Tag: Lent

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?

The fig tree and the landlord

David Herbert1 Comment

A reflection for the 3rd Sunday in Lent (Year C) focusing on the parable of the fig tree. The readings for the day are Isaiah 55:1-9 and Luke 13:1-9

The gospel writers give us two parables of Jesus featuring fig trees. He may have used more. The two we’ve got teach different lessons. In one, the fig tree is cursed. In the other the fig tree is spared. The fig tree (featured in Mark 11:12-14, 20-25 and Matthew 21:18-22) is cursed by Jesus for not bearing fruit. In the other, from Luke’s gospel, the parable which is our good news for today, the fruitless fig tree is given a time of grace. 

Our other reading from Isaiah (55:1-9) culminates with these words of the Lord: “my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways”.

How are we going to bring these two passages of scripture together and bring them to life today?

“My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.” A good question for us to be asking is “How?” How do my ways differ from the Lord’s ways? How does our thinking differ? These are good questions for self-examination, particularly during Lent which is a season given us for repentance, for changing our minds, attitudes and behaviour.

There is a distinction drawn. “My ways are not your ways …..”

The distinction is graphically illustrated by Jesus in today’s parable. It’s our Lord telling a story about another lord, a landlord – and we can read between those few lines of the parable the thought of the Lord: “my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

Let’s look at the difference between one lord and the other and try to unpack a parable which takes up so little page room that it is easy to skate over it. But small is beautiful and less is more – such is the rule of God’s kingdom.

The difference is in their respective responses to fruitlessness, and their different relationships to the fig tree.

The owner of the vineyard, the landlord, had a fig tree growing in the vineyard.
He keeps coming back to the vineyard to see if there were any figs on the tree.
Time and time again he did this.
For three years he kept checking up, and then he ran out of patience.
Cut it down, he said.

Here is a man with authority who can say to his servant, do this, do that.
He gives the orders. He doesn’t dirty his own hands.
His servant is the one who took care of the vineyard.
He is the one who does the work.
If there’s cutting down to be done, he’s the one who will do it – the owner isn’t going to get involved in that dirty work.

So, here the picture is building up of this landowner-boss, who comes from time to time to check up on his investments, to check up on his interests.
His interest is what matters to him.
It’s all about him.
It’s his vineyard, but he’s away from it most of the time.
His is a remote control. He’s distant and disconnected.
It’s his fig tree, and it’ll be his profit if the fig tree were to give a fig.

We won’t blame the landowner.
We won’t call him wicked.
His behaviour is normal.
This is what happens in the real world.
His order makes perfect sense to our thinking.

Of course, we are not surprised that the landlord wants to cut the plant down.
We know that is the way of the world governed by money, profit and vested interests.
We are seeing that in our current economic crisis with cuts to welfare.
The way of the world is to cut down the fruitless and profitable, so that the fruitless and unprofitable make way for something that will be productive.
The ways of the world measure us in productivity and fruitfulness.
The less productive and fruitful we are the more vulnerable we become to cuts.

But is this the only way? Must fruitlessness always be met with destruction and condemnation?

There’s the landlord. 

Now let’s explore how different the one who actually took care of the vineyard.
We need to make a judgement between them otherwise Jesus has told the parable in vain.

In the words from our Isaiah passage we can play the question whether the thoughts of the caretaker are the same as the thoughts of the landlord.
Do they think the same?
Are the ways of the caretaker higher than the landlord?
Is his thinking higher than the thinking fo the landlord – “as the heavens are higher than the earth”?

The one who took care of the vineyard is the caretaker.
He is the one who is always there, working the vineyard day to day, spending his time and energy, rooted in the earth and tied up with the vines, the figs and all the challenges they face.
He’s the one who takes care of the vineyard for the landlord who takes care of his pocket.

(If you want to play with words again, our word care, originates from the Old English caru and cearu (meaning “sorrow, anxiety, grief”), ultimately stemming from the Proto-Germani karo (meaning lament, sorrow) and potentially tracing back to a Proto-Indo-European root meaning “to cry out, shout”. Just ask Google!

The word cure came to us through French after the Norman Conquest, and ultimately derives from the Latin word cura, meaning care.

