During January we gather up last year's palm crosses and we torch them. The result of this safely contained mini fire is the ashes for the Ash Wednesday services. You know the little black smudge on the forehead business.

So the folk had kindly returned their faded 2022 palm crosses with the aid of an accelerant... Whoomph! There I was watching the flames transform the palm crosses into ash.

There is always something cathartic about watching this fire work its magic... gazing upon last year's palm crosses being transformed into ash.

For one thing, there is that primeval fascination with flame. You can’t actually measure or hold a flame but there is something alluring about it. For gazillions of years, folk have gathered around a fire, forming friendships, being seduced by that ethereal thing that they cannot explain. Later we would learn that these flames could cook things and the last remnants of this fine and noble custom are what we call in modern lingo, ‘Ye olde Barby”.

But there is a deeper significance with the cindering of the palm crosses. It’s about putting last year behind us, acknowledging that it happened, but also letting go of its crosses, junk and regrets. Letting the passing of time work its therapy like the flame works its healing. What happened in 2022 is gone now, irretrievable. Like the ashes, you can’t gather it up and hold it any more. It’s changed and that is how it should be. Time to move on with fresh resolve and besmirch our foreheads with the ash of the past. A sign of our willingness to look forward to the Lent of 2023.

We smudge the shape of the cross on our forehead ‘Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return’. Ashes to ashes…

He carried a seamless robe.

It was a thing of delicate beauty and of great craftsmanship, robust and at the same time light, woven in one piece from top to bottom; like the robe, a high priest would wear as he went about his duties.

Like everything else, it would be taken from him.

Freshly made, it billowed from the loom as it was released, and completed. The freshness and the newness of it made you want to bury yourself in its folds. Or else just put it on. The fingers that spun it, the hands that made it, held together in satisfaction of a job well done. Things crafted have a lasting value: but one that is easily squandered. Mass production leaves little space for the tiny detail that makes this thing this and that thing that. Or it is just plain compromised by cheap labour and the lust to possess everything.

Laundered and hung out to dry it drifted in the breeze like a flag.

But there was no breeze that day. The air seemed to hang in the sky like a great, leaden weight; like the yellowing clouds of smog that stain our own cities. Somewhere a fire was crackling. Dogs barked. Children cried out in fear or stared in bemused amazement.

His sweat and blood stained the cloth. It clung to him, and where he had been lashed, the fibres of the material stuck to the congealing wounds.

Around the hem, where the stitching was plain to see, the material was starting to fray. Something was unravelling, becoming undone.

And on another day, in another crowd, one would reach out to touch this hem. Not to admire its beauty, or measure the quality of the cloth, but to come as close as one could to touching the man; to feel his pulse and know the energy of his life. And even in a crowd, with hundreds jostling around him, clamouring for attention, he would cry out, ‘Who touched me?’, as if this were something obvious. But he could tell. He could be pressed in on every side and still discern each touch. You see, there are no crowds for him, only people, each one a thing of beauty, each one delicately and un-repeatedly distinct. He sees each face, knows each name, feels each touch and knows its meaning.

What do you want me to do for you …

Unless I wash you, you have no share with me …

Soon there will be rough hands upon him, uncomprehending and uncaring. No one dies with their clothes on. And if it wasn’t so lovely they would have torn it off him, as though they were raping him, but it was too costly, too comely. So suddenly they were gentle. This thing could make them a few pounds, keep them warm, spruce them up, or give them something to brag about. They rolled it carefully over his head. They gave this robe a dignity that they did not give to him, for he was a thing despised and a thing rejected. It stung as the cloth pulled against the wounds, and then they held it to themselves smiling, triumphant. And he was left naked. And now they did not look away. They exposed him. They smirked at him and they held him to the beam of the cross ready to secure him.

And when he was nailed there, and when he had been lifted up, and when the final cycle of the struggle towards dying had commenced they crouched at the foot of the cross and spun their dice, gambling to see which one of them would have it, this seamless robe, this last uncovering.

