Tag: forgiveness

Rooms in the Ruins: Stephen, Coventry, and the room God makes in the midst of violence

David HerbertLeave a comment

In the ruins a fire is lit.
In the midst of violence, a man sees heaven open.
This sermon traces a thread from Saint Stephen to Coventry cathedral, and from the “many rooms” of John’s Gospel to the fractures places of our own lives – suggesting that the rooms God prepares are not elsewhere, but here, wherever love makes space in the face of conflict.

Easter 5 (A)
This morning we meet Stephen at the very end of his story,
Standing before an angry crowd,
accused, opposed,
and about to be killed.

And we hear that extraordinary line:
”Filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven …”

But if we start there, we miss what makes that moment so powerful.
Because Stephen didn’t begin here.


He first appears a chapter earlier, in Acts of the Apostles,
when the early church is already under strain.

There is a complaint –
that some widows are being overlooked in the daily distribution of food.

It’s about fairness.
Culture.
Whose voice matters.

A real fault line has opened up.

And Stephen is one of those chosen to step into that situation –
because he is known to be full of the Spirit and wisdom.

Not removed from the tensions,
but right in the middle of them.

He learns to follow the Spirit there,
at the tables,
among those who are last, and least, and easily forgotten.


From there, things escalate.

Stephen begins to speak – boldly – about what God is doing.

He challenges the assumption that God can be contained in the temple,
or managed by those in power.

He reminds his hearers of the words of Isaiah:
“Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool …
What kind of house will you build for me?”

God is not contained.
Not controlled.
Not organised around our comfort.

And that is what turns disagreement into fury.

So that by the time we reach today’s reading,
Stephen is no longer serving at tables –
he is standing before those who want him silenced.


And there –
in that moment of pressure, accusation and danger –
we are told:
“Filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven …”

Now, we might imagine that this means Stephen is being lifted out of reality –
given a glimpse of somewhere else,
somewhere safer,
somewhere beyond the reach of what is about to happen.

But that cannot be what it means.

Because when he looks into heaven,
he does not see buildings.
He does not see rooms.

He sees the glory of God –
and Jesus Christ standing at the right hand of God.

Standing.
Alive.
Present.


Hold that alongside the words of Jesus in John’s gospel:
“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places …
I go to prepare a place for you.”

We have often heard those words as a promise about where we go when we die.

A heavenly building.
Rooms prepared somewhere else.

And there is comfort in that.

But Stephen – standing under accusation,
with stones already in the air –
suggests something different.


Because in John’s Gospel, “dwelling” is not about property.
It is about life shared.

“Abide in me, as I abide in you.”
“We will come and make our home with them.”

So when Jesus says,
“I go to prepare a place for you,”
the question is:

How, and in what way?

It’s not about a heavenly mansion with (how) many rooms.
It’s not a building
a building somewhere else.

No.

It’s about what love is building
here and now
    in the middle of the world as it is.

It’s about love making room,
one room on top of another,
room for strangers,
room for sinners,
room even for enemies
and those who attack us,
room for those left out in the cold,
those homeless and neglected
like those widows previously unheard.

The Father’s house isn’t something set in concrete,
built somewhere else.

It is God’s work,
building love,
making room for forgiveness.

And it is here that Stephen stands,
in the place prepared for him.
And he sees it,
and his face so shines,
even as the stones are hurled in anger.

Because to see into heaven
is not to gain information about the afterlife.

It is to see reality as it truly is:

that God is not absent,
not contained,
not defeated –

But present,
active,
and drawing all things into the life of his kingdom.


And once Stephen sees that,

he begins to reflect it.

His face shines, and
his words echo Jesus:
“Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

This is not weakness.

This is the life of the Father’s house
breaking out
in the middle of the world’s violence.

In the middle of the world’s violence,
there are those who have found room for God –
the room that God has prepared for them.

The room we have for God in our lives
is the room that God has prepared for us –
one of so many rooms.

And it is this life –
this room opened to God
In the middle of the world’s violence –
that cannot be tolerated,
And Stephen will pay for it with his life.

Because if God’s dwelling is not contained,
and not somewhere else,
then neither is God’s authority.

If heaven is breaking out here –
then the systems built on power and control are exposed.

And so they cover their ears.

And they rush at him.


But this way of seeing did not end with Stephen.

It has appeared again and again,
where people have been formed by the Spirit
in the middle of real world fault lines.