The caretaker, the one who takes care of the vineyard, is the curator.
I’m labouring this point because you are in your vacancy of praying for a new priest – someone the Book of Common Prayer calls curate who will have the cure of souls in these parishes, a curate who will spend her/his time and energy in the day to day care for the vineyard round here,
someone who will join you in caring for those around you,
someone who will sorrow and grieve with you for how things are for those who are hurt and suffer the cuts of those who don’t care so much,
someone who will join you in lament, crying out and shouting about pain, injustice and suffering,
someone like the caretaker in Jesus’ parable who speaks up for the doomed fig tree,

someone who knows better ways for the world, someone who will think differently to the world …

Through the caretaker’s pleas we see the heart of our Lord Jesus.
Where the world rushes to judgement, Jesus intercedes for grace.
Here’s the difference between the landlord and our Lord.
The reason Jesus was sent into the world was to save us, not condemn us.
God is slow to condemn – with God there is always the period of grace, another season for the caretaker to do his work.

So, which lord will we follow?
Will we stand with the landlord in judgement, or with the caretaker in mercy?

Jesus wants us to follow him.
He wants us to join him to save the world
He wants our ways of thinking and our patterns of behaviour to be passionate in our care during this hard won season of grace.

If we follow Christ we will see the fruits of his patience.
We will see lives restored and hope rekindled,
and after the season is done, the caretaker, our Lord will say to the landlords:
“See this, the fruit of your planting, the harvest of this season of grace.
See the compassion, see the harvest.”

The sound of the genuine

David HerbertLeave a comment

From Howard Thurman‘s cummencement address at Spelman College:

“There is something in every one of you that waits, listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself – and if you cannot hear it, you will never find whatever it is for which you are searching and if you hear it and then do not follow it, it was better that you had never been born … And if you cannot hear the sound of the genuine in you, you will all of your life spend your days on the ends of strings that somebody else.”

Reading through Lent with Cole Arthur Riley’s Black Liturgies.

Retracing our steps to our first vocation

David Herbert1 Comment

Lent 2a

Draft sermon for March 5th 2023

Readings: Genesis 12:1-4a and John 3:1-17

I begin with a blessing written by Jan Richardson. Jan has written a blessing for every Sunday based on the readings. You can find them on her website called The Painted Prayerbook.

This one is called “Beginning with Beloved – a blessing”

Before reading it I have to say that I never know how to pronounce “beloved”. How do you say it?
Is our confusion because we don’t use the word enough?
Is it one word or two? Beloved or be loved?

Here is the blessing:

Is there any other words
needs saying,
any other blessing
could compare
with this name,
this knowing?

Beloved

Comes like a mercy
to the ear that has never
heard it.
Comes like a river
to the body that has never
seen such grace.

Beloved

Comes holy
to the heart
aching to be new.
Comes healing
to the soul
wanting to begin again.

Beloved

Keep saying it
and though it may 

sound strange at first
watch how it becomes
part of you,
how it becomes you,
as if you never
could have known yourself
anything else,
as if you could ever
have been other
than this.

Beloved.

Today is the 2nd Sunday of Lent.

Lent gets its name from the Old English and refers to the lengthening of the days during the spring following our wintering, as in “our days are lentening”.

Ancient wisdom has carved out these gifts of time for us. 

It is journeying time,

time for following the Way of Jesus,
for journeying through our difficult and dark age to the day of resurrection and a day without darkness when every tear will be wiped from our eyes, when death will be no more and when mourning and crying and pain will be no more. (Revelation 21 and 22).

Our readings feature Abram and Nicodemus. They are both setting out on journeys of faith.

God told Abram to leave his country, his kindred, his home.
He was 75 years old when he left everything behind for the sake of “becoming a great nation” and to be the blessing for all the families of the earth. 

(As an aside, it is interesting to note that in our moment of history when there is unprecedented migration that those who count themselves as “children of Abraham” – Muslims, Jews and Christians – owe their identity to Abram who made his name Abraham by leaving his country, kindred and home and became a migrant.)

Abram left his old life behind. He left his old age. He left his identity and he even left his name to become Abraham.

The meaning of the name Abraham is “Father of a crowd” or “Father of multitudes”.

God is the making of him and he becomes his name.

Nicodemus’s journey is very different. Nicodemus is mentioned three times in John’s gospel. This is the first – here he comes to Jesus by night. He may be a teacher of Israel but he doesn’t understand what Jesus is really talking about. He is in the dark.

How can anyone be born again? How can someone who has lived so much life be born again? How can anyone who has travelled so far get back to the beginning?
These are the questions that spring to his mind when Jesus tells him that those who want to see the kingdom of God need to be born again.

In the second passage (John 7:45-51) he is part of the ruling council which wants to condemn Jesus – but Nicodemus emerges from their shadow to stand out against them to defend Jesus.

