day 27…may the saints and angels…

Stanley Spencer
Yesterday folks found ways of worshiping
that were largely untried and rarely imagined 
in the way are church.  

Was it just a wee gaggle of people
desperately doing their own thing, 
hanging out their Sunday best
on the cyber washing line?

I wonder if we 
(particularly Presbyterians)
need to widen our spiritual imagination:
look up - see who you are worshiping with.

What we sing and pray and recite
 flies like a little bird
to and from the cracks of our hearts nest;
but where does our fledgling praise fly to?
The little bird of our worship
carries us into the worship we can't see...

...with the saints and angels 
in the nearer presence of God.
We don't create worship here
so much as we join in with the true worship there.

If we think of worship there
as some holy individuals, or crowd
surrounding a bigger, superior individual 
then our spiritual imagination needs to grow.

The saints and angels are persons endlessly travelling 
into God's knowing them,
a personal knowing 
that endlessly gives of itself to the saints and angels
as they know God as they are known:
a knowing that never comes to an end.

Worship is a wonder and mystery 
with the everlasting pulse of love 
running through it all.

When we meet to worship
however we manage to do that
whether alone, one or two of us
or with the help of technology,
we become part of the worship 
that in the nearer presence of God 
is endless, blissful joy.  

As we find new ways of worshiping together 
May our spiritual imagination 
look up 
and on that journey 
May the saints and angels watch over you...

day 24…never alone

Tomorrow our wee church gets together 
in a whole new way. 
I'll be posting on Facebook and on the web site 
something for us to reflect on: 
story, song, poetry, letters, good news - 
allowing the Holy Spirit
to open up our lives to the presence of God - 
the same as any Sunday.

The same but different. 
How that's done I'm sure it develop 
over the weeks we cannot meet together. 

In Jesus God has dirt under his finger nails. 
He thirsts and hungers, laughs and cries. 
He knows friendship and loneliness. 
He brings others home to themselves, 
as the beloved gift they truly are.

Where was he found? 
Among people who were isolated and couldn't be touched, 
the lepers, cast offs, bleeders, ignored and forgotten.
That's where he still wants to be. That's where he is. Always.

I wrote this song some time ago now, 
accompanied by 3 gifted friends, 
to try catch a glimpse of him passing this way. See you tomorrow @ 11:00.

day 23…remembering Jean

On Wednesday we held a service to remember Jean Thomson, one of our own. It wasn’t the service we had intended, with the sudden closure of church buildings throughout the country. There were many folk who really wanted to be there, but were denied the opportunity because of the risk.

So we are making space here to remember Jean, and making available some of our reflections

How might Jean have us remember her today?
Not I imagine,
as if we could tell her story cover to cover.
 
I never saw her as someone
who needed to constantly announce to the world
What she was doing on Facebook or twitter.
 
Her natural independence,
Her thoughtful, seriousness of mind,
And the ease with which
she kept company with herself,
Shaped around Jean a friendly reserve
Free from the anxiety of needing everyone to know her story.
 
If Jean sometimes seemed a closed book,
There was a great story lived inside,
But one whose pages she would share
when and where she chose,
With those she loved and were her friends.
 
So, remembering Jean today
Is not telling more
Than she would have us say,
But remembering just a few of the pages
She shared with us from her story – in her matter of fact way.
 
As we know
Jean loved to cross stitch, and knit
And many a gift was generously made
for a new born or a wedding
hanging in someone’s home in a distant part of the world.
 
What if we remembered her life today
As if it were one of her intricate and beautiful pictures
Patiently, and lovingly stitched with the thread of living.
 
The first thread appeared in 1947
born to Tam and Eileen Lithgow,
Growing up with sister Isobel
The stitch of her childhood
Woven at Bellside, in Clelland
From happy days
shared with their parents, spinster aunt
and bachelor uncle
and the menagerie of haulage lorries
Belonging to the family business.
 
No surprise then that Jean
Was confident behind the wheel of a car
before she gained her licence to drive.
 
 Even from an early age,
There was a thread of fearlessness
That ran through Jean;
She and her friends thought nothing
of cycling the miles on the main road
from Clelland to Edinburgh
just to see the Forth Rail Bridge
and then back home again.
 