And he carried the seamless purposes of God: that was what he was carrying at this moment, though exhaustion and terror and the raw, uncomplicated torment of dying meant that he did not need to know he was carrying it, he just had to do it. He had arrived at a point where there were no choices left, except the one to utter words of gentle forgiveness to those who ducked and dealt, for they too were being woven into the tapestry of God’s story. A seamless purpose: his birth, his life, the slow unfolding of vocation, the chill awakening of his baptism, the pleading in the garden for another way, and now this, his dying, all part of an unfolding hope and glory that was present in the heart of God before the world was made. Now planted in his heart, turning slowly towards completion, the hour of reckoning, and as the strange eclipsing darkness gathers, the beckoning of a new dawn, a new heaven and a new earth. God’s work of redeeming is planted in our hearts. Those words of forgiveness are spoken to us. Father forgive them, they don’t know what they do.

All those things we never said.

There is a book called “All those things we never said.” The basic plot is this

Days before her wedding, Julia Walsh is blindsided twice: once by the sudden death of her estranged father…and again when he appears on her doorstep after his funeral, ready to make amends, right his past mistakes, and prevent her from making new ones.

Surprised, to say the least, Julia reluctantly agrees to a spontaneous road trip with her father to make up for lost time. They have 6 days and 6 days only. An astonishing secret is revealed from the past and their trip becomes a whirlwind journey of rediscovery. We learn that even the smallest gestures we take for granted have the power to change us forever.

The book sounds great!

But it raises some pretty obvious questions.

What if we had just six days to spend with the deceased person we were estranged from? What would you say to them and what do you think they might say to you?

Or… what if you had an opportunity to encounter the person who you are estranged from but who in fact has not died, is perfectly fit and healthy, and unexpectedly turned up on your doorstep. Would you slam the door in their face? Yell mightily or…

What are the things you wish you had said and what is it that you might have listened to? The blurb from the book hints that little things that have slipped our attention and gone unnoticed might actually be the largest, most profound, life-changing events in our life.

Looking back over the years, or even just last week… What might I have missed? How might I change someone’s life and fill our nemesis and ourselves with fresh hope for the future?

Bishop Stephen Cotterell

The soldiers’ logic had a brutal simplicity. A cruel, schoolboy logic. He said he was a king, so dress him up as one. A purple robe. Some twisted thorn. A makeshift crown. The barbed wire of the bush. Harvest it gingerly. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Stack him up. Salute him. Stretch him. Strike him. Scratch him. Scar him. Skewer him. Scoff and mock him. And afterwards smiling at each other, wink and reminisce. A cracking good joke.

They made him a kind of pantomime king. Something to laugh at. Something to scorn. They bowed before him and grinning they worshipped him. Then they beat him.

They had their way with him. They made fun of him in the way that bullies easily do when there is someone defenceless in their midst. Someone who won’t fight back. Someone who’s a bit different. Someone who makes claims that are easy to mock. His silence convicts him.

They wanted him sorted. They wanted him to be put in his place. But they didn’t know where his place was. ‘Not of this world’ they had heard him say. Well, this was one dreamer they would haul back down to earth. They would reel him in. What had his dreams achieved? Just more trouble for them.

The crowds were always bad at this time of year, stirred into a ferment of religious excitement and anticipation. He had made matters worse. Did he expect them just to leave? The mighty Roman Empire to roll over? What sort of revolution could this dreamer roll? They could crush him so easily! He was a grasshopper under their feet. They would stamp him out.

And where were his followers? Abandoned him, every one of them. A king, indeed! They would show him. They would do him honour. They would make him a crown. And dressing Jesus as a king was such a wonderfully good joke that, like all good jokes, like every piece of well-honed gossip, it soon had legs. It travelled down the corridors of Roman power from soldier to soldier, even to the ears of Pilate. ‘Are you a king?’ he enquires with a smile. And when he leads him out before the people: ‘Here is your King!’

The crowds spit back their curt reply. Laughing. Sneering. We have no King but Caesar.

Pilate then issues instructions for a sign to be put above the cross saying ‘Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews’. And so that everyone can get the joke, he decrees that it must be written in three languages – Hebrew, Greek and Latin. All the world can now enjoy the joke.

But then the joke reaches the ears of the High Priest. And he isn’t laughing. Jesus’ silence never quite speaks to him of a broken man; rather he is disturbed by his silence, confronted by his presence: it is almost as if he is judging them. ‘Don’t put King of the Jews’, he intervenes, ‘but this man said he was King of the Jews.’ So they stare each other out. These two big men. These occupying forces: are one of the present and one of the past, but neither has the future in control. But it is too late. It has been uttered. ‘What I have written, I have written,’ retorts Pilate.

