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At the back of Drum Castle, amongst the trees, is the private chapel. It is small and old, secluded and quiet, and is reached by climbing a gentle sancta scala. 

On a winter morning of diluted sunlight, the steps softened with autumn leaves, I walked up to the door and stood outside the sacred space dedicated to prayer and worship.

Anticipating a few moments of being enclosed in a place "where prayer is valid" I turned the handle and pushed.

The door was locked, itself a metaphor for those prayers that go unanswered, maybe even unheard.

On this occasion, the locked door disconcerted and then dissolved the intention to stop, sit, reflect, and see what happens when God is given a chance to get a word in edgeways. 

Momentary disappointment. 

Then I started doing the spiritual equivalent of lateral thinking. Why should a closed door get in the way of awareness, attention and contemplation?

Isn't it part of the mystery of God that we experience God as a Presence who is sometimes absent, and an Absence which makes us yearn for presence?

True enough, prayer becomes faithful communion through trust in the One who comes, and to Whom we come. 

But isn't it also true that faith may require we sometimes experience the absence of the One who promised never to leave or forsake, and to be with us to the ends of the earth and the end of time.

Otherwise we take grace for granted.

Standing in the wood, outside a locked chapel door, is an education in such faithful trust, an exercise in the discipline of believing without seeing, a determined communing with a promised Presence without the warm feelings of reassurance. A refusal to take grace for granted.

There is a process of deepening and recovery for the soul best described in the metaphor of winter.  The winter shutdown of the natural world is a time of minimal output, a yielding to slow replenishment, a stripping away of what was last year's foliage, a time of minimal sunlight, low temperatures, and nothing discernible happening. But along with the shutdown, the promise of Spring.

Perhaps now and then, we need the winter season. Only then do we undergo the ascetic pruning back of what is no longer fruitful, the forced slowing down as energy sources reduce output, the inner soil broken down by the rhythms of frost and thaw, and enriched by rotting leaves and the gift og humus.

In other words a closed door is just another kind of gift, a different facet of grace, an absence that makes the heart grow fonder. 

Yesterday I spent the morning walking around the grounds of Drum Castle, about 5 miles from where I live. I needed sky, trees, fresh air, birds, a different diet from books, indoors and people. Now people I love, but not to the exclusion of time to be alone. It has been a demanding time, with far more output than input, more expenditure than replenishment. What was needed was space to breathe, and look and take in. When I feel the need for solitude and new horizons I take my camera.

For some years now I've used my camera as an aid to reflection, and photography as a way of disciplining mind, eye and attentiveness to the world around. I've found that if I want to pay attention to what's going on outside, it has to be intentional. No point trying to find time. Time is there, it just has to be taken! So, sometimes the best way to start dealing with the busyness going on in my own head is to go somewhere to pay attention to what's going on in the larger, richer world outside the propagator of my own self-consciousness. 

So off to Drum Castle and its grounds. Winter in the North East can provide extraordinary light and shadow. Walking alongside a silver birch wood the low winter sun lanced through the silver shining trunks and darker branches. The dialogue of horizontal sunlight and reflective bark highlighted the network of close-knit, entangled branches.

I sat on a drystane dyke and watched it for a while, a theatre in which the action was sparse and the low lighting was an impressionist masterpiece. The contrast of liquid light and blue sky, of green frozen moss and trees picked out in monochrome, gave the impression of a natural sunbreak, diffusing the light so that it was possible to look without being blinded.

Walking amongst trees is an exercise in humility. Feet trampling on years and years of leaf compost, moving amongst trees that have mostly survived, with one or two dying off and over years adding to the humus, life returning life to the earth. Amongst silver birches there is also the low murmuring of the breeze playing ancient rhythms and tones on the hanging branches. It isn't difficult to walk speechless, and listen to another form of speech.

Where there are trees there are birds. I heard the jays before I saw them. Like their name they are sociable, party birds whose song and call are unmodulated loudness. I walked around the pond which is surrounded by mostly conifers but with some berry bearing trees intermingled. The birds love it in there.

