Our Interconnectedness Should be our Strength.

As I’m writing this, the war in Iran is raging, as are the tempers of some world leaders. It’s not pretty, it’s not pleasant, and it’s not new.

The war in the Middle East has been going on for some time now, and someone who is far cleverer than I would be able to give you the dates, whys and wherefores.

Once upon a time, I would have shrugged my shoulders and said ‘There’s nothing I can do about it’ and ’It’s not my problem’.

This time, however, it’s different; it’s personal, it does affect me, and I know that it is my problem. I feel this pain and connectedness every time I hand over my little bit of square plastic with the 16 magic numbers at the petrol station

I am deeply, deeply sorry that this war is happening, and while I snore loudly in my comfy bed in Western Victoria, others have their tenuous shelter blasted to bits. They cry themselves to sleep, mourning those whom they love and miss. They are hungry at night and live in fear each day.

This particular war has taught us that every war is everyone’s problem. We are all interconnected. We are all responsible for each other. It is our problem, and while there seems little we can do to extinguish the flames of retribution and revenge on an international scale, back here in our community, we can live peaceably in ways of forgiveness and compassion. We can bind up scars with bandages of caring. We can pour the balm of a listening silence onto those whose wounds are hidden from us.  We can wipe away tears.. softly. We can be gentle with ourselves. It is our problem after all. We are interconnected, and this should be our strength.

17/5/26

I Believe in the Communion of Saints.

This homily has been given to me over the years by several people. They were unaware of this treasure, but this just makes their gift all the more generous. They did not seek any recompense or reward. This homily is about several people, and yet no one in particular.

Frequently, it has been my privilege to visit someone in supported care. They have been uncurious, or asleep, or somewhere in between. Certainly, a conversation was never going to happen.

I’ve never been completely relaxed about this type of visit. I’ve always gone with my heart way down at the bottom of my gum boots and my heart going pitta patter. It’s confronting to say the least, particularly if I have known the person for some time. The difference in how I once knew them and the image before me is brutally different. How did it come to this? Part of my squeamishness is that I know this might be me one day.

So I tiptoe in, I say my prayers, sometimes a hand is held, and often it is mine. I find myself speaking in hushed, reverential tones because instinctively I know that the veil between this life and the next is flimsy and almost transparent.

Around the walls and on the bedside table, there are photographs of family and friends. They are almost surrounding the person in the bed with their image, their love and prayers. All I can see, of course, is the photo and the person in the bed, but that is not all that is going on here.

The patient was and is clearly loved and held in high esteem. Even though I can’t see it or touch it, that love is not in any way diminished or shrunken. It somehow becomes more real, more potent and more ferocious because of the excruciating circumstances of this illness and nearing death.

The patient in the bed, who is comatose, asleep, unconscious or whatever it is, is blissfully unaware of all of this, although the staff and I will tell you that they somehow always know and that the sense of hearing is the last to leave a person.

So perhaps they are not as oblivious as the outward appearances seem to tell us. Perhaps in their altered state, they are actually more alert and more in tune with the invisible than they are with the visible. Perhaps that’s what's really going on here. Transitioning from the visible and tangible to the invisible and untouchable, moving from this dimension to the other, they become more aware of and begin to live in a different way as people of that quirky resurrection way. The life that is almost the same … but not quite.

So are my friends in bed, oblivious and ignorant to the people in the photos around them or is it, as I choose to believe, that they are somehow already lying in and enveloped in that dimension of love which is stronger than anything we know on this side of the grave?

I come close to this … I think… sometimes… in the chapel at morning or evening prayer. When it’s just me and maybe one other. Am I alone and muttering my questions in the early morning gloom… who will roll away the stone… or am I in fact already surrounded by Our Lady, St. Peter, St. Mark and Him who is always at table with me.

Perhaps this is what the authors of our creed meant when they gave us ‘I believe in the communion of saints’; that you and I are already surrounded by a countless host of saints and angels and martyrs. That we are not alone but continuously being loved, prayed for, encouraged and cheered along the way.

I’m pleased that the folk in care have these photos of the people who love them more and more each day. I’m pleased that we have our stained glass windows and icons to remind us not of people of the past but who are part of our very present existence here and now in May 2026.

Because of the timelessness of that other dimension, we are already living with those who have gone before us, and we are already living in the bright future of heaven.

