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  • A week of Prayer and Photos (3)

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    The photo was taken this morning on Cairn O' Mount. Low cloud drifting across mountain moor, sunlit cloud and the line of the far horizon inviting into the unknown. This prayer by Thomas Merton likewise acknowledges mystery, trust and the mixture of obscurity and insight that is the essential tension of spirituality, the cloud of unknowing and sunlight epiphany.

    MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going.

    I do not see the road ahead of me.

    I cannot know for certain where it will end.

    Nor do I really know myself,

    and the fact that I think that I am following your will

    does not mean that I am actually doing so.

    But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.

    And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.

    I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

    And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road

    though I may know nothing about it.

    Therefore will I trust you always

    though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

    I will not fear, for you are ever with me,

    and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

    Thomas Merton.

    …………….

    The integrity, honesty with self and radical trustfulness of this prayer have always moved me. The Seven Storey Mountain, Merton's naively brilliant autobiography, is a remarkable conversion story, written with an intensity of devotion which left the immature monk struggling for humility that wasn't put on. That humility and self-deprecation is all the more attractive and authentic for its tone of uncompromising naivete which would later mature into a knowing humility; and an honest self-knowing in which Merton recognised humility and self assertion as the two poles of a powerful personality, given over to grace yet true to itself in its longing for self-transcendence.

    Merton has been a companion all my Christian life – often quirky, sometimes annoying, wisely critical, funny without malice, passionate about justice and peace, compassionately humane, a lover of solitude and silence and one who found written communication irresistible. His Thoughts in Solitude, New Seeds of Contemplation, Contemplative Prayer, volumes of letters, essays and journals, are a repository of monastic reflection in which the early Merton is undiscerningly positive, and the later Merton is lovingly critical. With all its faults The Seven Storey Mountain remains a remarkable story of a soul being saved, and then going on being saved, by a grace tougher than his own will. The prayer above comes from a heart that knows its limits, and trusts a love that has no limits.

  • A Week of Prayer and Photos 2

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    You who are over us,
    You who are one of us,
    You who are also within us,
    May all see you-in me also.
    May I prepare the way for you,
    May I thank you for all
    that shall fall to my lot,
    May I also not forget the needs of others.
    Give me a pure heart-that I may see you.
    A humble heart-that I may hear you,
    A heart of love-that I may serve you,
    A heart of faith-that I may abide in you. Amen.
    Dag Hammarskold, Markings.
     
    Humility before the transcendence of God, and intimacy that grows out of the soil of trust; that kind of balance is only achieved as a relationship grows and matures into mutual respective love; what Julian of Norwich called 'courtesy', a word she used often in referring to 'our courteous Lord'. Hammarksjold gently and unerringly taps the nails on the head when it comes to Christian prayer – to be available for God's service, grateful for God's gifts, alert to the needs of others so that prayer is an opening outwards of the heart. And then those four closing petitions for a heart worthy of the love of God, a precis of devotion to God.

    I lent my well used and annotated Faber paperback of Markings to a friend who left it on a train. I now have a used Knopf Hardback which has untrimmed edges. I still like the odd book that is distinctive with its rough edges. But I miss that paperback which I bought in 1976 in John Smith's in Glasgow – now long gone, and sadly so.

    Hammarskjold was to many an enigma, and yet a highly effective diplomat; a man of the world whose inner strength enabled a highly effective and influential active life in the world of affairs. I place Markings alongside Bonhoeffer's Discipleship, Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation, Moltmann's The Crucified God, Vanstone's Love's Endeavour, Love's Expense as amongst the 20th Century masterpieces of Christian reflection and committed, passionate discpleship.

    The photo was taken on the road to Fort William in the autumn of last year. Sometimes an image is itself a kind of prayer – faith as surrender, trust and joy.

  • A Week of Prayer and Photos 1

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    " 0. Lord, support us all the day long of this troublous life,

    until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes,

    and the busy world is hushed,

    and the fever of life is over and our work is done.

    Then of Thy mercy,

    grant us a safe lodging,

    and a holy rest and a peace at last

    through Jesus Christ, our Lord."