The song thrush (mavis) was busy chasing dinner high up, and appeared on a branch in silhouette. From childhood years I have admired the sheer virtuosity of the song, and the architectural brilliance of a nest shaped like a large cup and lined inside with mud smoothes to a shell and lightly lined with soft grass and feathers. Seeing this one yesterday is precisely why it's worth the bother to go looking for newness, and a reconfiguration of the imagination.

John Clare was a wonderful observer of the world around him, and his bird poems are amongst the most keenly attentive descriptions of birds, their habits and habitats, their songs and their colours. In the early 19th Century garden and field birds were common and part of everyday life, in days long before changed agriculture, chemical pesticides, destroyed habitats and overworked fields, took a toll that has pushed many species to the point of endangered status. Here are a few lines about the thrush:

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy

Seeing a thrush, high in a tree amongst the berries, on a bright and frosty winter morning isn't something you see every day. Nor is it something you will ever see if you don't go looking. That moment when you see what you are seeing, when you hear what you are hearing and start to listen, when you quieten your own inner commentary and allow the world to get a word in edgeways – that moment is a gift. The photos took a few minutes of standing still, being patient, taking the risk of wasting time if it flew away before a photo was possible.

Those ten minutes sitting on a dyke watching trees filter sunlight, and those five minutes watching a thrush filling up with calories and energy on a freezing morning, those are times when prayer happens without us realising it. The unexpected encounter with a beautiful bird living its life in the simplicity of its needs is as good an illustration of Jesus' teaching on trust as I know. And walking amongst trees you hear the wind and don't know where it came from or where it's going, but like a sacrament of the Spirit we necome aware of the movements and currents of grace in our lives. I had come into the countryside poor and went away rich; I had come hungry and had gone away full; I had come anxious and inwardly dissipated, I came back reconfigured in heart and mind.

Here is John Clare's poem, including the lines quoted earlier.

The Thrush's Nest.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day –
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

When Archbishop Michael Ramsey walked to his enthronement in Canterbury, his biographer described him as bearing “the perplexed look of a lion who had turned vegetarian for philosophical reasons” Ramsey was fond of hard questions, and he always gave himself time to think about the answer by muttering, “ Yes … yes …Yes..” It was a way of looking for light in a dark conundrum.

Isaiah was “one acquainted with the night” to quote Robert Frost. He understood human distress, darkness and fearful gloom, and the human spirit, crushed by the weight of darkness.   Isaiah is a prophet whose whole view of life, even of a darkened world was, Yes… Yes…Yes. Isaiah also took time to think, to look for light in a dark conundrum. Acquainted with the night, but no stranger to hope either. Hope is a defiant yes to life in the face of and in the presence of darkness. And faith is to trust that light will come as new freedom, fresh growth and emergent new life. Another poet, Robert Browning faced up to the same stark contrast of darkness and light, and the search for hope and faith:

If I stoop into a dark tremendous sea of cloud

it is but for a time: I press God’s lamp

close to my breast: its splendour, soon or late,

will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge some day.

Isaiah 9 is about darkness, the hope for light, and a poem about God's astonishing planned reversals. In this poem of protest and faith-reconfiguration, all the distress, darkness and fearful gloom of Isaiah 8.22 encounter their opposite; gloom is eclipsed by light. Hope takes the courage to look back on despair, to imagine a different future, and then to see the present reality, however dark, transformed by that thread of light racing across the horizon.

Gloom and darkness are real, but behind it all is a deeper reality, a truth even more real. Isaiah tells it as it is, like an existentialist who discovers something more ultimate than personal existence. We either look at the darkness across our world, feel the hopelessness of millions, and weep over all the shattered dreams and blame God for not being there. Or we look with tear filled eyes at that darkness, feel the weight of that hopelessness, shed our tears over all those shattered dreams and hear that past tense made present experience – “those living in the land of the shadow of death, on them light has dawned".

Those words about darkness annd dawn take Christian imagination to another past-tense eclipsing of the gloom, when the darkness of Calvary was eclipsed by the sunrise of resurrection. Darkness is real but it is not the final, last reality in the universe. James Denney wrote of this often: “What is revealed at the cross is redeeming love, and it is revealed as the last reality of the universe, the eternal truth of what God is…you wish to know the final truth about God; here it is, eternal love bearing sin’. No more gloom, …unto us a child is born.

