Dancing in the Shadows

Whilst leading the parish worship is a rich and delicious joy, when I’m on holiday I relish the chance just to slip quietly into the back pew and let the liturgy wash over me. I adopt a number of postures depending on how I am feeling. There have been times when I have felt pretty wretched and I have knelt for much of the liturgy. I have stood at the back just because I wanted to get a really good squiz at everything. There have also been times when I have just sat there and done not much else.

In the end, I have snuck out during the last hymn so that no one could ask me ‘What do you do?’. This question automatically and quickly puts me to work. Once I fudged it and replied ‘I work with people’ which is not a lie, but neither was it the whole truth and the answer that they were looking for.

I am not disheartened or frustrated then if from time to time I find that there are folk who choose to ‘Dance in the shadows of the back pew’. I don’t know their story and unless of their own volition, choose to share it, then it is none of my beeswax.

Just by being available, being accessible and respecting their ‘dance’ we will be exactly what we are called to be. A home for sinners and a refuge for saints. We welcome all those who just want/need to come and dance quietly in the shadows. We promise not to pry into your life or gawp at whatever posture you might be most comfortable with. All we gently say is ‘Welcome’. The rest is up to you.

Easter

Easter Decisions

The first known meeting of the Risen Lord is in very understated circumstances. It’s a gloomy, early morning, still dark and there is one person (only one) that the Risen Lord wants to be with.

The risen Lord makes a conscious, maybe even premeditated choice to be with the weeping Mary Magdalene. This is the first person on His ‘parish to do’ list. This is who He wants to be with.

The setting is also significant. When you are the Risen Christ you can choose to be wherever you want to be, whenever you want to be.

Jesus chooses his own empty tomb and He chooses Mary Magdalene. This is where he wants to be and this is who he wants to be with. These are his Easter decisions. These things matter and to Him, they matter very much.

When you think about it The Teacher could have been anywhere at all. He could have been on the rooftops shouting ‘Hey look at me look at me.  I told you so.’ He could have been leading a great parade, or gone back to the temple to kick over a few more tables. But he shuns all that and chooses somewhere else and someone else. He chooses just one person.

And He chooses to show up at the very moment when there is confusion, despair, bewilderment and many unstoppable tears. At a time when it is not only physically dark with an absence of light, when you can’t physically see; it’s also psychologically and emotionally dark. Probably the only thing worse than going to the tomb of a loved one when your grief is raw is showing up only to find that the grave has been disturbed and the body stolen.

But…This is where He chooses to be and this is who chooses to be with. He could have been with Pontus Pilate or a Roman soldier, or Peter, James and John. They will hear the news soon enough and like all blokes it will take them some time to figure it out all out. It took the church a few centuries to understand the consequences of an empty tomb. The Master chooses to be with the woman who had seven demons. The one who is inconsolable with questions and sobbing. The one who just wants to make the wrong thing right. To restore peace and rest.

‘Sir if you have taken him away….etc…’

Having made the decision about where and with whom, The Risen Lord now makes a decision about what to say.

And all He says is one word. ‘Mary’ There is no long theological treatise on how the resurrection happened, or when the stone got rolled away. No step-by-step instructions about how to fold the burial cloths. Nor does he explain what the empty tomb will mean for all time and for all people.

The understanding and the consequences of that first gloomy and bewildering morning would come much later and perhaps like Mary, in our inky black moments, it is better that we don’t understand the logistics and theological niceties. Surely it is enough that we simply listen to the one word HE so long wants to speak to us. Our name. Your name. My name.

The resurrection then is not something to debate in the abstract. Not a theological trinket to be held at arms distance; to be turned over and puzzled about. It is not a cerebral exercise in a carefully crafted essay with lengthy a bibliography, a mark out of ten, the logic of which escapes me.

The resurrection is something we glimpse, live and revel in. The minuscule speckles of gold that we sometimes see in the dirt and slurry of our lives and somehow know that there is much more to discover and relish. The streets of heaven are paved with this stuff and one of these days… Just one of these days.

All this is conveyed in His Easter decisions. Where The Master chooses to be on the very first easter, with who he chooses to be with and what he chooses to say.

His Easter decisions for Mary Magdalene are the same decisions He makes for our first real Easter.

At our tomb, with us, speaking our name. Your name, my name.

Until then we take our lead from Him. We go quietly without hesitation and we stand with the vulnerable and the broken. Like Him, we just stand quietly with them and for them. Our script for healing is just one word. From our perspective, it does not seem like a lot. Our condolences will always feel impossibly inadequate… flimsy and futile. Hopeless in and blown away by the stormy gusts of grief.