The third passage (John 19:38-42) shows Nicodemus taking responsibility with Joseph of Arimathea for laying Jesus in the garden tomb after his crucifixion.
He is the last person to touch Jesus’ body before his resurrection – and as such he is celebrated as one of the Myrrhbearers by Orthodox Christians on the 3rd Sunday of Easter.


Like Abraham, Nicodemus is on a journey of faith. But Nicodemus’s journey is measured in light. Here we see him coming to Jesus in the dark. By the end of the gospel we see him in the light of Jesus’ death and resurrection. His movement is from the darkness of not-knowing into the light of knowing. That is how he is born again.

What is true for Nicodemus must be true for us as well. Jesus said, noone can see the kingdom of God without being born from above. We have to be born again to see the kingdom of God. But how? 

How are we born again, and how do we help others to be born from above?

I don’t know about you but I never made anything of the anniversary of my baptism – then I went to the trouble of finding the date and now have that in my diary. This week on March 11th I will have been baptised 72 years. I am sorry for what I have missed by not remembering it. 

Baptism marks the beginning of a journey with God when the church welcomes the new Christian, promising support and prayer for the future. It’s a new life, walking in the light of Christ for the rest of our lives. It’s a new life born by water and Spirit. That’s the theory.

Maybe Lent is an opportunity to retrace our steps to that beginning,
retracing our steps to that time the church started lovingly calling us by name,
when we became precious sister or brother to all the other people of God,
when we were commissioned alongside them,
committing ourselves with all Abraham’s children to grow in friendship with God,
in love for his people,
listening to the word of God and receiving the gifts of God.

If Lent is a journey, maybe it’s time to go backwards in order to move forwards.

Maybe Lent is the time to recall the voice that set us on the path of a new life. 
Maybe Lent is the time to retrace our steps to that beginning when we heard our name called in such a way as to save us, not condemn us – when we heard our name called in such a way as to save us from the old age.

Maybe Lent is the time of recalling ourselves in Christ who was sent into the world only ever to save the world, and never to condemn the world.

Maybe Lent is the time to listen to our name being called without a hint of a curse or judgement.
Henri Nouwen wrote in his book, The Life of the Beloved, “We are beloved. We are intimately loved long before our parents, teachers, spouses, children and friends loved or wounded us….”

Maybe Lent is the time to search for our blessing.

Maybe Lent is the time to listen for the same voice that Jesus heard at his baptism, the voice from heaven which said: “You are my son, whom I love. With you I am well pleased.”
“You are the one whom I love. With you I am well pleased.”

Maybe Lent is the time for us as church to be born again. It is hard for God’s word to be heard when the church is too guarded in blessing and too quick in judgements. 

In Lent we return to the beginning, to what we have forgotten about the making of us. We begin with the inscription of dust on our foreheads to remind ourselves that God makes life out of dust.
We retrace our often mis-taken steps so that we can begin again the journey of our life time.
We read our scriptures to retrace our blessing.

We turn to Abram (who is the beginning of our faith journey) and Nicodemus
We return to the beginning to see ourselves and others as God intends – as “beloved”.

We are never too old for this journey back to the beginning and then onwards with Jesus.
Part of the blessing is never being written off as too old.

Remember, Abram was 75 when he was told to leave everything, when he said good bye to his old age with its curses and judgements.

It’s always time to start again.

And it’s always time to be there for others who want to start again, 

to remind them by word and deed that Jesus’ mission is to save the world, not condemn it,
to reassure them that it is never too late for a fresh start
to bless them by re-calling them      “beloved”.

Praying simply

David Herbert2 Comments

A poor life this, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

These are the closing lines of W H Davies’s so simple poem, Leisure.

I bet I’m not the only one to be brought up sharp by this. Could this be a Lenten discipline: to take time?

Mary Oliver’s simple lines in Praying might help us to take time in the everyday – just to wonder and wander in prayer. Prayer doesn’t have to be difficult.

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Photo credit: Vilseskogen

 

The Guest House

David Herbert1 Comment

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I am grateful to Ivonprefontaine for reminding me about Rumi’s wonderful poem, The Guest House. It seems perfect for Lent in that it explores an important dimension of hospitality in a way that reminds me of Jesus’s temptations in the wilderness.
Rumi was a 13th century Persian poet. He was a Sunni Muslim, theologian and Sufi mystic. He was the “father” of the Whirling Dervishes (founded by his son, Sultan Walad).

