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"The biblical witness to God's revelation

leads to a response and participation in Christ.

This means in turn that epistemology is insufficient without ontology,

both in terms of the transformation of the believer,

and ultimately of the whole created order,

as the Incarnation makes knowledge of God

an engagement with being itself."

The words come from Karl barth and Hans Urs Von Balthasar, by Stephen Wigley. This is a rich and demanding study of the mutual respect and contested differences between two of the greatest theologians of the 20th Century.

Listening to Radio 4 last night on the way down from Aberdeen, there was a discussion about the appointment of the new BBC Science Correspondent whose remit is to make the leading edges of scientific knowledge and discovery "accessible". There was considerable worry that accessible means dumbed down, and that to popularise is to distort by simplification to the point where knowledge itself is dangerously reduced and pre-packaged.

The same holds for theology. By all means popularise, make accessible, eliminate needless jargon, be inclusive in writing, teaching and learning. But do not deprive key intellectual disciplines of the discourse needed for precision, necessary nuance, development of ideas, explorations of complexity and contested concepts. In other words, not all theology can or should be "accessible" if by that we expect to grasp, understand and integrate what we read on its first reading. If there are words we don't easily recognise, concepts that perplex and puzzle, sentence structures that force us to slow down, read again, and, bless us, think -then don't assume bad writing, or abstracted thought, or ideas under-developed or overworked. It may be that we are being educated, drawn out towards truth and insight beyond our comfort zones. Both Barth and Von Balthasar are such theologians, thinkers and intellectual mentors – if we have the patience and respect, to sit at their feet.

The picture is from the centrepiece of the Ghent Altarpiece by Van Eyck. Based on Revelation 5 it depicts the central subversive paradox of the Lamb slain, adored, worshipped, and the centre of attention in heaven during the vision of John.

Two prose poems follow describing worship. They sit near the front of a notebook I kept years ago, and they are now like theological tram-lines on which my own understanding of worship runs.

The first recognises, as Tozer always does, that our knowledge of the Holy is both biblical and mystical, revelation and mystery, eternal and incarnate, humbling and affirming, transcendent and intimate.

The second describes how worship is transformative of the personality, character and spirit of a human being so that all that is within us may bless His holy name.  

What is worship?

Worship is to feel in your heart

and express in some appropriate manner

a humbling but delightful sense of admiring awe

and astonished wonder

and overpowering love

in the presence of that most ancient Mystery,

that Majesty which philosophers call the First Cause,

but which we call Our Father Which Are in Heaven. 

A W Tozer

For worship is the submission of all our nature to God.

It is the quickening of conscience by His holiness;

the nourishment of mind with His truth;

the purifying of imagination by His beauty;

the opening of the heart to His love;

the surrender of will to His purpose —

and all of this gathered up in adoration,

the most selfless emotion of which our nature is capable

and therefore the chief remedy for that self-centredness

which is our original sin

and the source of all actual sin.

Archbishop William Temple

Ever since farm days in Ayrshire I've regarded sheep with affection and interest. Jack Duncan was a good farmer – knowledgeable about the land, and careful and respectful of animals which he referred to as 'the beasts'. He was a keen if not great golfer who took a couple of clubs and some golf balls out into the fields on a summer night to practice and we got two shillings ( probably around £5 nowadays) each for retrieving them.

It was on his farm that I first helped with sheep dip, sheep shearing and working the sheep with a dog. My father trained working dogs, always the border collie, and sold them to other farmers, some of them going abroad. Not many people know that! I still remember a spring night walking miles across the fields with Jack Duncan, the dog gathering the sheep, and Jack taking out one or two that were limping, examining their feet, cutting off the horn where foot rot was beginning to take hold, and putting ointment on.

It's such experiences, listening to the peewits complaining loudly at our intrusion, and displaying the most stunning aerobatics as they dived and swerved towards us. These same memories are what makes the cry of the curlew the most poignant and powerful Scottish sound to my ears. I still can't hear that cry without a lump in my throat and a sense of gratitude that, for all that I might have missed brought up in the country miles from shops, I have a love and affinity with the woods and the fields and the hills, and all who live therein, that is part of who I am.

Jack Duncan's care for his 'beasts', (he's standing at the right in the photo taken when I was a boy!) and my father's reputation as a first rate dairyman who cared for the herd, mean that when I read Psalm 23, or John 10, I have no sentimentality at all about sheep and shepherds, or cows and byres (I helped muck them out at weekends!). It isn't sentimentality that sheep need – but watchful care, reliable provision, a safe environment and a knowledgeable shepherd. 

The coloured photo above was taken on a walk to Drum Castle – the photo could be better, but the image of sheep sheltering under a massive conifer is biblical, pastoral and evokes memories for me of a boy wearing large wellingtons, a holy jersey, and stressed jeans long before they were made fashionable, chasing across fields after a sheepdog, taking seriously the welfare of sheep. And whatever else the Lord is my Shepherd might mean, it has to do in my mind with that welfare that comes looking for us, that protective wisdom that singles us out for care and healing, that watchful care that means there are indeed times of green pastures and still waters, dark valleys and tables spread. If the goodness and mercy that follow me all the days of my life are the perfect expression of Jack Duncan's humane husbandry, then without an overload of sentiment it is true to say 'I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me'. By the way, that one line contains an entire theology of divine – human encounter, the I that I am, encounters the Thou that God is.

Psalm 23 is never quoted in the New Testament  but the pastoral image is recurrent, as Jesus described variously as the Good Shepherd, the Chief Shepherd and the Great Shepherd. I've read many a commentary on Psalm 23. It is such a richly textured, spiritually resonant text that echoes throughout the corridors and cathedrals of Western Christianity. The best reception history of this psalm is in the remarkably fine book, The Psalms in Christian Worship. A Historical Commentary. Bruce Waltke and James Houston (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010) pp. 416-445.

