Trust Sister Silence

The retreat master said it in passing. Tossed it quickly into the air and smartly went on to the next exciting story.

'Oh!' I gasped. 'I could use that’. Sure it needs a little bit more head-scratching and soul-searching, but that’s a really good phrase.

Over in the Yarra Valley, we were on retreat and basking in delicious, scrumptious silence. Apart from our prayers and The Retreat Master offering us thought-provoking morsels to savour, no one was muttering anything. It was very yummy.

Some of my colleagues find the silence confronting, some are non-plussed by it… a take-it-or-leave type of thinking. Others like myself can’t wait to dive straight in and loll around in solitude.

You can trust the silence. It won’t let you down. Sure some ghosts and demons of the past may raise their ugly heads to sneer and taunt you, but they are just there and you have time and space to stare straight back at them. See them for what they really are and maybe even squash them with the mallet of reconciliation. The silence gives you the time and space to do this. Sister Silence is your greatest ambassador and your most potent weapon. You can trust the silence. Do not be afraid of it.

The good thing is you don’t have to go all the way to the Yarra Valley to find Sister Silence. She can come to you at any time and in any place. All you have to do is put out the Welcome mat and make sure she has the opportunity to work her healing magic.

Overall the retreats and all the quiet days, Sister Silence has never let me down. Ever. She has always soothed, calmed and massaged my soul.

Trust the silence.

Darkness can be your friend. A reflection for Epiphany

This travel log of the magi only happens in Matthew and initially, I had the idea of writing about the work of the camels. How they diligently soldier on with little or no recognition and yet are essential to make the whole story happen. But then I reread the story only to discover there are no camels that are mentioned. Not a one.

Then I thought perhaps these kings are the superheroes of the day with capes and undies on the outside. No evidence of that either. Nor is there anything to suggest that the gold frankincense and myrrh funded a business class ticket into Egypt.

Let’s dig a little deeper and more sensibly.

The backdrop to Matthew’s story is inky black. In fact, it is dark in two ways.

First, it is set against the dark backdrop of Herod’s desire to slaughter the Christ-child. The canvas is daubed with the black attempts to manipulate the magi to his own end. The backdrop of this story is the death Herod wishes not only for the Christ-child but also the death he will inflict on other children. We all know the next grizzly chapter of this story.

The other dark backdrop is the night sky. Against the black sky the star dazzles, inspires and leads. The darker the night sky, the easier it is to see the star. The more ugly and wretched Herod seems, the better the Magi look.

What if: … what if darkness actually has a pivotal role to play in our own journey on our way to see God face to face? What if it is not the big bogeyman that we once feared, but it is actually an essential tool to help us see more clearly the things that truly matter?

Splashed onto the gloomy and forbidding canvas of Matthew there is colour, wisdom, faithfulness, diligence and perseverance.

The ‘stars’, whatever or whoever they happen to be, can actually be quite dazzling and spectacular in the night times of our life. In fact, some of the finest acts of ministry that I have ever had the privilege of enjoying were at the darkest and most bleak times in my life. I remember them still with affection and with a great deal of awe. They inspire me still.

These words, these stars, these communications, these people, shine and guide us and we can never forget their kindness and how we were changed for the better. Like the star that emerges from a cloud on a dark night, when your eyes have grown tired from squinting and your heart is forlorn and withered from waiting, they are spectacular in their ministry to us.

And these ‘stars’ are frequently simple and profound. A word, a silence,  a look, a card, a prayer.

We all long to see what the Magi saw, and it’s not just God face to face although that is always worth waiting for.

But the Magi also saw something else. They saw something which taught them a lesson. They saw something which enriched them with a deeper wisdom than the reading of the stars and constellations.

Here’s how Bishop Stephen Cottrell put it.

“We saw not a king but a child. And in that child, a glimpse of rare and uncomfortable beauty. In the restful and yet also troubling moments of that night, seeing the bonds of love between mother and child.

I wondered if true wisdom might be this: to know what matters, and to rest secure in the peaceful affirmations of loving and of being loved”.

To know what matters, and to rest secure in the peaceful affirmations of loving and of being loved.

So what if this year we breathed more deeply and just reclined in the sure and certain knowledge that our vocation was not to scurry around and be unkind to ourselves?

What if 2023 is the year when we understood that what matters is to rest secure in the peaceful affirmations of loving and of being loved? What if it was as disturbing and as simple as that? What if we just simply journeyed on through this year with all its trickiness, its false starts and wrong-turns, knowing that we always have his promise that we will arrive at our destination safely, securely and with joy? And we accomplish this pilgrimage if we simply rest secure in the peaceful affirmations of loving and of being loved.