In this diocese, we cannot hear this story
without thinking of Coventry Cathedral.

In the ruins of Coventry Cathedral at first light on Easter Day 2026

In 1940, the cathedral was destroyed by bombing.

Stones – not thrown by hand this time,
but falling all the same.

And in the ruins,
Provost Dick Howard did something extraordinary.

He did not call for revenge.

He did not divide the world into “us” and “them”.

Instead, he had these words inscribed:

Father forgive.

Not “forgive them.”
Just: Father forgive.

That is not sentiment.
That is not denial of suffering.

That is someone seeing into heaven.

Someone recognising that the Father’s house
is not destroyed by violence –
because it was never contained in stone.

And that the life of that house
with its many rooms
is forgiveness,
even here.

Even now.

And this is not just something that happened then.

It is something we are caught up in here.

Because in this diocese, when people are ordained,
they are ordained in that cathedral –
in that space opened up in the midst of destruction.

A place where violence did not have the final word.

A place where, in the ruins,
room was found for forgiveness.

Stephen was a deacon –
formed at tables,
among the overlooked,
in the fault lines of his community.

And from there, he learned to see into heaven.

And those ordained in that cathedral
are ordained in that same pattern:

not away from the world’s conflict,
but into it –

trusting that even there,
God has made room.

The room we have for God in our lives
is the room that God has prepared for us –
one of so many rooms.

And we have seen that recently.

Gary and Brittany were confirmed there on Easter Day
at the crack of dawn,
when the Easter fire was lit
in the ruins of the cathedral.

Fire again in that place –
but not the fire that destroys.

Not the fire that reduces everything to ash.

But the fire of resurrection.

The fire of the Spirit.

In the very place where flames once consumed,
a different fire now burns –

not to destroy,
but to give light,
to gather,
to kindle new life.

And there, in that same place,
a life opening to God,
a place being made,
a dwelling beginning.


Not somewhere else.

But here.


So the question is not whether there is room in the Father’s house.

The question is whether we will enter the room
that God has already prepared for us –

in the places where the world is most fractured,

where the fire is still being lit in the ruins,

and where, even there,
heaven is already open.

Today

David HerbertLeave a comment

For one day only – my poem Today

Here is a play on words,
a fundamental question.

Is the I a number that marks a beginning,
or, is that I me with rather less feeling,
as in number with a silent b?
Is this a play on words,
or, a play on numbers with words,
a play for today, November 1st?

Here it is: 1 11, 11/1 or 1/11 –
depending whether you’re American
or not, All Saints Day,
when the air’s cleaned of mischief
when the I’s come out to play,
1 11, the first eleven, the perfect team.

The play goes on.
Picture that All, for all the saints,
its two ll’s standing as one,
seeing as one, holding hands,
a love’s embrace.

Or is it illness we see
under the spill and spell
of numbers – III, iIIness –
to make a season to remember
the dark days of the fall,
when another I joins the ranks
of the ones of one and eleven

to make 11/11 a day when the evil of war
became an anvil
for the forging of peace?
Is this a play on numbers,
or a poem that builds today?

There are other acts, other dates,
nothing ever begins with the first.

Take, for example, 911, our 11/9
which we’ll call 9/11
for its hallowing of American soil.
911, the emergency number,
our 999. The 9 followed by the twin towers,
all the ones destroyed
when the ground reduced to zero.

Picture those 1s
and you’lll see there’s never one alone.

Ceiling to floor, ceiling to floor,
each 1 towering,
one copying another,
each office a cell
a spreadsheet of humanity,
each one working part of their lives,
one of a family,
one of a community of so many other ones.

And then came Hamas on a day
which belongs to the same season of war.
Did that mark a beginning?
Was that the start of things
as the Israeli right claims?
Or was it just
the extreme one
in a string of grievance and reprisals?

7/10 we’d call it,
a high mark of history,
possibly the end of a nation.
Israel has always known its numbers,
the seven days of creation,
the ten, the measure of God’s authority.
They multiply those numbers
to sum up the fullness and perfection of life

or to ask the question of the times –
how many times must we forgive?
Is it 70?
Is it just 70?
Good news responds:
It’s not just 70. It’s 7 times that.
It’s so many times we’re bound to lose count.
There’s no going back to number 1
and whatever its cause.
No one ever started it.

