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This from P T Forsyth, a wee book of reprinted articles, The Preaching of Jesus and the Gospel of Christ, page 55

When I speak here about the preaching of the Cross of Christ, I mean ultimately the Cross itself as a preaching, as God's 'preachment' which gave Christian preaching birth, made it inevitable, prolonged itself in it, and provided its perpetual note. As God's preaching of Himself in the Cross was an act, the act of giving Himself, so all true preaching of it is an act also, and more than speech only. It is a devoted act of the preacher's personality, conveying God in His grace and self donation. It is not merely exhibiting Him. It is sacramental.

Against all forced or habitual informality in worship

against all thumbing down and dumbing down of the preacher's role

against web sourced anecdotes, and power point aides memoires

against every attemtpted reduction of vast Gospel realities to the pragmatics and pressures of relevance

against the consumer demand for undemanding uncomplicated 'how to' teaching

against the habits of superficiality and the reduced appetite for sacrifice and cost and passionate love of the Crucified.

against anaemic concessions to surface skimming communication

P T Forsyth presents the soul and calling of the preacher,

and insists the Gospel of the Cross is worthy of our deepest pain,

requires the greatest reaches of imagination and emotion,

and consumes the devotion of the preacher's heart

in the context of a community where awe, surrender and passion

draw on the great Passion of Christ,

and inspires a discipleship of uncalculating, self-donating devotion.

Yesterday I was preaching on the most difficult petition in the Lord's Prayer.

"Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us…"

The gist of whatever wisdom I have on this hard saying of Jesus:

We either learn to forgive, or all the other worthwhile things we do in life lose their point.

Forgiveness feels like an option , but in reality it is a necessity if life is to flourish and grow.

Think of the friendships that would be impossible if every wrong word was held against us.

How could any family survive a grievance count?.

The story of the prodigal son is also the story of the prodigal father.

The son wasted the money, the father wasted his time waiting.

The son swallowed his pride and ran home, and said stuff what the neighbours think.

The father swallowed his pride, ran to embrace him and said stuff what the neighbours think

The son wasted his life chances, his father wasted the chance to tell him to get on his bike.

Forgiveness is about not taking advantage of our rights, not cashing in our entitlement to be angry.

Forgiveness means not holding someone's mistakes against them ikn perpetuity.

Forgiveness is the lifting of another's burden, bearing their cost to our own hurt.

Forgiveness is the gift of love, the self emptying of our resentment.

It is the overflow of divine love poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit

But forgiveness is never easy, always costs, is born and borne out of pain.

To err is human – we know the rest, and so we pray:

Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us…..

…………………………………..

The painting by Burne Jones is a powerful reversal of medieval piety, and the belief that love held Jesus on the cross – the Knight who lives by honour and sword, has taken off his helmet, laid his sword aside, and is embraced by the crucified Christ who for love's sake has broken free from the cross, and hands that refused to hold a sword reach out in forgiveness.

There's a funny serious cartoon here which makes its own point.

Now sin is sin, crime is crime and wrong is wrong, and theft is theft.

But there are degrees of theft, from the shoplifted Fairy Liquid to the steal to order car to the airport security heist – they've all been in the news.

There is serious theft, then there's the nuisance theft, and then there's the daft theft.

Which brings me to this

which you can read more about on the link below.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-north-east-orkney-shetland-26882776

Now I understand about the Gnomes of Zurich, but the Gnomes of Banff?

Seem funny? Well, actually no. I have a friend who lives alone who had a pot with winter flowering plants lifted from her door recently. She was upset for two reasons – it was a gift from a thoughtful friend as a reminder in winter of friendship and Spring. And she was seriously spooked that someone of ill intent had been so near her house door.

So I'm glad they caught the thieves, and hope some Magistrate somewhere takes into consideration the feelings of threat and even fear that is caused when someone tip-toes near your home to steal. It doesn't actually matter what was stolen – but that such close-up theft violates your space, your privacy and your safety.

Today I'm preaching on forgiveness and I'm wondering how I'd be feeling if I recognised one of nthose garden gnomes as mine. The question is hypothetical for two reasons – I can think of fewer fatuous objects than a technicolour Oor Wullie sticking his spiky head above the tulips; and it wasn't me that was scared. 

As part of a victim awareness programme it would be interesting for the gnome thiefs to be required to meet gnome owners, to hear what it feels like to have someone invade their space, privacy and safety. The impact of the crime is so much deeper than the cost of a gnome or two. And all the humourous thoughts of re-setting gnomes, checking out car boot sales for missing gnomes, police interceptors in pursuit of a van full of gnomes – the stuff of comedy, except for the fear and uncertainty the thieves leave behind.

n stealing .

Living in the North East of Scotland, and two miles from Loch Skene, migrating geese are a familiar sight, and sound. I've mentioned those far travelled chevrons before on this blog, but they are such a reminder of life's adventure that it's hard to resist another mention, and another excuse to post Mary Oliver's poem. I have so many reasons for returning to this poem, like a migrating heart finding again a voice that tells the truth of things, teaching us to care for ourselves, reminding of the call that takes us beyond safe horizons.

Alongside Oliver's poem there is the beautiful symbol of the wild goose in the Celtic tradition, the symbol of the Holy Spirit, wild, free, ubiquitous, on the move, gregarious, the surprising ad hoc-ness of the presence of God.

