Steps to Heaven

I heard yesterday of a man who wasn’t sure he wanted to go to heaven. In heaven, the man thought, he’d get to know everything, and wouldn’t that be boring.

The knowledge we have or aspire to in our lives is perhaps a red herring. Take one of the pieces of knowledge that passed me by as a bachelor and is of no use to me as a happily married man: the finger of the hand upon which a wedding band is worn in western society. I’d have to Google it to find out, but what then would I do with my new-found knowledge?

When a Sadducee asks Jesus about the man who’s six brothers each in turn marry his childless widow, and wonders who in heaven is married to whom, the reply is that no-one in heaven is married or given in marriage. It’s an activity irrelevant to the kingdom of heaven, so the question has no bearing on the truth of resurrection.

I’ve just watched a TV interview with a couple whose son died possibly as a result of mismanagement in the hospital to which he was admitted after a road accident. They wanted, as so many grieving parents, spouses, siblings and friends have wanted before, some ‘answers’. My fear is that no answer they get will have relevance to their relationship with their child now or in the time which is to come: a relationship in which they preserve his bedroom as it was in his life. For no-one in a position to give them answers in the medical or managerial circumstances of their son’s death is in a position to know the questions that underlie their grief, their 'un-knowing'. The One who might is God of the living, not of the dead, and his only answer in this age is to try to wrap them in love and thereby to chance rejection.

The 'love that will not let me go' is not a clinging desperate and somewhat forlorn love that we might have in our loss of someone dear to us, but rather a blessed assurance and hope that is bestowed on us even when we are lost to He who holds us dear. Such assurance and hope can only have relevance in the sureness and certainty of resurrection.

Avoiding the Void

When I first started college, a number of us were taken aside by one of the staff and told about one of our fellow students. She was, it seems, terrified of stairs. Since the college’s one lift was prone to be out of order, this was a problem.

Those of us let in on the issue were advised that if we should happen across her near the stair well, we should engage her in conversation. Doing so would enable her to move gently up or down the stairs. If we placed her between us and the walls she could overcome her fear for the time taken to get to the floor she needed.

Now I describe myself as a pretty poor conversationalist. Indeed perhaps conversation is to me my terrifying staircase, and I often feel sorry for the poor stranger sat next to me at a dinner party. Yet given a purpose, such as helping a fellow creature get through a difficulty of their own, I seem to be able to cope. Perhaps purpose is what I need to have walk between me and the chasm of chit-chat.

At any rate, how wonderful it seems to me that our weaknesses may be enablers for others. That surely should help us to recognize the many ways we may go forth to love and serve the Lord in the name of Christ, Amen.

Rock the baby

Pulpit abuse can come all too readily, and so here is the sermon I'd like to give but am unlikely ever to have the right or opportunity, since for some people it would be just too close to home.

"Reverend Pringle was rector of the small rural benefice of Little Snoring, and he had but two parishes in his cure. These were St Martin the Little, and its neighbour St Edmund the King.

"Now despite their names, there was on the face of things hardly anything to distinguish between these two churches. Both had the same small number of church members, and both the same attendance levels. Both had (just about) working PCCs who struggled but always managed to pay their parish share in full and on time. Indeed it is scarcely worth mentioning the only difference on paper, which was that worship at St Martin the Little was predominantly, though not exclusively, Book of Common Prayer in traditional language. At St Edmund the King's, however, they had decided years ago to use modern language Common Worship services of the Word.

"One day, Reverend Pringle's rural idyll was smashed by the ringing of his telephone. It was Bishop Pugh of Soddemall, who got straight to the point. 'Pringle, you've known for years that two church buildings and all their services are just not sustainable. You've got until the end of the week to make your choice, and then we're going to implement it'.

"Pringle was horrified. As I've said, on paper there was little to choose between the two parishes. He took himself off to his study, where perhaps some prayerful Bible reflection might help.

"Pringle's mind then fell upon the story of Solomon's decision in the case of two women both of whom claimed a baby as their own. That seemingly macabre but very intelligent suggestion of Solomon, that the baby be sliced in half, was boon to the false mother who would gladly have half a baby than none at all, but aweful to the true mother who realized that half a baby could never be nurtured and grow and hopefully bear fruit of its own womb.

"Then Reverend Pringle reflected on a curious thing. Whenever he had a team service at St Martin's, it was well attended by members of both churches. Yet whenever the team service was held at St Edmund's, the members of St Martin's church were noticeable by their absence: until that is they darkened Pringle's door to suggest, huffily, that they were sure they could have found someone to lead a service at their own church if they'd been allowed.

"And so it was that the Reverend Pringle, Rector of Little Snoring, knew that one of his two churches was a clear and rightful mother with every wish to see the Kingdom of God nurtured and grow and bear fruit. He picked up the phone, ready to give his decision to Bishop Pugh.

"Now allegory is a fragile thing. If you believe that my little story is a barbed attack on this church, you have one easy means of discrediting it. All you need to do is imagine yourself in the story, with Reverend Pringle asking you when it was that you last attended a team service. Think carefully on what your answer means to the verity of this sorrowful tale".

Let's hear it for the team ...

I should have seen it coming, but didn't until I was already falling on my face. I had just arrived to help with some admin work when the client's rep asked me if I was on the team. "No", I replied: "I'm just temping."

I stood dumbstruck at my own stupidity. The one thing I had been frightened of doing was to somehow damage the good name of my friend's business, and here I was distancing myself from it.

Yet the upshot of that boob was to make me believe that from that moment on, actually I WAS on the team. Each candidate I met and greeted I did so firmly of the opinion that I had a job to do and do it to the best of my ability.