© David Herbert
1/11/25

Mercy’s embrace and the scandal of grace

David HerbertLeave a comment

a sermon for the 4th Sunday in Lent (C) reflecting on the readings for the day, 2 Corinthians 5:16-end and Luke 15:1-3, 11b-end – the parable of the Prodigal Son (and Merciful Father)

Today’s Gospel presents a well-known story about a father and his two sons. 

(It is ironic that on Mothering Sunday our gospel is about a father and his two sons. The story may, just as easily, be about a merciful mother, wayward daughters and resentful sisters.)

Beyond being just a family drama, this is a story about the Kingdom of God.

How do we know that?
Because in God’s Kingdom, the last come first, and the first come last.
The world’s order favours the eldest son, granting him the inheritance and privilege.
Yet, in this parable, it is the younger son who finds blessing, while the older son stands in the shadows, sulking in resentment.

This reversal is a hallmark of the Kingdom of God. It is a theme woven throughout Scripture, going back to Genesis, where God repeatedly upends human expectations.

Consider Cain and Abel. Cain, the elder, offers his sacrifice, but it is the younger, Abel, whose offering finds favor with God, igniting Cain’s jealousy and leading to the first murder.

Think of Jacob and Esau. Esau, as the firstborn, should have received the blessing, yet through divine mystery and human cunning, it is Jacob, the younger, who carries God’s promise forward.

Look at Joseph, the eleventh son of Jacob—his brothers despised him, sold him into slavery, but in God’s providence, he rises to power and saves them all from famine.

And then there is David, the youngest of Jesse’s sons, overlooked by his family but chosen by God to be king of Israel.

This is the pattern of the Kingdom of God—a new order where grace, not entitlement, reigns. And so we return to today’s parable, which could rightly be called “The Parable of the Merciful Father.” Here again, we see contrast: the younger and the older, the old and the new.

Paul captures this contrast beautifully when he writes: “If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: the old has gone, the new is here!” (2 Cor 5:17). In the Kingdom of God, status, wealth, and achievement count for nothing. The new creation does not weigh merits but pardons offences. This is the amazing grace that calls us out of darkness and into light.

That’s what’s new. And we often still don’t get it.
Still the picture lingers in our minds of Peter at the pearly gates, standing like an examiner, ruling people in or out of heaven on the basis of what they’ve done. Jesus, in this parable, shatters that image. 

What’s the prodigal to say for himself other than that he has squandered his wealth in wold living (and we all know what that means)? 

And the older brother.
What has he to say for himself other than “I’ve worked like a slave for my father. I have never disobeyed orders.”
But it is the reckless, wayward son who is embraced, and the rule-keeping, responsible older brother who distances himself from his father’s joy.

“The Return of the Prodigal Son”, by Rembran(d)t Harmenszoon van Rijn, c. 1669

Rembrandt has painted the contrast brilliantly.
You see the older and the younger. You see the light and the dark, you see the old and the new. Rembrandt highlights the father and the prodigal younger son. His boy has nothing on him – no weight, not even a pair of shoes, utterly dishevelled, totally loved.
This is the new order, the order of the kingdom of God, where, in the words of the psalm appointed for today (Psalm 32 v11), mercy embraces those who trust in the Lord and happy are those whose transgression is forgiven.

The other son, the prodigal’s older brother, Goody, goody two shoes, has been painted into a very dark corner. His body language is so different to his father’s. He is wringing his hands in anger and despair and looking down his nose in judgement at the scene he is witnessing. He is standing over the merciful reconciliation of father and son and resisting it with all his might.

This is the dark corner we all paint ourselves into when we self righteously resist the new which doesn’t weigh our merits but pardons our offences. It’s the corner where we so easily let anger and resentment take hold of our heart, where we insist on our righteousness and our just desserts.

The resistance of the older son/brother puts him at such an emotional distance from his merciful father, as distant from his father as his younger prodigal brother had ever been in terms of physical distance. He has rejected the new order. He is far from the kingdom of God. He has cast himself out into utter darkness.

Imagine the father’s grief. He has seen the return of his youngest, now he has to grieve for his older son who has put such distance between them. He now has to wait for his return, for him to see sense, for him to join his brother in mercy’s embrace. The family will remain broken until that happens. But what joy there will be when both sons have returned, brotherhood united in mercy’s embrace. What joy. What a party!

Where do we see ourselves in this picture? Are we wringing our hands with the older brother? Or, are our hands stretched out in mercy ready to embrace those who come first in the new rule of the kingdom of God, the lost, the least and the last? Or, are we like the prodigal – once far off, but now glad, rejoicing in the Lord, happy in mercy’s embrace? 