The photo isn't mine and I haven't been able to trace it to acknowledge it – but it is a beauty, and thank you to whoever took it!

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

"The tide waxes. Inhale. Breathe in the love God.
The tide wanes. Exhale. Release the hurt. 
Wax. Breathe in the Presence.
Wane. Breathe out the regret.
Crash. Inhale his tenderness.
Flee. Exhale the heartbreak and grief.
Approach. Take in the fresh air of grace and new creation.
Depart. Surrender the black cloud of sin and guilt." 

Source: http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/?offset=1395865632573

“If you board the wrong train, it is no use running along the corridor in the other direction.”

“We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.”

“We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God.”

All things have been created through Him and for Him…In Him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell…through Him God was pleased to reconcile all things to Himself…making peace by the blood of His cross. (Col 1.15-20)

This came back from the framers on Saturday. The photo shows some of the flash from the camera but otherwise the image gives a good idea of the finished work.

Over Holy Week I'll say a little of how this tapestry evolved; not an explanation of what it 'means', but perhaps some personal reflections on the passage that inspired it, and how exegeting text and working tapestry can be a symbiotic process of lectio divina. I started with an empty canvas and no pre-planning other than daily reading of the text before picking up the needle again. Once I started I visited the thread shop regularly to browse and choose, with the passage in my head – I now know it by heart. Over several months, this was the result. 

Do I understand the Colossian hymn better? Or do I sense its mystery with more humility? Does the text control the thread, or the thread interpret the text? I started the project asking the question, 'What colour is Christology?'. I finished it in one sense none the wiser, but in a deeper sense coming to see that Christology may best be represented by all colours woven together in the harmonies and tones of reconciling love.

In which case the patterns and shapes, colours and tones of Christology have infinite subtleties, unthinkable contrasts, creative clashes, juxtapositions of image and colour that expand our widest fields of aesthetics, but which in the end become a visual representation of the One for whom all things were made, and in whom all things hold together. More later. 

As a hen gathers her chicks…….

Took this photo end of June last year at Loch Rannoch. This red legged partridge had sixteen (16!) chicks in tow. About six of them are in this photo, camouflaged.

One of them tumbled off the path and I went to lift it back with the rest, it squeaked in protest and mother partridge legged it straight towards me headlights flashing as I became a victim of partridge road rage.

Good memories from that holiday – including photos at the top of Scheihallion, the oldest yew tree in Europe, sunset over the Loch, and this family of feathered hill walkers.

I've been writing a long paper on affective learning outcomes, and part of the research included reading up on the recent concern about the supposed lack of compassion in the nursing profession, reviewing the various responses, and thinking through the question 'Can compassion be taught?' Even if it can, is it possible to demonstrate development in compassion, if so what is the evidence and how do you assess an inner disposition? Through actions characterised by compassion? But shouldn't these actions be motivated by and carried out in an attitude that is spontaneous, authentic and an expression of the inner nature of the person? If it's a learned response, doesn't compassion need a prior foothold in a persons nature and personality that is emotionally consistent and authentic? Aren't some of the most admirable human qualities innate, instinctive, unself-conscious, rather than learned skills? 

One NHS Trust is developing an assessment tool for compassion, with specific criteria and measurable levels of evidenc. This is a complex issue which goes to the heart of what it means to use words like profession, vocation, career and calling. I for one have no doubt that compassion can be taught, or at least compassionate responsivess can be illustrated and commended, attitudes of indifference can be challenged by displaying their consequences, and a bystander mentality can be transformed into one of risk, engagement and kindness. Otherwise why would Jesus have said, 'Go and do likewise', to that unfortunate lawyer who asked the wrong question at the right time.

Wrote an email to a friend this morning.

Said I was going to a church down the coast to edify the saints.

The predictive text didn't recognise edify and offered an alternative.

This meant I had the slightly more difficult task of going to deify the saints!

…

On days when my perfectionist tendencies play up, Thomas Merton brings me down the necessary peg or two:

"It is true that we make many mistakes. But the biggest of them all is to be surprised at them: as if we had some hope of never making any…above all we must learn our own weakness in order to awaken to a new order of action and being – and experience God himself accomplishing in us the things we find impossible.

…

And since it's Sunday, and I've been reading Wendell Berry's Sabbath poems, here's one which I think is a beautiful meditiation on those nameless longings that remind us we are made for heaven, and for God, and for life in all its fullness.

From Leavings, XII

Learn by little the desire for all things

which perhaps is not desire at all

but undying love which perhaps

is not love at all but gratitude

for the being of all things which 

perhaps is not gratitude at all

but the maker’s joy in what is made, 

the joy in which we come to rest.”

This Day. Collected and New Sabbath Poems, Wendell Berry (Berkley: Counterpoint Press, 2013) 312

Marked in the margin of Kathleen Norris reader's digest on Benedictine spirituality, Amazing Grace, about 15 years ago, and now revisited on a whim:

Every atom in our bodies was once inside a star…..

It was a presence not a faith, which drew Moses to the burning bush. And what happened there was a revelation, not a seminar.

A praising of God is what laughter is, because it lets a human being be human.

The response to poetry is like dropping a rose petal into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

Perhaps the greatest blessing that religious inheritance can bestow is an open mind, one that can listen without judging.