It’s hard to see, it's hard to sense, it’s hard to believe, particularly when the husk of the person and a few glossy photos are all we have. But even so, I will continue to say.

I believe. I believe in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting, amen.

Would it be OK if I said … “ I’m sorry ”

On Anzac Day, I am always moved. I’m not sure if it's the bugler, the hundreds who turn out, or the minutes' silence, but all of it stirs me in ways that are profound and indescribable.

But war must always disappoint us. Retribution, retaliation and revenge must inevitably spiral downwards into the muddy trenches of death and tears. In part, the message of the Anzacs should be that the wholesale slaughter of a generation is not the way forward, and we should not forget this, lest we forget, if that makes sense.

Yes, it’s all very well for me to sit on my comfy chair in my study and type away, but it wasn’t me who was shot at and killed. It wasn’t my family that received a telegram. It wasn’t me that came home irreparably altered.

I can’t wipe clean the besmirched page of our history book written in blood, but I can try each and every day to walk gently upon the face of this marvellous planet. I can choose to speak gently or less often and listen more. And when I have got it wrong, say a simple ‘I’m sorry’.

My feeble, as yet unfulfilled hope, is that we would learn that while the cost of war is immeasurable, it costs nothing to say ‘I’m sorry’, to make amends and to walk forward. It is OK to say ‘I’m sorry’, in fact, it is essential; for until and unless those words are spoken, we are always stuck in the past. Those two words liberate us so that we may embrace a new day where the potential for peace is not just the dream of some old guy on his comfy chair typing in his study, but the living reality for each and every one of us.

Don’t Blame the Goat

Once upon a time, more than 3,000 years ago, there was an ancient custom in which an unsuspecting goat would be captured and brought before the religious leader of the day. The locals having all told their grubbiest and most grimy faults to the clergy, it would then be the clerics' responsibility to load this gullible goat with all the sins of the local community. The goat would then be led into the wilderness, carrying away the sins of the people and never to be seen again.

It’s where we get our old ‘scapegoat' term from. I get the reasoning, and it must have felt pretty good to the faithful worshippers of the day.

But there are problems with this system aside from the outrageous price of goats.

Sometimes there are things that we need to fix because we are the ones who actually made the mess in the first place. The goat had nothing to do with the relationship I have bruised or the word(s) I regret. Nope! I need to approach Billy Boggins, fess up, say that I am sorry and offer to buy Billy a bottle of his favourite beverage as a sign of my contrition.

Today, instead of loading the goat with all the wrongs and ills of our society, we’ve become pretty good at finding other (scape) goats. This class, this colour, this point of view, this party; you get the idea.

Instead of looking at our ‘goats’ and heaping on them, sometimes it’s necessary to own up to my blinkered view and look in the mirror. And when we gaze into the mirror for a while, not just the quick squeamish glance, I might discover a bit of a silly old goat who, through honesty and reorientation, can actually be made shiny and beautiful once more.

3 May 2026

God of the Unlikely - Hear Our Prayer.

Usually, the first lesson at the Sunday Eucharist is normally from the Old Testament; during Eastertide, the first lesson is taken from the Acts of the Apostles. It’s the story of the early Church as reported by Luke, and we do this to enhance the underlying theme of ‘New life’ during the Easter tide.

In today’s first lesson, we have the macabre death of St. Stephen. A guy who was well thought of by the local worshipping community and was ‘full of the Holy Spirit’. He was pre-selected and then ordained a deacon. He was full of God’s grace and performed (and I quote) ‘great wonders and signs among the people’.

Now, you would have thought that having someone like this would ensure that all would be well in the Church of God. Further, Stephen would have a deliciously swimmingly sumptuous life and convert lots of people. He would then go on to become a wise old sage, offering counsel, advice and absolution to an uncountable cast of enthralled Christians. He did, after all, have the face of an angel.

But…it seems that not everyone was enraptured with Stephen and his message. They started malicious rumours about him. We’d call it a smear campaign today.

The rumour they spread was that Stephen had spoken blasphemous words against Moses and God. The opposition stirred up the people, the elders and teachers of the law, and they seized Him and brought him before the Sanhedrin.

They produced false witnesses, who testified, “We have heard him say that this Jesus of Nazareth will destroy this place and change the customs Moses handed down to us.”

So Stephen, in his defence, gives them a wide-ranging Old Testament lecture, and I get the sense that he had almost talked them around. But right at the end, he lambasts the Sanhedrin with these words.