What follows in verses 3-6 is one of the most astonishing passages in the entire Hebrew Bible. War is reversed, disarmed, and the implements of oppression are shattered beyond repair. Isaiah uses the very images of war to show how God extorts peace from conflict, prises liberty from the iron grip of oppression, and forces the darkness, distress and fearful gloom give way to light, human welfare and shalom. The 'enlarging of nations' in verse 3 is a term for imperial conquest but this time, God's time, it is to be an empire of joy. The increase isn't by plundering the weak but by curtailing the destructiveness of the strong. Yes there is joy, but now it will be rooted in justice. That violent word, ‘shattered’,when applied to a nation, is the word for national humiliation, devastated hopes and destroyed communities. To people in exile, the terminology of ‘shattering’ has a permanently bitter flavour in the nation’s vocabulary. But now it is the yoke that is shattered, the chain gang shackles of POW’s are shattered, the machinery of oppression is smashed beyond repair. War is reversed…for unto us a child is born.

The imagery of fire used in verse 5 is never ambiguous in the context of war. Fire represents the destructive, punitive power of the conqueror. What isn't plundered is torched; home, culture, community, economy all burned, reducing the conquered people to aimless despair. You break hearts and you prevent rebellion. But here is the great reversal.  It is the marching boots that trample that are burned, along with the soldiers uniforms…for unto us a child is born.

This is a magnificent poem of defiance; peace defying war; joy defying distress; hope defying fearful gloom. No wonder oppressors imprison poets. No more gloom because God’s hope child is born. A world reversed from darkness to light. And it is not yet finished. The great messianic text of verses 6 and 7 redescribe the world into a new created order. Chaos is ordered by the establishing of justice and righteousness. Isaiah is unafraid to look into darkness, not because he belittles fears and distress, but because this prophet poet knows that no darkness is absolute in a universe created and loved by God. The last reality of the universe is not darkness, distress and fearful gloom…but a child born, a pin-point of light shining with the dazzling holy love of God who will not abandon his creation.

One of the great creation hymns begins, “Thou whose almighty word, chaos and darkness heard and took their flight” I remember being present when that happened at a musical Premiere. James Macmillan’s, Veni Emmanuel, was premiered in Aberdeen in 1992. The Scottish concert solo percussionist, Evelyn Glennie, who is deaf and feels music in the soles of her feet, was the percussionist that evening. The music begins in the harmony of creation and relentlessly descends into the darkness of discord and noise. Out of the discordant noise there is the occasional fragment of a tune that may be familiar. As the vibrations of drums, bells, chimes, cymbals threaten to drown out the music, the vibrations of chaos are subverted by tremors of hope, then there is a fanfare of defiance and the half recognised tune is played in all its glory,  O Come O Come Emmanuel. The percussion is now allied with the orchestra, beating back the darkness, hammering out a message of hope until the triumphant noise gives way to the triumph of a slow quietening of the tubular bells to the peace of silence.

Isaiah plays similar music; the darkness distress and fearful gloom of his people are like the noise and discord of a tune gone badly wrong, an orchestra out of control, until his message, muted and fragmented is blazed forth, "No more gloom…the people who walked in darkness…seen a great light…for to us a child is born….and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

………………………

Robert Frost's 'Acquainted with the night' can be read over here.

Veni Emmanuel, composed by James MacMillan, performed by Evelyn Glennie can be heard and seen here

Eugene H. Peterson: Reversed Thunder – The Revelation of John and the Praying Imagination Harper Collins p/b edition 1991

Reversed Thunder is not, by Peterson’s own admission, ‘a work of expository exegesis (xii).’ ‘Mostly I have enjoyed myself. I have submitted my pastoral imagination to St John’s theological poetry, meditated on what I have heard and seen, and written it down in what I think of as a kind of pastoral midrash (xii).’

Those familiar with his canon will recognise the themes in this short quote: pastoral, imagination, theology, poetry, meditation, midrash – and pleasure. He applies his fertile mind to Revelation and unpacks a series of ‘last words’ – on Scripture, Christ, Church, Worship and seven others – working his way through the Apocalypse as he does so. It is a book full of quotable quotes.

What is it that grabs people, especially Pastors, about Peterson’s writing? Here are a few examples.