    (John Henry Newman)

    …………………

    Some versions omit 'this troublous life', maybe a concession to the saccharine tastes of commercialised kitsch on cards, posters and prints. Why would you pray such a prayer if life was untroublous?

    The version I first learned used the phrase 'bring us to a safe harbour'. Does anyone else know that version – I'm happy with safe lodging, but I like the image of a safe harbour!

    The photo is of the harbour in the village of Whitehills on the Moray coast. Quiet, safe, and a place of peace – in the summer, until the troublous sea gets started!

  • R S Thomas: Mysticism and Meeting God on the Moor

    DSC01437We all meet God in our own way. There are moments of recognition that, brief as they are, touch those deepest longing we find it hard to name. In the encounter with God it is seldom clear whether we mee God or God meets us, and in any case, to make such a distinction risks missing the mystery that challenges all such certainties.

    Years ago, I sat at coffee with a man who was recovering from a stroke. He was as unmystical as anyone I ever met. Down to earth, a man of good humoured shrewdness, lived for his family and worked hard all his life to m,ake things happen for them, his own unapologetic self-description, a working man.  He spoke of his time as a telephone engineer in Orkney, laying cables across the moorland, and one day, unbidden, unexpected and unexplained, he was aware of the presence of God. And he knew. He knew he was known, and by Whom. His life, he said, was never the same after that. He remembered the cold wind, the cry of curlews, the unthreatening loneliness, and most of all the space.

    We talked a while about God, moorland, the cry of moorland birds, and the way that emptiness can suddenly be filled with presence. We agreed that the cry of the curlew is one of the most beautiful sounds in Scotland, a combination of longing and the cry of the heart that opens us up to the incredible.

    At such moments of opening, I believe in the democratisation of mysticism, and the need to stop categorising and defining what in the end is the interruption of our lives by the God who invests those rare moments with transcendent significance. So in  one sense my friend was unmystical – in another sense this most practical of men was alert to the invasion of gift, responsive to the call of God, and spoke only in quiet humility of what had happened to him. God had happened to him – and it is the sharing of such spiritual reality that is one of the most persuasive encouragements for the rest of us. We too have had our moments.  

    The Moor

    It was like a church to me.
    I entered it on soft foot,
    Breath held like a cap in the hand.
    It was quiet.
    What God there was made himself felt,
    Not listened to, in clean colours
    That brought a moistening of the eye,
    In a movement of the wind over grass.
     
    There were no prayers said. But stillness
    Of the heart’s passions — that was praise
    Enough; and the mind’s cession
    Of its kingdom. I walked on,
    Simple and poor, while the air crumbled
    And broke on me generously as bread.

  • The Eloquent Face of Smudge

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    Smudge outside the window wondering why those obtuse and thick human beings don't realise it's flipping baltic out here – and would you move that useless ornamental tack cat off the window sill and let me in?!

     

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  • Judy Collins and the Joy of Songs

    "Songs are the heart of our memory and let us live the search for meaning in our lives again and again."(Judy Collins)

    Judy Collins is one of the more thoughtful singers, whose singing and songs still speak to the deeper questions that persist and give life its poignancy, mystery, joy and longing. I've listened to her music off and on since I was a teenager, which was just when she was coming to the fore as a folk singer whose voice rang with musical and personal integrity.

    I recently bought her album The Very Best of…, and she's right about memory, songs and the search for meaning. Some of the tracks I remember as singles and on albums I played over and over. Just listened to this CD again this morning, which happens to be my birthday, and remembered how her music, her voice and the words of the songs opened our eyes, nudged our imagination, appealed to those aspirations every human heart feels, and celebrated human love as gift and wonder.

    And by the way – I love the way the last two tracks seem to belong together – the wistful melancholy of Send in the Clowns, and the best rendering I know of Amazing Grace – which was released around the same time as the pipe band version!

  • Why I Miss Seamus Heaney

    I miss Seamus Heaney. Not that I knew him, or met him. I only know him through his poems, a couple of documentaries, and a book of interviews. But I miss him. Yes I can read his poetry, some of it I know by heart. Some of his poetry about his father, his upbringing in the country, his shrewd and qualified love for the land expressed in poem after poem – these I read, and can reread to my heart's content.