When I am lifted up from the earth …

He is a king: a piercing beam of light for all the world: the very one that all Israel has been hoping for, waiting for; the one to whom all their scriptures and their prophets point. All the troubled searching of this nomadic nation, their deepest longings and the keenest insights of their brightest minds, have come down to this man and been refined into this moment. But they don’t see it.

They laugh out loud instead. Even those who have caught a glimpse of who he is are now cowering in fear, hanging onto their own lives and reputations, getting ready to go back to how it was before him.

There is a further twist: those he has come to save now hurry to get a better view of his dying, sneering at his stupidity. What sort of a king is this?

Even as he hangs there, the life draining out of him, the taunts come thick and fast. ‘He saved others, but he cannot save himself!’ Even one of the criminals crucified with him joins in the fun: ‘Save yourself, and us as well,’ he scoffs. And in his heart, though no longer on his lips, he carries the words that will get him through the next few hours. ‘My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.’

The thorns press harder. Blood pumps from the punctured skin, oozes, clots in the heat and the sweat, and flows again. He is faint. His hands are shaking. He slips and falls again. Out of reach. Utterly alone.

The Godhead which is fully alive in Jesus, the crucified, is poured into the lap of uncomprehending humanity. These are the truths the thorns reveal. All our deaths and all our sorrows and all our failures are nailed to this tree. This is our half of the cross. We die with him because he chose to die with us. He carries a crown that all can wear, and the cross itself is our way to travel.

The darkness beckons. The flies buzz around his face. Still, the crowds taunt: ‘Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross so that we may see and believe.’ But how could he come down? The cross that he carries is his throne. He is reigning from the tree.

The things he carried Lent 1 - the cross  26/2/23

They handed it to him like it was nothing. Like it could be thrown away; like they were going to throw him away, this thing of terrible beauty.

He held the rough wood in his hands; gripped it, felt its shape, tested its weight, imagined the plane upon it, the axe striking the base of the trunk, the weight of the leaves upon the branches fluttering in the air of a spring day, breathing their last, gasping, falling, crashing down. He saw it dragged away, cut open, dissected, and used.

And now a grim vocation: to be the place where death is distributed.

He shouldered the weight. It could carry him and it could crush him. He felt its roughness against his rawness. The splinters that pushed into his flesh anticipated the nails that were to follow. It was the fruit of the earth and the work of human hands, this wood he carried.

It was half a cross. He didn’t carry the whole thing, though that was how it would usually be remembered. But nobody ever got him right. And he always evaded those who clung too tightly. Just the crosspiece which his hands would be nailed to: he carried it. And he knew that when he reached the place of execution a stake would be ready, and the beam attached to it; and his hands nailed to it – actually his wrists, in-between the bones, so that the flesh wouldn’t tear, and he could hang there longer. He would be hoisted up. It would make a cross, and then his feet would be nailed in place.

It was about five feet in length – the height of a small person. It weighed about five stone – as much as a bag of cement. And he was already battered and broken from being flogged. And the crowd that had welcomed him days earlier now bayed for blood. And the pallor and expectancy of death were already upon him.

He emptied himself, taking the form of a slave …

He humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death …

Perching with the full weight of your body on a square nail driven through the middle bones of your feet brings intolerable pain. The victim soon lets his knees sag and is once more hanging from the wrists, and so the cycle repeats itself, over and over again. Death comes slowly.

As he carried this weight through the streets Jesus knew what was in store for him.

We imagine him, stumbling through the narrow, crowded alleys of Jerusalem on a hot, humid Friday afternoon: we sense the frenzied animation of the crowd; we see the spiteful excitement etched into the faces of those who shout and jeer; we feel their spittle on our face; we see their hands waving, their fingers jabbing; we smell the rank odour of blood and sweat; we feel the weight of the cross pressing us down; and then we hear the blood lust of the crowd boil over. We know in our hearts how easy it is to run with the crowd, and we know how we would have responded. With horror, we see it is our hands upon him; our fingers pointing; our voices jeering.

And then we see him fall – as if in slow motion – tumbling, stumbling, reaching out for a support that has been taken away, vanquished: his hands sliding in the dust, straining for purchase; the beam itself crashing down, the crowd laughing, the soldiers who accompany him pointing, heaving him to his feet, bidding him continue.