The breadth of his reading. Pastors are bibliophiles, but often in certain areas of biblical studies or theology. Peterson has read, and in this book draws on, theologians and exegetes from across the centuries, but also from poets, novelists, literary critics and preachers. He soaks himself in words and brings them to bear on the text of Revelation to illuminate its meaning and arrest his readers.

The depth of his reflection. Peterson is enthusiastic about Scripture and for decades has chewed on it, then he gave us the benefit of his ruminations. Often the words are simple, but the thoughts expressed are profound, and strike home like a sharp double-edged sword, as in his comments on Christ and the Apocalyptic image of military violence (37). Words for today’s politicking.

The beauty of his language. I have no idea who edited this book, but I sense their task was easy. Peterson has a way with words that make this work a joy to read slowly, savouring the flavours that infuse it. Technical language is rare, whereas the skill of the wordsmith abounds, transporting the reader by disciplined use of a sanctified imagination into the son et lumière world that is the Apocalypse. He is an artist in his use of words, just like John the Divine.

His passion for pastoral work. Preaching, prayer, worship, spiritual direction: these are the forces that shape Peterson’s style and rhetorical purpose. He says that his primary question here is about how Revelation will work among the people he pastors (xiii). It is not a book of predictions. It is a book that spoke to the pastoral situation of the church of the first century and speaks now to ours. ‘In the Revelation we are immersed not in prediction, but eschatology: an awareness that the future is breaking in upon us. Eschatology involves the belief that the resurrection appearances of Christ are not complete (21).’

Revelation is a book that touched Peterson’s own soul. ‘What walking through the Maryland forests does to my bodily senses, the Revelation does to my faith perceptions (x).’ We are the beneficiaries of these perceptions, for in this work he not only teaches us what to think about Revelation but how to think about it – and how to respond to it in our time.

Jared Hay, 30 October 2018. (Jared is a retired Church of Scotland minister, who knows a lot, I mean a lot, about the Book of Revelation.

Eugene Peterson, The Pastor: An Appreciation

There are only two books that I have read more than twice. The first is Middlemarch by George Eliot and the second is The Pastor by Eugene Peterson. I was introduced to the work of Peterson by Rev Dr Will Storrar at a Retreat he led for Aberdeen University candidates for the ministry and their wives at Carberry Tower in 1995. Later, in 1997, it was my privilege to meet Eugene at another Retreat held in Crieff.

My appreciation of Peterson knows no bounds. I read his trilogy of pastoral theology (Five Smooth Stones for Pastoral Work; Working the Angles; Under the Unpredictable Plant) first when I was a student at Aberdeen in the mid 90s, and again when I spent a short sabbatical at the Royal Scots College in Salamanca in 2009. These books formed my pastoral vision and shaped the ministry I was given among the people of Cupar where I served as minister. I was and I remain a committed Petersonite.

I always wanted to know more about the man who had inspired me so much. Peterson’s autobiography appeared in 2011 and I devoured it in three evenings when I was in Pittsburgh studying for my DMin. Later, when I came home, I read it again deliberately and then again slowly.

Perhaps more than anything else Peterson, especially in The Pastor, provided me with an honest,  realistic yet wonderful vision of the church and the calling I had received to get to know people and recognise them as participants in the story of God. He provided me with a new way of seeing people and a new understanding of church. In this way, he recalibrated my expectations of others and helped me appreciate and understand the calling I had received to be a pastor of a congregation of saints and sinners. Peterson facilitated a fundamental paradigm shift in the way I looked at the world so that I slowly began to recognise that grace is everywhere. He also gave me a love and a fascination of stories, the stories of people’s lives and the place we hold in the story of God.

Eugene was and will always remain among the most significant people in my life. Everyone who is called to be a pastor should take time to enjoy the company of this wise and gracious companion.

Rev Dr Ken Jeffrey, Co-ordinator Centre for Ministry Studies, University of Aberdeen

Now and again we come across people who are impressively self-deprecating, and effective in accomplishment without having to advertise the results. By that I mean, there are some rare people who have remarkable abilities, and who use them faithfully, conscientiously and therefore fruitfully in areas of life that are often hidden.