But for Mary Magdalene, it was enough and it will be more than enough for those who we tend. And our Easter decision to just show up and be there will be enough. And yes, we will learn when it is our turn, that He speaking our name will be more than enough.

And like Mary Magdalene we are given the joyous privilege to go to our brothers and sisters to share the good news of the empty tomb; with all its puzzles and questions and yes even the angels. So…

Where is it that you need to be this Easter?

Who is it that you need to be with this Easter?

Who's name do you need to speak? Maybe it is your own name.

These are His Easter decisions, your Easter decisions, my Easter decisions. Our Easter decisions.

Today's wise words come from the wise woman Julia Baird. Julia is an Australian journalist, broadcaster and author. In her book ‘Bright Shining’ she writes these words about the concept of Grace.

“Grace is both mysterious and hard to define. It can be found when we create ways to find meaning and dignity in connection with each other, building on our shared humanity, being kinder, bigger, and better with each other. If in its crudest interpretation, karma is getting what you deserve, then grace is the opposite: forgiving the unforgivable, favouring the undeserving, loving the unlovable.

But we live in an era when grace is an increasingly rare currency. The silos in which we consume information dot the media landscape like skyscrapers, and our growing distrust has choked our ability to cut each other slack, to allow each other to stumble, and to forgive one another.

So what does grace look like in our world, and how do we recognise it, nurture it in ourselves and express it, even in the darkest of times?”

One thing that I take away from this is the way she incisively contrasts Grace and karma. Here I believe the motive behind our ‘doing good’ is what sets these opposites apart. Karma is to do good with the hope, consciously or otherwise, that good will come around and find us in return. That you will somehow be repaid for your actions. On the other hand, Grace is to love and to forgive without any prospective or hope of being compensated. It is a refreshing alternative in a society that looks inward to the self. Grace challenges us to always look to the other, even when and especially when it repels and repulses us. The choice between karma and Grace has always been ours.

Palm Sunday 24/3/24

He washed their feet. Part 1

Thursday evening was Passover day, the Jewish festival where they remembered their liberation from slavery. Jesus had planned it carefully. An upper room in a discreet part of the city was booked and a Passover meal prepared. Threads were being gathered together. The tapestry would soon be complete. For those who had eyes to see, the knotted skein at the back of the loom was all that was visible at the moment, and it made no sense. But the loom would be turned around. It would reveal something beautiful.

When he arrived with his disciples it was as if Jesus knew that this night and this Passover was one of special significance. It would provide the lens through which everything that followed would be seen and understood, just as the Passover itself was the blueprint for the supper where he himself would be food and drink.

Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.

In the rest of the city similar preparations were being made. There was a buzz and an excitement in the air. Festivals are always exhilarating. People were rushing home, dressing up; all over the city tables were being laid.

The heat of the day was subsiding. A cool breeze was blowing in from the east. The sky was scorched and marbled with streaks of violet and pale vermillion. Above the city, two eagles rode the evening thermals, circling and looking for prey.

During the meal Jesus got up from the table. He took off his outer robes. He tied a large towel around his waist. He poured water into a basin and started to wash his disciples’ feet and wipe them with the towel. He did it so unobtrusively that at first they hardly even noticed it, thinking perhaps that someone else had entered the room and a servant was doing this for them.

But when they saw it was Jesus, that he was their servant, they looked at him with a kind of dumb disbelief. Why was he, their master, demeaning himself in this way? But he worked quietly, methodically and thoroughly. He smiled throughout. And they just sat there and let it happen. He was, in those moments, a still small voice in their presence; a voice of service that did this simple act of love with simple deliberation.

It shut them up. For a moment. They received from him, and this was never something they were very good at. Like most people, they were always happier to be in control, defining themselves by their power over others. But what he did was so obviously ‘other’ that it silenced them. The whole order of their expectations was upended, and they felt embarrassed, feeling they would never get to the bottom of him. After all, hadn’t he reproached them when they argued among themselves about who was the greatest? He had said the first must be slave of all, and that the Son of Man – whom they assumed to be a reference to himself – came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as ransom for many. But surely he meant servant of God? Not their servant? Yet, here he was, washing their feet. The things he did were too hard to fathom. The things he said were conundrums. He challenged everything.