Quite likely we see ourselves all over the place. Perhaps we see ourselves in the older brother – yes we can be like him. Perhaps we wish ourselves to be like the merciful father. Perhaps we know there’s joy in heaven when we’ve allowed ourselves to fall into the arms of love.

As I looked at Rembrandt’s painting this week I remembered my confirmation and my ordination. Do you remember your confirmation and kneeling just like the prodigal is kneeling in Rembrandt’s painting? It’s the same scene isn’t it?

It’s as if Rembrandt has painted me out of the dark shadows into the light, onto my knees in mercy’s embrace. I can feel the hands of mercy on my shoulders confirming God’s love for me, discounting all my sins – and myself confirming my commitment to the rule of God that puts the last, the least and the lost first in his heart. And from those hands I take the ministry of reconciliation that he commits us to, according to Paul in his letter to the Corinthians.

Jesus leaves us with a question. How does the family find healing? How can the brothers be reconciled? Is it only through the ministry of reconciliation that the father has committed his younger son to. Surely the younger brother has to share the same longing for his brother as his merciful father had for him. Surely the younger brother has to wait, his arms ready to embrace his long lost brother, discounting his anger and resentment and pardoning the ways he has offended.

The questions we are left with:
Will we join the work of reconciling love?
Will we stand together with Christ as people of mercy?
Will we set aside resentments?
Will we choose the scandal of grace?
Will we make way for joy?

Which way all the way

David Herbert1 Comment

a sermon for Easter 3C for St John’s, Weston in Runcorn.

Hallo.

‘Allo, ‘allo.

One of the running gags of TV sitcom ‘Allo, ‘Allo! was the line, delivered in a French accent, “I will say this only once …….”, which was said over and over again, in a comedy called “Allo, allo”.

And we can perhaps imagine the market trader saying, “I’m not going to give you this once, I’m not even going to give you this twice, I’m going to give you this three times.”

That is what we get in today’s readings. We get it three times.

In the gospel, Jesus gives it to Peter three times. “Do you love me?” “You know I do.”

Three times, to correspond with the number of times Peter denied Christ before the cock crew.

Three times to emphasise that Jesus had got over that, that Peter was forgiven.

Three times to underline Peter’s particular pastoral responsibility

I wonder what he says to each of us, this Jesus risen from the dead. What his call is. “Mary, do you love me?” “You know I do.” “Then feed my lambs, teach my people, help them find their freedom.”

It’s not just once that Luke gives us the story of Saul’s conversion. It’s not just twice. It’s three times.

Why?

First of all, I presume it was because he thought this is a story worth telling.

And I presume that it was Luke’s intention that this story should capture the imagination of the church, and help us in our own journeys and our own transformations and conversions.

It’s worth remembering also that it’s not just one, it’s not just twice, but it’s three times that Luke tells us how brutal and callous Saul was towards the followers of the Way.

  1. In chapter 7, Luke tells us how Saul was involved in stoning of Stephen to death. He may only have been holding the coats, but Luke does say that Saul “approved of their killing him.” He was not a nice man.
  2. In chapter 8, Luke reports that “Saul began to destroy the church. Going from house to house, he dragged off both men and women and put them in prison.” What was wrong with the man?
  3. Here in chapter 9, he goes and gets letters from the high priest to authorise him to arrest those who followed Jesus’ Way, and imprison them in Jerusalem. This is a truly frightening man.

What on earth was Jesus doing with Saul?

This is a story of conversion told three times, intended to capture our imagination.

I want to look at this in not just one way, not even just in two ways, but in three.

I want to look at the idea of “going out of our way” (in the sense of waywardness), “mending our ways” and “finding our way”.

And I want to refer not just to one person, Saul, nor even to just two people, but three. I refer to Saul, to the prodigal and to ourselves as the people this story is intended to inspire and transform.

Firstly, Saul.

Saul went out of his way to find the followers of the Way.

It comes across as an obsession.

There are two places named. There’s Jerusalem and there’s Damascus. It’s hardly Runcorn to Liverpool in 20 minutes, so long as there are no lane closures on the bridge. This is 135 miles away, across rivers and mountains, on horseback – perhaps 4 or 5 days away.

Then, lo, Jesus meets him, risen from the tomb.