And suddenly it seems to mean nothing. Another useless dreamer. Here he is, one more man going to his death, silent before his accusers, stoical in his suffering, useless to stem the flow of hatred and revenge that consumes the human heart. After the defeat of the Spartacus uprising in 71 BC, 6,500 rebellious slaves were crucified. Their crosses lined the Appian Way from Cappadocia to Rome. Their names are forgotten, as in the end all names are forgotten. But the carpenter’s son from Nazareth – this man stumbling to this death – he is remembered. And of all the things we remember about his life and teaching, it is this event – his dying – that we remember most. And the means of his death – the cross – we remember it. Why? Is it because this man is not just a man – not less than a man, but God contained within what it is to be a man? And is his suffering and his dying not just one more notch carved in the endless torment of human misery, but God sharing it, God involved in the world he made, God stretched out on this fearful piece of wood?

When I am lifted up …

He carries the cross, and he treads a path of suffering, step by painful step, that is the suffering of the world. He carries the battered woundedness of everyone who has been trapped and convicted by the foul depravity of all the awfulness we do to each other. He can taste its breath. He can feel its hands upon him. But he carries something else. A light flickering within him that will not be snuffed out. Not when the soldiers mock him; not when he is stripped and beaten; not when they drive in the nails; not when he hangs there ridiculed, forsaken, defeated. He carries half a cross; that half which is God’s determination to plumb the depths of that dark river that is the human heart. But the other half is entirely something else: something that also needs to be nailed down and joined up. He carries the purposes of God. They will be shaped into a cross

I get to hear a lot of eulogies. Long ones, short ones, poorly worded but effective ones, and even sometimes, ones that go on for far too long. The record is forty-five minutes.

Perhaps the most potent are those who say what they miss. Anything from a cuddle to chocolate cake, to the whiff of passing perfume.

The eulogies are always compelling because I have never known the deceased for as long as the person speaking. So it’s good to do a little bit of ‘catchup’ and find out about the person that I have known for a relatively short space of time.

It’s also intriguing to see the pictorial display. This person was young once! They were wrinkle-less and youthful. They were a teenager, a follower of fashion, played sports and went to primary school. Why is this a surprise?

But what about my eulogy? My Father died suddenly and so I made a few notes that might help somebody say something about me. It’s my funeral, right? I might as well have some input as to what will be said. How successful I am is anyone’s guess.

But afterwards, when the last sandwich has been scoffed, the last cup put back on the shelf and the last tear wiped away… what will the eulogy really mean? What will become of those neatly typed pieces of A4 bits of paper?

One there is who will speak authentically about my life. His words will really matter. What those words will be is a matter of great conjecture. How they will be spoken I think I already know. They will be spoken as only a wise, compassionate and discerning Father can. But then perhaps He and I won’t need words. His loving look will say it all.

A reflection for Sunday 19th of February.

I began writing this on Tuesday 24th of January. The news was not good that morning. It was especially grim for the people of Los Angeles in general and the people of Monterey Park in particular.

A man allegedly shot 11 people in a dance club. He then went to another ballroom where one of the patrons wrestled the gun away from him and called the police. The assailant was later found with a self-inflicted gunshot wound, dead.

No winners here. Not the gunman, the victims or the victims’ families. It was all very gruesome and awash with blood and tears.

Today’s gospel also seems very difficult to swallow and it would seem ludicrous to those who were close to the events in Los Angeles.

You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also;

‘You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven;

Is Jesus condoning the events in Los Angeles? Is he contradicting the Old Testament? You know the bit …You shall do no murder and … an eye for an eye and so on…No! The Master's teachings do not contradict the law. Jesus announces he has not come to abolish the law but to fulfil it (Matt. 5:17) which means, to bring to completion, to accomplish the law with His very life and death. So Jesus isn’t so much telling the disciples that what they learned in the synagogue is incorrect, but rather that it was incomplete.

But these sayings of Jesus do seem absurd. Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you, and offer the other cheek to get slapped as well.

What are we to make of this? It screams against every fibre of our hearts and souls.

Some starting points.

We are right to deplore the murder of others and we should call out this action as wrong. It does not matter if it takes the high public profile, very visible and over-reported story on our screens, or whether it is the unhidden scourge of domestic violence.

We are all made in the image of God. A life is - a life is - a life and it is infinitely precious in God's eyes.