It is a funny thing having your feet washed. Feet are more private than hands; on display each day, but rarely looked at or loved. They are not objects of beauty. They are gnarled and sweaty. They bear the brunt and weight of the day. Their skin is broken and rough. They are not accustomed to attention. If they are washed, it is usually a perfunctory thing. But he held their feet tenderly. He knelt before each one of his disciples and, holding their feet firmly and before he washed them, he looked each one of them in the eye. He held them with his gaze, and his eyes sparkled with gladness and affection. His eyes said, ‘I know you; and I want to do this thing for you because I love you; and I want you to be clean. And I will wash away the heat and burden of the day. I will be with you as one who serves. Come to me all who are weary and overburdened, and I will give you rest. I will make you clean. I will make you well.’

And what can you say to that? Even if you are feeling a little stupid, or slightly vulnerable, or just embarrassed, it was good to feel the cool unction of the water and his steady grip, holding and kneading your feet.

Savour the Memory

In her book Phosphorescence, Julia Baird describes some of her memories of Central Park. Watch closely as she skilfully takes us by the hand and leads us into this majestic almost magical still place of green in one of the busiest and noisiest cities in the world.

‘Other times, I walked marathons around Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir with friends talking in rapid torrents as the lake gently rippled. The first of fall dropped quietly around us in what seemed to be an enchanted wood. In autumn, I carefully watched the trees grow orange, then red, from my office window - there would always be one to lead, another to trail, the others. With the branches of winter bare, each side of the park was again exposed to the other; the west could see the east again, with its fancy stores and billionaires’ houses that glittered across the quiet expanse.’

I have been to Central Park, albeit for just a couple of weeks in the summer. I too have walked around the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir and along Fifth Avenue. With Julia's words somehow I was there again and the memory was as fresh and delicious as the first time.

What is it about these experiences of faraway places and long ago times that makes the memories exquisite and heartfelt… touchable? Firing the longing to return. How do time and distance filter out the cold and rats and the hustle and leave us with the purest and most luscious of stirrings? And is it so terrible that we mysteriously forget about the things we would … well rather forget about? I think not. I choose to relish these times with a moist eye and a bursting heart. I choose the privilege of memory and with an insatiable appetite, savour it for as long as I can.

Lent 5 March 17th

Bishop Stephen Cottrell

He ate with tax collectors and sinners part 2

Another shadow crosses the day. They stare at him, dumbfounded. He is very irritating. Not only does he accept this woman’s offering. Not only does he shame them in front of her, reminding them that there will always be poor people to serve.

Now he says that he won’t always be around. He says that this anointing is for his burial.

Everyone looks aghast. It is good to sit and eat with him. But it is also so hard and uncomfortable. He is one of those people that as soon as you think you’ve got him worked out goes and does something to confound you.

They sit around his table and they are covered in embarrassment. They don’t really know why. Nothing is as they expect it to be. Have they come to Jerusalem for life and for victory, or for death and defeat and will they even know what each one looks like?

They know the religious authorities have it in for him. But there isn’t really any evidence. Apart from this. Their constant gripe: he eats with tax collectors and sinners. He doesn’t deny it. He revels in it. He seeks out the lost. He embraces those who must not be embraced. He makes himself unclean and then calls them – the scribes and Pharisees, the keepers of the law – dirty. That was their complaint. And he gave as good as he got. He called them blind guides who strained a gnat but swallowed a camel; whitewashed tombs that looked lovely on the outside but inside were full of bones. He called them hypocrites who did not go into God’s kingdom themselves but stopped everyone else. And when they complained about him and the company he kept, he just smiled and said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a doctor, only those who are sick.’

Sitting round the table, his head dripping with the oil of an anointing which was for death, they too felt ashamed, were painfully aware of the muddled compromises of their own hypocrisy, even though they were his friends and his guests, and they ached for the medicine that only he could bring. To look at him and the things he did was a healing; it was like looking in a mirror and seeing what humanity was supposed to be like and seeing yourself as you could be. Such a vision of a changed and redeemed humanity was wonderfully compelling. But it was also deeply challenging. He knew that some would embrace him and, weeping with lament, ask to be healed and set free. But others would harden their hearts and turn away. This was the one thing he couldn’t do: make people’s choices for them. Everyone had to make their own. They sat around the table in silence pondering which way to turn. The dice span in the air.

One of the Twelve who was there around the table was particularly indignant. He had put a lot of trust in Jesus. He had followed him since the beginning. He had seen Jesus do wonderful things. He had thrilled at his rhetoric. He had longed for his kingdom. He had believed in him. But this belief was starting to waver. Jesus was looking less like a king and more like a servant. He didn’t like this. It wasn’t right. He didn’t really know who Jesus was any more; or even what he wanted him to be; or whether this would only become apparent if the pace of events was pushed a little. His motives were desperately confused. He was angry, but he didn’t really know why.