Lovingly he greets him.

“Who are you?” Saul asks.

“I am Jesus whom you are persecuting.”

And he said to Saul, “Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what to do.”

And Saul had to be led the rest of the way by hand, and then he was told his way forward.

And what a long way he went.

Luke emphasises all the places Paul went, by road, overseas, through storms carrying Jesus’ to all the nations.

The way was found for Saul, and the way was followed by the convert all the way, all the miles, through trial, suffering, all the way to his death.

Saul’s way, Paul’s way, reminds us of the ways of the prodigal son.

His way was to get his inheritance and run for the time of his life.

Until his luck runs out, and he sees the error of his ways.

The father’s way is to tuck his skirt into his belt and run out to embrace the son he thought he had lost.

Lovingly he greets him, in such an outrageous way that the elder brother protests.

“This isn’t the way.

This isn’t the way to deal with someone who stripped you of half of your money, and who let down the family business.”

And the father says “This is the only way.

The only way to share your father’s pleasure is to forgive your brother. That is the only way. That is my way.” 

What about ourselves?

What are our ways? Are they his ways?

Our waywardness may not be as dramatic as Saul’s, or the murderer who becomes a preacher, or the prodigal’s.

Or as awful as Peter’s, who when he realised what he had done just broke down and wept.

Waywardness is part of our reality which is realised in our worship. We confess the ways in which, whether in thought or in deed, we have sinned against our brothers and sisters, and sinned against God.

We ask for God to help us to mend our ways.

We let Jesus lovingly greet us, lead us, his way, so that we may “do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with you our God.”

That is the way God wants us.

He wants us to walk with him. He wants us to be yoked to him, on the way and all the way.  This is the way of life.

Before Jesus’s followers became known as Christians, they were known as followers of the WAY.  The followers of the WAY were known because they had a way of life.

And that way of life is spelled out not just once, not just twice, but three times, by both Jesus and Luke in today’s readings.

Through both Peter and Saul Jesus experienced betrayal and persecution.

To both he showed forgiveness.

For both he gave them a way to go, a direction.

For both there is the prediction of suffering, but for them that was another aspect of walking with Jesus and following his way.

Ourselves, we help each other on our way at the end of our liturgy.

Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord. “In the peace of Christ, we go”.

We don’t simply get on our way.

We commit ourselves to his way, to keep in step with Jesus, loving mercy, and walking humbly with our God as we meet other Sauls, Peters, Sharons and Janets.

What is our way with them?

The work of forgiveness

David Herbert2 Comments

Forgiveness doesn’t change the past, but it releases us from the power of the past. Forgiveness doesn’t rewrite history. But it prevents our histories from asphyxiating us. Fundamentally, forgiveness transforms our past from an enemy to a friend, from a horror-show of shame to a storehouse of wisdom. In the absence of forgiveness we’re isolated from our past, trying pitifully to bury or deny or forget or destroy the many things that haunt and overshadow and plague and torment us. Forgiveness doesn’t change these things, but it does change their relationship to us. No longer do they imprison us or pursue us or surround us or stalk us. Now they accompany us, deepen us, teach us, train us. No longer do we hate them or curse them or resent them or begrudge them. Now we find acceptance, understanding, enrichment, even gratitude for them. That’s the work of forgiveness. It’s about the transformation of the prison of the past.

Sam Wells from his Easter Day Sermon 2013

Kevin Bennett wrote Psalm 35

David HerbertLeave a comment

On August 17th last year a man was kicked to death in by three teenagers on a dare. The man was Kevin Bennett, 53 year old who slept rough at the back of Iceland in Walton, Liverpool. He suffered a fractured eye socket, collapsed lung and a broken ribcage. His attackers were convicted of his murder yesterday.

This blurry photo seems to be the best of him.

According to Tommy Allman and others abuse of rough sleepers is common. As former rough sleeper Allman described what happened to him and others he knows through his work with the Basement, a Liverpool homelessness charity. He describes how rough sleepers get stamped on, crushed, urinated on and even set fire to. To add to that list, we now have someone who has been kicked to death as dare. In a TV interview Allman highlighted the importance of education and increasing awareness of the back stories causing people to become homeless. Homelessness does not happen in isolation and can be caused by financial difficulties, health issues, relationship breakdown or addictions.