This is not the first time someone has taken another life. The ickiness had begun as far back as Cain and Able But our Lord did something quite bizarre, startling and loving from the cross.

“Father Forgive”.

There was an echo of this with the people in Coventry when their cathedral was bombed in the second world war. A rough charred cross was plucked from the ruins and imprinted on it were the same two words “Father Forgive”. It became a focal point for worshippers in their new cathedral.

And remember the martyrdom of St. Stephen.

While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he said this, he fell asleep.

So layered over the top of these incredulous and sombre actions, is the call to love and forgiveness. This may take a long time and may never be complete on this side of the grave, but it is what we strive for.

For as long as someone is always loathed, they must always linger as an object of hate and the thought of them can eat away at us like cancer. However, when we pray for them, no matter how grudgingly or reluctantly, we open ourselves to the possibility that one day we might begin to see them the way God sees them.

God’s love and forgiveness are limitless. That’s what’s so great about Him and that’s what makes Him God. Ultimately… in eternity…the judgement of others is simply not our call. We should be busy enough just doing the hard yards to get ourselves right with God.

Some good things can come out of tragedy. I have no doubt that there would have been countless messages of love, support and encouragement that went out to the families of those who lost loved ones. And think of the actions and heroism of the man who wrestled the gun away from the assailant. These things do not erase the pain. It does not bring back their loved ones, but it does layer over the top of their grief, the reassurance that there is another side to our humanity. We are better than the atrocities that are splashed about on our screens with recklessness and unthinking abandon for those who might be suffering. There is a far more noble and dignified component to being human. Great love is often expressed, meets and can conquer great evil and ultimately love will always win.

You have heard it said… but … I say this to you…

I gleefully reached two separate milestones at the end of 2022. First, I accomplished 50 ‘park runs’ which entitles me to a swanky red T-shirt telling the world that I have in fact accomplished 50 park runs.

The other milestone was that the Christmass of 2022 was my fourth with you in this parish.

It all seems to have gone so very quickly. A lot of the time nothing much seems to have been happening but then everything has been happening.

Many of these park runs and Christmases were not much different than the last one. My times at Park run have actually got slower if the truth be told. It all just seems to be a matter of showing up, giving it your best shot, getting on with it and staying the course.

The same with Christmass. It’s a biggish sort of run with 5 parish centres to cover and a goodly number of kilometres to drive.

Is this what faithfulness is really all about? Faithfulness is not often glamorous, shiny and sexy. Faithfulness is about making the conscious and deliberate effort to show up; especially when you don’t want to and the church is cold and it's raining all over the park run track.

Or in the case of the faithful dear old couple who consistently choose to sit down together at night even though they have had a gigantic fight throughout the day. The couple who choose to say ‘I am sorry’ and maybe even smooch and make up.

It’s about choosing to ‘be in the community’ even when that community irks us, irritates us, disappoints us and gives us the screaming willies.

So here’s to the Parkruns and the Christmas that have flickered by and been… and here’s to the ones that are still to come.

The work of the table.

They come every so often and together we sat at a table. We have swapped stories, shed tears and laughed raucously. The wine like the conversation has flowed, been consumed and enjoyed. The bread was broken and the food was passed around.

But there are other tables I go to in other places. In homes, in Churches and in institutions where a similar dynamic occurs.

There is dialogue, there is food and beverages.

Sometimes nothing much seems to happen and yet everything is happening. It’s not just about the outward fare and the drinks. In the chatter and through the chatter, something shifts. We enter into a slightly different dimension. Sure, we look the same and sound the same, but after time together we are always altered just ever so slightly.

We arise from the table transformed. Relationships are strengthened, and new insights are grasped, turned over, reflected upon and integrated.

Odd, that a simple piece of wood with four legs can do all of that when people gather together around it. The table facilitates something much grander and more potent than itself. It is really just the implement, the focal point. The mechanics and the effectiveness of the relationships are really up to those who have gathered around.

I count myself privileged to work from a table. Sometimes in the formal setting of the worship, but far more frequently at a simple kitchen table. Both the altar and kitchen table are important.  One is not somehow ‘better’ than the other. Both have a role to play and in fact, they complement each other in the work they do.

Fortunately, tables are not my exclusive prerogative. The ‘table work’ is for all to enjoy. Next time you are at the table, ask yourself ‘What is really going on here?’