“You stiff-necked people! Your hearts and ears are still uncircumcised.
You are just like your ancestors: You always resist the Holy Spirit! 
Was there ever a prophet your ancestors did not persecute?
They even killed those who predicted the coming of the Righteous One.
And now you have betrayed and murdered him— 
You who have received the law that was given through angels but have not obeyed it.”

And so we get today’s first lesson, where St. Stephen is martyred. The first adult person who died for his faith in our Lord.

Before that, we have to go back to the Holy Innocents that Herod martyred in his paranoia shortly after the magi had dropped in for a cuppa.  God of the unlikely - hear our prayer.

Odd, isn’t it, that the plot never seems to go exactly as you would think and certainly not as we would like. Not for the Magi, not for Herod, not for the Sanhedrin and certainly not for St. Stephen.

There he was, rising through the ranks when his life was ominously cut short, and his fan club was crushed just as surely as St. Stephen himself.

But there is something healthy about worshipping a God whose story takes us on unforeseen adventures, disappointments, joys, flotsam and jetsam; good-quality red wine at a wedding, the aching, desperate loneliness of the garden of Gethsemane and broken bread.

The God I am getting to know is both reliable and unlikely. Unrelenting and unambiguous. The good news is that the plot is not ours to write, and that should be liberating for us. The Master is uncontainable or and uncontrolled. You can tell him to wash his hands before dinner or raise an eyebrow at the grubby company he keeps. Goodness, you can even put Him in a cold tomb with a gargantuan boulder to keep him there … but he is unstoppable and unrestrainable.

We often construct a mental image of God as a distant, predictable force of pure power. Yet, our faith reveals a God who is surprising—a God who chose a humble virgin in a small town, rather than a queen in a palace, to bring salvation into the world. This "unlikely God" operates in "God-incidences" rather than human convenience. He is found in the everyday, the small, and often in the midst of messiness, contradicting our need for logical order.

Our "unlikely God" requires us to abandon our need for control and our limiting definitions of how He should act. Our Rabbi friend calls for a childlike trust—a total dependence on God's providence rather than our own efforts. When we stop trying to dictate how God should intervene and instead surrender to His often unexpected will, we find the peace that comes from knowing God is in control of the “unfathomable" and the unlikely.

Isn’t it grand that we have as our friend the master who will nudge us with our new way of thinking, an unthought-of perception. The one who will be remarkable purely because he chooses the unremarkable, which is startling and confronting in itself. And if you need any further proof, think of the ratty 12, think of St. Stephen’s young death, think of the sinful vagabond clergy you know, think of the wine and bread and then look at your friend in the mirror.

God of the Unlikely - Hear our Prayer.

Of Headphones

At Park-run and occasionally when I go around the lake by myself, some people use headphones. I have always assumed that the people who are wearing them are listening to music and that by some blue-toothy magic, their headphones are ‘feeding’ them inspirational noise to speed up their steps and quicken their heart rate.

But it occurred to me the other day that this might not actually be the case. What if these people use their headphones for something different and are actually using their headphones to block out all other noise so that they are deluged in syrupy silence? Is it not possible that the headphones can be used not only to supply noise, but also to block it out?

My pet theory is that we can access lots of noise, whatever noise we choose, as often as we like, and we don’t get enough silence to nurture and inspire us, in much the same way that music can nurture and inspire us.

The trick, I suspect, is to know when you need silence and when you need music. Then, to create the opportunity for what you need. Would it be a mortal sin if I got myself a pair of these headphones, slipped them on and played silence through them as I tottered around the lake? This might actually cause me to open my eyes afresh and gaze at the scenery that surrounds me. Good thoughts might come to mind. The tricky letter, the uncomfortable phone call might be thought through afresh, and ways forward may be found. Headphones, I have decided, can do lots of things that are not labelled on the box, and those who wear them may actually be doing more than just listening to the latest workout. Now what colours do they come in?

26/4/26

Address 2 on Affirmation

Today, I would like to offer a couple of examples of how others have affirmed me.

Years after I was ordained, Bishop John Hazlewood

Reflected that “I was like a little puppy dog falling all over itself in a rush to get to the altar.”

His imagery of a little puppy dog was astute and incisive, for puppy dogs are not just abounding in limitless enthusiasm and marvellous fun, but they also make lots of little puddly messes. Sadly, it is the lot of a Bishop to quietly and discreetly do the mopping up and wiping down.