    But I still miss him. By which I mean I can see clearly the emtpy spaces in our Heaney_postcardlandscape left by his passing. By which I mean my sadness that there will be no further words which so wisely cherish and humanely critique this fragile, frightening complexity of human life in all its potential for ambiguity.

    I miss him, by which I mean the indefinable lift given to our hearts when we know that there are writers who understand, who care, for whom human tragedy is not always an inevitable given, and whose moral rigour is reserved for the unnecessary cruelties and intransigent prejudices of human behaviour.

    I miss him because his own experience of a troubled land created a poet whose compassion and forgivingness are often given words in poems which are universal in their healing and appealing power, teaching through words those human feelings that are the ultimate glory of human community, in which love is lived out in generous and consistent goodwill, humane judgement and a passionate commitment to the other.

    I miss Seamus Heaney, but I have his poems, like this one below, which does for me what a good poem should do. 

     

    Digging

    Between my finger and my thumb
    The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

    Under my window, a clean rasping sound
    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
    My father, digging. I look down

    Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
    Bends low, comes up twenty years away
    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
    Where he was digging.

    The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
    Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
    He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
    To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
    Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

    By God, the old man could handle a spade.
    Just like his old man.

    My grandfather cut more turf in a day
    Than any other man on Toner's bog.
    Once I carried him milk in a bottle
    Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
    To drink it, then fell to right away
    Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
    Over his shoulder, going down and down
    For the good turf. Digging.

    The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
    Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
    Through living roots awaken in my head.
    But I've no spade to follow men like them.

    Between my finger and my thumb
    The squat pen rests.
    I'll dig with it.

    Seamus Heaney
  • A Very Fine Christology: Infinity Dwindled to Infancy.

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    I just read the notice of the recent death of Edward T Oakes. I was sad to read this, just because I only encountered him in his books, but I liked him! The picture we construct of an author we don't know except through their writing is entirely subjective, impressionistic but not without evidence, reliant on our literary tastes, temperament and the way our own minds work – but nevertheless intriguing. Oakes wrote with discernible passion in his theology, generous in his fairness to other views, and as obvious from the above poster, was himself a fine writer.

    His book, Infinity Dwindled to Infancy is beautifully written, and is one of the best systematic Christologies around. The title is from Hopkins' poem "The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe". I've read other books by Oakes, including The Cambridge Companion to Hans urs Von Balthasar, which he edited, and his highly prized study of Von Balthasar's theology, Pattern of Redemption.

    It's one of the great mysteries of the faith, what our greatest theological thinkers make of the realities of which they wrote, when finally faced with the beatific vision, and still only having words as descriptors. As Barth's jaw drops, so will his pipe; Jonathan Edwards will have to learn to swim in 'the great ocean of love' of which he rhapsodised; Julian of Norwich will think this time she really has died and gone to heaven, and shout without decorum of her sourteous God, "My God, I was right! And all shall be well, and all manner of thing is well! O You Beauty!".

    Pax Christi Father Oakes.

  • Who do you believe on Welfare reform? And why it matters to Christians.

    Archbishop Nichols, the most senior Roman Catholic cleric in England and Wales, said the welfare state was becoming "more punitive".

    "I think what's happening is two things", he said.

    "One is that the basic safety net, that was there to guarantee that people would not be left in hunger or in destitution has actually been torn apart. It no longer exists, and that is a real real dramatic crisis.

     "And the second is that, in this context, the administration of social assistance – I am told – has become more and more punitive."

     "So, if applicants don't get it right then they have to wait and they have to wait for 10 days, for two weeks – with nothing, with nothing. And that's why the role of food banks has become so crucial for so many people in Britain today.

     

    "And for a country of our affluence that quite frankly is a disgrace."

    ……………………….

    A spokesman for the Department of Work and Pensions replied by saying the previous benefits system was "trapping" the very people it was designed to help.

     "Our welfare reforms will transform the lives of some of the poorest families in our communities with universal credit making three million households better off and lifting hundreds of thousands of children out of poverty", the spokesman said.

     "It's wrong to talk of removing a safety net when we're spending £94bn a year on working age benefits and the welfare system supports millions of people who are on low incomes or unemployed so they can meet their basic needs."

    ………………….

    RANT WARNING

    Foodbank

    Well, that's all right then. No worries, no problem, everyone is ok……Not.