One more thing to take on your journey with magi is to see the unexpected.

My fervent but feeble prayer is that this year you are open to the possibility, nay the probability, and if you are very brave, the certainty,  that you too are a guiding star for others. That you also reflect something of the dazzling sparkling love of God in a world that sometimes seems to be overcast and shadowy.

You are brighter and more glorious than you first thought. You are more inspiring than you ever dreamed of and to glimpse what the magi saw, all you have to do is look in the mirror.

I got the music in me.

I recently had the undeserved and thrilling privilege of attending a concert starring Marina Prior and David Hobson. Perhaps you were there too. It was a sparkling evening with great company and sublime music.

Marina spoke about her formative years and how the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber inspired her. She raised the obvious question which went something like this. ‘How did this man have all that music in him?’

It's a heartily good question, but if we reflect for a moment we all have some kind of music echoing around within us. Sure it may not be the same sort, or the same calibre, or the same style as Lord Lloyd Webber. We may not actually ever compose music and put dots on a page. But if we stop and listen for a while… just be still for longer than thirty seconds and really listen, we will realise that there is often some kind of music going on.

Sometimes the music is frenetic and a bit hurdy-gurdy with lots of instruments all competing for our very limited attention.

Sometimes it is romantic and alluring, sometimes (and this happens all too infrequently) it is calming, soothing and relaxing.  Sometimes it is poignant and potent. Sometimes it is glorious and triumphant. Think of Elgar's pomp and circumstance.

I wonder what might happen if we stopped more frequently and simply listened to the ‘music’. What would the music tell us?

In the dream world, we would have a smorgasbord of all sorts of different music. It would be balanced and our playlist would not be weighted too heavily for too long towards one ‘flavour’ or the other.

We all have the music in us. What’s your tune… right now?

Freddy the forgetful Shepherd.

I had fallen asleep that night, but Rufus woke me up by shoving his stinky foot under my nose. The others were already running to Bethlehem. Rufus filled me in as I half ran, half stumbled along the way.

So great was my rush to get to the manger, so full of wine, so forgetful, so greedy that I arrived at Bethlehem tottery, empty-handed. It is true that I had found the denarius to pay for the wine, but then there was nothing in my pockets when I got to the stable. I am continuously and extremely poor in all sorts of ways.

As the others were competing to offer their gifts, I stood apart, squirming with embarrassment.

At a certain point, St. Joseph and Our Lady found it hard to receive all the gifts, especially Mary, who had to hold the baby. Seeing that I had empty hands, she asked me to draw near and she put the baby Jesus in my arms.

Receiving Jesus, I became aware of having received what I did not deserve, of holding in my arms the greatest gift of all time. I looked at my hands, these hands that seemed to always be empty, except for the odd goblet of wine. Now instead my hands, my arms were full and had become a cradle for God.

I felt loved and overcome. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was something else, but I found myself in tears.  And there seemed to be only one thing for it. I  began to show Jesus to the others, for I could not keep him, the gift of gifts, to myself.

To you my dear brothers and sisters, if your hands seem empty, if you think your heart is poor in love, this Christmass is especially for you. The grace of God has appeared, to shine forth in your life. He shines from the crib, from the altar, from your face and mine. Accept it and the light of Christmas will shine forth in you.

In Jesus, God Almighty made himself tiny, so that he might be vulnerable and accessible to us.

St. Paul described the coming of Jesus as “grace,” because it means something completely free. God’s gift of Jesus is not something anyone deserves or anyone can ever repay. It doesn’t work that way. It’s not a business transaction with cash, card or gift voucher.

Christmas tells each person, no matter how poor or sinful, that they are utterly and totally loved by God.

The grace of God that is revealed in a manky messy stable in Bethlehem is divine love, the love that changes lives, renews history, liberates from evil, fills hearts with peace and joy.

Christmas is a reminder that when we failed to measure up, God became small for our sake; while we were going about our own business, he came into our midst.

God does not love you because you think and act the right way. He loves you, plain and simple. You may have made a complete mess of things, but the Lord continues to love you.

The only thing people need to do with God’s grace is to accept it and let themselves be loved by God.

Accepting this grace means being ready to give thanks in return. Often we live our lives with such little gratitude. Today is the right day to draw near to the tabernacle, the creche, and the manger, and to say ‘Thank you.’