Towards the end of this necessary cleaning process, Bishop John also said, “Please don’t be too hard on yourself. Our Lord knew what he was getting with you whilst you were still in the womb.”

He was doing at least two things here.

First, he echoed a reassuring biblical reference.

Jeremiah 1:5
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you.”

While I was still kicking and squirming around in my mum’s womb, our Lord had plans for one of them, and I was to be here at Hamilton with you today. What an undeserved and thrilling treat.

Secondly, he affirmed that I had always been God’s even before I knew this myself. Even when I am in the middle of yet another puddly, piddly mess, he is right there with me.

This is what affirmation looks like. It is what affirmation sounds like. It is what affirmation feels like. To know that God is involved in every second of your life, even when and especially when it doesn’t feel like it, or you are forgetful of it.

Bishop John also ordained one Fr. Peter Treloar, who had many gifts and affirmation was just one.

Fr. Peter once said, “Dave, you have a wonderful gift for loving people…” I beamed and blushed. But then he added, “and it will pain you for the rest of your priesthood.” And as I reflect upon it he was right.

Affirmation must always be authentic, and Fr. Peter’s words were. I know this now not just on a cerebral, academic level, but on a daily, existential, emotional level. This double-edged sword of joy and piercing is something that I am privileged to experience on a weekly, if not daily basis. How insightful of Fr. Peter to see it in me, to articulate it and also to foreshadow that a sword will pierce my own heart as well. Perhaps the ministry of affirmation is also to say the hard things graciously and lovingly. To tell the whole truth about the other’s gifts and that some gifts come with a hefty price tag.

Finally, a piece of affirmation which came from a parishioner.

Their name, of course, is quite lost to me, as is the context of our conversation, but I can still hear them saying.

“You have grown into your priesthood, Fr. David”.

I, of course, had been unable to discern this googly, developing, unfolding mystery. To my shame, I have seldom made the time to step outside myself, look back, reflect and realise that this growth has been happening. I guess it’s like a garden. For some time, you diligently just work away at it. The work goes on, and you don’t realise what you have accomplished until you get a visitor;  you are showing them around, and they make a Costa ‘Gardening Australia’  type compliment. ‘Oh yeah… I hadn’t realised.'

It’s one of the reasons why I go to confession at least once a year. The poor old confessor can see and discern the things that are too close to me. Sometimes you have to get an industrial-strength guru to deal with the sludge that has insidiously, indiscernibly been building up over time.

For your reflection, you might like to think about those gifts that are blindingly obvious to you but are hidden from the other. And if you are very brave, you might like to gently point out to them the sparkle that you see, but which they might be blind to.

You could start with something gentle like…

“Esmeralda,… I wonder if you have ever given any thought to the possibility that … when you polish the brass, you do such a great job I can see my face in it”

We can also affirm others by offering listening silence with them. One of the most affirming questions I ever heard came from my son-in-law as he was speaking to one of his work colleagues on the phone. He simply asked, ‘Where would you like to start?’ He was making it very clear that this work conversation is not about me telling you what to do. It is about you and what you need, and how I can help you to do a great job and be productive. Perhaps in our affirming conversations, we should begin with the attitude and or words… ‘Where would you like to start?’

I have prattled on about a couple of people who have affirmed me, so three quick questions to take home.

Who has affirmed you?

How did they do it?

What was your reaction and why?

19/4/26 

Of Affirmation. PART 1 of 2

I thought that I would start with a true story to show you what affirmation does not look like.

I experienced ‘Non-affirmation’ frequently in college because  I was an overly sensitive, immature student at theological college.

One of my tutors went to great lengths to point out my incompetence when they cheerfully wrote the following note on one of my hard-fought essays…

“Dear David,
Thank you very much for this piece of work. Sadly, the logic of your essay completely escapes me.
However, if you wanted, I would be happy to buy you a beer, and perhaps you might try to explain it to me.”

That is not what affirmation looks like.

So what does it look like?

In his book ‘Christ in the wilderness’, Bishop Stephen Cottrell wrote.

“No human being can thrive without affirmation…
this is the truth that lies in the scriptures.
In sixth form, I found teachers who believed in me.
They did not think that education was pouring knowledge in,
rather it was drawing potential out.”