But Jack Duncan remains in my mind and memory as the most persuasive existential commentary on the spiritual experience of being a sheep under the care of a good shepherd.

A search for new books on George Herbert, the Anglican poet par excellence, brings up an intriguing not to say amusing range of options. George Herbert's poetry, to modern ears, can seem bizarre in its conceits and metaphors, flowery in its language, and at best distant echoes from a previous age. But his poetry has enduring value for human development and spirituality, and explores the intensity of guilt and gratitude, of self criticism and divine acceptance, of insatiable longing and unbearable bliss.

But the name also brings up books about and by George Herbert Mead, the American philosopher of social consciousness and psychology. He too explored the nature of the self, not through prayer but through the importance of play and game in developing social values and relations. The give and take of human activity such as asking and giving, seeking and finding, winning and losing, talking and listening becomes the basis out of which the self is created. Mead's work also has enduring value for human society

Then there are books about George Herbert Walker Bush. At which point you become aware of the bizarre juxtapositions of the Amazon search engine. And you become aware too of the weird fact that an Anglican 17th century priest and patron saint of devotional poetry, and a 19th Century philosopher of human development and social values, share the same name with a President of the United States whose contribution to human spirituality and development and social inter-relationships is of an altogether other kind.

I have been a fan of Carol Ann Duffy's poetry for years. I presented a paper on her love poetry at a theological conference and said she should be the next Poet Laureate. That she was honoured with the appointment is no surprise to those who appreciate the humane and perceptive way she deals with human weakness, longing, hurt, anger, tears, love, desire and so much else that we include in our never adequate descriptions of what it means, and more importantly what it feels like, to be a human being.

I missed her poem on the outcome of the Stephen Lawrence trial. Talking over a meal with a friend last night he mentioned it and sent me the link. It needs no comment other than it demonstrates why she is Poet Laureate, the poet who captures the significant moments in our shared life.

"Stephen Lawrence", by Carol Ann Duffy

Cold pavement indeed
the night you died,
murdered;
but the airborne drop of blood
from your wound
was a seed
your mother sowed
into hard ground –
your life's length doubled,
unlived, stilled,
till one flower, thorned,
bloomed
in her hand,
love's just blade.

The Director of Edinburgh Botanic Gardens spoke in the aftermath of the recent gales about the unprecedented damage to trees and glasshouses. One of the casualties was an ancient oak, lying on its side. He pointed out that this was the best view of the top of the tree they had ever had, sadly now possible. What amazed him was the rich variety of lichens that were flourishing in the higher branches. Lichens are amongst my favourite things. Their soft colours and delicate tracery I find fascinating, beautiful, and yet often hidden, unassuming and unannounced. The importance of lichen flourishing is that lichen are so sensitive to air quality that they are badly affected by contemporary forms of pollution. The rich forests of lichen on this oak tree was a sign that the air quality in Edinburgh has drastically improved in recent decades. Not everyone needs to know this I  realise – but it confirms further my liking for these lovely plants.

Below is a photo taken during a recent walk up the hills, of lichen, growing out of a moss-covered tree stump. One of nature's annunciations of the gratuitous artistry of on permanent display in God's world.

Haiku Prayer II

Such Beauty! Hidden!

Fragile jade green filigree

set in sphagnum moss.

Titian, "The Tribute Money," about 1560-8

I am two men; and one is longing to serve thee utterly,

and one is afraid.

O Lord have compassion upon me.

I am two men; and one will labour to the end,

and one is already weary.

O Lord have compassion upon me.

I am two men; and one knows the suffering of the world.

and one knows only their own.

O Lord have compassion upon me.

And may the Spirit of the Lord Jesus Christ fill my heart

and the hearts of all people everywhere.

– Austen Williams (1912-2001), Vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields (1956-1984)

PRAYER TO START THE DAY

       May we accept this day at your hand, O Lord,

      as a gift to be treasured,

            a life to be enjoyed,

                  a trust to be kept,

                        and a hope to be fulfilled,

                              and all for your glory.

Succinct.

       Precise.

              Positive.

                     The spirituality of multum in parvo.

The photo isn't brilliant – but the sun is, and it shines on the righteous and the unrighteous, which I guess covers it all!

Yesterday I went for a walk around Drum Castle and the Drum Estate. The ground was squeclchy and it was more about leg stretching and aerobics than leisurely reverie. I took some photos, none of which will win any competitions. But a couple of them might be worth a second thought.

The tree on the left is entirely covered in grey-green lichen, one of my favourite natural colours. Close up it resembles ancient sea coral, and has some of the most intricate and delicate patterns of living filigree.

Here's what I mean. You could be looking down on a coral reef, or a forest. The subtle play of light and shadow on tones and colours that vary almost imperceptibly, make these fragile outgrowths master works of nature's art.

Then we came on this. The aftermath of the recent gales, with trees fallen, some snapped mid trunk and evidence all around of that other side of nature's power. Even trees are fragile in winds up to 100mph.

Rather easy to moralise and do a wee homily on the power of nature and the transience of life, and the fragility of beauty extravagantly displayed in grey-green complexity, and how the providence of God pervades and invades our world. Actually, I just enjoyed the walk, contemplated the lichen, and scrambled through the arboreal debris wondering how many wrens would build a high rise nest in the huge uprooted root systems. As for God – I guess God was in the mighty wind that breaks trees, and in the long slow persistence of lichen, pushing towards air and light for life. Instead of quoting Job, I recall a non canonical writer who sang, "Ah think to ma'self, what a wonderful world".