Now if that expedition involved a race
Then I’m sure Jean would have wanted to win -
Because competing was stitched through her story:
Jean loved to compete - not least on the badminton court.
 
She was a skillful and highly competitive player
Beginning with the Wishaw Badminton Club
before later qualifying as a coach,
when for many years she and her good friend Anna Anderson
coached children at Law Primary School
and were stalwarts at Law Badminton Club.
 
For many years’ badminton was a hobby and a passion for jean,
And she only finally gave up
when ill health frayed the thread of her game.
 
 The stitch of Jeans working life was woven with pleasure
as a Medical Laboratory Technician,
and other than a short spell as a school technician
Jean gave herself to that role
with delight, skill, and attention detail
Both at Law and Wishaw General Hospitals.
 
It was in 1969
Jean and Campbell were married
And together they brought into the world
their two daughters, Isla and Morag.
 
Over the years the cross stitch of family life
Had many patterns
But on Sunday, as we spoke together,
Among the memories that found us
Were of the lovely times
spent as family on holiday at St Andrews;
Year on year
in the static caravan - not to mention -
the adventures of trampolining
As well as the trips to Jersey and over to Ireland.
 
 And although Jean and Campbell
separated some 12 years ago
sewn between them was the stitch of friendship
and she would never hear anything said against him.
 
Where we to ask
Of late, what was the favourite part of her picture?
There’s little doubt, being a gran to Max, Donald and Duncan.
 
Jean was the kind of gran who would whisk you off to Lapland
Or have a boat tree house anchored in your garden;
Its fair to say, the obstacles of Lanarkshire buses
And the alchemy of their time tables
Never got in the way of her going to look after her grandchildren.
Jean quietly delighted in being a gran
And was equally a delight to her grandchildren.
 
Jean had good friends in the village
Whom she regularly met
At the church, in the guild or at the craft club
That she was a founder member of.
 
She enjoyed the company of her family
But was equally content on her own
Knitting, tackling a seduko puzzle, potting a hyacinth.
 
What were some of the colours
You saw threaded into the life of Jean?
A dignity and quiet self confidence
That could matter of factually find its voice
and speak her mind.
 
Not one to wear her heart on her sleeve
Jean never gave herself to effusive displays of affection,
But what is easily seen is no measure
of what is truly there
and reality cherishes the hidden as much as the obvious.
There was a deep care, a generosity and kindness in jean
These were threads running through the whole of who she was,
Along with a tenacity and stubbornness
Both of which were to stand by her
When she was diagnosed with a life changing illness
Some five years ago.
 
There is a line in John O’Donohues Blessing for presence
Which says:
Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles
That seek no attention.
  
The way Jean chose to live with her cancer,
The way she outwitted the prognosis of the consultants
And still found her way to Ireland and Australia each year
And to spend precious time with her family
Was a quiet miracle.
 
And supporting that miracle
Were the many good friends in the village,
particularly Anna, Elspeth and Jennifer.
Whose care, friendship and support she greatly valued.
As was Isobel
Who for the past thirty years,
lived next door to her sister.
And without this bond, commitment, patience and sisterly affection,
Jean would have seriously struggled in recent years.
 
And during that time, she received devoted care
from the local community nursing team
who became her close friends.
And Jean looked forward to their visits,
as much for the chat than the nursing care.
 
To keep calm and carry on
Is now something of a cliche
But that’s how Jean lived with cancer…
 
She carried on doing what she wanted to do
Carried on solo trips to see her family oversees
Carried on meeting with her friends and family
She carried on Sunday by Sunday
Drawing strength from worship and prayer.
 
The poet Emily Dickinson
Was someone who kept unpublished in her lifetime
Some of the greatest poems of the 19th century,
And one of her poems strikes me
As how Jean took her leave of this world:
 
   “Because I could not stop for Death –
  He kindly stopped for me –
  The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
  And Immortality.”
 
In the ancient poem from the book of psalms
The writer speaks a prayer:
"You have searched me, Lord,
And you know me,
You when I sit and when I rise
You perceive my thoughts from afar.
  
However much Jean’s story was unpublished to most
What she lived, Who she was,
Her dreams and losses
Her hopes and loves
Were no secret to God
page by page
line by line
word for word
and what was left unsaid between
are known to him.
 