And this is what affirmation looks like. Affirmation does not seek to impose its own form of wisdom and stringent restrictions. Its own self-serving body of self-righteous knowledge. This style of teaching can only stifle and crush. As Bishop Stephen incisively wrote. ‘No one can thrive without affirmation.' Affirmation is essential to us.

Authentic affirmation starts with the other, the underlying, the apprentice. It looks into the heart and soul of the student, sees what is there and draws out the potential and possibilities by offering consistent and constant affirmation. Rather than diminishing the other, it celebrates them. Affirmation fosters possibilities and encourages them to flourish. And having blossomed and flourished it can then offer fruit, fruit that will last. This fruit will be enjoyed, it will nurture others and be rejoiced in.

The Master’s affirmation of St. Peter is well known, and it is worth repeating here as we look at it through the lens of affirmation.

It begins with a simple Q n A session. Peter gets the answer right and is affirmed for this.

‘When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?”

 Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven.”

However, the bit that I want to refer you to is a line that we frequently skimp over.

“ For this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven.”

And there in lies our own shiny key in showering others with affirmation.

We must always try to see others in the same light as our heavenly Father does. How does our Heavenly Father see them?

What can He reveal about them to you?

That they are flawed, certainly. That they are scarred and bruised… always. That they are loved continuously, that they are to be offered unflinching forgiveness.

A really good place to start is to ask our Heavenly Father to reveal to us who this person truly is. It is quick, easy and tempting to listen to what flesh and blood has to say about others. It’s a much harder but much more fruitful exercise to have some silence and listen to what our Heavenly Father has to say about them.

And if you are very brave, perhaps you might stop and listen to what our Heavenly Father has to say about you. Your own self.

You are my child, whom I love, and with you I am well pleased.

What if we really owned those words for ourselves and integrated them into our everyday lives? Wouldn’t we then understand that we are affirmed and … how much easier it would be to affirm others, knowing that the Heavenly Father is saying exactly the same thing to Fred Nark, who drives us bonkers and has that nasty anti-social habit that must never be mentioned.

So perhaps my tutor was not so far off the mark. The things you and I dabble in do not quite fit into a concise, well-reasoned, 3 points and a conclusion, footnoted essay. No wonder they wrote…

Thank you very much for this piece of work. Sadly, the logic of your essay completely escapes me. However, if you wanted, I would be happy to buy you a beer, and perhaps you might try to explain it to me.”

In the end, I didn’t take him up on the offer. The opportunity to affirm one another was missed.  But I reckon if we had, we would have seen each other and affirmed each other as only brothers and sisters can and should.

For your reflection.

What is the heavenly Father saying to you about your own Fred Nark?
What is the Heavenly Father saying to you about yourself?

Step Inside Love … and stay

In 1968, Cilla Black released a song, ‘Step Inside Love’. It’s about a woman who waits for her special friend to come and visit. When her friend leaves, she makes it very clear that she would like to see them again. In my mind’s eye, I can still ‘see’ Cilla on the screen, and I can most certainly hear the music.

So here’s the thing. Even after all these years, the music and vision are still part of me. The music and images, like the person in the song, stepped across my threshold and stayed.

I’m sure you have these special songs and images from days of yore. They are to be re-remembered, re-lived, re-lived, and relished.

But this stepping across the threshold and staying, this getting under our skin, also applies to our relationships with people, and it applies to our relationship (if you're so inclined) with the Divine.

He will politely stand at the door and knock. The rest is up to us.

It’s a risk when we allow others to step inside and stay because our lives are set on a whole new trajectory, and things can never be the same again. For me, it is utterly enjoyable, and I could not have it, would not have it any other way.

The song was written by Paul McCartney, no less, and the end exquisitely encapsulates this ‘wanting more', this ache for the next encounter. Thus…

‘When you leave me
Say you'll see me again
For I know in my heart
We will not be apart
And I'll miss you till then
We'll be together
Now and forever
Come my way
Step inside, love, and stay.’

Do we dare take the risk? Do we open the door, find them a place and ask them / Him to stay?

Easter 2. His Wounds are our Wounds.

It was a very simple business card, and its simplicity is what made it so striking. There was no gloss on the card; there were pretty pictures or elegant curly whirly script.

Just the person’s name, their role and some basic contact details. The absence of dizziness and complications was what made it so powerful and attractive.