Get right with God a reflection for the 12th of February

Well! Today’s Gospel is a bit different from last week’s. Last Sunday Jesus was calling us the salt of the earth, and the light on a hill and it was all very gooey and wonderful. The week before that he was dolling out blessings left and right centre. But today it’s almost like he’s making up for all the mushy things he said with his sermon on the mount.

And not only is Jesus upholding the old laws like “do not murder” and “do not commit adultery,” but he’s also making them infinitely more difficult to keep.

At first glance, this is a scary text, full of divorce and dismemberment and other things that we’d really rather not think about. As a child of divorced parents who both remarried, it's a little uncomfortable. This is a text all about The Law.

Our first lesson from Deuteronomy explains that the whole point of the Law—is so that we can choose life. And Deuteronomy isn’t talking about everlasting life, or life after death, or anything like that. It’s talking about right now, here, on this planet, with-each-other kind of life. God wants to give us life, and the best way to do that, is, surprisingly, to tell us not to kill each other. Who’dve thought?

But for anyone who’s ever experienced rejection, for any reason, rules like the ones Jesus lays out here can still seem terrifying. Instead of seeing a list of things that can help us choose life together, you may see a list of different ways to get yourself kicked out of God’s family.

Now we get skittish about the concept of sin because it feels like the prelude to a blow. Scripture, the concept of sin, the kind of “tough love” that goes around pointing out all the ways you don’t measure up—

But what if… what if … Jesus is presenting not a threat, with dire consequences. What if it’s not a list of rules to follow and instead more of an instructional video on living together? Let’s take a look at an example. First, Jesus says, “don’t get angry at your siblings, don’t insult them, and don’t use harmful and disparaging words against them. It’s just as bad as physically harming them.” Well, unfortunately, based on what our media serves up to us we’ve all failed pretty miserably at this command. If this were strictly a list of demands and consequences, we’d all be in pretty bad shape.

But the good news is that Jesus knows us, and so what we see in the very next verse are instructions for what happens when you DO fail at following the plan. Jesus says, “So when you are offering your gift at the altar if you remember that your sibling has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first, be reconciled to your sibling, and then come and offer your gift.”

So if you are nervous about being kicked out, know that this isn’t a one-strike-and-you’re-out system—this is the Master understanding our human nature in deep and sometimes uncomfortable ways, and showing us that we can try again.

Jesus is saying that we need to do the hard work of reconciliation with each other before we try to “get right with God,”.

So what does the work of reconciliation look like? Well, the first step is to listen and listen hard. Don’t say anything… just listen.

Remember always that pain is not the last word.

Reconciling means confessing what we’ve done wrong, as individuals, and as Christian communities. We take responsibility for the things we did intentionally and the things we had control over, and we at least acknowledge the existence of the things that were unintentional.

Then, we ask for forgiveness—not expecting it immediately, but doing the hard work of humbling ourselves and allowing another person to show us God’s grace in human form.

Then, we roll up our sleeves, because it’s time to start changing things. Reconciling to and with each other means not just stopping the bleeding in the body of Christ, but bandaging each other up, and moving together. When you bring your whole self into God’s house, you quickly find yourself wrapped up in the reconciling work that got you there in the first place. You get caught up in GOD’S reconciling work. Becoming reconciled with each other leads to working for reconciliation with everyone else!

I’m not saying that it's easy an easy task.

Sometimes God calls the people we least want to share the altar with.

Let our yes be a true yes. A yes that says “I’m going to do the hard and beautiful work of lifting up my brothers and sisters every day of the year, and making sure they can bring their whole selves safely into this community.” Let’s let our yes be yes within these walls, and throughout the rest of our country and our world. Let’s let our yes to each other be a yes in the streets and at tables. And then, hand in hand, we can come to offer our thanksgiving for this beautiful life together before God.

When we can get right with each other…. then we get right with God…

Our choices always matter.

Apparently, those who are about to be executed are given a choice for their last meal.

I’m sure it's an interesting array of selections. I imagine some would choose a lobster, some steak, some a meal from a Scottish-sounding fast food outlet.

Hopefully, none of us will finish up on death row but the question is still a curious one.

The Master had this choice. He knew all about his last meal and he made a conscious decision. Remember he was a faithful synagogue-going Jew. So he participated in and enjoyed the Passover.

Those of us from a Christian heritage has kept the bread and wine side dishes.

