Category: living wittily

Spent the day with the good folk of Adelaide's.It was a day of quiet, reflection and prayer and lasted till around 3.30 in the afternoon.

Walking back from bath street to Central Station I crossed at least eight ( 8 ) pedestrian crossings and they were all showing the wee green man.

Having spent a day praying and reflecting, trying again to experience slow, put the brakes on rush, possess my soul by learning patience, not sure what the message of that was. I really thought as I came to the Bothwell Street junction I'd be stopped by a red and would be compelled to practice that futile gesture of impatience, pressing the button as if repeating the process would change or speed up the phasing of the system. But it too was at green, which meant I arrived at the station a bit early for my train.

Never mind. The train would probably be leaving from Platform 11A,that one that's a five minute hike to the nether regions of platformworld. But of course today it was to leave from Platform 13.

So having saved all that time by the ubiquitous green man, and not having to walk half way home to reach Platform 11A, the time I saved was spent impatiently hanging around waiting for the train to leave.

Need another quiet day to reflect on the meaning of all that.

But nothing to do with any of the above, from a day of reflection one line is worth quoting here – think of it as a tiny pebble in your trainer, unignorably there and needing attention:

'If physical hunger is the result of social injustice, as the Sermon on the Plain has it, then hunger and thirst after righteousness is the beginning of the way out of it.'

Luke and Matthew – Sermon on the Plain, Sermon on the Mount. Need both of them to come anywhere near the rich revolutionary possibilities that lie hidden in the words of Jesus.

Statistics aren't always misleading. Sometimes they simply state facts.
So.
I've been blogging now for exactly 500 days.
During that time I have written 479 posts.
Goodness knows how many words.
Reckon that makes me a blogging addict, or an incurable writer,
or a conscientious contributor,
or a vocationally driven literary exhibitionist whose love of words is now confirmed as a lifelong dependency,or someone who needs to get out more (true), but not wearing that hat (oh go on, says Margaret).

I've enjoyed being part of that invisible community of folk who drop past, sometimes comment, or email. So long as interesting things happen in the world, as long as theological study remains both intellectual fun and context for prayer, as long as there's stuff to laugh, weep, shout about or celebrate, I'm likely to find time to blog.

I’ve just spent five days at St Deiniol’s Library which was restorative, relaxing, interesting, modestly productive, and reassures me that my brain can still be kick-started given the right kick and the right fuel! What makes St Deiniol’s special is the people who go there, the Library itself with its atmosphere of prayer and learning, the ethos of Victorian ingenuity and support for humane learning, and the overall concept of a residential bolt hole for those who want to pursue divine learning or whose vocation is theological education – which if we are to be adequate to the task presupposes that our own theological education and commitment to divine learning remains both an enthusiasm and a calling.

Let’s talk ethos. The original oak interior of the library has been preserved, including the ingenious arrangement of shelves allowing maximum books in available space. Unlike many academic institutions, there isn’t the same urgency to move older stuff to the less accessible stacks, so much of the original older library is there mingled with the new – I worked a lot on psalm 119 for reasons I’ll mention in a later post. But I was happy as Larry (anyone know the origin of this phrase?) sitting at a table beside Neal and Littledale’s five volume Victorian bric a brac shop of Patristic comment on the Psalter, Spurgeon’s homiletic supermarket called the Treasury of David, the venerable two volume J S S Perowne, devout Anglican commentator on the Psalms, the equally imposing commentary by Joseph Addison Alexander, Reformed Calvinist and important conservative biblical scholar at mid 19th century Princeton, as well as the latest Hermeneia volume Sean enthused about earlier this year, and several of the spate of recent usable sized and theologically enriched commentaries on Psalms by Bob Davidson from Glasgow, John Eaton of Birmingham  – and a new discovery I’ll blog about soon. Point is – though several recent important volumes weren’t there, much that isn’t so easy to find is.

But what gives working in the Library an added sense of prayerful purpose is the early morning pre-breakfast Eucharist for those who want to communicate. To join study with the wider church at prayer was an important reminder each day that theological study and theological education has its goal in a developing, deepening devotion to God. The liturgy is simple, carefully crafted, each day was conducted with the right balance of dignity and personal warmth, and is shared by people representing the diversity and richness of the Body of Christ. The quiet coolness and filtered light of the library add to the sense of being about God’s business, physical reminders that study is slowed down prayer, quietened thought, and instilling a gentle awareness that to study is to want to know, and to want to know requires an inner humility that recognises there is much to learn, much to receive, and much for which to give thanks – including the gift of the work of those from whom we learn.