Paul Ellingworth was that kind of person. We heard yesterday that Paul died early on Sunday morning, (Nov 25), full of years, and at peace. I first met Paul in 1984 and and after that our paths crossed regularly when we shared conversations about biblical exegesis, the artistry of Wesley's hymns, the strengths and reluctantly acknowledged weaknesses of Wesleyan theology and spirituality, and latterly the shared concerns about life, health and family.

I want to say a little more about Paul, because he is a representative of a generation of Christian scholars who dedicated gifts of intellect to the nourishment of the heart, and for whom translation and exegesis of the biblical text was an ecclesial and only then an academic responsibility. He and Professor Howard Marshall were friends, academic colleagues, both of them Methodists with an old fashioned Arminian slant to their theology, and both of them unashamed Evangelicals. Between the two of them the Methodist church in Scotland had a deep reservoir of biblical learning and exegetical expertise.

Paul Ellingworth was a Bible translator. Much of his life he worked for the United Bible Societies. His gifts as a linguist owed much to a patient temperament, a meticulaous attention to detail, a passionate care for words and their right use, and all of this an expression of his vocation as a Christian academic. His magnum opus was his magisterial Commentary on Hebrews. Prior to the publication of this, he had produced The Translator's Handbook on Hebrews, and following it a much more accessible and briefer commentary on Hebrews.

The word magisterial is overused these days, applied promiscuously to far too many scholarly achievements. It is a word that should be used only when it bears its literal meaning of carrying full authority, the earned authority of someone who has mastered his subject or, in the case of Paul Ellingworth, one who speaks out of the humility of knowing the subject has mastered him. The NIGTC commentary needs no recommendations here as to its authority, nor its usefulness as an exegetical guide replete with learning and the wisdom of one whose life has been given to the translation of the Greek Testament. It is a magisterial commentary, distilled out of careful scholarship funded by a mind soaked in the text. It is a gift to the church of enduring importance. And on the shelves of Aberdeen's Sir Duncan Rice Library are boxes heavy with hundreds of articles and essays gathwred over a lifetime, and kept together in the Paul Ellingworth collection.

Paul was a Methodist circuit preacher, a faithful and devoted member of the local Methodist church, a fine organist deeply knowledgeable of hymnology and church music. Those who knew Paul recognised, and admired his quiet courtesy, enjoyed his gentle erudition and came within range of an old fashioned and deeply dyed Wesleyan spirituality in which the great Methodist focus on holiness as perfect love was kept clear and sharp.

The combination of text critic, church organist, Wesleyan piety, Arminian theology, and humble spirit of service, meant that Paul, like his namesake, had learned to be content as the servant of His Lord, and of the church, and of the text that bears witness to the Word become flesh. We will miss his quiet presence, and I will personally miss those moments of personal conversation when amongst the matter shared is the heart that informs the mind, and the mind that nourishes the heart.

Well done good and faithful servant…who now stands alongside and amongst that great cloud of witnesses, having persevered in his race, his eyes now and finally fixed on Jesus the author and perfecter of his faith.

In different ways, and with several different people, I've spent time this week exploring brokenness, accompanying heavy heartedness, finding no easy answers, and humbled by the trust of other people who share from the deep places.

Walking through the car park in Inverurie earlier today, a car's headlights highlighted the worn parking markings. On a cold, dark, November evening, a broken cross, became a reminder of Someone Else who explored our brokenness, accompanies the heavy hearted, found no easy answers, and humbled himself to win the trust of those he always comes looking for.

                               Eugene Peterson: The Contemplative Pastor

Peterson is unafraid to confront our habits and assumptions. He tackles busyness head-on: we are busy because we are vain, and because we lack the discipline required to take control of our time. “How can I lead people into the quiet place beside the still waters if I am in perpetual motion?” I may always struggle with this, but Peterson nudges me back in the life-giving direction of reflection and retreat, ‘deliberate withdrawal’.

He celebrates the ‘ministry of small talk’ – attention to the ‘everyday texture’ of people’s lives. As a part-time, small-town minister who feels a bit lacking in lofty thoughts, this was reassuring. My blethering is not without purpose; my Facebook interactions not entirely pointless! I am reaching out to feel those textures, to check the weather in the lives of church members.