Shelter Scotland has found that one in four of is just one paycheck away from homelessness, and that 5300 children were homeless last Christmas. Not all homeless people are rough sleepers, but rough sleepers is the public face of homelessness, and that public face is often not seen in human and humane terms. For many, they are just “bums” to be kicked, sometimes to death.

This was the story that held my attention as I read the ancient wisdom we call Psalm 35. The Psalm could have been written by murdered Kevin Bennett. Or it could have been written by one of the many people whose “back story” and heart of love is ignored and trampled on. The psalmist prays: “Contend, O Lord, with those who contend with me; fight against those that fight against me”. It could be Kevin Bennett praying “let those who seek after my life be shamed and disgraced; let those who plot my ruin fall back and be put to confusion … They reward me evil for good.

Friend Rob yesterday observed “we don’t know what people think”, and it is likely that there weren’t many people who bothered what Kevin thought. Certainly the psalmist’s abusers had no idea what the psalmist thought. They couldn’t see a heart that loved them. The hands they trod on weren’t apparently praying hands. Little did they realise that “when they were sick he put on sackcloth, fasted for them and prayed”. The psalmist writes out his agony when his prayer for them seem to be unanswered:

When my prayer returned empty to my bosom,
it was as though I grieved for my friend or brother;
I behaved as one who mourns for his mother,
bowed down and brought very low.”

In spite of that, the mocking continued. “When I stumbled, they gathered in delight; they gathered together against me; as if they were strangers I did not know, they tore at me without ceasing.”

They carried on kicking him in.
As a dare
to look big
they blindly crushed scum,
unable to see the man.
Forgive them, they don’t know what they do.

As for me,
I would not have seen.
It would have been a vague impression,
from the very edge of averted, defensive gaze,
of a blur with no depth of feeling.

I did not know him.

Measuring sympathy

David Herbert2 Comments

I have come across a lot of recipes recently where ingredients are measured in cups. This is frustratingly imprecise to someone who has to follow recipes line by line. I bought the measures, only to discover that they deliver a chilli which knocks your socks off. I still don’t know the cup size.

Measurements are part of everyday behaviour. I was disturbed yesterday by someone saying “I haven’t got a lot of sympathy for …” It’s as if we have a cup-board possession with a measure of sympathy. Put differently, only being able to spare a pinch of sympathy indicates the meanness of our disposition and behaviour.

How do we measure sympathy? Sometimes sympathy is measured in tea cups. “Tea and sympathy” never amounts to much and describes a limited attention of a duty call. I suggest that there is a more effective simple formula:

sympathy = knowledge x patience

Sympathy grows as we grow in understanding of the other point of view, the other’s position and all the systems that make their life what it is. Then that sympathy is magnified by the gift of patience. Personally I’ve not got a lot of sympathy for those who say they haven’t got a lot of sympathy for … More fool me.

sympathy Look up sympathy at Dictionary.com
1570s, “affinity between certain things,” from M.Fr. sympathie, from L.L. sympathia “community of feeling, sympathy,” from Gk. sympatheia, from sympathes“having a fellow feeling, affected by like feelings,” from syn- “together” + pathos “feeling” (see pathos). In English, almost a magical notion at first; e.g. in reference to medicines that heal wounds when applied to a cloth stained with blood from the wound. Meaning “conformity of feelings” is from 1590s; sense of “fellow feeling” is first attested 1660s. An O.E. loan-translation of sympathy was efensargung.
There’s a similar post for 7-Up Sunday

Replacing repairs

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Untitled
Cobblers used to be in high demand

Oh dear. “The car’s knackered, we’re going to have to walk”. That was the response of someone whose car had broken down near to us yesterday. He put a brave face on the diagnosis from the RAC man (diagnosis took ten seconds!). I would have at least kicked the tyres. We had our own breakdown the other week. Our two year old washing machine was going to cost £290 to repair – the exact cost of a new replacement. It seems that everything is getting very complicated, and it becomes increasingly difficult to see what’s gone wrong. The problem with our washing machine was the electronic control board, as is the case with most broken equipment these days. Replacing is replacing repair. I used to be a regular visitor to the TV repair man with our Ferguson TX. Where is the TV repair man now?

One of the features of childhood evenings was watching my Mum darning holes in socks, referred to as “doing the mending”. Is it a lost art? Have repairs been replaced? Repairs are easier when you can see how pipes and wires have come apart and how they can be re-paired.

mendingThis quote from Dag Hammarskjold captures the wonder of mending and repair.