I read a chunk of Bonhoefer’s Discipleship, a book which decisively frustrates any attempt at skim or speed reading, information filleting or desultory browsing. Bonhoeffer is uncompromising, utterly to the point about discipleship as personal response to the crucified risen Jesus. Reading him I realise how easy it has been to lose that edge of fitness and stamina, to relax that alertness and readiness for self expenditure required of cross carrying Christians. If I’d found myself on Manchester United’s training field, the physical demands of keeping up with the pace might be considered the equivalent of hearing that remarkable voice of a young German pastor lay out the demands of discipleship and the costliness of responding to the grace of God in Christ. The right book, read in the right place, at the right time……

This week Monday to Friday is one of those gift weeks – when work is hard to discern amongst the pleasure. It is however a reading and writing week – but at St Deiniol’s library in Hawarden, near Chester. I’m going with a good friend and colleague so the week includes conversation, fellowship, mutual enthusiasm for ‘divine learning’ (the purpose behind St Deiniol’s endowment) and the hope of a pub where we can watch the Uefa Cup Final.

Blogging is on hold for the week. Maybe next week I’ll be able to post some of the theological and intellectual proceeds of a week’s work – then again, the pressure to produce is a market concept that has limited usefulness in the life of scholarship. There are times when what is most needed is replenishment rather than productivity. I’ve a couple of big books lined up – but in a library of over 200,000 items, there may be tempting alternatives. I’ve several preaching occasions I need to prepare for including the English speaking Welsh Baptist Union Assembly and ordinations of finishing students. To preach at the beginning of a ministry is one of those key moments in theological education as vocation, when all the things that matter most are to the fore.

Time to pack the books, paper and pencils – oh and the laptop.

One of those glorious days when the West of Scotland lives up to the postcards. Bright sunshine and only white clouds, a fresh breeze, and the Firth of Clyde looking at its glorious best. we went down to Largs for the 10.15 ferry to Cumbrae. A latte to go and a freshly made doughnut was nae problem cos we were going to spend much of the day walking. A ten minute sail gets you to Cumbrae, and then we circled the island in the car. Goatfell had a dusting of snow and the Arran hills against a blue sky and blue sea made you want to up roots and live within sight of Arran, Bute, Cumbrae, and Little Cumbrae. Spent a wee while in the Cathedral of the Isles, stilled by the stillness and quietened by the quiet. Smallest extant cathedral in Britain, but what a beautiful old place, long steeped in spiritual longing.

Walked across the island, back into Millport and back out towards the war memorial that looks up the Clyde. I’ve always found the rhythmic sound of lapping water makes me yearn – not sure what for. And the sound of water on the shore, the blueness and clearness of the water itself, the cold breeze even my thick fleece didn’t keep entirely out, the sound of a curlew’s cry that whisked always whisks me back to my days as a boy on the farm, and the sight of two Oyster Catchers turning their heads against the breeze and burying that two inch orange bill down their wing – hard not to love God’s world on a day like this.

On April 16, 1967, in a small cluttered vestry in Hamilton Baptist Church, at 9.45 pm, in the company of the Rev Charles Simpson, I gave my life to Christ. Not everyone’s conversion is as time and place specific, but that was how God found me. Ever since, April 16th has been as important as my birthday, my wedding date, the birthdays of my wife Sheila and my children.

I don’t tend to compare these significant dates and draw up a priority list of significance. I am who I am because I was born of the two parents in whose love I was conceived. I am who I am because Christ called, and I followed, overwhelmed and apprehended by a grace I still don’t understand. I am who I am because since 1970 when I met her, and 1972 when we married, my life and heart have been given to Sheila with whom my life is now entwined. I am who I am because two other human beings who happen to be my children are likewise intertwined in some of the deepest relationships and commitments of our lives.

All of which said, that grace that seeks and finds, that fills and impels, that renews and regenerates, that pushes and pulls, that grasps with inexorable gentleness and holds with steadfast intent, that judges with mercy and forgives with joy – that grace that entered my life with transformative purpose and power, that grace which is prevenient and immediate, sovereign and condescending, sufficient and demanding – to be saved by that Grace through faith, by that One full of Grace and Truth who dwelt amongst us, and dwells within the heart that trusts enough to surrender to Him – that Grace, is what defines and circumscribes the life I want to live and the person I wish to be in Christ. And just as well that God’s self-defining approach to us is so full of grace, mercy and peace – for in my weakness there is grace, my failures there is mercy, and in the assurance of the Gospel, there is, more or less, most of the time, peace. And when there isn’t, that may be because that same grace and mercy are again drawing me to the one who is our peace.