Later that day he went to the chief priests. He thought there was probably enough evidence against Jesus for them at least to arrest him. He said that he could tell them where he was. They were very pleased and offered him money in return for his service.

From that moment, Judas looked for an opportunity to betray Jesus.

For your reflection …

In this story are you the Master. The one who accepts graciously the richness of those who give out of their poverty but in so doing showing the overabundance of their love which cannot be exchanged into any earthly currency.

Or

Are you one of those who are cranky, indignant and disappointed with the way the dinner party is going?

Or

Are you the woman who only has a solitary vase of ointment and so many tears?

Holy Week and Easter in Our Parish.

Christchurch Hamilton

Palm Sunday. 

Saturday 23rd of March Vigil 6:00pm

Sunday 24th of March 10:30am Mass begins in the hall.

Wednesday of Holy Week 27th of March

9:15am Stations of the cross

10:00am Mass

Holy (Maundy) Thursday 28th of March

7:30pm Washing of Feet and Vigil until 10:00pm

Good Friday 29th of March

3:00pm Liturgy of the Day.

Holy Saturday 30th of March

7:30pm Vigil of Easter

Easter Day 31st of March

10:30am Sung mass of Easter Day.

St. Peters Glenthompson

Holy Saturday 30th of March

5:00pm Vigil of Easter

St. Mark’s Cavendish

Mass of Easter Day 

Sunday March 31st 9:00am

Lent 4 March 10th

Bishop Stephen Cotterell

He ate with tax collectors and sinners. Part 1

In the end, this was his undoing. He just wasn’t respectable enough. He mixed with the wrong sort of people. He wasn’t one of us. There was too much God in him, and not the ‘God-fearing sort of God’ the God professionals liked to peddle. His was a very down-to-earth God: a compassionate ‘on your side’ God; a completely understanding and ‘why not start again’ God. And it drove them mad, the God professionals, the scribes and Pharisees, the ones whose job it was to tell people who God was and who God wasn’t, and what following God looked like. They had the certificates to prove it. And the breeding. And he didn’t.

And he ate with all the wrong sort of people. He kept very bad company. He got in with a rum lot.

In that week, as one thing led to the next, he would withdraw to Bethany to his friends; and one day, eating in the home of Simon the Leper, his disciples with him and others laughing and jesting, a woman came in from the street carrying an alabaster jar of costly ointment, pure nard. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She had about her an air of quiet determination and a devotion that had already passed beyond the cares of what others may say. She knelt at Jesus’ feet. She broke the seal on the jar, and gently, lovingly, poured the oil on to his head.

Everyone stared in disbelief. Was he really going to let this woman do this to him? Wouldn’t he stop her?

So this woman, whoever she was and whatever she had done, and in spite of the prohibitions of his religion saying women, and for that matter lepers and small children, are not people to mix with, that they are unclean, he goes to them and he lets them come to him. He enjoys their company. He sees in them the very humanity he has taken to himself. He loves them.

So she pours the oil upon his head. It is warm, and its fragrance fills the air, musky and sweet. It gently trickles down his neck and on to his beard. He smiles at her, full of simple gratitude for the gift of this anointing. There is a joy between them.

But the others around the table – his disciples and all the rest – are agitated and angry. This is an expensive ointment. And this is a woman of possible ill repute, and anyway, a woman. What right does she have to do this? And where did this oil come from? It must have cost a fortune. Did she steal it? And if there is money to throw around on oil, wouldn’t it be better to give it to the poor? Yes, that is the line they take. A sudden concern for others bolsters their effrontery. After all, the best way to protect your own bank balance is to offer the very best advice to others about what they should do with theirs. It is as if talking about giving is itself enough.

But what she does is just give, and she goes on giving. And what he does is receive, and he goes on receiving. It is almost as if Jesus is not listening to the puffed-up yammer of their indignation. He has screened out the good advice and the implied good intentions of the extravagantly self-righteous who actually intend to do nothing, and is, instead, focused on the one who gives and is able to receive. He is undefended. And it is the shocking beauty of this generous vulnerability that draws all those who also long to receive and are able to offer themselves.

This is what he loved about the poor.