Peterson makes space for other voices, so that the reader might be enriched by discovering new conversation partners. One of the highlights of this book was being introduced to the work of Annie Dillard. Her reflections on faith as polar exploration were comforting at a time when I felt disoriented and footsore.

Peterson is explicit about our subtle temptations. His image of being ‘lashed to the mast’ of Word and sacrament is powerfully evocative. It evokes the salty sting of troubling winds that regularly blow through the church. It implies the real risk of my deserting the ship or drowning in the currents. Peterson urges me to keep going, to remain faithful over the long haul, clinging to Gospel hope.

My Celtic Daily Prayer readings remind me monthly that ‘there is a contemplative / in all of us / almost strangled / but still alive’. Peterson’s pastoral wisdom helps to loosen the grip of ministry demands and allows me to breathe.

(Rev Amanda Quick, Leven Baptist Church)

This is the first of several guest contributions I requested from people whose ministry and Christian experience have been enriched by the writing of Eugene Peterson who died last month. There have been many tributes paid to the rich and enriching ministry of Peterson, especially through his writing, and in the last third of his life in his teaching to generations of theological students.

His translation of the Bible, The Message is a world best seller and has been very effective in revitalising bible reading across the churches. It has done for the 21st Century what the Good News Bible did for the second half of the 20th Century.

My own appreciation of Peterson, the responses to which suggested these further posts, can be seen in my earlier blog post over here.

The unpredictable worm planted in my soul

  I can’t recall most of the argument of Peterson’s Under the Unpredictable Plant, but I do remember its effect. My sense God’s call on my life emerged from reading it in fresh, vibrant colours; what had felt shapeless was given crisp new outline.

His world was not mine. The way they do things in the USA was so different to how we did things in Peckham, Presbyterians are not Baptists. And yet so often in this book I felt like I was meeting myself. It is full of stories, tales from everyday ministry and pastoral encounters told with a vivid attention to detail. and it is full of scripture and lustrous unexpected readings of once familiar texts.

 The book left me with an abiding love of Jonah whose unpredictable plant gave Peterson his title. I’d read Jonah before but Peterson’s reading removed the scales from my eyes. Here was a pastor who could read, who understood how great storytelling works, who gets under the skin of a narrative and the art that creates it. It was not just Jonah I fell in love with, it was the bible as the great story of God’s pursuit of us out of his irrepressible, terrifying, persistent love. It’s narratives were no longer to be mined for doctrinal information but entered into as adventures in the greatest love story ever lived.

And the reason Peterson can do this is because he is steeped in reading, shaped by the world’s great writing – wendell Berry to Dostoevsky, Barth to Buechner: deep reading of these writers and others is woven into engagement with the greatest writing of all, scripture, giving rise to writing full of wonder and insight. And he is, therefore, wonderfully quotable and memorable. ‘Every congregation is a congregation of sinners. As if that weren’t bad enough, they all have sinners for pastors.’ This is one of his most tweeted sayings – I wonder if he hated that as much as I think he would have!

Simon Jones, Director of Ministry Training and Formation, Spurgeon's College.

Having spent a while last week doing some digging into the Micah 1.1-5 text I finally preached the text yesterday morning. This isn't the text of that sermon. It is a reflection on why Micah speaks with continuing prophetic power into a world so different from eighth century BC Israel. One particular continuity with that world remains unbroken; our human predilection for power, conflict, violence and therefore war. Micah's vision of peace is as outrageous and outlandish today as it was then. Swords into ploughshares? Study war no more? National disputes settled by the principles of Torah? Don't think so. But let's see. What are we actually about in a Remembrance Day service?

Remembrance Sunday is a day of very mixed emotions for many people. Amongst the most powerful are sorrow at the loss and suffering war causes; grief and anger that war is often a failure of political moral imagination; gratitude to those who exemplified sacrifice and risked their everything to make the world better, safer, more free.

And across that wide minefield of memories of long burdened sorrow and regret, anger and grief, the preacher and minister has to make their way, hoping to avoid needless hurt, careful not to increase the weight of burdens by careless words, unthought out sentiments. Or' just as bad, indulge in banal wishful thinking that we are better, wiser, more mature than those earlier generations who, against their best intentions, found themselves caught up in historic events and social forces they couldn't control.