    The word 'trapping' used by this anonymous spokesman is such a tendentious term it makes it sound as if any change has got to be better. After all, there's nothing worse than being trapped on benefits! Yes there is. Being trapped without benefits. The word trapping is shorthand for a cluster of more negative comments that have to be dressed up to make them palatable, and they range from scrounger, to cheat, to neet. And in this welfare shakeup there are those trapped in houses with an extra bedroom, and compelled to choose between paying extra rent or rent arrears, and for some forced re-housing.There are people whose health assessment for fit to work has been ludicrously unrealistic as the DWP seeks to redefine the term invalidity and disability. Indeed you could be forgiven for wondering if the DWP is trying to invalidate invalidity by a redefinition that is driven more by benefit cuts than the very human predicaments of those who are long term sick.

    As for the Archbishop. Why is it that church leaders are constantly rubbished when they speak out on social justice? Where is the Archbishop in error? There are, are there not, (A David Frost rhetorical trope) more foodbanks and more people depending on them? Why is that the socially responsible politician might ask? People are having to wait 10 to 14 days for any benefit payment if they fill in the forms unsatisfactorily? Is this denied? The basic safety net has been removed for some, has it not? And the phrase universal benefit is a strange name for a benefit being increasingly constrained by criteria of entitlement, and whose administration is hardly winning the efficiency plaudits of those who audit and review the performance of Government Departments. And Mr Spokesman from DWP, of course the welfare system supports millions – that is what we pay our taxes and National Insurance for. It isn't those who are in receipt of benefits that the Archbishop was speaking about; but those who are not, or whose benefits have been reduced.

    The prophet Amos is another voice to hear to place against what I can only call the comfortable complacency of that response from the DWP – is there no truth whatsoever in what the Archbishop claims? Can no improvements be made in the administration and criteria implementation, and were no mistakes made? Is advice and feedback simply to be contradicted, and in tones that are paternalistic, words that are patronising, and a statement with not a shred of hope for those discenfranchised from the welfare system that the holes in the safety net will be mended.

    And the Spokesman in genuine self righteousness asks, "Holes? What holes? A net is made of holes surely?" Aye, but this Government has made the holes bigger, and bigger, the logic of which must be that mopre people will fall through. Here's Amos the Prophet and patron saint of Ranters Against the Idols of Austerity, Deficit Reduction and Finance as its own Reward:

    "Establish justice in the gate"  (the place where wisdom, justice and compassion are to be dispensed)

    "They sell the righteous for silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals, they who trample the heads of the poor into the dust" – I just want to point out that Amos does not speak of the deserving poor, ever – he does speak quite a lot about the undeserving rich though, with their luxury lifestyles, obscene salaries, voracious business tactics, compassionless extravagance and culpable non awareness of the hardship and exploitation that underpins their way of life.

    So Mr Spokesman, don't preach your not so good news, though the word preaching is devalued by the use of cliched feel good words like support, transform, and universal, as if these applied equally and to all. It's because they don't apply equally to all that the Archbishop said what he did.

    He who has ears to hear, let him hear,  before he opens his mouth as Spokesman for a status quo that is increasingly heartless.

  • “Science is not what they say..” a Scientist’s Intellectual Humility

    Science is not what they say, so serious

    The truth being what you imagine

    Not what you see

    And not something useful

    Or something that pays

    41VX0ZS0Y1L._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_SX342_SY445_CR,0,0,342,445_SH20_OU02_Rebecca Elson was an astonishingly gifted scientist, a researcher of "dark matter" and "globular clusters", an astronomer deeply involved in the Hubble project, researcher at the Harvard Centre for Astrophysics and the Cambridge Institute of Astronomy, and one of the most imaginatives scientific minds of her generation. Her book Responsibility to Awe remains for me a precious book, containing her poems, fragments and an autobiographical essay that is both positive and poignant. She died in 1999 at the age of 39.

    And it is such a person, of such rare intellectual curiosity and critical generosity, who wrote the lines above – unfinished, unpunctuated and all the more impressive as a statement of science as the servant of human flourishing, not its master, and a vision of knowledge that allows for more than utility and profit, the two wings of technological power. for