They were so generous. He called it ‘poor in spirit’, which was more (or is it less?) than the actual amount you possess, but an attitude to what you have, a sense that everything is gift, and that it comes unearned and undeserved. We enter this life with nothing. We leave with nothing, and in between it is a proper poverty of spirit that enables us to live with joyful gratitude and generosity, thankful for whatever we have and for the good God who gave it to us (as he gives everything) and, therefore, how could we not share it and go on sharing?

Now this woman with the oil. The only thing those around him could think of was its cost; not the cost to this woman who had purchased the oil and sought him out and braved their reproach and done this thing of kindness, but the money itself.

They were still rehearsing the lines of their indignation, each one more piqued than the other, when their voices reached him. All voices do eventually. So he turned to them and said, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

The Parable of the Alien

Once upon a time, an alien crash-landed in the middle of the Kimberly ranges. While Alien Freddy could find no one around to ask about our lifestyle and culture he managed to access our internet and social media sites. He spent hours scrolling through people’s postings and pictures. He read our disagreements and the gooey stuff. He looked at the pictures of gourmet meals and the people sharing hugs and smiles. He looked at people’s travel posts and sporting achievements. He gawped at the experiences they had of parachuting and bungee jumping.

He scrolled through endless pictures and comments about social events and invitations to parties.

Because of the remoteness of the area, Freddy couldn’t verify what he had seen on the screen.

Thanks to YouTube Freddy fixed his spacecraft headed back to Planet Zeta and reported to his fearless leader Olexa who was a wise and compassionate ruler. Olexa was flabbergasted to learn that on planet Earth no one ever had a disastrous meal. Further, while there was some disagreement amongst a minority of people, the overall vibe was one of overwhelming congeniality. There were lots of pictures and well wishes of support as well as the ‘Friendship apps’ that Freddy had downloaded. People were very keen to meet other people and connect. There was no such thing as a lonely, depressed, hungry soul on planet Earth. Furthermore, all the humans were well-groomed, and attractive and achieved all they set out to do with spectacular results, marks and trophies. Fancy that!

Could it be that we spend too much time comparing our ‘inside reality’ with the ‘outside reality’ that Freddy saw on his really intelligent screen? And I wonder what that does to us in the long run.

Lent 3 March 3rd

Jesus overturns the money changers' tables

They followed him. With all sorts of motives and for all sorts of reasons. Some were anxious or battling pent-up anger. Others were excited, bewildered or bewitched. The kettle was boiling. Hissing insistently. But no one could lift it from the heat. There was an incessant whistling in the air that people simply couldn’t ignore.

His tears had passed. His vision was clear. Through the winding streets of Jerusalem, he went, striding out, purposeful, determined. Nobody spoke to him. The joy of his entrance had been overtaken by the foreboding over what he was going to do next. Everybody sensed where he was going. But nobody said anything or knew why. They followed in the slipstream of his resolve.

When the outer walls of the Temple came into view, he stopped. And abruptly. It was as though an invisible wall had halted his progress and held him in check.

Why did he stop? Was it the enormity of it all, or his own doubts, fixing him to the spot? Or was it God’s much trumpeted but rarely seen compassion presenting him with a choice?

The crowd behind him muttered under their breath. Everyone had their own theory. Nobody was very sure. Conjecture and assumption filled the air. What was going to happen now? What was he going to do?

He took a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs as if it were a last breath. He looked around him, his eyes beckoning his followers to come close. None of these so-called chosen twelve disciples looked very courageous then. They shuffled forward. He wanted them with him, but he offered no instructions.

Then he moved. Striding forward towards the Temple. Through the gates and into the outer court of the Gentiles, the place where money is changed and animals for sacrifice are bought and sold. It was its usual hot bustle of people and noise. What had once been a quiet place where all the peoples of the world could come and pray (the inner court was, of course, reserved for the Jews) had now become a market place for the necessary business of getting the right money for the right animal for the right sacrifice that would make peace with God. Beyond it, invading the nostrils and cancelling out the perfume of the spring flowers, was the stench of death. Behind the walls and in the Temple itself, pigeons and goats were being killed. This is what sacrifice entails. Throats are being cut. Blood being spilled. Entrails dropping. Flesh burning. The whole macabre round of covering your sin and making your peace, day after day, year after year, death after death after death.

Suddenly there was violence and foreboding in the air, and it emanated from him. He was a tornado, a whipping frenzy of righteous rage amid all this commerce and clamour. He was turning over the tables of the money changers, lifting them with both hands and sending them crashing to the ground, pushing them this way and that. He was upending the benches where those who sold doves were going about their lawful business. His stamping feet were beating out a rhythm of change and putting his mark upon the place.

