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  • Chris Huhne, Vicky Pryce and the impossible word of Jesus: “Judge not that you be not judged”

    "Judge not that you be not judged…" Like many of Jesus' sayings it's hard to see how to live that word consistently, constantly and faithfully. It isn't just that we all enjoy the moral high ground, the smug viewpoint from being right where we can look down on the moral failures or personal faults of others. And yes we like to see people get there come-uppance when the thin ice they were skating on gives way, or the web of manipulation they weave ensnares them in their own deceit of themselves and others.

    More than that, moral judgement and ethical distinctions, acknowledgement of the good and naming evil for what it is, are all part of the human experience of building a framework within which we can live with relative safety, with some hope of community and as a fundamental orientation of life that enables us to live in peace and co-operation. Law, morality and social structures presuppose our capacity as humans to recognise good, to define and guard against evil, to learn and adapt to that infinite number of circumstances, relationships and choices which make up the moral life of a person, a community and a culture.

    But I think I know what Jesus was getting at. As often as not Jesus saw self-righteousness as every bit as toxic as the self-despair of the guilty. Another rabbinic warning echoed by Paul, "Let him who thinks he stands safely take heed lest he fall…". One of the features of our own culture is the self-righteous tone of much news reporting of other people's wrong. Once someone is found guilty it's right that social disapproval, comment on consequences, evaluation of moral character, are recorded as parts of the ethical and judicial process which underpin a country's values, norms and legal system. Or so it seems to me.

    PAUntil I reflect on the current case of Chris Huhne and his ex-wife Vicky Pryce, and I hear the word of Jesus again, "Judge not that you be not judged…." And I plead guilty. I do judge that the concatenation of self serving choices freely made by these two people, over 10 years, have been in a moral and social sense, disgraceful. I take the word to mean lacking in grace, toxic of goodness, corrupting of character, arrogantly dismissive of those standards of behaviour rightly expected of ordinary folk, and especially of those who seek the trust and service of public office. The escalation from speeding offence to perverting the course of justice and all out personal war is an intertesting example of the cumulative effect of wrong turnings – which is to get lost in the maze of our own making.

    Perhaps Jesus' words are not mere prohibition but dire warning. Judge if you must, but you'll be judged yourself. Condemn the liar and you condemn yourself every time you give the truth a body swerve. Mock the one caught speeding and condemn yourself when you rationalise your own in a hurry approach to life and justify depressing the accelerator further. It's hard to be morally clear eyed about others and a bit vague about our own failures – sawdust and plank come to mind. And yet. As this play goes into its second act, a second jury considers the motives and choices, the facts and the testimonies, the truths and evasions which run parallel to the corrosion of a relationship to the point where betrayal by the one leads to vengeance from the other, and all this publicly stated.

    And you know, I feel as much compassion as anger, but I do feel both. Dishonesty and deceit are not exhausted in deceitful acts. They are manifestations of something deeper in the character, betraying fault-lines in integrity, and a default menu programmed towards self-interest made more powerful by repeated usage. Lies engender lies, and trust dissolves in acid of our own making.

    "Judge not that you be not judged…" Maybe those words of Jesus are about cultivating self-knowledge, a right estimate of our own character, what is routinely called today, self-awareness. It is also I think a call to moral discernment, a way of looking at the world and at others, that is realistic not cyncical, with compassion as well as judgement, and that recognises the tragic reality of the human condition.


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    One of the most important Christian truths that should encourage both compassion and moral judgement is the doctrine of sin. That disruptive, subversive, deceitful reality that insinuates itself into hearts and structures, corrodes relationships and societies, and is of such lethal consequence that outraged Holiness responds with outrageous love, so that we see as P T Forsyth saw so clearly, "Justice, the true and only mercy…."

  • I to the hills will lift mine eyes, from whence doth come mine aid…..

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    The Scottish Psalms and Paraphrases were written out of a deep loam of spiritual passion and theological assurance. That theology could be stern, rendered inflexible by doctrinal rectitude, narrowed to the constraints of minds severely logical and tolerant mainly of Calvinism in its least tolerant forms. And pushed too far theological assurances and dogmatic certainty could lead to spiritual anxiety and an inner uncertainty about personal salvation and the demeanour of God towards this particular, and particularly undeserving sinner.

    But out of such theology there sometimes grew a spirituality and experience of God that often enough was a corrective to such fear of the face of God, and that could be like sunshine on a heather covered hillside. This Psalm. paraphrased in sometimes quaint syntax, is one of the treasures of Scottish devotion. For myself, I like a bit of quaintness to balance the banality and predictably prosaic translations of the Psalms in most modern translations. Bennachie in the background of the photo, taken in late autumn, can be seen from our house, and from almost anywhere in much of rural Aberdeenshire. It isn't a mountain, it's a hill, and when I look to it, I understand why the versifiers of this old Scottish paraphrase got it so right. When my life is hard and the wind blows in my face, and my eyes are cast down, when inner horizons are constrained and shadowed by low lying clouds of sadness, when the path is slippery from moss and rain on hard rocks and the cumulative weariness of the long walk weighs like clothing soaked in Scottish drizzle, "I look to the hills from whence doth come mine aid", and pray that "henceforth my going out and in God keep forever will."