Receiving the gift of Jesus, we should try to be like him by being a gift for others. It is the best way to change the world: we change, the church changes, and history changes, once we stop trying to change others but try to change ourselves and make our life a gift.

Jesus shows this to us this Christmass in 2022. He did not change history by pressuring anyone or by a flood of words, but by the gift of his life. He did not wait until we were good, or sober or rich or happy before he loved us, but gave himself freely to us. Do not wait for our neighbours to be good before we do good to them, for the church to be perfect before we love her, and for others to respect us before we serve them.

If you are like Freddy the forgetful Shepherd, coming to the altar where God is made visible and you feel as though you have nothing; if your heart is empty and you think that embarrassment and unworthiness are all you have, then this Christmass is particularly for you. All you have to do is come, receive and adore Him.

This christmass in 2022, Let Our Lady give her son to you and then show him to others. In your poverty and in your joy, he is all you need. Hold onto him and delight in him; because as sure as the angels sang, he is already holding onto you.

The Workshop

“Welcome to the workshop” muttered the cheeky priest as he entered the chapel for morning prayer. The greeting had come to me unbidden and unprepared, but the symbolism can be pushed around and out in a myriad of ways.

What are our implements in this ‘workshop’, here in the chapel? Our tools are psalms, prayers and readings. Things that we need reminding of and lessons that need to be learnt… again! There are surprises and sometimes the ‘projects’ turn out quite differently from the way we had intended.

One of the most powerful tools in the workshop is silence. Dollops of quiet where things are just simply allowed to be resolved and ideas can mature in their own time and in their own way. A time to listen to what the Master Carpenter wants to say to us.

The projects that we thought would be difficult and involve much angst and grist are often quite easy and those that should have been a cinch are far more complicated and tricky with lots of gnarly bits that no one could have foreseen.

We also use bread and wine to sustain and nourish us as we ask the Master Carpenter to fashion us into the instruments that will be most effective and useful for him.

Often we need to be planned and sanded back. Our rough edges smoothed away. None of this is easy, and none of this is a quick fix. Quality work needs patience and time.

The workshop is available to everyone. All are welcome. It is a place of enhancement and enrichment. At the end of it, we come out just a little smoother, a little better, and a little more effective.

Welcome to the workshop where nothing much seems to happen and yet everything is happening. It’s that type of place.

Advent 4 Joseph 18/12/22

In his book ‘Walking backwards through Christmass’ Bishop Stephen Cottrell writes in a first-person style with some of the characters that were around when Our Lord was born. One of these characters was Joseph.

Bishop Stephen writes

I come from a long line of dreamers. You wouldn’t know it to look at me. My hands are rough and gnarled from a lifetime at the lathe; knotty, like the wood I turn. I hope for things so that inside this old body there is always a fresh spring rising.

An underground stream that makes glad the heart, but I don’t know whether anyone can see it anymore. Nobody calls me a dreamer as they used to when I was young. Well, not till now. And until this year I felt the same about myself. I was alone.

But then it changed. Betrothal. Me an older man, and she was a young girl full of joy and vigour; full of hope and expectation of what life could bring, full of zest. She reawoke my dreaming.

Was it love? I don’t know. Not yet. Love isn’t a feeling. Love isn’t just desiring, though how I desired her. Love is the patient accumulation of shared memories, the joining together of two lifetimes into one, and the weaving of separate stories into this story.

But no sooner had we begun, than things changed...

After she first told me, I saw the fear and horror in her eyes, the fear that I wouldn’t believe her and wouldn’t stand by her; and, yes, I was furious and angry and jealous, and all sorts of other things; But when I did fall asleep, I had a dream. A simple dream, a simple requirement. In the unfussy logic of a dream, I was instructed clearly: ‘Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. Do not abandon her. The child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. And then the words from Isaiah the prophet that I had heard many times ran through my dream: ‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means, “God is with us.”’

And what do you do with a dream like that? Ignore it? Despise it? Argue against it? I woke with a start. It was still night, and I had been asleep for only a few minutes. But the dream and what it said to me was as clear as the day. It was as if God himself had spoken to me and asked me just to be faithful: faithful to Mary and faithful to the dream inside me.

