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.

A reflection for Christ the King.

On May the 6th of next year, Charles will be crowned King Charles the 3rd, at Westminster Abbey. I have good reason to believe that the Archbishop of Canterbury has the occasion firmly in his diary. The Prime Minister of England will also be in attendance.

There will be lots of pomp and circumstance. There will be shouts of “Long Live the king”. People will wear spiffy clothes, trumpets will sound and choirs will sing. Afterwards, there will be a cup of English Breakfast tea and maybe a scone, or a marmalade sandwich. They will all need a little sustenance afterwards. It will be an extraordinary event. I count myself privileged to live in this age and to be one of the millions to gawp at this age-old tradition and see history in the making.

But in today’s gospel, we see an altogether different coronation. In fact, you could be forgiven for thinking that it wasn’t really a coronation at all. You could understandably and swiftly come to the conclusion that these are just some notorious felons, a few no-gooders getting their just desserts.

In fact, the Master has gone to exceptional lengths to place his finest moment in direct contrast to what we will see on our screens next year.

Instead of Westminster Abbey with its shiny brass and polished pews, we have nothing less than Golgotha-the Place of the skull. The name of the venue says it all.

Instead of a glittering crown of exquisite jewels, we get a spiky, harsh piercing crown of thorns.

Instead of a comfy throne with an embroidered plump cushion, Our Lord has a splintery crude cross.

Jesus will not have his hands anointed with fragrant holy oil, but instead, have them pierced with fearsome iron spikes.

There will be no triumphant trumpets and soaring choirs, instead, we get severe mockery and people staring on. The ones who will watch anything if it’s free.

Three groups of people mock Jesus. The leaders, the soldiers and one of the criminals. They mock Jesus’ identity and they mock his power to save. It is one thing to mock someone’s authority and power. What you do. But the mocking of one's identity is perhaps the harshest speech of all, for it is the mocking of who you are.

Listen closely.

First the soldiers.

“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!”

Then the leaders

“He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!”

And finally one of the criminals.

“Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

Instead of the king being arrayed in gorgeous apparel, Our Lord is stripped naked. And at the end of the day, his tunic is not carefully dry-cleaned and folded away by the butler. It is gambled away to a lucky punter.

Instead of good quality Twining's English Breakfast tea or maybe a luscious show wine, Our Lord gets sour wine.  This too is part of the mockery.

Almost as if to say “Here ya go, cop this!”

The cheapest roughest red that has had the lid off just a few days too many.

A far cry from the wine of the last supper used the night before and a very far cry from the wine at the wedding at Cana.

“You have saved the best wine until now.”

It is the darkest of sets and episodes. If you were trying to write something glorious and majestic, you would go for the whole Westminster Abbey scenario in May and not the place of the skull on Good Friday.

And it begs the question.

If our Lord really is King of Kings and Lords of Lords, then why O why did he choose the place of the skull and such a disfiguring, demeaning way to have a coronation?

Two Reasons.

First, to show that there is no place, no situation, no time in our life, ever,  that he is absent from. Whatever dark place we might go to, whatever grim reality we find ourselves in, no matter how disgusting or abysmal, he has already been there and is there with us.

Secondly, so that you might see how much he loves you. “I will go to the place of The Skull and demonstrate in unequivocal and grizzly style, just what I am prepared to do for you. When I am on the cross taking my last breath you will see how much I adore you.”

It is this love, this unconquerable love, that makes him authentically King.

Yes, you could easily think that The Master had lost all control, all power, all authority. Any claim to leadership and being the brightest and the best was just phoney palaver...

He’d lost the plot, his clothes, his life, his dignity, and his power.

Or had he?…

There is a paradox that I know to be so very true and yet I can never understand it clearly, and the paradox is this.

That to consciously and willingly choose to surrender power actually shows that you are unassailably in control.

And that is what we celebrate here on the feast of Christ the King. This life-saving mystery, this paradoxical treasure. This is what we claim for ourselves; it is what we live in our daily lives. And we will rejoice in it, long after the last choir boy has packed away his music in Westminster Abbey and the Archbishop of Canterbury has put off his cope and mitre.

The 7th dimension

I went to see a film the other day. It was cathartic just to sit quietly in the dark and watch the moving images on the screen. An engrossing film takes you out of yourself and for a little while you are in a different dimension or is its dimension(s)?

In the 4th dimension on the screen, there are bumps and joys and falls. In fact, anything that a movie director can imagine. With our geeky world, any ‘reality’ can become ‘reality’ on the big screen. It’s lovely to escape and usually, all is resolved in some form or other by the time the credits roll and the lights go up.

What happens at the altar on a Sunday is very much like this except that we slip into something that I like to call the ‘7th dimension’. In this 7th dimension, we bring our scars, our foibles and our laughter with us. We don’t leave them at the ticket office. They are an integral part of who we are and they make their way to the altar to be blessed and made holy. The very essence of Him. We don’t escape from our ugly and tortured bits and pretend they don’t exist.

The broken, fragile and busted bread says it all. So also the wine that is poured out selflessly.

The drama of the altar is our drama and the reality we bring is his reality of scars, tears, dancing, feasting, solitude and wrestling with hard questions that will not relinquish their answers.

There is a time, place and need for the flickering images on the movie screen. The 4th dimension.