Now this friend and I had spoken only a week or two earlier of how neither of us is a confident networker or socializer. I'd told her how in a room full of strangers I'll gravitate to the one person I know, or find the food, at a loss how else to behave. Yet in my temporary role of 'meeter and greeter' for her client's job applicants, I donned the mantle of the role with ease. Rather than being a fumbling dullard with no conversation, I was asking them about their journey, their comfort, and helping them prepare for their interviews.

Oh how I need to do this as a Christian: to somehow understand my role and to be a credit to my Lord and my Saviour, bringing people to his Kingdom.

A Little Bit of Bread ...

A congregation have, despite having heard me preach, been kind enough to ask me back again. I'm not so full of myself as to overlook the possibility that in an interregnum and with dwindling numbers of ordained and lay preachers I'm simply better than nothing. Accordingly, I've turned to Mark Tanner's book How to Write a Good Sermon for guidance as to how I might improve.

Tanner says that only a disciple can preach, and the first thing he says he means by this is that I must live my faith. Put another way, he is saying 'practice what you preach' else, he warns, you are not a preacher but a commentator, an observer, or a critic. And as he says "we have enough of those already".

I know what he means. I have said on a number of occasions over the last year or so that it is some time since I've heard a Yellowhammer locally. Rory McGrath in his Great Bearded Tit is scornful of the mnemonic attached to this bird, but for me it's 'a-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese' is very helpful as an identifier. And indeed it must be a good few years since I've heard that call along the local hedgerows.

Except that by holding forth on the subject I am falling into the human trait of implying that of course I am a fount of naturalist knowledge, a twitcher par excellence and whose opinion is worthy of note. The truth is plainer: I haven't delighted in the countryside around me to the extent that I would place myself where I might actually hear a Yellowhammer.

Today I walked up the escarpment overlooking our village, and sat and watched and listened. I heard no Yellowhammers, but since the Daffodils too are late out, perhaps that is not unusual only half-way through March.

As I sat reflecting, I recalled a meeting last week in which someone took a 'pop' at civil servants. Being an ex-civil servant I felt my hackles rise, but I kept my counsel and thought about times when perhaps I too have let slip a judgemental comment and unwittingly caused offence.

Jesus told us to love God and to love each other as ourselves. If we take exception to everything unthinkingly blurted out, perhaps even blogged, we dig ourselves a deep furrow from which it is hard to escape. Still less to enjoy God's bounty as it sings to us from the hedgerows.

Hush my Mouth

How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land (Ps 137.4)? I pray regularly "O Lord, open our lips and our mouth shall proclaim your praise" in Morning Prayer. Yet how often do I succeed in that simple aim, that whenever I speak (or write) I should reflect God's glory? For that, I believe, is what this simple verse and response is about.

It is 3 years since my bishop accepted me for training for the priesthood, but ringing in my ears as I met him that Candlemas morning were the closing words of the Communion liturgy I'd just participated in. In particular it was on my mind that even had he said no that day, "go in peace to love and serve the Lord" was quite 'heavy' enough, let alone any 'special' requirement of the priesthood. All Christians have such a burden, though some perhaps bear it light even before they appreciate how Christ's death loosens it for them.

I despair on hearing some so-called Christians bickering about others, especially their priests. The nagging thoughts that cross my mind are, firstly, how badly do I too fare in treating others with respect? Secondly, since I am slow to challenge others who behave so badly, what might I do to bring about that unity of discipleship Jesus sought for the benefit of the world (John 17.21, 23)?

Projection

From time to time someone is kind enough to compliment me on my singing. On some such occasions it crosses my mind that they haven't actually heard me, but then I'm usually thinking of solo performance whereas they perhaps are more generally referring to, say, congregational or possibly pub singing.

At any rate, just before Christmas I decided that I needed to not just call myself a singer but to do all the things that might support this apparent gift. So far I've not been very good at a daily practice regime, but I have done reasonably well at breathing exercises.

In a book by Gloria Rusch (The Professional Singer's Handbook) I found an exercise based on the work of E. Herbert-Caesari with respect to building lung capacity and breath control. These are foundational to good singing, but now that I'm no longer a brass musician (itself a good way of improving both), they need attention.

Currently, three times a day for 5 minutes at a time I inhale for 8 seconds, hold my breath for 8 seconds, then exhale for 8 seconds then repeat. My target is, by increasing each part of the breath by 2 seconds a week, to reach 20 seconds.

This morning I found myself in mid-exercise thinking how similar to Daily Prayer this whole exercise is. Principally I had in mind the discipline. I haven't managed 3 breathing exercises every day since starting. Indeed some days I haven't done one. As with the exercises, so with my prayer which has been somewhat fitful of late.

To some people a disciplined prayer life might be anathema, but my experience is that more regular I am with my prayer life the more capable I am of extempore prayer as needed through the day.

This morning's New Testament reading was Matthew 21:18-32, including the parable of the 2 sons asked to go and work in their father's vineyard. A commentary I read afterwards somewhat confusingly described the activities of the 2 sons in reverse order (so the first-mentioned in the Bible was referred to secondly, and as the 'second' son, in the commentary).

I found this irksome and to me a sign of an ill-disciplined approach to theology. Then I recalled the suspicion I had the last time I led Evening Prayer that I'd given absolution: an error I'm quick to notice in others, but evidently not in myself. Perhaps like the second son (in the Bible's order of events), I'm quick to espouse but slow to act.

May God grant me the persistence to use all the gifts he bestows on me, and not to just talk about them.