But this was not the only occasion when the master chose to imbibe. There was a wedding at Cana of Galilee… you know how the story goes. 120 gallons of good quality show wine and 3 days later…

The other thing that piqued my interest is who the Master chose to eat and drink with. The wedding guests and on his last night, a motley crew of 12 riff-raff vagabonds. He knew some of his guests would disappoint him terribly.

I’m not sure I would have had the same guest list or been so trusting. If I knew that I had one last meal then I would probably choose some good quality show wine, some pickled onions, Stilton cheese, and rare steak,… but the company?

I would want my nearest and dearest, my finest and most fervent friends. It would be very stringent selection criteria. Clearly, I have to work on my graciousness or rather, my lack of it.

But you dear reader…. Your menu would be… and the company you would choose?

Our choices are often remembered long after our last meal and therefore our choices always matter.

A reflection for Sunday 5th of February.

He was born Robert Stockdale Lawson on the 10th of February 1934.

He was professed a monk on the 11th of July 1967 and entered eternal life 31st of December 2022.

Dom Placid was a monk at our monastery at Camperdown. I’m not sure when he came to us from England but he was there all my ordained life which is a goodly number of years now.

So for me, he had always just been there. Working hard, energetic and faithful as the day is long. His welcome was as big and warm as his winning smile. One of his brother monks wrote this about him.

“My lasting memory of him was that we were always laughing together. He had such a positive attitude to life and always saw the amusing side of things. He was a godly person who took his prayer life seriously. One could tell that from the homilies he wrote. He loved the monastic life but it had to be taken seriously and lived properly.”

One of my most enduring memories was a time that Jeanine and I travelled to join in evening prayer. Oh yes, anyone can go and join in with any of the offices.

Dom Placid profoundly bowed his head resting it on his prayer book. When he arose a prayer card had stuck to his forehead. He was completely oblivious to this and carried on the rest of the service as if this was the most normal thing in the world. And hey, this might just catch on.

Jeanine and I smirked bravely and failed dismally to contain our giggles.

It was a privilege to attend his funeral on January 11th this year. There we celebrated the fact that what Dom Placid longed for all his life is now his reality. It is odd, that a man who had spent most of his life in a Monastery had several hundred people come to his funeral. It says something about Dom Placid and something about the work of the monastery in our midst.

The odd quiet day is held there. They receive grateful pilgrims, there are oblates lurking in our midst and it sells the odd icon and prayer card. This parish used to get its pew sheets from there.

Over the years when there has been a special need, I have contacted the Monastery for some super duper high-charged prayers. They pray 7 times a day there so you know in the very core of your soul that when you ask for prayer from a place like that, you are going to get the most reliable and ardent prayer. You didn’t see it, you couldn’t measure it, but you knew in that place deep within you, the only place that really matters, that the prayer was authentic and potent.

But hang on what’s all this monkish business got to do with the salt and light in today's gospel?

Well…Salt and light are never self-serving. They never point towards themselves. Salt discreetly, almost invisibly enhances the dish. It adds flavour and makes it more scrumptious but looking at the dish you would never know it was there.

Light always illuminates the other. The subject. Without it there is only darkness; but with it, we marvel at everything around us. In fact, a good scientist will tell you that the reason we see different colours is because of the way light bounces off different things. The way we give off light for others is by following Christ so that they can follow us along the path of light on which Christ himself is guiding us. You and I are supposed to be like indicator lights on an airport runway so that the people of the world in the midst of a ferocious storm at night don’t crash but can land safely on the airstrip of heaven. The Master wants us to radiate what he teaches us, … about how to live well, how to love well, how to die well so as to live for others, to others, to enflesh his teaching to such a degree that others see the light of his way of life shining from within us almost without our even trying. We are truly light when we illuminate another, shed light on them, and let them shine. Jesus tells us in the Gospel that the way we give off his light is through deeds of genuine Christian love that lead others to glorify God.

We are truly salt when we give ourselves to others in loving service. If you like, we add flavour to other people's lives. We add flavour to the message of the Gospel.

By being light we change how others see things. By being salt we change how others live their lives.

Dom Placid specifically and the monastery generally are salt and light to us. They have enlightened and flavoured our lives in ways that we are only just beginning to understand and enjoy. It may not feel like it, but we are the brighter and the more flavoursome for their ministry to us. May your light so shine before all people so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in Heaven.