    Psalm 121,A Song of degrees.

     

    1I to the hills will lift mine eyes,

    from whence doth come mine aid.

    2My safety cometh from the Lord,

    who heav’n and earth hath made.


    3Thy foot he’ll not let slide, nor will

    he slumber that thee keeps.

    4Behold, he that keeps Israel,

    he slumbers not, nor sleeps.

     

    5The Lord thee keeps, the Lord thy shade

    on thy right hand doth stay:

    6The moon by night thee shall not smite,

    nor yet the sun by day.

     

    7The Lord shall keep thy soul; he shall

    preserve thee from all ill.

    8Henceforth thy going out and in

    God keep for ever will.

  • Kindle Utility and the Beauty of the Book.

    Slowly, at first reluctantly and resistantly, but gradually and persuasively, I've begun to admit the usefulness, convenience and with the right book the fun and attractieveness of reading from my Kindle. In that one small device (bigger than the more recent versions already) I have Augustine's Commentary on the Psalms, Jane Austen's novels a growing library of leisure reading and maybe one day I'll try a more serious acadcemic book. We'll see.

    But for me there will always be books that cannot be Kindled. Books that are now lifelong companions, with a personal history decipherable in the underlinings, margin notes and memories of moments of illumination. Books I love to handle because they are beautiful objects in their own right, binding and font, paper and ink, stitching and smell, giving a book its presence, recognisable, familiar, visible and ready to be reached for. Books which are best enjoyed as page turning back and forward, ease of finding and inviting glance or gaze, making connections from there earlier in the text to here and the next place as the dotted line of thought is joined up.


    BovonAnd then there are the few books that deserve to be as expensive as they are. Beautifully produced, a joy to handle, works of art and craft, so that the importance of the contents is validated by the care given to the making of the book. Amongst my books are the volumes I own of the Hermeneia commentary series, and since they were first introduced the standard and distinctive quality of the production remains astonishing. And now at last the three volume commentary on Luke will be available in English in the Hermeneia series. This is the year of Luke in the Revised Common Lectionary, and over the year these volumes will find their way to my shelves – I've a birthday in February for a start.

    Eventually choices will have to be made about shelf room and that's where the Kindle wins every time. But for now, handling, reading and enjoying the art of the book remains a difficult to supercede pleasure.


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  • A Theology of Reading and the Stranger Christ Who Comes Alongside.

    The recent advert for the MacMillan Daffodil Donate an Hour appeal, computes the amount of time we spend doing things in an average lifetime. It throws up some "makes you think" statistics. 7,000 hours in supermarkets was one that surprised me till I thought about it. 280 days with a basket or a trolley and a wallet. That's more than a year of working days. And what Macmillan's are asking is just one hour; on average collectors bring in over £40 an hour, so the argument is persuasive. That's quite apart from the wonderful work MacMillan nurses do to accompany and support those who are in the later stages of illness from cancer. I don't need any more encouragement to give to this charity whose work I've witnessed first hand in numerous pastoral situations. Those who care for the dying carry out a ministry that has deep roots in the soil of Christian charity and medical comfort

    But it set me thinking about the time I spend reading. Not as much as I used to; not as much as I like to; not as much even as I need to. There are many other important and urgent calls on time, energy and attentiveness. This post is not an apologia for reading; I take the value of reading for granted as a formative, humanising, life enriching, socially informing, intellectually nourishing, morally challenging and educationally effective human  activity. What I am now researching is the theological importance of reading for personal formation, and as a pastime which requires an ethic of reading so that its formative power is genuinely free to challenge and subvert, or inform and affirm, what we know, what we ought to know, how we know it and crucially, what we do with what we know. Oh, and incidentally, "pastime" need not mean desultory non productive time, which has its own value – but a valid way for a human person to pass the time in ways that enhance their humanity and person).

    In other words, quite self-consciously and specifically as a Christian, I am interested in reading not only as an intellectual discipline, but as discipline which requires an ethic, a theology and an obedience to the word consonant with our obedience to the Word made flesh. Reading is a search for the Truth that in knowing Him sets free. Reading is a regularly recurring Emmaus journey trying to make sense of things and thrilled when the Stranger Christ comes alongside to rebuke, to expound, to accompany, and to

     

    break the bread of life once again. So whether theology or biography, poetry or dogmatics, ethics or novels, history or mystery, philosophy or art, what we read, how we read, why we read, and the immediate and durable effects of the acts of reading are highly significant in following faithfully after Jesus. As a Christian I am also and always a seeker, a listener, a student, with a mind that thinks, a heart that feels and a body that is a living sacrifice. Sotrying as hard as I can, and receiving as much grace as my life can hold, I am engaged in the life work of making this self holy and wholly acceptable to God, which is my reasonable service. Yes that's it, reasonable service.