It gave me pause to think. If Our Lord had a business card, then I wonder what it might look like. You could go all out with all his titles, Messiah, Lord, Friend, Brother, Saviour and add some nice crosses around the edge of the card for special effect. The contact details might prove a little trickier, though. To the best of my knowledge, I have never discovered an email address, Google account, fax or mobile phone number.

Instead… maybe something like this could be printed.

“For all enquiries, sit still, listen and if you need to … then speak. The things you have to say are important to me, but not nearly as important as the things I have to say to you.”

But I believe that today’s gospel gives us a clue as to what The Master’s business card would look like.

‘Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!”  After he said this, he showed them his hands and side.’

The wounds that were inflicted so brutally are actually transformed into symbols of loving peace. Yes, you can string me up. You can drive big rusty nails through my hands and feet, you can pierce my side, but I will not be sucked into your petty and heinous trap, the unending, vicious cycle of retribution, retaliation and revenge which can only disappoint and must result in death.

Instead, I will meet you behind your locked doors of fear and questions. And instead of showing you a clenched fist pumping in the air, I will gently open my palm and show you where the nails went through.

And it’s the same with Thomas. Here Thomas.

Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side.

His business card has the imprints of my wounds. The graphics of love and the simplicity of those scars make them so potent and so irresistible.

In my little time as a parish priest, I have discovered that the most spectacular folk are those who carry their scars with panache and grace. There’s little or no fanfare; they just get on with the very serious but enjoyable business of loving others into his nearer presence.

So for reassurance to his jittery disciples, who want to believe but who understandably can’t quite believe …Our Lord says look at my wounds.

He doesn’t say Look at my eyes, or my hair, or face, but look at … my wounds.

I invite you to meet me in my wounds. And yes, there are times when I will meet you in the dancing and wine and eros and joy of the wedding at Cana, but when the chips are depleted, and the bottle is empty, and despair ensnares you, and you are wounded in whatever way you happen to be, I will meet you exactly where you are. I will reach out my wounded hand and gently hold your wounded hand.

Let me tell you how I have a tiny sense of this. One of the loveliest things about being in a parish for longer than 30 seconds is that you come to know some of the wounds of those who you serve. Those who have selflessly and with limitless generosity invited you, like Our Lord, to gaze upon their scars and scrapes. And when I come along the altar rail and place the broken Him on the palm of your hand it’s almost like I am saying

“I know your brokenness; here is he who was also broken. The pierced one longs to heal you.

And even after more than 40 years, when my hair has turned a different colour, and my jowls are … umm… jowelly. All of this is still an undeserved, humbling and thrilling privilege.

Part of the message of today’s gospel is simply this.

We discover each other at our finest and best when we discover each other not just in that winning smile, but when we discover each other in our wounds.

When we hear him say with gentle, tender clarity. When you are looking for me

You will find me in my wounds

And I will find you in your wounds.”

Then the doors of fear are unlocked. The walls of doubt crumble, and the light of the resurrection can flood our lives, our community and our world.

His wounds are our wounds are my neighbours' wounds are His wounds. They always were. They always will be forever and ever, Amen.

Would it be OK if I said …. ‘I don’t know’?

In the story about Adam and Eve, we have that rather delicious-looking fruit that didn’t turn out to be so palatable after all. I don’t think Adam and Eve ate it because they were hungry. Hec no, there was plenty of other fruit that was available for the plucking.

No, they desired to have all the answers. The knowledge of good and evil. And they got to know all about good and evil in their sons. With the selfless goodness of Abel and the evil of Cain, who slaughtered Abel in a jealous rage.

It’s tempting when you are first starting to have the shopfront of knowing all the answers. But as time goes on, you realise that actually you don’t know it all and your shopfront facade, far from looking smart, shiny and sleek, is actually a bit dusty and tired.

Some of the most fruitful conversations in my later years have been when I have answered a tricky question with

“Goodness gracious! What a jolly good question. I don’t know the answer to that, but I was just about to put the kettle on and perhaps you might care to join me over a cuppa, and together we might learn from each other and about each other”.

It’s OK not to have all the answers at your fingertips and not to rattle silly smooth-sounding phrases with lightning speed and 100% accuracy; in fact, I’m a bit suss on these types. I’d much rather a gentle pondering, massaged with silence, punctuated only with the crunch of a chocolate biscuit and the slurp of a cuppa.

The honesty when we respond with ‘I don’t know’ is always more to be desired than the voluptuous fruit of the quick, glib and easy from Mr Know It All.