And yet. Such a service isn't a place for playing safe. Not if we are serious about remembering and honouring those who ventured their all; and not if we are serious about letting the weight of incalculable anguish and desolated hopes be truly felt, but not so as to crush. Into such unsafe emotional territory comes and eighth century BC prophet with his impossible promises and unimaginable reforgings of history. Because that's what Micah is about.

In the age of the great Empires he talks of a God who can make peace happen, and who forges peace out of conflict. Swords into ploughs, spears into pruning hooks, each person safe on their own farm, and military training faciilities rendered surplus to requirements in such improbable and politically impossible images,  Micah, like Isaiah, looks at reality and asks "What if…" These prophets know about the darkness, and choose to be adventurers towards the light. They are not stupid, nor are they deluded by tragedy into baking up dreams that deny the in-your-face reality of life gone wrong. Instead, they look at history, their history and the futures that might be, and they refuse to exclude God from the equation.  

What would the world of politics and military force, the same world riven by war and violence between peoples and nations look like, if the God of steadfast love and justice, the God of shalom and mercy, the God of faithfulness and holiness, were factored in as a decisive presence in our history? Amongst those who have tried that imaginative leap from reality with its determinisms and status quo, to an alternative worldview where radical reversals and transformative visions are not only possible but promised, is the apologist for agricultural and agrarian contentment, the prophet Micah.

What would it be like for farmers to keep their ploughs and mattocks and pruning hooks, and if instead of conscription of property and animals and tools, they were allowed to dwell under their own trees, on their own land, living the life of shalom? Micah argued against the elites and the military adventurers, and criticised the risks the powerful took with the lives of towns and villages, when they went to war in pursuit of territory or gains by military force. Supposing those who had power and resources gave up their fixations on political strategies towards power, and revised downwards economic grand plans towards oppression and profits, and closed the facilities where people rehearsed and resourced military tactics? And what if, instead, the politically powerful and economically ambitious and the lovers of military hardware heard and heeded what such a God as Israel's God requires?

He has shown you O Man what is good,

and what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly, and to love mercy,

and to walk humbly with your God.

What Micah said then, and still speaks now into our much changed world, are words forged from the weapons of despair into the tools of hope, the raw materials of violence hammered into the new shapes of peace. "In the lattter days…" No he isn't saying peace will just happen, or that justice has no cost, nor is he able to confirm that the powers that be won't still be harnessed to policies of oppression and fixation on power, safety and a first strike mentality. But this rural prophet has a powerful theological imagination, formed and informed by a faith in which words like covenant, faithfulness, mercy, judgement, holiness and justice are only meaningfully uttered of God, who has made a world where such moral holiness and eternal values have to be forged out of the human experience of those created in the divine image.

That divine image in each human being is the created gift of the God whose holy love will not be finally thwarted by sin. However we define that vast three lettered word 'sin', it includes as its essence the self-destructive drives which are the engines of hatred, fuelled by mistrust, lust for power, violence, greed, and an inherent over-againstness, which all taken together are the toxins of war. Micah's words in 4.1-5 are both vision for the future and antidote to all that threatens that good human future.

On Remembrance Sunday we choose to hope. Facing the calamitous costs of modern technological warfare, we hear the promised impossible. We look to darkening horizons being forced into recession by the presence and purposes of the God of Jacob, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. 

As Christians we are called to bear witness to hope, and to face the worst of the world as those whose faith is deeply rooted in the cross which stood on Mount Zion, and whose hope stands this side of a tomb made redundant by resurrection. We are heralds of hope, practitioners of neighbour love, ministers of reconciliation, a force for forgiveness, makers and builders and pursuers of peace.

Why? Because on Mount Zion God spoke finally, fully and faithfully – God commends his love towards us in that while we were still enemies Christ died for us. We are heralds and harbingers of hope in a fragmented, fractured, frightened and therefore hostile and divided world. Those words of Micah are now to be heard THIS side of Calvary where sin did its worst and failed, and THIS side of the empty tomb where death died and love won. The cross and the resurrection are the guarantee for Christians that God who promises the impossible, makes all things new, and new things possible.