And God can only know by love.
So today we give thanks
That the Story of Jean
Is not finished
But finds a telling and goes on
In the space Christ has made for her
Through his life, death and resurrection.
 
As St Paul once told the church in Colossians
“you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God."
 
 That is where all our stories find their true telling
Where each of our stories will be kept and held and told in God.
 
 

day 22…all things pass away

I missed a days post yesterday when the world changed:

No Sunday worship
No use of the church building for funerals
No general assembly 

A single day and nothing was quite the same. The world we took for granted suddenly altered, like someone you’ve always known, suddenly reveals about themselves something you weren’t prepared for.

words…words…words…if you follow any social media then I imagine already you are scrolling past more words than are helpful to take in.

I’m not going to add too much to ticker-tape of information that leaves you less and less willing to read on. But there are some words worth listening to. And this morning I’m thinking of St Theresa of Avila, whose words are a prayer for the changed face of our world:

Let nothing disturb you
Let nothing distress
While all things pass away
God is unchanging
Be Patient for with God in your heart
Nothing is lacking
God is enough
 

These are words worth travelling with a while

day 20…It’s the end of the world as we know it

COVID 19

So sang REM in 1987…and here we are living it. The end of the world you can distract yourself in, by what you buy, or where you holiday, or where you live. None of these distractions are available anymore. Only the question: what really matters?

Church is made up of those who live as if what really matters is the human being you happen to be with. If so, then everyone matters – not as an idea- but as something that has to be safeguarded, respected and loved. How then should we respond to the “end of the world as we know it?”

Consider what Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote from the helplessness of a prison cell, awaiting his execution before the end of the second world war:

Jesus is there only for others. His being there for others is the experience of transcendence. It is only this freedom from himself, this being there for others, even to death, that is the source of his omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence. Faith is this participation in this being of Jesus (incarnation, cross, resurrection). Our relation to God is not a “religious” relationship to a highest, most powerful, and best Being imaginable…but our relation to God is a new life in being there for others…the neighbour who is within reach in any given situation.

Letters and papers from Prison, D. Bonhoeffer
It's the quality of Jesus' being there for others that reveals his divinity. 

Being there for others - is where God happens: in us...through us...with us. 

being there for others- that won't happen without prayer - the kind of prayer Jacob prayed:
"I will not let you go unless you bless me..."
And the blessing comes to Jacob, but leaves Jacob with a limp' leaves Jacob wounded. 
A prayer that wounds. 
As the poet Scott Cairns says: "The wound is a reminder of his nearness". 

A prayer to be there for others. That will leave us with a limp. But who would want to walk without that wound?

day 19…a Sunday story

KatinkaBille on Visual Hunt / CC BY-NC-SA
She’d lived in the village as long as anyone could remember.
Her hair was thinning, salt and pepper grey,
And her eyes paled by days 
numbering into more years
than polite company would ask for the grand total of. 
Not that she was ever shy 
Of letting you know her age,
 “What is there to hide about that?
The longer I’m here the more I’ve got to be grateful for.”
 
It was late when the doorbell rang.
She wasn’t expecting anyone.
 
It was Sheila.
A young woman who’d lived next door
For maybe 3 years now.
 
Grace welcomed her in
And walked towards the kitchen:
“I was just about to put the kettle on.”
 
Sheila followed her into the kitchen,
Watched her plant two tea bags into two cups,
fill them from the kettle
And out of the crumbs of polite conversation
She said,
 
“I’m sorry to call so late, Grace -
You’ll think I’m daft but
Sometimes, 
When Billy’s on night shift
Sometimes...I get a bit feart.
No so much in the summer –
But when the dark nights are in...
It’s the dark.
Imagine being scared of the dark at my age.”
 
“You'll no be the last person to be scared of the dark.
The dark’s a trickster - 
it calls out to all the broken and fearful shapes
That hide in the corner of our hearts,
the things we can distracted ourselves from during the day."
 