Forgiveness is the answer to the child’s dream of a miracle by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is again made clean.

Brokenness featured in conversation yesterday. Relationships are easily broken. Fortunately we get well used to re-pairing ourselves from our temporary separations and breaks. But occasionally, the hurt is profound and the damage irreparable, and the longer it persists the more difficult the repair becomes. It’s as if the broken ligaments of the relationship wither till there is nothing to be re-paired. A stitch in time saves nine.

We may be able to forgive, but that may not be enough to re-pair. Surely a re-pair is impossible without something to throw a line to, something to hold on to – whether that be a word, a gesture, or understanding and remorse?

(Feigned) Remorse
There’s remorse, and then there’s remorse!

A local headteacher was telling me about a small child in his school who had kicked one of the older children. “He showed no remorse” was the head’s comment. That is a problem that child is going to have to overcome. If he doesn’t become remorseful how can those he hurts ever forgive him. What a tragic life he has in front of him unless he can learn remorsefulness. Remorse is what we can get hold of when we want to forgive and be re-paired. Instead of reparation, remorselessness brings separation.

It may be that life is too complicated for us to see how it is broken. It may be that things have become a lot more reliable. It may be that in a blame culture we have to insist that we don’t break, that we are reliable, and not liable. It may be that our business in a consumer culture has lost the hard work and deep satisfaction of repair. It may be that we can’t see how we are broken.

Nota Beans

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>Nota bene from Rev Ruth’s blog about preaching:

The Church Times is talking about preaching this week. The College of Preachers (of which I am a paid-up member, don’t you know?) commissioned a study into preaching at various denominations.

17% said that they frequently heard sermons that made them change their lifestyles. In my humble experience, whenever one is tempted to have someone in mind when writing such a sermon they invariably don’t turn up that week.

97% said that they looked forward to the sermon each week and 84% agreed that they should be closely connected with the bible. 55% said their knowledge of Jesus was frequently improved by sermons. But only 16% said that sermons helped them to understand events in the news or controversial issues.

Looks like a case of great expectations to me – in spite of what we preachers are sometimes led to believe.

Nota Bene from Bishop Alan’s blog – this poem by Kaylin Haught:
God says Yes to Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

which made me think who is right and who is wrong. God says “yes” to those who see him face to face, heart to heart and eye to eye. To others he says “look at me – through Jesus”. That’s the verdict we have to live with.

>The Flaws of Leadership

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>Steve Bell draws attention to the “whited sepulchre” in his cartoon on MP’s expenses.
Matthew’s gospel has these words: “What sorrow awaits you teachers of religious law and you Pharisees. Hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs–beautiful on the outside but filled on the inside with dead people’s bones and all sorts of impurity” (23:27). John’s gospel also has these words: “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone” (chapter 8)

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough from the lynch mob – and it is time to draw a line under the whole sorry affair. I don’t know why we should be so surprised when our leaders show themselves to have feet of clay. Out of some sort of idolatory we expect our leaders to be perfect – or is it that we think ourselves as perfect?

As luck would have it the Bible reading for this morning was Genesis (27&28)- exploring the world of Esau and Jacob (twins), Abraham, Rebecca and Isaac – with Laban thrown in for luck. Together Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are known as the “patriarchs”. Stories about all of them could have kept our tabloids going for years. Abraham passed his wife off as his sister (to Pharoah). Rebecca was a schemer. Jacob was a cheat. Esau was resentful. I could go on. Why did not the religious leaders hide the flaws of the patriarchs? I suggest that it was because they wanted to be realistic about human nature – saying “this is what we’re like – and it’s no good pretending otherwise”. It was to characters such as these (and such as ourselves) that God promises the earth – in spite of the scheming, deceit and betrayal. It is significant that the founding fathers of Judaism and Christianity could do nothing of themselves. The foundation of our faith is not that we all have to be good but that we have to depend on God to turn the tide of despair and bitterness.

On the same day as we scoff and mock our political leaders history has been turning in Northern Ireland. At last a peace settlement has been achieved for which our PM(flawed like the rest of our leaders) paid tribute to all those who had made the settlement possible. It is a magnificent achievement to have sworn enemies holding the reins of power together. Gordon Brown described it as “inspirational” and a lesson for the world that conflict resolution is possible. The peace has been won by courageous leadership. The architects of peace are flawed but courageous enough to know that history is flawed by conflict and transformed by compromise/forgiveness. There can be no forgiveness without flaws!