And so I have done what I have been told. I lay on my bed for a few more hours, then I rose before dawn and walked the half-mile or so to Mary’s house. I knew she wouldn’t be sleeping either; our two stories were already becoming one. Sure enough, even as I approached the house, I heard the sound of her gentle weeping. I think she had been up all night too, worrying and probably praying that there would be some sense in all of this. She opened the door to me and there was a lovely defiance in her eye. She was ready to meet whatever it was I would give her. I saw then, as clear as the dream, her own certainty in what was inside her. I held her tiny soft hands in mine, looked her full in the eye, and told her that I was with her, that I believed her; I had had a dream, and my dream had confirmed her story.

We became the talk of the town. People would point and whisper and plot. But inside I knew how I had chosen to respond. And I was not going to go back on this. Something was unfolding in the shared story that was my life with Mary. God had visited her in some way that I will never fully understand. For even if you begin to believe the strangeness of the story I am telling you, Mary is not what you might think she is. She is not a quiet stream. She is a tempest. She is not an empty vessel, but a skin of wine uncorked. She is not what men think godly, self-effacing and discreet, reposed and receptive. She is a force: a force of joy and energy and life. And I love her for that. I will go on loving her for that.

We should be in Bethlehem by dusk and this baby can’t be far from birth. I place my hands upon Mary’s stomach each evening as we lie down to sleep, and I feel the baby’s strong movements, turning in her womb and kicking out against the world.

But will I know then? God with us? What does a son of God look like, except a son of man, a child like every child? And for what purpose is this child born? Is it to save? How does that work? Who will know him and who will believe him?

The night is falling and we must rest, Mary is settling down for the night now. Although she is tired, so tired, she is still all-focus and energy - holding and bearing an inner stillness and resolve that is beyond the meandering fantasies of most men. And the child she bears, this child from God…

Will he be rejected? Will he be broken? Will he be a barren tree on a lonely hill that bears no fruit at all? Or will he be something else?

A reflection for Advent 3

In his book ‘Walking backwards through Christmass’ Bishop Stephen Cottrell writes in a first-person style with some of the characters that were around when Our Lord was born. One of these characters was David the shepherd. Bishop Stephen writes

My mother’s sense of humour was noteworthy and renowned. She named me after Israel’s most famous shepherd, but there the resemblance ends.

But this night something remarkable happened. And I feel like a king.

It began the way all our nights begin. With liquor and laughter

Then the waiting began. The jokes gave way to conversation and the conversation gave way to silence. And in the real dead hours of the night, even the silence seems deeper and emptier than at other times.

I didn’t know what time it was. No sun to help me. I looked at the stars. No help there either. The more you looked, the more there seemed to be. I knew they were the very floor of heaven, but it seemed like they went back forever.

Then it happened. out of nowhere and with such a sudden rush of dazzling brightness, it was as if a thousand bolts of lightning had exploded from the heavens at once and cut a swathe of light across the sky. It was like daytime, like noon- time only brighter, and with such brightness came a dreadful clarity, like a thousand piercing shafts of light that could see between bone and marrow, between body and spirit, between flesh and blood. At first it was frightening. I mean terrifying. I was flooded with light. It was consuming me. I felt almost lifted into it. then it was calm assurance: not a break with reality but the dawning of the first real day there had ever been. And a voice. I mean, I heard it as a voice, but it was not a voice like I’m speaking to you now; and nothing to see, like I can see you and you can see me, but not less real, more. And the voice spoke of glory and peace: glory to God in the highest heavens and peace to the earth. or was it singing? Was it the sweetest, loveliest music you have ever heard? Was it one voice or the thousand voices of a heavenly choir?

And we were still afraid. I looked at my comrades as the light rushed around us and the music filled the air. there was fear and wonder in their eyes. I suppose mine were the same. But there was also a sort of reflected glory on their faces. An inner light that almost matched the brightness of the sky.

Angels, they were. I realized it then. A host of angels in the sky. Heavenly messengers, God’s agents. telling us something. not just about God’s glory in heaven, but God’s peace on earth as well. And then a solemn declaration: ‘to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord. this will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’

Well, you’ve never seen anything like it after that. the whole sky was ablaze with glory. We tumbled down the hill like mad things. The light went as swiftly as it had come, and every- thing was back to normal – only normal would never be the same again. We had seen the heavens open. We had seen with our eyes what the prophets had barely glimpsed. And we, simple men: uneducated, unread, ignorant of the law and all its suffocations. Love God and love your neighbour. that is all I knew. What hope of heaven for me! But now, with the heavens themselves opened to me; open to ordinary men.

We rushed into Bethlehem. We wanted to see what had happened. We had to find this child. So we abandoned our few sheep. We arrived at the outhouse behind the pub laughing and panting; then, aware of the noise we were making, hushed each other up and brushed each other down. We hung about outside the door like nervous lovers on a first date.