The 7th dimension is something else altogether. A timeless place that is all around and within. It is both inescapable, intangible and our most authentic reality. See you in the 7th dimension.

Construction through conversation 

A reflection for Sunday 13th of November

First a bit of background. When Luke sits down at his study desk to write today’s gospel, he is painfully aware of the persecution of the early Christian church. Hence he gives this rather ominous warning to his readers.

“They will seize you and persecute you. They will hand you over to synagogues and put you in prison, You will be betrayed even by parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends, and they will put some of you to death.”

Today I think the attacks on Christians are a little more subtle, but they are no less effective, but that’s not what I want to talk about today.

At the start of the gospel reading, Jesus and his chums are having a little tour around the temple in Jerusalem. It must have been a pretty glamorous temple and there were lots of oohs and aaahsss. ‘Look at the lovely gargoyle or the workmanship of that cornice’.

And it got me thinking about the different sorts of temples that we have today. There are our lovely Churches and some very grand stately homes. You can probably think of some other fine landmark buildings in the area.

But there are also things that we speak of that are ‘temple-like’ in their beauty.

It might be a piece of jewellery, our home, our family or even our own bodies. The Master reminds us that the day will come when all these things will no longer exist and “all will pass away”. Our pride and adoration of earthly things have the potential to distract us from God, the one we truly adore. The trick is to continuously remind ourselves of who gave us these things in the first place. Can you see God in them? Isn’t it splendid that we have a generous God who gives us the skill to create exquisite things to enjoy?

But ultimately we look forward to the time when we won’t need these temples to help us see God. We will see him face to face, as He really is.

So this week you might like to think about what are your temples and how they show you something of the glory of God. Your temples might be something really simple. Like a flower or broken bread, the face of someone you love, or an unexpected stranger.

What are your temples? What are the things that you worship?

Now part of the reason why our places of worship are ‘temple-like’ is that they are the place where people encounter the living God. For us, this is the place where we encounter him in bread and wine, for that is what he promised. “This is my body”. “This is my blood.” Our Lord always chose his words very carefully and always meant what he said.

So my question is not just ‘What are your temples’? but ‘Where are your temples?’

Where are the places where you encounter the presence of the living Christ?

My next question is how do you build up a temple? And here I am thinking of the temple we call relationship.

When a new priest is inducted into a parish, Bishop Gary will often speak about the importance of conversations between priest and people. He will remind everyone that they are called to the very serious vocation of listening and conversation.

And I put it to you that these conversations are the building blocks of a very special temple. Crafted and hammered and chiselled and refined and polished, these conversations, these building blocks,  become a temple, a relationship, where God is found, encountered, looked upon and rejoiced in. Just as surely as we find, encounter, look upon and rejoice in each other.

Something quite lovely and divine happens in conversations. In the construction through conversation, each one of us becomes a temple of the Holy Spirit.

Just like Mother Mary you and I  become the place where God dwells. We are the place where God moves and grows and transforms. And like the Blessed Virgin Mary you give God to the world. And you do this by both holding him and offering Him so that all may be richly sustained and become an even more exquisite temple than the one the disciples were admiring in the gospel.

So our loveliest temples are actually not built with rocks, stones and bricks. Our most wonderful temples are intangible, unshakeable constructs. They are invisible to the naked eye, but all the more gorgeous because they do not wear away, or fall down, or need a paint job, or  the gutters need cleaning out.

One of the finest examples of this sort of temple is the marriage of an old couple of many years who through the burnt toast and the disappointments and triumphs, have built something together that is bigger, better and more sumptuous than the bride and groom themselves.

And it works the same way too with individuals who through their own conversations with the Master, have built something quite magnificent.

Sometimes those conversations occur in the silence of our hearts with no audible words ever being spoken. We gently rest comfortably in His presence as He is in us.

Sometimes in the conversation of the eucharist where the dialogue is always with the divine and always with each other.

These temples, these people really do exist and they are plentiful and enchanting.

And if you want to see someone who has built something more magnificent than the temple of Jerusalem, someone who has constructed it through conversation, then all you have to do is look in the mirror.  

The interconnectivity of us all ...

Today’s story begins on the 8th of August, 36,000 feet above planet earth, on a plane somewhere over Europe, when someone suddenly falls seriously ill.

The pilot is forced to touch down at the nearest airport and the patient together with their family is transferred to the nearest hospital. Hundreds of people on that plane have their travel plans disrupted. Connecting flights are missed and frantic phone calls are made. Some people get sad and some get mad. None are glad.

But our story does not end at the help desk in a foreign country in Europe. The consequences of this mishap are felt all over the world, even here in Hamilton. Let me explain.

The plane that had to touch down was on its way to Melbourne to be refuelled and refreshed with those little itty bitty pillows and hygienically sealed blankets. This plane was then supposed to take Jeanine and me onto Los Angeles which of course it didn’t, or rather couldn’t.  Our flight is delayed by 24 hours and there is nothing anyone can do. So we too are a little sad and mad. Then we get in touch with our daughter in New York and the tentacles of melancholy spread around the world with the speed of the internet.

Our biff is not with the airline, our concern is for the patient and their family. The lesson we re-learn is the interconnectivity of us all. We might like to pretend that we are on our untouchable little island, but we are connected in ways that we do not realise or comprehend. We therefore must go gently and tread lightly. Be patient with the staff on the other side of the help desk and with each other, for we are more interconnected than we first thought.