The image of the poem is freely available through Pixabay

How high can you go without falling down? – a sermon and temptation for Lent 3B

David Herbert2 Comments

A sermon for Guilden Sutton. Lent 3B. March 8th 2015.

On top of the World Trade Centre: how high can you go without falling down?

Well. Top of the morning to you.

Ever hear that expression? An Irish greeting – “top of the morning to you”, meaning “the best of the morning to you” – for which the response is “and the rest of the day to you”.

It’s a bit like our responses, “Peace be with you”, “and also with you”.

So “top of the morning to you” …………………

It’s a greeting of energy isn’t it – someone who’s got up at 5.30 and stolen a march on everyone else. “The top of the morning to you”. It’s the greeting of someone who is full of beans, feeling “on top of the world”: “On top of the world” as opposed to being “under the weather”.

I have a theory that we usually only ever see people who are “on top of the world”. People who are “under the weather” keep themselves to themselves in a self-imposed hiding, unless the weather they’re under is “fine”.

“How are you today?” “I’m fine thanks.”

But we see very few people who are really under the weather – those with depression, those who are drowning are hidden.

We are in a time of discipline. This is Lent when our consciousness of temptation is heightened and we are more likely to respond to the call to resist.

There are a number of temptations for those who feel “on top of the world”. Those “on top of the world” can be so annoying. “Cocky” is the word we’ll often use – the cock, who really is “top of the morning to you”.

Jesus had this temptation when he felt “on top of the world”. Do you remember the story (Luke 4:9-12)?

The devil had Jesus stand on the highest point of the temple and said “if you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here”. He said “you’ll be all right because God will send his angels to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Here is the temptation to be wonder-full, the temptation to be Mr High and Mighty, the temptation to be Mr Big. It’s a temptation that takes place on the pinnacle of the temple – on the height of religious experience and achievement. Many people stand at that same spot, on top of the world, on to the height of religious experience and achievement … and they think they’re wonderful, proud that they’ve got there, looking down on others, judging and despising.

I work at Church House. We have staff prayers on Mondays. The person leading those prayers asked us to have some moments of quietness to reflect on how we were doing in Lent, where we were up to in our Lenten discipline. This came as a bit of a shock to me because at that stage, 5 days into Lent, I hadn’t got round to thinking about my Lent.

I had read a reflection that morning on Jesus’ 3rd temptation. That made my decision for me for this Lent – to be disciplined to keep my feet on the ground, to count the blessings of being down to earth, to appreciate the lowly, and to remember who I am when, as sometimes happens, I am lured on to high ground. The question, the very real question for me (and for all of us) is how we behave when we are on high ground, when we are on the moral high ground, when we are on top of the world, how do we behave?

I was reminded of a story by G K Chesterton about a curate who had taken to praying, “not on the common floor with his fellow men, but on the dizzying heights of its spires”. Father Brown goes up to rescue him. He says: “I think there is something rather dangerous about standing on these high places even to pray. Heights were made to be looked at, not to be looked from.”

He tells the curate: “I knew a man who began by worshipping with others before the altar, but who grew fond of high and lonely places to pray from, corners or niches in the belfry or the spire. And once in one of those dizzy places, where the whole world seemed to turn under him like a wheel, his brain turned also, and he fancied he was God. So that, though he was a good man, he committed a great crime. He thought it was given to him to judge the world and strike down the sinner. He would never have had such a thought if he had been kneeling with other men upon a floor.”

You may ask what all this has to do with today’s readings. Paul (1 Cor 1:18-25) asked the Christians at Corinth to consider their own calling. He tells them “not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the strong”.

The problems that Paul was addressing in his letter to the Corinthians are outlined in the same chapter. The Corinthian church is a divided community, torn apart by quarrels and people taking sides with Paul, Apollos or Cephas.

Paul’s response is that no one should boast about human leaders (3:21). He tells them that he came to them in weakness, in fear and trembling. “My speech and my proclamation were not with plausible words of wisdom, but with a demonstration of the Spirit and of power, so that your faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the  power of God.” (2:4)

So when we’re feeling “top of the world”, on top of our game, doing well, think again. That feeling is the doorway of temptation. God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the strong. How will you stand when you’re on top of the world? How will you behave? Will you resist the temptation to look good?

A Baptist minister talks about the robe that he puts on every Sunday. He says that it stands for his professional expertise and training. But he also says that it signals that “we’re all fools for Christ”. He says “I think of myself as a kind of court jester and freelancer in life.” He says that he is always wondering, wondering about God. He is an expert who knows his foolishness and his limits. This makes him a good facilitator of community and friendship.