And we grinned at each other as we had never smiled before.

Then another silence. But this time not the silence of something empty, something incapable of noise or life. It was the silence of contentment, of arriving, of being held in the arms of one who knows and loves, and where words are no longer necessary. What a noise those angels had made. How come the whole town hadn’t heard it! But what a silence in that stable. the silence of loving and of being loved; of knowing and being known.

We went into the stable then. The door wasn’t barred. It was open to us – and, I suppose, to the whole waiting world.

We went in and knelt down. That's all we did. Fools and idiots, who for no reason of personal merit or insight had just received the richest fortune. We knew this. And we didn’t need to say anything. We saw the child and the child’s mother. We saw her husband. He stood between us and the child for a few moments, but as we were on our knees there was not much to be frightened of – we were hardly a threat, despite our rough appearance – so then he smiled and beckoned us forward. We shuffled across the floor on our knees. It must have been comical to watch. We must have looked a real sorry sight. But it felt right. this was not a place to stand; this felt a holy place – like when Moses saw that burning bush and took his shoes off. this was not a time to speak. Whatever it was that God wanted to say to us that night, he was saying it in the silence of a child born.

I have a friend who plays in a band with a rather curious name. “Whisky soaked redemption.” It’s a bit rock n roll, a bit country, a bit blues, but the name of the band is both sublime and insightful.

And before going any further I should point out the obvious that whisky is like all of God’s good gifts. Use it properly with yourself as the boss and it is a marvellous thing. Abuse it and let it control you and deep sadness is yours.

I like the title of the band because it reminds me of the wedding at Canna where there were lashings of very good quality wine. There, at the reception, something unseen, subtle and lovely occurred. Redemption had come to the wedding reception at the insistence of a woman and with only a very few realising it.

I think too of a cramped upper room with just a few motley men gathered around a table with bread and wine. Nothing was happening, something was happening, everything was happening and the consequences of this little supper would reverberate around the world and into the twenty-first century. Redemption intincted by wine.

But what of music? Well, after the last supper …"They sang a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives". And what wedding does not have music and singing and dancing.

At first reading, the name of my friend's band might seem a little crass to you and politically incorrect. But the whole Christmas thing that is hurtling towards us means that the divine came to revel in, enjoy and sanctify our everyday life, our everyday stuff. Our loving, our joy, our tears, our smirking and even the stuff in the decanter.

Go Whisky Soaked Redemption… You legends!

Midwife Martha Advent 2  -  4/12/22

In his book ‘Walking backwards through Christmass’ Bishop Stephen Cottrell writes in a first-person style with some of the characters that were around when Our Lord was born. One of these characters was

Martha the midwife. Bishop Stephen writes…

‘I’ve had seven children,’ I told her. ‘I’ll help you with this one.’

And so I did. Through the long hours of her labour: through the choppy waters of strong and mounting contractions; through the calm waters of boredom and wondering if it will happen at all; through the screaming and the vomiting, when she cried out that she was too exhausted to go on, and when I myself started wondering if this child would ever be de- livered; I sat with her. I held her hand. I wiped her brow. I told her stories of my own seven births. I felt between her legs to judge whether she was ready or not.

Her husband – Joseph, I gathered his name was – paced. He was what you might call a traditional father. He didn’t actually do anything. He just kept muttering – or was he praying? – that all this was from God and was safe with God.

‘Well, you’re safe with me,’ I told him. ‘now hold this cloth, and wipe her face when I tell you.’

In the darkest hour of the night, I suppose about two or three o’clock, the baby’s head appeared. He stared, blinking and gawping at the world for what seemed an age. And she was crying out with the pain of it, and the great longing for the baby to be free. It was one of those strange halfway moments between the womb and the world, between what was, what is and what will be. Then with the next contraction, on a spasm of pain and joy, he was born.

I pulled him free and held him up for his mother to behold: a boy, all green and grey with the mucus of the womb and the effort of birth. I didn’t need to spank him or pat his little back. the breath seemed to rush into him, and he filled his lungs and let out a loud, piercing cry. I laughed at him. ‘Loud enough to wake the dead,’ I said to his mother. He’s a strong little fella.’

I laid him on his mother’s breast. That was a beautiful moment. It always is. Tender. As old as the world itself. As new as the dawn. And she moved his little face to her breast, and he suckled there, and she held him and stroked his head. He was born, this baby. He was oK. He was well. And his mother too seemed fine. And even the husband was smiling now: relief, as well as joy, etched into his tired face. What a place for a baby to be born. What a couple.