     On the superficial and playful level I am a bibliophile. But in the deep places of the will, the heart and the mind, I am a lover of the One who took the scroll and read, and declared a manifesto for the transformation of the world. So I won't compute the number of hours I may have spent reading since those early days I worked through the bookcase in our farm cottage. A more important computation is what I have done with the reading, and what it has done to me, by the grace of God, and maybe occasionally by my own determined Emmaus walk. And how I have responded to the countless times the Stranger who is Christ has come alongside to teach, to accompany, and to take the bread and break it so that my eyes are opened in glad recognition, and I see differently, more truly and with something of the loving gaze of God on a world shocked back into life by Resurrection. 

  • A prayer for Dry, Parched, Cold, Feeble People!

    A prayer for Dry, Parched, Cold, Feeble People!

    Lord
    how much juice you can squeeze from a single grape.

    How
    much water you can draw from a single well.

    How
    great a flame you can kindle from a tiny spark.

    How
    great a tree you can grow from a tiny seed

    My
    soul is so dry that by itself it cannot pray;

    Yet
    you can squeeze from it the juice of a thousand prayers.

    My
    soul is so parched that by itself it cannot love;

    Yet
    you can draw from it boundless love for you and for my neighbour.

    My
    soul is so cold that by itself it has no joy;

    Yet
    you can light the fire of heavenly joy within me.

    My
    soul is so feeble that by itself it has no faith;

    Yet
    by your power my faith grows to a great height.

    Thank
    you for prayer, for love, for joy, for faith;

    Let
    me always be prayerful, loving, joyful, faithful.

    (Guigo the Carthusian, died 1188.)

     

  • The Treasure of the Snow

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    Every year when there's snow I enjoy the snow covered coffee table – it has about 9 inches of snow on top. I wanted to lift it into the living room snow and all, and sit there with a coffee while my photo was taken. This was not seen as a good idea and was not countenanced by the House Management. Pity. Might still do it if I'm in by myself. Anyway I rejoice in gently fallen snow that settles in carefully considered peacefulness, an accumulation of crystals of unique specificity, acting together in an informal architecture that is beautiful to contemplate.

    I mean contemplate. I've sat looking at the snow several times this week when I've been home, letting its peacefulness slowly penetrate a mind at times like a mental tumble drier, allowing the cold to penetrate and heighten awareness of heartbeat and rhythm, grateful for the dazzle of reflected sunlight, and gazing at the soft edged shapes that invite touch, but which I refuse to spoil by doing so. 

    The spirituality of snow would be a good title for a thin book exploring the theological significance of snow – miraculously maintained snow flake uniqueness yet transience; accumulated whiteness that dazzles to make us see; covering a multitude of sins yet also giving new shape to the landscape; and the capacity of snow to contain in crystallised geometry the water of life. And the latent opportunities for fun, snowballs, snowpeople (snowman is gender exclusive), sledging and skiing and snowboarding.

    Such a book might be entitled after Job 38:22  "Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow". By the way that verse provided the title idea of Elizabeth Goudge's autobiograpy "The Joy of the Snow". It is a strange, beautifully writtten, gently interrogative account of her upbringing and writing career. 

    The photo below was taken of Smudge enjoying apres-ski hospitality.

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  • A Week of One Sentence Posts with a Photo 7

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    The time-changing revelation of God’s love comes to us not in the form
    of a doctrinal missive, but as the Incarnate Word, expressed not as an
    inanimate form or lifeless concept, but as a living, breathing speaking,
    acting, feeling, thinking person.  The only way to comprehend this
    subject is from the perspective of encounter – to behold the glory of
    the flesh-becoming Word, full of grace and truth (John 1:14).

    Judith A Diehl, Review of Paul Anderson, The Riddles of the Fourth Gospel, (Fortress, 2012).

    I know. I cheated. TGwo sentences. But Diehl's point is too important to truncate it.

  • A Week of One Sentence Posts with a Photo 6

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    Life is a pilgrimage of learning,

         a voyage of discovery,

              in which our
    mistaken views are corrected,

                   our distorted notions adjusted,

                        our
    shallow opinions deepened

                             and some of our vast ignorances diminished.

    John Stott, Mission in the Modern World.

     


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  • A Week of One Sentence Posts with a Photo 5

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    Out of the bosom of the Air,
          Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
    Over the woodlands brown and bare,
          Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
                Silent, and soft, and slow
                Descends the snow.

                                                                H W Longfellow

    ( The photo taken on Tuesday morning around noon – the forecast was for sunshine!)

  • A Week of One Sentence Posts and a Photo 4

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    Whom God loves He loves to the end;

    and not only to their own end, to
    their death, but to his end;

    and His end is, that He might love them
    still.

    John Donne.