Thanks be to God for his gift beyond words…….

If spirituality and speeding is an interesting theme for a previous (un)devotional blog, how about spirituality and going slow? The glee with which I welcomed the booking of the speeding BMW driver, must now to be compared with the plethora of spiritual and psychological pressures unleashed by motorists like me trapped behind big, slow moving, road hogging, articulated mobile warehouses.

On my way to pick up a parcel at College, along Seedhill Road and cars parked both sides. Ahead of me a massive vehicle as previously described, moving with slow I’m-bigger-than-anything-else-around authority. So I possess my soul in patience, move smoothly down the gears, and try to persuade myself this is not a problem, I don’t have any appointment, no time limit. Get to the roundabout and the big doppelganger negotiates it with graceful aplomb. And as we turn the corner towards the traffic lights I see the blessed big truck has a twin just ahead of it. And the only way to get into the factory they’re going to is to go through the lights and do a U turn to come back the way they came. The only way to do that is to take up both lanes, including the filter lane I want to take. They form an orderly queue of two, about 50 metres long. So I miss three sequences of lights before reaching the junction, and the light is red again. By which time my soul is not so much posessed in patience as just possessed.

What is it about minor delays (no more than five minutes all told), and what they do to minds and temperaments normally this side of placid? Why does maturity evaporate to be replaced by an inner head of steam? If there is only one way for XXXL trucks to negotiate a road, then in accpetance lieth peace, as Amy Carmichael famously advised in her poem.

I remain convinced that the fruit of the Spirit provides the emotional and psychological sub structure of good driving. And I can think of several of the nine Paul mentions that are seriously undermined by two oversized articulated aids to sanctification.  Time is such a precious gift – seems a pity to waste so much of it worried and bothered about how much is being wasted. Or, to put it another way, time is never wasted, it’s just differently spent! And time is never saved, it just constantly needs re-allocated. Next time I’m stuck behind stuff that slows me down, I’ll try to say, slowly, meaningfully and efficaciously,’

The fruit of the Spirit is ….patience…..gentleness…..self-control’.

Hope it works.

Thanks to Andy for the reminder that I should have posted yesterday at Hopeful Imagination. I’m happy to do that today. The post-resurrection stories in the Gospels are amongst my favourite passages to think about, pray over, learn from and enter into. And the story of Thomas, hurt, bewildered but not ready to be conned, is one of those within which I often linger, and wonder. Tomorrow I’ll preach on the passage from John 20, and hope to communicate something of the poignancy and power of this encounter, between bewildered courage and vulnerable availability – "Here touch my hands………don’t be afraid…"……."My Lord, and my God".

Yep. Driving responsibly is a spiritual discipline. Christians should know their Highway Code well enough to drive safely, understand the rules and recognise and interpret the signs. They should also keep to the speed limit. Driving along a dual carriageway in a built up area, the Micra in front was doing exactly 29mph. The car was in the outside lane and had been for a distance. Truth to tell I wasn’t bothered as it was a rare sunny spring morning, blue sky, sun shining and Sheila and I with the day off, (Good Friday) on our way to one of our favourite coffee places. I too was on the outside lane cos I was bearing right at the next roundabout. And yes, I was getting a bit itchy at the slow progress.

Then this massive big black BMW came tanking up behind me till I could see the whites of the driver’s eyes, and feeling unreasonably pious, I moved to the inside, whereupon he bore down on the wee Micra lights flashing to scare its driver into the inside lane. But no. Steady as you go, at 29 mph the wee car tootled along – so big BMW with a surge of power and a Lewis Hamilton swerve, cut inside just ahead of me, passed on the inside of the unintimidated wee Micra, gunned the engine and took off – then slammed on the brakes. But too late. There, in the middle of the road, a hundred metres ahead, was the luminous yellow jacket and the raised hand of the nice local speed cops.

I’d like to deny the sin of gloating, but I can’t. I’d prefer to say I behaved in an emotionally mature way and didn’t shout ‘Oh yah beauty’. I’d also feel less embarrassed if I could report that I prayed for the driver of the BMW, that he might not lose his licence, that he would just see the error of his ways, Lord. But instead I have to confess that for years when someone has behaved like that I’ve lamented the absence of the polis just when you need them. So I have to confess to a culpable sense of personal uplift, a smug feeling for the justness and rightness of things, a quite unreasonable degree of self-righteousness; and as the wee Micra turned right into the Rouken Glen car park I wondered how many coffees you could buy with the standard speeding fine.

I need to learn to love other road users more!