Sat together in the kitchen, as if it were a confession box,
Sheila brought out a few of those shapes.
“Billy’s Job’s no that secure…
There’s talk about moving the plant to India.
He doesn’t say, but I know he’s worried.
And my sister's no keeping that well –we don’t know what it is…
And I was passing the church this morning -
did you see all the people arrive for the funeral –of that poor girl -
terrible- isn't it- And I thought...you know... 
I mean most of the time I'm fine
I never think twice -
but sometimes this fear, it  fills up inside me:
What if something happened to me; 
What if something happened to Billy  - or one of my family."
 
“You and I know, hen,
Out there – anything can happen", Grace said,
"Out there canny be controlled -some trouble or other 
will always find its way to our door.
 
I’ve had my share of disappointment,
God knows I’ve seen people away 
I couldn’t bare to think of losing...
But what Iv'e learned is, 
well, we can choose to live in the endless procession
of "what ifs...or we can do something else."
 
"Like what?" Sheila asked
 "We can trust."
"Trust?"
 
The watermill of age often brought tears to her eyes
Without the need of emotion, that was getting old for you,
But these welling tears 
were drawn up from the cistern of her heart.
 
"There is a door 
In every moment we are in.
It opens up into a refuge for us.
There's a shelter in our days,
A safe place for our nights - 
and we all need a safe place to go to - 
And God is mine.
 
Each morning I open my eyes,
each night before I close them again
I go to my safe place:  
God is my refuge,
My shelter,
who I trust.

I trust him with the people I love
and the folk I've lost. 
I trust him with what I wanted to happen
that never came to pass.
I trust him with the things I can do 
and the things I can't
I trust him with all I've still to get sorted out."
 
Grace stretched out her arm
And pulled back the curtains,
Outside the raven wings of night
spread into a thick and impenetrable darkness. 
 
"I’ve learned how God won’t save me from trouble
But he will save me in it."
 
"How can you be so sure, Grace?"
 
Because I’ve lived it, hen:
When money was tight,
When I had to let go of what I hoped for,
When what I never asked for knocked me off my feet.
He was there – with me –
And that got me through…
 
When my weans were wee
there were days when something happened,
one of them fell outside or something,
and in they'd come, greetin, 
And wouldn'y settle for anybody else's arms but mine.
 
I'd sit with them in my arms.
Their knee wasn'y any less sore,
but they came to me 
and brought what was sore,
to be held in my arms.

When I cling to God with a child’s grasp
He carries me through the terror,
Through the unwelcome surprise,
Through the helplessness of what canny be changed.
He's promised to shelter and protect
Those who know his name."
 
"And what is his name?"Sheila asked. 
 
"You know his name 
When you understand how
Mercy is more important than judgement;
You know his name 
When love is your first choice and your last;
You know his name 
When the hurting become visible to you and you care;
You know his name
When everything you have and everything you are
Is received as a gift.
 
 I learned his name when I was a wee girl
singing hymns on a Sunday - Sometimes
the words were like arms lifting me up
To be kissed by God as I was singing…
I trust him."
 
"What’s it like - Trusting God?"
Sheila asked.
 
"Sometimes it’s like hanging off a cliff edge
And you call out - help -is there anybody there -
anybody who can help me?
 And a voice calls back: Let go – I’ll catch you."

"I know how I'd answer that," Sheila said,
"Is there anybody else there."
 
They Laughed.
"But that’s the point, hen,
It’s no until you let go
And start to trust him with the weight
of all you are living,
that you’ll find him there for you."

They finished there tea. 
"Thanks Grace,
For taking the time, I mean
To listen to me."
 
The young woman rose and went with Grace to the door.
"Will it always be like this Grace?"
 
Grace stood by the open door, and before Sheila passed through
her voice dropped, as though 
this was something she'd never said,
never told anyone before,

"Sometimes, when I’m still and it's quiet and I'm praying,
Praying without saying a word,
or sometimes I’ll hear a piece of music
Or a memory will find me from nowhere,
and I catch sight of something…
 
"What is it that you see?"
 
"Something too beautiful for words:
How God has made all things for love,
That its by love he keeps them,
And shall keep them forever.
 
Our troubles are no a full stop, Sheila,
they are just a comma,
In this life and the day we hand it back -
We belong to God.
And I know, like in my bones, I k n o w -
all will be well."
 
They smiled at one another and said goodnight.
And the door closed,
and the night was still dark 
and the whole of it all 
was held in the bosom of God
within the uncreated light.