What are we like? Whether we spend a lot of our time on the high ground, in high places, along corridors of power; or whether we are occasional visitors, what are we like? What do we do? How do we behave?

Do we remember our calling, to be salt of the earth, a calling of the foolish to shame the wise, a calling of the weak to shame the strong?

Do we remain down to earth, with feet on the ground? Or do we pride ourselves on our position?

Do we remain full of wonder? Or do our ways shout to those beneath us, “look at me, how wonderful I am”?

Oh, the temptations of high places and of doing well.

References:
Malcolm Guite. 2015. Word in the Wilderness: 3rd Temptation https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/tag/temptation/
Celia Allison Hahn. 1994. Growing in Authority, Relinquishing Control. The Alban Institute.

Ash Wednesday

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According to our Eucharistic (thanksgiving prayer) today is the day when we are led “into the desert of repentance that through a pilgrimage of prayer and discipline we may grow in grace and learn to be your (God’s) people once again.” The Imposition of Ashes reminds us “that we are dust, and to dust we shall return”. On the face of it Ash Wednesday sounds pretty miserable – but wait a minute, for words by Herbert McCabe quoted by Timothy Radcliffe in “Why go to Church“:

If we go to confession, it is not to plead for forgiveness from God. It is to thank him for it … When God forgives our sins, he is not changiing his mind about us. He is changing our minds about him. He does not change; his mind is never anything but loving; he is love.” (from God, Christ and Us)

I came across this brilliant poem thanks to Jenee Woodard’s wonderful work with the Textweek website.

Marked by Ashes

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .
This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
halfway back to committees and memos,
halfway back to calls and appointments,
halfway on to next Sunday,
halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
half turned toward you, half rather not.

This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
of failed hope and broken promises,
of forgotten children and frightened women,
we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.

We are able to ponder our ashness with
some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes
anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.

On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
you Easter parade of newness.
Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.

Walter Brueggemann (b. 1933)

Ash Wednesday

David HerbertLeave a comment

According to our Eucharistic (thanksgiving prayer) today is the day when we are led “into the desert of repentance that through a pilgrimage of prayer and discipline we may grow in grace and learn to be your (God’s) people once again.” The Imposition of Ashes reminds us “that we are dust, and to dust we shall return”. On the face of it Ash Wednesday sounds pretty miserable – but wait a minute, for words by Herbert McCabe quoted by Timothy Radcliffe in “Why go to Church“:

If we go to confession, it is not to plead for forgiveness from God. It is to thank him for it … When God forgives our sins, he is not changiing his mind about us. He is changing our minds about him. He does not change; his mind is never anything but loving; he is love.” (from God, Christ and Us)

I came across this brilliant poem thanks to Jenee Woodard’s wonderful work with the Textweek website.

Marked by Ashes

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .
This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
halfway back to committees and memos,
halfway back to calls and appointments,
halfway on to next Sunday,
halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
half turned toward you, half rather not.

This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
of failed hope and broken promises,
of forgotten children and frightened women,
we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.

We are able to ponder our ashness with
some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes
anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.

On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
you Easter parade of newness.
Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.

Walter Brueggemann (b. 1933)

Room at the Inn

David HerbertLeave a comment

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An interesting day yesterday at our local George and Dragon (linked as a thank you for their hospitality and for the benefit of those reading this blog in New Zealand who might want somewhere to stay in tarvin!). We’ve tried various things this Lent – one of which is a group meeting in the pub. Thanks to friend Hazel’s suggestion we’ve called it Room at the Inn and that’s caught people’s imagination. We gather every Tuesday morning at 9.30, each week starting with one of the four great questions of human being;

Who am I?
Where do I come from?
Where do I belong?
Where am I going?
Group members go where they like with the questions – but we’ve been returning to Psalm 139 at the end. It’s a great time and what we have shared has been really valuable. Friend Jinty came up with a really thought provoking quote from Penelope Lively:

We are all conditioned in a sense by those to whom we are bound; my real-life husband affected the person that I have become. Without him, with someone else, who knows what twists of personality might not have come about. I am a rather pragmatic and organized person. I was about to write “naturally pragmatic and organized” – but is that the case? Are such tendencies innate, or honed by circumstance?

Other people referred to the likes of Nelson Mandela and Terry Waite raising the question of why we react as we do, and what makes some reactions exemplary?
Note to me: see what happens when you only say the first words and then let people get on with it!