Then she turned to me, the mother. ‘His name is Jesus,’ she said and smiled at me.

Well, I thought that was the end of it and I could get to bed myself. As the girl slept, and as the child slept too, the husband picked him up and laid him in the clean straw in the manger. I told him that he should get some sleep as well. But I knew he wouldn’t. His part had come, and he was happy to watch and wait. So now I’m back here, watching and waiting for myself. You see, I can’t sleep. This birth and this odd couple have touched my heart. The inn is quiet. Everyone else is asleep. But I’m sitting here awake.

The fire has nearly gone out. There are a few embers just struggling to stay alight, fluttering and flashing but with nothing to feed on. If I get a few sticks and gently breathe upon them the fire will return. But not forever.

I don’t know where these thoughts have come from. this fire burning low. A new fire kindled. Warmth, security, heat and light. I need them so much, and yet as I turn over the dying embers of my life – because that’s how it seems to me, that’s what I’m thinking about, all the beautiful things that are lost to me, all the hopes and dreams that have died in me – in the end, it will all go cold and expire. Where is the fire and where is the light that will burn forever, radiant and unconsuming?

Now there is a commotion outside. A lot of noise. Probably some drunks. I open the door a fraction. It looks like the shepherds from the fields above Bethlehem. They are little more than vagrants. What mischief have they been up to? And have they been in there? Disturbing the baby? And what is it they are shouting about? A king born in Bethlehem? Peace to the world?

Then they are gone. Silence again. The emptiness of the night; and on the horizon the unhurried beginning of a new day as the approaching sunlight leaches slowly into the darkness.

What is going on? What happened here this night? Who is this child that has visited me? Whose coming into the world have I shared? There is a strange and ominous foreboding upon me. Also a spark of pure, uncompromised joy. Who isn’t moved to wonder at the sight of a newborn child?

I turn back into the room. The fire is suddenly roaring. I watch the flames dance in the hearth. What has been kindled here?

 Questions

• Which person in the story did you most relate to?
• What surprised, shocked or delighted you the most?
• Has this changed your understanding of the Christmas story?

A Polite Reminder.

The wise old bishop sipped gently on his tumbler and listened attentively to my tale of woe.

I was foolishly berating myself for being incompetent, forgetful and unthinking. “I am slow of speech and dull of mind.” I bewailed. In fact, I was quite good at this pretence of false modesty. Analysed astutely it was nothing more than a fishing trip for that sparkling breed of fish we call compliments. The bigger the better of course.

It was a long time ago in quite a different place. I was a different person then. Nowadays I know my shortcomings and I just smirk at them which is a much healthier attitude than the self-flagellation I used to persist with. A foolish waste of energy and time. Bah Humbug!

What I thought was my clinching, closing and triumphant finale was … “Come on My Lord, you must have copious counts of clerics at your disposal who could do this gig a whole lot better than me. Couldn’t you give the job to them?”

The bishop smirked, as Bishops are want to do, especially when they have an articulate and witty answer up the long sleeve of their cassock. He gave me a polite reminder.

“Two things David. Yes, there are any number of clergy who I could call on and maybe they would do things differently. But they don’t need to do this job. You do. For your own development and your own maturity, you need to do this, especially because you don’t want to.

Secondly, (and this is the bit where he looked me straight in the eye) there are other clergy, lots of them… but there is only one David Oulton”.

For your homework, you might try replacing my name with yours and reading that last sentence out loud to yourself.

The valley of the shadow death

Not the most cheerful subject to write or read about I’ll admit, but bear with me it does get better.

I came across this phrase the other day and those of you who have been to a funeral recently or read the psalms spasmodically will know where I saw it.

Usually, when we read or say this phrase we think of those whose time on this side of the grave is severely limited.

But when I re-read this phrase I realised that it also applies to those who are mourning great Aunt Flo. Surely they also are meandering and tottering through a pretty dark place with low-lying clouds and maybe even a bit of fog. My pet theory is that the trek through the valley of the shadow of death takes a minimum of two years. This is because you have to do the birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas’ at least twice so that you know what works and what doesn’t on these very potent days.

So when do we get to the good bit?

The good bit is how this psalm finishes. It concludes not by denying or shunning or pretending that this gloom is non-existent but gently points out that there is company along the way and the destination will be its own reward for the trudge. Here’s how it ends.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil,

for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    forever.