft ( is that a word?) in the almost four years I have been curate in the parish, is humbling.  But somehow it doesn't seem real.
Somehow, part of me thinks I am getting up in the morning to say Morning Prayer  in St Alban's. But I won't.  Well I will say Morning Prayer.  But alone, in my study.  Because a house move is not imminent,  it all feels a little as if I'm not leaving at all.
But something happened today which felt much more real. We had sold our climbing frame on a well-known internet auction site. It was a gift from my parents when we moved to Basingstoke (The Big Move South) and our children were both under three.  It has been a feature of our lives for nearly 12 years.
And now it's gone. 
It provided hours of fun for our children,  and many of their friends over many years. It was a great asset to the garden.
And now it's gone.
More real than the end of my title post.  More real than the move to a new place.
Our children are now amazing young people,  growing up,  and with us for only a few years more.
The other changes will kick in and become real over the next few days and weeks.

  But this one is real now. 
All change.