Gold and silver coins tumbled to the floor and sparkled in the dust. Greedy hands stretched out to grasp them. Doves and pigeons shackled on death row received a last-minute amnesty as their cages crashed to the ground. A few stretched their wings and soared into the sky. Surprised by liberation, and ill-equipped for freedom, their wings diminished and forlorn, and others pecked among the dust. Wasn’t it ever thus? Why is darkness so attractive? Why are prison walls so safe?

It happened so quickly that half a dozen tables were thrown over before anyone even tried to stop him. It just happened. Everyone was too surprised and too bewildered even to move, let alone prevent him. He passed through them like the angel of death itself, deftly extinguishing light after light, and for a moment no one could lay a hand on him.

But now people saw him. It was Jesus. The Nazarene. Mad after all.

People screamed and laughed. Some ran for cover. One vomited in fear.

Others had him in their sights. Some of the money changers whose tables were further into the court hurriedly gathered up their profits in their arms and stuffed their money into leather purses and ran. Others were ready for a fight. They stared with icy opprobrium at his advance.

And now people were trying to stop him. Hands reached out to detain him, to catch hold of him. People stepped in his way. But it was still happening too quickly. It was too confused.

Jesus was at the centre of a maelstrom.

The tables were upended. Fights were breaking out. But most people were more concerned with saving their money or grabbing a piece of the action than actually stopping him.

Around him his disciples looked dumbfounded and inept: incapable of joining him, they were equally incapable of stopping him. Those who recognized them as followers of Jesus screamed at them out of their own frustration and displeasure.

Children cried and turned to find their mothers. Mothers cried and turned to find their children. Old men closed their eyes.

He swept through the courtyard like a man possessed of God, as if the Temple itself was suddenly being made redundant.

And then he stopped.

The value of the greeting card.

From time to time it is my undeserved and thrilling privilege to write a greeting card. Having been here 4 and half years I think that we have graduated from a formal email or letterhead, to a more personal approach.

I try to pick the card carefully so that the image on the front fits with the theme inside. But it’s not the jokey birthday cards or cute christmass cards I like best. My favourites  are impressionist paintings where we are given just a hint or the ‘flavour’ of the message I want to convey.

Pictures of Mother Nature at her wildest, characters that are distant, almost translucent and a landscape that is both exquisite and compelling. The best cards are blank inside for they give me the flexibility and openness to write whatever I choose without being steered in any particular direction.

And of course it's the words that really matter. The meat in the sandwich if you like. The words I choose are the most important part for they are potent and have the potential to make things solid and tangible for the reader.

Like the card that reminds the recipient of a particular day, a memorable event. Written carefully a very significant person is once again made reachable. Just for a moment, or hopefully longer, the memory is stirred to life. It is almost palpable and exists.

The privilege of writing such a greeting card comes with its special joy and responsibility. Frequently I need several goes to find the right words and bounce them into some sort of coherent order.

The value of a greeting card is not the price you pay at the counter, but the experience or memory which is made present again for the reader.

Restlaufzeit

Restlaufzeit is a German word roughly translated as ‘The remaining time’ or ‘The remaining term’. It’s a concept that is hard to comprehend. We are often looking to the present or the past. They are quantifiable, easy-to-understand concepts and terms. But we are a bit squidgy when it comes to placing a limit of the time left in the future. But it is there in lots of things. From the amount of time a government has left before an election, to the use-by date on the milk.

Those who are diagnosed with an incurable disease will inevitably ask about their ‘Restlaufzeit’. ‘How much time have I got Doc’? It's an understandable, but difficult question and the best medicos will give the honest answer with very broad sweeping timelines.

All of us have our own personal Restlaufzeit. It’s an indisputable fact. It's just that some of us are a little more aware of it than others. Some of us may even have been given an idea of how small that Restlaufzeit is, for it will always seem too short for us. So, the real question is not whether we have a Restlaufzeit, or how many years or months or days it is. The real question is how we spend our Restlaufzeit. This will be determined by our gifts and talents, our energy and abilities and even our budget. So it is best to set simple, achievable but potent goals.

To make every moment count, in prayer, in loving, in forgiveness, in making our very finite Restlaufzeit count. You will have your own schedule for your Restlaufzeit. My favourite is… “In the time we have left we must dance.” Dance like a dopey Dad. Dance like no one is watching. Dance and know the exhilaration of your Restlaufzeit.